Before I started having sex with other men, I assumed that all they (we) did was fuck. Being young (21) and devastatingly shy in the face of another man (boy), I assumed I would be the one to get fucked—in bed as in life. Without realizing it at the time, I assumed that my total insecurity meant my destiny was to be a total bottom. Top equals confidence and strength. Bottom equals passivity and weakness. So, since I was fucked psychologically, I might as well be fucked physically. Let’s get it over with.
My (short) life as a bottom began as most gay boy’s sex lives begin: staggeringly drunk. I went to Thursday night Queer Disco at Re-bar. Back in the day, the night with MC Queen Lucky and hot boys was the only night worth going to. Isidor—hands down the best trash drag queen and one of the best people period to ever be on the Seattle scene—worked the door with a fierce attitude and even fiercer outfits. A young queerling would approach her for entry and she would look the cute young thing up and down and let out a slithery “Yesssss...” through her few remaining upper teeth. We young gay boys never had seen something so frightening and miraculous as Isidor. My curiosity was only surpassed by my fear of her. Just like with sex.
Once inside and after about half past drunken stupor, I worked up the nerve to chat up a cute boy. He was a dancer. He seemed so worldly. He seemed to like me. I was drunk but not stupid—I was not going to pass this up.
We got a ride back to his UW dorm room. I quickly fell into his bed, from the swirl of booze not the heat of passion. He dispensed with much foreplay and wanted to fuck me. I quietly agreed. Um, yeah. Big mistake. He didn’t attempt to loosen me up, talk me through it, or ask if I had done this before. He entered. I buried my mouth deep in the pillow and let out the loudest silent scream possible. When Jesus got nailed to the cross it didn’t hurt as bad as being nailed by a big black dick. He flipped me over and entered again. My eyes rolled to a photo of him on the wall in an elegant pas de deux. On the wall, he seemed so graceful...
He asked me if I was okay. He was nice, so I said yes. (Performing admirably as a bottom, always trying to please.) He proceeded. I made him pull out. I ran out.
When I got home I started the shower. I paced the floor until the water ran hot. Then I stepped into the shower and started to feel better already. I had to drown my body in water. I had to get wet in order to get clean.
One irony of my youthful assumption about tops and bottoms is that sex is best when it is seen and used as a way to transcend our psychological, physical and social expectations we place on ourselves, rather than being beholden to them.
The other irony is that being a bottom takes more confidence and strength than being a top. Perhaps tops are tops because they are the type of men who just haven’t reached the level of higher knowledge or divinity that seems to be required in order to achieve both the complete control and complete subjugation to another that is required of bottoming. Perhaps tops, despite their seemingly tougher exteriors, are just plain wimps. Most tops I know have all tried being bottoms, and admit they just can’t handle it. For me, being a bottom is certainly a painful experience—no longer because of the weight of my insecurity, but because it’s just damn hard to take a dick up my ass. I have clearly not reached the level of Zen it requires. Or something. Whatever the reason, I know it certainly remains a mystery to me.
But at least now I don’t have to run out or shower off. I can just say, you were great, you big stud you, but let’s try something else.
Deuce La Cock is a local writer and photographer who loves to shoot guys in their underwear. Are you hot? Email underboy@earthlink.net to be shot. His forthcoming book is called “Twelve Dicks.”
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