He looked even younger in person as he stood by his open hotel door in his white Haines jockies than he did on his Bear411 profile. A former for real Iowa farm boy, with a smooth, lightly muscular body and all American looks which belied his 46 years, Troy was staying at a top drawer hotel in Hollywood for a national sales conference that the Dallas- based medical instrumentation company he worked for as one of its senior sales execs was sponsoring. He was hardly the type I expected to be into scat, which seemed more of an acquired taste of dregged out Leather men who had done just about everything else including cucumbers up their rectums.
Now, I don’t care what a guy’s profile says or what his pics look like; you never know until you meet him face to face whether things are going to click between the two of you. That’s why when I pulled into the hotel lot late that Friday night – Troy had been tied up with clients for dinner – and saw there was a ten buck parking fee on exiting, I had second thoughts about going through with the whole thing. First, though, as you know by now I ain’t no prude, and had been rimmed – and rimmed – dozens of times, I had never had a guy eat my dirty hole in all my gay career. Second, I had forgotten to hit the ATM and had only three bucks in cash on me.
I called up to Troy on my cell. He sounded hot just like on the call I made to him earlier that afternoon, the call where he reminded me not to shower.
“No problem I’ll give you the money. Remember, I’m in the south tower, Room 823.”
Seeing him in his underwear at the door, I forgot about the ten bucks, quickly stripped down to just my boots and after a bit of mutual petting – he definitely dug my fur – politely followed his instructions. Yes, this was even new to me, me, President of the Jaded Homo Club of America.
He reached over to the side of the settee that sat across from his king sized bed and pulled out what looked like one of those portable toilet seats on wheels they use for nursing home patients to go in a commode. By now we both were naked and while I was stiffening up, I could see Troy’s tool was already bouncing in the wind. A big one that would bring a lascivious smirk to the face of any size queen. He asked me to sit on the seat, and to spread my ass cheeks as far apart as I could. Then he slide underneath on his back, teasingly stroking his cock as he munched away. Now, like I said, I’m no stranger to being rimmed, so the sensation for me was no different. But I could tell by his moans and gasps that Troy was in Shit Heaven.
Was loving scat the ultimate in self-degradation? Or dirty holes a sign of masculinity and gay men’s attempt to taste and smell everything that makes their guy a guy?
Now, I think even a high school drop-out knows there’s a lot of potential shit – pardon the pun –
in human feces. So, I found it kinda bizarre when Troy asked that I fuck that meloned ass of his – even though he won in the size matters department – with a sleeve on my dick. Hey, I know that’s the way it should be, but wouldn’t logic dictate your chances of getting something from ingesting a guy’s shit are a thousand times greater than catching Big A from a naked penis?
We got together one more time that weekend, late Sunday night, when I gladly paid him back the ten bucks I owed him, but we didn’t do much of anything than kiss and cuddle naked under the covers – a Kodak moment for me. It was then that I asked him how long he had had an appetite for dirty butts and he replied he had only gotten into it six months before with an older fuck buddy and just liked it. And that his long time partner, his age, was about as vanilla in the sex department as you could get. Thus his need to find guys outside his closed relationship that were into his specialty whenever and wherever he could.
Staring into the blue eyes of this squeaky clean, all-American boy who happened to eat shit, I thought of something my former, very married secretary who ran off with our hospital’s very married CEO often said to me.
“You can’t judge a book by its cover.”