Let me show you his Tinder profile first, then it will all make sense.
[Two pictures of a man, face not shown. One a torso in a white button-up and tie (see, I’m normal, I’m a white-collar worker!) one torso shirtless (see, I’m not fat!).
Stan, 28, “Long story short, swipe right if you’ve always wanted to fuck a guy in the ass with a strap-on.”]
Now, I can’t say I’ve always wanted this but I like to “swipe right” on new experiences. Life is short and most of it boring, and anyways what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
He messaged me and we chatted, I told him I’d never done this but that I would be very gentle. He told me he had the necessary equipment all ready to go. We set a date and I told him where to meet me—a pub close to my house that I’d only been to one other time. On that occasion, my partner and I were meeting with another couple from Tinder to have a foursome. So I guess it’s my local sexual experimentation pub.
I had a work party and four drinks before we met. I told everyone at work my plans for the evening, and each time I repeated the phrase “fuck him in the ass with a strap-on,” the reality of the situation gained a more apparent gravity. Tipsy already, drunk on white wine and excitement, I changed into a structured black dress and wiped on a blood-red lipstick. I wanted to look just on this side of dominatrix, not too threatening but certainly in charge, certainly capable of really fucking a person.
I entered the pub and saw him. He had dark hair and rectangular glasses which looked nice juxtaposed with his round, boyish face. He looked entirely normal.
“Stan?” I said.
“That’s me!” he said.
I sat down and tried my hardest to make a normal amount of eye contact, whatever that is. He had a beer, I had a gin and tonic. He said he was hungry so he ordered mac and cheese with mushrooms.
“The food here is really good,” he said.
The couple my partner and I fucked had said the same thing so it must be true.
I realized that I’d spent a lot of time thinking about how the actual fucking would be like and no time thinking about what the first meeting would be like. It felt exactly like a first date: we talked about our families, our hobbies, jobs. We had the same standard first conversations I have with any stranger I need to pass time with but don’t especially care about knowing. His mother was from Italy, he did something with computers. He liked Phish. I bit my blood-red lip a lot and looked up at him through my eyelashes. When his mac and cheese came I said, “You should send that back, it’s penne! There isn’t a single mac in that dish!”
You know, flirting.
Halfway through our second drink, I got up to use the bathroom. I was feeling bold and feeling done with small talk. When I came back, I took a deep breath, leaned across our sticky wooden square of table and said, “So, you wanted me to fuck you in the ass with a strap-on, right?”
His face was still turned towards me but his dark eyes flitted to one side, then to the other side and he responded, “Yes, that’s pretty much it.”
I felt at ease, settled into the shape the night was taking. We finished our drinks with less chatter, more like friends who don’t need to fill the void with the insecurity of words. We walked to his house. As it turns out, the pub was equidistant from our abodes, right in between them in fact. I took that as a good omen.
In his bedroom he took out a cardboard box.
“These are my toys,” he said, “This is the better of the two lubes so you should probably use it.”
Then he kissed me, then we squished our bodies together, then we took off our clothes.
“So how do I put this on?” I said, holding the handful of straps up like so much black spaghetti.
He helped me to step into the black tangle, pulling it tight at the waist and the legs. He attached the dildo and I looked down in awe at my new pretend body. A pinkish, silicone dick projected out in front of me. Pinocchio. I waggled it back and forth a little.
He handed me his anal beads, “Start with these,” he said, and he turned around.
He was on his knees. I pushed his shoulders and he doubled over low, not on hands and knees but a complete triangle. I knelt on a higher plane, back straight and looking down at the mashed left side of his face. The progress with the beads was slow going and I was gentle as I’d promised. Honestly, it was a little tedious. I slicked him up and worked in first a fingertip, then two, then one bead at a time until the full bulbous cone was inside of him. I hooked one hip-bone on the back of the beads and rocked into him, slowly. He made quiet moaning sounds and closed his eyes.
“Are you ready for my cock?” I said in a deep voice.
“Yes.” He answered simply and clearly.
I pulled the beads lightly and they shot out with an unexpected force, though I suppose I should have expected it just from the physiology. I was startled and asked if he was okay. His cat was startled, too, and I became aware of the presence of a cat in the room. He laughed at me and said of course he was okay.
For a minute I filled with the raw energy of something even before lust, something more basic than sexual desire. I felt a sort of ownership, a sort of control that was at once exciting and intimidating for its excitement. It was a feeling I don’t necessarily want to grow in myself, the power of it too close to violence. I felt an objectification of the human in front of me. I felt him become an extension of my own strength and movement, dehumanized, unreal. The shift in power, the tipping of the seesaw with vulnerability on one side and untouchable control on the other. But he wanted it, he wanted to be on the other side of it. He had specifically and in no uncertain terms asked for it. And so I gave it to him.
I eased my non-throbbing member into the awaiting anus. I knelt with one hand on his sacrum, the other hanging free and rocked gently as his breathing became vocalized.
“Do you like that?” I asked.
“Mmmhmm,” he answered.
“Tell me how you want it.” I said.
“This is good, it’s great, just like that.” He said.
He was touching himself. I’ve never watched a man masturbate before.
My strokes got deeper and deeper, then a little faster and a little faster. His breathing pretty closely mirrored it, this extension of my silicone self. I changed my hand position, holding him by the front of his hips. Men’s hips are funny and narrow, it hardly made ergonomic sense. My fake cock was giving my real pussy a bit of pressure which felt nice but I wasn’t very aroused. I felt like I was watching from a distance. He came, his lungs deflated in gasping sobs. I gave him one last, slow thrust then pulled out.
He collapsed on the bed and I went to wash my hands, still wearing the strap-on. Seeing myself in the mirror with a cock was surreal and unreal. It was very obviously not a part of me. I waggled it around some more, singing a little “a-cha-cha-cha, a-cha-cha-cha,” kind of tune like brushes on a snare drum.
I slept in his bed with him and the cat and left before the sun was up in the morning.
He texted me the next day to say, “I just realized, I left my penne and cheese at the pub :(”