To start out, some thoughts…

1. Not surprisingly I’ve been thinking a lot about sex, sexual repression, rape culture and assault, patriarchy, where men fit into various discussions about sexual freedom and the culture-wide repression that addles all of our brains and fucks with people’s fears and behavior concerning sexuality.
2. On the heels of Trump’s “Grab ’em by the pussy” comment, one way the spotlight shone on the commonality of sexual assault was through Kelly Oxford’s twitter call for women’s stories on #NotOkay. And it’s not just women that assault and sexual abuse affect; I can imagine that the difficulty working through emotions and fallout from abuse is lonelier, and in some ways even harder for the privileged sex. I’m sure the abuse cycle is perpetuated more voraciously between men in part due to this, and I’d also guess that “on the DL” and other forms of “I’m not gay, but…” behaviors remain largely undiscussed and unexamined, often promoting cheating and other risky behaviors as a norm in masculine culture because of the emotional shutdown they are taught from day one. 
3. I have a wonderful play friend from out of town who enjoys giving me homework, which I find deeply arousing. The result of a quick exchange between us as I walked into dinner the other night was a piece of erotica, written as I was eating in the middle of Nowhere New England turned on like a bitch in heat… I was lucky enough to score additional homework for writing so well: the photo below is me ‘dressed to pass’ at a sportsbar the following evening.
4. Erotically I identify as a Gay Leather boy most of the time… I find masculine sex (between any genders) crazy hot. Even though I’ve been sexually assaulted, harassed, and abused by men and other masculine people throughout the course of my life, masculine energy remains strong as a general turn-on (though specifically I eroticize Dominance and not domineering behaviors, and Dominance is something I respond to from a Feminine direction as well)… I am not the only person turned on by butch on butch sex, though as it is a cultural taboo we often don’t know what to do with it when confronted with the possibility, which is opposite in many ways from the femme on femme phenomenon our society seems obsessed with appropriating for its own spank-bank account.

Here’s one coalescence of all these recent thoughts; I hope you enjoy.

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The Game

By Karin Webb

You. Man frumpy and average in that ball cap announcing your preference for sportsball and cheap beer. You. Mr. Loud as your team scores, face lighting up with joy as the number changes on TV. You. Sick of others’ dreams as you ebb life away between the carpeted box called a cubicle and the softness of your wife’s pussy one or two times a month. You.

You are sitting next to a man made from a similar mold. Perhaps the team names are changed; his pets are different species; he may have kids whatever age; it doesn’t matter. Look at his eyes light up too like yours do. His hips raising off the barstool seat, arms in the air for a moment before gulping down a mouthful of that amber liquid also… He might have brushed your triceps on the way back to seated, and you didn’t notice.

But if you did…

His mouth may have parted for the next cheer, and you become aware the room is moving around you silent. He is slow motion like the movies, and you are gazing top to bottom at him, both judging the source of his pleasure (the wrong team) and letting your eyes rest on worn baggy jeans, crunching around his bulge, tighter over his thighs, short and stout and strong from a job in construction or the state’s water department, walking fields by day for samples, counting the number of cow feces in water runoffs this county and the next over, judging the quality of your very own drinking water…

You feel him rejoice in this moment away from responsibility, as you breathe in your own joy too… and slowly, still mesmerized by the shape of his familiar but different body, his profile changes, looking straight back at you. You lock eyes for a moment. You look down, lips opening slightly and he shifts, sitting straighter on the stool, chest rising an inch or two now a little taller than you. Your face turns up to his and his thick arm grabs the short hairs at the back of your head as his other hand, lower than your gaze, circles the weight between his legs. Your heart beats loudly, and you reach over, fumble for the top button of his jeans.

The room, like molasses turns to watch, TV silent beyond the decibels of blood beating in your ears, the tension of the room nothing compared to the tightness in your chest — goddamnit don’t cut the rope we’re all holding onto… Cocks strained hard against cloth, breathing like bulls before a charge: measured and heavy. The room is a circle around you, your fingers tugging against a short vibration of zipper revealing soft cloth underneath, and the warm full hard wanting man below.

You could slide off the stool, hair still entwined roughly in his fingers, bringing your face down to match his stiff height, and with the guiding force of his strong arm, you do. Mouth watering at this point, lips wetted with your tongue on the way down, you pause, breathe hot air on the thick tip of his cock, and after a momentary inhale you plunge on down. The room groans, he growls, mustache ends in mouth as his lips trace the movements of your own on his shaft. “The Game” has disappeared to all in the room as the sound of zippers, belts, and wet fingers stroking flesh overpowers its importance. The taste of precome, sweet and salty, sounds of quickly ending grunts, a whiff of stomach tightening chlorine in the air, and the sensation of wet warmth fills the bar. You’ve come yourself now and are working your new friend’s body for all you’re worth…

You. This could be your evening — a bar full of men warm and sticky all around.

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To Breath and Being,
~ Karin

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