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Three precautions, skip 'em if you don't give a shit:

1. This should be exceedingly obvious, but: don't do as I do. I've done some crazy shit, and though I don't regret any of it, it was definitely crazy. I'll talk in this journal about *some* of it, but some parts are too wild for me to write about.

2. If you jerk it while reading any of this, I don't wanna hear it. Like, it's good that you're getting your rocks off and all that, but I ain't writing this for people to squeeze one off to, because... going back to 1., I do some crazy shit, you know? I don't want to encourage folks to pull the same stunts I have, or to think other boys will put up with as much as shit as me. I'm tougher than I look. Most people aren't.

Christ, it feels dumb writing this, but Sasha told me to write like someone is gonna read it, so fuck it.

1. This story? It's gonna get awkward. Skip it if you're squeamish, but it's an important one if you wanna get me. If you aren't willing to feel a little uncomfortable, and if all you're looking for is something to squeeze that hog to? Just don't, man. Move on. Skip to the next chapter. Promise it'll be something you can get a real good wank to.

But life sucks. People go through shit, and pretending they don't, just so you can feel a little better... it's kinda selfish, ain't it?

Now, let's get to it.

One thing you learn quickly in life: people care more about appearances than reality. We've all had that one prissy chick in school who sits in the first row, takes beautiful notes, asks endless questions, participates in every office hours... yada yada, you get the drill. Everyone thinks she's a good student who aces all the tests.

Then you've got the kid in the back dozing off that everyone calls lazy. And sure, usually, they are just lazy. But sometimes the reason they're not panicking is 'cause they don't need to: they've got it all figured out, because they put in the effort *when nobody was watching* to get their shit together. As it turns out, the best study strategy is spending your time learning the material, not designing your ten-color highlighter scheme.

So the point of this preamble is to let you know: I might not have the best reputation, but I have my shit together, and that's why I'm perfectly fine skipping class to get fucked.

My bud Soren turns in my homework and I'm out the door.

I'm that bitch you hate on GrindR. I delete my account every couple of weeks to clear my history and make fresh impressions. I alternate between: 1. bragging about being hung to get that sweet, sweet hit of dopamine when ten unreads pop up; and 2. voraciously, shamelessly flaunting my ass to anyone with the word "hung" in their profile. It sounds kinda pathetic, but it's the truth. And this whole thing is supposed to be about telling the truth, ain't it?

It's half a mile to where this hot "discrete" (sic) bear said we're meeting, and once his car rolls up, I peek through the window and hop in casually like I'm getting in an Uber.

Then I get a good look at him.

He's got that hot musclechub build that's so popular nowadays: more chub than muscle, though, definitely more than his pictures suggested. He's forty-something, I think. And he's wearing a security guard uniform.

"Security guard" is close enough to "cop" to give me pause. I don't like cops. Lot of bad experiences, and don't even get me started on the perverse incentives and unchecked power structures that normalize so much senseless shit from badge-wielders. I distrust him immediately, more than I would if he'd been dressed in all the trappings of a street gangster. The gangsters look scary in the same way a cornered dog baring his teeth looks scary. Security guards and cops? They're the kind to beat the shit out of fags, while at the same time getting their dick sucked by 'em on the side. I should know. Trust me.

The car starts into motion and part of me considers bailing, but it also feels like I've committed by getting into his vehicle and can't really take it back. Besides: he's a top, and he's got a seriously fat dick. I haven't been fucked in a month, and a boy's got needs.

He's got harsh brown eyes staring over at my snout. I wonder if he's the type with a wife he's cheating on, or if he's the type who just doesn't have enough game to pick up women: flashing that big dick won't get many girls, but it'll for sure snare me.

"You're cute," he says.

"You're hung," I say back.

I don't bother with names or introductions because neither of us give a shit.

I stare forward and I lose track of where we are. Despite my reservations, I'm pitching a tent. I know this is ten shades of risky and fucked up and I probably should be back listening to Mrs. Pointy-Nipples bark about differential equations, but man, being bad is fun. And I know, you're probably worried about me, because I'm just some dumbass twink riding off in some huge stranger's car. Hell, he's almost certainly got a gun. But consider:

1. I subsume any risk by choosing to engage here in the first place. If I end up in a ditch--I knew the risks. It's my fault for accepting them, and I honestly just deserve it if anything goes wrong.

2. I've done this plenty of times, often while underaged, and it's only gone wrong twice.

3. If I never take any risks in life to get what I want, then I'm letting the evil in the world scare me off doing the things I love--which, yes, is getting fucked in the ass by strangers (sue me).

When the vehicle hitches back at a stoplight, I trail a hand over there between his thick thighs and introduce my hand to his junk. He's not making much of a bulge, yet, so I edge down his zipper and slowly tug him out. My nose picks out the scent of bear musk on the air. He spreads his legs and grunts, then once I've got his cock out into the open, he speaks.

"Thirsty boy."

"I just wanna see if I can get my hand around it," I say. "I mean, you're thicker than that red bull can."

That gets him hard real fast: he fills out my fingers, and I can just barely make them touch around his girth, if I squeeze a little bit. He's got a wide-eyed look on his face as the light turns green. I stroke him gently while he drives. Sure, he says I'm cute, but I think three hundred pounds of bear looks awfully cute when flustered--and he's flustered enough to pop the turn-signal on and roll us to a stop in a Walgreens parking lot.

He undoes his seatbelt, leans his chair back, and groans while I play with his cock. "What," I start, "you wanting me to run in for some condoms?"

"Just, fuck," he groans. "You can't even wait until we're somewhere private, you cock-hungry little thing."

"I'm skipping class for this," I tell him. "Wouldn't be doing that if I didn't want it bad." I get both hands on his cock, now. The crackling sound of tires on the pavement announces the arrival of another car a few parking spaces down, but I keep on squeezing his cock.

"Fuck," he mutters. His eyes are scanning the lot warily. "It's thick, yeah. You think you can take it?"

Someone stooping to ask that question has definitely had hook-ups fail over his girth before. I force my ears to lower. "I mean--you're pretty thick. Like... thickest cock I've seen. But..." My teeth munch at my bottom lip. "I'm pretty sure I can take it."

It's all bullshit, but the "your dick is so huge" routine gets him riled up. He's basically a chode, maybe like seven by six and a half or something 'round there. He stares down at my hand on his cock. "You got lube and condoms?"

"Never leave home without it."

"Fuckin... slut."

I shrug. My worst suspicions about him are all but confirmed, but I'm committed now, and it's a nice dick. "Take me somewhere you can fuck me," I say. "But leave this out; I wanna keep playing with it."

He sighs, but concedes. His hand fumbles trying to find the lever to sit his chair up, but he gets a hang of it eventually. The seatbelt stretches out tight around his gut, and he nudges us off, dick hanging out.

First, we drive to a park, and I squeeze his cock like a joystick while he searches around for a quiet place. It's too crowded. He heads to the lakeshore, just a couple minutes off from campus. Same deal, and his cursing grows louder. It's ten minutes later when he finally pulls to a stop at the edge of an empty football stadium parking lot, then he's immediately reaching for the door, letting his cock just hang out in the air as he climbs into the back seat.

I'm not a big fan of car sex, but... a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do.

I strip in record time. I fold myself in half in the back-seat and lift my legs up over my head, after placing a little packet of lube and a condom on my abdomen in silent invitation. My ass is on full display, and I don't even bother to take off my shirt. My hips lift up and I spread my legs as much as I can. I know I've got a pretty, slender butt and I want him to see my hole's inviting clench while I set up. He climbs into the back seat and perches in front of me, and I'm staring at his dick, jutting out of his fly. It really is a nice dick. I want it. Bad.

I like to think the sight of me like that is irresistible, but this isn't a manipulative power move. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm trembling with need--it's been too long. I talk big in these notes, but I'm really just a dumb fucking bitch who wants his ass blown out.

But he's just staring. I scoot forward, nearly getting to the point that my ass touches his dick. Then, I look up at him and he's staring at my cock.

I purse my lips, then look back at his dick. "Please," I say. Bratty I can do, but begging? I'm trash. "Please fuck me."

He huffs. Written over his face is the unraveling of his fantasy. In my dumb over-eagerness, I fucked up: I ought to have laid on my chest and pushed my head down into the seat. Would've been uncomfortable as all hell in the back-seat of a car, and his girth would hurt a lot more, but...

"Christ, kid." He crouches over me so his dick lines up with mine. I hate watching his dick move farther from my needy ass and closer to my cock. He's thicker, but I've got like two inches on him and he just can't get over that. A huge hand reaches down and mashes my dick up against his.

Mistake number one: I should have never let him see my dick.

I'm so upset with myself over my own dumb fuck-up that I feel tears threaten to well up. You probably think that's dumb as fuck, but I get real needy, sometimes. And dammit, it didn't have to be this way: all I had to do was just *roll over* and he never would have gotten distracted with my cock. On another day, I might love this kind of turnabout, giving this annoying fucker a rude awakening... but not today.

Mistake number two: I take out my frustration with myself on him.

"Are you jealous?" I bark. "Upset? Good, take it out my ass."

"I ain't jealous," he says. He's got two hands on my dick now and he's squinting down at it. "Hah, fuck, that ain't right. This much meat on a little cocksucker like you. What a fuckin' waste."

He squeezes it so hard it hurts. Yeah, definitely not jealous or upset, bud. "You're right," I say. "It is a waste. I'd rather this thing be on a stud like you."

His eyes snap up to mine. "You saying mine ain't good enough?"

"I'm literally begging for your cock--of course it's good enough. Please, I skipped class for this. Shove it in me, please...."

"Quiet, twerp," he snaps at me, while he continues stroking on and gazing at my dick with such gentle adoration. "Twerp with a fuckin' third leg, shit."

He hasn't looked at my ass even once and he's probably not gonna. I'm probably the biggest he's seen, and I wish I wasn't. My eyes clench shut and I whine. Keeping my legs lifted is a pain, so I let them drop. There's a reason I didn't send him a dick pic. "You aren't gonna top me, are you?"

He's silent, and his eyes briefly meet mine before jumping back down to my cock. He's a mixture of jealous, curious, and upset.

"...so you can't top unless your dick makes mine look small," I say. "Grow the fuck up."

That's when I remember this is a dude whose job is beating people up. He doesn't hit me, but he hits the back cushion of the car and his message is clear. "One more word, you little cocksucker..."

"Yes," I say, "that's what I am. A cocksucker. Now let me suck your cock already."

He meets my eyes. "I want it in me."

I balk. "Wh..." He's got that expectant look on his face like I should be grateful for his sudden change of heart, that I should get on my knees and thank him for giving me an opportunity that I never fucking wanted in the first place.

I reach for the door handle. He reaches for my tail and uses it to reel me in against my will. Then his head's between my legs.

His tongue drags hard along the underside of my cock from base to tip, and a moan vibrates into me. This is normally where I'd be calling him a cocksucker, but I'm actually scared he's going to hit me, so I keep my mouth shut and let him cram my cocktip into his mouth like a starved animal.

He's not very good, but he's passable. Even if he's 'straight,' he's probably had enough blowjobs to know what not to do. I don't feel his teeth even once, and he's lucky enough not to gag--well, okay, that goes out the window when he takes me an inch into his throat and groans: this bear has definitely sucked a big dick before. He sputters and backs off a second later, but he keeps trying, over and over.

I close my eyes and give in: there's no point in fighting. I'm not getting fucked. I'm getting blown in the back seat of a car by a self-hating closet gay. He's at least smart enough to use his hands, so it's gonna be over quick. I'd try to take charge and have some fun with it, but something tells me if I grip his ears, thrust into his mouth, or talk dirty to him, I'll shatter his fantasy that I'm nothing but a huge fucking cock, and I don't want to get punched out. So I bite my tongue.

When I go over the edge, he pulls back. He doesn't want shit to do with my cum: it doesn't go in his mouth, doesn't go on his face, doesn't go anywhere but right up against my shirt, ruining it. No going back to class now: I've got to scramble home wearing a cum-blasted shirt in public so I can change.

Then he pulls up and he doesn't look at me for a long while, maybe thinking that if he ignores me I'll just go away. Hell, he's ignored me this whole time, focusing on absolutely nothing but my big dick.

Sex is hard. Sometimes I love being objectified: put me in a hood, line up all your friends, and see who can throat the most of my dick. (Please.) But now? I absolutely hate it and I hate him for it. I just came but I'm still horny, still want to get fucked, and now I'm mad, too.

But when he sits up and cranes forward solemnly, I sense a smidgeon of vulnerability, or maybe shame. Not over my ruined clothes or how he came awfully close to raping me--no, he's got no concern for the well-being of the openly-gay, openly-bottom kid. I'm just expected to take anything he throws at me because I'm just a little cocksucker, aren't I?

He probably has a wife and kids. Probably grew up in the era where being gay was a crime. Probably sucked a few cocks in his moments of weakness, but never for a second considered he might be gay. The job, the insults, the macho personality--they're not knives meant to cut me, but shields meant to protect himself. Buttfucking eager college kids is, perhaps, just 'manly' enough that he can convince himself he's not really gay. But sucking cock?

I pity him. I understand him. When I sit up and pull on my clothes, I turn the shirt inside-out to hide the stains. My hands rest aside the passenger-side headrest.

I'm still angry, but I reign it in: I have to be fair to him. "If you change your mind," I say, "and want to top... I'll still let you."

He's silent for a while, and I wonder if he's just waiting for me to leave. He sighs. "If you tell anyone..."

"Yeah, I know," I say. "You'll call me a faggot and beat me to a pulp, and it'll be on the front page of the papers no one reads."

"That's not what I..."

"Yeah, it is."

He shuts up. Then, opens his mouth again. "If you want another blow..."

"I'm drowning in blowjobs," I say. "I just wanna get fucked."

The bear rolls his eyes. He's got that same look, like I should be lucky he's gracing me with the privilege of his top mouth, like I (the little bottom) should revel in gratitude for anything he (the top) gives me, even if it's... him bottoming. "...well, if you want to top, for once--"

I'm at my limit and that sets me off.

"You don't get special treatment because you're too much of a fucking coward to admit you like dick. Don't you ever waste my time with this shit again, and if I get one more message from you and you're still listed as an 'exclusive top'--" I make airquotes out of the word. "--then I'm blocking your ass."

He's gripping the back of the seat, knuckles locked and ears down. I'm hopeful for a redemption arc, but when he speaks up, he's about as clueless as I'd expect. "Christ," he says, lacking even the balls to look at me, "stop being so melodramatic. I sucked your cock, you ungrateful little brat. I don't do that for just anyone."

I think back to the prissy bitch with her highlighters in the front row of class. She's not good at school; she just wants people to think she is, because it makes her feel better. This bear isn't what his profile says he is; he just wants people to think he is, because it makes him feel better.

Maybe people think that if they project an image strongly enough, it'll mold them to it. But it really just gets in the way. In both cases, the real man living the dream is the sassy little twink sneaking off to get his ass caved in.

So take that, Sasha. I don't need therapy. I don't even know why I'm bothering to write this out. The more I write, the more I think I'm doing just fine.

"Way to completely miss the point, you fucking rapist," I say, and with that, I open his door and duck out into the lot.

I whip out my phone and fire off texts to four different former hook-ups. Three of them, the last seven messages are unanswered pleas from me, asking for dick. None of them answer promptly. It's not until I've got Soren's name pulled up and I'm halfway through typing out a message asking him if he wants to try gay sex (he's a dragon, I bet he's got a nice cock) before I realize I'm completely off my rocker.

I delete my GrindR profile again, remake it using a generic picture, and fill in no stats. My name for the day is "TWINKBOT4HNG." The first notification chimes in just as I'm arriving to the campus bookstore to buy a replacement shirt, and it's the same motherfucker that just sucked my dick in his back seat, claiming he's an exclusive top who's pent up as fuck and has a fierce need to breed--

I'm not gonna lie, the dick pic that follows is mouth-watering.

I contemplate sending him an acerbic message and a (bigger) dick pic back. I want to make him suffer. I contemplate telling him to come breed me in the campus bookstore bathrooms. I want to get fucked. But I settle on not being the fucking child this man twice my age is, and I just block him.

Next.