I’m a man and I just bottomed for another man.
What do now??
I feel you there, bro! Er. Figuratively.
Don't ever beat yourself up about having incredibly mixed feelings concerning bottoms and bottoming. Bottoms are hilarious! But prickly. Especially one's own.
As much as we all yearn to remain hippy-dippy-egalitarian, and embrace to our bosoms ALL expressions of sexuality (except the ICKY ONES) ... that don't necessarily mean we'd enjoy actually participating in every single goddamn one. Trust me, bro. I learned that one the HARD way, pun totally intended. Most chaps do.
Like, consider this image. Bit of a natter ahead, so make yourself a cuppa first.
If you've neglected your New Zealand espionage seminars and need a refresher, it's a modern depiction of a Māori "Hei Tiki" figurine. All that rainbow barf conjures up for me an incredibly common male archetype. He's blundered through my life many times. He's likely at least flashed his face in your life too. Imagine a leather-suitcase dinosaur of a bloke. You know the sort. Let's call him Monsieur Taniwha (pronounced "tunny-fah" for those unacquainted with Te Reo Māori and means a variety of spirit-monster-poof, and "monsieur" is Fr*nch for wanker).
Monsieur Taniwha is stroppy and curmudgeonly and stroppy and did I mention stroppy? But a decent bloke deep down. Today's hot-button PC issues, however, flummox him greatly. LGBT+? Kink? Sexual identities? Sexual preferences? Your bottoming, 花栗栖? He finds such chaotic malarkey BEYOND baffling, even verging on disgust.
But! As far as he's concerned! Of disgust and loathing mightier still? Outright harassment and bullying of the Poofs. Might he merely disagree with assorted amethyst-haired LGBT dingbats? Perhaps. Sure. Maybe. Do these buggers mystify and perplex him? Oh god yes.
But to insult them and abuse them? Like so many of his alleged country club mates? Like hell! Abuse can fuck right off. It takes all sorts to make a world, goddammit. Addled fruitcake weirdos today's youngsters indeed may be, but holy guacamole, they're good kids with good hearts. Smart cookies too! So he decides to jolly well throw his weight behind loudly and publicly supporting them.
But good golly gumdrops his sex education. Us rosy-cheeked 21st-century foetuses do NOT know how good we've got it. Seriously. Monsieur Taniwha's generation's standard sex education curriculum was the school principal burning the exhumed corpse of Oscar Wilde at the stake. A while back I read John Cleese's memoirs So, Anyway.... Cleese describes his formative years in good ol' 1950s England, and the role featured therein by Woman. Each and every woman young-Cleese encountered was receipted-and-filed by his societal norms either as a subdued maternal archetype, or a fire-breathing and scandalous whore. Seriously. Just those two. And "sex" was NOT something one discussed. Ever. You just didn't. England's sprightly young horndog minds thus stagnated. Curiosity shrivelled. Inquisitiveness perished.
And so Monsieur Taniwha becomes a genial, gormless grown-up, viewing sexuality as this fascinating and exotic volcano of smut, throbbing and distantly quarantined on his life's horizon like an extra-sleazy Mount Doom. Terra Incognita, taboo eternal.
Until, that is, he encounters Politics. Holy moly. He faceplants 1970s Marxist Feminism, doesn't he: savage packs of women with beachball pubes and pyro-bras, commanding oral supplication and cunnilingual orgasms galore, and enticing strapping men into their witchy oral webs in the glorious cause of Women's Liberation.
Holy shit. It's like hell-raiser rain in the goddamn desert. James Bond? They'd pulverise him in minutes. A buff oaf like Monsieur Taniwha? Instant putty in their twiddle-fingers. He succumbs to sweet abduction by wave after wave of shrieking banshee covens of '70s kickass feminist hellspawn. He might behold one of their pamphlets on radical-socialist sexual hierarchies as a particularly dorky proton might gawk at the Large Hadron Collider. Vast. Baffling. But holy shit it's glorious. He has no freakin' idea what re on about. But he wants in.
Monsieur Taniwha falls madly and mutually in passionate love with one particular adamantine leftie valkyrie. And they luxuriate in month after incandescent, radiant month of wanton oral bliss. It's phenomenal. It's kickass. Each new dawn illuminates yet another frenzied whirl of debauchery, drugs, jazz, communes, beatniks, lentils, oral sex, midnight frolics, witchcraft, sit-ins, marches, oral sex, foxtrots, covens, sandals, oral sex, incredibly free love, and oral sex. For months. Sexual antics? You name it, he's sampled it. Monsieur Taniwha feels like he's died and gone to giga-pubes heaven.
Until one dreadful day.
His beloved adamantine leftie Valkyrie receives a Letter.
It's a Final Ultimatum from Daddy's lawyers.
It says: drop your unconscionable pinko-Commie Lesbo-Stalin bullshit and marry a Respectable Man AT ONCE, or no more trust fund!
His unassailable Valkyrie transforms mid-blink from a guttural libertine tigress to a demure and squawky socialite, all aflutter about marriage and responsibilities. In five seconds flat she's sweet-talked Daddy into hiring eight wedding cathedrals with his elevenses Union Carbide Bhopal bonus in case the first seven cathedrals are the wrong shade of turquoise. Before Monsieur Taniwha can even clear his throat, it's a whirlwind of nuptials and Marrakesh honeymoon and lying back and thinking of England, and the one time he even hinted at reattempting past cunnilingual glories, she burst into tears and accused him of calling her a whore and how dare he.
Same result when he attempts a political opinion even vaguely left-wing. Ballistic crockery and she threatened to trample him with nine of her most butch ponies.
So Monsieur Taniwha recoils, winces, scratches his head, shrugs, and just kind of gets on with life. For years. Children pop into existence and sprout and leave home. The decades lengthen. Office party pizazz fades. Daddy-In-Law's apparently inexhaustible slush funds means he never really has to unduly strain his work ethic, or frankly, think too carefully about how the world really works.
Result: his lifetime experiences of (1) politics and (2) sex were a numb humdrum childhood, a numb humdrum maturity, and between, twin intertwined fierce and dazzling volcanoes of visceral, overwhelming ecstasy. And incomprehensible. He's remained baffled about what any of it ever meant. Ditto on why modern political debates on minimum wage policy never fail to make him rock-hard.
Now he's long retired and his joints never cease aching. And one day, he overhears seven of his great-grandkids scheming in the conservatory about marching for Gay Marriage. His ears prick up. His skin prickles. His soul reignites. His long-mummified nostalgias of sex and politics forge alliance anew with his curmudgeonly yet stout sense of empathy. Goddammit, he'll march on the barricades alongside the youth of today the only way his world has ever taught him.
All this is a long-winded way of saying that Monsieur Taniwha's sparse political and sexual experiences have turkeyslapped his psyche into believing that supporting today's Gays means actually sucking them off.
So with bent back and creaking knees he makes stalwart passage to the local community glory holes, adamant on doing his Bit For The Boys. His cohort took on World War Two. Like hell he'll shirk from the occasional penis.
But the actual oral promotion of LGBT proves hell on earth. He'll support today's youth, Goddammit! Yet volcanic disgust throbs. He's tongue-thrummed a billion stalwart vaginas but nary a solitary penis. And he finds it unbearable. His paired gent ejaculates at last ... and it's just too much! Our foul-mouthed hero vomits rainbow fountains of LGBT-spunk like a garden sprinkler, screaming "It's so foul, so very foul, but please don't cancel me! I'm on YOUR side!"
And thus our image.
So please don't think you're the first bloke to grapple with such dilemmas, 花栗栖! Monsieur Taniwha is all of us! It's incredibly okay to publicly extol the virtues of bottoming on general principles, yet bleat at the prospect of prongs porking one's own bottom. By all means, raise a toast to those specific fellas who thirst for receiving rectal railings. Each to their own, says I. But you need not join in yourself. Unless you're actually attracted to that bullshit. Ew.