Gay Sex While Pooping

A few posts ago, I made the offhand remark that Sal and Paul and I once had a conversation regarding gay sex while pooping. Wait - I mean that we had a conversation, the topic of which was "gay sex while pooping." I do not mean that, while pooping, we had a conversation about gay sex. Although, if we had been pooping and talking about sex at the same time, I probably would have blogged about that as well. You know me.

Anyway, I figured what better way to ring in the new year than to squeeze in one more story that will probably horrify and nauseate most of you. (Not ACW.)

Now I know some of you are easily grossed out, and I know some of you are incredibly stupid. I also know that it stands to reason that there are a few of you who fall squarely in both of those categories. It is for those people that I now make the following announcement: I am about to tell a story about gay sex and pooping. Just in case you skipped the title of this post and sailed through the first few paragraphs, pretending to read but were instead daydreaming about pink bunnies hopping through a green sunlit field in a world where there is no violence and nothing bad ever happens, let me say it again in no uncertain terms:

Gay sex and pooping. If you are offended by either of those things, or if you are okay with those things separately, but do not like the thought of having them combined, for the love of all that's holy stop reading this blog. In fact, turn off your computer and place a bag over your head. Think of puppies. Hum some comforting tunes.

Okay. For the rest of you, consider yourselves more than warned. I don't want to see a bunch of comments about how I caught you off guard with all the gay sex and pooping. I know how you people operate. Sheesh.

This story is, to the best of my knowledge, 100% true. The hero (so to speak) of the story is someone Paul used to know, and he confided this tale to Paul. I should make it perfectly clear (because I will never hear the end of it if I don't) that I'm not making some sort of cute euphemism to cover the fact that Paul is actually the person in the story. This story is not not not about Paul.

Unless it is.

But it's not. I promise. It's about some other guy.

Unless it isn't.

That sound you hear is steam shooting out of Paul's ears. Okay, really, it isn't Paul.

(heh heh heh...)

Anyway, our hero, we'll call him Friend Of Paul, (FOP) was, at the time of this story, a young gay man living in New York City. FOP was a nice guy, and not unattractive, but not an Abercrombie & Fitch model either. He was what you might call squarely average looking. Or averagely square looking. Either one gets the point across. He wasn't what you'd call "a looker." Which was why he was surprised, one night out on the town, to have caught the attention of a Greek god.

No, not a real Greek God. (calm down, Zeus-o-philes...) I don't even know if the guy was Greek. I just mean he was way out of FOP's league. Picture the supermodel or celebrity you would most like to throw a bang at. It was like that. No way in a million years could a guy like FOP bag a dude like Apollo, and yet, here they were, chatting and dancing and doing whatever else young gay men do whilst clubbing, and it was all going great. This night was shaping up to be the high point in FOP's life.

Eventually, after drinks and laughs and a few kisses, FOP found himself leading Apollo back to his apartment. I'm sure FOP kept expecting Apollo to come to his senses and beg off for the night, but it never happened. Now he had a god in his bedroom, and...

And this is the part of the story where you can imagine all the gay sex you want. I'm not going to describe it for you. Not because I have any kind of a problem with the gay sex but because this ain't no porno blog. (Amazing, I know, since I have no problem littering this blog with any other forms of depravity...) Click over to the Nifty Stories archive if you want to read about some gay sex, and then come back here for the end. I'll wait.

Suffice it to say that it was wonderful and magical and everything FOP had ever hoped sex with a Greek God would be. Right up until the big finish. That was when Apollo suddenly pinned FOP to the bed, sat on top of him and took a giant steaming dump on his chest. While... um... climaxing.

No warning. No mention at any point earlier in the evening that a thick Cleveland Steamer might just be in the works. No sign at all that this was what Apollo had in mind. Just "wham, bam, KER-PLOP."

I suppose you can't blame Apollo. I mean, you can absolutely blame him for the horrible drive-by dumping, but I think I can understand the surprise element. If Naomi Watts were to offer me a night of unbridled passion the likes of which I have not experienced in my lifetime, followed immediately by her grumping all over me, I believe I'd have to turn that offer down. And I like me some Naomi Watts. The grumping however, would be dealbreaker. I'll blog about poop all night long, but I really don't want to ever wear it. I think if you're Apollo, you know the only way you're getting the grumping in there is to throw it in at the last second.

So you can imagine FOP's utter disbelief and horror at his evening suddenly taking a u-turn from "hot-god-sex-fantasy" to "non-consensual shitrape." When FOP expressed his displeasure in what I can only imagine sounded like "WHATTHEFUCKHEYWHATTHEFUCK?!?!?!?!?" Apollo leapt from the bed and bolted. Fop was left lying naked on his bed, covered in Thor-dump, and feeling like he had just been hit by a truck.

If there is a moral to this story, it's probably this: Trust no one. Everyone you know is just waiting to pin you down and shit on you.

Or, I don't know... Maybe the moral is something more upbeat, like: Be grateful for every day that the person in your life doesn't pin you down and shit on you.

Or: Beware Greek gods in loaded shorts.

I don't know. I suck at this "morals" part. Just be careful out there tonight as you all ring in the new year. If you wind up going home with someone you don't know, at the very least wrap your chest in a protective layer of Saran Wrap or something.

Happy New Year, freaks!