• The intersection of scrupulous OCD and sexual shame

• What I look for in an erotic essay when deciding whether to accept a BOYSLUT submission

• The biggest mistakes I see from new writers

• Whether or not you should share your “wilder” sex stories

• Why I’ve been dismissed among many in the literary world because I write more explicitly about sex

• But also why I think it’s necessary to write explicitly about sex and how it isn’t just for “shock value”

• My inability to lie

• Relooked at the bi vs. pan “debate”

• The need to “slow down” before accidentally giving someone the Boyfriend Experience (BFE)

• And more

I hope you enjoy the live!

xoxo

Zachary Zane + Jerry Portwood

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I pride myself on knowing my strengths and weaknesses. I can confidently say that I am not a man who knows his way around a power tool. A power bottom, yes, but not a tool. So when something around the house needs some fixing or installing, I ask my friends for help. Luckily, my friend Bradley is good with his hands, in more ways than one. When he learned my bedframe broke (from the exact reason you’re thinking), he kindly offered to come and fix it. He said he’d install blackout curtains for me, too. I wanted to repay him somehow, so I gave him three options:

1. I could take you out to dinner.

2. We hit up a strip club together, and I provide the ones.

3. I set up an MMF threesome.

Surprising no one, he picked the third option.

I had no one in particular in mind when I suggested the final option, but I figured I wouldn’t have too hard of a time finding a willing participant because Bradley is an easy sell: Tall, bearded, with glasses, Bradley looks like a member of the tribe but is not, in fact, Jewish. More importantly, he’s an excellent Dom, so most subs jump at the opportunity to play with him.

I posted to Instagram, asking if any women would be interested in having a threesome with us. Honestly, I did it somewhat as a joke. I really didn’t think anyone would bite. Oh, how foolish! You’re all big old boysluts, just like me, and I couldn’t be more proud.

Eight women jumped at the opportunity with enthusiasm, so I did what any organizer would do: I created a Doodle poll to see the date when most of the women were available.

A clear winner emerged where four women were able to attend, so what was supposed to be an MMF had become an MMFFFF. At first, I was overjoyed, but then I realized I had never hosted an orgy this big at my new apartment. I needed to figure out a way to somehow have six people fucking simultaneously in my abode, with only one (1!) queen bed.

Of course, I also needed to provide snacks and alcohol. Can you have an orgy without a charcuterie board? No, you cannot. You need to have meats and cheeses for days! You need mixers. You need beers, hard seltzers, and cannabis. And that’s just on the food and beverage side. You also need candles—ambiance is key—a playlist that gets everyone in the mood, and sex toys. Needless to say, I’m covered on the latter, but you also need to make sure those bad boys are clean, charged, and ready to buzz.

It takes planning and preparation to throw an orgy, and I had a reputation to uphold. Still, I was a little lost on where we could fuck. We could fuck on my couch, but I wanted everyone to be in the room together. I didn’t like the idea of half of the people fucking in my bedroom and half in my (tiny) living room. I feared that would keep us separated, and I wanted everyone to play together. I wanted to get turned on watching a ton of sexy bi women eating each other out while getting pegged as I get blown with a finger up my ass.

Is that really too much to ask?

Then it hit me: I could put the blow-up mattress next to my queen bed. My blow-up mattress is also of royal status, another queen, and it’s quite comfy. So I blew it up and put on clean bedsheets. I was nothing if not prepared, and fortune favors the prepared.

The night of, everyone trickled in around 6:30 pm, except Bradley, who came a couple of hours earlier to earn his orgy. Yes, people were coming on the earlier side, but since it was a Wednesday night, I made it clear we couldn’t have that late of an evening. I needed to wake up early to keep writing the BOYSLUT book if I was to make my deadline. Everyone was on the same page, acknowledging that we couldn’t go too wild on a school night.

Some of us knew each other, a few of us had fucked before, but many were meeting for the first time. I knew we’d need some time to loosen up, to ease any tension, and that’s what happened. Things started off swimmingly. We were gabbing as the girls are wont to do, discussing polyamory, kink, culture, dating, and the like.

Around 9:30 PM, I wondered if we would ever hook up. We’d been hanging for three hours, and still, we were clothed, casually chatting. I didn’t want to force the night to go in any direction, but at the same time, I know gay women. (Gay in this context means bisexual.) I’ve heard from countless bi/lesbian friends how challenging it is to date and fuck other women because no one ever makes the first move. They have twenty dates and are clearly in love, but no one initiates, so both parties are left in a horny, confused limbo. They pine after each other forever until one of them dies.

So, being the gracious host I am, I figured I should get the ball rolling and get a sense of the vibe. I asked if we wanted to start getting sexual and move to the bedroom. I was met with radio silence, so I quickly dropped it and changed the topic. I figured the orgy wouldn’t happen. A bummer? A little, but I was also having fun chilling and shooting the shit with everyone.

Around thirty minutes later, one of the women, Carolina (pronounced Caro-LEE-nuh), said she wanted to get more comfortable and took off her clothing, only leaving on a sheer bra and matching thong adorned with hearts.

If you’re attracted to women, it is impossible not to have a crush on Carolina. Even if you aren’t typically attracted to women, I still think it’s impossible. Her allure is irresistible. She effortlessly balances raw sexiness with adorable cuteness. Her smile lights up a room, and her body is, for lack of a better word, banging. Her booty is a big ol’ bubble, and the way it bounces? Delightful. Simply delightful.

Clearly, I’ve had a crush on Carolina for quite some time, but that isn’t what’s important. Rather, her welcoming demeanor plus her sexual power is exactly what was needed to get the orgy started. You feel at ease with her while simultaneously wanting to fuck her brains out. So, after she undressed, it didn’t take long until we discussed our BIDs: Boundaries, Intentions, and Desires.

We went around in the circle, each sharing. Anal was off the table for some. (I made it clear it was very on the table for me.) Norah had just broken up with her girlfriend of a few years and wanted to stop thinking about it—so she desperately was craving a beating. Eva simply said she would let us know if she didn’t like anything while having sex, but for now, had no boundaries.

Outside of letting everyone know I wanted something up my ass, I said my goal was to make sure everyone had a good time. I wasn’t looking to fuck everyone; I wanted to watch and revel in the space, the orgy, that I created and curated.

To my bedroom we went, and within seconds, it was a goddamn orgy. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, tits were out, Bradley’s dick was getting sucked, pussies were getting eaten, and the bed frame Bradley had just spent the last hour fixing was being put to the test.

Eva, Zee, and I started on the blow-up mattress. I watched as the two of them, who had never met before, began to explore each other’s bodies. At first, they kissed slowly, tenderly, but their hunger for each other grew with time. Their mouths opened wider, and their tongues began swishing in each other’s mouths, dancing together in harmony. I watched from the end of the bed as Eva’s hands slowly made their way down Zee’s body. At first, she touched her cheeks and neck as they kissed, but soon, her hands were on Zee’s breasts, gently pinching her nipples, and then they were on Zee’s clit. Zee let her head fall back in ecstasy as Eva began to finger her while sucking on her clit.

I’ve fucked Zee a few times, and I am 99% sure she was the inspiration for the song, WAP. When she gets turned on, she is macaroni-in-a-pot status. She cums with ease and squirts buckets across the room. The wildest thing? That’s not even the best part of having sex with her. She looks absolutely and utterly possessed when she cums. Seeing her experience that much pleasure is a sight to behold.

Needless to say, I was rock-hard watching the duo. Taking a breath from eating Zee’s pussy, Eva gave me the look—that look—insisting that I join. I happily obliged. I put my fingers in Eva’s pussy, and she was already dripping without having been touched. She was that turned on from eating out Eva.

I teased Eva, licking her labia and gently stimulating her clit as she kept feasting on Zee. Then I grabbed a condom and entered Eva. I slid right in with ease. I cupped Eva’s breasts as I took her from behind. She kept eating out Zee. I truly believe she could eat out Zee for days without stopping. She’d survive solely on Zee’s juices.

After a number of hard, deep thrusts, I needed a break. Zee and Eva continued kissing, licking, and sucking until Eva put on her purple strap-on. Baby, this is what I came for. I assumed the position: on my back, legs up in the air in a V formation. Once Eva scooted closer to enter me, I rested my legs on her shoulders. Zee jerked me off and kissed Eva simultaneously, and I was overwhelmed with arousal, nearly going into shock. The wetness, the prostate play, penile stimulation, and Sapphic visuals flooded my senses.

I was in a trance and only came out of it when I heard repeated wallops. Bradley was smacking Norah’s ass as Carolina sucked his dick, taking every inch of his thick cock inside her throat. His wallops grew louder and louder until Norah decided she was ready to be the Dom.

I’d learned Norah is always the sub, but tonight she had a beast ready to be unleashed. Perhaps something in her recent break-up caused her dominant side to reveal herself, or the orgy allowed for a level of freedom and exploration she wasn’t accustomed to—whatever the reason was, it led her to put on a strap-on. She fucked Carolina from behind, pushing Carolina’s head into Bradley’s cock. I was so distracted, I had to stop playing with Eva and Zee just to watch.

Norah had a mischievous grin on her face. Clearly, she was surprised by how much she enjoyed Domming and how good she was for someone who’s never switched. Mind you, Carolina was just living her best life, bouncing her ass on Norah’s dick with the confidence and rhythm of a porn star.

“Uh, uh, uh,” I heard, drawing my attention back to the blow-up mattress. As I turned back to watch the couple in front of me, I was hit right in the eyes with a fountain of Zee’s squirt. Zee has been riding Eva’s cock cowgirl, and her squirt ricocheted out of her pussy, off of Eva’s stomach, and then onto my poor eyeballs. I laughed as I wiped her squirt off my face.

Now rested, I was ready to go again and decided that it was time to switch up the groups. I switched with Norah. First, I had Carolina sit on my face with her perfect ass. I didn’t want to breathe. I wanted, needed, her ass in my face and to smell her sweet pussy. Then I fucked her. The Bradley fucked her. Then I fucked her again. We kept switching positions in the spit roast. When Bradley was getting blown by Carolina, he’d grab the back of her head, her luscious locks in between his fingers. Seeing how he manhandled her and controlled her movements made my desire to Dom even stronger. I grabbed and smacked her ass as I thrusted. Then, holding her hips, I plowed deeper and deeper.

On the blow-up mattress, the FFF was a goddamn squirt fest. (No one knows how to make a woman cum harder and faster than a bi chick.) Mouths were on tits. Magic Wands were on clits. Dildos were spreading pussy lips, filling up each woman.

A musical round of orgasms took place. First, one woman would audibly cum. A minute later, another woman came, and then the third would. One woman’s moans seamlessly transitioned to the next.

Still fucking Carolina, I heard Bradley making the “Oh” sound, so I thrusted deep into Carolina and kept my dick there as Bradley erupted all over her pretty face and tits. Everyone now had cum, except for me. As the host, I figured it was rude to cum first, but now was undoubtedly the time.

I returned to the blow-up mattress, and Eva began to finger me hard and deep, the way I like it, as Zee took me in her mouth. This is my favorite way to come, with something in my ass while getting blown. If you add someone sitting on my face, the scenario becomes the ultimate trifecta.

When I came, my load shot out of me like a bat out of hell. I had been so horned up, so close to cuming for so long, that I nearly passed out from a combination of exhaustion and satisfaction when I finally climaxed.

We all were nearly dead, so we lay there cuddling in silence for a few minutes—relishing the wave of relaxation that comes post-orgasm—sitting in fluids and smelling the lingering sexual aroma. Around 1 am, I let everyone know it was time to leave. It was a school night, after all.

The room looked like a tornado had passed through. Condoms and condom wrappers were strewn everywhere. Harnesses and sex toys littered every corner. I placed all the used dildos and vibrators in the sink but was too tired to clean up the condom (wrappers) strewn across the floor. And there was no way in hell I would clean my sheets. So I slept on my wet bed, still very much intact after countless people fucked on it. Bradly had done a good job, earning his orgy. And I thanked him, appropriately.

At the end of the day, I may not know how to fix a bed frame or install blackout curtains, but I do know how to throw one hell of a fucking orgy. And ya know what? I’m okay with that.

I’ve always associated the beach or any outing that requires me to be in the sun for over thirty minutes with a profound dread. That’s what countless childhood memories of reddened noses and sunburnt shoulders will do to you. It’s hard to imagine yourself gallivanting and enjoying the beach when you’re more focused on whether that SPF 70 will protect you. Yet, one day last summer, I decided to push those needling thoughts away, instead relishing everything the beach had to offer. (After all, The Gays notoriously love a beach day.)

Blacks Beach is famously known for being clothing optional (throughout) and a gay cruising mecca (at its very end). Both propositions—the idea of doing away with my Speedo and the idea that such a Speedo-less environment would lead to any and everything—made me quiver with anticipation. Armed with one of my boyfriends (and plenty of sunscreen on my shoulders, cock, and butt cheeks), I decided to sink into the day’s offerings.

We didn’t do away with our swimsuits immediately. But once we’d set up camp away from the hetero portion of the SoCal beach, we explored the thicket known for daytime cruising. All we needed were our hip packs (equipped with the essentials: lube, poppers, gum, and a water bottle) and a hat (I wanted to be kissed—well, fucked, really—but not by the sun).

You only have to go a few steps toward the more covered part of the beach, away from the water and toward the trails bordered by thick bushes and flanked by tall, towering cliffs, to find exactly what you’d hoped to see at a naked gay beach spot. Namely: a whole lot of dicks, many of them oiled up by spit and sweat and lube waiting to be rammed into any and all orifices.

In contrast to the darkness of backrooms at sex clubs, the bright daylight there gave the entire sun-dappled scene a sense of reckless abandon. It conjured up a listless kind of lust that demands you leave your coyness behind. (You can’t hide in the dark shadows of the bar. You can’t weasel your way into a sexual scene the way so many gays do in dark rooms. You need to have your dick out underneath the sun that God created, your sins on display for all to see.)  

Whether beautifully sculpted by daily workouts, trimmed and toned with the help of age and genetics, or embracing the motto that every body is a beach body—there was no shortage of every kind of man around, all gathered to let their unruly desires run amok. It was a free-for-all, with all those limbs and asses and backs and necks melding into an ever-inviting sea of bodies.

I started by blowing the tall guy with the thick thighs and even thicker leg band tattoo. He’d first caught my eye precisely because I couldn’t meet his. (I like ’em tall; what can I say?) But it was his ink which drew me in, so carefully did it guide your eyes toward his engorged dick, which he was coyly playing with as he looked on at the makeshift crowd.

With a bashful wink, I made my way toward him. All I needed was a nod to get on my knees. Caressing his thighs and grabbing his ass to take him better in, I soon became blissfully unaware of anyone or anything else around. All I felt was his meat hitting the back of my throat.

Once I could feel his heartbeat quickening on my lips—and the beads of sweat pooling on his lower back—I knew he was ready for more. Grabbing lube from my hip bag and turning around to make sure he knew what I wanted, I needed only to bend over a bit to encourage him to force his oiled-up dick right in. As he made sure I felt every thrust, I gave myself the license to look around.

The trail, narrow as it was, made the entire scene feel like a parade. There was a constant flow of naked boys walking and admiring those of us who were on the sides, fucking or sucking or simply gawking and waiting our turn—queues of guys eager to get a turn at a mouth or a hole or a dick (or two).

When Thick Band Tat had me dismount, I saw, behind me, a line of reddened, hardened cocks waiting patiently for their turn. A man with a big, head-heavy dick beckoned me over, guiding me to stay bent over as he shoved his piece into my now saltier-tasting mouth. His friend took the hint and made sure my lubed-up hole wouldn’t remain unattended. A hit of poppers (Double Scorpio Rose Gold) helped, blurring the glistening bodies around me, making them almost indistinguishable.

Soon, I started losing track of whose dicks I’d sucked and primed to plunge inside me as I held on to a nearby branch lest their rhythmic thrusts make me lose my balance. 

My boyfriend gawked in wide-eyed wonder, his smirk widening with every new forceful shove I weathered. His own dick, still glinting with his P.A., was being serviced by gaping mouths that seemed to multiply and line up by him by the minute, all eager for him. 

Signaling to the toned, skater boy with shaggy hair who’d mainly kept to the side—boasting as he did a dick that awed and alarmed in equal measure—my boyfriend accomplished a kind of effortless seduction. Lathering his hole and his cock in one fell swoop, he braced for impact, soon whimpering as the boy was aloof no more. Holding me close, hands on my jaw as he spat in my mouth, the two of us savored being wrecked in unison.

Soon, in between whiffs of poppers and plentiful grins, we found ourselves at the center of a growing circle jerk where our versatility was on full display: we can both take as hard and as rough as we can give. In moments like these, such stamina comes in handy, especially when the heat from the sun isn’t the only thing that may cause you to pass out.

There are worse places that could happen, I remember thinking a split second before a small, overeager bottom who’d desperately been trying to find someone to fuck him (his desperation a bit of a turn-off) stumbled onto a branch, lost his balance, and ended up knocking me over. I fell forward and smelled the blood before I saw it: a gash on my knee.

I was furious, especially since the culprit of my fall barely mustered an apology. (“Poppers!” he offered, unclear if as an excuse or as a plea.) My instinct was to flee in a huff to the water, away from it all. My boyfriend, thankfully, is a remarkably patient man who knew the only way to turn my frown upside down was to get me to go down—on a boy, on all fours—and so rekindle the thirst- and cum-filled afternoon we’d been having together. 

Holding my hand, after patching me up with a bandaid and a kiss to make up for the hat I’d lost in the commotion, he led us back to the increasingly sweltering shaded area, which was still awash with naked, writhing, viscous bodies. As if to reassure me further, he nudged me to go out and explore on my own; a fork in the trail had us going our separate ways, a reminder that we were here to indulge in singular and shared fantasies. Whatever pangs of jealousy I might have once felt in such a moment dissipated by the lascivious license he’d given me to be the slut he’s always known and loved me to be.

Soon, I could get out of my head and back into my body. Just as the cool waves had helped quiet my anger, this sea of men (and jizz and musk) was now letting me forget about everything. It’s hard to stay focused on a knee scrape when you’re hard and eager to be on your knees taking in a veiny dick bulging out of that seafoam Speedo, which is why you slide those down and slide him in, letting your hands find nearby boners and holes to play with. 

You don’t so much remember bodies as you do sensations: those slow thrusts that felt all the sweeter while you were upright and arching your back; those rhythmic pumps that caused the athletic bottom to moan in ecstasy; that prehensile tongue that had you quaking as it teased your foreskin; that puckering hole which greeted you with a mind of its own…

The afternoon was a chance to satiate our every need, with the heat, sun, sweat, and lustful stares of bonered-up boys making us feel like we could do this until we died.

You can’t, of course. Once I could sense I was nearing the edge, I sought out my boyfriend. He’d been eyeing me from afar as a nicely toned, lanky boy took his dick in with gleeful abandon. My boyfriend grinned with his hands behind his head, clearly enjoying my scene. It was then I knew I had to have my boyfriend; I knew I couldn’t miss my chance to indulge in what had become one of my favorite pastimes: fucking him senseless. 

It’s usually my hole he cannot do without. Me who’s bracing myself against the mattress as he pummels. Me who has to scream into the pillow as he reaches so deep inside me. (I worry he’s gonna break me in half.) Me who fucks our boyfriend as he fucks me from behind. Me who rejoices in receiving his load after successfully getting him to lose control. 

But at times, I want to flip the script, to dominate him—to drive my wet fingers into his hole when he least expects it. And even as he was initially wary of such advances, we’d then arrived at a point where, especially in such sexually-charged environments, my dick was allowed entry—not without the requisite complaint that it was oh-so-thick, a line he always lobbed my way with a matching smile. It was clear he relished feeling me bricked up inside of him.

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Two hours ago, I received a text from a contact saved as “My HRC,” aka Human Cum Rag, how they first referred to themselves when we first began messaging. I don’t remember HRC’s real name. He/she/they—their gender defies labels—must have said it when we first met, seven years ago, but I forgot. I didn’t expect I’d see them again, but like my actual cum rags over the years, they’ve come with me from one apartment to the next.

There have been times when they have come over to my home every month, servicing me, being my submissive, my pet. There have been times when a year has gone by since we last sent each other more than a “Hey,” but time doesn’t matter with them. It could be a decade, and I could receive a text that read, “Hey, you free?” and I’d invite them over to whatever apartment I lived in then. They would come and know what to do. My door would be unlocked. I would be naked, somewhere in my apartment. They would strip for me, until they’re wearing just their thong and fishnets. Watching them would get me hard, and once hard, they would begin to suck.

Right now, as I type this, they are in an Uber on the way over. They have a remote control butt plug-in, and I’m struggling to figure out the app. I just texted them, sharing that once they’re here, they can multitask, sucking my dick from underneath my desk while getting the app configured on my phone.

I also told them I may acknowledge them when they enter my apartment. I may not. They responded, “Yes, sir.”

He texts me, “Coming up sir.” I hear my apartment door opening, and I don’t look to see who it is. Instead, I keep typing, this and that, this and that. I’m making sure my keyboard is clacking. I want to make it look like I’m working on something that isn’t contingent upon him.

He has entered my apartment. His loud keys jangle, and accidentally, he let my front door slam. I have not looked at him, which is taking immense willpower. It is hard not to confirm that he is, in fact, who he’s supposed to be. But who else could it be?

He is taking off his shoes and moving to my bathroom. He had asked, not three minutes ago, if he could pee when he comes up, then strip into his thong and fishnets in the bathroom, coming out ready for me. I had replied yes.

I hear the flush. I look down underneath my desk as I wait. Yes, the large pillow I put there, so he could be somewhat comfortable while on his knees, is still there. My foot massager, which I use for my plantar fasciitis, is still in the corner. (Where else could these things have gone?) But I need to keep typing; I probably have another minute until he comes out of the bathroom.

This and that. This and that.

I hear Velcro. Undoubtedly, it is the sound of his cock and ball ring attachment that has a little leash connected to it. He said I could move him from the living room to the bedroom by the leash, if I so choose.

He’s left my bathroom, and still, without looking, I have moved, scooting my desk chair back, making space so that he can kneel underneath my desk.

She is out now. Underneath my desk. Not using the pillow I provided for her. Rude. I have to sit up straight to use my keyboard. To be hard and typing, and not have her face hit the bottom of my desk. I have found the position. And I am hard now. I type slowly with one hand as I’m using the other to guide her down on my cock.

I’m fully erect and moaning. She’s tugging on my balls slightly as she spits on my dick. Sucking. She’s now sniffing my balls. I can’t remember if that’s new. But she’s moaning and loves the smell, I wonder if I shouldn’t have showered beforehand. If she likes it musky. I can’t remember.

I just took a moment from typing to enjoy the sensation. Then to briefly facefuck her. I looked her in the eyes and said, “All the way,” then guided her down. Then back up. Then back down.

“Stay there,” I now say, holding their head down. Their hair is longer than it was when I last saw them, halfway down their back. They wear a pink scrunchy. I’m grateful they’re tugging on my balls.

I realize I forgot to give them my phone to set up the app so that I could control the dildo in their ass. They’re stroking me with one hand as they set it up with the other. They’re resending the link from their phone so I can use it.

I am making this harder for them as I hold their head down on my dick. They can’t connect the app and suck at the same time, and I know they’re worried about it. Is it fucked up that I like them a little worried over something so trivial?

“Keep sucking,” I say, adding to the stress. They’re getting better at multitasking.

“I love your cock,” they say.

“I know,” I reply. They put down my phone. “Is it figured out?”

“I’ll figure it out between.” They mean between sessions. After I cum this time, I will send them to my room while I keep working, waiting for my refractory period to subside. When we texted, they asked for multiple sessions. I told them to bring a book or just scroll on their phone in my room between facefucks. I’ll call them when I’m ready to go again.

They replied, “Thank you sir.”

They’re becoming more breathless, but more eager. I feel their face flush, and I wonder if they’re tiring or if they like putting in the hard work. Though I assume, I still ask, “Do you want me to cum now, or keep going?”

“I can keep going,” they say. “But if you want to cum now, you can. It’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want.”

“That’s right,” I reply.

I’ve let them come out from under my desk, so they have more space, but they’re still sucking, and I’m still typing.

“I love your cock,” they say again. I don’t respond. I’m too focused on not cumming and trying to type.

Fuck it.

“Stop tugging my balls because I want to cum,” I say. “Now suck hard and fast.”

They do. I move their hand from the base of my dick so I can gag them. Cum down their throat.

I’m typing with one hand now.

“Thank you, sir,” they say. They’re stroking me now with one hand. I’m back to typing with two. I was too slow writing with just one.

They’re sucking my head and stroking my base, “Keep doing that,” I say. “I’m getting close.”

“When was your last load?” they ask.

“Three days ago.” It’s a lie, but one I’m okay with. I don’t want to say I came last night, jacking off. No one likes to hear that.

I just took three minutes off to focus on cumming. I looked into his eyes as he stroked and licked my head. “Please, I need it,” he said.

“Keep begging.” I grabbed the hair at the back of his head, his long, yellow hair, holding his neck in place.

“Please,” he said.

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It all happened so quickly. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it: a tall, gray triangle peeping out of the water, only to submerge a second later.

The ocean water was unseasonably warm—thanks to climate change—and the Great Whites were confused. Just a week earlier (when I was off-duty), someone spotted one close to shore. I was skeptical. A shark? In these parts? At this time of the year? I assumed some overly neurotic swimmer with a shark phobia cried wolf (i.e., shark).

Here I was, now questioning my judgment. Did I really see a fin? Then it reappeared, wasn’t curved, and was all by its lonesome.

I sounded the alarm on the bullhorn and shouted, “Everyone out of the water! Swim to the shore immediately.” I didn’t use the S-word. You’re not supposed to; it just causes panic. But some fucker saw the fin, too, and shouted, “SHARK! SHARK!”

The rush from the ocean to land was mayhem. Adults swimming on top of kids. Shrill screams. People frantically patting their arms and legs, checking to see if their limbs were still intact.

Luckily, no one was hurt. No one drowned. Everyone made it ashore except for one lingering woman. She clearly wasn’t a swimmer. I saw her head—her whole body—go under the water, and I ran towards her. But by the time I reached her, she was already on shallow land, standing, her tits fully out. I mean, fully out. Big, wet, swaying breasts as she ran toward the dry sand.

I tried not to stare. She wouldn’t be the first woman with DDs to lose her bikini top in the ocean. Besides, there were far more important things going on than her picture-perfect breasts.

Her face dropped when she realized she was exposed. She attempted to cover her tits, but they were just so big she couldn’t conceal them.

“It’s okay!” I told her as she approached. “Let’s just get you out of the water.” I held out a dry towel for her and wrapped her in it the moment she reached me. “You’re okay,” I said. “You’re safe.”

I surveyed the ocean one final time. There was no sign of a shark, and everyone was out of the water.

“I have a spare shirt in the main lifeguard tower,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied. “Truly, I can’t thank you enough.” She grabbed my hand as I led her further ashore.

I didn’t let him see my smile when he suggested taking me to the lifeguard tower. I didn’t tell him I had my own shirt. Of course, I did. Who goes to the beach wearing just a bikini? No, I just stared at his body. The wet sand stuck to the top of his pecs, refracting the sun. His abs—Jesus fuck, I’m usually not such a basic bitch, but there’s something about a man with a swimmer’s body that makes me feral. The way his broad shoulders narrowed to such tiny hips. His obliques that led to cum gutters. Those sluttly little red shorts with a five-inch inseam that every heartthrob wore in the 80s. His ass filled out those shorts, and honestly, I wasn’t sure he knew what he was packing back there. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d let me stick a finger in there while I rode him.

She had this doe-eyed look as I rummaged the back of the tower for a spare shirt. I tried not to read into it. I had to be professional. She just experienced something traumatic—not the toplessness but the fleeing from a shark. That fucks with normal people. Scars them for life. At least a third of the people from today will never set foot in the ocean again.

The last thing she needed was a lifeguard hitting on her.

“I promise, it’s back here somewhere,” I said, digging through drawers. Then I found a shirt that read “Zuma Beach.” I grabbed it, and when I turned back toward her, I dropped the shirt on the floor.

Turn around, you dimwit, I thought. I had quietly dropped the towel down beside me. My head was tilted slightly, and I looked up at him, gently biting my lower lip.

I pressed my tits together between my arms. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My brain had overloaded, and I couldn’t find words. I just stared at her melon breasts. Her nipples. Her areolas, a dark pink, contrasted with her fair skin. My bathing suit was growing tighter by the second, and all I could do was stare like a fucking putz.

Did I break him?

I wanted to snap in his face and bring him down to Earth. To somehow encourage him to make a move. But all he could do was stare. Goddamn, he was packing, though. That thing was getting bigger and bigger. (I looked at him grow out of my periphery, maintaining eye contact with him—a move that men seem incapable of.)

It was time to put him back together. I leaned in to kiss him, pushing my breasts against his chest. He didn’t open his mouth to kiss me back; he just let my lips press against his. I felt like I was kissing a corpse.

How was this not working? Was he not attracted to me? That seemed…unlikely.

My face was going numb. I tried to open my mouth—to kiss back, but my heart was racing. It’s funny how calm I can be during a shark attack, but the moment a beautiful woman wants to kiss me, I freeze up.

Against all odds, my dick was working! Usually, I can’t pop a boner in these situations, but now it seems to be the only part of my body that was functioning.

Just open your stupid fucking mouth and kiss the stupidly hot girl because this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And if you fuck this up, you will never get a good night of sleep again because you’ll lie awake wondering what if.

Maybe he’s just nervous? I get it, but also, I’m here half-naked, throwing myself at him without an ounce of subtlety. Please, help me, help you. Open your mouth and kiss me back like you goddamn mean it. Like you’ve just saved me from a shark attack, which you did. Like a damsel in distress (I’m not, obviously)—but treat me like one. Right now. Don’t leave a girl hanging.

Open your goddamn mouth, or I will cut off your dick the moment we’re alone.

And by some miracle, my lips parted. Not a massive Red Sea part—not that big of a miracle—just a smidge, enough that I could slip out my tongue. My face was still hard to control, but I had movement.

Stay out of your head. Focus on her.

Her lips were soft. Her chest was still a little cold from the ocean, but I could feel the warmth of her body emanating. Her heart, too, was racing. Her tits—her glorious, perfect breasts pressed against my chest.

I wrapped my hands around her back and felt her melt into me. She sped up her tongue just slightly, and I matched her speed. Our kisses grew from awkward middle school makeout to something more passionate (and confident).

That’s it. Lose yourself in me. Kiss me like you mean it.

He wasn’t just growing more confident; his cock was still growing. How did a man with such a massive dick not have confidence? Whatever. He was getting there.

I pulled away to see his eyes closed, lips scrunched, and face still puckered. When he opened his eyes, there was a fire in them. A respectful yearning. That’s all I wanted. Someone to look at me like this. That’s literally all I’ve ever wanted.

I grabbed his hands and placed them on my breasts.

“Holy shit,” he said. Good. That’s the appropriate response. I then pressed my palm against his junk and felt him flex.

I needed her. Fuck nerves. Fuck protocol. Fuck everything else because I will fuck her. I pulled my drawstring, and my bathing suit loosened. I then dropped my bathing suit and let what I knew was impressive flop out.

“Holy shit,” she said. Good. That is the appropriate response. She dropped to her knees and began stroking my dick gently. Her long red fingernails grazed my shaft. I could have busted right then, just looking into her eyes while grabbing her breasts. But I wanted to relish this. To relish her.

She opened up her mouth wide and slowly approached the head of my dick. She stopped just before, an inch away, to look me in the eyes before she sucked me. Her mouth was moist, and her pressure strong. She sucked down my shaft, all the way to my balls. Then she stuck out her tongue, licking the top of my nuts.

“Oh shit,” I mumbled as she effortlessly took all of me. Was she a porn star? Who else could do this?

He tasted better than I could have imagined, a combination of salt water and man. I had a feeling that he never had his dick sucked properly. I could tell by the look in his eyes. I needed to change that. So I did my little party trick—unhinging my jaw, taking him all the way down. I could have made my eyes water (guys usually love that shit), but I had a feeling this himbo wouldn’t.

I smiled with my eyes when I reached his base and watched as his mouth dropped to the floor. All the way down, all the way back up. Nice and slow. Wet. I wanted him to remember this on his deathbed.

I am going to remember this on my fucking deathbed.

No woman had ever sucked me like this, and she was seemingly getting as much pleasure from sucking me as I was getting sucked. I pulled my dick out of her mouth. It was too good, and I didn’t want to cum just yet.

She got up from her knees and pushed down on my chest. I lay flat on the floor, which wasn’t the most comfortable, but I didn’t care. She then mounted me. Her pussy was right above my cock. With both hands, she spread her pussy lips, and I could see her pink insides. Gently, she sat on my dick, slowly taking me inch by inch.

“Don’t move,” she said, sensing my desire to thrust. “Let me get used to you.” Halfway down on my cock, she took a deep breath, and I felt her loosen. She then took all of me. When I was lost inside of her, she shifted her weight back and forth, getting used to my girth. She then rose off my cock, before sitting back down on it again.

It really is the guys you least suspect with the fattest cock.

But it was okay, I just needed a little warm-up, and I’d be able to take all of him. I grabbed his hands and put them on my breasts as I rode his long cock slowly. I moaned. Real moans. Real pleasure. After a final deep breath, I began to really ride him, my ass clapping against his shaft. I saw his eyes roll to the back of his head. And shit, he’s so big I’m going to squirt.

“Fuck,” I said, squirt shooting out of my pussy, ricocheting off his lower abs and smacking him right in the face.

“Woah,” he said in awe. (It really was a bucket-load of squirt). I then saw him fixate on my breasts, how they swung as I rode him.

I actually had a shot at cumming too. I couldn’t think of the last time I was able to finish from penetration alone.

Well, if I’m going to cum, I want him to cum with me.

She stuck a finger in my mouth while she rode me. Instinctively, I sucked. I could taste the salt water and squirt. The room smelled of her freshly fucked pussy, and there was no way I was going to be able to last much longer. Not with this goddess riding me.

When she removed her finger, I thought that was that. But while keeping eye contact, she reached around her back and pressed the fleshy part of her finger against my asshole.

That wasn’t really my thing, or at least, I didn’t think so. I never had someone stick a finger in my ass, but what? I was going to stop this beautiful, sexy, insatiable woman? Fuck, she could do a lot more than stick a finger in my ass before I’d protest.

“Yeah, give me that ass.” I didn’t realize I had said the words out loud until he responded, “It’s all yours.”

I slipped my finger in and gave a wiggle. His eyes popped. I had undeniably unlocked something in him.

“Shit, I’m going to cum!” I shouted.

“Me too,” he replied.

I started to convulse on his dick, quick little spasms as my pussy clenched his cock. The orgasm exploded outward, and my entire body shook, overcome with pleasure.

And then he unloaded. His cum filled me up and drenched my insides. A second wave of pleasure hit like a pint glass thrown at a brick wall. I felt possessed, consumed. I threw my hair back wildly. Strands covered my eyes as I pushed down on his chest. I felt a final release, and my body relaxed. I leaned forward. My tits crushed against his chest.

I was drained. Out of breath. I was still up in space, but then the weight of her body against mine brought me back down to reality.

Was this love? I think I’m in love.

I slowly removed myself from her pussy, and my cum leaked onto me. I didn’t want her to move. I wanted to lie here, with her on top of me, forever. But there had just been a shark attack, and I really, really should be back out there.

She must have read my mind because she hopped off me, but not before kissing my cheek. “Thank you for saving me,” she said before she put on the Zuma Beach shirt.

“The pleasure was all mine,” I said, knowing it didn’t come off as suave as I intended, but screw it. A win is a win.

I walked back to my friend with a limp and post-fuck glow. My bestie stared at me, knowing goddamn well where I had been and what I’d been doing.

“I told you it would work,” I said.

“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you,’” she replied, stuffing the cut-out fin deeper into her tote.

“Thank you,” I replied, my face still glowing.

I no longer attend festivals to have sex. While I appreciate the sexual liberation of Burning Man-esque environments and the abundance of incredibly beautiful, bisexual poly kinksters, I’m lucky to have a community of sex-positive sluts in Brooklyn. I’m also very out as a (boy)slut and don’t need to hide it at my place of work because being a slut is my full-time job. So I go to festivals for art, performances, and to dance until my lower back aches and my plantar fasciitis has the soles of my feet howling.

But if someone with impeccable energy approaches and woos me? Well, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. And over the Fourth of July, while at CAMP (Calling All Magical People), I was thoroughly seduced.

They were the pinnacle of I saw you across the bar and liked your vibe, which, I know, doesn’t have the best reputation because usually that couple—how do I put this delicately—isn’t the most attractive. But this MF couple was comically beautiful, overwhelmingly so to the point that when they approached me, I whipped my head around to make sure they weren’t speaking to someone behind me.

We were at the circus, waiting for a live show with clowns, aerialists, contortionists, burlesque performers, and freestyle songsters. A fallen tree had knocked out the power grid, cutting the electricity, but with a few backup generators running, the festival attendees weren’t about to let a little heat and rain interfere with their joy.

We were seated on the floor, waiting for the performance to begin, when I ran out of water. (I know, a rookie festival mistake.) Seeing I was struggling to get the last drops from my bottle, a man sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “I have some,” he said, handing me the tube from his camel pack. He was shirtless, wearing a skimpy pink thong with black fishnets underneath. His pink bandana matched his thong and complemented his bright green eyes. He looked vaguely Western European, with a strong Roman nose, thin lips, and a devilish grin.

Next to him, a woman wore a matching outfit in various shades of pink and fishnets. Her blonde hair was braided into pigtails. Her face was adorned with sequins. Her eyes were big and full of wonder, and she wore big black platform boots, but she was still a foot shorter than I.

“Thank you,” I said, only taking a few sips as I didn’t want to leave them dry.

“I’m Leon*,” he said, “And this is my wife, Brandy*.”

“I’m Zach,” I replied. “Great to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake, but then realized how oddly formal that would be for the setting. “Can I give you both a hug?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison. After exchanging warm hugs, Leon asked me, “By any chance, are you the Boyslut?” My asshole puckered. There was something in the way he asked the question—not “Did you write a book called Boyslut?” but “Are you thee Boyslut?” I felt like slutty royalty. I couldn’t help but embrace my inner Marie Antoinette. Instead of letting them eat cake, I would let them eat my cake.

“I am,” I shouted, my voice shooting up an octave.

“I absolutely loved your book,” Brandy said. “I was actually thinking of it recently, when someone accidentally puked on Leon’s cock while blowing him.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Ever since Boyslut’s release, I’ve had countless folks share sexual puke stories with me. Every time, I can’t help but think: Is this my contribution to society? Is this what I’ll be known for after I die?

We kept talking, and I learned that Brandy and Leon were swingers of the Hedonism II ilk, attending the yearly Young Lifestyle Week. They, like me, have a group of slutty friends, a sorta 40-person polycule, and once every few months, they throw a big orgy at their home in a Baltimore suburb. But it’s more than just about sex. They have small workshops, dance, and do yoga together in the mornings. They reminded me of my little polycule, HOME, which, after five years as a member, I still struggle to describe accurately. I’ve landed on saying, “It’s a very organized and aggressive friend group filled with slutty, little weirdos.” (As what other friend groups have a Discord?)

We took a break from talking when the performance began, and the sheer talent of every artist wowed me. I’ve been to countless festivals, including Burning Man, Love Burn, and Elements, but one of the things that separates CAMP is the exceptional caliber of the performers. Perhaps it’s because CAMP has a large contingency of New Yorkers, home to Broadway creatives.

After the show, house music came back on, and the three of us started dancing. Initially, I danced while leaving room for Jesus, but when I met Brandy’s gaze, neither of us turning away, I figured our eye-fucking meant only one thing: She was down. I turned to Leon, who gave a subtle nod, tacitly telling me to go for it.

I leaned in and quickly lost myself in her lips. She was a delicate kisser, soft and gentle, yet I could sense a deeper hunger in her. I wrapped my arms around the small of her back, pulled her in tightly, and gave her booty a squeeze. I was in a daze when I pulled away.

“You’re an incredible kisser,” she said.

“It takes two,” I replied.

I turned to Leon, whom I couldn’t exactly get a read on sexually. He was dressed ostensibly gay, but festivals are like Bushwick on steroids. Just as I can’t tell if the hipster walking down Myrtle Avenue is queer (my culture is not a costume!), spotting a queer man at a festival based on appearance alone can be next to impossible.

“Can I kiss you?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m okay,” he said. “I’m not bi.”

“Totally,” I replied, thankful for his no.

“Actually,” he clarified. “I do sometimes kiss men.”

“And he does like getting his dick sucked by guys,” Brandy interjected.

“It’s more that I don’t find men super attractive. I’m more attracted to fems, but if I’m in an orgy, I can be down. I don’t find hooking up with guys gross or anything like that, so I don’t mind kissing sometimes; I just don’t find myself attracted to men.”

“I totally get that,” I said, thinking that more straight men should be like Leon. Getting your dick sucked, regardless of gender, just feels good, so even if you’re not incredibly attracted to men, when in Rome, and by that, I mean at a Bacchanalian orgy, accept the pleasure. Life is simply too short to turn down a blowjob.

“Actually, I do want to kiss,” he said.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“Yes!” he said, more enthusiastically leaning in. I met his lips with mine. Leon kissed exactly like his wife, and I was lost in déjà vu. When he pulled away, he said, “You really are a great kisser.”

I turned to Brandy, then back at Leon. I had a stupid shit-eating grin on my face. What had I just stumbled into? What good thing had I done in a past life to deserve this?

We continued dancing, hands waving in the air, a little two-step, throwing ass. Periodically, the three of us would kiss, and our hands would linger on each other’s bodies.

“Do you?” I paused, wondering if I had misread the situation, but then remembered to trust my gut, as that bad boy is right 99% of the time. “Do you want to go fuck right n—?”

“Yes,” Brandy interrupted. “Oh, thank God, yes. I’d love that.”

“Would Leon want to join?”

“Probably not, but let me ask!”

I stepped away to give the married couple a moment to converse alone. Thirty seconds later, Brandy came back to me. “He’s going to keep dancing, but told us to go have fun.” I looked over Brandy’s shoulder to see Leon with a cheesy grin, giving me a big thumbs up.

Brandy and I walked hand in hand back to their tent, and I was met by a cool gust of air. (They brought an AC powered by batteries.) Their tent was surprisingly spacious, clean, and organized, unlike the space in my cabin, where I had just thrown everything on the floor and spent half of the trip searching for my flashlight, a thong, or earplugs.

I lay on her bed, with nothing to take off, as I had only been wearing a thong. She took a moment to get ready, placing a lube bottle and condom next to the bed, and then undressing until she was only in a thong of her own.

“I was attracted to you because of your face, your smile, and the way your eyes light up when speaking,” I said. “But seeing you like this, my God, your body is absolutely insane.”

“Thank you,” she replied, explaining that her toned physique was the result of being a dancer.

She hopped onto the foot of the bed and slowly crawled up my body until we were face to face. Her hips were pressed against mine. Her tits flush against my hairy chest. She gently bit my lower lip, prying my mouth open, and then French kissed me. Her breath was minty. She had surreptitiously taken an Altoid.

I squeezed her ass, pushing her even closer to me, feeling the weight of her body. I wanted to touch every part of her at once. Her ass and thighs, her lower back, her tits—to gently caress her face, down her jawline. My hands moved frantically to touch as much of her as I could.

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While I love being an unadulterated slut, I also love dancing, lounging by a pool in a skimpy thong, and talking to other faggots about gay literature. Honestly, I love being in any space where I’m surrounded by other open-minded, sex-positive, creative, intellectual queers.

Which is why I’ve never been more pumped to attend RU5H, a new gay cruise from the creators of VACAYA. (I attended a VACAYA vacation three years ago and wrote extensively about all the earth-shattering joyous sex I had with all the slutty boys. Ten out of 10 recommend.)

“The five pillars of RU5H are 5EX, 5timulation, 5eduction, 5ubmission, and 5atisfaction,” explains Patrick Gunn, Co-Founder and CMO of RU5H. They represent the spirit of the brand. “Creating opportunities for guests to explore desire, curiosity, connection, and pleasure in an intentional environment built around respect and consent.”

RU5H was created for all queer men (including gay, bi, pan, and trans/NB men) who are looking for more than a vacation, Gunn continued. “It is about creating an environment where guests can connect, explore, express themselves, and experience the freedom of being unapologetically themselves.”

The inaugural RU5H voyage, taking place October 2–5, 2026, will sail round-trip from Palm Beach to the Bahamas aboard Paradise, a recently reimagined ship featuring refreshed entertainment spaces, redesigned lounges, upgraded dining venues, new pool deck experiences, and modernized public areas.

To learn more about the cruise, including what makes this unlike any other gay vacation for men (including how they’re making it more affordable), read my full interview with Patrick below!

Why did the VACAYA team decide to create RU5H?

After years of creating LGBTQ+ travel experiences through VACAYA, we saw an opportunity to create something completely new: a travel brand built around a more adventurous, sex-progressive, and uninhibited experience for gay, bi, and queer men.

The LGBTQ+ travel community is incredibly diverse, and different travelers are looking for different ways to celebrate who they are. RU5H was created for those who want a space centered around freedom, exploration, connection, and curiosity.

We wanted to create something that captures the energy of the world’s most exciting queer festivals, nightlife destinations, and underground communities but that also brings that energy into a premium travel environment where the entire ship becomes the destination.

Launching RU5H at Folsom Street Fair was incredibly intentional. Folsom represents creativity, self-expression, confidence, and the spirit of embracing who you are, which are all values that are at the heart of RU5H.

What can you expect from a RU5H cruise?

RU5H is a first-of-its-kind queer festival at sea. Guests can expect four days and three nights of nonstop entertainment, connection, music, and immersive experiences aboard a ship that is exclusively ours.

The experience combines the excitement of a major queer music festival with the comfort and hospitality of a cruise vacation. Days begin with pool deck parties, social gatherings, and time to connect with other guests before transitioning into sunset celebrations, late-night raves, and unforgettable after-hours experiences.

The inaugural RU5H weekend includes eight major parties powered by DJs from some of the world’s biggest queer nightlife scenes, including New York, Los Angeles, Austin, London, Berlin, Amsterdam, and Fire Island.

Beyond the parties, guests can explore RU5H Experience Zones throughout the ship with curated spaces designed for different moods, interests, and ways to connect. These include creative spaces, social lounges, immersive role-play experiences, creator experiences, and places to relax and recharge.

The ship itself becomes the playground. Guests can expect clothing-optional upper decks while at sea, unforgettable nightlife, themed events, meetups, and a community of adventurous travelers from around the world.

How does it differ from other gay cruises out there?

RU5H expands the definition of what an all-gay cruise can be.

Many LGBTQ+ cruises are built around community, sightseeing, and traditional vacation experiences. RU5H brings that same sense of belonging but adds the energy of a queer festival, nightlife destination, and lifestyle experience.

This is not simply a cruise with parties added on. The entire experience is intentionally designed around connection, self-expression, fantasy, and exploration.

The five pillars of RU5H are 5EX, 5timulation, 5eduction, 5ubmission, and 5atisfaction. They represent the spirit of the brand: creating opportunities for guests to explore desire, curiosity, connection, and pleasure in an intentional environment built around respect and consent.

What should people know prior to booking?

RU5H is designed for adults looking for an adventurous, sex-progressive, and highly social travel experience. Guests should come with an open mind, a willingness to meet new people, and an appreciation for an environment that celebrates freedom and self-expression.

This is not a traditional cruise experience. RU5H is intentionally different—more immersive, more social, and designed to create moments guests will remember long after they return home.

Consent and respect are at the foundation of the experience. RU5H is about freedom, but that freedom exists because everyone shares responsibility for creating a welcoming environment.

Guests should also know that while the experience is designed to be exciting and uninhibited, there are many ways to participate. Some guests may come for the music and parties, others for the friendships and community, and others to explore new experiences. Everyone can engage with RU5H in their own way.

One of the biggest challenges about attending a gay cruise is that they’re out of reach financially for many people. Have you done anything to make RU5H more affordable?

We wanted to challenge the idea that an all-gay cruise has to cost thousands of dollars. That’s why, if sharing a cabin with friends, RU5H starts at just $397 per person (with the included port tax and gratuity, it totals $671 for the entire trip, averaging $223 a night), making it one of the most affordable all-gay cruise experiences available. We believe an unforgettable vacation should be within reach for more people, not just a select few.

In addition, we’ve created a Facebook group where solo travelers can connect with others looking to share a cabin. It’s a simple way to reduce costs while making a new friend before you even step aboard.

And for those who aren’t quite ready to book, we’re giving everyone a chance to win a free RU5H cruise. It’s another way we’re lowering the barrier to entry and inviting more people to discover what RU5H is all about. Sometimes all it takes is taking a chance. Just head to our website and complete the entry form on our homepage.

To book your trip, head here! Also, make sure to follow RU5H on social at @FeelTheRU5H. Hope to see you sexy boys on board!

I figured that would be my night. One load was the goal. Two loads? A cherry on top. But three loads? Wouldn’t that just be plain greedy?

But I had made a promise. Sure, it was a fake promise, but if I could fill up Andrew, as he had requested, I should. That was just proper sex party etiquette.

I didn’t need to refresh with water this time, but my little fella needed a moment to come up for air. A moment when he was not doing push-ups to the point of throwing up.

I returned to the basement bedroom with the cuck chair tucked away in the corner and sat. I watched, eyes wide, as the men before me performed herculean acrobatic displays of sexual showmanship. (I saw a man planking as he throat fucked a dude.)

“I think I want to get fisted,” a man on all fours said as he switched the weight between each of his legs on the bed. His voice was high-pitched and bubbly like a flute of champagne. Funny, given that he looked like a bull of a man, all shoulders and traps. He was cut from Nasty Pig cloth, a hunk of dad with meat, musk, and mustache.

“I may be able to help,” I replied. The man whipped his head around to see my grinning face.

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This is a continuation from last week’s Pride sex party in Harlem. Read part I here.

I was beginning to lose myself in him. My hips acted on their own accord, thrusting harder and faster. I didn’t want to cum so quickly into the night. I had been in the basement for all of five minutes, so I grabbed my balls and tugged on them. It worked, sorta. Really, it just delayed my orgasm by a minute, but it didn’t stop me from cumming.

I pulled out as I whispered into his ear, “Sorry, I don’t want to cum yet.”

“Noooooooo!!” he said, and I understood his frustration. He had earned that load. But I held my ground. Sure, I can go after I cum, especially since viagra was running through my veins, but I really had just gotten there. I wanted to edge myself just a little bit longer so I could have a more intense orgasm.

“You feel too damn good,” I said, hoping the compliment would partially make up for the lack of cum.

“Thank you,” he said, turning back to face me. “Come find me later, when you’re ready to bust.”

“I will,” I said, aware that I was likely lying. But what was I to say? “There’s a decent chance I’ll be balls deep in someone, and if his bussy feels like butter, I won’t be able to control myself, and Lord knows I won’t stop fucking to go find you because who knows where you’ll be. Also, we literally just met, so like, come on, dude.” No, this is one of those times where I think a white lie is appropriate.

When my bear left the room, hopefully to get a load, I found myself on the bed, next to Andrew. Was he there the whole time?

“Zach!” he shouted, excited to see me. I loved how, while getting fucked, he was saying my name.

I kissed Andrew while a big-dicked daddy thrust powerfully into Andrew, shaking the bedframe. When Daddy went off to grab some water, I took his place. But again, I found myself ready to unload almost immediately. There was simply no escaping all the stimulation. Everywhere I looked, there was a dick or ass, or a dick in an ass. There were abs and bellies. Hairy and smooth (but mainly hairy). If I closed my eyes to avoid the arousing visuals, I could hear the sound of dicks smashing into asses, gargles from getting throat fucked, a chorus of moans, and “shitttttt!” I couldn’t even take a deep breath to calm myself, because I’d get a whiff of the smell of sex. Every sense was being delightfully assaulted by primal fucking. (Oh, poor Zach! How hard life is for you!)

I pulled out and was again told to save my load, which gave me a distinct sense of déjà vu, except this time I actually meant it when I replied that I would save one for him. Andrew and I were friends. We had spoken about this party and fucking each other. We had fucked last week, and though it was an ask, it was one I wanted to fulfill. But, you know, he wouldn’t take my first load. Maybe he’d get second, or I’m feeling ambitious, third load of the evening. Sure, I wouldn’t be shooting rope my third time, but that would still be before I shoot dust.

I was panting. I needed water, breather, air. As I went to put my thong back on, I ran into a man I’d fucked last year at the party, and we’d actually fucked again at my place about six months back. He wore a mesh sports bra and matching mesh panties. This man, my age, was a Pokémon gay. A gamer. Adult animation. Disney. I used to mock these types of men when I was younger, but growing older has taught me to embrace them. There is too much hardship in this world, so if something brings you happiness, revel in it. Truth be told, I secretly enjoy most of those “childish” things anyway, and life is far too short to pretend otherwise. I mean, I literally have a tattoo of Wario’s hat on my ribcage.

This Disney gay was the final boss of asses. He had one of those massive bedonks that was somehow both fat and muscular at the same time. And his skin? I was pretty sure he bathed in coconut oil because he was so smooth and shiny. And while his hole expanded to take me, when he clenched, it tightened back up, his smooth skin matching his smooth insides. He really had one of the best asses of anyone I’d ever fucked, and at this point, I was so close to exploding. I knew if I were to fuck him, it would be game over.

But fuck, I did not care. He was the final boss after all.

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Every year, I count down the days until the last Saturday in June, when I attend a certain house party in Harlem that hosts roughly 120 slutty gay men. The gathering is so rewarding, leaving me filled with such joy (and perhaps a load or two), that I have no desire to do anything on the actual Sunday of Pride. All my essential gay needs—community, new connections, and sex—are so thoroughly met that I experience zero FOMO on that Sunday. Instead of joining the masses at gay events with aggressive names like Sloppyhole, Dirty Pig, Raw, or ANALHILATED, I’m perfectly content on my couch, eating leftover pizza and watching cartoons while my AC blasts.

What separates this party isn’t its exclusivity. The hosts encourage guests to bring their friends and lovers, assuming they fit the party’s vibe. But it has become somewhat self-selecting among attendees, the party attracting handsome gay/bi men predominantly in their 30s, 40s, and 50s, most of whom are successful creatives, all of whom are cum-hungry whores.

That said, I live in NY. Beautiful, slutty, successful gay men are a dime a dozen. That isn’t what truly separates the attendees. Rather, it’s their openness and friendliness.

I have many personal struggles (just ask my therapist), but one thing I can say confidently is that I am not a mean gay and never have been. When I moved to NY in my mid-twenties, I was surrounded by mean gays. I genuinely thought that was just how all gay men were. While this isn’t the case, many of these gay guys moved from Bumblefuck, Idaho, where they were ridiculed and not accepted for being queer. Moving to NY solved one problem, in that they likely wouldn’t experience the same active homophobia they were forced to endure in their hometown, but they still needed to work on their insecurities and address their traumas. Since many did not, they devolved into nasty cliches and bitter queens.

In hindsight, perhaps it was unrealistic to assume that recently out gay guys in their twenties who had just moved to NY would have had the time to work on themselves. Many were just starting their personal journeys, figuring out who they are and the person they wanted to be. But all this to say, I wasn’t loving the gay scene when I moved to the city.

Right before COVID, I ended up falling into a group of queers, a mixed-gender group of weirdos who, first and foremost, were kind. These folks have become my best friends, and while many of the guys in the friend group identify as bi, they aren’t bi (or gay) culturally. They’ll fuck a dude and suck an off dick, but they don’t date men. They don’t want to go to a gay bar with me and see a drag show. And going to an event like Horse Meat Disco would simply put them out of their comfort zone. That’s all totally fine—I’m not trying to force them to be gayer (okay, maybe a little bit)—but I missed gay shit!

This Harlem party is the pinnacle of gay shit, and with friendly men! (Hence my counting down the days.)

The party, which goes from 3 pm to 3 am, has various beats. The first third takes place outside on the patio and is more social. While the sun hangs high in the sky, attendees get to know one another and reconnect with the men they met the year before. During the middle portion of the event, the atmosphere shifts as touch intensifies, hands linger, and the air is thick with aggressive eye-fucking. Shirts come off, but booty jorts remain on. The final third, starting around 11 pm, is when the little pecks deepen into passionate kisses, the boys strip down, revealing fat asses in an array of thongs and jocks, and guests head downstairs to the basement to get their fuck on.

I won’t say it’s a free-for-all downstairs; consent is necessary, but nearly everyone is down to fuck. In the words of RiRi: This is what you came for. The fact that it’s a gaggle of attractive men doesn’t hurt either. So yeah, you can saddle up behind a power bottom, perched on the couch, ass up, taking loads, and slide in there.

I hadn’t slept much the night before. I ended up staying at a craft night longer than anticipated, so I napped during the day and arrived in Harlem on the later side, around 10:30 pm. Arguably, though, it was perfect timing, as the party was just moments away from heating up.

I walked toward the outdoor patio, past the living room, where I saw a plate containing two types of pills—Viagra and Doxy—and a card that read, “Take as needed. Be safe.” (Please, can we make this a thing at all sex parties?)

I poured myself a vodka soda in the kitchen, then made the rounds on the patio, catching up with those I met (i.e., fucked) the year prior. When the conversation naturally came to a lull, I’d excuse myself. “Great seeing you! I’m going to refill my drink.”

I ran into Andrew, a 50-year-old pocket Daddy with a salt-and-pepper beard, whom I’d hooked up with last year. He actually stood on the couch to throat fuck me in front of a group of horny spectators. We spent the next 51 weeks texting sporadically, but finally managed to meet up (i.e., fuck) just a week before the party, which was absolutely glorious. We were excited that we wouldn’t have to wait another year to see each other again.

He introduced me to a screenwriter who said I sounded familiar.

“My actual voice?” I asked. At parties I attend for fun, not to network, I introduce myself as Zach, not Zachary Zane, so he couldn’t say my name sounded familiar.

“Yeah. Are you a writer?” I nodded. “Did you read your audiobook?”

“Yes, Boyslut,” I shouted over-enthusiastically.

“Yeah! I listened to your audiobook. It was great!”

We spoke about writing for a bit until Andrew said, “I kinda want to check out the basement.”

I found his use of “kinda” funny. There was no need for false modesty, not here, but I also knew many of us fear appearing too thirsty or overtly sexual. Not me, but that’s kinda my entire shtick.

“I’ll join you.” We invited the screenplay writer, but he had just gotten to the party and wanted more time to acclimate himself before diving dick-first into the debauchery.

The descent into the basement was transformative, a shift both startling and enchanting. Immediately, the soundtrack transitioned into a seductive, contemporary disco infused with electronic undertones. It was a relief to escape that same dreary German techno found at most gay sex parties; that repetitive beat that has somehow become synonymous with cruising, but just leaves me with a headache. And rather than the standard, uninspired red lighting or the typical darkness of other sex parties, the room was washed in a soft, vibrant palette of purples, greens, and blues.

The temperature jumped ten degrees the moment I hit the bottom step, the atmosphere turning thick and humid from all the man sweat. Against all odds, the scent was intoxicating, man musk and not BO(ooty). Surely, the smell would sour as the night wore on, but for now, I could inhale deeply and freely. Descending that staircase felt like stepping through a Narnian wardrobe. Only through this portal, I didn’t encounter fauns or centaurs. Instead, I was welcomed to a kingdom of pigs, otters, and bears.

There were about 20 men in that first basement room, all naked or in jocks. A man was on his knees, gagging on cock in the center of the room, while a circle of men jerked off around him. On the couch were two guys. One was on his knees, ass up, elbows against the wall, steadying himself as a top plowed into his muscular ass. The other bottom was on his back, scrunching into a pretzel, holding onto his top’s neck, and gazing deep into his eyes as he got fucked passionately. In the corner of a room, next to the end table which had a massive bottle of lube and a bowl of condoms—not that I saw anyone using them; still, I appreciated the thought—I saw a man bent over, in the table top position, getting spit-roasted. The two men were really giving it to him rough, and I was impressed by his ability to stay upright. I made a note to myself that I needed to strengthen my core to reach my fullest slutty potential.

I walked past the basement rec room (i.e., fuck room), to the bedroom where a sextet of hairy men was entangled with one another. I couldn’t tell where one person ended and the other began. While three of the men were getting fucked, the bottoms made out with each other, rubbed each other’s chests, and jerked each other off. I sat on the desk chair in the corner of the room and disrobed, careful to put my phone, keys, and wallet all in one place. (I have a terrible habit of leaving my things everywhere, which makes gathering my belongings at the end of the night a hassle. Lord forbid I actually make use of one of my many fannypacks.)

Once I had stripped down to my forest green thong and high socks, I started rubbing my junk over the cotton, taking in the scene before me. Once I grew half-chub, I removed my thong, liked the palm of my hand, and started to stroke.

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I had the absolute pleasure of speaking to author Rose Dommu about her debut novel Best Woman, which was chosen as the June book pick for the Bi Babes Book Club.

In her own words, Rose Dommu is the author of Best Woman and host of the podcast Like a Virgin. A former journalist and retired international party girl, Rose’s work has centered around bringing queer communities together through pop culture.

Best Woman follows Julia, the best woman in her brother’s wedding, who tells a little white lie to get her lifelong crush (who’s also the maid of honor) to like her romantically. One innocent act spirals into a massive fiasco, forcing Julia to reconcile her behavior and to reflect on the kind of person she wants to be. Forever a victim? Accountable for her actions? Something else?

Perfectly balancing levity and laugh-out-loud humor with serious themes about trans identity, family, and relationships, Best Woman is a fantastic debut by Rose.

Sharing one of my favorite clips from the live below!

During our discussion, we covered a number of topics, including:

• The need to show messy, unlikable protagonists for trans and other marginalized communities

• How and when to take up space as a trans and/or queer person (e.g., do you correct your well-intentioned grandma with dementia when she deadnames you?)

• How depiction does not equate endorsement when writing fiction

• The forever fabulous and special Jewish gay son/trans daughter-Jewish mother dynamic

• And so much more.

FYI, the Bi Babes Book club is currently on hold for the rest of the summer, while Allstora fixes a few kinks (no pun intended) on the website. But it should be back up in the next few months, and you’ll be able to join then if you're not already a member. I’ll keep y’all updated!

Get more from Zachary Zane in the Substack app

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While many traditional public health campaigns struggle to reach their target audience, adult film star Justin Jett is proving that the most trusted voices in sexual health might just be the ones you’re already following—the ones who bare it all. Recently, Justin has partnered with MPact Global, an organization dedicated to addressing the disproportionate HIV burden and sexual health needs of gay and bisexual men. Jett is demonstrating the untapped potential of creator platforms for meaningful change. He isn’t just utilizing his massive platform for entertainment; he’s actively dismantling stigma and creating a new, accessible bridge between sexual health resources and the queer community. His partnership signals a vital shift in which adult film stars are stepping into the spotlight as legitimate and powerful health advocates.

In my interview with Justin, we explored his personal journey, his path into the adult film industry, and how he conquered sexual shame. We also discussed his turn-ons and the ways he leverages his OnlyFans platform to discuss and promote sexual health for queer men.

What name do you go by?

For industry-related things, Justin. For more personal or private matters, George or Jorge.

How old are you, and how long have you been doing porn?

I’m 46 years old. I started doing OnlyFans in 2020 during the pandemic, when traditional production work came to a halt. Before porn, I actually came from a filmmaking and television background, so storytelling and visual media were already a huge part of my life. What started as a creative and financial pivot during lockdown became a whole new career and community for me.

By the end of 2022, I started working professionally in studio productions, and things evolved pretty quickly from there.

What was your relationship with your sexuality and sex like growing up?

Like a lot of queer people, I grew up with a complicated relationship to sexuality. Regarding my family, sex wasn’t presented as evil, but it definitely wasn’t discussed openly; it was a taboo. I do remember one conversation with my dad when I was 15 or 16. He took my brother and me to the living room and said, “You guys are in that age where probably you’ll start to be sexually active if you’re not active already, be safe, wear a condom”. That was nice that he was opening the conversation, but in my mind, I was thinking, he means sex with women.

Outside was a very different story. Coming from a catholic background, I used to go to church every Sunday with my family, and the priest would always say something about how being gay was a sin, and sodomites would go to hell. So, there was a lot of silence, shame, and stigma around sexuality in general, but especially around being gay.

Growing up in a more traditional environment, you absorb those messages without even realizing it. You learn to censor yourself, hide parts of yourself, and separate sexuality from emotional well-being. It took me years to understand that sexuality isn’t something dirty or dangerous; it’s connected to confidence, identity, intimacy, communication, pleasure, and mental health.

I stopped going to church. I didn’t want to go to a place where I was implicitly told I wasn't welcome and judged just for being me. Many queer people spend years unlearning shame. I definitely did.

How do you move to a place where you were able to embrace your sexuality and explore your pleasure and sexual desires? 

It was a years-long gradual process. Traveling and moving abroad helped a lot. Moving away from environments where I felt judged helped too. Living in different countries, meeting people with very different views about sexuality and life in general, and being surrounded by queer communities gave me perspective and freedom. Once you find your tribe and you’re around people who are not ashamed of themselves, it gives you permission to stop being ashamed, too.

At the same time, queer spaces are not always perfect. There’s still a lot of slut-shaming, bottom-shaming, body judgment, and internalized stigma within the community itself.

For me, embracing sexuality wasn’t just about sex. It was also about understanding that pleasure, vulnerability, fantasy, affection, desire, and intimacy are deeply human things and not something we should hide from.

I know it was during the pandemic, but can you share a little bit more about how you got into porn?

It started in a very unexpected and difficult way. During the pandemic, someone took screenshots of some explicit pictures I sent on Grindr, and they posted them publicly on Twitter. At the time, I genuinely felt like my career in film and media was over. I was shocked, scared, depressed, and deeply embarrassed.

The “Olympia Law” had just been passed in Mexico. It makes sharing, publishing, or distributing intimate sexual content without the person’s explicit consent a serious crime punishable by up to 6 years in prison. So, I sent a message to the account with my photos, I mentioned the law, and I said I’d get a subpoena if he didn’t delete them right away. It was a bit late; the pics had already spread all over Telegram and WhatsApp groups in Mexico.

But then people started messaging me asking if I had an OnlyFans. I already had around 80,000 followers on Instagram because of my filmmaking work and the occasional thirst trap. So, I decided to reverse the narrative and use that unwanted exposure as an opportunity. I basically told people, “Well, if you already saw that… there’s more. Link in bio.”

I’m sorry that happened to you, but you really managed to turn lemons into lemonade. I have a follow-up question, which I know is a bit loaded, but would you call yourself slutty when the camera is not rolling?

I am definitely more adventurous and sexual than the average person, yes. But I’m not thinking about sex 24/7.

So, am I slutty? Absolutely.

At the same time, people often assume performers live permanently in “porn mode,” and that’s not true either. I value intimacy, emotional connection, friendship, affection, and balance in my personal life, too. Sometimes I just want a movie, a blanket, and cuddles.

What’s your favorite type of porn to shoot?

I enjoy shooting the kind of porn that genuinely turns me on as a viewer. I’ve always loved productions like Men at Play, old-school Raging Stallion, or Titan Men—that rugged, masculine, bearish, muscular aesthetic with cinematic production values. I often find myself going back to vintage or old-school porn because that aesthetic really works for me.

As a performer, I love scenes with authentic chemistry and energy rather than overly mechanical ones. And because of my filmmaking background, I’m also very drawn to visually elevated productions. The work of Micah Martinez for ASG Max is second to none: lighting, framing, atmosphere, pacing, storytelling—all that matters to me—and he excels at it.

What are your top three biggest kinks? What about them turns you on?

Foreskin. I don’t know if it’s a kink since it’s just part of the male anatomy, if you’re lucky enough to be left intact. But it has a different feel and look that just gets me going. It’s like unwrapping a present and finding what’s inside.

Voyeurism and exhibitionism are also huge turn-ons. There’s something about being watched that I really enjoy, which makes sense considering my comfort in front of cameras.

And water sports or piss play is another major kink for me. It’s like an endless ejaculation.

But in the end, confidence itself is the sexiest thing to me. Someone who is fully comfortable with their body, sexuality, and desires is incredibly attractive. A naughty look from someone who knows what he wants is hard to resist.

When did you start exploring your kinks? How did you discover them? 

If I was curious about something, I always explored it. I can’t say I have many fantasies left unrealized because I’ve always been someone who tries to make fantasies happen instead of just imagining them. Both mine and my partner’s. I pretty much discovered and started exploring my kinks while I was discovering my sexuality.

It’s funny, though, that once I discovered my kinks and started exploring them decades ago, they haven’t changed. There were some new additions along the way. I got into leather very late compared to my other kinks. In my 20s, I just found it costume-like, and I couldn’t understand the need for a cockring, but now I just love wearing leather and cockrings. I think being exposed to the work of Tom of Finland played a role, and I do believe leather can look very masculine, but more than that, it speaks of discipline. Leather is not an easy material to care for at home; you cannot just fold leather trousers as if they were fabric. I hang mine straight, and they have to be clean, polished, and free of scratches. It’s not cheap, so it implies a conscious decision to put money aside to afford it.

Also, the older I get, the more I like to explore my dominant side. That said, it’s necessary to understand that safety and trust are key components to being a good Dom. Some inexperienced people think that being dominant is hurting the sub, punching or slapping, but there are certain ways of slapping, and everybody has different tolerance levels and pain thresholds. Additionally, some people like to be dominated without being physical, so it takes a lot of reading and understanding cues. Some people just don’t get that, and so I repeat, safety and trust are key.

You’ve recently partnered with MPact Global. Can you share more about the organization and your work with them?

MPact is an organization focused on advancing queer health and human rights, fighting stigma, improving access to healthcare, and building stronger communities globally, especially for gay, bi, queer men and other men who have sex with men.

Working with MPact Global has honestly given me a new perspective on the influence we have as creators and the opportunities that can come with having a public platform to give back to our communities.

I got involved through their initiative called Q Collab, which brought together adult content creators from across Europe in Barcelona to talk openly about issues that directly affect our lives and community. We discussed things like migration, navigating healthcare systems, legal protections, stigma around sex work, mental health, and how to balance our personal lives with the work we do online and in the adult industry. It was an invaluable experience because many of us share similar struggles, but we rarely get the opportunity to sit together and talk about solutions.

Through the Q Collab initiative, we produced content that helps normalize discussions around sexual and mental health, HIV prevention, PrEP, DoxyPEP, and overall well-being in a way that feels authentic and relatable to our audience.

One thing I really value about the project is that it’s not preachy or based on fear. It’s about creating community, encouraging people to take care of themselves, talk openly about sex and mental health, and feel supported instead of judged. I think that’s especially important in queer spaces and in the adult industry, where visibility can genuinely help people feel less alone.

For me, personally, my role is using my platform and visibility within the adult industry to help reach people who sometimes don’t connect with traditional health campaigns. Additionally, with content creators, the fans have direct communication and interaction. You can send me any message regarding help and support, and I’ll be there for you. You will get my reply.

A lot of queer men and fans already follow and communicate with creators they trust online, so collaborating with MPact allows us to turn that connection into something positive beyond entertainment while keeping it real, approachable, and free of stigma, shame, and judgment. Having visibility within the adult industry can actually help people feel safer, more informed, and less alone.

You spoke on this a little bit, but I’d love it if you delved deeper: Why do you think it makes sense for porn stars and OnlyFans performers to be the ones delivering messages and educating folks about sexual health, PrEP, DoxyPEP, etc?

I think it makes perfect sense because people in the adult industry are already having conversations that most people are still afraid to have openly. A lot of queer men grow up with shame, stigma, fear around sex, or feeling judged for being sexually active. Meanwhile, performers and creators often exist in spaces where sexuality is discussed more honestly and without pretending it doesn’t exist. That creates trust and relatability.

For me, using my platform to normalize sexual health conversations became very important. Something as simple as saying “I get tested,” “I take care of myself,” or “There’s nothing shameful about taking PrEP or DoxyPEP,” can prompt followers to go to a clinic, get tested, and start PrEP.

There’s still this outdated mentality that PrEP or DoxyPEP are only for promiscuous people, and that mindset is rooted in shame. The reality is that sexually active people deserve access to information, prevention, and healthcare without judgment. Taking control of your health is empowering, not embarrassing, and it would be great to embed that in our collective minds.

How has Q Collab changed your approach to advocacy?

It showed me that advocacy doesn’t always have to look formal or political. Sometimes it’s just being authentic, visible, approachable, and willing to have honest conversations. Through collaborations like this, I realized we can create community. When you have a public platform, and people genuinely listen to you, there’s an opportunity to create a positive impact. If we can encourage even one person to take better care of themselves or feel less alone, then I think this collaboration really matters.

Anything else about yourself, your journey, or MPact Global you’d like to add?

Now, while still being very active in my career, I’ve reached a point where I want to use that visibility for something meaningful beyond entertainment. Partnering with MPact Global felt natural because their mission is centered around community, openness, education, and reducing stigma. I think we need more spaces where queer people can openly talk about sex, HIV, and mental health without fear or shame.

I think one important thing I’ve learned through my journey is that people often reduce adult performers to stereotypes, without realizing there are real human beings behind the content: people with stories, struggles, ambitions, insecurities, and also the ability to create positive change within the community.

For me, this is just the beginning. I still love creating content and entertaining people, but I also want to use my platform in a way that gives something back to the community that helped shape my career and my life.

Where can we find and follow you?

Justin Jett:

Insta: @justinjett_x

X: @justinjett_x

OF: @justinjett_x

JFF: @JustinJett_X

MPact Global:

Website: https://mpactglobal.org/

Insta: @mpact.global

Facebook: @MPactGlobal

X: @mpactglobal

Happy July, my fabulous literary bisexuals, queers, fems, gays, and theys.(Summer is finally here with a vengeance, and I am schvitzing!)

As ya know, I host the ‘Bi Babes’ Book Club with Allstora, where each month we read a book featuring a bisexual protagonist, themes, or work written by a bisexual author.

The June 2026 book pick was Best Woman by Rose Dommu.

The novel follows Julia, the best woman in her brother’s wedding, who tells a little white lie to get her lifelong crush (who’s also the maid of honor) to like her romantically. Like Little Shop of Horrors, the one innocent act spirals into a massive fiasco, forcing Julia not only to reconcile her behavior but also to reflect on the type of person she wants to be. Forever a victim? Accountable for her actions? Something else?

Perfectly balancing levity and laugh-out-loud funny with serious themes about identity, family, and relationships, Best Woman is a hell of a debut novel by Rose.

I’ll be speaking with Rose live on Substack Thursday, July 23, at 5 pm ET/2 pm PT.

(You’ll be able to ask her any questions about her novel then!)

Here’s the link: https://open.substack.com/live-stream/288266?utm_source=live-stream-scheduled-upsell

The live is open to ALL, even if you aren’t a member of the book club. (BUT ALSO PLEASE DO SUBSCRIBE AND BECOME A BI BABES MEMBER!)

And here’s the best part: For every subscription, a book will be donated to an LGBTQ+ youth across the country. So, when you get a book, they get one too.

Hope to see you all there!

Xoxo,

Zachary Zane

I was back in Sayulita for two nights of relaxation before returning home to NY. That’s where I found the man with the Prince Albert, the first man I hooked up with on this trip, sitting at an outdoor bar having a beer alone.

I approached his table, shouted his name, and went in for a hug. He tilted his head, cocked an eyebrow, and gave me a side hug.

“In case you’ve been messaging me, I got my phone stolen the day after seeing you, while in PV. I still don’t have it back.”

His face smoothed. “Oh, I did message you!” he said. “I was sad you didn’t respond. You said we were going to hang out when you returned from PV.”

“And I meant it,” I said. “I was having trouble getting into WhatsApp on my laptop as my two-factor safety sent the security code to my stolen phone. I should have messaged you on Grindr, letting you know, but honestly, I was busy trying to file a police report and changing my bank password and—” I caught myself rambling. “Anyway, we’re hanging now.” I was standing beside my friend, with whom I’d been staying in Sayulita. I introduced them to each other.

“Can we join you for a drink?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

That night, we didn’t hook up, we got drunk and sang karaoke—one of the few things I like more than sex. I sang the Thong Song, a first for me, and will undoubtedly be adding it to my karaoke Rolodex.

I made out with him as he said goodbye. “Tomorrow, before I leave, I’d like to see you,” I said. “Can I come over for a naked night swim?”

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

Drunk karaoke night turned into a drunken karaoke all-nighter, so when I messaged him on Grindr the next day, setting a time, I let him know that I was running on empty and didn’t have the energy to hook up. Still, I’d like to see him, if just for an hour or two, before heading back to NY the following morning.

“I’m just excited to see you,” he replied, a perfect response.

Walking down the cobblestone streets of Sayulita to Amare Las Villas, the LGBTQ-friendly rentals where he was staying, I thought about how much slower-paced things were here than in New York. How my nervous system wasn’t in constant overdrive. How friendly folks were. And of course, wondered if I could be an American who moved from a big city to live, or at the very least, winter there. It was nothing particularly revelatory. Many Americans who visit a town like Sayulita romanticize it and inevitably think, “What if I just did it and moved here?” And while I do think my life would be less stressful, I knew that my problems were mine. They would follow me no matter where I went.

I knocked on the villa’s front door. He opened the gate with a big grin and gave me a double kiss, one on each cheek. We walked past the pool, inside, to his kitchen.

Some new folks had just started staying at the rental property that morning, he explained. They’ve been in and out all night, so we should swim in our Speedos. A bummer, but I’d live. He grabbed a Pacifico and a Corona from the fridge. “Which one do you want?” I grabbed the Pacifico. Together we headed back outside to the pool.

I submerged myself. Once I was wet, he shared more of his life. How he’s not sure he would have lived this long without Sayulita. His life was chaos, drugs, and partying before discovering this town, and now his life is all surfing, drawing, and sunsets.

I was envious, though I knew I could move at any point if I so chose. Despite New York’s intensity, I like my life there. I love my friends. I love the nightlife. I love Broadway and the fact that there’s always something going on. If you live in NY and ever find yourself bored, that is completely on you.

The other guests staying at the property came out and said they were off for dinner. Once they shut the gate behind them, my man said, “Now we can’t take these off,” shimmying out of his Speedo. I followed suit(less).

Our dicks were scrunched in the tight Speedos. So once free, we both instinctively fluffed.

The water and conversation had brought me back to life, and I was horny. I think getting naked in a pool with someone you find attractive might be the ultimate way to cure a hangover. I wrapped my hands around his waist and pressed my junk into his before kissing him.

We made out for a moment until he broke away. “I thought you didn’t want to hook up,” he said. He wasn’t annoyed or angry, just stating a fact and seeking clarification.

“I didn’t,” I said. “But now I do. Would you like to?”

“Yeah, of course, yes!”

I pulled him in closely again, this time, grabbing his ass cheeks. I liked feeling our semi-hard dicks squished against each other. I liked my hairy chest against his smooth one. I’m forever fascinated by smooth, older men. My body gets hairier and hairier the older I get; my new chest hairs have even begun sprouting gray.

He grabbed my ass as he kissed me, both of us squeezing each other’s butts. It’s what you imagine hooking up is like when you’re thirteen, a lot of squeezing. Then, at some point, as you get older, there’s less body touch, more of a focus on penetration. I like that I’ve been returning to my horny roots, focusing on touch.

We both began stroking each other’s cocks underwater, as we continued making out. When we were both hard, I sat on the ledge of the pool, dick out of the water. He began to suck while fondling my balls.

“Fuck,” I exclaimed. He placed his index finger over his lips. I lowered my voice, “I thought we were alone now.”

“No,” he said, aggressively shaking his head. “There’s still another girl staying here. She just doesn’t leave her room a lot.” I hadn’t even realized there was a possibility of getting caught. Now that there was, my mischievous smirk was reaching Grinch-level proportions.

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I had satisfied multiple sexual needs while in Puerto Vallarta for Pride. First, I got throatfucked by a man with a Prince Albert. The ring was gauged to a four, adding nearly two inches in length. Then, I fucked a man with a fat, dump truck ass. I couldn’t control myself, and I came almost immediately. Third, I fucked a guy in his bedroom with the door open, while his housemates watched, sating my exhibitionist need. With the fourth man, I came three times, twice from sucking his dick and the final time, inside his ass. That final fifth load nearly killed me.

But these were all things I could do in NY. Outside of the fact that all four of these men were Latino—I was in Mexico, after all—it didn’t feel particularly PV-ish (just pervy-ish).

So, I wanted to fuck a jacked, muscle hunk. Ripped to the point he had to be on steroids or HGH or a half-dozen other enhancers. I wanted to be confused by how cut he was, his body defying the laws of nature, reaching a physique hitherto impossible. I needed him to be so stupidly fucking yoked, I actually confused him for an ox. So firmly stacked, you’d have thought he was a Jenga champion. Muscular far past the point of necessity. To the point, it counts as body mod kink.

And in case I wasn’t being picky enough, I wanted him shallow and vapid. For his life to focus solely on one thing: who he planned to fuck next.

Judge me if you want, but I’m lucky to be surrounded by intellectuals in New York. I love them and enjoy being mentally stimulated—learning and growing. But sometimes intellectuals can be annoying as fuck. Not to mention, I’m an overthinker, which is exhausting. I often feel like I’m in a perpetual state of being here where I need to get there, and there when I need to get here. That’s the thing about overthinkers, we’re seldom present, always focused on what’s happened or what’s next.

I wanted to fuck a man with few thoughts because a small part of me hoped that if I could swallow his cum, maybe I could steal a bit of his essence, his care-free mentality, and learn to fully live in the moment without meditation, exercise, and my stupid (but necessary) grounding exercises.

Several men on Grindr fit the bill physically. (Read in a Nick Kroll voice: “PV Pride, baby!”) However, I had no way of knowing where they were mentally. But if a man replied in full sentences, asking how I was doing and using correct punctuation—things I usually look for on Grindr—he was nixed.

I ended up walking over to the hotel room of a man giving me the least. “Hey,” “Good,” “Come.” Not even come over to my place, just “come,” like I’m a fucking dog.

Perfection. He had the body and (lack of) brain.

He was staying at a hotel in the heart of Zona Romántica, the gayest neighborhood in PV. I knocked on the door, and he cracked it open and peeped out, perhaps to confirm I looked like my pictures. (While I have a penchant for saying, “Kindness costs you nothing,” I have nothing but unadulterated loathing, and not in the cutesy Alphaba/Glinda way, for people who catfish.)

Once he confirmed I looked like my photos, he opened the door farther, just enough so I could wiggle my way inside. “Hello,” he whispered as he shut and locked the door. (The soft voice with which men initially speak when meeting a stranger for sex is a phenomenon that needs to be studied.)

“Hi,” I said, kicking off my sandals. Only then did I get a really good look at him. He had a handsome face, not that he needed one. Not that anyone ever looked at his face when he was shirtless. He was nude, except for a white towel that was precariously wrapped around his waist. “Jesus, fuck,” I said under my breath, touching his abs. I put my entire index finger in the groove of one of his six packs; he had that much definition.

“Can, can, can I?” I stuttered, my brain short-circuiting. Not from arousal or fear that a man of his stature would not be attracted to lil ol’ me. Nothing like that. But from awe, the type of awe you only experience when in nature on shrooms. Suddenly, you’re looking out at the vast expanse of forest before you, and you are hit by the sheer magnitude of the world, its sublimity, and how small a speck you are in it. Despite my being 6’4 and him being roughly eight inches shorter, I felt small in his presence.

He cracked a smile, conveying his awareness that his physical power translated to social and sexual capital.

We paused, staring at one another. It was his rental, and he should have been the one to lead, but when he just kinda looked up at me, with this indiscernible face, neither aroused nor disappointed, not anxious nor excited, just simply existing, I asked, “Should we…um…go to your bedroom?”

For what other purpose was I there?

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A few moments later, my Golden Man said, “I love how much you love sucking my dick.” It was the perfect compliment. “Would you want to go again?” Though I had cum already, my dick was still hard. (God bless Cialis.) This time, I hoped he’d cum, too.

I didn’t say anything. I simply smiled and crawled down, opened my mouth wide just an inch above his head, and looked up at him.

He gripped the back of my head, running his fingers through my curly, brown hair. Then, he pushed me down onto his cock. My throat was already open from the last throatfuck. I was already drooling (or was it some of his cum sliding down my chin)? He knew exactly how I liked it. How to angle his dick so that it doesn’t just sit in my mouth’s side, poking at my cheek and turning me into a chipmunk—but lodges its way down my windpipe.

I came across an Instagram reel recently, so you know it’s true, though it did feature a clinical sexologist. She explained that oral sex can serve as a “legitimate neurobiological stim.”

(For the handful of neurotypical people that read my Substack, stimming is any repetitive behavior that helps regulate your nervous system, something many neurodivergent people do, especially those with ADHD.)

Boy, did I feel seen. I love sucking dick because yes, I love dick. It’s sexual, and I enjoy seeing my partner writhe with pleasure, and I revel in the satisfaction of a job well done. Against all odds, I’ve somehow grown to like the taste of spunk, even after all he’s eaten has been spicy ramen and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. But at its core, I love the feeling after I suck a dick, specifically a big one, specifically one that repeatedly plunges down my throat at a rapid velocity. I feel calmer, relaxed, even when I don’t cum. Alas, I don’t get the true benefits of the “dick-sucking stim,” unless it is a more intense throatfucking session.

Still, sometimes after getting perfectly throatfucked, I can go again. I need more. This was one of those times. I needed more dick. Frankly, I needed one of those orgasms that make you believe all the nonsense about semen retention, because you can’t help but be convinced you just gave a tiny piece of your soul away in that massive load.

“Take it,” he said, thrusting his hips and holding his dick inside my mouth before quickly unlodging and then filling my throat up again. “Get on your back.”

I did as he commanded, my head slightly raised on the pillow. He shuffled on his knees towards my face until he straddled it, slapped his dick against my cheek once. Then he went for the other cheek, but his hard cock hit my nose. I opened my mouth, and he leaned over, putting his elbows on the wall to steady himself as he slid his dick down my throat.

“That’s it,” he said as I gagged. (Jesus, mother of God, I am getting so erect as I write this.) While I love a skullfuck where he’s pushing my head down onto him, I prefer it when I’m backed into a corner, pushed against a wall, or something similar, where I couldn’t pull away even if I tried. In this case, something would have to give: either the bed would finally snap under us, or the sheer force of his throat fucking would trigger some dormant meta-gene, granting me the ability to phase through solid matter.

I grabbed his ass cheeks as he thrusted, then slowly slipped my middle finger into his hole, massaging his prostate. “I’m going to cum,” he said, thrusting even harder, more violently. With my free hand, I began stroking myself. Even though I had just come, I knew I had another load in me. When I felt his cock flex a few times, and his balls rose against my chin, I knew his release was imminent.

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Within 15 minutes of being at the PV Pride festival, I had my phone stolen while completely sober. I was furious with myself. I should have known better.

The only other time I had my phone stolen was when I first visited New Orleans. I was alone on Bourbon Street, 26 years old, and utterly shit-faced. I deserved to get my phone stolen. Not to victim-blame, but it would have been offensive had my phone not been stolen. But I learned from that experience. Don’t be that drunk when alone and in a place known for pickpockets.

Since then, I have traveled around the world safely. I have a system involving a fannypack and zippers, but since I was taking my phone out every 30 seconds to record a float, I just put it in my shorts pocket. (They were very tiny, slutty gay shorts with shallow pockets.) Rookie mistake. I was at one of the busiest intersections of the parade, to the point you really couldn’t move. A short man grabbed my hand and raised it above my head, saying, “Which way you going? Here!” and started to lead me through the crowd. It took me about three seconds to say, “What are you doing? Stop.” It took another three seconds to realize I’d been pickpocketed. I turned and pushed through the crowd, trying to see if I could catch the man, but it was too dense. He was long gone.

I ran back to my room and quickly opened my laptop to report my phone stolen on Apple and change my bank account passwords, Venmo, Cash App, all those things. I then Googled phone stores. There was no AT&T store or Apple store nearby, so I googled “phone stores near me.” All were closed except one little shop, just four blocks away. I quickly ran over, hoping, at the very least, to purchase a cheap temporary travel phone, but the storekeeper said I had to come back in the morning. I returned to my Airbnb, tail between my legs.

I would be without a phone for the next 18 hours, and was contemplating whether to return to the block party or call it an early night.

After all, I was now alone in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language (I mean, I was in PV with plenty of people who spoke English—let’s not exaggerate the fear factor here—but still). I was also staying at an Airbnb on the outskirts of Zona Romántica, and I had been using Google Maps to get around.

I called my best friend from my laptop, who calmed me down. “You’ve dealt with a lot worse,” he said, reminding me of a few harrowing stories from times I traveled abroad—stories I’ll take to my grave. I also had theft insurance through AT&T, so I would pay a fraction of the price of a replacement phone. Really, this was an inconvenience, nothing more.

“Fuck it. Yeah!” I said, psyching myself up.

“Just you know…maybe don’t get too hammered?”

I tore a page out of the beach read I had brought with me to draw a physical map with street names, so I could get around without Google Maps. I placed it in my fanny pack and told myself: So help me God, I am going out and having fun. I am going to meet cute guys, dance, and fuck. After all, what better distraction in the world is there than sex?

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You know when you have good sex, and though you’re extremely satisfied right after cumming, about an hour later, you want more? It’s almost like when you’re constipated and are happy to get a little bit of poop out, and it feels good, but then an hour later, you’re back on the toilet.

Just like when you’re constipated (please know I’m sorry for this metaphor), you need that massive orgasm that gets it all out of your system.

This explains why I was on Grindr, looking for another guy to fuck before the Pride parade, even though I just had great sex an hour earlier. Luckily, a man 500 feet away was hosting, and said he wanted to get filled before heading to PV Pride.

I told him I’d be there in five minutes.

Little did I know this man would have a strange, intense sex technique, one I hadn’t encountered before. One I’ll simply call “the frog.”

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Six hours before the parade, I arrived in Puerto Vallarta and did the most predictable thing I could: checked Grindr. I opened the app even before unpacking my toiletries and hanging up my dress shirts—though, to be fair, I predominantly brought harnesses and Speedos. While I was in town to celebrate Pride, I knew of Puerto Vallarta’s gay reputation, and I wanted to partake in the fun (i.e., sexual shenanigans).

I know a lot of people have feelings about PV Gays™, and I want to be cautious while getting into the gay class and body politics of it all. I’ve noticed people are extremely polarized on the topic, and frankly, I’m not sure a nuanced take would actually have much impact. Still, I’d like to say something: There is room for personal growth on both sides.

Projection and insecurities are going on from those who loathe the PV gays. Now, if this group of men is not for you, as they have different priorities, that’s totally okay. Find your people. But a seething hatred is another thing, especially for a group of gay men who are simply looking to party, dance, and fuck. Still, I’m sorry muscular men with impossibly fit bodies have been cruel in their rejections of you in the past. I’m sorry you covet what you feel like you can’t have, and haven’t received the (sexual) validation that you crave. You deserve validation, love, sex, and to be treated with respect and dignity. However, know all fit PV gays are not self-absorbed, vapid, raging assholes. (Though some uneniably are.)

Conversely, if you are a PV Gay, and you have that body (and the money to travel out to PV frequently), you don’t need to be mean to the men you don’t want to sleep with. You don’t need to judge, looking up and down like Miranda Priestly, and in walked a young, shabbily dressed Andy Sachs. I know that you, as well, struggle with insecurities. And those insecurities can often manifest with a hyper-focus on the self and body, along with a lack of empathy for others, even others in the LGBTQ community. But kindness costs you nothing and goes a long way.

I know I’m speaking in hyperbole, and there’s far more nuance to both the PV Gays™ and those who have strong negative feelings towards them, but this is neither the time nor the place to get into all that. This is the time to talk about the first guy I had sex with in Puerto Vallarta, a man whose Grindr profile handle simply read: BIG BUNS, BIG FUN. 🍑

Since my two favorite things in the world are big asses and sexual word play, even before he sent a photo of his massive booty in a jockstrap—followed by a shot of him on all fours with cum leaking from his hole—I already knew he was the one.

Twenty minutes later, I was knocking on his front door, where he opened it shirtless, wearing tight, runners’ shorts that he filled out nicely, and house slippers.

Despite approaching 30, he had a baby face with a couple of zits. I hadn’t quite noticed it when he originally sent over his photos, but to be honest, I’m not even sure if he sent over a face pic. I was focused on something else of his. In person, he looked naive and inexperienced, but from the photos he had sent me, and the things he said he was into, “Anonymous loads, gangbangs, slapping, choking, rough, etc.” I knew he was far from innocent. I knew he could rock my world and that his profile wasn’t lying: He was big fun.

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There weren’t a ton of guys on Grindr in Sayulita. I didn’t expect there to be. The small surf town isn’t where the Party Gays™ traditionally travel. They vacation in Puerto Vallarta, roughly 40 kilometers south. The gays who come to Sayulita, or anyone for that matter, are looking for a “chill” vibe.

Sayulita is still undeniably gay-friendly. As I was leaving the coastal retreat to return to my one-bedroom apartment in NY, the townsfolk were setting up for their annual Pride celebration. “It’s not big. It’s not like Puerto Vallarta,” a few locals told me. I would have to be pretty daft to think it on the same scale, but perhaps by the way I looked (ostensibly homosexual in my neon Speedo, standing in contrapposto), they thought I would be expecting something bigger? (Men who dress as I are perpetually looking out for something big.)

Still, there were enough men on Grindr, at least for what I desired. If I were looking for a marathon session, taking dicks from thirty different tops, I would have been SOL. Luckily, I was feeling simple, humble. All I wanted was a hot local to throw some dick my way. Some measly dick.

When a man giving beach bum with natural blond streaks in his long, wavy, saltwater-washed hair hit me up with a side-body shot, showing his hard dick, I knew he was the one. FYI, he had a Prince Albert. So too were his testicles and taint pierced.

I love a unique piercing, actually, body mod in any form. Not too overgeneralize, but people with a lot of piercings fuck better. Perhaps it’s because they subvert traditional societal expectations, and that mentality bleeds into sex, or it’s because they don’t fear pain. And the less common the piercing, the better they are fucking. So to have three uncommon piercings? I could only imagine the kinky things this man would be into.

He was a top, and after my day of travels, I could not bottom. (A long day of travel always brings two things: exhaustion and horniness, often working at odds, but usually, the latter overpowers the former.)

So I gauged (pun intended) if he’d be into a throat fucking me, which he was.

I put on some sunscreen and began walking down the cobblestoned streets through the colorful town, enjoying the smell of street food, all the meat. I was impressed by how everyone seemed to know each other and would stop to talk, in no hurry to reach their final destination.

When I arrived at the Grindr dude’s place, I learned he was staying at the Amare Las Villas, a very cute (and gay-friendly) rental with a pool that is openly LGBTQ-owned and operated.

He led me to his bedroom, where I began to strip.

“Great place,” I said.

“Yeah, I love staying here,” he replied. The usual chit-chat of two strangers, soon to become lovers, only to then become acquaintances.

It took longer for me to strip than he did, as he only wore a Speedo, but I was hustling. I was horny. I wanted to cut the lag time in awkward conversation and get to what I came here to do.

Once nude, I lay on his bed, and he lay beside me. I usually like to start with making out, that is what turns me on, but I do also love a quickie, and when I have a one-track mind, and also understand the nature of the hook-up—in this case, strangers, fleeting, more goal-focused (i.e., orgasm as opposed to pleasure)—I like to get down to business.

He was semi-hard by the time we both lay on the bed. While I’ve sucked and been fucked by a half-dozen Prince Alberts in my career as a Boyslut, aware that Prince Alberts start at a much larger gauge than a standard earlobe piercing, I had never seen a dick with such a thick piercing. Looking at it, I couldn’t help but cup my own dick, reflexively protecting it, like when you see a man on TV get hit in the crotch with a soccer ball.

But once I began sucking his dick, any and all empathetic discomfort was replaced by pleasure. I liked hearing his metal clack against my teeth. I liked sucking him down to his base, and instead of feeling the soft flesh of a man’s penis head down my throat, I felt only cold, surgical, stainless steel. A piercing like this adds another inch, maybe even two, to traditional length. In a world obsessed with penis size, perhaps the answer isn’t fillers or surgery, but a piercing. (Outside of the obvious answer of learning to be comfortable with what God has given you. But damn, that’s hard.)

“You know what you’re doing,” he said as I was blowing him. I thought he was discussing my deep-throating abilities, the enthusiasm with which I sucked, but later, I learned he shared that most men don’t know how to handle a pierced hog. They tug on it way too hard. Or only focus on it, instead of the entire penis. People do too much, like when a motorcyclist passes you on the freeway. Don’t overcorrect by swerving out of his way. Definitely don’t swerve into him, just keep going at the pace and speed you were going, and let him pass/come.

I kept my pacing, enjoying his moans of admiration. I then wiggled my hands underneath his ass to squeeze his cheeks as I sucked. Also, to push him just that much deeper inside of me. He began thrusting, his dick ring rotating in my throat.

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