I met Graham, a fourth year at the University
of Virginia, online in early October 2005. Not long into the conversation, he related
he wanted to get fucked. His first
sexual encounter had occurred during his freshman year at the University, when
he had been raped by one of his dorm mates.
The experience left him seeking a perpetual replay of the experience.
In terms of physical intimacy, fucking
is the last sexual act in which I wish to engage. I
prefer sessions of kissing, cuddling, and perhaps providing a blowjob. I started thinking that all Graham needed
was for someone to treat him in a loving, respectful manner during intimacy. I told him that I’d fuck him (never
intending to do so) and provided my address.
He said he would be right over, which I hadn’t anticipated.
My apartment was a mess, and for that
matter, so was I. I told Graham I
couldn’t possibly have him over on such short notice, but went on to state that I
could fuck him later that night. He
seemed very disappointed, stating that he needed to be fucked immediately, but
thought I’d be worth the wait. I
assured him I was.
After our conversation, I went to the
nearest department store and purchased new curtains and bedding (the softest I
could find), along with various supplies for a meaningful foreplay
session. I returned home, redecorated,
and started thinking how appreciative Graham was going to be of all the trouble
I had gone through to make our intimate encounter special.
However, I also started thinking in
reverse, of what would happen if I went to someone’s apartment expecting to
cuddle, only to have them turn aggressive.
It had happened before, and I was always furious when it had
occurred. Yet, wasn’t I doing the same
to Graham by inviting him over for a fuck, when I had no intention of going
through with it?
I lost my nerve; I called him and said
that I didn’t want to fuck; however, I still wanted him to come over, so that
I could illustrate how beautiful and meaningful intimacy between two men could
be. He thanked
me for my honesty, but stated again that he only wanted to get fucked. It was all he knew and all he wanted to
know.
As I lay down to sleep that night, I
thought a great deal of that young man who had let a rape define the nature of
all his subsequent sexual encounters.
Then, I thought of myself and of how I had always yearned for more of a
sex drive, to possess the longing to say, “I want to fuck you,” or “I want you
to fuck me,” and then go at it like a pair of animals.
But that night, for the first time in my life, I felt fortunate I wasn’t like other men, and that soft, expensive bedding felt mighty fine as I slept in it all alone.