Reflections on Barebacking

A wet spot was forming underneath me. I swelled with a mixture of fulfillment and pride. I wore a huge grin--my lips still crimson with lip gloss--as I drove home from a late afternoon of sex with my lover R.

The last remnants of R.'s semen were oozing from my hole, through my microfiber panties and through my drawstring pants' thin layer of grey cotton. Tomorrow morning I would have to get out the fabric cleaner and eradicate the spot, but what the heck? It was well worth it.

Bareback sex was so much better than the alternative!

R. loved it because, obviously, he didn't have to wear a condom. He hated those things! It was also ten times more erotic for him--watching from above as his bare, lubricated cock slid in and out of his lover's hole. My hole. And needless to say it enhanced his orgasms. One less layer for the sensations to transmit through. I'd never heard him moan so much or, at climax, shout so loudly.

"I think the old lady next door heard that one," he said afterwards, between gulps of breath.

As for me, the bottom, and in particular a crossdressing one, barebacking was the closest I would ever come anally to experiencing what a woman experiences vaginally. It was a form of ultimate sexual fulfillment. Your lover withdraws from your body but leaves a little of himself behind. He plants his seed in you. It soon drains out, but that's OK. In the aftermath you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Squishy. The insides of your shaved butt-cheeks, no longer parted, turn gooey. Perhaps the semen, now thinning out, drips down your balls. Liquid dots the sheets below. A wet spot is forming...

"I'll get a washcloth," you say. You're ecstatic. You feel flush as you leap from the bed. That was great! You've just given your lover the ultimate in fulfillment--while being filled to the top yourself. A perfect sexual harmony.

You ply the warm washcloth, cleaning his thick cock, his balls, his light-brown pubic hair. You'd like to kiss it, this beautiful cock that was just deep inside your body, but he doesn't like that. "No kissing!" Funny that he'll let you suck his cock for 15 minutes straight, but planting a goodbye kiss, No way!

"Aren't you going to clean yourself up?" he asks as you pull your panties back up.

"No," you say, smiling, feeling a buzz. At the moment, wig on, lips painted, your lover's cum wetting the silky seat of your lace-top panties, you feel exquisitely effeminate. Whoo! "I want to experience it a little longer. I'll shower when I get home."

"I could use a beer," he says, still seated on bed's edge.

"Yes, dear."

His fridge is filled mainly with 16 oz. cans of Keystone Light. Not your cup of tea--a glass of chilled Riesling would be nice--but, When in Rome...

You open his can for him then open yours. The two of you clink can bottoms.

"To barefack fucking," he says indelicately, before downing a swig.

"To positive bloodwork," you reply. And then, beer spilling from painted lips, "Negative I mean!"

"I told you I was healthy as a horse. We should've been doing this all along. I hate wearing those fucking things..."

"I know, dear," you say, "but we've been waiting for your bloodwork."

"I hate getting stuck with needles." He shrugged. R. probably didn't like being called "dear" but you don't care. He's just finished orgasming inside you. He'll just have to live with the momentary terms of affection.

"I showed you mine over two months ago. Right after we met."

He shrugged again. "Whatever. You about finished with your beer?"

This was my invitation to leave. R. was standing now, avoiding eye contact. He was spent, I felt fulfilled. He was edgy, impatient, perhaps even experiencing a tinge of guilt, or disgust; I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

I finished dressing--a Polo, drawstring pants, beach shoes--and stuffed my brunette wig into my backpack. To all the world, assuming you didn't catch a of glimpse of my ankles in thigh-highs' sheer black, I was just a regular guy. A guy wearing lipstick and eyeshadow under a baseball cap. I'd stop at the gas station on the way home and pick up a chilled bottle of wine. Wouldn't be the first time those clerks saw me with painted face. They were cool.

On the kitchen counter lay a copy of the bloodwork we'd just been discussing. Earlier in the week he'd texted me:

"just got reults [sic]. get ready to barebakc [sic]!"

Oh boy, I thought, with a roll of the eyes. Thank god he was better at fucking than texting.

"Thanks," I said in reluctant parting. "That was the best yet."

"Bout time."

"Same time next week?"

"Sure."

"Hey," he added, as I was halfway out his mobile home door, "next time wear something new. I'm kinda tired of the black look, y'know?"

I kinda nodded.

Would be nice, I thought, as I walked to my car, if you BOUGHT me something you'd like to see me in. And given the clutter in his livingroom, and the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, maybe it should be a maid's outfit. (Wouldn't THAT be fun!)

I was reminded of what my ex-wife H. used to say whenever she came back from one of her "dates." (Towards the end our marriage had evolved into an "open" one.)

"How'd it go?" I'd ask from the couch

"Oh, you know," she'd say in a voice of resignation. "Men are such pigs. Necessary pigs. But pigs."

Now, as the closest thing to a woman without actually being one, a woman trapped in a man's body as they like to say (although I didn't feel trapped; I enjoyed the duality), I was beginning to understand her meaning.

But my bottom hit the bucket seat and I experienced, once again, that delicious wetness between my cheeks. And the rosy glow returned. And I felt fulfilled.

It was true. Men might be insensitive pigs at times, but they did have one important, indispensable role to play: pushing their tools into one of your holes and filling it with their sweet, thick man-cream.

Yum.