What didn’t happen - and hasn’t since, really - was me back on the bottom. It’s hard to look someone in the eye after shitting their childhood bed - let alone date them for seven more years afterward - but that’s exactly what happened. Presumably though, most surveyed hadn’t recently gorged on three helpings of fattened goose liver.
Also at play was acute paranoia of involuntary defecation, something I’d been assured was a common, yet unwarranted, concern of bottoms. For weeks we’d been easing into penetration with me on the bottom, but the pain had proven prohibitive. Following one such decadent feast my freshman year, when we were still very much in the honeymoon phase of our first gay relationship, Dan and I retired to his bedroom and got to work.
Meals were rich and plentiful - foie gras, profiteroles, double magnums of Riesling, etc. - all of which I eagerly imbibed. My college boyfriend’s family lived in a duplex on Park Avenue, where we’d often slip away on weekends. I enjoyed a short-lived career on the bottom.
