"Positive," he said. "I'm sorry. But with modern drugs, it doesn't have to be a death sentence." I couldn't remember what my name had been thirty seconds ago. Even before the counselor had finished saying "positive," I knew what I would be called for however long I had left to live. I would be known henceforth as Johnny Deathseed. I'd spend my days exploring the modern American frontier of suburbs, exurbs and gentrified urban cores. I'd be spreading the gospel of bareback sex, of fluid exchange, and of AIDS far and wide. The counselor droned on, but I had stopped listening to him. I knew I would never weaken the power of my new virus by taking drugs. I hadn't practiced safer sex before and I certainly wasn't going to start now. I was a male. I was designed to inseminate. Now, finally, I could get my partners knocked up. I started to stare at the counselor. He was young, maybe 20 or 21, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was clean-cut, with a polo shirt just tight enough to show off his muscles and khakis on. He screamed pre-med student, volunteering here to beef up his transcript for medical school. He was gay; that much was clear. I interrupted him. "Are you poz?" I asked. "No, I'm not." There was a hint of revulsion in his voice, like he hadn't ever had a drippy cock yet. I wondered if he had even once accepted the joy of a man's raw cock in his ass, the sacrament of sharing seed. He quickly added, "But some of my friend are." "Do you ever wonder what it really feels like?" The man I had been a few minutes ago was dead. Johnny had taken over completely. "To have a deadly virus in your body? An incurable disease? To be able to spread it by making love to another man?" He was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Yes. I do." Silence again. He had gotten off-script. "I do this three times a week. Each person reacts differently. And every night, I wonder what they think as they fall asleep that first night." Another pause. "You're the first person who has ever asked me though." "The caretaker needs care as well," I lied. I just wanted to know if the carpet matched the drapes. There was another brief silence. It didn't bother me, but clearly I had rattled my boy. "Um, do you know how you got infected." "Yes," I said. It wasn't hard to know. Every weekend for the past three months, I had been to the local bathhouse. I had let anyone and everyone bareback me. I hadn't refused a single load. "Bareback fricking," I said. "Have you ever barebacked?" I asked. "No," he answered, far too quickly. I knew he was lying, so I didn't say anything. He had to fill the silence with the truth. "Well. A few times." "And?" "It felt great. But I..." He trailed off. "I didn't like the fear and uncertainty afterwards." I put my hand on his arm. There was a light layer of hair on it, just blond enough to be hard to see. "You don't have to be afraid, you know," I said. "You could choose just to enjoy the pleasure. The intimacy." He stared at me with those innocent blue eyes, a battle raging in his mind. I stroked his arm again, and he lost the battle between pleasure and prudence. His free hand went to his neck, and unbuttoned the top button of the polo. "It's what you really want," I said, and he unbuttoned the other two buttons. "It's going to be great." He pulled off his shirt, exposing a tight, muscled chest and stomach. There was a spray of slightly darker hair across his stomach, then a dark blond trail leading down into his khakis. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he said, as he stood up, and undid his belt. I got up, and checked the door. I didn't be disturbed as I carried out my first mission. It was locked. I pulled off my t-shirt, and the counselor let his khakis drop to the floor. He was wearing a pair of underwear that were hugging his ass. I didn't even notice his cock. I unbuttoned my Levi's, and my cock sprung free, already hard. "Wow," he murmured. He started to kneel down, trying to suck on it. I didn't want to waste time with oral sex. I bent him over the desk, and pulled down his underwear. On the counter behind him was a basket of condoms and lube. I grabbed two packets of lube, and squeezed one onto his hole, one onto my cock. I stuck a finger into his hole. He was tight, almost like a virgin. I worried he wasn't going to be able to open up enough for me to get my shaft into his hole. I didn't have to worry. As I pressed my finger into his body, he readily let me in, willingly accepting anything I gave him. It didn't take long for me to get a second finger into him, and quickly after a third. He was moaning in pleasure as I stroked in and out of him. "Please, man, give it to me," he begged me. I greased up my shaft, then lined up the cockhead with his hole. "You ready for it?" I asked. "Yes. I need it," he said. "frick me raw. Bareback me. Cum in me. Shoot me full of your seed and your virus. Make me poz." I had been ready to frick him from the moment I saw his preppy ass, and with that plea, I didn't wait for a formal invitation. I pressed my cock into his hole and it slid in easily. It felt great. My first raw hole of my poz life. My first neg hole, even. He was just tight enough to provide some resistance, but loose enough that I could get my thick shaft into him easily. And once inside, his hole was hot, moist, and alive. I started to pound his hole hard. For the first time, I didn't have to worry about how rough I was or if I was ripping up his tender skin. In fact, that was the entire point of today's frick: to rough up his ass, to injure it, to render him defenseless before I sprayed him full of my newly toxic seed. "Feel good?" I asked, but honestly, I didn't care what his answer was. "It's rough. But don't stop. I want this to hurt." I continued to frick him hard, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back into him. "This needs to hurt," he continued. It was the best frick in far too long. I felt powerful. I was powerful. My cock had always been a source of pleasure for me. I had seen enough other men to know it was above average: big and thick. But now it was something even more amazing. I had a loaded weapon, and it was hanging between my legs. I could change a man's life permanently. Men were going to worship it, honor it, destroy their lives to have the chance to pleasure it. My awesome cock and my beautiful balls were going to be the defining elements of the rest of my life. I needed to spread it far and wide and let every man, willing or otherwise know my power. I was getting close. The first man was soon going to have the pleasure of my very first deadly load. "I'm getting close," I s "Give. It. To. Me." he grunted, a fierce determination audible in his demand. I didn't give him a chance to have a second thought. I pushed in deep: let my beautiful tool have its way and let my balls, filled to the brim with my brand new virus, drain themselves into his helpless body.
"fricking. Take. My. Seed," I replied, in the same staccato cadence that he had used to beg me. My cock exploded and filled his arse with my seed. First one spurt, then a second, a third, and in the glory of my poz orgasm, I lost track of how many spurts, how much seed I had injected into my boy's unprotected hole. With each thrust into his hole, I felt him clench around my tool, holding me in and milking out every drop of my fluids. I hoped that I had given him enough sperm, enough virus to gift him with what he had begged me for: my Human Immunodeficiency Virus. My HIV. Even as my orgasm subsided, he was still gasping for air. I realized that I didn't remember his name. I'm sure he had told me when I first walked in, and I knew it was something completely generic and forgettable: Ken or Brian or something like that. It didn't matter. I would never speak to him again, and it was unlikely he'd ever let me run into him at a bar. I pulled out, and wiped off my cock on his ass. "Get what you needed, boy?" I asked him. It was just a formality, something to say as I put my pistol back in my underwear and pulled up my pants "Yes, Sir," he said. He made no effort to stand up. I realized that he had cum as well. He was too embarrassed to show me his little pool of semen, cooling off on the desk. I slapped his firm ass, and finished buttoning up my pants. "Take care. You should probably get tested, soon, you know. Give me a call if you need another load." I scribbled a number down on a scrap of paper on the desk. I doubted he would ever have the courage to call the number, but if he did, he'd discover I had given him the anonymous HIV testing clinic. His own number. "Before you go," he said, little more than a whisper. "What's your name? I want to remember you. I need to remember you" "You can remember me as Johnny Deathseed."
OH YEAH?! WELL AT LEAST I DON'T SPEND MY TIME SUCKING DICKS IN THE BATHROOM AT OLIVE GARDEN, YOU DIRTY ROTTEN LOWDOWN SLIMY FILTHY DISGUSTING GLUTTONOUS HOGLIKE MOTHER frickING COCK SUCKING SON OF AN INCESTUOUS PEDOPHILE SHEMALE RAPIST PROSTITUTE. GET YOUR MOM'S DICK OUT OF YOUR MOUTH. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA DO? I'M GONNA shite UP YOUR ASS. STOP FOR A MOMENT AND REALLY GRASP THAT STATEMENT. I AM LITERALLY GOING TO shite UP YOUR ASS. I WILL TAKE MY PANTS OFF, RIP YOUR PANTS OFF, OUR SPHINCTERS WILL TOUCH, AND I WILL shite. YOU WILL TRY TO COUNTERSHIT, BUT MY SPHINCTER WILL OVERCOME, AND I WILL PUSH A LOG OF shite FROM MY arse UP AND INTO YOUR BODY. THIS IS WHAT SHALL OCCUR. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE? I WILL PISS IN A POT. I WILL ADD CORNSTARCH TO THE PISS AND BOIL IT UNTIL IT GETS REALLY THICK, LIKE SAUCE. I WILL POUR THE THICKENED PISS INTO A PLASTIC CONTAINER AND PUT IT IN THE FRIDGE UNTIL IT HARDENS INTO A FIRM JELLO. I WILL THEN CUT IT INTO RECTANGLES, BATTER IT IN A MIX OF MILK, FLOUR, AND EGGS, AND DEEP FRY IT AT 375 UNTIL GOLDEN BROWN, FLIPPING ONCE SINCE THEY FLOAT. AND I WILL SERVE YOU MY DEEP FRIED PISS. THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR BEING SUCH A HUGE MACFAG
danzphishing deedle duntzgeon Greetings phanz, reporting live as a lost soul in the Duntzegeon...hear me out.....before it's too late.... (Pronounced 'dunnz-geon') Last night at the kirby center the biscuits 2 point 0h brought it to new uberdigital heights never before seen by the likes of us br4hs. What we saw, can only be described as the DUNTZGEON. Some Preface: Duntzgeon: origin: Latin, for "Untz Dungeon", a cross bilunguil mix of "dunzo," "untz," "dungeon", and "dunce" (As in, when you are in the Duntzgeon, you need to wear a Duntz hat.) Guidlines: (1) Barber must be playing the midi keyboard and/or shredding skull on his Duntzegeon Axe 9000 (2) Allen must be playing MANY e-drums, so much so that you will not be able to tell Who's E-Drums are Who's. (3) Brownie must be dropping untz A Brief History: Many millions of years and e-drums ago, there was a genre of music too dunzo for it's good. This music's secret ancient patterns were only first tapped by the opening notes of barber's digi-saber during the unveiling of the Lancaster Tractorbeam Abraxis. Since this abraxis, the code for Duntzo has been locked into every h3tty wooks brain-neural patterns, or the "Duntzometaphines", or "Duntz.". Duntzo now is only a part of conciousness which can be aligned and raged upon when many e-drums are played and many custies are bunked. Rules and Practices: Doors to the Duntzgeon may only be unlocked under certain circumstances, i.e., INVERTED ABRAXIS. Inside Inverted Abraxis **(and occasionally during cyclone teases)** there lies an evil headdy math equasion which only barber and his midi-keyboard, (and only a room of e-drums) can unlock. (Emphasis on MANY....DIFFERENT E-DRUMS) Some Spectator Points of view on the Duntzgeon: "Brah, last night during that mind shredding cyclone tease I thoght they were going to drop run like hell and then everything stopped all at once, to reveal sounds so digital and so untzed that they made my brain go Duntzo." (Duntzo, as in, This show sucks, shit's Duntzo) Peace, love, respect, may all avoid the trecherous grasps of the duntzegeon until allen's e-drums either break or they finally play Lunar Pursuit."
after getting fed up with this fake bitch arse "scene" that involves pussies who like shitty fricking EDM, pins, fans who've seen under 40 shows, horrible DJ's, no good weed, no metal headz, no LSD, too much inferior cocaine, unpurged BHO, unknown pills, vape pens, and stupid fricking people who want to hear a god damn awful fricking song just because it's a bust-out, I quit coming around here and finally accepted my invitation to the Basis. That's the real deal Bisco family and I know they're proud to have me be part of it. To you fricking custie arse bottom feeders who aren't at the Basis, please KYS and dont' even respond to what I have to fricking say It's been coming to my attention that some of you stupid arse pill poppers think I'm randy flagg. I'm not. I have no fricking idea how or where you delusional drug addicts come up with this shite. I've now had 2 people ask me this shite and I'm here to tell you once and for all that I'm not Randy along with all of you Feel Good Inc fluffers owe me a fricking beer and a fat fricking joint for all of this confusion...and it better not be any of this god awful shite they are selling in the legal shops. I'd rather smoke Oklahoma's worst weed than anything out of these shops out here. I swear to god I'd even smoke some of that over rated over fluffed Sour D grown on the East Coast than the garbage out here these days
Oh, and I am a real lawyer. I've also really done all of the following things:
- Been in non-public areas of the White House
- Produced papers that were put into the hands of the President
- Had my picture taken with the President
- Attended a private briefing with the First Lady
- Sat in the President's box at the Kennedy Center
- Sat in the office chair of a well-known Presidential candidate
- Had a private lunch with at least one Senator
- Had lunch in the private Senate dining room
- Been to a private party with two (different) Senators, and two political talk-show hosts
- Had drinks with a (different) Senator in his chambers
- Been told an off-color joke by a (different, and of course Republican) Senator
- Represented three Members of Congress in communications with the public
- Been one of four people in a meeting with the Mayor of a top-3 American city
- Had drinks (and been at a Dead show) with the Deputy Mayor of a (different) top-3 American city
- Been sought out as a source by one of the top reporters on cable news
And all of that was over a decade ago, before I turned 24.