How they managed to attract 24 bottoms for their "study" was no surprise. Male bottoms, especially older ones, are a dime a dozen (two dimes in this case). But how they managed to round up 24 tops (or versatiles), that was a borderline miracle.
Where are these guys in real life? Which is to say on the gay/bi sex personals? When it's, say, a Friday evening (or any other day or night of the week) and you're dying for it, a thick cock up your ass, a load of sperm shot deep inside you, and...nothing. Zilch. At best an elusive faker or two. And you're reduced to once more jettisoning your panty and using a jelly dildo in the shower.
I would guesstimate the ratio of bottoms to tops is something like a hundred to one. Although, if you haven't been laid in over a year it may feel like a thousand to one. No wonder the authors of this "medical study" and their sponsors had to beat bottoms off with sticks (something a lot of bottoms, including me, like) in order to keep the number at 24.
In the bottoms' locker room, where we stuffed our street clothes in lockless lockers, someone claimed tops were being paid fifty dollars more that us. If true I believe this to be grossly unfair. I understand the logic that a bottom merely has to kneel there and take it. But it takes two to tango, as they say, and without a bottom in front a top is just kneeling behind nothing with his cock sticking out in thin air.
At any rate, appropriately enough this being a gym they'd rented out, a whistle blew and we 24 were marched out in the nude onto the basketball court to be paired off, randomly it seemed, with a top. Some of them were quite young and good-looking; unfortunately I was allied with an overweight bearish guy pushing 50. He did have, already however (Viagra again working miracles), a thick if somewhat short curving erection. He was not circumcised.
He was also not voluble, to say the least. His communication consisted of an initial grunt, followed by a point. As if to say, You first, faggot.
The two-inch thick fold-up black exercise mats were arranged on the wooden court four across and six deep. Lights blazed overhead though (or as a consequence of) the doors at either end being locked shut. It made sense. Those conducting the study didn't want just anyone wandering in on twentyfour male couples having anal sex.
Off to one side, and at the far end of each mat lay a folded white hand towel with a tube of lubricant atop it. Each of us 48 had been carefully vetted. Either we had to supply recent blood work, proving we were healthy, or, for the reasonable rate of $25 the clinic would test your blood for you. This would, however, mean that your net income from participating as a bottom in the study would shrink to a mere $125. I suppose a top, if the rumor was true, would end up with $175 or so.
I submitted my own, along with my vaccination papers. This after 1) submitting an application; then 2) submitting several (nude) photos, one of them, with me kneeling in position, ass in the air, glossy crack open, anus in plain view, balls hanging down, taken by a long-lost (and extremely rare) top a couple of years before.
I had hoped the bear and I would be led to a mat off to one side and near the back. Instead we were led to one near the back but on the inside. There was no exclusivity here, let alone a modicum of privacy. We were surrounded on all sides.
I knelt and fell forward onto my elbows and told myself to relax (deep breath). Meanwhile the bear lubed up his cock. I glanced over a shoulder at some point and saw one of the young handsome ones--directly behind us. I could be mistaken but I think he flashed a devilish grin at me.
The bear entered me and my head dropped. I let out a moan. Moans, at this moment, were proliferating all over the otherwise empty arena. Moans and the echoes of moans. Meanwhile clinicians in white labcoats roamed the floor among and between us, holding old-fashioned clipboards. Most wore sneakers--so that their soles squeaked as they trolled across the basketball court. Moans and squeaks. It was virtual cacophony.
The bear fucked me in a dutiful, rather boring fashion. It was pleasurable, and welcome, but just. Then, briefly, his rhythm increased and he came, once, and then stopped. And before he could start up again I could feel inside me the convulsion of his second and third ejaculations. In order to insure maximum loads, each top had been instructed to refrain from sex, including masturbation, especially masturbation, for at least a week.
After starting up again my top's rhythm began to quickly fade as his cock shrank inside me. Then he pulled out. If he'd expressed himself in any fashion during his orgasm I hadn't heard it--over all the squeaks and moans, that is. He then wiped his cock off with the towel and tossed the soiled thing on my lower back. Then he rose and departed, job done.
I continued kneeling there, while wiping the lube from my otherwise immaculate crack, until a pair of squeaky sneakers walked by and I asked, "What now?"
"Did he cum in you?" ballpoint poised above clipboard.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
I swallowed a swear word. "Cause I could feel it."
The clinician made a notation. "You can go now. You'll receive further instructions within a few days."
Instructions? I wondered, as I climbed unsteadily to my feet. I dropped the towel. The asshole who'd fucked me hadn't even put the cap back on the tube of lubricant. I left it as well, and walked off to the side in front of the retracted bleachers to the bottoms' locker room. I was one of the very few to make such an early departure. In fact I was alone at this salient moment.
After dressing I reentered the arena, skirting all the guys who were still fucking, and left through the far door--watched over, on the outside, by a uniformed wannabe policeman. I glanced at him and he looked away--in disgust is how I read his mood. The near end of the parking lot was filled with sixty or so vehicles in all shapes and sizes. I, however, had taken the bus, and the nearest stop was about a half mile away.
I'd just reached parking lot's far edge when someone called out to me. At least I thought he was calling out to me. No one else was around. I stopped and looked back, and the good-looking young top who'd occupied, with his bottom, the mat directly behind me was swinging a stiff right arm back and forth, between 10 and 2 o'clock, as he called out, "Hey!"
Self-consciously I looked around. At nothing. Me? I wondered.
The dude came sprinting up, as if I held a baton. He too wore sneakers--though they didn't squeak on the asphalt. "Hey! How's it going?" he repeated, arriving slightly out of breath.
I said, oddly, "You were just behind me."
He flashed a grin. "I wish I'd been closer. How was your guy?"
I shrugged, my indifference apparent.
