The Time I Ate Ass to a Rihanna Album

“Hi! How is it going, debonair man with a breathtaking face?”

Still half asleep, I sit up in my bed. What the frick! Good grammar, and both “debonair” and “breathtaking” are written correctly. This is the first time I’ve read the word “debonair” on Grindr, where language is as butchered as a Barbie in a daycare centre. It clashes with the linguistic laziness that generally reigns here.

The guy who sent me this Shakespeare-worthy prose is called Thomas. A magnificent curly brunet with a smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s in Alice in Wonderland (only not creepy). In his pictures, you can see a firm torso, a round ass, and good values—my three favorite things. Rawr!

A quick look at his profile tells me that he’s 31, versatile, a nonsmoker, lives 400 metres away (!!!), and is looking for “friendship, dates, and relationships.”.I also learned that he’s HIV-positive.

The latter is a Grindr feature that allows you to be transparent about your HIV status and when you last got tested for HIV. It’s very practical on an app known far and wide for finding hookups.

At the time, I was a little taken aback. “Oh shit, Thomas has HIV.” But then I remembered that it’s not 1980; it’s possible to live a healthy life with HIV, and this Mister is probably not on the verge of death like Tom Hanks was in Philadelphia.

I replied. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by. I needed that ass (and “pen”) in my face.

“Good morning, beautiful cherub. My morning wood and I are doing very well. Thanks for asking!”

Tritherapy and sashimi

We agreed to meet at a small sushi restaurant halfway between our two apartments. So, 200 metres away for both of us.

Friendly advice: Never travel more than an hour for a first date, just in case it ends up being disappointing. Been there, done that. It’s rarely worth it. Jack off instead. De nada!

That said, the truth is that it would have been worth the drive across town for Thomas. Between mouthfuls of raw fish, I discovered a funny guy who’s frank and passionate about lots of super geeky stuff, like Mario Kart (he always chooses Peach), the S&P 500, Sépaq, and Björk.

My grandmother would say that he has style. Of course, my grandmother’s dead, so she’d be telling me through an Ouija board, but she would say it all the same. And I would definitely agree with her.

After three glasses of cold sake, my self-confidence boosted by his compliments, I allowed myself to ask him the question that had been on the tip of my tongue since at least two edamame pods ago:

“What is it like to live with HIV?”

Thomas seemed accustomed to carrying the weight of education. I didn’t want to offend him or make him feel like a lab rat, but I wanted to know, especially since I was firmly considering merging with him by the stroke of midnight, you know, before I  turned into a pumpkin.

He explained that he had been HIV-positive for two years. Since then, he had undergone tritherapy and was living a mostly normal life, except for his little daily pill and medical follow-ups to ensure that his viral load was staying nil.

In short, his HIV had been knocked down so hard that it was undetectable… Unlike my erection under the cherry wood table.

What? All this honesty had hardened my baguette.

Rihanna’s rimming

“Damn. Your place is beautiful! It’s like we’re in Architectural Digest!”

Thomas’s apartment is super cozy: A large, slightly industrial loft with large windows, high ceilings, and hanging plants (pothos, I think). My kind of place, my kind of guy, my kind of evening.

Thomas opens a bottle of wine and takes out two glasses. As he’s about to pour the blood-red liquid, I embrace his back and start kissing his neck, then gently nibble near his pulsing jugular. Call me Dracula! I press my erection against his  firm, round butt.

Thomas turns around and kisses me full on the mouth, then whispers:

“Wait a second. I’m going to set the mood.”

He walks over to the turntable in the living room and selects a vinyl. I instantly recognize the bright red of Rihanna’s ANTI album. The queen’s first notes of pop fill the space and I join Thomas, swaying my hips slightly.

“Don’t know why, I just know I want you.”

We continue making out, and in no time, we are naked on the couch. Our sexes are rubbing together like two pieces of flint. I lick his perky nipples and he caresses the back of my head.

“Can I eat your ass?” I ask.

In response, Thomas gets down on all fours and presents me with his anus while the first notes of Kiss It Better resonate. His ass is magnificent. I feel the need to taste every bite as if it were a competition dish on Top Chef. “The rimming starts… now!”

I start by grabbing both of his cheeks to  expose his hole fully. I blow on it a little, then tickle it with the tip of my tongue. I tease him, then, without warning, I dive between his haunches and greedily eat him like a watermelon. I penetrate him with my tongue. My drool runs down his thighs. I slap his ass, then kiss it. His moans and precum drip onto the fabric of the sofa.

“I want you inside me…”

The words were Thomas’s. My mind started to spin a little.

I’ve been taking PrEP for a year, which means I’m protected against HIV, but it makes no sense to tell myself all of this, since Thomas’s viral load is zero, but we should still use a condom, right? Right? I don’t know anymore.

My neurons fire away. Fuck, I’m starting to lose my hard-on.

Peachy peach

“I have condoms right over here.”

Okay, phew! That’s what I thought. We’re using protection. I regain a bit of vigour.

Thomas starts to blow me and I harden again in his greedy mouth. I grab the back of his head and slide my cock all the way down his throat, testing his gag reflex. He looks up at me when I’m all the way down his gullet. Good boy.

He rolls the condom down over my penis and lies on his back, both legs in the air. A bottle of lube appears as if by magic (Thomas leaves it lying under the coffee table in the living room with the condoms) and he coats my encased penis. I lie on top of him, and our chests merge. He directs my cock towards his anus and, slowly, our breathing in harmony, I enter him millimetre by millimetre. I feel his ass dilate very slowly. It is tight, and oh-so delicious.

As Needed Me begins, I’m balls deep. Our tongues twist together, and the rhythm of my pelvis begins to pick up speed.

His dilated anus and pleading look give me permission to penetrate him faster and faster, harder and harder, deeper and deeper.

This peach of his deserves Quebec’s very first Michelin star.

At this point I’ve completely forgotten about Thomas’s HIV status. I’m just here, in the present moment, confident, excited, and ecstatic.

I sometimes withdraw completely to see his gaping anus pulsing slightly. I spit in his hole as I lift his legs and plunge back into him. I masturbate him vigorously and his moans resonate throughout the apartment.

“Whoa, gentle. It’s starting to hurt a little.”

I pull out and continue to kiss him. It’s okay. We take a break, and I take the time to admire his ass while he flips over RiRi’s record.

Back to the beat and the heat of the encounter, we mutually masturbate for a few long minutes.

I continue to caress his anus gently with my fingertips but give him a well-deserved break from my cock.

Mmmmm… That was so good.

“I haven’t cum this hard in eight years, AKA the last time Rihanna released an album!” says Thomas.

“I have so much cum on me that I would have needed an Umbrella, ella, ella, eh,” I add.

We burst out laughing, and with our chests covered in cum, we get up to slow dance. Our sticky bellies rub together and the cum spreads all over our hairy navels. A soft trickle of cum runs down my now limp penis.

“Shall we take a shower before I beat you at Mario Kart?” I  suggest teasingly.

“You’re on…but I’ve got dibs on Peach.”