Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

Excerpted from Lewd, Boyd McDonald's 12th volume of true sex histories.

During the last 10 years, as the plague [AIDS] persists, I have conned my activities more and more exclusively to my friend, Rusty. We met 30 years ago, after I moved from San Diego to New York, and I am glad to say that I enjoy him even more now than I did in the beginning. Familiarity doesn't always breed contempt. It takes time to build a secure feeling of mutual trust. It is important to know that one is not despised for the nasty things that one does.

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Rusty is strictly a "top man" in the game of water sports/scatology. For him, feeding shit is the main thing. Nothing turns him on more and he loves to do it. We were, in other words, made for each other.

Like clock-work we see each other once every two weeks.

Lately we've been planning in advance "scenarios."

For example, a few weeks ago I went over to his place. After much preliminary fooling around (I drank a jar of cold piss that he'd compassionately saved for me, gave much nose service to a magnicent week-old turd that he'd kept in the fridge, scarfed up a considerable volume of farts, and sucked his cock and licked his asshole for half an hour), he squatted over a plate and decorated it with a graceful spiral of fresh hot shit. He jerked off while I ate it with a spoon. He likes for me to eat his shit as if it were actually food.

One of my favorite fantasies is to eat shit out of a man's asshole while he is eating food. Another is to spend a week with Rusty having only his piss and shit to drink and eat. When he retires next year, we are going to give that a try.

When I ate his shit with a spoon, he squirted his load of cum over the plate midway through the repast and that considerably strengthened my motivation. It's remarkable how much more palatable shit is with a cream sauce.

On another weekend, by prearrangement, when he rang my bell I pushed the button to let him in and as he walked up the four ights, I opened the front door, yanked off my clothes, and jumped into the bath tub. He locked my door behind him, undressed, came naked into the john, and without a word pissed all over me, directing much of it into my mouth. He then opened a container and dumped its contents-- his entire bowel movement from the day before-- onto my belly. It was a huge, fat, formed stool, stiff at the forward end, but soft enough to spread easily. I coated myself with it from neck to knee, wadding it up in my chest hair, pits, and crotch. It stank to high heaven. I ate some of it.

He stood over me jerking his dick in a kind of transport of pleasure at seeing me covered with his shit. After about 10 minutes of this and much lthy talk, he positioned himself with his asshole about 12 inches above my face and issued a fat stool that fully spanned that gap directly into my mouth and down my throat. I ate every inch of it.

The whole scene was, on the one hand, an unspeakable miasma, but on the other hand totally transcendental.

One can argue that the transcendental can be found in art, music, literature, religion, and parachute jumping, but it is never more intense than in sex-- and scat, for all its abrasive nastiness (indeed, because of it), is one of the surest ways of experiencing it.

I was then required to get out of the tub, so decorated, and sit in my chair in the living room (I'd spread plastic sheeting over everything). I sat there enveloped in the stench, the shit drying while he watched some porn on the tube. Once in a while he would look over at me and point at a lump of shit clinging to my body and direct me to eat it. I enjoyed him making the choice for me.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and dashed back into the john for a lengthy shower. Shit is the hardest of all stains to scrub off oneself, especially when it has dried, and no matter how hard one scrubs, one has to expect to live with the smell of it for several days after.

When I emerged, Rusty was ready to come and I sucked him off, and was treated afterwards with another load of piss.

One can always rely on Rusty to produce beautiful turds, always rm, fat, long, and interestingly textured. With some trepidation, I nibbled at one end, and with growing enjoyment worked my way down to the other. Rusty, his eyes gleaming, watched me avidly. When I nished he leaned over and called me "darling," kissed me on the cheek, and announced that last week's shit had at last met its destiny.

It really hadn't been bad at all, rather thrilling if you really want to know. I was so pleased with my success, I gallantly ate the turd in the other jar. Probably a mistake, for there was an ample length of steaming turd still tucked up his gut remaining to be dealt with. (One of the main drawbacks to eating shit is that for the next 12 hours every belch is really a fart and one must avoid the society of one's betters.) I got out the rim seat and got under it. He let it out slowly. It was a real hole-stretcher. It hardly saw the light of day as I gulped it down.

He cautioned me to retain the last portion of it in my mouth. When he was done, I still had about four inches of stool in my mouth. He got up and turned around on the seat, positioning himself so that he could look down at my face, point his dick at my mouth and squirt a copious load into it The remaining turd slid down deliciously well lubricated.

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.