My name is Alexander Cheves. My nickname is Beastly. I write about sex.
Have a question? Email email@example.com or go here.
This site is supported by readers — not ads. Visit my Patreon to support my work and get xxxtra special perks.
Hi power tops,
My readers want more personal posts, so here’s one. Consider this a long personal ad in Honcho or Blueboy or some other porn magazine that isn’t around anymore. I’ve been trying to figure out how I can find more tops to play with before realizing that I have a fucking blog! So here it is — my call to the sex gods for a little fun.
If you’re interested in me, let me first say that I struggle with labels, but the one I identify with most is “fag.” I use “fag” as a reclaimed power term, but in BDSM, it’s a role associated with submission and degradation, and I want that. I’m looking for a verbal top who’ll call me a faggot, put me in panties, and listen to me moan and cry like a princess while they wreck my cunt (within reason — no Emergency Room visits, please).
Kinky people really like labels and categories, but I struggle with them. I can’t abide by a label that has any sense of commitment or ownership that extends beyond the bedroom or playroom. When I go to sleep, I belong to no one. I won’t sleep in submissive headspace — in fact, I have a hard rule against doing so.
If none of this has scared you off, please keep reading.
I can promise to work on my aversion to commitment, or at least try to work around it. I like the idea of having something regular. But I want to be clear: I am not seeking a relationship outside of sex.
I have a boyfriend who I love very much. I love him so much that sometimes I wonder in the middle of the night what I’m doing and why he’s with someone like me. He’s my best friend. I’ve never wanted to build a life with someone before, but I want to do that with him. This is a big deal for me.
He and I have an open relationship, which means we’re completely non-monogamous. We’re also polyamorous — we’re allowed to have mild outside flings and special connections — but we’ve agreed that he is my “primary,” my number one, and I’m his primary. I’m not looking for someone to replace him, and I will choose him over you. Always. You must accept these terms to play with me.
If you’re still not scared, please keep reading.
I’m turning 29 this week. Then, in a year, thirty. I’m so afraid of turning thirty. I see turning thirty as a reckoning of everything I’ve done in my life, and I’m not where I would like to be in my kinks and fetishes, and I need someone to help me work on this. There are scenes I’ve not explored, boundaries I’ve not pushed, and fantasies I’ve never fulfilled. I would like to find someone who shares some of my ambitions and fantasies. I’d like to be someone’s dream fag.
I know many younger guys who have invested in regular playmates, and because of these playmates, they’ve been able to explore experiences I’ve only fantasized about. They’ve done this because of trust — they found people they trusted enough to explore with. I don’t have any connections like that in my life at the moment.
My sex life is largely composed of one-time hookups. These are fun, but with fetishes like fisting, there’s a practical danger in playing with someone new every time. This brings me to a specific requirement: You can’t be a hard meth user. Some drugs are okay, but I’m trying to avoid a strong dependence on substances going forward, and I need someone to help me do that. With heavy ass play and fisting, meth certainly makes it easier to push one’s limits, so avoiding it might mean that I can’t always go as hard as I would like to go, or as hard as you would like me to go. Please be patient with me, challenge me, and push me to test my natural limits, without much chemical help.
I generally avoid talking about my last Sir because he’s a private person and a friend. He was a porn star for a major fetish studio and he introduced me to kink. I was a young kid in college and he was a beautiful and intimidating man. He flew me to San Francisco, to my first Folsom Street Fair, and gave me my first leather harness. When I became HIV-positive, he was the first person I told, and my sessions with him healed me in the rough early months after my diagnosis.
Here’s where the story gets complicated. My HIV meds took a long time to arrive, and when they finally came, he told me to be careful with them. “Alex, they’re poison,” he said. I assumed he didn’t know what he was talking about. I followed my doctor’s orders and took the meds as directed.
I immediately experienced strong side effects — weight gain, acne, diarrhea, stomach pain, and vivid, violent dreams. These are common side effects of starting antiretroviral treatment, but I didn’t know that at the time. When I complained about the side effects, my Sir said, “I told you so.” One day he started telling me his theory on HIV — that the AIDS epidemic was a Big Pharma conspiracy, and that HIV was a harmless passenger virus.
This theory is famously espoused by the biologist Peter Duesberg, one of the world’s most prominent and widely hated AIDS denialists. Duesberg — a sitting professor at the University of California, Berkeley — believes AIDS was caused by recreational drugs, poppers, and other parts of gay life in the ’70s and ’80s, not HIV. Despite the blatant issues with this theory and the strong evidence against it, a large number of people still believe it, and my former Sir was one of them.
After some convincing, so was I.
Duesberg has just enough scientific credibility to make some people trust him, but he’s blacklisted in the scientific community — a fact he views as evidence of the very conspiracy he preaches. In 1970, he identified the first cancer-causing gene, putting him on the global scientific map. His book Inventing the AIDS Virus — my Sir lent me his copy of the book — declares that HIV medications only exist to make pharmaceutical companies rich. I didn’t know enough about my Sir at the time to know that he loved a good conspiracy theory and watched right-wing commentators who put forth all kinds of ridiculous claims.
I eventually believed his theory on HIV because I trusted him completely. I trusted him so much that, after I graduated from college, I moved with him to San Francisco to live with an aging pornographer who believed in an even longer list of wild conspiracy theories. Cell phones were not allowed in the house because the old man said they caused brain tumors. I was instructed to flush all my medications.
With the encouragement of these two men, I stopped taking my HIV meds, and that medication break lasted for more than a year. I was too young and inexperienced in life to debate science — I was 21. This was before the Trump years — before conspiracy theories got so much national attention — and I didn’t know how conspiracies worked or how easily something disprovable can be believed. I know now that theories like this have a substantial place in HIV/AIDS discourse, and they’re a nightmare for public health workers.
And the problem is that these conspiracies are fortified by the real evils of Big Pharma. HIV-positive queer people should distrust the U.S. government to some extent, because it ignored our deaths in the darkest years of the plague, and HIV criminalization laws continue to target and incarcerate us. Gay men who marched for their lives in the ’80s have good reasons to hate politicians and pharmaceutical companies. They have reasons to distrust the dissemination of truth in America. Today, it’s not hard to find rational, well-informed people who ardently believe that AIDS was cooked up in a lab by Ronald Reagan’s thugs and weaponized against society’s undesirables (Blacks, gays, prostitutes, and transgender people).
But the fact is, HIV causes AIDS. That’s what the overwhelming majority of scientific research over the last forty years confirms. HIV medications are necessary, and they work. HIV-positive people taking medication are almost certainly being exploited by a cruel commercial health system — HIV drugs are some of the most expensive medications in the world, and it’s convenient for the pharmaceutical companies supplying them that we must stay on these medications for life. But without the drugs, HIV progresses to AIDS, which killed a generation of queer people before me.
The fact is, I could have died. Unmedicated people die from AIDS-related complications every day. I only returned to HIV care because I got very sick a year later and lost a lot of weight. I walked into the L.A. LGBT Center and was told that everything my Sir believed — everything I believed — was wrong. By that point, my sexual relationship with him was over, but we were still friends.
We are still friends. Years have passed since all that, and although he is no longer a major presence in my life, he still appears as an occasional text, a sweet check-in. But I’ve never had the courage or desire to talk to him about any of this. He doesn’t know I re-started medication.
I can’t make him into a villain. He believed he was keeping me safe. Just as my parents loved me enough to try and save me from Hell, he loved me enough to try and save me from the evil things he believed in, and I can’t fault someone too much for that. Love is not an all-powerful force or cosmic mystery — it’s a faulty, human thing that’s susceptible to delusion as much as anything else is. His ideas were wrong but his love was real.
His AIDS denialism isn’t what separated us. He had some emotional and mental issues that needed dealing with. Everyone struggles with mental health stuff, but I reached a point where I no longer felt safe with him. And when someone is in control of your body during sex, that’s a frightening thing to feel. On top of that, I was financially and emotionally dependent on him in a strange city. I got scared.
That relationship made me distrustful — especially after I realized my reality was re-written in a harmful way because of his beliefs, not facts — and I’ve not had the courage to start a fetish relationship since.
But I would like to. If you’re reading this and want to own a faggot who is smart and talented, you’ll have to earn my trust because of all this. I will probably need help in being submissive.
After him, I decided to explore kink on my own. I tried new fetishes and took the reins of my sex life. That relationship made me bristle against other dominant men who came into my life, and there’s a reason why I don’t support 24-7 fetish scenes. I don’t think live-in, round-the-clock roles are healthy.
I may even ruffle some feathers by saying that I don’t think a person’s fetish identity can or should be considered their “true” self, no matter how empowering it feels. I believe that a person’s identity as a “pup” or “fag” or “slave” is just one part of them. If a person’s core identity is tied to a particular sex practice, sexualized headspace, or, most worryingly, an imagined sexual contract with someone else, I fear that their reality is so tenuous, so vulnerable, that they’ve reached a point where kink is no longer healthy.
I’m older and smarter now. More importantly, I have a clearer idea of what I’m looking for now. If you’re a skilled dominant, an alpha with a good heart, someone who can be mean and degrading at the right time but is otherwise a normal, healthy, well-adjusted human, let’s talk.
We have to be physically attracted to each other, of course, and you have to love ass. I’m proud of my butt. Please be skilled at fucking, fisting, ass-training, or all the above. It’d be great if you’re also into bondage, gear, sensory deprivation, toys, and other things like that, but these are not mandatory. Chemistry is the only essential requirement. I am not looking for someone to exactly match my list of kinks. Push me into new scenes. Fit me into your fantasies. Encourage me to try new things.
You will not be my exclusive sexual partner — we’ve already established that I have an existing relationship — but I can commit to keeping certain sex acts between us.
With all this said, it’s probably a long shot to hope you’re in New York City or within a reasonable traveling distance outside the city, but I hope you are — whoever you are. It’s disheartening to know that someone in Berlin might read this and think they’re a perfect match for me. If that’s you, please send me a message anyway. I’ve been talking about moving to Berlin for years — my boyfriend has, too.
And please don’t be an AIDS denialist.