Beastly Is on the Hunt

My name is Alexander Cheves. My nickname is Beastly. I write about sex.

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**Beastly’s Note: This post had to be retitled because the original title had the word “f*ggot” in it (asterisk included) and WordPress, along with my social media accounts, did not like that. I proudly identify as a f*ggot, but the new, censored internet does not care how I and many others identify.**

Hi tops,

My readers want more personal posts, so I’m giving them one. This is a call for sex.

Please consider this post 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 people to play with before I realised this important fact: I have a blog! So here it is — my personal ad.

If you’re interested in me, let me first say that I struggle a little bit with labels. The one I identify with most is “fag.” I use “faggot” as a reclaimed power term, but in kink and BDSM, “faggot” is a submissive role for aggressive, verbal tops who like degradation and pushing limits. That is what I want you to do to me. I’m looking for a verbal top who will call me a faggot, make me wear women’s panties, and listen to me cry like a princess while you wreck my pussy (within reason — no Emergency Room visits, please).

Kinky people like labels and categories, but I have always struggled 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, the scene stops, the label stops, and I belong to no one but myself. I will not sleep in a submissive headspace — I have a hard rule against doing so.

If none of this has scared you away, 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 a regular playmate. But I want to be clear: I am not seeking a romantic relationship outside of sex. I am looking for a sex-focused relationship with someone I have chemistry with.

I currently 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 me. He is my best friend. I’ve never wanted to build a life with someone before, but I want to do that with him. He is a big deal for me. (Beastly’s Note: I am sad to say this relationship ended sometime after this post was published, and my ex and I are now good friends. My rule against having any romance with my Ass Master, for lack of a better phrase to call him, was mainly to preserve my primary relationship. Since that relationship no longer exists, I am open to something more than just regular sex encounters, if we have a connection.)

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. I need someone to help me work on my kinks. There are fetish scenes I have not yet explored, boundaries I’ve not pushed, fantasies I’ve not fulfilled. I would like to find someone who shares some of my fantasies and would like to try them with me.

I will be your dream fag. I have a very skilled hole. I won’t beg for mercy unless you want me to beg. You can gag me, tie my arms, spread my legs, and force all kinds of toys inside me. Encourage me or degrade me, I don’t care, so long as you keep me safe. Force me to take more. Stretch me out. Own my pussy. Ruin it. Make me your sloppy girl. I will stay loose for you and serve you ass anytime you want it if you can give me anal orgasms all the time. I want to get hooked on your fists.

I know guys who have invested in regular playmates, and because of these playmates, they have been able to explore experiences I have only dreamed about. They can do this because of trust — they found people they trust enough to explore with. I don’t have any connections like that in my life right now. I am looking for someone I can trust who likes fisting sloppy buttholes, someone who has chemistry with me and will go on a date or two to figure out what we both want. If all goes well, hopefully, you will be someone who I can trust to do some hardcore things with.

I avoid talking about my past toxic Sir. 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 dark. 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 own 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, several people still believe it. My former Sir was one of them.

And after some convincing, so was I.

Duesberg has just enough scientific credibility to make some people trust him, but he’s all but blacklisted in the scientific community — a fact he views as evidence supporting the very conspiracies he peddles. 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 — 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 news commentators putting forth all kinds of ridiculous claims.

I eventually believed his theory on HIV because I trusted him. 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 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 meds, and that medication break lasted over 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 attention — and I didn’t know how conspiracies worked or how easily something disprovable could be believed. I know now that theories like this have a substantial place in HIV/AIDS discourse and are an ongoing 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 good 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 a scientific fact. That is 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 health system — HIV drugs are some of the most expensive in the world, and it’s convenient for the pharmaceutical companies that we must stay on these medications for life. But without them, HIV progresses to AIDS, and then you die a long, terrible death.

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 so much weight. I walked into the L.A. LGBT Center and was told that everything my Sir believed — everything I had been led to believe — was wrong. By that point, my relationship with him was over, but we were still friends.

We are not friends anymore. It took years to realize what a toxic and dangerous force he was in my life. It was terrifying to realize that someone I trusted fully was able to change my view of reality. He was HIV-negative — he had no skin in the game, no risk of developing AIDS — yet he pushed me to do something that could have killed me, effectively toying with my disease. I never had the courage or desire to talk to him about all this. He never knew I re-started medication. I never told him that, in the years since I restarted medication that day in Los Angeles, I have rarely missed a daily dose.

It is perhaps unfair to make him 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 is just as susceptible to delusion as anything else is. His ideas were wrong, but I think his love was real. But the relationship left lasting trauma in me and has made me fear getting into any relationship like it since then.

His AIDS denialism was not the only thing that separated us. He had emotional and mental issues that needed dealing with, and 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 while living in a strange city. I got scared.

That relationship made me distrustful. I have not dared to explore new kinky relationships in all the years since.

I tell that full story because it’s something you need to know, whoever you are. It is something that you will need to remember to understand me. It will help you understand why I might need some help rediscovering my submissive side.

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 healthy, well-adjusted person who believes in science, let’s talk.

We have to be physically attracted to each other, and you have to love ass. I’m very proud of my butt. Please be skilled at fucking, fisting, ass-training, or all the above. It would be great if you’re also into bondage, gear, sensory deprivation, toys, and other things like that, but none of these are mandatory. In-person chemistry is the only essential requirement.

All this said, it’s probably a long shot to hope you’re somewhere 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 are a perfect match for me. If that is you, please send me a message anyway. I have been talking about moving to Berlin for years.

Please don’t be an AIDS denialist.

Love, Beastly