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A Meeting with The Matrix
I drove to Flint Michigan for a bumming with the area's very own Andre Dirrell.
As soon as I got into his bedroom, I felt trepidation. His bumming trainer Chris Byrd was in there, and even though there was no sign of Chris's husband Tracy, he was still giving Andre some firm commands about how he should bum me: "Don't pull out, Andre," he insisted, "that's the only way he can take this. Don't pull out."
Well, as soon as I dropped my pants, Andre was all over me.... he had his cocoa tummy trombone in my mouth, up my anus, in my hands... the **** didn't even give me a reacharound. I didn't know what to do... except be bummed, natch.
Well, I like to be the "top" in bumming arrangements, so I figured that when this talented, terrifically speedy guy came towards me for another crack at my sphincter, I'd slip my taddywhacker in his mouth and get a blowie.
As Andre launched himself at me, I clipped him gently with my aching bell. It wasn't the hardest I'd **** slapped someone by any means, but to Andre it was as if he'd had all the taste fucked out of his mouth.
He got back up, and I tried to go for the **** slap a second time... Andre hit the bedroom floor again, flopping around like some kind of bearded, whiny haddock on a ship's deck.
To his credit, he came back strong and I seemed to get tired. He kept imploring me to bum him hard, saying stuff like "I can take your ****, motherfucker!" but I was slapping him with the bell end enough.
I dunno, I guess in the end I wasn't sure if I'd done enough to say I'd definitely bummed him, and maybe the judges were kind to me to say I'd dommed him. He WAS fast, but he was a bit mentally weak, and his chin can't take a **** slapping.
"I definitely bummed him, maaaaaaaaaaaaan," he kept saying afterwards, "come on maaaaaaaaaan, you saw my **** in his asshole."
I felt like it was a debate that was going to run and run. But my bell certainly wasn't... it had cried its last white tear.
As soon as I got into his bedroom, I felt trepidation. His bumming trainer Chris Byrd was in there, and even though there was no sign of Chris's husband Tracy, he was still giving Andre some firm commands about how he should bum me: "Don't pull out, Andre," he insisted, "that's the only way he can take this. Don't pull out."
Well, as soon as I dropped my pants, Andre was all over me.... he had his cocoa tummy trombone in my mouth, up my anus, in my hands... the **** didn't even give me a reacharound. I didn't know what to do... except be bummed, natch.
Well, I like to be the "top" in bumming arrangements, so I figured that when this talented, terrifically speedy guy came towards me for another crack at my sphincter, I'd slip my taddywhacker in his mouth and get a blowie.
As Andre launched himself at me, I clipped him gently with my aching bell. It wasn't the hardest I'd **** slapped someone by any means, but to Andre it was as if he'd had all the taste fucked out of his mouth.
He got back up, and I tried to go for the **** slap a second time... Andre hit the bedroom floor again, flopping around like some kind of bearded, whiny haddock on a ship's deck.
To his credit, he came back strong and I seemed to get tired. He kept imploring me to bum him hard, saying stuff like "I can take your ****, motherfucker!" but I was slapping him with the bell end enough.
I dunno, I guess in the end I wasn't sure if I'd done enough to say I'd definitely bummed him, and maybe the judges were kind to me to say I'd dommed him. He WAS fast, but he was a bit mentally weak, and his chin can't take a **** slapping.
"I definitely bummed him, maaaaaaaaaaaaan," he kept saying afterwards, "come on maaaaaaaaaan, you saw my **** in his asshole."
I felt like it was a debate that was going to run and run. But my bell certainly wasn't... it had cried its last white tear.
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