I am 24 years old. Starting about seven or eight years ago, I often read erotic novels online. At first, I read ordinary stories between men and women, but later gradually came into contact with themes like incest and abuse. But the more I read, the less stimulating it felt.
About five years ago, I started reading gay novels, mainly attracted by the detailed sex scenes. Before that, I had always been repulsed by homosexuality, finding it disgusting. Strangely, though, I really enjoyed looking at men's penises. I found two men kissing awkward, but seeing erect genitals would inexplicably excite me.
I remember it was a dating website. After reading several related stories, I increasingly wanted to experience that feeling myself—to want to take a man's penis in my mouth, give them oral sex, hope they would ejaculate in my mouth, or penetrate my anus. Although I had never truly experienced it. So, I mustered up the courage and contacted someone who had left their information on the site.
That was around the Spring Festival in 2000. The other person was from Northeast China, staying at a famous hotel in Beijing. I went to the lobby to find him and honestly explained my situation. He seemed very approachable and quickly invited me to his room. I wasn't really sure what would happen next, feeling both nervous and excited.
After following him into the room, I found another person sleeping inside. He started to hug me. To be honest, being hugged by a man made me feel very uncomfortable. He tried to kiss me, but I dodged and clearly told him I couldn't accept kissing. Probably because it was my first time, he completely went along with me and didn't force anything.
We took off our clothes. For the first time, I finally saw with my own eyes and held another man's penis in my hand. At that moment, I felt so excited I was almost dizzy. Strangely, my own penis wasn't fully hard, but it kept secreting a clear fluid. I started giving him oral sex. When I tasted his secretions, a wave of nausea rose in my heart, but my body grew even more excited.
After a while, he took the initiative to offer me oral sex. I was actually reluctant to let go of his penis, but I obediently let him do it. While he was giving me oral, his fingers began to touch my anus. The sensation was extremely stimulating. Even now, I'm not sure if the anus can truly bring pleasure, but at the time, it definitely made my heart race.
At that moment, another man woke up. He was very handsome and had a large penis. Without even much greeting, he pressed my head toward his penis. I was more than willing and immediately obediently took it into my mouth.
From the moment I entered the door until this moment, my body and mind were in a state of extreme excitement, and that excitement was still rising. But when I recognized the taste of the fluid secreted from their penises, a sense of nausea still surfaced, and there was a voice in my heart wanting to stop all of this. But I did not stop.
The person giving me oral sex began slowly inserting a finger into my anus. One finger. I didn’t feel comfortable, and I was very embarrassed—there would be fecal matter inside. But in my heart I became more and more excited, with a faint sense of wanting to be dominated.
After a while, he pressed his penis against my anus. He was very gentle, and his size wasn't particularly large, but it was still difficult for me to take. I experienced the kind of tearing sensation described in novels. Pain began to overshadow the stimulation, and excitement gradually faded. Finally, reason prevailed, and the penis in my mouth also felt increasingly unappealing.
I started resisting the penis trying to enter. At that moment, the two men switched positions. Seeing the larger penis that had been lingering at my anal entrance earlier, excitement once again took over.
But this time the penis trying to enter was bigger and more urgent. While I was seriously sucking on the one in front of me, the one behind suddenly thrust forcefully in. The real tearing sensation made my whole body go rigid; the pain drowned everything else out, and I even forgot to dodge and push them away. They probably sensed my pain and began to slow down, comforting me and saying they would take it slowly.
After a few minutes, the pain in my anus lessened somewhat. I had originally decided to stop there, but the penis behind me began moving slowly, and the pain instead became less obvious.
I decided to continue again because I looked back and saw a man staring down at my anus. Although I couldn't see his penis, I could feel the image—me bent over, being entered. These thoughts brought immense excitement again. I turned my head and continued licking and sucking the penis in front of me, even trying to lick his testicles, but lacked the courage to go further.
The penis behind moved little by little. My penis, after being stunned by pain and going limp, gradually recovered and began to get hard, with fluid continuously flowing out, dripping straight onto the bedsheets. I had never seen my body become like this before.
The man behind began stroking my penis and jerking me off. The excitement surged back to its peak. While I was sucking, I felt the fullness of being penetrated, imagining the scene in my head, and I was almost about to cum.
Right then, he made a mistake. Probably too excited or close to cumming, he kept saying my anus was too tight and told me to relax, then sped up the rhythm and intensity of his thrusts. The sound of his body slapping against my buttocks made me dizzy with excitement—I was really close.
But in the next second, his penis jerked out violently, then violently tried to thrust back in. The pain made me almost jump up, and the excitement vanished instantly. The penis suddenly became small and soft, lying against my thigh and continuously leaking. I used my hand to block them and lay on my side on the bed. They kept apologizing, but I could no longer listen.
Reason completely took over. I felt this was something I shouldn't do and should leave immediately.
I slowly got up and told them I really couldn't continue. They expressed understanding and suggested we shower together. I couldn't refuse well, so I took a symbolic shower. They still tried to give me oral again, briefly stirring some excitement, but by then I just felt disgusted and only wanted to leave as soon as possible.
After exchanging a few words, I left the room where I had first experienced a different sexual role.
After leaving the hotel, I drove, constantly spitting out the window. I don't usually have this habit, but I just felt I couldn't get rid of the taste of that secretion in my mouth, wishing I could wash myself thoroughly.
This was my first time. Although not truly completed, I've experienced everything there is to experience—excitement, disgust, pain, pleasure, and that strange feeling of being dominated.
After that experience, my world quietly changed.
Over the next few days, I kept recalling every detail of the room: the dizziness when I first grasped the first cock, the sensation of my mouth being filled, the shame and excitement when fingers entered, the tearing feeling of being penetrated, and the self-loathing when reason finally returned. These memories were like brands left in my mind, flashing up suddenly during the day while I worked, and impossible to shake off at night when I lay in bed.
I started browsing related websites more frequently, reading more texts describing sexual affairs between men. Scenes I used to find disgusting could now easily make me hard. I tried exploring my back hole with my own fingers, experiencing that feeling of being filled and stretched. At first it was just one finger, then slowly added to two. The sound of the shower water covered up my suppressed gasps.
About a month later, I logged onto that dating site again. This time, my goal was clearer. I found a man who looked clean and was around my age, and we arranged to meet at another hotel.
The second experience was much smoother than the first. The other person was very patient, using plenty of lube, first fully stretching me with fingers before slowly entering. The pain was still there, but it wasn't as tearing as the first time. When he was fully inside, I could clearly feel the shape and warmth of that thing inside me. He began to move slowly, and pleasure gradually overtook the discomfort. For the first time, I came while being penetrated, semen spurting onto my own lower abdomen, the orgasm so intense it made my legs tremble.
Since then, I had intermittently seen several different men. Some only did oral sex, some went all the way. Each time brought back different sensations: some were very skilled and could make me climax front and back at the same time; some were too impatient, making me just want it to end quickly. I gradually understood that what I was truly obsessed with was not being “loved,” but the feeling of being entered by a powerful cock and being used.
Once, the other person came in my mouth. The salty, fishy taste made me nauseous for days, yet I kept reminiscing about it afterward. Another time, when the other person entered from behind and held me tightly, whispering some obscene words, I actually got extra excited because of those words.
Five years had passed. I was already twenty-four years old. On the surface, I still looked like an ordinary office worker, socializing normally with colleagues and occasionally dating women. But only I knew that what could truly excite me completely was still a man's body, especially that hard, hot penis.
Sometimes at night, I lie in bed and recall that hotel room during the Spring Festival—two men, my kneeling position, the pain and pleasure of being entered, and my final hasty escape. That unfinished experience, instead, became the starting point for all my subsequent explorations.
I know this path isn't understood by most people, and even I sometimes feel ashamed. But once desire is ignited, it's hard to completely extinguish. It hides in the cracks of daily life, in sudden flashbacks of memory, making my heart race and my lower body heat up.
Maybe one day, I will truly accept this part of myself. Maybe not.
But at least I had personally experienced the scenes described in novels, and knew they were not entirely fantasy. And that hotel room during that Spring Festival would forever remain deep in my memory—both a beginning and, in a sense, an ending.
After that hotel room during the Spring Festival, my life appeared unchanged on the surface.
During the day, I went to work as usual, had meals and chats with colleagues, occasionally played ball with friends at night. But only I knew clearly that there was an extra door in my mind, and it was already open. Whenever it was late and quiet, or when I suddenly spaced out at work, the scene from that room would automatically play: two men's bodies, my own kneeling position, the taste of my mouth being filled, the tearing sensation of my back hole being forcibly stretched open. Every time I recalled it, my lower body would heat up, secretions slowly seeping out, dampening my underwear.
I started searching with more purpose.
Profile photos and self-introductions on dating websites became a daily pastime. I learned to tell who was just chatting and who really wanted to meet. My three rules also became clearer: no kissing (at least not at first), condoms required, and plenty of lubrication beforehand. These rules were like a thin protective film, letting me keep a little sense of control while still feeling excited.
The second meeting was over a month later. The other person was in his early thirties, looked clean, and spoke gently. We met at a business hotel in Chaoyang District. This time, I wasn't as nervous as the first time, to the point of having cold hands and feet. Instead, I felt a clear sense of anticipation.
Entering the room, he was very considerate. He let me shower first, and then he showered himself. After coming out, he wasn't in a hurry to do anything; he just sat on the edge of the bed and talked to me, his hand naturally resting on my thigh. I leaned in and took hold of his penis. It was already half-hard, heavier than the two I had encountered the first time. I lowered my head and took it into my mouth. The taste of the secretion still made me frown slightly, but it wasn't strong enough to make me want to vomit anymore. His fingers gently pressed against the back of my head, not forcefully, just guiding.
When he used his fingers coated with lubricant to probe into my back hole, I had already learned to relax. One finger, then two, slowly stretching. The pain turned into a bearable feeling of fullness. When he truly entered, I could clearly feel that thing inch by inch stretching open my inner walls until it was fully buried. He paused and asked if he could move. I nodded.
After the slow thrusting began, pleasure gradually overwhelmed the discomfort. My own penis was painfully hard, the tip continuously secreting clear fluid. He reached out to help me stroke, the stimulation from both front and back quickly made me climax, semen spraying onto my abdomen and bedsheet. During orgasm, the rear hole involuntarily contracted, he gasped lowly and also came inside the condom.
That time, I didn't flee in panic. Afterwards, we lay side by side, and he even asked if I wanted to do it again. I shook my head and said, next time. When I walked out of the hotel, the taste still lingered in my mouth, but I didn't frantically spit anymore.
Since then, the frequency slowly increased. Sometimes once a month, sometimes once every two weeks. The partners changed several times. Some only liked oral sex, some insisted on the full works; some were very skilled and could make me climax front and back at the same time; some were too rough, leaving me walking awkwardly for several days afterward. I gradually figured out my preferences: I liked the fullness when being entered, liked seeing the milky fluid inside the condom after the other person came in it, and then taking the condom off; occasionally I accepted unprotected oral sex, but the number of times they came in my mouth could be counted on one hand, because the taste always left me conflicted.
Once, the other person was a fitness trainer with a great physique. When he entered from behind, one hand tightly covered my mouth, the other hand gripped my penis and stroked it quickly. I was thrust so hard I could barely stay kneeling, my vision going white. The climax came urgently and fiercely, semen shooting directly into his palm. He chuckled lowly, smearing the fluid on my chest, and continued thrusting until he finished too. After that, I kept getting hard suddenly at night for three days straight, my mind filled with the force of him covering my mouth.
Another time, the other person brought someone else. I was initially hesitant, but when I saw two erect penises at the same time, excitement overrode reason. I knelt on the bed, taking turns giving them oral, while one of them slowly entered me from behind. The scent and body heat of two men enveloped me, giving me the illusion of being completely used. That night I came twice, the second time almost forced out by the thrusting from behind. Afterwards, I lay in bed listening to them washing up in the bathroom and suddenly felt very calm.
Of course, there were also unpleasant experiences. Some tried to enter without a condom midway, and when I firmly refused, they turned hostile; some acted as cold as strangers afterward, making me briefly hate myself. In those moments, I would shut myself in at home, repeatedly asking myself why I did these things. But desire doesn't disappear just because of doubt. Within a few days, my fingers would still explore my back hole, and the websites would still be opened.
By the time I was twenty-three, I could face this part of myself with relative calm. On the surface I still dated women normally, and had even been in a brief relationship. But what truly made me completely aroused, and made me ejaculate a lot and far, was always a man's body. Sometimes halfway through getting intimate with a girl, a man's penis would suddenly flash through my mind, and my desire would quickly shift in another direction.
I started trying more advanced play. Someone lightly tied my wrists with rope and entered from behind; someone had me wear specific underwear, exposing only my back hole; someone liked to say very dirty things while doing it, and those words actually made me harder. I discovered a secret fascination with the feeling of 'being used'—not pain, but that sense of losing control, being filled by a powerful sexual organ and completely dominated by the other person's rhythm.
Of course, the rules still stand. No kissing (unless the feeling is particularly strong), lube is a must, condoms whenever possible. These bottom lines allow me to retain a bit of myself even while sinking into depravity.
Sometimes in the dead of night, I think back to that hotel room during the Spring Festival. The first pain, the first nausea, the first excitement and escape. That experience was like a seed, slowly sprouting and growing over the next five years, bringing me to where I am now. I no longer hate myself as intensely as I did back then, but I can't say I've fully accepted it either. It has simply become a part of me, hidden in the gaps of daily life, surfacing at a sudden touch or memory.
One summer night when I was twenty-four, I walked out of a hotel again. My body still retained the lingering afterglow of being entered, and my back passage was slightly swollen. The night wind blew on my face. I stood by the roadside and lit a cigarette (actually I rarely smoke), staring blankly at the passing cars.
The phone vibrated once; it was a message from that person just now: 'See you again next time?'
I stared at the screen for a long time and finally replied, 'We'll see.'
Putting away my phone, I hailed a cab home. On the way, I closed my eyes, but my mind kept replaying the earlier scene: me being pinned on the bed, legs spread apart, that thing thrusting in and out. My lower body grew warm again.
I know there will be many more nights like this.
Once desire is ignited, it is difficult to truly extinguish. It will live on in another way—in memory, in the body, in the fingers the next time you open a dating app.
And that hotel room from that Spring Festival would always be there—as a starting point, and as a certain kind of origin that could never be returned to.
I'm no longer in a hurry to spit out the taste in my mouth, but I'm also not ready to accept it as a matter-of-course part of daily life.
Contradicting myself like this, I continued moving forward.
Life after twenty-four was both peaceful and secret.
During the day, I was an ordinary office worker, writing proposals, attending meetings, discussing project progress with colleagues. At night, returning to my rented one-bedroom apartment, I would sometimes open the computer and click into those familiar websites. Profile picture, age, body stats, a simple 'Are you free tonight?' became another kind of daily routine. If I matched with a suitable person, we'd go to a hotel; if not, I'd take care of it myself. Fingers, lube, my own kneeling position in the mirror became the most private ritual.
Once, the other person was a man nearly ten years older than me. He was very patient, taking almost half an hour to fully enter. Throughout, he kept asking softly if I was comfortable, his warm palm pressed against my back. That climax came long and slow; when I ejaculated, I heard myself make a sound I'd never made before. Afterward, he didn't get up immediately but held me from behind, his breath on the back of my neck. I didn't push him away. Those few minutes of silence made my heart burn more than any intense thrusting.
In the taxi on the way home, I stared at the neon lights outside the window, suddenly feeling a bit lost. It turned out that besides the physical pleasure of being filled, something else could appear simultaneously—a fleeting, almost cherished illusion. I quickly suppressed that thought. What I had always wanted was never feelings, just the body.
But the body remembered that feeling.
In the next few times, I would subconsciously choose partners who seemed gentle and unhurried. Some would kiss my shoulder blades before entering; others would help wipe my body clean after ejaculating. These small gestures made the self-loathing afterward come more slowly. Of course, there were opposite cases too. Once, the other person took off the condom halfway through and wanted to go in directly. I immediately pushed him away hard and put on my clothes before leaving. That night I took a very long shower, turning the water to the hottest setting, as if I could wash away the feeling completely.
Desire and boundaries thus coexisted.
In the summer when I was twenty-five, I moved once, into an apartment closer to the company. The new environment briefly made me think, “Should I maybe rein myself in?” The result was: even more often. The convenient location meant it was easier to go straight to a hotel after work, and then show up at the office the next morning as if nothing had happened. Sometimes colleagues would ask if I was dating someone, because I looked in good spirits. I just smiled, neither denying nor admitting it.
What truly made me stop and think was an accident.
After he ejaculated into the condom, the condom slipped off during withdrawal, leaving some semen inside me. I didn't pay much attention at the time and cleaned myself thoroughly after returning home. But in the following days, I repeatedly checked my body and even bought relevant tests from the pharmacy. The result was negative—a false alarm. During those days, I hardly opened the dating app. Reason told me the risk had always existed; I had merely used rules to create an illusion of safety for myself.
The cooling-off period lasted about two weeks.
On a Friday night two weeks later, I still clicked open the familiar interface. The moment the screen lit up, the familiar thrill returned. I told myself: I’m just looking, I don’t necessarily have to meet up. In the end, at one in the morning, I was still standing in the corridor of some hotel.
That time, the other person's technique was very good, causing me almost no noticeable pain. When he entered from behind, one hand reached around to the front to grasp my penis, stroking in rhythm with his thrusts. I came quickly, my anus spasming and contracting, which made him speed up too, finally panting softly as he came into the condom. Afterwards, I lay in bed looking at the ceiling, suddenly feeling very calm.
No intense self-loathing, nor any particular satisfaction. Just calmness.
It was as if this had already become part of life, like overtime or late-night takeout — present, yet no longer something that required fierce resistance or indulgence every single time.
When I walked out of the hotel, the night wind was a bit chilly. I turned up my collar and hailed a taxi. The driver didn't speak, and neither did I. The city flowed by outside the window, lights connecting into stretches.
Back home, I took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and lay on my own bed. My body still retained a faint sensation of being entered, not unpleasant, just reminding me of what had happened a few hours ago.
I closed my eyes.
That hotel room from that Spring Festival surfaced again—the first pain, the first nausea, the first escape. Looking back now, the emotions aren't as sharp as they once were. It's just a starting point, a starting point I cannot deny.
The phone vibrated once by the bedside. I didn't look at it.
Still have to work tomorrow.
Desire remains, rules remain, contradictions also remain. Just like this, keep moving forward.
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