Title: Tops To Bottoms

Author/pseudonym: Alyjude

Email address: alyjude@webtv.net

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: J/B

Date: 12/04/01

Series/Sequel: SVS Spring Special

Category: First Times

  Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and concepts developed by Pet Fly Productions, and is intended for private personal enjoyment only. No money is being made from the writing and distribution of this story.

  Notes: This story was originally posted as part of the Spring Special of The Sentinel Slash Virtual Season (SVS), but is not considered part of the SVS canon.

  Summary: Blair muses on bisexuality and the joys of being a bottom.


Story Notes: A small reaction to an essay I read. <g> This is why I don't

think being a bottomBlair is either feminine or female and that viewing

anyone in that light because they are being written as a bottom is a

form of prejudice. <tongue in cheek>

Warnings: none—other than the kind of warning you'd need before reading Blair's musings.



Tops to Bottoms

by alyjude



You know, I like being taken. I do. Being taken is a great way to give.  And receive. Endless receiving. Endless giving. But bisexuality is a bitch.

Bet you're wondering how we went from giving and taking to bisexuality, right? Well, how the hell should I know? I mean, my brain started thinking about how much I loved being taken and from there it moved to bisexuality.

Like, since when do I have to explain the Sandburg brain? Like, since -- never.

So why is bisexuality a bitch? Because you're only politically correct half the time, idiot. Now don't get me wrong, I *like* bisexuality—

I am, in fact, an all-American bisexual male—but still, when my eyes rake over a lovely woman, I'm doing something acceptable, and when they rake over some dudly dude, I'm a criminal and a faggot. See?

Bisexuality is a bitch.

Um, better be an equal opportunity whatever here—bisexuality is also a bastard.

Hey, you know, I think the light bulb just came on. I get it now. See, I like being taken—and in gay parlance that means I'm a bottom, which is *also* politically incorrect because that means I'm the female half of any relationship that involves—whoa, man, I'm getting way too involved here. But do you get it, yet? See, it's all right in *any* relationship to be the top, even in a gay pairing.

Being top is the macho, masculine thing. Just like a guy who loves women.

Politically correct and right where he should be—on top of a woman.  He's the big, macho dom, she's the second-class sub. Or he is—if he's a bottom.

Talk about a load of crap.

Man, would you look at some of these words; top—bottom—bisexual -- gay—straight—submissive—dominant.  Jeez, who wants to wade through all that shit, uh? Well, in truth—me. Because I'm a bisexual male who loves being taken. And who loves men just a *wee* bit more than women. Okay, a whole lot more.

Women are nice, don't misunderstand me, some of my best friends are women.  (I couldn't resist saying that, you know) But when I see a good-looking guy—my motor really starts running.

I once had a discussion about this with my mother. Yeah, you heard me, my mother. She's down with this type of stuff. No problemo.  Anyway, I asked her if she thought my preference for being on the bottom in a male/male relationship had anything to do with being short and she started laughing so hard, she actually fell off the bed. I was nineteen at the time and home for summer vacation. Um, "home" being a relative term.

Anyway, she reminded me of a certain young man, Kevin, who'd been about half an inch shorter than me.

"Did you bottom with him, dear?" she'd asked innocently. Well, duh. Didn't I already mention that I love being taken?

"So, there you go, honey."

Words of such profoundness—I nearly fell off the bed laughing.

What are you going to do with a mother like that? Yeah, love her to death, that's right.

So I'm a bisexual bottom. Sigh. But really, I'm mostly a gay bottom.  Really. The only reason bisexuality has had such a good run lately is that for the last three years I've been living with this cop. Working with this cop. So concentrating on the female half of the population seemed the kosher thing to do. For him, you know? It was bad enough that he had this long-haired guy traipsing around after him, then moving in with him, no need to make matters worse by confirming everyone's suspicions that I was as queer as a two-dollar bill. Hey, wait, there *are* two-dollar bills, aren't there? Cool.

But you know what the funny thing was? He's bisexual too. Isn't that a hoot? Of course, he's also the *exact* opposite of me, being primarily attracted to the female half of his bisexuality, and he is most definitely a top. Oh, yeah. Sigh.

How very much I'd like to put my bottom with his top.

I'd sigh again but this is getting ridiculous. Back to musings.

So why is being a bottom so, supposedly, demeaning? Why *shouldn't* I be a bottom? And you know, it's not a female thing at all, or a feminine thing—it's a *bottom* thing. Bottom in my case meaning that I *LOVE* taking it up the ass. Did that just shock you? Tough.

Do *you* know what that feels like? Uh? Do you? No? So get off my back about it. Get it? Get off my back about it? God, I'm a card today. That's all bottom means to me. It doesn't mean I'm submissive and let me tell you, there are quite a few people who can confirm that little bit of news. Blair Sandburg is *not* submissive.

Submissive and bottoming aren't brother and sister, or peanut butter and jelly, or tuna fish and mayo. Hell, there are whole couples out there who are completely equal no matter who tops or bottoms. There are a whole lot of tops who, in a relationship, are actually submissive. And vice versa.

See, it's a personality thing, NOT a bottom thing. Not a female or feminine thing.

You need proof? Try Jim Ellison. Jim is the perfect example. A surer top was never born and yet—submissive as hell. All I have to do is -- well, suffice it to say—he's a sub. Now look what you made me do -- I'm using labels up the gumpstump. Shit. Nobody hates labels more than I do and yet here I am—labeling right and left.

No more labels. I'm just a guy who likes being taken. And who wishes his roommate and partner would catch a clue. Maybe a small discussion about bisexuality? Umm.



He's reading. So am I. Except I'm not. I'm really looking at him, covertly.

"Sandburg, you're staring at me."

Covert and sentinel? Fuck, no. So when caught redhanded: lie.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. Don't lie to me."

Damn him.

Okay, when caught a second time: 'fess up.

"Yes, I was staring at you, Jim."


Think fast and *always* phrase your answer in the form of a question, please. Yes, Alex, whatever you say, Alex. Bet he's a bottom.

"Because you're the only other person in the loft to stare at?"

Jim turns the page of his book and as his eyes fly over the page, he says, "Can't argue with logic like that. Stare all you want."

That went well.

I clear my throat.



"I have a question for you, Jim."

He's so nice. He immediately put the book down and didn't scowl.

Instead, he's staring at me—patiently.

'Yes, well, about bisexuality."

He's frowning. And blinking.


"Yeah, you know. People who love sex with both genders? Bisexuals. Like you and me."

He sighs deeply and I know exactly what that sigh means. He knows we're about to go someplace he thinks he doesn't want to go, but he also knows he has no choice. My little submissive.

"Okay, Sandburg, what about bisexuality?"

"Well, this isn't *really* about bisexuality."

"Of course not. It never is."

"What this is about—is bottoms. And tops."

"Uh, huh. Naturally."

"I'm, for instance, a natural bottom. I would suspect that you are a natural top. See?"

His adam's apple is working double time. This is a *good* sign. He swallows and says, "No, Sandburg, I don't see."

"Well, do you think I'm feminine or the female half of this relationship because I'm a natural bottom? Do you think less of me? Do you find it demeaning?"

He puts the book on the coffee table, gives it a look of longing, then walks into the kitchen (and no, I didn't miss the shift he had to make with his jeans. I may not be a sentinel, but I'm no slouch in the observation arena) and opens the cupboard over the fridge. He takes down a bottle of scotch and then grabs two glasses. He brings them back, sits down, pours into both and hands one off to me.

"This is going to take some fortification. Drink up, Chief."

I do and am immediately grateful for the burn. He's right—this is going to take some—ooh, nice buzz. I'm not a scotch drinker by any means, but this *is* nice.

He downs his in one, then pours again before looking at me.

"Okay, what was your question again, Sandburg?"

I frown. Um. Oh, right.

"Do you think I'm feminine because I'm a natural bottom? Do you think it demeaning and do you think less of me because I *am* a natural bottom?"

He downs the second drink, stares at his empty glass a moment, then says, "Do you think less of me because I'm a top?"

"No one thinks less of tops, Jim. Only bottoms."

"Who says?"

I wave my arms expansively. "Everyone, asshole."

He chuckles and says, "No, that would be you, Sandburg."

That really cracks him up and he's laughing so hard he spills some of the scotch because the lid is still off. He catches himself and before replacing the lid, pours again.

And did he just prove my point? I think so. I reach over, grab the bottle and fill my glass. I proceed to down it in one, then pour again. Hell, live dangerously I always say. Well, actually, I've never said that, but right now—it fits. And tomorrow is Sunday.

"I think you just proved my point. You *do* think less of me now that you know I'm a bottom. You're probably gonna want me to iron your clothes now, and, and, bring your slippers to you when you get home, and, and ..."


"Don't be silly, Chief. You, iron? Puleeze. And slippers? Phooey. And you're the most masculine man I know. The asshole crack was just a joke, lighten up."

"So you don't see me as *less* than you because I'm a bottom?"

"You are so far less than me in so many other ways, Sandburg, that being a bottom doesn't even enter into it."

I'm not sure but that might have been—an insult. Or a really backhanded compliment.

"Jim, did you just insult me?"

He's grabs the bottle and upends it directly into his mouth. When he's done, he nods. "Yep."

"Oh. Okay. You know, that was a very serious question, Jim. I'd appreciate a serious answer."

He takes another swig. Swallows. "No, I don't think less of you. And you're so far superior to me in so many ways..." he turns to me and quirks his eyebrow. "Is this working?"

"Did you mean any of it?"

"All of it. I mean, all of the that last part."

"Then it's working. So being a bottom is A-OK with you?"

Now this is funny because he's really trying to check out my ass but he's had a bit too much to drink and he's trying to be really - underhanded about it, but it's not working—at all.

"Yeah, yeah, being a bottom is fine. Super. Wouldn't put it on any resumes or anything, but sure—no sweat."

He's leering. Drunkenly, but he's leering.

"Actually, Sandburg, you're a really cute bottom. I *like* bottoms. Bottoms are—the best."

He points a finger at me and wags it as he adds, "If you were a top, we'd be in big Bandini, you know?"

Success is sweet.

I put on my most puzzled expression as I say, "Oh? Why is that, Jim?"

"Think of the fights. The arguments. Who gets to top tonight? It was your turn last Wednesday, so it's my turn tonight."

He's shaking his head now, adamantly. "No, no, it was *your* turn last time, it's *my* turn now."

He waves the bottle in my face and adds, "See? A royal mess. But since I'm a top and you're a bottom, well, hell, we mesh. I get to be the penetrat*or* and you get to be the penetrat*ee*."

I nod wisely. "Except when you're sucking me off. Then I get to penetrate."

"Oh, yeah, there is that. And you know, I don't mind being the bottom sometimes. You should know that."

"Well, that *is* cool. I like to top every now and then."

Jim holds out his hand and I take it. We shake.

"Deal," he says, blearily.

"Deal," I say, happily.

The handshake turns into—handholding.

Actually, Jim takes my hand and cuddles it to his chest. He's really snockered.

"Chief? Did we just get married?"

"I—think so."

"That's good, because before I put out—I want it official. I don't want to be a one-night stand. A fly-by-night conquest. I want respect in the morning."

I give him my best *solemn* look and say in my best, solemn voice, "I will *always* respect you, Jim."

He gives my hand a tug and nods. "I should *hope* so. I don't give myself

easily, you know. Not to just any Tom, Dick or—"

"Blair?" I offer.


"Hey, I don't give *myself* all that easily either and we're talking about a guy who *really* likes sex and who *loves* to bottom. So—will you respect *me* in the morning?"

He cocks his head and closes one eye. It obviously doesn't work so he closes the other one—but forgets to open the one he already had closed.  I wait. He opens both and giggles.

Have you ever heard Jim giggle? It is mind-blowing. Now when I giggle -- people stare and point; when he giggles, they laugh delightedly. Well, except for Simon—who kind of—um, er, snorts. Loudly. Then points.  Then giggles. Double blown mind.

Anyway, he's damn cute when he giggles. Jim that is. Simon is just— big, when he giggles.

He's trying to look at me out of one eye again.

"You look good tonight, Chief."

"You're drunk. I always look good to drunks."

"No, no, no, you *always* look good. Always. Handsome guy, that's you.

Blair Sandburg, beautiful inside and out."

Okay, our first time together? Ain't happening tonight. No siree. This puppy needs to go beddy-bye.

"Come on, Jim, let's get you upstairs and to bed."

He grins lopsidedly. "Now you're talking, buster!"

He still has my hand so when he gets up and starts running for the stairs -- I'm kind of attached. And you know, he may be drunk, but damn, he can run straight. And that may be the only straight thing about him at the moment.

I'm being dragged up those stairs and he's pulling and urging and with his left hand he's stripping! One handed strip! Man, he's done this before.

"You've done this before, haven't you, Jim?"

"Done what," he tosses back at me—along with his shirt.

"Stripped one handed."

"Vice—strip club."

I stop dead. Which in turn forces him to stop, my hand still being attached and all.


He starts grinning wickedly.

You know, I really like a drunk Jim.

"Sandburg, I'm not drunk. Get real."

Excuse me a moment—need to pick my jaw up from the step.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you really think a few shots of scotch would put me under the table?"

"Um, er, well, ah...."

"Spit it out, Sandburg."


"Oh, ye of little faith." He pulls on my hand and yanks me up two steps until I'm in his arms.

Now *this* is nice.

I gaze up him with my best sexy look and smile.

"And here I thought the honeymoon night would have to be put on hold til morning."

He kisses me—on the nose. Then bops it with his finger. "That'll teach you—never underestimate Jim Ellison."

I take my *other* hand and running my finger across the left side of my chest, I say, "Cross-my-heart and hope to die, I will promise to never..." but I don't get any farther.

"No," he puts a finger over my lips, "Don't ever say that, Sandburg.

Never. Been there, done that, remember? Never again."

His eyes have gone all dark and serious now and—and—he's—trembling.

How the fuck did I go from tops and bottoms to this?

Um, he's bending a bit and—he's licking my bottom lip. Bottom lip -- bottom. I have *got* to get this man upstairs. NOW.

Except we're kissing now. Okay, I can wait—a....



You have not bottomed until Jim is your top.

We're talking—the pot at the end of the rainbow, Shangri-La, El Dorado and considering he was already my Holy Grail, well, whew.

You should probably know about now that I'm pretty selfish, in some ways -- like sex, and I'm thinking *that's* why I love to bottom.

You see, when you bottom—you get it all. I mean, you *do* know how sensitive the ass is, right? Some of the most sensitive flesh of our bodies happens to be—there. So you combine Jim's dick with my ass and his hand on my dick and I'm getting it front and rear. He was kissing me up and down the length, breadth and width of my body, kissing my back and my ass cheeks, my neck and my fingers, my ears, chin, hair, hips, backs of my knees (nearly came when he went to the backs of my knees), you name it, his mouth, tongue and lips were there.

And then—he was inside. Of me. I held him inside, clenched and bucked and yelled and we sweated and connected and he damn near worshipped my dick and ass and I worshipped every inch of Jim Ellison and thanked God for his senses, especially his sense of touch—crimeny. (I always wanted to say that)

I'm not going to obfuscate in order to make our first time seem—more, I don't want to say that we came together—because we didn't—I'm grinning broadly now because it was too close to call. I think if I open my mouth right now? You'll find yellow canary feathers.

Newsflash—I'm not bisexual anymore.

But I'm still a bottom and proud of it.

So there. <G>

Oh, and don't call me—I'm taken now.

Completely, thoroughly taken. Twice on Sundays, if I work it right.


### The End ###