Tops To Bottoms
SVS Spring Special
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
Warnings: none—other than the
kind of warning you'd need before reading Blair's musings.
Tops to Bottoms
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,
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
Covert and sentinel? Fuck, no. So
when caught redhanded: lie.
"No, I'm not."
"Yes you are. Don't lie to
Okay, when caught a second time:
"Yes, I was staring at you,
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.
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,
He's so nice. He immediately put
the book down and didn't scowl.
Instead, he's staring at
'Yes, well, about
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
"Well, this isn't *really*
"Of course not. It never
"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
"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."
I wave my arms expansively.
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
"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."
"You are so far less than me
in so many other ways, Sandburg, that being a bottom doesn't even enter into
I'm not sure but that might have
been—an insult. Or a really backhanded compliment.
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
"Did you mean any of
"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
He's leering. Drunkenly, but he's
"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.
"Think of the fights. The
arguments. Who gets to top tonight? It was your turn last Wednesday, so it's my
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
"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,
"Deal," I say, happily.
The handshake turns
Actually, Jim takes my hand and
cuddles it to his chest. He's really snockered.
"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,
"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
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 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."
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
"Sandburg, I'm not drunk.
Excuse me a moment—need to pick
my jaw up from the step.
"Did you really think a few
shots of scotch would put me under the table?"
"Um, er, well, ah...."
"Spit it out,
"Oh, ye of little
faith." He pulls on my hand and yanks me up two steps until I'm in his
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
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
Except we're kissing now. Okay, I
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
Newsflash—I'm not bisexual
But I'm still a bottom and proud
So there. <G>
Oh, and don't call me—I'm taken
Completely, thoroughly taken.
Twice on Sundays, if I work it right.
### The End ###