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As a top, there's nothing I hate worse than a pushy bottom. You know the type. The ones who command you to fuck them. And that wouldn't be so bad, but they direct. It's one thing to say what you like. But they want to tell you how to fuck. My cock is a reasonable size--seven inches hard--but they need to get off, so they point and angle ya, tell you to go faster or slow down, and ask you things like "Am I hot?"--when all you want to do is FUCK.

Sometimes, too, that, attitude spills over the bedroom into real life. Show me a pushy bottom between the sheets and I will show you a pushy boy on the streets. But they can fool you.

I met "T" online cruising. He lived not too far from me and I have to admit he was hot. Tight little body, nice face, Latino, and very dirty-minded. He was eager to get plowed and honestly not too bright--usually a good combination. As I got ready to go, I even thought if he worked out in bed, he might be a repeat. I have to admit that I was so horny, I would have fucked a muddy hole in the ground if it asked me.

He rang me up to make sure I was still coming. Yes, I answered. My mind spun in two directions. On the one hand, alarm bells went up: was this guy that insecure? On the other, boys do flake for one reason or another. I have been a victim of the non-hookup hookup many times. I regret to say that I have done it once or twice myself (they were really horrible). So I gave him the benefit of the doubt and hopped in the car.

Two minutes later, he texted me. Would I bring him a Red Bull? Fuckity fuck. What am I, a delivery boy? I grumbled back alright--he was, after all, a long way from the shops and he might be writhing in passion naked on his bed waiting for me to impale him (I assumed he was from a circus family, since he could wank and text at same time). So I picked up his pick up and started to drive over.

Apparently I wasn't quick enough, because about ten minutes later he called to make sure I was coming. At that point, my brain and cock had a serious disagreement. "This is bad news, cock, and you know it." "But he's hot, brain, and I haven't had any in three weeks. You aren't fucking this up!" Cock won, as it usually does, and I said I would be there soon.

Ten minutes and one more text later, I pulled into a parking place blocks from his home and trundled over to his apartment in a swanky part of Sydney. I was sure of one thing when he buzzed me in: this freak, whoever he was, couldn't afford this place himself. At twenty-something, he got money from mummy and daddy, or perhaps just a daddy.

I got in, saw in fact that he was hot and gave him his Red Bull. He took it without thanks, let alone offer to pay. I surveyed his place. It was mod gay chic, complete with a bed all in white linen with a frame of bleached white wood. T wore nothing but some tight white undies to match his bed. We started to make out and he did so with a passion that showed he was as equally horny/desperate as I.

But the alarm bells in my head were replaced with something else: hate. As he pulled down my pants and looked up at me like he was a porn star about to give me the most incredible blow job in the world, I wanted shove cock deep down his throat. But not so that I could get off; I wanted to gag the smug little twerp.

He did get me hard, though, and he stripped off. He was rock hard, his uncut dick oozing precum between his legs and puddling up nice as he stuck his arse up in the air. Surveying the lay of the land, little T obviously waxed: his nutsac shone smooth and his crack was a dusky hairless brown. I put on a condom, which for some reason felt too small. He offered me one for the larger-sized penis plus and amazingly it fit. Maybe he had run them through the dryer...

This had the dual effect of boosting my ego and prepping me to give him a nasty pounding. This played off the growing intensity of my dislike for this guy, knowing that as soon as I was in him, he'd start moaning and telling me what to do. So I grabbed him by his hair, pulled his head back and shoved myself roughly into him.

To give him credit, he was tight and he took the initial lunge pretty well in stride. I started pounding his ass pretty hard, occasionally slapping his cheeks with a staccato clap. It seemed with each thrust, my hatred for him grew...I actually hoped for his bossy bottom-ness to come out so I could hate him more. He did not disappoint. Soon he was yammering away, a Martin Scorsese of fucking. That gave me the excuse for me to shove his face into the bed so his commands were muffled in the 750 thread sheets. He wasn't touching himself and his cock was leaking like a sieve, and I could feel his ropey goo on my thighs.

I pistoned his ass for a good ten minutes--with the occasional thoughts of Red Bull entering my head (it was summer and this was thirsty work)--with him moaning in Spanglish. T reached down, grabbed his engorged cock, and started to stroke. Within 10 seconds he blew copious wads of spooge all over his nice clean sheets. He quivered, then wilted.

But I wasn't done yet. I flipped over on his back and continued to thrust away. It's a funny thing. More often than not, even the biggest bottom will want you out of him once he comes. This one was not going to get off that easy. I could tell he found it uncomfortable, but there was also a bit of his Latin pride at being ridden. As a "real" bottom he should have been able to take it--at least in his mind. I was going to make him cry uncle.

And sure enough he did. He managed to last another ten minutes before he said that he couldn't take it anymore and asked me to pull out. And I did. I unsheathed my still throbbing dick from his now red hole, peeled off the condom, and threw the used latex on his nice, clean comforter (which had been thrown to the floor). Without skipping a beat, I reached for my briefs and wrestled my cock back into its confines. I started to get dressed.

T looked at me quizzically and asked "Aren't you going to get off?" I was struck by inspiration. "No," I replied, "I'm saving it for another boy later." A complete lie and utter bravado, but it hit T like a ton of bricks. His face fell. It was the perfect way to end a hate fuck. I didn't even need to get off. I had the satisfaction of having him know that he couldn't make me cum.

Hate fucks ain't pretty and they sure ain't noble. But they can be enormously satisfying, if not done too often. Does that say something about human nature or just me? I'm not sure, but if sex is supposed to have an emotional component to it, why not vary it up?

At least, from time to time...