Pig:

I did it to myself. Simple enough.

See, I’m an addict. And over the last two years, life has gone to hell. It had started simply by a friend introducing me to a drug. I won’t mention the drug’s name because some may think that it’s not that addictive and I don’t want to give it power.

I went from a young tech lead to a couch potato living in the extra room of my best friend Sam’s place, collecting unemployment. I was a good house guest at first, but over the next few months, I started to relapse and become depressed. I would have a manic episode and create something great— art, a new idea, something useful, but sometimes, I would get stuck in a self-harm cycle. It frustrated him to see me like this.

Sam was amazingly supportive, but did not know how to help. Watching me derail my life was painful, and he withdrew from the friendship becoming more of a brother-slash-father figure. He showed this side by searching my room one day, looking for drugs.

Luckily, that was the week Burning Man sucked up all the state's supply, leaving me dry. But what this unexpected drought caused was a reckoning with my sexual side. For the first time in months, I was horny— insatiably, continuously boned up. Every moment of every day, my mind was filled with the kinkiest fantasies. And I wouldn't lie, I acted out a few of them.

During these times, I liked to document the things I did. Something about being recorded was highly erotic. I was as careful as possible, only ever permitted partners or doms to use my phone, in order to make sure I controlled the content. I would use this content for spank-bank material and for showing them to partners, but never sending them out online. They were for me to preserve that magical part of my sexual development, fulfilling parts of fantasies I had had since I got into kink.

But these acts had a side effect— a plethora of toys. And I had brought them out of storage prior to the start of the week, and ‘hid’ them in my bottom drawer; let's be honest, it overflowed… With plugs of all shapes and sizes, dildos galore, masks, hoods, gags, singlets, jockstraps, cups, anal beads, lube injectors, condoms, used condoms, a leash, a collar (inscribed PIG), paddle, electro probe, bed bondage cuffs, cock rings, and two unopened webcams.

I had always been turned on by the idea of voyeurism, but had never had the balls to go through with it, everything in the drawer was condemning. To whoever opened the drawer, there was only one conclusion. I was a gay cam-pig. It was my ultimate shame fantasy fetish.

And unbeknownst to me, Sam had found this shit when checking in on me. I only found out when I got drunk with him and his girlfriend one night, and they started to talk about sex toys; I said something smart or stupid or both, and they both stopped.

He looked at her and laughed, and said, “Don't worry, wait 'til you see what this guy has in his bottom drawer.”

I was so hurt. How could he invade my privacy like that, and then tell his girlfriend? He started to describe some of the toys' lengths and girths, asking me what ‘PIG’ was in gay terms. I was dumbfounded as he pulled out his phone and showed me pictures he had taken of all of my gear.

There were pics of him gingerly lifting up a stained jock, two-inch anal beads, and a unique, metal, egg butt plug. Then, I saw he was showing me pics not from his album, but from a group message with others; I couldn’t see how many, but it looked like the phone had chickenpox. Truly horrified, I got up and left.

How could Sam know I was some kind of perv, and still be my friend? How could he accept me? Internalized homophobia is a bitch, like he knew I was gay, even finding knee pads once, and laughing his ass off when I could not come up with what they were for. He was my best friend, not a cocky asshole like tonight. I went home, steamed, and sadly relapsed.

About four hours later, he showed up drunk as fuck, half-naked in a onesie. We watched TV together, in silence; him just flopping onto the beanbag. I didn't know what to do, so I got up and went to the bathroom. I took some time and just breathed.

When I walked out, he was in just his briefs downing a bottle of water, spilling it all down his chest.

Laughing, he started to swing his hips, and said, “Hey, my eyes are up here.”

Looking up, I forced a laugh and tried to walk by, but he walked up to me, scratching his balls.

Deep, slow scratches; he was taking his time and making a scene of it. He wanted me to look. I was humiliated.

Pulling his hand out, he slowly raised to his nose and sniffed it, saying, “Woof, you ready for this?”

Fuck… I had seen him do this to another one of his old frat brothers.

He lunged forward and put me in a headlock. Laughing, he held his fingers right in front of my nose, and in a DEEP voice I had never heard before, said, “Sniff my balls… PIG!”

I went red and nearly cried, but he didn't notice nor care. He then rubbed his fingers under my nose into my mustache, making sure to get it damp with his ball-sweat.

As he let me go, smirking off into the distance, he started to talk about his college karate and wrestling teams. He lamented about not being able to give joxygen like he used to, and he would have to settle with gays sniffing his ball-sweat.

I didn't know why I was so fucking turned on, humiliation was never my thing. I excused myself and started to run to the upstairs bathroom, with my face reeking like a jockstrap; I had to take a shower and lose the nut churning in my sack. As I got halfway up the stairs, I heard a snide comment about enjoying the spank-bank material, I went bright red.

No matter how hard I scrubbed, I could not change my emotional state. I was confused, turned on, humiliated, happy, sad, and so, so lost. What I failed to reconcile with was that he was still Sam to me, but in Sam's eyes, I was a weird omega pet. A warped version of a gay pledge that owed his life to the house and himself. Someone that was meant to be controlled, and not necessarily for their best interests, but for Sam’s. I was his and didn’t even know it.