Gloved Daddy

Enjoy this “Totally Believable” “not embellished at all” recollection of Rowans sexual misadventure.

Every sexually active queer man has a bucket list. Some want to bottom for a Taurus. Some dream of hiking Machu Picchu in an Andrew Christian thong. Me? I wanted to get railed in public at Folsom Street Fair without crying, bleeding, or getting arrested.

A few years back, I finally went. Freshly bleached, hole-pilled to the gods, and wrapped in the kind of mesh harness that says “Yes, I bottom, but I have boundaries.” I’d spent weeks curating my look: black latex shorts so tight they gave me religion, combat boots I couldn’t walk in, and a pup hood I wore mostly for the attention and slightly for the anonymity.

I arrived with my friend Jenna, a pansexual power dyke in a vinyl catsuit and a harness full of poppers. We were two horny meatballs ready to roll into the steamy marinara of kinktopia. There were people on leashes, people in cages, people suspended mid-air getting flogged to the rhythm of Kylie Minogue. A man walked by with a butt plug the size of a traffic cone and the serenity of a monk.

I felt spiritually at home.

After three tequila shots and a suspiciously numbing brownie, I found him: the Gloved Daddy. Seven feet tall if you included the boots, his leather gloves squeaked when he flexed. His jockstrap barely contained the promise of regret. He looked at me like I was something he could vacuum seal and freeze for later.

Reader, I melted.

“Safe word?” he asked, voice like gravel and dick like debt.

“Pickleball,” I whispered. It was supposed to be funny. He didn’t laugh. He just clipped a leash to my harness and led me toward a sling setup with the gentle authority of someone who’s made at least three twinks cry this week.

I climbed in, arse to the heavens, already writing my memoir in my head: Hole Wide Open: My Journey Through Public Filth and Finding Myself Inside a Bear at Noon.

It was going to be transcendent. It was going to be slutty, sacred, and Instagrammable.

So there I was, swinging gently in a public sling like a gimp-themed wind chime, with Gloved Daddy circling me like a predator that moisturizes. He reached into his satchel of shame, because of course he had one, and pulled out a sleek, chrome object that looked like Apple had made a butt plug.

“Ever tried electro?” he asked, in a tone normally reserved for sommeliers or cult leaders.

“Like… music?” I chirped. (I was high and hopeful.)

He grinned. “No, baby. Stimulation.” And before I could Google anything, he lubed up the device, pressed it to my backdoor, and attached what I now realize were electro-conductive pads to the insides of my thighs.

The moment he turned the dial, I saw God.

Not in a fun, cum-in-the-sky way. No. In a full-body convulsion, foot-cramping, eye-crossing seizure lite way. My whole body jolted like a squirrel on a power line. I squealed like a fax machine having a stroke.

“Too much?” he asked, casually, as I whinnied like a racehorse with IBS.

“Pickleball!” I gasped. “PICKLEBALL!”

But the dial was jammed. JAMMED. He was fiddling with it while I spasmed in the sling, looking like I was being exorcised via Bluetooth. The crowd clapped, thinking it was performance art. A nearby dom shouted “WERK!” and threw glitter. Jenna, my traitor of a friend, was filming.

Then came the piss.

Not his. Not mine. Some leather pup lifted his leg mid-chaos and marked me like a fire hydrant in mesh. I flinched so hard I tore a sling strap and slumped sideways, landing on Daddy’s boot, still twitching like a cursed Roomba.

Somewhere in the scuffle, the electro-toy fell between my cheeks and stayed there, vibrating and zapping like a demon tooth. I was leaking, sparking, and begging Jesus in three languages. A drag queen nearby screamed “STOP, DROP AND BOTTOM!”

Then someone finally unplugged the whole setup… From a car battery.

That’s right. He’d MacGyvered me into a Dodge Charger.

I lay there, smoking slightly, while the crowd cheered like I’d just given birth to queer enlightenment.

I came to underneath a vendor table draped in neon jockstraps and lube samples, my body humming like a broken vending machine. Someone had thrown a mylar blanket over me, turning me into a baked potato of shame and regret.

Jenna crouched beside me, eating a bratwurst like nothing had happened. “You alive?” she asked, not even pretending to hide the amusement on her face.

“My butt has PTSD,” I croaked. “I just queefed in Morse code.”

I moaned. Not sexually. Just existentially.

My limbs were twitching like haunted spaghetti, and there was still something buzzing faintly inside me. A medic arrived with the patience of someone who’s seen things. He lifted my leg, took one look, and sighed. “We’re gonna need tongs.”

They extracted the device with gentle precision and far too much eye contact. One bystander applauded. Another offered me a granola bar. I politely declined both and requested a wheelbarrow to be taken home in.

Back in my apartment, I lay face-down on the couch, wrapped in an ice pack and a blanket of deep, vibrating regret. My cat refused to look at me. My hole twitched once like it was waving goodbye to my dignity.

Jenna brought over soup and a heating pad and didn’t speak of the incident until I broke the silence.

“So,” I said, “what exactly was that thing?”

She googled the model based on a blurry photo. “It’s designed for cock and ball play. External use only. Definitely not for deep insertion. Definitely not meant to be rigged to a vehicle.”

“I was a human jumpstart,” I whispered.

She handed me a shoebox labelled NEVER AGAIN, now containing the chrome object and a handwritten note: “Do not plug this in. Ever.”

I nodded solemnly, then farted. It echoed. Hollow. Judged.

And as for Gloved Daddy? I never saw him again. He vanished into the leather-slick crowd like a horny phantom, leaving only the scent of boot polish and my dignity smouldering behind him. No number, no follow-up. Just a brief, charged encounter and a sling-shaped dent in my soul.

I sometimes wonder if he was even real. Maybe he was a wandering spirit, cursed to haunt Folsom and short-circuit unsuspecting bottoms until he finds peace.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to fill out an incident report.

I’ve healed now, physically speaking. I can sit. I can fart. I can watch Iron Man without flinching. But deep down, there’s still a little static in my soul. A whisper of voltage. A twitch in the taint whenever I pass a Tesla charging station.

And the chrome plug? It lives in the shoebox under my bed, wrapped in bubble wrap and buried beneath three pounds of shame. Sometimes I swear I can hear it buzz, like it’s calling to me. Like it remembers.

But I’m stronger now. Wiser. Slightly afraid of my own asshole.

Moral of the story: Never let a man hook your hole to a car battery unless you’re ready to meet God, your ancestors, and the warranty department at Adam & Eve.