Prostate Power & The Viking

Stretch First, Fuck Later: Lessons from the Pelvic Battlefield

Look, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with cardio. I believe in fitness the way some people believe in ghosts: sceptically, but with just enough fear to be superstitious. So when I finally agreed to bottom for a man whose thighs looked like they could bench press my sins, I knew I needed to train.

By “train,” I mean I drank a kale smoothie, douched for the length of a feature film, and did two squats before collapsing dramatically onto my bath mat like the tragic gay ballerina I was born to be.

His name was Magnus. Of course it was. Built like a Viking who moonlighted as a CrossFit instructor, Magnus spoke in a soft baritone that made my rectum do Pilates. We matched on an app that should come with a chiropractor referral, and after a week of filthy chat, I invited him over with the kind of casual tone that said I totally clean this often.

Things escalated fast. Clothes were flying like a drag queen’s quick change. I was lip-deep in chest hair before I could even say “safe word.” He kissed like a man who knew what his dick could do, and reader, when that man pulled out a bottle of poppers and asked if I liked to ride?

I said yes. With the misplaced confidence of someone who hasn’t stretched since 2016.

The first few bounces were heavenly. My prostate sang hallelujahs in falsetto. I felt like Beyoncé in the “Partition” video, but gay and extremely unsupervised. He held my waist like handlebars and moaned like a dying walrus, which is frankly how I know I’m doing it right.

But then, at the absolute peak of pleasure, my left thigh betrayed me. A full charley horse. The kind of cramp that feels biblical. My leg snapped straight like a corpse in rigor mortis and, in my agony, I jerked—and kicked.

Right in the side of Magnus’s face.

Like, full foot. To temple. Mid-thrust.

There was a thud. A groan. Then silence.

Oh no. Oh no.

Magnus crumpled like a Swedish meatball falling off the IKEA showroom plate.

One second I was riding his majestic Norse hammer like a slutty Valkyrie in heat, the next I was straddling an unconscious man with my prostate still twitching like it was trying to Morse code “HELP.”

“Magnus?” I whispered, gently slapping his cheek. “Hey. Hi. You okay? Blink twice if you’re concussed but still horny.”

Nothing. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open, and his dick—bless it—was still semi-erect like it, too, was confused but optimistic.

Panic set in. I jumped off him, which made my cramp worse, and landed ass-first on the floor with a wet squelch and a yelp that sounded like a goose being murdered. There I was, naked, sweaty, and partially lubed, trying to rouse a man I’d just karate kicked into unconsciousness during sex.

I considered calling emergency. Then I remembered I was still hard. And high on poppers. And covered in glitter lube. If an EMT walked in, I’d have to explain why Magnus was naked, semi-hard, and unconscious on a floor pillow named “Sven.”

“Okay,” I muttered, pacing in frantic dick-swinging circles. “He’s probably just… napping. Sexy nap. Orgasm-induced narcolepsy. That’s a thing, right?”

I checked his pulse. Thank God, strong and steady. He groaned softly, twitched a little, and muttered something in what I think was Swedish or possibly a stroke.

“Magnus?” I tried again.

He sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “What happened?”

“You fell!” I lied, which in retrospect wasn’t even a good lie, since the red mark on his temple was shaped like the bottom of my foot.

“I… fell?”

“Yes!” I nodded way too fast. “Slipped on… cum. It happens. Dangerous substance.”

He rubbed his head, wincing. “Feels like I got kicked.”

I giggled nervously. “Nooo. Maybe the bed kicked you. Or the... power of gay lust?”

He blinked slowly. “Did you knock me out?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then he looked down.

At his still-slick dick.

At my cramping leg.

And said, “Are you okay?”

Reader, I started sobbing. Actual tears. My whole body was shaking from shame, pain, and half-finished orgasmic energy trapped in my prostate like a ghost in a haunted mansion.

“I think I almost came and committed a felony,” I wept.

Magnus, to his eternal credit, did not immediately flee my apartment. Instead, he cradled his own head with one hand and me, with my twitching leg and deflating erection, with the other, like a surprisingly tender ambulance passenger who’s also still kinda hard.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Let’s get you some water.”

I hobbled to the kitchen like a newborn fawn on rollerblades while Magnus followed, dick swaying, temple bruised, looking like he’d just lost a cage fight at a sex club. We sat side by side on my couch, sipping from novelty penis mugs (the only clean ones) in awkward silence.

“So,” I finally said, “are you mad I kicked you unconscious during sex, or flattered that I did it mid-orgasm?”

He snorted, which turned into a wince, then a wheeze. “Honestly? That’s not the worst sex injury I’ve had.”

“Really?” I perked up. “Worse than being donkey-kicked in the temple by a cramping bottom with a popper problem?”

He shrugged. “One guy tried to use a vacuum once.”

I nodded, respectfully. “We’ve all got our vacuum story.”

We decided to go to Urgent Care, mostly because I needed muscle relaxants and Magnus had a mild concussion. Explaining our injuries to the triage nurse was a spiritual experience.

“What happened?” she asked, not looking up.

I took a deep breath. “I… rode him too hard. Got a leg cramp. Kicked him in the head. He passed out. I fell off. Cried. We both need help.”

She paused. Looked up. Blinked. Then, God bless her, said, “Tuesday’s, huh?”

After some ibuprofen, a lot of ice, and one very long Uber ride home where I sat gingerly like my ass was full of secrets, Magnus turned to me.

“Same time next week?”

I laughed. “Only if we stretch first. Like, extensively. Olympic warm-up levels.”

He grinned, showing off his still-perfect teeth. “Deal. But I get to be on top next time.”

I nodded solemnly. “For your own safety.”

And that’s how I learned the real danger of enthusiastic bottoming: it’s not the toys, or the lube, or the lack of core strength.

It’s hubris. And hamstrings.

Moral of the story;
Always stretch before sex.
Especially if you plan to ride a dick like a mechanical bull at a gay rodeo.

Rowan Thornwell’s Hilarious Sexual Misadventures, Oops! I Came… Volume One! OUT NOW!