No More Buttfucking

We were having lunch at a cozy Thai restaurant in a quaint suburb far west of the city when he said to me, “I came to Christ.”

Looking up from my Tom Kha Gai soup, spoon halfway to my mouth, I asked him if that meant he was fucking a priest behind my back.

He raised his eyebrows at me, asked, “Seriously?”

“What does that mean, you ‘came to Christ’? Jesus Christ made you cum?”

He sighed and put his hands on his lap, or under his thighs to sit on them, and closed his eyes and said, “No, Dominick.”

I put my spoon back into the bowl of soup and said, “Then what does that mean?”

He opened his eyes, but did not look at me. Looking down at his soup, he opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. I could not tell if he was struggling with the words or pantomiming fellatio.


He looked up at me.


He shrugged his shoulder up to his ears and said, “It means…”

A moment of no more talking passes and I lifted my hand and rotated it around my wrist and said, “What?”

He sighed and relaxed his shoulders and said, “I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.”

I looked across the restaurant and past a partition beyond which a little Asian chef shook and tossed a wok over flames while steam billowed into his sweaty face.

Giving the gaping blowjob mouth, I said, “So…that means…? Wait—what does that mean?”

“It means we’re going to have to make some changes.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What kind of changes?”

He scanned the restaurant with his eyes, looked back at me and whispered, “Anal.”


“Dominick, lower your voice.”

“What do you—do you mean fucking?”


“So,” and I put my hands in the air and made quotation marks with my fingers, “accepting Jesus Christ means…what? You’re a top now?”

“Can you please whisper?”

“I will not fucking whisper. What kind of fucking anal changes are you talking about?”

He dropped his shoulders and sighed. Looking down at the table, he whispered, “We can’t do it anymore.”

Behind the partition, the Asian cook tossed his wok up, flipping in the air what meat was inside of it. A large plume of flame sizzled upward.

I gripped my thighs, digging my fingers tips into them, leaned in and said, “No more fucking?”


“You’re serious?”

He closed his eyes and nodded his head. Mumbled, “Yes.”

I sat back in my chair, shaking my head in disbelief. “Are you breaking up with me?”

He flipped open his eyes and said, “No.”

“Here, in this restaurant, eating Thai and talking about Jesus Christ?”

“I’m not breaking up with you.”

“But you want to stop fucking?”

He lowered his head. Didn’t say anything.

“Jason, if we’re not going to fuck anymore, what are we going to do?”

He looked back up. Eyes moist now. “Everything we’ve been doing, Dom.”





“What about kissing?”

“We can still do that.”

“What about oral?”

He looked over my shoulder and behind me to whoever else was in the restaurant but I didn’t care.

“I think that’s still okay.”

“I can suck your cock, you can suck my cock?”

He put his face in his hand and looked down at the table. “Yes, Dom. That should be okay.”

“What about rimming, Jason. That’s kind of anal. Is Jesus okay with rimming?”


“Just no fucking? No…” put my fingers in quotation marks again, “anal.”

He looked back up at me and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side and raising his eyebrows at me. The nerve of his contemptuousness.

Leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “Jason, please tell me this has been just some elaborate joke you’re playing on me.”

“It’s not.”

I turned my head away from his gaze and toward the glass partition. The Asian chef was patting a ball of jasmine rice onto a large ceramic plate.

“You should consider Jesus too, Dom.”

I shot my gaze back at him and said, “You should consider what Jesus thinks about what you’ve been doing with your ass all these years.






Author: Joe Stallone

Fiction Writer

2 thoughts on “No More Buttfucking”

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