I don't know why you all have to make fun of me because I said I was a dominant top. I didn't say I was a raging heterosexualised homosexual, all Brut-wearing, chap-donning, blue collar-aspiring, Butchy McVadgeLick. I mean, I wear Calvin Klein underwear, have enjoyed white wine in a pub, spend way too much on haircuts and shoes, and spend huge chunks of my weekends 'antiquing' in markets and musty old stores. I'm under no false impressions. I just don't like a doodle up my arse, okay! I'm perfectly receptive for a nice probing tongue, or even perhaps a finger (or two, as I've known to tackle after a night on the turps) if a manicure has been recently had. I just don't like the feeling of it, especially as it slides out, feeling like breakfast, lunch, and dinner is about to swiftly follow. Yuck. The ass-sex-loving gene went to my sister, who professes to love it, so who knows what's going on. I mean, the genes our parents sent out are not too defective, I mean, not as bad as those seemingly THOUSANDS of fags I know who have gay/lesbian brothers or sisters. Those parents must be kicking themselves.