I Said I Would Go Down on Whomever Guessed My Favorite Disney Film

Landon guessed correctly: The Three Caballeros. I invited him over to ruin my childhood.

This is a non-fiction piece, but the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica, too. For submission guidelines, please head here.

Image from Disney, please don’t sue me.

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As any professional drinker knows, there are times when you make plans while inebriated, and in that moment, you really want to get brunch the next day. You’re convinced that you will wake up in time, hop in the shower, and take the train uptown to take advantage of the bottomless mimosa special.

But then you wake up with a side-splitting headache and Dorito crumbs in your chest hair, and even if you consumed all the freshwater from a nearby reservoir, you’d still be hungover. You wait since you can’t be the first one to cancel. Besides, Phil drank more than you. There’s no way in hell he’s making it. So you play this game of chicken with your friends, seeing who will bail first, and you pray it’s not you. Then Phil texts the group chat, “Hey guys, I’m sorry, I feel like shit and can’t make it,” and you silently cheer and immediately hit that bowl of weed and fire up The First Wives Club, which you’ve seen a dozen times before.

But then there are times, my fellow boysluts, when you make a fabulous drunken promise. And the following day, you don’t regret it. You actually thank your intoxicated self, because he/she/they/Karen/the demon did something that you wouldn’t have had the audacity to do sober.

About three weeks ago, I had planned to have a night in, but my close friend ended up stopping over for a “quick drink” before heading to a party, which turned into many drinks, and he never left for the party.

I was horny, a little sloppy, and wanted dick. But I was with my friend and had no intention of bailing on him, so I posted a little story to my Instagram. I swore that whoever guessed my favorite Disney movie, I’d go down on, no questions asked.

A bunch of fabulous guesses came in: Beauty and the Beast because of Gaston. Aladdin (because he’s also fine). The Lion King—a classic for anyone my age, and the first movie I saw in theaters at age three. And about another two or three dozen guesses. When a friend guessed Song of the South—notably a straight male friend, so unclear what he was hoping to get if he won—I gave a little clue, stating that while incorrect, my favorite Disney film is from the same era.

Then one and only one man guessed it: The Three Caballeros—undeniably, a deep cut. Premiering in 1944, The Three Caballeros is a blatant propaganda film, which I did not realize as a seven-year-old.

For history and WWII buffs, I’ll share what Wikipedia has to say about the film:

“The Good Neighbor policy was a campaign by the United States to improve its relations with Latin America. A special concern in the late 1930s was the mounting program of Nazi propaganda designed to increase Nazism in the Americas, which would weaken US control and divide the Americas. To counter the Nazis, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt founded in 1940–1941 the Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs through which US propaganda efforts could be coordinated. Chief Coordinator Nelson Rockefeller asked Walt Disney to produce a few short films with themes friendly to Latin America, and Disney traveled to Brazil with a creative team to collect images and inspire ideas for such films.”

And while it’s slightly bizarre to say a propaganda film was incredible, it was freakin’ incredible.

Still, I had forgotten about the movie. The last time I watched it, I must have been nine years old. But then I found it on Disney+, rewatched it, and was immediately captivated. I understood my obsession with the film then, and 25 years later, my obsession with it now. (I also understood why, every six months, I have an overwhelming desire to get a pet parrot.)

When this man, who does live in NY—so lucky me him—guessed correctly, after about fifty people guessed incorrectly, I was in shock. I didn’t think anyone would ever get it.

(Evidence of the aforementioned shock.)

When I looked at my DMs the next morning, seeing 100 more guesses and an equal number of DMs, I deleted the entire story. I was getting a little overwhelmed with the nudes, dirty talk, and general sexual solicitation. (Don’t get me wrong, I usually love all that, but it’s a lot to wake up to when hungover.)

I returned to my messages with Landon, the lucky man who guessed correctly, pleasantly surprised to see how respectful his messages were. I wasn’t nervous, per se, about having a stranger come over to my apartment. (Throughout my life, I’ve had well over 1,000 strangers from Grindr come to my apartment—half the time we meet after exchanging less than 20 words. It’s a dick or ass pic, and if I like it, I give ‘em an address.) But this felt different. I think it’s because the men on Grindr don’t know me for my work—they (usually) haven’t read my book or articles—I’m just a regular dude to them.

And while I’d consider myself a regular dude generally, some readers and followers have been a little scary if I’m being honest. Only a few of them—most of you guys, gals, and nonbinary angels are beautifully kind sluts just looking for love and pleasure.

So I chatted the next morning, just a tad, to get his vibe. I also wanted to see a pic of the dick I would be sucking. (Call me a shmuck, because the moment I saw his thick dick, I was like, “I’m sure he’s a good guy, because, ya know, bad guys don’t have nice penises. Absolutely foolproof reasoning!)

But he was, in fact, a sweetie. Not a Disney gay, per se, but Disney-adjacent, the way I am. (And I mean, you had to be knowledgeable about Disney to guess The Three Caballeros.) But he was of the gamer variety—the gays who enjoy a franchise, who have their favorite Pokémon (of the original 150) as the background of their phone.

I also appreciated that he gave me an out, even after confirming. Obviously, I’m allowed to change my mind, and if I didn’t want to go through with this, I wouldn’t have. But I also know some guys who would be like, “YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO ONCE AND THEREFORE YOU NOW HAVE TO,” which, to be clear, is not how consent works.

I confirmed that I’d still like to blow him while watching the film, and we were on. But I had a specific scene in mind that I wanted Landon to roleplay.

Before he arrived, I paused the 1944 propaganda treasure on my TV. (The idea of me fumbling to find it, plugging in each letter in the search bar while he stared, did not appeal to me.)

I, too, was freeballing underneath my bright red basketball shorts. When he knocked, I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Before me was a sunburned man, 6’4, with a bulge in his pants (God bless going commando).

I invited him in. We hugged each other briefly and awkwardly before stepping back and looking into each other’s eyes. The tension hung thick in the air, though it wasn’t the only hung, thick thing in the room.

“Come in,” I said, leading him to my blue velour couch. I couldn’t start the film immediately, so we started with small talk about our day. Nothing memorable, but enough to get us both to relax a bit. When the conversation came to a lull, I asked, “Shall we watch?”

I grabbed a nearby blanket, threw it on top of our crotches, and pressed play. Two minutes in, I saw the blanket tent. Landon had dropped trou and was stroking his hard cock underneath the blanket. We looked at each other out of the corner of our eyes. I started stroking beside him, quickly hard, eager with anticipation. When he dropped the blanket past his knees, all I saw was a hard cock yearning to be sucked. I faced him, locking eyes, squaring off. He then reached around, grabbing the back of my head and bringing me towards his cock—not aggressively, though not gently, either. He had a firmness, a confidence, an assertiveness that came with knowing what, exactly, I wanted. He wasn’t crossing any lines. He was completing the assignment.

I started by licking his head, my tongue tickling his frenulum, the sensitive part on the backside of the penis, where the head meets the shaft. He moaned, and I heard Donald Duck's whimsical quack—his high-pitched, raspy charm saying something unidentifiable.

I’ll be honest, it took me out of the moment. I knew the whole point was to watch my childhood favorite Disney movie while giving head, but now that I was, it felt sacrilegious. But that was the entire point, I thought—to lean into the inappropriateness, to get aroused by the verboten.

So I doubled down by really starting to deepthroat him. All the way down to his balls. Then back up. I repeated this three times until, when I had all of him in my mouth, he pushed down on the back of my head, keeping me in place. I gagged and choked. (I actually sounded a little bit like Donald.)