It was funny, but James seemed like the kind of guy who had tried everything. Though, on second thought, maybe he had been the one tying people and not been the one in the ropes. That seemed more likely. James was an in control kind of guy, why would he ever let someone boss him around, even for pleasure?
The question both suprised and embarassed Fisher, and he blushed a little while letting his head drop slightly, cheek rested against the side of his knee. He hadn't meant to let slip that he'd been with men in that capacity, especially since James had already accused him of being a homo. Which he was not. But since James didn't seem at all put off by this notion, Fisher figured it was safe to talk about.
"That's easy," he admitted. "You just bent over a table, or counter, or back of the couch, or whatever, and just... do nothing." His expression clouded a moment, faint memories playing behind his eyes. "Just stand there and take it, you don't even have to move. Most men want to sit back and let themselves get taken care of, but when they take charge..." He swallowed, a lump of emotion suddenly apparent in hit throat. "When they wanna fuck you, you just get fucked."
Quiet a moment more, sense finally pounded its way through Fisher's brain, and he realized he was babbling about shit James did not care about. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking away, clarity coming back to his features. "I used to fuck for drugs, and most dealers are guys. I didn't like it." He wanted that part cleared up, just in case there was any doubt in that regard.