Monday, June 6, 2016

Pink

When I slip inside the back door of the fuck’s townhouse, I’m greeted by the scent of cumin. It’s strong enough to tickle both my nostrils and the back of my throat. Washed coffee cups and plates line a rack of blue plastic by the sink. The counter is cluttered with opened boxes of crackers and kids’ cereal; a basket of ripening bananas hangs by the window. I close the door behind me and stride to the doorway beyond which the linoleum gives way to carpet. Stairs leads me to my destination: the bedroom at their summit.

He’s sprawled there on his mattress, hands cradling the back of his head. His knees are drawn in opposite directions to point at the bedposts. If his mission is to draw my eyes to that shadowed, furry crack he’s exposing for me, he’s doing a good job. His eyes are half-closed, gauging my reaction as he nods his head in welcome. He’s a sexy Latin man with skin the color of parchment. His beard is meticulous trimmed to a fine, dark layer. He’s wearing a backwards trucker cap to look tough. He looks almost exactly like the photos he sent me—beefy, muscled, super-masculine, bristling with dark hair in all the right places. The dude is the kind of trade most that gay men would do a double-take over before they muttered to themselves an admiring, damn!

It’s what I say now. “Damn!” The corners of his lips curl upward at the syllable. He likes hearing that. “You look good.”

The praise stirs his dick. It’s not long—a snub-nosed, uncut five-and-a-half inches or so. But it’s fat. It plumps out rather than lengthens, creating a heavier indentation on his hairy thigh where it rests. His eyes still dart up and down the length of my body, taking me in. Finally, they lock on mine. “Thank you, papi,” he says in a lightly-accented baritone.

He hasn’t moved since I stepped into the bedroom. I kick off my sandals, hook my thumbs under the elastic of my sweat shorts, and let them drop to my ankles. I’m wearing some black underwear that display my bulge; my dick is filling them out in a pronounced diagonal to the left side. He licks his fat lips. “What do you want?” I ask.

“Your pretty white dick,” is his prompt reply.

“Yeah? Huh.” I say the words as if the thought had never occurred to me. This time my thumbs slide under the band of my shorts, pulling them down far enough to expose the top of my pubes. “Where do you want it, then?”

His gaze is fixated on the protrusion beneath the black cotton. “Down my throat,” he says, swallowing hard. “And up my spic pussy.”

“I might be able to arrange that.” I keep my tone droll, but neutral. “You worth it?”

“Yeah.” When I raise my eyebrows, he changes his tone. “Yes, papi. I’m worth it.”

“You can say that all you want,” I tell him. “But the words are fucking worthless. You’ve got to prove it.”

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says, uncoiling from his position and turning over. He sidles on his belly to the bed’s bottom and leans on his elbows until his face is level with my crotch. I can see the full circumference of his ass now. Honest to god, it’s fucking perfect. Just the sight of it is like all my birthday and Christmas presents shoved into tight, round package. “Let me have that fat white dick, daddy. I’ll take good care of it.”

I pause a moment as if considering my options. He waits expectantly, not daring to reach out and grab it until I give the go-ahead. At last, slowly, I nod. My fingers pull down the fabric. My meat springs out, unleashed at last. Immediately it finds a new home in his mouth. My trunks fall to the floor.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” I order, when it’s clear he’s going to try to hoover it down. At once he desists from the rough treatment. His mouth travels back and forth over the shaft, slowly, slickly. I can feel his tongue sliding over the surface, savoring the sweet precum already flowing from the tip. It tickles the sensitive area just below the head, lengthens to slip outside his wet lips to tickle my balls. “You like that white dick, don’t you.”

It’s never a question. Not with these guys. I know they all like it. He surfaces from the blowjob long enough to hiss, “Yessssssss.”

I nod again. I didn’t need his acknowledgment.

It’s not long before the base around my shaft is drenched and dripping with his saliva. My pubic hair is matted down in wet, curled tendrils when he comes up for air again. “I need it up my pussy, daddy,” he begs.

“Huh,” I reply, managing to sound again surprised at the notion. “Can that little Mexican cunt of yours handle this?”

“Puerto Rican,” he corrects. I knew that, too. It was a deliberate mistake. He sees my eyebrows raised, correctly judges the expression on my face to read, Do I look like I give a fuck? “Yes,” he replies, humbled. “This Mexican pussy can take all you got.”

“Show me,” I say, removing my t-shirt. It falls into a puddle of bleached-out red cotton on the floor beside my underwear and my shorts.

Instantly he flops onto his back and lifts his muscled legs into the air. His crack is hairy, but not so much that I can’t see his hole now. Though the flats of his feet are parallel with the ceiling, he doesn’t need to hold his calves in order to keep them up there. They’re rock steady. His hands are too occupied spreading open his cheeks for my inspection, anyway. He’s no amateur; he’s not starting with a single pinkie teasing the lips. He’s using one hand to pull back the muscle and the other to open up those flaps. He’s shoved three fingers, four, up that hole, and doesn’t show any sign of discomfort.

“This is your boy’s pussy, papi.” The hat’s brim has caught against the mattress behind him, and fallen off. Beneath, his head is shaved, covered by only a slight black shadow. I see now that there’s a faint outline of a crudely-worked tattoo on the side of his neck. “This pussy cunt is all yours to rape. I need it hard and deep in my pussy, papi. Real hard.”

My cock’s enraged. Red. Angry. It’s demanding entry. But I play diffident, and reach down to test the hole with my own fingers. They slip in immediately; this fucking slab of beef has wet it up with oil-based lube so that it’s greased and ready. It’s soft and pliant; I could probably slide my whole fist up there with no resistance. “Fuck,” I say, almost involuntarily. “It really does feel like pussy.”

“You need to rape me, daddy,” he begs. “You need to stick it up there and rape this spic bitch.”

I’m still manipulating the soft flesh. “If I stick my dick up that hole, it won’t be ass any more,” I promise. “It’ll be one hundred percent cunt. You want to get cunted, son?”

“Yes, papi,” he pleads. “Cunt this bitch. I want your babies. I want—!“ His jaw goes slack as, without any more than a quick coating of the residual lube from his hole, I shove myself inside. He’s just was soft and warm around my meat as I expect.

“What do you want?” I command him to share.

“I want it all, papi. I want—I want—!“ His mouth works, though he’s having difficulty forcing out words. Instead, he’s vibrating with a great moan that emanates from somewhere deep within. His eyes roll back in his head. His head lolls to the side. And still that moan keeps resonating, almost making the cage of his chest sound like a hollow echo chamber.

“You gotta tell me what you want, son,” I said, torturing his prostate as I drive in deep. “I can’t give your pussy what it wants if you don’t say the words. You want me to pull out?”

“No no no!” he cries, summoning the strength to plead. As if I’d really ever pull out. “I want your babies. I need you to rape this bitch hole and plant your seed deep up my cunt. I gotta have the seeds from that beautiful white dick dripping from my pussy lips, papi. I just gotta.”

“Say it,” I tell him, giving him the full fuck treatment. His legs, high in the air, haven’t moved an inch, especially now that he’s supporting the backs of his thighs with his hands. Even when he moves them down to pull apart his ass so I can shove in deeper, they stay rock solid. “Say the fucking words, faggot.”

“I need that cum,” he whimpers. “You gotta wreck that pussy with your dick, baby. I need it turned into total cunt forever by you. You gotta own this bitch’s spic cunt, papi, pump it full of your seeds. Knock me the fuck up and keep me pregnant!”

“All right,” I say, my tone still level and determined. “If that’s what you want, you little shit.”

I’ve worked myself into a climax pretty quickly with this beefwad, anyway. If he needs the breeding that bad, he’ll get the breeding. My sperm jets out into his hole; I shove it deeper with a savage thrust that makes him yell. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” he shouts. “You’re cumming in that pussy cunt! Fuck, you’re doing it, papi, you’re really knocking up this little spic bitch!”

I don’t need to comment. I hold onto his ankles to stay upright until the waves of pleasure recede. When I open my eyes, he’s grabbing onto that fat hog that’s been slapping against his belly. It only takes a few strokes to push him over the edge. Then and only then does his hole clamp down hard on my meat, squeezing the very last drops from the shaft.

I’ve got no plans to linger. It’s not that kind of encounter. If he wants to talk to me later, he knows where to contact me. I scoop up my tee and let it slip down my arms onto my torso. My underwear and sweat shorts are easy to step into, and all I have to do is slide my feet into my sandals and I’m ready to go. “See ya,” I tell him. Another satisfied client, I’m thinking as I’m fancying myself the McDonald’s of breeding, with millions of customers served.

“Wait up,” he says, as I’m walking out of the bedroom.

I turn, waiting for the inevitable compliments, the entreaty for me to return soon.

Instead, I get, “Why’d you wear that t-shirt, man?”

It’s not the question I was expecting. “Huh?”

“That t-shirt. You can’t be coming to my crib wearing that shit, man.”

I take a second to look down at myself. Is the tee dirty? Did I get some unsightly food stain on it? But no, it’s just a plain old t-shirt. Not even a logo or a screened print on it. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

“It’s pink.”

I blink, and think about it a minute. “Well, it’s kind of a faded red, really. . . .”

“What kind of shit are people gonna think if they see you coming all in my back door with a pink shirt on?”

I raise my eyebrows. Seriously? “Maybe, if someone asked,” I say, weighing my words carefully, “you could tell them that it was really faded red. And none of their business?”

He’s picked up that cheap black trucker’s cap again and nestled it on his skull, brim toward the front this time. I can see he’s a Yankees fan. He pulls it down so that it shades his eyes. Tries to look tough. “That shirt is pink, dude.”

My gut twitches in an involuntary laugh. I stand there looking at this stocky little shit lying back on his bed, trying his best to look cocky and virile while my just-fucked warm sperm is leaking out of his ass. I’m thinking about all things I could be saying—should be saying—about how if he was really that worried about his masculinity, maybe he shouldn’t have his windows open while he’s begging a strange white man to rape his pussy cunt. I’m considering icily informing him that if he doesn’t want his neighbors to think he was in the slightest way anything less than the macho, butch brute that he apparently aspires to be, perhaps he shouldn’t be knocking the color of my tee, but thinking more about the wisdom of going legs-up and begging guys off some sex app to ‘knock up this little spic bitch.’

All I do, though, is shrug and say, “Well, okay. I don’t have to come back. Later, dude.” Then I’m out the door.

“No, no, don’t take it like that, papi,” he’s calling down the stairs. I hear him stomp around as he clambers to his feet and attempts to follow. But I’m already through the cumin-scented kitchen and out the back door toward the parking lot. He’s not going to get his clothes on quickly enough to follow me.

Maybe later I’ll accept his multiple apologies through the app that brought me to him. For now, though, I’ve already made up my mind: there’re plenty more bitches to knock up. So I take my ass—and my pink shirt—back home.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Sunday Morning Questions: Moments of Recognition Edition

Some questions about recognition—or lack thereof, in today’s occasional feature. Got questions for your friendly neighborhood sex blogger? Send them to the email in my sidebar, with a subject line of ‘Sunday Morning Questions’. Of course, if you have questions you don’t want answered on a Sunday morning, you can submit them the same way, of course . . . but I do reserve the right to use the questions and their answers in my blog sometime.


You really get recognized on a regular basis? What’s it like when some stranger comes up to you and asks if you are who they think you are?

The short answer: yes, and it’s okay.

A couple of points, first. Although I don’t show it on my blog, I’m not so rigorous on my various sex profiles about keeping my face anonymous. In fact, I’m adamant about keeping my own face photos unlocked, because I’m not really fond of guys who lock and unlock and dole out peeks like barkers at a sideshow. When people see me on a website or a GPS app and ask if I’m the guy who keeps this blog, I don’t lie about it. I say yes.

So quite honestly, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes—or even much of a Scooby Doo—to see my face and say, “Oh, so that’s what he looks like. Okay.” There’ve been several times in the past, however, when guys have thought that they’d really stumbled onto the secret of the century and have attempted to use their knowledge of what I look like as leverage against me. Like that’ll get them anything.

Most of the people who’ve recognized me online, have been totally delightful about it. They’ll say hi, they’ll tell me they read the blog, I’ll thank them, and then we’ll each go our merry ways. My public encounters have been much the same—and I’ve had a lot of those as well. I’ll be in a Starbucks, or sitting in a theater, or in a bar, or on vacation, or in the mall (seriously . . . it’s happened at the food courts of malls, three times) when someone will approach me, half-smile, and nervously say something along the lines of, “I know this is going to be a weird question but. . . .”

It usually is a weird question, too. Unexpected, at least. Being recognized is great when it gets me a quiet compliment or two. My blog is a tiny sliver of my life, though; I’m not thinking about it or its contents all the time. So when someone approaches me, especially in a bar or at the food court, I’m most likely thinking they’re going to ask “Do you mind if I take this chair?” instead of “HEY DUDE, ARE YOU A FAMOUS SEX BLOGGER?” When the latter comes out of their mouths, particularly at an indiscreet volume (and it has), I’m likely to feel like a deer in the headlights, honestly.

There’ve also been times when I find out I’ve been recognized only after the fact. Someone will see me perform in a karaoke bar someplace, and three days later I’ll get an email saying “Nice blog! By the way, did you sing an Erasure song at . . . ?” Last week I took the L train cross-town and that night I had someone leave a comment on a past entry to the effect that they’d seen me but hadn’t wanted to introduce themselves. Also last week, I went bar-hopping with friends and had no less than three messages on Scruff from readers who asked if they’d really seen me.

My long answer, I guess is that yes. I get recognized. It happens fairly regularly—and sometimes it happens more often than others. Being recognized in public feels mostly fairly weird, because I’m never really all that sure of what people expect from me once they’ve approached me—and also because a handful of people are fairly indiscreet about their inquiries, even though I might be with friends or family or colleagues.

If you are one of those people who see me out and about, and you do want to walk up and say something to me, don’t hold back just because you think I’ll freak out. I would be much happier, however, if you were simply to hold out a hand and something along the lines of “Hi! I enjoy reading you online!”, instead of “HEY DUDE, AREN’T YOU THE BREEDER?”


I know everybody’s got to remember you after you’ve been with them but have you ever been with anyone you couldn’t remember after?

I really appreciate your confidence that I’m unforgettable. Sadly, that assumption has already been proven wrong, more than a few times. There have been several guys I’ve met up with who, months after the fuck, will contact me with a message of, hey guy hot pics maybe we should meet sometime.

A few years back I told the story of a stoner I used to fuck, sometimes weekly, for close to two years whom I stopped seeing after he started doing drug deals through the mail slot in his front door . . . while I was fucking him. (It’s pretty sad, and typical of Detroit, where I was living at the time, that he was not the only guy I saw who paused mid-fuck to perform drug deals through his mail slot.) When I encountered him in a bathhouse a few years later, after he’d gotten himself cleaned up, and we struck up our fuckbuddyship again, he had absolutely no idea who I was, nor that we’d been together countless times before.

I had another encounter with a guy with an unusual name from Maine who once flew to Detroit to attend a fisting party one of my best friends threw. He spent the weekend at my friend’s house, took not only my dick but both my fists and the dick and fists of my buddy, and posed for over three dozen photographs, most with his face visible, of me mounting and using him. Cut to ten years later, when a guy with the same unusual name from the same place in Maine contacted me online to ask if I’d like to get together with him when he visited Manhattan. Hey ——, I wrote back, using his unusual name. It’s ——. We met at my buddy’s —‘s house when you flew to Detroit and visited on Valentine’s weekend in 2002.

This guy wrote back to say he’d never met me and had never been in Detroit. I sent him his photos and asked, Aren’t these you?

No, he said.

Just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, I asked my host buddy if the guy online wasn’t the same guy we’d both bred a decade before. “I don’t know what that fucker is on,” said my buddy, “but if he doesn’t remember being worked over by you, he’s crazy in the head.”

Crazy in the head. I like that theory.


Did you get my birthday gift? Did you get a lot of birthday gifts?

I received several birthday gifts this year, thanks to my kind readers. I got a stretchy cock ring, several packages of underwear, some filters for my camera, a book, a game, two bottles of lube . . . and maybe something else I’m forgetting. But it was a birthday bonanza! Thank you guys!

There are many times when Amazon doesn’t inform me who has sent me a particular item—so don’t be shy about speaking up and asking me if I received something. That’s very often the only time I learn from whom it came.


I kind of think you must have a sad life if sex is all you have time to do or think about.

Ah, but sex isn’t all I do. It’s not all I have time for. Outside my blog, I have a life that has room for all kinds of activities—social, intellectual, recreational, and yes, sexual. I work, I volunteer, I spend time with family, I create, I teach, I share. I have hobbies, I travel, I’m a great cook, I take advantage of cultural opportunities. I have a rich and satisfying life that I am zealous about keeping that way.

So no. Sex isn’t all I do. It’s just something I do really fucking well.

I kind of think you must have a sad life if all you have time to do is jack off to my blog, then try to project how badly you feel about yourself and what you've just done onto me.

Monday, February 22, 2016

The Great Communicator

I’m lying in a stupor in the Puppy’s single bed. Outside it’s a frosty day—the sort of morning in which grass crunches underfoot and people thrust bare hands deep inside their pockets, to keep them warm. I’ve already spent most of the morning keeping a certain part of myself warm by thrusting it deep within the kid’s hairy pucker.

He’s got my DNA inside him already; I’ve pounded him down with his face in the pillows until he whimpered, I’ve fucked him standing up, my mouth on his neck and my hands around his fur-covered chest as I’ve repeatedly sodomized his hole. I’ve laid back and made him ride me until he shot a thick load over my chest and onto my face. Then I’ve started the whole thing over again.

But now it’s two hours and two of my loads up his chute later. He’s sweaty and exhausted. I’m hot and in a fuck daze, sprawled there on my narrow half of the single bed, imaginary animated birdies circling my head like a Warner Brothers toon who’s been conked on the head with a sex anvil.
I’m still seeing the little tweety birds when he speaks. “I haven’t paid any attention to your hole.”

“Ungh,” I manage to grunt out. I’m naked, my body pale against his dark, dampened sheets. I’m taking up more than my share of the little bed, just because I’m a giant compared to his short, athletic frame.

“I mean it,” he says. “I haven’t rimmed you. Ever.”

Through my comfortable stupefaction, his words finally penetrate to what thinking processes haven’t been dulled by the vigorous fucking we’ve enjoyed all morning. It’s been a long time since I was rimmed. I mean, a long time. I blink to clear my eyes, and look into his face. It’s a face I adore. I love those wide-open green eyes, the dark eyebrows like bold underlines on a page. I love the little smile that’s curling the corner of his mouth, and the way he looks at me like a young hound dog pretending to be docile and quiet, but who secretly hopes I’ll clap my hands and toss a ball for him to chase.

“Come on,” he wheedles quietly, his head on my chest. “Let me rim you a little. It’ll feel good.”

Yeah. I want that. I need to feel good. I nod, and roll over.

I tuck one of his pillows beneath my hips. He pushes my legs apart, keeping his hands on my legs, just below the ass. I feel first his shoulders between my knees, then the tickle of his thick beard as it brushes my thighs. When he pulls apart my cheeks, I sigh. My eyes close. My forehead lowers to the mattress. One of his pillows slides into the curl between my neck and chin, a perfect fit. I feel the heat of his breath. The flick of his tongue. He begins to lick.

I thought I was dazed before. That was nothing. When he works my hole with his mouth and face fur, I find my muscles relaxing as surely and steadily as if he had found some tension spring deep within me and started to loosen the screw. “Jesus,” I murmur to nobody in particular.

His voice sounds matter-of-fact as he starts talking. “I really like the taste of your ass!” he enthuses. “It’s really, really good!”

He could be shilling M&Ms or promoting the whitening power of some name brand toothpaste, from the tone. “Christ,” I mutter, as he goes at it some more.

“Are you all right?”

I’m fine. The wires from brain’s speech functions to my tongue have gone crossed and haywire, but hey. I’m not complaining, and it’s not simply because I’m unable. “Uh-huh!” I grunt out, pushing back onto his face.

He’s in there, now, lapping at my hole, opening it up. Every time he abrades my sensitive tissue with the flat of his tongue, I shiver; for someone who’s never before eaten my ass before, he instantly knows how to work it. The Puppy can read me, too; he waits for each crest of cascading sensation to ebb before he burrows in and elicits another wave. “This is great!”

How can he be so articulate and perky when I’m barely able to string two words together? It’s a little infuriating. “Fuck,” I manage to spit out.

I’m not any more lucid when he hikes himself up and over the mounds of my ass to press his chest against my back. “Are you all right with this?” he asks. “Are you doing okay?”

I nod. I’m doing more than all right. He’s driving me crazy with his cock. It’s stiff. Wet. Hard against my ass. What I want more than anything right now . . . what I want is . . . what I want. . . .

He draws himself up on his arms. His cock glides up my crack. I feel his balls press where my hole is. As if reading my mind, he asks, “What do you want?”

What I want. Fuck. Even my brain won’t let me think the complete thought. What I want is for him to know what I want, and for him to give it to me. I love being the aggressor with the Puppy. It’s just right now, parts of me are already screaming out what I want. My skin is vibrating at such a high frequency that I should be ringing like a tuning fork. Even through heavy lids, as I stare over my shoulder at him, my eyes are trying to command him to take what he wants, if he wants it. My hole is hollering for it. Fuck, my hole is yodeling for it, like some crazy Alpine goat herder. Folks in Westchester County next door should be able to hear.

In fact, every component of my body is telling him at top volume what I want. What he should do next. Where he should take this. Except my mouth, that is. I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Just say it, my brain commands. Still, nothing.

Look, I trust the Puppy. I love the Puppy. There’s no one in the world that I feel more comfortable with. Deep in my head, though, there’s just some vestigial particle of what?—fear? anxiety?—from the sexual assault I endured almost thirty years ago. The maddening remnant prevents me from actually saying the god damned words: fuck me please. I can’t ask for anal attention. I keep thinking I should be able to. I open my mouth every day and all kinds of ridiculous thoughts tumble out. Why should asking for anal sex be any different?

In a spot like this, when my body is aflame with sensation, when the nudge of his thick cock’s tip at my hole causes me to arch my spine and thrust back against him, I should be able to say the simple words.

And I can’t. I open my mouth. Just say it, my brain repeats. Nothing.

I’m grateful when he solves the dilemma for me. I feel his weight shift; he reaches for the lube. His fingers are cold as he rubs the goop directly onto my hole. “Let me just put the head in,” he suggests. “Let’s see how it goes.”

I nod. Yes. This is what I want. Then, struck by the words, my lips suddenly start working again. “Hey,” I complain. “That’s usually my line.”

He silences me by sliding in slightly. There’s a slight pressure, the dual sensation of warm flesh and still-cool lube, then the heat and friction of his furry chest against my smooth back. “It feels good,” he whispers. Already he’s starting to ease in and out, just a fraction of an inch. “It feels really good. Are you okay?”

I nod, very quickly. There’s a flush that seems to be blooming from my temples, spreading behind my ears and across my shoulders like a mantle of hot needles. It slips down my back, vanishes toward my toes. I want the feeling to continue forever. I’m very okay.

Already all that fear, all that wearying thought, is ebbing from my brain. My hands slip in the gap between the box springs and his mattress; my arms hug the bed as if I’m clinging to a life raft. I float away, down the current, adrift in sensation. I’m vaguely conscious that from one corner of my mouth, I’m drooling.

His beard tickles my ear. “Does it hurt?” I shake my head. “Can I go deeper?” Now I nod.

The Puppy doesn’t need more permission than that. He’s so sweet; so protective of me. I really barely resist as he slides in. The sensation is so smooth and masterfully done that I’m moved to speak. “Oh my god,” I moan.

I want to say, in a succinct few words, how wonderful this is for me—how awe-inspiring it is that he’s managed to open me up so easily and quickly, how amazing he’s making me feel. My brain flails around for the right verbiage to communicate this most holy and intimate of experiences. I’m the one who’s good with words. Communicating complex thoughts is right up my alley.

What comes out, however, is this: “Are you in me?”

He pauses, Separates from me slightly. Then, in a voice of mildest complaint, he replies, “Listen. I know I’m not as big as some people, but yes, I am in you.”

“No, no!” I say, having to suck drool back into my mouth. “That’s not what I meant!”

Then he laughs, because he knows. I can’t help but laugh, too. For a long, long minute we lie glued to each other, little boys giggling at some corny joke.

I love that we can tease and celebrate like this during sex. It’s a luxury of intimacy that makes me want him more. “Fuck me,” I say, once the snickers have subsided. “Just fuck it.”

He requires no more encouragement. Next thing I know, he’s pounding at my ass. I get fucked so rarely that I don’t feel much mastery at many positions. Lying face down and just taking it from behind happens to be the one I’m best at. The Puppy doesn’t seem to care. He’s got a single thing on his mind, and our agendas happen to be one and the same.

“Fuck it,” I growl, lifting my butt to meet his violent thrusts. “Fuck that hole. Fuck it hard.” The obscenities pour out of my mouth as I clutch the mattress more tightly. He’s not holding back. He’s not even being particularly gentle at this point. I’m glad for that. “You’re going to breed it,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says, his pants coming rapidly. “I am.”

“You’re going to breed me like I breed you. Complete that circuit of cum.”

“Yeah, dad,” he breathes.

I know the Puppy has had difficulty shooting in the past with other guys, especially when bottoming. With me, that hasn’t been a problem. He produces more semen than a fifteen-year-old boy with his first copy of Penthouse. Will he be able to cum while topping, though? I’m betting he will. The question’s academic at best, because mostly what I’m able to process are only the passions of the moment. The head of his cock piercing me, again and again. The sound of his whuffing as he pistons away. The thud of his heartbeat, drum=like, through his rib cage onto my back. He could fuck me forever like this without shooting, if he wanted.

But yeah. He can cum. I hear him gulp; he thrusts hard, deep into my guts, one final time. His meat swells, stretches me wide, wider, then subsides. It swells again, then again, a little less each time, while he squirts one of his fire hose loads into me. The sweat from his body cements his skin to mine as he dumps the last of his semen in my hole.

Circuit completed.

“Don’t pull out,” I beg. I lie there, savoring the sensation of it all, wearing the slight and unaccustomed soreness of my hole as some kind of badge. He obeys, and presses his weight on me. It’s comfortable, this. I could lie this way forever.

Then, “Are you in me,” he says with scorn.

I erupt into breathless chuckles again. He echoes them. Then together, interlocked as one, we start giggling helplessly, unable to stop.

I have never been happier to be shamed for something I’ve said.

Friday, February 19, 2016

Vacation Blues

I confess: during sex, I’m guilty of imagining how my adventures will translate to prose.

Now, there’s a significant part of my brain during sex that simply acts as court reporter, silently tapping keys that will help me afterward review what happened, so I can jot it down and write up a full account. There’s also a little bit of myself, however, wearing a beret and perched in one of those folding movie director’s chairs, shouting out instructions in order to get the best performance possible. “Hey!” it’ll bark at me through its megaphone. “Why don’t you say this?” Or, “Now would be a good time to suck on your second and third fingers then stick them there!

As crimes go, it’s pretty mild. Probably not even a misdemeanor. I’m really only indulging in a framing device, of sorts—I’m not only focusing on what’s in front of me, but seeing how my experience might translate into narrative at some later point. This perspective isn’t artificial; I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not, or attempting deeds I wouldn’t ordinarily perform. If anything, I’m looking to bring in experiences that might enhance my partner’s pleasure, to make the encounter more vital. More interesting.

Instead of lying there and staring at the ceiling while I’m letting some guy blow me, I’m finding and saying words I know he longs to hear—not just because it reads better in a blog entry (although it does), but because it inspires him to suck better, to sex me harder, to work more assiduously for that load. I push my encounters a little further than most men not solely because I know it’ll make a hotter story, after I do it to make the sex spicier. I’m bringing my A-game when I fuck, each and every time, just because I know that when I do so and I write about it afterward, the resulting story will inspire boners in anyone who comes across my blog.

Pun intended.

Last week I went on vacation—a birthday week trip to someplace sunny and warm. I spent most of my days doing the kinds of things one does on vacation, walking around, reapplying sunscreen, sipping frozen drinks by the pool. At night, though, there was a cruising area near my quarters that I’d visit late in the evening, when the shadows would be teeming with men looking for sex.

Hot damn, I thought to myself every night, when I’d arrive on the scene, cock ring gripping my nuts, cock bouncing through the thin fabric of my shorts. I’m going to have some stories to tell after this! I’d dress as minimally as possible—a T-shirt and shorts and sandals, most nights. My pants were going to be coming down anyway, I reasoned. Why place any impediments between the guys I was meeting and what they wanted?

And I met some hot guys, last week. Like:

• A skinny, sexy nerd in Warby Parkers and a plaid short-sleeved work shirt who was so shy and nervous the first time I touched him that he nearly flinched when my hand touched his arm. When he unzipped his pants, out flopped one of the largest cocks I’ve encountered—easily nine and a half inches and probably a good seven around. “Jesus,” I whispered, as it thumped into my outstretched palms. “That’s huge.”

“You think?” he whispered back. “It doesn’t seem bigger than yours.”

“Trust me,” I said. I know when I’m outclassed. “It’s bigger.”

• A bearded fucker who, upon seeing me, yanked down my shorts and shoved me up against a nearby wall. “Let me see that hole,” he begged. “You like your hole eaten?”

Yeah. I liked my hole eaten. I widened the stance of my legs and stuck out my ass, only to feel his hot breath on my cheeks. A moment later he was grabbing them and pulling them apart, roughly shoving his mouth and stubble in my most sensitive spot.

“Fuck! I love this hole!” He didn’t keep his voice to a whisper, like most of the men in the area. He shouted it. Anyone could’ve heard his testimony for a block in any direction. “Fucking LOVE the taste of this sweet HOLE!”

A crowd gathered around as he used his weight to keep my face pinned to a railing next to the wall. “Maybe I even want to FUCK this HOLE!

• Same night. One of the men from the crowd who’d watched the guy rim me approached. Grabbed his meaty groin, rubbed the bulge inside. He was a Latin man. Beefy. Muscular. Mustached. I rubbed him back, only to find myself up against the wall again, legs spread, arms clutching for a hold. He ground his meat against my crack for a moment, then yanked down my shorts until they puddled around my ankles. I felt his lips against my ass, kissing the soft skin as he grappled with the buttons of his 501s. I gasped when he shoved two fingers up my ass. Then I felt the searing heat of his unleashed cock, like a brand, against my pucker.

• Different night. There was a skinhead standing in the cruising grounds. Shirtless, wearing jeans and a leather halter. There were tattoos covering his chest, reaching down from his shoulders in curlicues to encircle nipples pierced by bars. He was muscular, good looking. The other men were frightened of him—frightened of his rough look, put off perhaps by his hardcore appearance. I approached. He leaned back against the railing when I came near, let his fingers dangle near his crotch.

When I reached for those nipples, intersected by cold steel, he melted. His mouth opened and breathed out a gasped “Ohhhhhh—!” Then he lunged for me and wrapped his arms around my chest as his mouth pressed against mine.

“Good boy,” I whispered to him, as the kiss ended. He groaned again, and my fingers plunged down the crack between his jeans and his ass to snake through the canyon of his cheeks until I reached his hole. When I slid the tips inside, I found that it was already sopping wet.

“Suck my dick,” I whispered. He looked at me with the adoring eyes of the submissive, and dropped to his knees.

Now, any of these encounters—and there were more like these—could be a story unto themselves, right? When they were unspooling before me, I kept thinking of the ways that they should go, and for every single one of them, my imagination led me to believe I was headed straight into bow-chicka-bow-wow porn movie territory, with some high-voltage fucking and dicking

And I was terribly, terribly wrong. Because in every single one of those cases—and in all the others I didn’t present here—the story would’ve ended like this: “And the dude jacked himself so hard that he came. Then he ran off.”

Mr. Warby Parkers? I barely had his thick meat in my hands, and I was ready to kneel down and attempt to unhinge my jaw enough to take it in my throat, when he dribbled out a small load. “Sorry,” he said, fleeing before he could even zip up.

The guy rimming me? He actually came while he was shouting he wanted to FUCK my HOLE. Then he was done.

The Latin guy? He got his cock out of his pants and, while I was begging him to shove it in, he leaked out a sloppy few spurts into my shorts, rendering them very messy to wear afterward.

The skinhead? It’s true that I got a good thirty seconds of sucking out of him, and that I pissed on him after that while a group of guys watched. But the second time I said “Good boy” while twisting his nipples, he came so hard that he nearly lost his balance and tumbled over. Then he nodded and scampered away.

After each encounter, I’d see the giant words THE END emblazoned over any hopes I might have for a hot sexual tryst, and hear the sad trombone in the background playing a great big waaah-waaaaaaaah. I found it incredibly hard to believe the weird sameness of my encounters, as they approached their inevitable conclusion; whenever I’d encounter a new guy, I would think to myself that all the previous men had just been a bad streak, that my sexual mojo was off.

The more it happened, though, the more I was convinced that someone was playing a cruel joke on me. What are the odds, after all?

Then I had an encounter that put everything into perspective.

Midweek through my stay, after midnight I wandered out to the cruising grounds. A cluster of men huddled together in a group of about a dozen off to one side, where light wasn’t reaching. I could easily have wedged my way through and found someone to grab at me—but temperamentally, that’s simply not my style. I don’t try to get in with a crowd; I’m arrogant enough to expect the crowd to come to me. It usually does.

So I leaned up against a wall a couple of dozen feet away from the group, casually watching as shadowy figures would walk by to see what was going on. Some of the figures would stride over to the crowd, observe for a moment, then wander back to make eye contact with me. So it wasn’t long until I had a smaller number of men around me, waiting to take turns on my cock.

I’d already had one cocksucker kneel down, take me into his mouth, and immediately blow his cum all over the planking beneath our feet. Three men were watching as another took his place. The guy sucking wasn’t bad looking by any means, but his technique could use some improvement. He was the sort who assumed that I’d be impressed by the sounds of gagging and of him generally struggling to get all of me in his throat. To be blunt, he assumed wrong. What I prefer to hear is a hum of pleasure and the sound of gratified silence, thanks very much; if I want to hear gargling and phlegm, I can visit my dad’s place and sit at the breakfast table with him as he attempts to empty his clogged nasal passages into a much-used handkerchief.

One of the men witnessing the carnage leaned in close next to me. His hands roamed over my chest, down to the root of my cock, to my ass. While the cocksucker struggled to gulp me all down, he whispered into my ear, “I can take better care of that than this guy.”

A vacuum cleaner retrofitted with a wet paper towel attachment could’ve taken care of me better than the guy in front of me right then. I let the statement pass unremarked for a few moments, as we both watched the guy kneeling down bob awkwardly back and forth. “Yeah?” I said, finally.

“Yeah.” He nodded as our eyes locked. “A lot better.”

I could tell at this point that the guy sucking me was close to shooting. He had his pants around his ankles and was furiously jacking. Besides, I was nowhere near close to shooting, what with the massacre he was making of the job. “What do you propose?”

“Come back to my room and find out,” he murmured.

Now, that was what I was hoping to hear. As much as I like public sex, there are times and circumstances when I’m all about the private one-on-one. So I withdrew from the cocksucker’s gullet, pulled the elastic of my shorts over my erection, and plunged my hands in my pockets in an attempt to conceal the hard-to-miss outline of my eight-ish inches of rigid dick before we stepped back into the light and made our way back to the resort’s rooms.

Okay, I thought to myself once we got behind closed doors. This story is going to have a happy ending. The guy stripped me down while I got a good look at him. Smooth body—not super-fit, but at least he was height and weight proportional. Balding. Gray-haired, maybe slightly older than I. Bearded. A decent-looking man. What I liked better, though, was how he seemed to know what he wanted. Once I was naked, he threw me onto his bed, stripped off the polo shirt he’d been wearing, dropped his shorts, and climbed right on top of me, pinning me down with his weight.

The dude’s cock was soft as he made out with me. Not surprisingly, I didn’t mind. A soft cock is a cock that’s unlikely to shoot prematurely, in theory at least. He chewed on my nipples, licked my balls, did all the things I like as a preface to sucking my dick. And the guy sucked well. I oozed out precum as he slobbered up and down the shaft. He was indeed doing a much, much better job than the cocksucker outdoors.

When he pulled himself off, a few minutes later, I was a little bit surprised when he climbed all the way up on the mattress and straddled my hips. With one hand he grabbed my cock and pulled it into the crevice of his ass; with the other, he pulled one of the cheeks up and back so that my slimy head could nudge his hole. Then he began to sit down on it.

“Hey,” I started to say, before we went any further. We hadn’t discussed fucking.

“It’s okay,” he reassured me. “I’m on PrEP.” I nodded. “I freaked out when I had a condom break in me last year, and I figured it was for the best. Fuck me bare. You know you want to.”

“All righty, then,” I said. The guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about—and he acted like he knew what he wanted. I like both things. I took the statement that he was on PrEP to mean that he wasn’t too concerned about my status and that he wanted the raw fuck. “How about some lube?”

Thirty seconds later I had the guy’s legs in the air, my hands gripped firmly around his ankles, as I was sliding my raw dick in and out of his ass. It was the first time I’d actually fucked on vacation, and I was determined to relish the hell out of it.

My partner seemed to be enjoying himself, too. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he kept saying. “I haven’t had dick in my ass in so long and this feels so amazing!

“Good,” I’d grunt, fucking harder. I switched to long-dicking him, my shaft pulling all the way out before plunging back in again. “I want your hole feeling amazing.”

That’s when it happened. He came. I hadn’t noticed his cock become erect. He certainly hadn’t been jacking it. I just know that as he gyrated and writhed around my meat, suddenly a thick load of sperm puddled around his semi-erect head. He cursed and moaned as the orgasm subsided. Then he looked at me.

Fuck, I thought to myself. End of story. He’s going to tell me he can’t go any more now that he’s shot.

I was half-wrong. “Get out of me,” said the guy. Everything about his demeanor had changed in the space of a few seconds. That open and friendly face now looked angry—mean, even. Moments before he’d been pushing his hole against my dick to take as much of it as possible. Now he was trying to scrabble away from me as fast as possible. “Get that dick out of me!” he yelled, loudly enough that I was afraid people in the rooms on either side might hear.

“Okay, okay,” I said, withdrawing. My dick flopped out, wet and red and swollen. “You’re good. It’s all right.”

“Did you cum in me?” he demanded. I shook my head. “I said, DID YOU CUM IN ME?”

“No, I didn’t cum in you!” I exclaimed. I was baffled at his overreaction—and quite frankly, more than a little frightened by it. “We didn’t talk about where you wanted me to shoot. So I didn’t cum, and I definitely didn’t cum in you.”

“You might have secretly cum in me,” he said, suddenly all paranoia.

“I didn’t secretly cum in you.”

“That’s what you would say if you’d secretly cum in me,” he pounced, seeming to take that as proof.

“I didn’t,” I repeated, “secretly cum in you.”

“You might have.”

I felt like I was staring down a borderline hostile dog. I kept my voice calm and reassuring, but my eyes didn’t waver from his. I raised my eyebrows. “I did not,” I said, slow and steady, “cum inside you.”

For a moment he glared back, still hostile. “Okay,” he said. “You better not have.”

By now I was searching for my clothing. I was angry. “If I can be frank,” I said, trying not to lecture him and to soften it down to sound like advice from a friend, “maybe you’d be better off stating your expectations before you ask guys to fuck you bareback?”

“I can’t help that I asked you to fuck me raw in the heat of the moment.”

It seemed to me that was indeed the one thing he could have helped, and should have helped. “If you’re on PrEP, you really don’t have to be worrying about—“

“I’m a physician,” he snapped. “I know what PrEP is for. I also know that it’s not one hundred percent effective.”

A physician? A fucking M.D.? Then he should've known better. I thought of all the counterarguments I should be making right then—most of them centered around the regimen’s proven efficacy in preventing HIV transmission and that the primary reason he’d originally started taking it, according to what he’d told me earlier, was so that he wouldn’t have violent freak-outs like the one he was having before me. Instead I just shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood.

“Where’re you going?” he asked, as he watched me pull on my shoes.

I would’ve thought that was apparent. “Back to my room. To sleep.”

He got up and stood between me and the door. “Well, let me get a look at you.” He held me at arm’s length by the shoulders, and positioned me so that I was somewhat in the overhead hallway lamp. “I didn’t get to see you in the light before. I want to be able to recognize you if I see you around and I’m horny again.”

Now, this is the point of the story at which I’d like to stress that as bad as it was at this point, after this asshole blew his load, we still haven’t gotten to the really bad part yet. But when he indicated that after his little temper tantrum, after his suspicion and accusations, after his snapping and shouting at me, that he assumed I’d still be willing to have sex with him again, I knew he was a fucking lunatic.

Okay. With that established, I’ll say that what came next was the really bad part of the encounter.

“Yeah,” he said, looking me over. “I’ll be able to recognize you. Bulbous nose. Rosacea on the face—or sunburn? Tall guy, posture could be better. Little bit of a belly. Maybe twenty pounds overweight? Definitely a little bit of love handles. Squinty eyes.” While I blinked at him, he rattled off maybe a dozen more of my physical characteristics—every single one of them phrased as a fault. A lot of them, I hasten to add, purely imaginary.

Now, I am not so emotionally delicate that I shatter into a thousand pieces when someone tosses a little bit of an insult my way. My sense of self-esteem is not crushed when someone says I have a bulbous nose or a little bit of a belly. It takes a hell of a lot more to make me feel badly about myself than that. But as I stood there, listening to this dimwitted, medical-school-trained fuckmonkey rattle off a list of what he found to be my physical shortcomings, all I could do was stand there and wonder who the fuck he thought he was, and where the fuck he could get off.

“Yeah,” he concluded. “I should be able to recognize you. Maybe we can do this again.”

“Excuse me,” was all I said. Then I moved him out of the way, and got the hell out.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I had so many bum encounters during my week away. It’s not as if men suddenly lose their neuroses and insecurities when they’re on vacation; they’re just as inept and stupid and unfit for adult sexual encounters in warm climates as they are somewhere more wintry.

But compared to being shoved off mid-fuck and then having my shortcomings served to me warm? Those abortive blow jobs, earlier in the week, were suddenly looking pretty darned good.

Friday, January 29, 2016

5 Foxiness Tips from a Foxy Fox

Next week, I’ll be turning 52. (If you’d like to celebrate with me, why not pick out a gift from my Amazon wish list?) And you know what? I’m still lookin’ mighty foxy.

Right off the bat, this particular blog post might seem as if it's being sponsored by the National Institute for Rampant Narcissism, but bear with me. I have a genuine point here. It’s this: I’ve only spent about maybe ten years of my life accepting, and even appreciating and enjoying, the way I look. As a proportion of my overall span, it’s much too slim.

I hated during my teens how gangly I turned out, and how I towered over my classmates by a good foot or more. As a result, I hunched my shoulders, I hid in the shadows as much as possible, I effaced myself whenever I could. In my twenties I had a baby face; I looked like a twink of sixteen until the time I was thirty. I couldn’t bear to pass a mirror lest I see the horror that was my reflection. I passed my thirties feeling old and invisible, with an impending sense that my sex and social life would be done by the time I hit forty.

Now, I was indulging in my mental beatdown despite all kinds of evidence to the contrary. I was chased, pursued, and stalked by guys during my teens and twenties. My sex life continued unabated throughout my thirties—and the guys who wanted me weren’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination. When I hit 40, if anything, the number of offers and come-ons I received skyrocketed.

I’m not ever going to be one of those men that describes himself in an online profile as a sex bomb, or who is likely to self-assess as ‘hot, hot, HOT!’ on Scruff. My ego might be monstrous, but it’s not quite all that all-devouring. (Yet.) I know my appeal is actually quite modest. If a guy finds me attractive, that’s fine by me. It’s another entirely to attempt to convince others I’m the VGL guy of their dreams.

But hey. During those moments I’m fond of my modest good looks and express that happiness on occasion (or even relentlessly), nobody minds. When I’m on my personal Facebook account and toss up a photo or two that I like of myself and comment, “Looking foxy!”, most people take the self-assessment in the good-hearted spirit in which it was intended. And you know why? It’s because the majority of people have so much god-damned negativity about their own appearances that it’s probably refreshing to see a damned fool grinning and enjoying himself.

But as one old geezer speaking to, well, you, I’d just like to say this: it’s a lot more pleasant to live appreciating yourself, and appreciating the way you look, than it is to whine and moan and scowl at your reflection whenever you’re in the vicinity of a mirror. You’ll be happier, letting go of all that negative shit you’ve believed about yourself all your life. You’ll be confident. Other people will find you confident as well, and admire you for it. Truth.

So here are a few precepts that might just help you navigate that road to positivity. Am I a mental health expert? Nah. Just a guy who spent too much time loathing himself when he was pretty all right, all along.

1. No one regards your lack of self-esteem as a virtue. Neither should you. So many people invoke their low self-esteem to protect themselves from the outside world and all the terrors it contains. When poked or disturbed, they exclaim “But I have low self-esteem!” as if that answer will explain their general inaction in any aspect of their life. They have self-esteem issues thanks to their bad childhoods, their bad relationships, their sexuality, their other-ness.

Whatever. Nobody really cares. Stop announcing to all and sundry that you have problems with self-esteem. It’s unbecoming, and solves nothing. Nobody’s going to tiptoe around you or love you more because you’re clutching that low self-esteem to your chest like your great-granny clutches her shawl.
Are you fortunate enough to be alive, healthy, have most of your limbs intact? Do you have a comfortable home instead of shuffling from war zone to war zone as a refugee? Are you Ebola-free? Then you’re pretty damned lucky that low self-esteem is the biggest of your problems.

2. The one surefire cure to low self-esteem is to esteem the fuck out of yourself. Seeking a remedy from the outside isn’t going to work; other people have probably held you in high regard all along, right? Have their pep talks and reassurances worked, in the long run? Nope.

The only thing that’s going to turn around that negative attitude of yours is a determination to be—and stay—positive. Find the shit you like about yourself and like it a hell of a lot more. If you’ve got changes to make, change them—then instead of focusing on how much more there is to go, celebrate each and every victory. Stop avoiding the mirror. Look it full on and revel in the small details you actually enjoy about yourself. Do it today, do it tomorrow, and most importantly, keep doing it day after day. Every time.

3. Cultivate and advertise your strengths. Rather than gripe about and apologize for your thousands of flaws, focus on the good stuff. Make it gooder . . . er, better. Don’t write a sex profile that reads Age is only a number and even though I’m 52 I still feel like a 29-year old on the inside or Hey, my body’s not the best, I know, but I’m going to join a gym this year I swear. These ads are out there in abundance, and the kick-me desperation they reek will put off anybody and everybody. Fuck that.

Has my body ever been the best, at any point in my life? Nope. (This confession might come as news to those of you who send me photos of super-buff porn actors and inquire if that’s what I look like.) Does it limit my sex life? Also nope. I nail super-hot guys and actual porn actors with enviable frequency because I don’t try to hide my physique and because I advertise my other strengths instead: big dick, experience, skill at what I do. I’m never going to post shirtless shots of my physique. My sexual confidence and expertise, however, is more than going to make up for it.

Are you a good performer in bed? Advertise that. Do you have above-average oral skills? Advertise those. (But please avoid that phrase, Guys tell me I can suck the chrome off a bumper! For one thing, advertising that you remember the days bumpers were made of chrome dates you. For another, it sounds painful. I really don’t want the dermis stripped off my dick.) Do you really know what you’re doing when you give a gum job? Someone out there’s going to want to try. Do you give the best foot service in town? Make people aware (and send me your number). Are the times you’re available attractive to the lunchtime married man crowd? Let them know. Have you got a great sense of humor? Let it shine in your profile. Those are the things that are going to get you attention—not lame apologies.

4. That gay you think you’re supposed to be? You don’t have to be that. Not ever. Substitute the word ‘straight’ or ‘lesbian’ or ‘bi’ for the word gay in that sentence, if it applies to you. The point is that you don’t have to conform to any stereotypes. You don’t have to do it to get laid. You don’t have to do it in order to find someone. Nor do you have to do it to live a happy life.

If the pursuit of a summer bod in the middle of January is making you miserable and guilty because you’re preferring to stay at home and watch old Gilmore Girls episodes on Netflix, go spend an evening with the residents of Star’s Hollow. If you’re a twenty-five-year-old guy who’s hiding his attraction to older men because your friends think it’s disgusting to be seeing someone older, get up, get out, and go hunting for your perfect daddy. If you’re miserable being out at the bar drinking and yelling “YASSSSS” to anything and everything, leave the table and go somewhere more congenial to you, whether it’s to a Gay Geeks meeting, a karaoke dive, or to the movies. You don’t to be the bear who says WOOF! the most, who decorates his apartment with paws and claws and the bear pride flag.

You don’t have to remain unhappy and closeted, just so you don’t make waves. Likewise, you don’t have to be straight person who marries his or her high school sweetheart and works in the family business, just to please your mom and dad. You don’t have to follow the paths they followed, or tread unwelcoming roads simply because everyone else in your college class did.

But do yourself this favor. If you find yourself feeling you have to live a certain way—whether it’s saying things you don’t want to say, professing beliefs you don’t believe, doing things you don’t want to do, or publicly shunning sexual acts you secretly crave—take ten minutes, a half hour, a week, and really think about the reasons you’re going through with that shit. I’m willing to bet that under scrutiny, you’ll realize that attempting to live up to the expectations of others at the expense of your own desires is making you miserable.

Your life is too short to spend it in misery.

5. Attempt the Handsomeness Experiment. Several years ago I wrote about the Handsomeness Experiment in one of my blog entries. A good friend and former lover of mine had a very difficult time accepting the fact that I found him desirable. Extremely handsome, even. In a post-coital moment, he murmured that I made him feel like an entirely different person.

I suggested that he give himself to be an entirely different person. Just for a day.

Much to my surprise, my friend decided to give it a shot. He got up the next morning and wrestled with the decision for a few minutes, but ultimately decided to spend one day—just twenty-four hours—walking through his life while pretending he was a handsome and desirable fellow, instead of the freakish gargoyle he apparently liked to fancy himself. He looked cute guys in the eye when they talked to him. He walked like a handsome man. He interacted with others not in a way designed to hide from them, or to efface himself, but in the way he believed a handsome man might.

Improbable as it might sound, the experiment really tickled and amazed him. Strangers responded to him differently. A barista gave him a free cookie. A free cookie. In my universe, a free cookie is like a direct tap on the shoulder from God, giving the thumbs-up. For the first time in thirty years, my friend actually felt handsome.

So this is my advice to those of you who need a little foxiness in your lives: give yourself permission to be handsome. Give yourself permission to be desirable. Give yourself permission to be lovable, and hot, and a sexual superstar. Maybe you won’t feel it at first, but get out of your home and, with the world as your stage, act all those things. Act the hell out of it, even just for one day. Then maybe another. Then maybe some more after that.

And if you can’t give yourself the permission? Take mine. I grant it willingly. You deserve to feel good about yourself—at any age.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

The Gift

The Puppy greets me at the door wearing the Christmas gift I’d given him: a black wrestling singlet, edged in red. The spandex pulls tightly at his crotch, squeezing his goods into a small, tight package that’s easy to grab. He’s already erect when I step inside his front door; all that meat of his juts forward to stab my hip as I squeeze by and let him close the door.

Outside, it’s frigid. I’m wearing a hooded windbreaker, with a heavy sweater and t-shirt beneath. He’s wearing nothing but the singlet, so that his furry chest is on display. His hands reach up to my cold cheeks and pull my face down to his. I curve my neck while he stands on tiptoe, so we can navigate our very different heights. Our lips meet. His warm mouth parts eagerly to welcome my tongue.

As we kiss, I run my hands over him. I’ve only had the briefest glimpse of how my gift hugs his body, but now, next to each other, I relish the sensations of my hand running over the taut spandex. It feels like liquid beneath my palms—warm here, where the smooth fabric cups his buttocks, cooler here, where it barely touches the concavities beneath the ribs and above the hips. The edging just above his ass tantalizes me; my fingertips pry it from his skin and slide into the crevice just beyond. Now the flats of my hands warm themselves on the rounded mounds of his ass, while the spandex cools the knuckles and the backs.

He kisses me deeply. I’m reluctant to break apart from the intensity of our locked lips, but at last he releases me and falls down to the flats of his feet. His hands have rested on either side of my face; when I stand back up to my full height, they remain in place, as if grasping some ghostly memory of me. His eyes open, and then his hands drift down, slowly. I admire the dazed expression lingering on his face. “I don’t know about you,” I tell him, aware that I’m still bundled up for the cold temperatures outside, “but I’m going into the bedroom.”

He holds my hand as I lead him there. I kick off my sneakers, leave my coat and hat on his dresser, and then shimmy out of my sweater. Then I lie down on the bed. He starts to pounce on me, but I keep him at arm’s length. “Nuh-uh.” I lean back on the bed, prop my head up with my locked fingers, and assume a stance of relaxation. “Show it off for me.”

“What?” he says. He breaks into one of his shy smiles, and almost giggles.

“Your singlet,” I say. Then I nod for him to back up. “Show it off.”

For a fleeting few seconds I witness a struggle on his face. He’s almost paralyzed by shyness and self-consciousness, while at the same time he’s anxious to do what I’m tell him. In the end, he looks askance at the floor as he backs up, but darts little looks to judge my reaction all the while. He stands square to my view, hanging his head low so that his mutton chops graze the fur of his chest, and stares me down. His hands grope for the hardness that pushes the singlet’s pouch into an obscene projection. His lips purse; he studies me for a response.

I lift my index finger and twirl it around. I want to see his ass.

He obeys the silent command and turns around. With a hand on each each, he rubs the half-globes of his ass in circles, the circles rotating in opposite directions. The singlet has a thick plastic zipper in back. It takes all my patience and strength not to lunge at the pull. The Puppy turns his head slowly to regard me over his left shoulder. Light from the bedroom window, shrouded both by blinds and the drapery covering them, captures the bearded fringe of his jawline in profile. It’s a classic position, immortalized by any number of Renaissance painters. Raphael never had a subject this handsome, however; Titian was never privileged to have so breathtaking a boy showing off expressly for his pleasure.

It’s a curious dynamic, this. I’m the one in control. It’s my desires that drive our time together, it’s I who set the pace, the positions, the activities. I own the Puppy’s hole—and he tells me so, leaving no uncertainties. Yet he’s the one who can reduce me to breathlessness with a single turn of his head. He’s the boy who can summon my erection with a tilt of his head, who can make it even more rigid wimply by grinding his hips. He has ownership of me, too, whether or not I’m willing to admit it.

I can’t stand any more teasing. I crook my finger. “Come here,” I order. The silent tension broken, he grins, then leaps onto my reclining body. I catch him, and squeeze the rude bulge that’s causing so rude a protrusion. He sucks in air; his eyes close. Then slowly I unzip the pouch and pull the spandex to release his dick. “Thank you,” he gasps. His breaths are shallow, and his chest rises and falls quickly. The Puppy’s dick is rigid. Its tip is slick with precum. Even now, the tip releases a sticky globe of the stuff that glistens in the filtered light like dew. It must have been cramped, stuffed in those tight confines.

“Suck me,” I say.

He’s unbuttoning my jeans before I’ve even finished making the suggestion. He stands to tug the legs off at the ankle, then folds the denim and lays it on the bureau. Then he’s tugging down my trunks set free the monster within.

“Look what I’m wearing,” I whisper.

His Christmas gift to me had been a cock ring, the word BREEDER engraved in the aluminum. It’s lightweight and comfortable; the metal conducts heat easily. If the state of my concrete-hard dick is anything to go by, the ring should now be hot to the touch. I’ve positioned the ring so that the word arches above my dick facing out—in other words, clearly visible and right-side-up to the cocksucker between my legs. I shove my dick down, pointing it to my toes, so that the cock ring is clearly visible. I’ve got to admit—it looks fucking great on me.



“You like?”

“I love,” he starts to say, but the words garble as he closes his throat around my dick.

He’s eager. Almost too eager. I always prolong the big reveal of my dick with him to the point that when it finally emerges, he’s starving and anxious for it. He gulps down so eagerly that he nearly chokes, but then falls into a familiar rhythm of rising and falling along its length. The cock ring is almost more of a gift to him than it is to me. But then again, the singlet’s almost more for my benefit than his, too.

I have to have his hole, though. There’s no getting around it. I remove the singlet and let it puddle on the floor, then position the boy face down on the mattress with one of his pillows propping up his hips. Then I proceed to make him whimper and plead as my lips and tongue attack his most private place. He smells like soap, of course, but there’s some essence, uniquely his, that lingers. I’ll be smelling him on my moustache all evening, I know. Already, with my mouth firmly affixed to his pucker, I’m anticipating the pleasurable hours I’ll spend curling my upper lip to my nostrils to relish this scent.

There’s a bottle of Liquid Silk on the bedside table. I pump some onto my fingers and let them curl into his hole, releasing the lubricant deep within. Another glob spirals around my cock, already colored a deep red from the combination of the BREEDER ring and the sheer lust that seems to be pumping all my blood into it. I can feel the throb of the vein that runs along the top of the shaft as I release my meat; it springs up and nudges the boy’s hole.

“I want you sniffing those poppers,” I warn him.

His hand darts out to grab the bottle of Rush that sits by the lube. I have only enough patience to wait for him to unscrew the little cap and take the beginning of a deep sniff before I start to push in. “Go slow,” he begs.

I acknowledge the warning with a grunt, but I don’t stop pushing. My cock knows when to push ahead and when to stop. Between the desire that’s wrenching his ass upward, forcing himself to grab at me with the lips of his hole, and the relaxation the poppers inspire, he’s opening up rapidly. My bare cock slides into the widening cavity before it. His head lifts; his back arches. The Puppy is lost in a moment of raw and unadulterated sensation, I can tell. It’s sending waves of shivers over his body, causing his ass to contract and squeeze me deeper inside.

“There you go,” I whisper in his ear. “You’ve got all of me, now.”

“I love it,” he murmurs into the bedding. His arms are curled up to clutch the pillow like a boy might hug his teddy bear. For all his fur and facial hair, in fact, the Puppy looks like a child fallen asleep. His ass still rises to meet mine, and his every anal muscle clutches at me desperately, but with his closed eyes, and with the way he seems sunken heavily into the pillowy mattress, he seems utterly relaxed. Lost into himself. Artless.

It’s a beautiful sight.

My favorite position with the Puppy is to lie atop him with my cock parting and stretching his hole as deeply as possible. It’s an attitude that allows me to rest my weight upon him, which he loves, while reaching my arms around his torso. Our bodies move together in sync. When my lips rest on the back of his neck, gently kissing and nibbling there, he cries out in pleasure. I wish I knew what he was feeling, from the inside—but the cries and moans he make let me know how happy he is.

After several minutes of this pleasure we swap positions. My other favorite position with the Puppy—and who am I kidding, they’re all favorites as long as my bare dick is inside his hole—is when he sits on my cock. He does so now, straddling it expertly as he leans forward to pin my hands to the pillow above my head. Our mouths meet to kiss, but he says nothing as he rises and falls on my dick. My inches are a deep purple, now, engorged and puffy with pleasure as he churns it with determination. His hips gyrate in a circular motion, taking my cock not only on the vertical, but swiveling it in an ellipse around its base. There’s not much chance I can hold off much longer.

I wrench loose my hands so I can grab another handful of Liquid Silk. I slap it onto his own dick and curl my hand around that rock-hard flesh. Now he’s receiving tactile overload at both ends—from the ass that’s being stretched beyond belief, and from fucking the tight, wet cylinder my hand is making. His breath is nothing more than meager pantings. Sweat beads over his skin. Our eyes meet, and lock.

“Tell me,” I say to him. Am I ordering, or pleading? Even I’m not certain. “Tell me.”

“Stop!” he suddenly demands.

His tone—loud, normal, an intrusion into the quiet intimacy of our fuck—is a slap to the face. I’m so shocked by the order that immediately I lie still. My hand still clutches him, but my hips stop racing to meet his. Time freezes, suspended for what seems like indefinitely—though it’s really only for a moment. I feel the heavy thud of my heart in my rib cage; I force air through my nostrils while my senses adjust to the sense of alarm and worry. Have I pushed him too far? Have I done the wrong thing, said something forbidden? Have I hurt him, somehow?

Frozen, we stare at each other without sound, without words. Then his lips part. “I love you,” are the words he speaks. Slowly. Deliberately. Every word spoken distinctly, so that I hear and understand.

The declaration is like electricity returning after a long outage. Beneath my fingertips, I feel the underside of his cock pulse. Once. Twice. Then I feel the sensation of something warm and sticky splattering across my chest—one time, then two. Somewhere in the background a clock begins ticking again as time resumes its march. There’s a pungent smell, chlorine-like, as he douses me with more of his sperm. It strikes the side of my face, paints my chest and shoulders and the pillows on which I lie with a Jackson Pollock-like signature. He continues to fuck my hand as his ass clutches once more at the base of my dick.

“You want it?” I ask. “You want my load in you?”

“Cum in me, dad,” he begs. He bites his lower lip, and his eyes close. He has a job to do.

Expertly he rides me, yanking at my dick with every crazy twist of his hips. He knows what to do to make me shoot. It’s only moments before I’m ready. My jaw juts forward; I know I look primal, angry even, as I lunge upward to drive into him as deeply as I can. My cock pulses and unleashes jets of cum into his hole. A week’s worth of cum is what I drive into the boy’s guts. The release isn’t so much pleasurable as it is necessary—essential. Even as the orgasm diminishes, I continue to thrust up and into him. My instinct is to breed as deeply as possible. To mark him. To make that ass mine. Urgency overtakes pleasure. My continuing instinct is ownership—not self-indulgence.

He collapses on top of me, and his semen glues us together. The Puppy is so sweaty that he nearly squelches as his skin slides on mine. I wrap my arms around him, protecting my property, as my cock continues gently to stretch and slide in his chute. He could fall asleep like this, I know—well fucked and exhausted from his efforts.

But my dick’s not finished with him. Not yet. He might not know it yet, but he’ll have to wait a while before he can relax. Then once again I’ll admire the beauty of him as he lets loose and allows himself to love and be loved with abandon, without restraint.

Of all the gifts he could give me, that’s the greatest.

Sunday, December 20, 2015

The Most Appropriate Christmas Gift Ever

As I told the pup who gave it to me, when I wear my gift to a fuck, I'll make sure to turn it so that my cocksuckers can read the engraving right side up, from their perspective.

That way, they'll be confronted with the stark truth of my intent.