Thursday, November 26, 2015

Big Spoon, Little Spoon

I’m sometimes amazed how something that can seem so insurmountable, so impossible, so very difficult, can turn out to be the easiest thing in the world. An evil-looking piece on the piano—a blur of sharps and flats and notes on the page—becomes simplicity to play, or even a joy. A troublesome speech in front of a seemingly hostile crowd ends up rolling off the tongue, to the audience’s delight. An essay that begins tortured and incomprehensible in my brain flows freely from my fingertips and onto the screen, almost ready to be shared.

Not that I’m thinking these things when I pull the car in front of the small house, this cool autumn morning. What I’m considering is how into many knots my stomach possibly can tie itself. I’m thinking about the sweat on my palms, the doubts pounding away at my frontal lobe. I could turn the ignition back on. I could floor the pedal and head back in the direction of home. He’d understand if I changed my mind at the last minute, wouldn’t he?

Maybe he would. Maybe not. I don’t like canceling on anyone. Not even for good reasons—and nerves are not a good reason. I could list the hundred good grounds why I’m reluctant to take this step. Enumerated coolly and logically, sages would nod at my restraint and applaud me—for once—for keeping my dick in my pants.

I mean, look. I’m facing a big transition here. Fucking a guy—that’s nothing. Fucking a guy is just letting down my zipper, pulling down my pants. This handsome young man, though, long ago moved from blog reader to a casual buddy. When we’d become closer friends, I’d had to let down things more personal, infinitely more difficult—my own guard, my privacy, my defenses. Now I’m here, outside his place, contemplating a physical intimacy I’d always assumed would never happen. What would we even be after this, friends with benefits? Fuck buddies? The uncertainty scares me.

To turn around now, though, would be to disappoint the boy waiting on the other side of that front door at the end of the walk. I don’t want to let him down. To leave now, without taking this chance or this crazy leap of faith or however I want to characterize it, would be refusing a magnificent opportunity. I value opportunities too much to turn this one down.

A fine dew still shines on the grass as I walk from car to door; it’s vanishing with every caress of the weak morning sun. I can hear the rush of cars along the main thoroughfare on the other side of the bank of trees, but the neighborhood itself is quiet and sleepy; the inhabitants of these houses have all gone to work or to school, or are hibernating deep within. I can’t find a doorbell; I open the storm door and knock.

The Puppy opens the door immediately, as if he’s been waiting. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say back.

When he steps back and holds the door open, I edge past him and into the dark house. I get an impression of dark flooring and bookshelves, but my eyes aren’t looking at the d├ęcor. I’m staring at the Puppy. He’s wearing a gray wife beater that shows off his body to best advantage; despite his small frame, his shoulders look broad, his biceps massive, his waist trim and narrow. A pair of pajama bottoms hangs from his waist. The sight of him this close, the heat of his body palpable, causes something inside me to stir. “Hi,” he says again, raising himself up on the balls of his feet.

I meet him by bending down and connecting my mouth to his. Our tongues swirl around each other. He tastes minty, and fresh, and smells of soap. Our beards grind and scrape together as we kiss. I allow my elbow of curl around his tight little body, and my hand to travel down his back to the butt encased in flannel. It’s firm, and compact, and round in my fingers.

For a long, blissful moment I allow myself to become lost in his embrace, to drift away into a timeless dimension where everything is sensation. His mouth against mine. His teeth gently tugging at my lower lip. His hands on either side of my face. His heart thudding against my ribcage. Then I open my lids and find his hazel eyes gazing at me, liquid and lovely, and I drift back down into the moment. This was easier than I thought, I find myself thinking. Immediately, I correct it to: This was easy. And then: This is right.

We stand still for a moment, glowing from the kiss and from the simple pleasure of seeing each other like this, unguarded and alone. My right hand holds his left. I’m bubbling over from the giddy joy of the realization I’ve just had. Of course this was easy. How could I ever had imagined otherwise? Every fear I had, every misgiving, evaporates like the dew on the lawn outside. Only sunshine remains.

I leave my shoes at the door so that he can lead me into his bedroom. Once there, I throw myself onto the mattress. He snuggles next to me and throws a leg over my hip. Once again our mouths meet. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Why haven’t we done this before? I know the answer lies in my own misgivings about the rightness of giving myself to him, but those are washed away now, dragged to sea in the flood of electric sensations he’s arousing on every inch of my skin. My hands are all over him, holding the back of his head to force him to kiss me harder, touching his back, sliding beneath the waistband of his pajamas, tickling down the furry crack of his ass to the blossoming warmth of his hole.

“Let me hold you,” I whisper in his ear. He lets loose with one of his rare and radiant smiles. “Big spoon, little spoon.” As he turns over, I slide my hand between the mattress and his side and draw him close. My free arm pulls him closer and my fingers dig beneath the cotton of his wife beater to frolic freely in the dense fields of his chest hair. He curls into me with sweet abandon, our bodies molded into one. I rub my furry chin over his shoulders, then plant there kiss after soft kiss. I feel him shiver in my close embrace. He likes that.

I kiss his shoulders, his neck, the sensitive space just below his ears. I make sure he can feel the intentionality of each moment, of each time my lips and beard press against his silken skin. He shivers as I press my lips against his ear. My tongue, wet and deliberate, probes his ear. The invasion makes him convulse, to grind his ass against my rigid cock, as I hold him even more closely.

My free fingers dip beneath the elastic of the jock he’s wearing beneath his pajama bottoms. His cock juts against my fingers; the tip is sloppy with precum. When my hand wraps around his shaft, he grunts with pleasure. The side of my hand grazes against his freshly-shaven balls. Their skin feels like a baby’s.

“I thought you’d be nervous.” He’s both smiling and giggling at the same time as he says the words. I’ve got several things going on. I’m still kissing his sensitive neck, and shoving my meat, through two layers of fabric, against his pert little butt. My right hand clasps him to me, and my left has seized control of his cock. His little hips are gyrating against mine. He has to be overloading on sensation.

“I’m not any more,” I murmur. My rumbling so close to his ear causes his skin to erupt in gooseflesh.

“So you’re all right?”

“I’m all right,” I assure him. “This is all right.” I use the flat of my hand to press down against his straining cock. He has enough of a pronounced curve that my fingertips fit quite naturally in the concavity between cock and pelvis. “This is very all right.”

We uncurl to take care of our clothes. I take off his tank top, then unbutton my pants. My cock can’t stand the constraint any longer. He dives for it even before I’ve managed to loose the denim from my hips. He knows this cock. He knows from reading and talking what that cock likes, what it appreciates, the places it’s been, the men who’ve desired it. He’s seen the photos, including those I’ve taken just for him. This is the first time he’s encountered that flesh in the flesh, though. I’m a little surprised he doesn’t take any time to study it, but his need is too urgent. He’s impaling his throat with it; he’s shoving it into his mouth like a starving man.

But he knows what he’s doing. He’s bobbing up and down on the shaft with a fury, as if he thinks I’m about to climax. With anyone else I might resent the vigor. With the Puppy, I don’t mind. He’s making me feel good. My cock feels comfortable in his mouth. It responds to his desire by becoming even more stiff. I’m sure I’m oozing out precum like crazy.

“Come here,” I tell him after a few moments. I pull him up to meet his mouth once more. I was right about the precum. Its salty tang slithers from his tongue to my own.

Somehow we escape from the rest of our clothing. He lunges for me again, landing on top. His erection meets mine—two sabers unsheathed. When he collapses on me, I roll us so that he’s on the bottom. “Roll over,” I order.

He obeys. His legs stretch toward the bottom of the bed, toes pointed like a ballet dancer. I raise myself up on my arms and straddle him, hips to butt, then lower my naked body down. Once more I kiss his neck and the back of his shoulders, pleased to hear his content little sighs. I could give him pleasure like this for days, just to hear those happy exhalations. My mind is on other matters, though.

My lips travel down the boy’s back. They cross the gate of his shoulder blades, graze through the valley that slopes down to the base of his spine. Then my beard scrapes and climbs its way up between the clefts of his ass, rubbing and savoring the feel of his thickly-furred crack. He lets out a long, audible breath as my fingers pry apart his ass, exposing the dark and puckered hole within. My need for it matches the hunger he had for my cock, only a few minutes prior. I dive in, slavering and snarling, trying to get to the core of him. My tongue’s in there, but I’m not just licking him; I’m feeding on his hole, using lips and mouth and teeth to draw it out and expose its mysteries. He can feel my hot breath, my spit. He moans and rolls helplessly from side to side, half as if to shake me off, but half as if to coax me in even more deeply.

He knows my intentions. I don’t announce them verbally. I merely bring myself to my knees, lean over to the bedside table, an attempt to pump a handful of lube onto my fingers. “The pump’s not . . . let me,” he says, eagerly leaping onto all fours. He grabs the bottle of lube and twists so that the pump extends, ready to be dispensed. “Okay.”

“Way to kill the mood, Pup,” I say, calling him by his surname. I’m kidding, of course. He knows it, and grins uncertainly. “I guess I’m not in the mood to fuck, now.”

“Yes you are.” He’s being assertive. He knows I like that. “You want to fuck me.”

“Maybe,” I concede. “Maybe you want my dick in you.”

“I always wanted it.” Our eyes lock, blue and green. “Let me sit on it.”

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. I was already planning to fuck him that way, our first time. But I like him thinking it’s his idea. “All right, kid. Sit on on my dick.”

I’ve already got a handful of lube on my fingers; I slather it onto my throbbing dick and use the remainder to lather up the outside of his hole. Then I take another good glob and let two of my fingers slide into my ass. I suspect he’s worried about my size. I, on the other hand, am not worried at all. He’ll take me. He’ll take me because he wants it more than anything. He’ll take me easily, because I know we’re made to fit. I just know it.

It’s time to assume the position. I flop down onto my back and let him adjust the pillows behind my head. He reaches for the lube and applies even more to his hole. My thumb holds my dick steady for him as he positions it at his crack. The head of my dick meets his pucker. I can feel the heat there, as steady and surely as if he’d opened an oven door after a long bake. There’s pressure, and then I feel the head pop in, quickly followed by the next two inches. He’s gasping; his mouth is open just from the first three inches, and he’s not even halfway there. The ache passes quickly, though. Before I can say anything, he’s sliding steadily down, shaking his hips from side to side as he descends. Now it’s my turn for my jaw to drop, right as his hairy cheeks nestle against my nuts.

I’m in him. All the way in his little ass, and it feels so damned good. Those anxious moments in my car are light years away from what I’m feeling now. I’m past wondering if what we’re doing is right, past worrying if I’ve made a mistake. The only questions in my mind are why haven’t we been doing this all along, and when will we do it again?

And we haven’t really even started, yet. After a moment, he lifts himself up on his knees. I watch his face as he slides up and down the shaft. Sometimes there’s a nasty, sullen curl on his lip, a hardcore rough trade expression that most porn stars would envy. Sometimes his face softens; he gasps and grins to himself, like he’s sampling some private pleasure. Enjoying a joke only he’s heard. I stretch luxuriously, slow and cat-like, and enjoy the show.

Then there are the times when he looks at me, shy behind his long lashes, his lips pulled the the side into an oblique smile. I can see a mix of emotions on his face when he regards me like this—the timidity at showing me how badly he needs this mixed with boldness of his sensuality. His hands reach for mine and pin them to either side of my head. He holds them there as he rides.

The Puppy’s cock has stuck out at an obscene angle the entire time. A long dollop drips from its head onto my stomach, hung by a shining thread. I wrestle my wrist from his grasp, grab his meat, squeeze, then start to stroke it. “I don’t want to come too fast,” he says, pushing me away.

“Hey, hey,” I whisper. “Not with me. With me there’s no such thing as too fast. There’s no such thing as too soon, or too much.” I prop myself up a little, and with a finger, turn his face to mine. “When we’re together, everything is right. Everything’s okay. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, letting loose again with one of those smiles. I feel like a million bucks when he gifts me with one of those smiles. “Okay.”

Still looking into his eyes, I ask, “Do you want to come with me inside you?” He nods. “Then come.”
It doesn’t take him long. A few strokes with a lubed-up hand, and his chest starts to heave. His nipples pinch and grow hard. His eyes close. His hand works back and forth, up and down the banana curve of his cock; its head swells and flushes a deep purple. Then he catches his breath. The first splatter of his load gushes across my chest and hits me in the face; a second follows and splashes the pillow. Spray after spray of the stuff paints my torso. Each jet seems like a pint. I’m astonished; it feels like I’m being punked, caught on hidden cam assaulted by some kind of super-soaker rigged out with an astonishingly lifelike trick penis.

But no, it’s all the Puppy’s spunk. When he’s done, I’m fucking covered by the stuff. My face, my chest, the sheets, the pillows, all soaked. He’s laughing, his eyes half-closed, still shaking off the shivers from what had to be one of the most intense orgasms the kid has ever experienced while riding a dick. He’s still shivering.

I look up at him, though a heavy glob of his semen lingers on my eyebrow and threatens to drip into my eye, and realize that I’m truly seeing him for the first time. That is, I’m seeing him, in all his glory. Not the polite Puppy. Not the Puppy who presents himself well in public, or the family Puppy. I’m seeing the man at his most private and unguarded. I’m seeing him drenched with sweat and covered with his own semen, a man’s bare dick buried deep in his gut. I’m seeing him express who he is and how deeply he feels things, in a way I never would have seen had I stayed in that car and not taken this step.

And what lies before my eyes is breathtaking.

The realization makes my lips twitch into a smile of my own. This was easy, I think to myself once again, followed by its echo, This was right.

Then comes another epiphany that I’ll never shake: This is good.

So I pull him down onto me, gluing us together with the seed he’s painted, and lock him into another kiss.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

A Little Primer on Orgy Throwing

Not too long ago I was telling a friend of mine the reasons why I was no longer attending a semi-regular group sex session held at a motel local to me. “Do all orgies end in drama?” he asked, when I was done.

I was seriously taken aback by the question. “No!” I exclaimed, sure of myself. Then I had to think a bit.

First, a lot rests on one’s definition of drama. If my friend meant, did every group sex meetup end with slaps, recriminations, weeping, flouncing, and bitches pouring beer in each other’s weaves? Then no. There’s no drama. Have there been grudges and hurt feelings that were nursed quietly? Sure, occasionally. I’m not sure I’d call that drama, though. I’d classify it more under the day-to-day social stickiness that every adult has to deal with at one time or another.

There were actually two reasons I stopped attending this particular group. The first was a long-simmering resentment of the way the host was handling invites. He was in the habit of sending out a preliminary private email to the twenty-five or thirty guys who usually attended his parties, asking if they wished to attend on a date three or four weeks in the future. To the men who RSVPed to say that they’d like to join, he would send an email with a list of participants, so everybody could check each other out and send off emails indicating interest in hooking up at the party.

It’s a nice system, actually. I like and recommend it. The week of the party itself, the host would send out reminder emails with a final guest list and instructions of where to show up, what to bring, and all the usual information a good host provides. I had a problem, though, and it was that the host was including me every single time on the guest list that got emailed out to attendees, whether or not I was actually able to come to a particular get-together. He’d have an event in April, say, and I’d RSVP in March that I wasn’t going to be available. But then a few days later, on the roster of folks attending, there I’d be. When the finalized list went out only a few days before, there I’d be again . . . despite the fact I’d told the host I’d be out of town or busy or whatever.

I asked the host why he kept listing me and he tried to make it sound like a positive—as if I was always welcome to attend at the last minute if my plans changed or my flight was canceled or I had a change of heart. Besides, he said, attendance went up when my name was on the list, because guys would see my photos and decided they had to be there to get a piece of me.

That’s all well and good, I tried to explain to him multiple times, but putting my name on the list of attendees when I wasn’t actually going to be in attendance was really doing me a disservice; he was making guys think that I’d said “Yes! I’ll be there with bells on!” and then decided to bail at the last minute. I even forwarded him an email from one of the guys who wrote saying he’d attended twice specifically to meet me because I was on the list, and wondered why I’d been a no-show.

I might have been a giant carrot (pun intended) dangled in front of the guests’ faces to lure them to the party, I argued, but it was deceptive of him to do so when I wouldn’t be there. It gave my reputation a hit. Over and over again he attempted to assure me that wasn’t the case, but I wasn’t buying it.

Finally, I caved and went to one of his lunchtime parties at the local sleazy motel. In attendance was kind of a motley crew—a few regulars I liked a lot, a couple of new guys I had fun with, and two men I was trying to avoid at all costs. One of the guys was a married schlub I’d tricked with a year before and had such staggeringly mediocre sex that I’d had to do some unpleasant misdirection (involving jacking him to climax and then pretending I’d shot at the same time) in order to get the hell out of there. Him, I could stay away from easily enough. The other guy, though, was the host’s best friend. He’s always at every party. He’s always annoying. And at the last party I’d gone to, he’d done this, this thing with his hands on my dick that I really, really hated.

Let me digress ever so slightly here. When I was growing up, among the stacks of books my parents kept in their basement was a sex manual from the very early 1960s. I say sex manual, but this was before the sexual revolution, so my recollection is more that it had a title that never actually used the dirty word, sex. A manual for young marrieds, it was. My ten-year-old self read it with great amusement when I discovered it, marveling at the way it managed never actually to use the words penis or vagina, nor any of their synonyms. Late in the book was an entire chapter devoted to what a young wife should do when her husband failed to be in a romantic mood—or when he couldn’t get it up, I figured out. The blushing young bride, the text advised, should not at all be afraid to grasp her husband’s manhood in her hand (that’s about as close as they got to referencing actual genitalia), apply a modicum of moisture to the palm of her hand, and then rub the flat of her palm firmly and briskly in a circular motion against the glans of his manhood, thus producing an electrical sensation of such felicity that the husband would gladly meet his conjugal duties with enthusiasm and zest.

Wow, okay, my ten-year-old self thought. This sounded like hot stuff. I licked my palm and rubbed it on my cock head. OW. That shit HURT. I tried it again, just in case. FUCKING OW. Yeah, the technique produced an electrical sensation, but it felt like someone was channeling megawatts of that shit right into the most sensitive place on my body and DON’T TASE ME THERE, BRO.

And that’s exactly what the guy, the best friend, did at the party. He wet his palm up with spit or lube or something, and then while I was making out with someone and my boner was on display, he pressed his flattened palm down onto my glans and scrrrrrrrrrrrraped across it.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled in pain while I leapt to my fee. “Don’t DO that.”

Scowling, I left the best friend on one double bed and went to join the dogpile on the other mattress. I’d just made my way in when suddenly I felt a searing jolt of pain on my dick again. “What are you DOING?” I snarled at the best friend. “Stop that shit. It hurts.”

“Aw, don’t be a pussy,” he said.

Now, I’m not sure whether he thought I was joking around with him (I wasn’t), or whether I was really aroused by his torturous form of foreplay and not letting on (I really was not), or whether he was some kind of freako sadist who just enjoyed hearing me yell, but the asshole followed me around the party for the rest of the time I was there and did that thing with his palm no less than three times more. Angry that I wasn’t able really to put any distance between the two of us in a small and cheap motel room, and angry that he wasn’t leaving me alone, I finally put on my clothes, said a polite farewell to the host, and made my way out into the sunlight and home.

Then I simply declined all his invitations from then on out. The mess with the host constantly not respecting my wishes about the attendance list were grumblings I might’ve lived with. But the best friend following me around and trying to get my goat by making my dick feel as miserable as possible was the straw that broke the camel’s orgy.

But was it dramatic? I don’t think so. I didn’t toss my brush cut and issue ultimatums as I stalked out the door. I didn’t write nasty emails after to either the host or the best friend and decree that they were no longer welcome in my lives. I just politely declined to return. If that’s drama, it’s the mildest and most yawn-inducing drama there is.

My friend’s question, though—do all orgies end in drama?—really got me thinking. I’ve been to some incredibly bad orgies in my lifetime. I’ve been to group sex parties in which I and some bottom were the only ones naked and fucking, while a bunch of slobs stood still clothed around the room’s perimeter doing nothing but watching and pushing away each other’s hands. I’ve been to hotel orgies that were promoted as if they’d be sybaritic pleasure domes, and ended up being only three guys staring at each other. I’ve been to a couple of parties in which those attending were shuffling around in a meth-induced haze, unable to perform on any level. So yeah. I’ve been to some pretty damned bad group sex parties.

However, I’ve been lucky enough to attend some really excellent ones as well—and they’ve been in the majority. It’s occurred to me that all of them have a solid base of common denominators.

A good group sex party has an organizer. That is, someone steps up to take the lead and to plan the damned thing. He has to arrange for the venue—a hotel, his own place, maybe the basement playroom of a buddy. He has to send out invitations. And he has to let everyone know where and when it will take place. If there’s a hotel room involved, he gets there a little early to rent it, and let guys know what the room number is. He stays last to do a little cleanup after, and to return the key.
The guy organizing the party is doing a considerable amount of administrative work. It’s not terribly time-consuming work, and it’s not something it takes a Ph.D. to accomplish—but it’s work nonetheless. If you’re attending the party, make sure to let the organizer know your gratitude. Tell him thank you. Spend some time paying attention to him. Respect the guy. He’s doing the job that no one else wanted to do.

The best group sex parties are carefully curated. The very best orgies I’ve attended—the ones I’ll go back to again and again—have always had an organizer who is very careful in his selection of men. In fact, I’ve never attended a truly awful orgy in which the guy who put it together took his time to hand-select the bunch of guys he thought would be compatible.

Careful selection is more than just putting an ad on Craigslist for a hotel gang-bang and then picking the guys with hot photos. (I’ve been to a couple of good parties that began in this way, but the un-fun groups with guys standing around clothed and doing nothing all fizzled from this approach.) Careful selection means knowing, to a certain extent, all the guys involved. It means exchanging a couple of emails with them, at the least, and getting an idea of whether or not they’ll fit in with your other guests.

One of the best parties I used to attend had a specialized bent. It was half bareback-fuck-free-for-all, and half fisting party. It took place in the host’s playroom, a soundproofed, specially-constructed basement enclosure that featured a large shower area, a double-wide padded fuck bench, a couple of sofas, and a pair of slings hanging side by side. On a massive pegboard at one end hung all kinds of dildos and other invasive toys; there was a trough-like sink with towels and soaps for clean-up. The host would be extremely choosy in selecting an exact ratio of tops to bottoms at these parties, and would pick men who were all compatible with each other.

More importantly, since he was very heavily into fisting, himself, he’d make sure the bottoms were equally hungry for a man’s paw in their butts, and that the tops were experienced at working an arm into an ass. The result was a party in which no bottom ever went unsatisfied, and by the time the evening moved from fucking to fisting, there’d be two bottoms in the slings, two kneeling on the fuck bench, and the others bent over the sofas—each with a top’s arm inside them.

Now, that’s not to say that a good host can’t give someone new a chance, or that it’s impossible to put together a decent party from random men online. I know what’s worked for me in the past, though, and it’s always involved a little bit of curation.

A good host always sets in advance the expectations, limitations, and requirements for the party. If it’s a condoms-only party, the host needs to let everyone know. If it’s a bareback party, likewise—with the reminder that everyone needs to be comfortable enough to accept the responsibilities involved with swapping raw fluids. If the host wants people to donate ten bucks to help cover the cost of the hotel room, that should be established well in advance. If it’s a drug-free environment, or poppers-only, the host needs to notify the guests well in advance. When the host expects people to bring something—their own water bottles, or condoms, or lube, or snacks—he needs to spell it out in all the communications leading up to the day of the party.

If a host communicates all these things, and chooses guests who are going to respect his wishes, no one is going to show up surprised. There are going to be very few bad guests, in fact.

The best sex parties have a set duration, and expect the attendees to arrive at the start time. The friend of mine who’d asked the question sparking the thoughts in this post had only attended the sessions of one group. It was hosted by a guy who would put out the word for it on Craigslist and host it at the local sleazepit motel. Guests were invited to drop by anytime between noon and ten-thirty at night.

“That is not a good way to run a party,” I told my friend.

“Yeah, but it worked out for me,” he said. “There were people there when I went.”

Yes, I reminded him, but my friend had spent hours—literal hours—agonizing and strategizing and asking my advice about the perfect time to arrive in order to guarantee that people were there, the first time. He’d had to contact other people who’d been to the party in the past and ask them what time he should plan on showing. Even when he got there, he’d been in suspense up until the moment that he knocked on that motel room door whether or not he’d be stuck by himself with the host. His first-time experience might have turned out all right, but what about those guys who had chosen to show up at eight-thirty in the evening to find that everyone had left by then? They arrived disappointed.

No, the best parties are set to last a handful of specific hours. Seven-thirty at night until ten-thirty. A lunchtime quickie from noon until two. Ten in the morning until eleven-thirty. I’ve been to great orgies during all those time periods. Everyone arrives knowing that other people are guaranteed to be there. Nobody has to do any guesswork or engage in endless speculation. The party can either begin when everyone who’s been invited arrives and the host invites everyone into the play space, or guys can simply shuck their clothing and start fucking the moment the door closes.

Sure, if a person or two invited has let the host know he’ll be arriving a half-hour late, that’s fine. Likewise, if everyone’s having such a good time that the party lasts past the originally-scheduled end point, great—so long as the host is good with it. The host can always be flexible.

But it’s kinder to guests, many of whom might be nervous about meeting so many new naked people at once, to placate the fear that they might be the only one sitting around for someone, anyone, to show up.

The best guests at a sex party are those who are there for the group experience—not for themselves. There’s usually an expectation at these parties that guys are expected to mingle and fuck around with multiple men. If you are invited to an orgy and your intention is to pick out the hottest guy there, monopolize his time to keep him for yourself, and to shun the other men who want to play either with him or with you, you really should just consider staying at home. If you attend a sex party intending to have all the tops for yourself and to make yourself the center of attention, you’re missing the point of the event. (I mean, it might happen that way, but you shouldn’t plan on it.)

Have fun at a sex party, by all means. Enjoy yourself. It’s supposed to be a blast. But know there there may be moments (and there may be many of them) in which it might be best to place the welfare of the group over your own personal desires.

I’m a top with good stamina who can fuck multiple holes over the course of the evening and squirt out multiple loads. When I attend a party, it gets me noticed. I get the attention of some incredibly good-looking guys. If I wanted to go in, pick the hottest bottom there (or, let’s be honest, I could equally easily pick the hottest top with the slightest versatile inclinations), and spend the entire evening fucking his brains out while other guys watched in envy, I totally could.

But I don’t. I’ll fuck an incredibly-desirable guy long enough to let him know how I feel about him, then against my dick’s urging I’ll disengage and let him play with other people at the party. I might make a promise to come back to him later. I might exchange numbers or emails with him so that I can savage his hole one-on-one at some point. For the group’s sake, however, it’s better to move on every now and then and give pleasure to men who’ve been waiting patiently on the side lines.

The best guests are those who go out of their way to make everybody at a gathering feel comfortable and welcome. Isn’t that true of any party, and not just those where the men are naked and looking for holes to fuck or cocks to service? A guy like me of modest looks who does his best to aid the host in getting guys to swap partners and mingle is doing more for the party than two good-looking studs who keep to themselves in a corner and reject the advances of anyone else. More importantly, I’m more likely than they to be invited to the next orgy.

Likewise, the best guests are those that respect the host’s wishes. They show up on time; they let the host know well in advance if they’re not going to be able to make it. They respect the rules on protected or bareback sex and substance use. They keep the apartment or hotel room as tidy as possible. They’re courteous and friendly.

The host is there to get the party started. He shouldn’t have to police the event the entire time. He really wants to have as much fun as the other guests, after all. Make yourself useful to the host by being a good and helpful guest, and you’ll find yourself being invited to more parties in the future.
But most of all, don’t do things to a top’s dick that they don’t enjoy. That shit is annoying.

Have any more tips that you think would contribute to someone throwing a successful, drama-free orgy? Leave them below in the comments section!

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Cornflower Blue

The young man grunts as I shove inside him. His hole, slick both from my spit and from the half-hour I’ve spent eating it open, resists only for a split second. Then it yields. I glide in, inch by inexorable inch, until my nuts nestle on his ass, one on each cheek.

He sighs. Against my chest, the backs of his thighs had resisted as I’d slid home. Now that I’ve reached a location deep inside that he hoped I’d probe, now that I’m rubbing against that secret spot he’s opened for me, he relaxes. His lips part. His eyes close. His shoulder-length blond hair is splayed out over the pillow in a natural fan; it spills over the top of the mattress and onto the wooden boxes hiding on the shelves behind.

He feels so good. It’s been a while since my dick has been inside anything this warm and pliant. And this pretty boy is warm. His body is smooth all over, his skin the palest shade of pink. I’ve nearly forgotten how good a butt like his feels, wrapped around my shaft. How right. “Your ass is amazing,” I tell him.

His eyes open. Even though he’s resting on the base of his spine, and even though he’s got his legs in the air and an engorged cock stretching his hole painfully wide, his expression seems relaxed. Lazy, even—like he’s waking up from a long nap to find me on top of him. When lifts his neck to press his lips against mine, his hair rises like the long, elegant train of a skirt. “You,” he breathes. His head falls back on the pillow, but he keeps his fingers linked around the back of my neck. “You’re the one who’s amazing. Just fuck me. Please fuck me.”

I have no problem with that. I grin a little at the intensity of his response as I drive in deep, grind, and then pull out just far enough so that I can dig in one more. I’m not fucking to pound one out. Not yet. I’m fucking to make his hole feel good. That’s what matters to me now.

“Am I all right?” he asks. He’s got these blue eyes. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. I’ve never seen a cornflower, but I’m sure of the shade. Cornflower blue.

“Are you all right?” I repeat, pretending to think about it. Withdraw, thrust, grind. Withdraw, thrust, grind. I wait until the third long thrust to reply. “Yeah,” I say, staring into those eyes of cornflower blue. “You’re very all right.”

“I’m not too feminine?” He smirks a little, like he’s joking, but I recognize that little hesitation in his voice. I know that slight look askance. He’s afraid to scrutinize me, because he knows he might read on my face an answer to his question he didn’t want. While I’m thinking these things, he continues talking. “I guess some guys think I’m too feminine—effeminate, feminine, whichever—to be with.” My silence makes him finally look me in the eyes—but only for a split second. He closes them again. “I’m not, am I?”

Withdraw. Thrust. Grind. My dick is rock hard as it retraces its steps over and over again. “Look at me,” I tell him.

His lids open. He’s got big, long lashes. The kid has long, lush blond hair, a smooth body, and the features of a cinematic siren of the nineteen-forties. He came to the door wearing a pair of polka-dotted sweatpants and a multi-colored pleather jacket with the type of enormous shoulders I haven’t seen since a mid-eighties Cameo video. “Would that really worry you?” I ask him. “I mean, really.”

“Well, no—“ The conversation isn’t drawing him out of the fuck. He’s mindful of every plunge of my cock deep into his guts; his hips rise to meet mine, and his lungs let out small huffs with every wet collision. “I don’t know. Maybe you like that.”

Myself, I’m turned on by the talk’s intimacy. I’m an intimacy junkie. I love when a man shows me his insecurities in the heat of the moment. It means he’s not just opening his hole. Any proctologist with a tub of Vaseline and a speculum can get a man to do that. It takes a real lover to get a man to open that Pandora’s Box of fears and vulnerabilities hidden deep away, at the same time he’s giving up his pussy.

“Do you think I’m just being nice to you?” I ask him. “That this fuck,“ and I thrust home on the emphasized words, just to make him whimper and drive the point, “is some kind of consolation prize? You think I save better lovemaking for some dude who’s spent months getting the brim of his fucking baseball cap to a regulation curl?”

“No,” he says. He’s looking me square in the face, now. He knows he’s got nothing to fear from me.
I pull my dick all the way out. His hole gasps and gapes, working itself open and closed like a fish out of its tank. “You think I’m holding back on you? Because I can hold back on you.”

“No.” His hands have been around my neck this entire time. He pulls down on it as if my hips my follow. “Please fuck me. Don’t hold back.”

My dick doesn’t need to prod for the opening. The dick knows where it lies by now. I can find that massive gape while blind. I slam back inside, glad to be in the warmth and the wet once more. He lets out a whimper that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Let me tell you something,” I whisper to him, beginning the grind once more. “And I want you to promise not to forget it.”


“Promise first.”

I could make him promise me anything at this moment, I realize. Eternal love. Eternal fidelity. I could sell this fucker a complete set of Tupperware, just because he’s so eager to keep taking my cock. I’m not going that far, though. They’ll change their minds later in the cool light of day, but damn, do they mean it in that hot moment. “I promise,” he says. Just as I expect.

I nod. Wise boy. “Listen up, then,” I tell him. I shift positions, drawing his ass higher in the air and his knees closer to his face. He’s almost doubled in half, just to accommodate the girth and length of my fuckmeat. However much he’s contorted, he’s never been more open. “I’m not looking into those pretty blue eyes of yours, I’m not looking at that beautiful long hair, not running my hands over your smooth skin, while secretly rating your masculinity.”

My face is mere inches above his own. His legs frame his sharp cheekbones. “I believe you,” he whispers.

“My dick,” I snarl, accompanying the emphasis with another wicked thrust. “My dick isn’t determining where you lie on some arbitrary spectrum.” I pull apart his ankles so that his legs spread more widely. “My dick wants what it wants. And you know what it wants?”

“My hole?” he asks, sounding more like a little boy than the adult he is.

“Your hole.” My dick’s plunging in at a different angle that’s making him gasp and huff for air. “It wants you, because it thinks you’re a hot piece of ass. It wants your tight . . . little . . . hot . . . wet . . . fuckhole.”

He nods and uses his hands to pull his cheeks wider apart. “My pussy.”

“It’s a beautiful pussy,” I agree.

“It’s your pussy now.”

I smirk a little. Of course it is. “So do me a favor,” I growl as I continue to pound my new possession, “and think of me as a man who likes what he likes, because he likes and wants it. You’re better than some fucked-up spectrum. Got it?”

“I get it,” he says softly. He’s relaxed again, totally open. His cock points drooling, untouched, at his nipples.

“My dick is hard for you,” I tell him, picking up the pace. “Anyone who doesn’t get hard for you? Fuck those shits. More hole for me.”

I’m grunting now. Really shoving it in. His spine is more and more vertical by the thrust as I try to ram down to the heart of him. “More hole for you,” he agrees as he grapples it open with clawing fingertips. “Jesus fuck.”

I’m dimly aware of him grabbing his dick with one hand. The cum instantly flies out of it and cascades down his chest. He grimaces as it splats onto his head. Several pearls drip onto his hair and the pillow below. His ass clenches during the climax, but it’s nothing like how it clamps down afterward. Instantly I can tell he’s one of those bottoms who, once he’s done, is done.

No matter. I’m there, myself. I push through muscles actively trying to repel me and down into the deepest part of him. My load burns when it jets out. He can feel it. He’s staring at me with his brows furrowed, those eyes boring into mine almost angrily as he convulses in time with every jet I blast into him. I wait until the last gush. Then I withdraw. Slowly. Deliberately. Inch by inch. At last my meat slops down his crack, and my seed spills over from his hole and dribbles down to kiss the crown.

A minor geyser of my sperm still oozes from his hole when I finally speak. It’s been a while since I shot, I remember. “So. What’s it make you when a cock like mine dumps a payload like that in you? Masculine? Feminine?”

He stretches like a cat, his thin arms curling above his head. He’s still reveling in the moment, I can tell. “Both. Neither.” For a moment he relaxes. Then he smiles, as if the thought’s just occurred to him. Our eyes lock for a final time. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. “I guess it just makes me well-bred.”

It’s a good, good answer.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Sunday Evening Questions: Department of Odd Stank Edition

I was at a bar in the Village a couple of weeks ago when the drag queen who was acting as hostess there, that afternoon, started to play a little game with the audience. The game in question was the traditional Never Have I Ever drinking competition. Typically it consists of people going around the room starting a sentence with the words “Never have I ever. . . .” and then finishing it up with something personal and maybe humorously scandalous they’ve not done, but they hope other people in the group have. Anyone who’s actually done the act has to take a drink. Hilarity ensues.

Well, in this particular iteration of the game, the drag queen was making all the statements, then forcing the somewhat rowdy crowd to hold up their glasses and take a slug if they’d committed the act in question. And all the questions, as you might expect in a gay bar in the Village where a drag queen was holding court, were all sexual. “Never have I ever . . . slept with a drag queen!” she’d bark out. Then while about three of us chugged our liquor, she took good note of who had.

“Never have I ever . . . had a threesome!” she said. I and quite a few others downed our drinks.
A few minutes later, it was, “Never have I ever . . . gone to a bathhouse!” A very few us admitted to that one, but I drank proudly.

“Never have I ever . . . taken two cocks in both ends at the same time!” Yeah. I drank to that one, too.
As you might guess, I ended up drinking to every single damned never have I ever that she called out. I’d never been drunk before. But I sure as hell was that night. I passed out in the cab, that’s how drunk I was.

“Honey,” said the drag queen afterward, when I was stumbling my way to the men’s room to take my fifth leak of the evening. “I was watching you up there during my little drinking game. And no harm meant? But you are a fucking slut.

Point taken.

I haven’t done a Sunday questions in a long while, and I was noticing in my backlog I have several questions that begin not with never have I ever, but at least with the enticing words Have you ever . . . ? So in honor of my first total drunken episode, a couple of weekends back, let’s assay three of those.

(And a question to my readers: why didn’t any of you come take advantage of me in my vulnerable state? I’m so disappointed.)

Have you ever gotten revenge on a former fuck who pissed you off? I am in a situation now where a guy I used to see really upset me, and I know ways to fuck with his life. You seem like you’d have a level-headed way to keep me from doing it, though.

At this stage of my life, I honestly feel the best policy, when teased by thoughts of revenge, is simply to hold up your hands and walk away from the temptation. If you can possibly do so with your former fuck, I totally recommend you do.

That said. . . .

A very long time ago when I was thirty-six, I made friends with a local couple. Just friends. We met online somehow, and then at a bar for a social gathering. They were an oddball couple, ten years younger than I. One of them was a round, short, rotund little ball of lard-colored dough with squinty eyes. His boyfriend was a thin, lanky Canadian with a head of copper-colored hair that came straight out of a bottle. He wasn’t attractive in any traditional sense, but he was a live wire of sexual electricity. When I say the red-head was Canadian, I don’t mean he was originally from Quebec or anything. He was an illegal immigrant, in the U.S. without permission for years and unable to get any job except for those that paid under the table in cash. As I said, they were a little odd. But we used to go out to dinner together, or to the movies; sometimes we’d go shopping for CDs together or out to the mall for an afternoon. I enjoyed their company.

The red-headed boyfriend was slutting around behind the roly-poly one’s back, though. He was always taking me aside and telling me who’d barebacked him that week. After he saw a couple of my dick shots, he started begging me to fuck him. We wouldn’t have to tell his boyfriend. It would be our secret.

I resisted for quite a long time. Months, actually. I have my limits, though, and finally after months of being hounded and flattered, I reached them. I told the red-head that if he came over to my place and kept it from his boyfriend, I’d fuck and breed him.

The night came. The red-head got to my place. He’d barely been there for three minutes, though—I mean, the most I got him to do was kick off his shoes—when he got a phone call from his boyfriend back home. The boyfriend had seen a couple of the emails he’d sent me that afternoon arranging what time he was coming over, rightly assumed the worst, and called him up in hysterics to confront him.

Well, the red-head locked himself into my bedroom and proceeded to fight with his boyfriend for a solid ninety minutes. They yelled, they cried, they whispered, they yelled some more. I sat outside feeling awkward and a little bit miserable. Finally the red-head came out, shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “I guess I better go,” and shuffled out the front door.

I thought that was the bad part. But no.

The next day I got a phone call from the red-head while I was at work. He told me that my attempt at wrecking the relationship that he had with his boyfriend had failed, and that they were staying together after all. Then he said that he’d only offered to sleep with me because I was old and probably wouldn’t get any better offers, and because he felt sorry for me. “Are you telling me I’m a pity fuck?” I asked, horrified. He said that yes, that’s exactly what I was, then wished me a nice life.

Within a couple of weeks I found out that he and his boyfriend were telling people around town that I’d tried to break them up. I got cut dead by mutual acquaintances who informed me they didn’t want to talk to men who attempted to come between such a lovely, perfect couple. It was quite honestly one of the all-time lows of my thirties; I don’t know quite why I bought into the notion that I could only be someone’s pity fuck, but the insult cut deeply enough that I couldn’t shake it. And when I was being shunned for being a homewrecker, too—well. It put me into a rage.

Nowadays I think it’s all ridiculous. The red-head and his roly-poly boyfriend constructed some kind of fictional narrative between them that I was the bad guy who’d tried to become the wedge in their rock-solid relationship; the red-head convinced him that it was only his pity and his drive to be a sexual Good Samaritan, I suppose, that prompted him to give in to my disgusting propositions. I mean, look. I saw the red-head at the bathhouse, slutting around bareback without permission, basically every time I went, for years after. (I ignored him.) But at the time, I just ground my teeth helplessly.

Then after a few weeks of seething I gave in and left an anonymous tip about him on the Immigration Department’s hotline.

Pity fuck, my ass, motherfucker! (*mic drop*)

So yeah. I’ve done it.

Have you ever dropped a guy because of some little stupid thing that could be fixed, but it was easier to drop him than bring it up? I broke up with a guy over his cell phone case (I hated it, if you can’t guess). I guess I’m wondering if I’m shallow, LOL.

Oh sure, I’ve done it. Again, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done it.

When I was in graduate school I started seeing a guy I met online. In 1989 or 1990, going online meant connecting your black and white computer with a phone wire into a ginormous 400 baud modem and signing onto a service like Prodigy, where you’d post cryptic notes about being straight-acting on public bulletin boards. Then you’d exchange two-line private messages with a guy until you’d agreed to hook up. So yeah, except for the fact that it would’ve taken hours to transmit even the grainiest of tiny photos over a 400-baud modem, not so very different than Scruff.

The guy I was seeing was married. Big dicked. Kind of a hot body. He liked to come to my graduate student apartment and take over the place. He’d strut in, whip off his belt, drop his pants, fall onto my sofa with his legs spread wide, then order me to suck his dick. If I was a good boy, he’d flip me over and fuck me hard on the floor. Then he’d pull up his slacks, button up, nod, and walk out the door. A few times a week, he might drop by. I dug his direct approach.

But there was one little thing that bugged the hell out of me. Whenever I would kneel to suck the guy, I would get a whiff of something. He was fine when we were standing; he smelled like the cheap cologne his wife liked him to wear. Down there on my knees, though, fuck. The smell would be so rank that I’d gag. It’s tough to describe the scent. It was a little bit like a swamp. A lot like an infected wound. Much like a corpse. It was just wrong.

It wasn’t his dick. His cock was very clean; the skin beneath his head was free of smegma. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t his balls. He didn’t have a funky ass smell. The odor that was making my eyes water was the kind of stank you might expect if a morbidly obese person got a small piece of raw beef trapped in one of the folds of his belly, only to have it emerge completely rotten at the end of a few weeks. But the dude wasn’t obese. He didn’t have folds. It was a complete mystery.

The one thing that turns me from sex hound to sex-averse on the turn of a dime is a nasty smell. I’ll lose an erection permanently if I get a whiff of something bad, mid-sex. I suppose I could’ve said “Hey, you stink. Can you fix that in the shower so I can get back to sucking you?” At the time, though, it just seemed a lot easier to drop him. So I did.

Years later I had a bad case of the flu during which I didn’t shower as much as I normally do. Toward the end of my time as an invalid, I casually stuck my finger in my navel and, as one does, sniffed it. (Oh, shut up. You know you do.) Immediately I reeled. The scent was so familiar from my days in front of that guy’s cock that I had flashbacks. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the dude simply never washed his belly button. Ever.

So if we’re every showing together and you see me lathering my navel for what seems an unusually long time, now you’ll know why. I scrub that fucker daily.

Have you ever had anyone shit in your mouth during sex? Intentionally or non.

Oh god, yes. It was totally non. Just to be clear.

A note to the weak of stomach: you might want to skip the rest of this reply.

I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this guy before in these pages, but I had sex with a local guy a couple of years ago who was very aggressive about having me eat out his ass. We were having a good time about it. He was sitting on my face, grinding his hole on my beard and moaning while he called out, “Eat me out, fucker! Eat me out good!”

I was mumbling out an enthusiastic reply to the best of my ability with a hundred and thirty pounds of New Yorker on my face, when suddenly the guy bent over and—I think—attempted to push out his hole so I could get better access to it. Unfortunately, he pushed a little hard. The guy had attempted to clean himself out before coming over, and though he’d douched, he’d neglected to evacuate all the water still in his colon. So when he pushed, I got a partial mouthful and a definite face full of a brownish liquid that had a consistency not unlike thin diarrhea.

The guy was offended when I leapt up howling. And he never understood why I refused ever to see him again.

Another more recent occurrence was over the summer, when I was seeing someone who really turned me on for a few weeks. He liked to brag about his anal hygiene. “I’m always squeaky clean,” he’d say. “You can fuck me anyplace, anytime, and I’ll always be squeaky clean.”

Squeaky clean. Hah. I was seeing him for the sixth or seventh time over the summer and I had hoped to spend some quality time down at his hole, munching away. About five minutes into my intensive butt-eating, though, I sensed something was amiss. My face smelled, to put it bluntly, like a baby’s diaper.

As I said, bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my erection. I like to think I’m a little more adept at handling these things now, though. “Hey,” I told him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re not as squeaky clean as usual.”

“I’m always squeaky clean!” he protested.

I wiped my face off on the towel he kept handy and showed it to him. He had to admit that not everything was squeaky clean.

So he took me into his shower. Once the water was warm, he washed off my face and soaped up his ass. He had one of those wand extensions installed, so he shoved it up his hole and douched out again. Then he had me kneel, while the water was still running (it was quite a large shower, custom built), pulled apart his ass cheeks, and had me inspect his hole once more. “Now I’m squeaky clean,” he said, pushing a little bit to turn his hole out.

Once again, it was a case of pushing just a little too hard. A hard little turdlet, about the size of a piece of dog kibble, shot out of his ass and hit me in the middle of my forehead with a ping! My patience tried, I told him what happened. He retrieved the still-hard kibble from where it had bounced, tossed it in the toilet, then turned around and started pissing on my face.

I think he still wonders why I’ve refused to see him again, too.

Sunday, September 13, 2015


I’m writing a little today about words.

For about a year now I’ve had a mild crush on a minor celebrity. Wait. My puppy love has pushed the definition of ‘celebrity’ about a mile past the much-contested boundary where it already lies muddied by the present-day culture of Snapchat fame. This guy who’s been the object of my infatuation is the brother of a female minor celebrity who, despite being an actress in small roles on a couple of shows that watchers of cable programming might have seen at one time or another, isn’t exactly a household name.

(Of course, I could just skip all the mystery and name names. But I won’t, and I’ll ask my readers not to either, simply because I don’t want people typing in the guy’s name into Google along and having a sex blog appear at the top of the search list. I’m a gentleman, after all. Once in a while, anyway.)

The only reason at all I know of the actress’ brother is because he appears on YouTube with his sister once a week in a regular feature in which the pair of them play vintage video games. These short segments usually consist of the siblings shouting obscenities at each other at the tops of their pretty considerable lungs. Hey, as someone who has shouted plenty of obscenities at video games in his lifetime (I’m probably doing it right now, as you read), I find their antics pretty amusing.

What I’m leading up to, in my shaggy dog story of an introduction here, is that this last week in their celebration of retro gaming, the pair were playing some outdated cartridge-based game from the mid-nineties. The brother was trouncing his more famous sister pretty soundly. Furious, she started yelling at him that he was cheating by using the power-ups the game was liberally providing. The brother, scissoring his legs furiously, fibbed and denied it all. “I’m barebackin’ it here!” he shouted back. “I’m raw-doggin’ this mother, dude! I’m barebackin’ it!”

Well, lawks-a-mercy. Gracious me! Must fan myself at the memory.

Anyway, once the blood came back into my brain after that explicit little exchange, it got me wondering: how’s this dude know what barebacking is? And does he want to do it with me?
And more interestingly to my wandering mind, how often do straight guys use the word barebacking to refer to unprotected sex, anyway? I honestly don’t know, but I’d be interested in finding out.

The word bareback and its origins intrigue me because I feel a bit as if I were there at the start of its use. Long before sites like BBRT, long before bareback movies were their own profit margin, before bareback was reduced to part of an inane goddamned hashtag, guys fucked other guys without protection as a matter of course. Men were accustomed to sticking their dicks in each other’s holes for countless generations without wrapping them in latex. Condoms were never a consideration for gay men; not having to use them, ever, was considered one of the few perks to being gay in a less enlightened age. Only in the face of the devastating effects of the AIDS epidemic did we start changing our behavior . . . or choose not to.

I was in college when the news about the gay plague started to spread. I had a standing subscription to the Village Voice that was my lifeline to a world larger than lacrosse, Lacoste, and the Greek pledge system that were the obsessions of the small Southern college I attended. I devoured its pages, memorized names and places as if there’d be a pop quiz at any moment, and drank in the New York sophistication. It was sometime during my sophomore year that I started reading about ‘gay cancer’ spreading through the community. Within months, they’d renamed the syndrome GRID. It was one of those moments in history when for a very long time the language we were destined to use for decades following was still in flux. We didn’t have the concept of HIV in the scientific realm yet; we didn’t even know the word AIDS. That vocabulary would be nailed down soon enough. For a while—a scary while—we didn’t even have the language beyond concepts like death and sickness and fear to discuss what was happening.

I think what most people fail to remember, or simply don’t realize, was how much confusion we experienced in those early days of the plague. Without a definite cause yet established, and with so many people throwing out theories of what could be causing the chaos, it seemed as if the rules of how we were supposed to protect ourselves changed daily. One week we’d be assured it was definitely something coming from overseas. We’d be okay if we didn’t fuck around with foreigners. Then suddenly a scientist would say something in the papers about how perhaps poppers were involved. It was something in the poppers, we’d rush around telling ourselves. A bad batch, maybe. Something that happened with poppers abuse. One week we’d be told there’d be a cure within months; the next we’d be gravely informed to dig in for the long haul.

The combination of half-informed scientific assertions and real fear led us to some real Chicken Little behavior, making us run around squawking that the sky was falling while indulging in superstitious nonsense in the hopes that we might be spared.

I felt remote enough from the epidemic’s center not to feel immediately threatened. That false sense of security didn’t keep me from reading the news, week by week in the Voice, to see what they were saying about it. It wasn’t too long before the epidemic was making national headlines, of course. When finally HIV had been identified, we were told by serious government officials that we were all to wear condoms and never exchange fluids, ever again. To a lot of lock-step millennials accustomed to obeying and never questioning the orders of a higher authority, the prescription seems reasonable. But we were a generation of men who were already flouting the law every time we dropped our pants with another man. The sex we were having was illegal in many if not all states. The ways we had to seek it was illegal. If we’d been listening to the state and federal governments in which we’d grown up, we wouldn’t have been congregating, much less copulating.

Enforced condom use—each and every time—was a sexual regimen that a lot of gay men couldn’t take seriously. Condoms had long been the things straight guys wore when they didn’t want to make babies. Condoms were for breeders. They weren’t something that any gay man had ever bought in his lifetime, much less use. Sure, it said on the box that they could prevent disease, but even youngsters like me knew those warnings was some real World War II shit. Straight men hadn’t used condoms to avoid syphilis since the Army handed them out to privates after the Liberation of Paris. Bosses bought rubbers to prevent their secretaries from having babies. That’s what condoms were for.

I first stumbled across the term bareback in the dawn of the internet age. Although I was using the computer to hook up as early as 1989 with the Prodigy system (gawd help me), it was a couple of years later when I started dialing into other networks that I discovered IRC—internet relay chat. IRC was a primitive network by any standards, though like roaches after a holocaust, it’s proved pretty much indestructible over the years. One joined channels like #gay or #gaysex to chat with and meet like-minded men. Although the channels usually never held more than thirty or forty people at a time, I had a pretty good success rate in scoring fucks. There may have been more local gay channels to join. My memory is foggy on that point.

I’m not sure how I found the channel. I think a trick of mine landed in it, or I was invited by someone I knew. But I landed in the IRC #bareback channel sometime in 1991. It was long before hashtags, long before bareback films, long before bareback web sites, and long before straight boys were shouting it at the tops of their lungs during video games. Bareback. It was a new word that only a few dozen people were using to describe something that generations of us had done when we’d shoved our raw cocks into another man’s ass. Bareback. It sounded masculine—the kind of thing that cowboys did. With stallions. Cowboys and stallions were more appealing, sexually, than anything that clinicians were coming up with.

The term authorities used for the act, unprotected sex, sounded cold, sterile unappealing, just like it was supposed to. No one was going to call up a guy and growl, “Come over and let me perpetrate unprotected sex on you.” If you got a phone call from someone demanding, “Let me bareback that ass,” though. Yeah. You’d hop in the shower and drive halfway across town for that, right?

As a new word for something very old, bareback had the advantage of sounding both wicked and transgressive. It got the point across. For a while, if anyone actually brought up the word, you could be pretty sure they were into it. Its abbreviation, bb, was a code that worked just as well. You like bb?, you could ask someone online. If they knew what it meant, they were into it. If they had no clue, it was easy to cover your ass and say you mistyped, or maybe were abbreviating the endearment baby. Something. Anything. They wouldn't know.

For a long time, it really felt as if the new slang word were ours—that is, it seemed to belong to those of us who were actually engaging in the act. And it stayed like that for years, until the mid-nineties, when web browsing overtook the world of homegrown dial-up bulletin boards and AOL and IRC. The web changed everything. We had sites like Bareback City, and the beginnings of Bareback Jack. Guys who’d previously only employed the word in secret corners and private bulletin boards were putting their bareback preference into profiles that many, many more people were seeing—and the safe-sex adherents were noticing. Visibility got the word attention.

Suddenly just as many people were using barebacker as a pejorative, a demonization of those who choosing raw fucking and its risks as the sex they preferred to have. The mainstream press started to write articles about the legions of dangerous, evil, gay barebackers who lurked online and perverted the innocent, conveniently choosing to ignore the fact that in real life, people of all orientations had sex without condoms. Straight people in particular were still barebacking each other in record numbers on a daily basis. A word we’d chosen—a word that had seemed so liberating and exciting in its early days—started to be used against us.

It still is, of course, by those who see it as a derogatory. And for those who see it as a badge of pride, it gets used in all kinds of ways. It’s just a word. A word we take for granted. I think it’s valuable to remember there was a time before this when it was new, and unknown, and not at all guaranteed to become the slang we use daily.

But by and large, though, except when it’s employed by the mainstream press for its shock value, I’d assumed that the gay population had largely reserved the right to the use of the word bareback. Hearing it shouted between brother and sister on a mainstream video channel, over the electronic, bleeping soundtrack of a video game from twenty years ago, got me thinking about how long the word has been not only been around, but a part of my day-to-day life.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Transition

The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.

Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.

But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.

He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.

“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.

Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.

I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.

He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!

My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.

Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.

“Suck me,” I urge.

“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”

“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.

“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”

There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.

It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.

That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.

“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.

Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.

“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.

“So get to work,” I tell him.

Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?

I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.

The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”

“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”

It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.

The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.

He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”

I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.

Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Bate and Switch

The old bait and switch—when the guy opens his door to reveal a self completely different from the photos he’s sent. Maybe the photos are ten, fifteen years out of date. Maybe he’s gained a hundred pounds. Maybe years of partying has added sags and wrinkles or an unhealthy pallor to a once-handsome face.

The last time it happened to me was about three years ago, when a guy on Adam4Adam lured me to his remote cottage using some photos of a young, worked-out, furry body only to show up at the door in a woman’s lacy robe with all the physical fitness of a late-day Ron Jeremy. I balked on the front stoop, and it showed; the guy had to physically grab my wrists and yank me over the threshold to get me into his home. Even then, after I asserted that I was very disappointed he felt the need to lie so blatantly about his build and age, he couldn’t believe I was leaving without fucking. “But you wouldn’t have come if you’d know I looked like this!” was his yelled backwards logic, as I returned down the driveway to my car.

The shirtless fellow who answers the door of the Provincetown hotel room, late this Tuesday night, though—he looks like his photos. Exactly like, in fact. Short, lean, muscular, with a furry chest and a treasure trail that leads down into his cargo shorts, between a pair of obliques that obscenely slant to the goods below. A beard of light brown fur covers his face; his eyes are big, brown, and sparkling. The dude is hot enough to be some kind of porn star, frankly. I’m itching to get inside him.

“Glad you could come,” he says in a deep and masculine voice.

“My pleasure,” I say, trying to match his bass.

“Glenn,” he says, holding out his hand. I tell him my name, and let him give me a strong and manly shake.

Well, I’m thinking to myself. I’ve lucked out with this furry little fucker. He is going to feel mighty good slicked up and wrapped around my dick. I’m practically licking my chops at the sight of his buns bouncing in those oversized shorts as I follow him down the short passage from door to bed. And then, once I step from the shadows into the bedroom’s light, I stop short. There’s another man on the bed I hadn’t known about. Naked, sitting on the sheets with the duvet pooled around the foot of the mattress.

“Oh, this is my boyfriend, Mark,” says Glenn. Casual-like. As if the presence of a nude third is nothing to write home about.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend with you,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“No? You sure?” says Glenn, sounding all the world like he was one hundred percent certain he’d mentioned it. He hadn’t.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”


“I don’t mind three-ways.” The guy on the bed is maybe in his late twenties. He’s got a pair of barbell piercings in his nipples and a smooth boyish chest. A shock of blond hair spills over his forehead and into his eyes, which dart back and forth as he follows the conversation. There’s something about the way he wrinkles his forehead and the amount of concentration he’s exerting that makes me think maybe English isn’t his first language . . . but I might just be spitballing that idea in my head. “I’ll fuck you both.”

“Oh,” says Glenn, looking kind of blank. He gestures at the blond. “It’s him I want you to fuck.”

“You said,” and in my mind I’m thinking and I quote, “’I need your big thick cock up my ass, buddy.’”

Glenn seems absolutely flabbergasted that I could’ve interpreted such a message to mean that he needed my big thick cock up his ass, buddy. “He’s the one who needs a fucking.” He points to the blond kid, then crosses his arms. And waits.

I interpret the stance to mean a challenge. Put up, or shut up and get out. Inwardly I’m kicking myself, though. Fucking bait and switch. And I walked right into it, too. I could just walk the fuck out—and I should, just to show them.

On the other hand, the kid is pretty sexy. I would definitely have fucked him if he’d approached on his own. And I enjoy having an audience. So without saying a word more, I kick off my sandals, unbutton my jeans. Glenn nods with approval and moves over to my side to help me off with my t-shirt.

The kid, in the meantime, digs into the mattress with his heels and scooches himself over to the mattress’ edge. His feet clutch the edge of the bed like a monkey’s as he bends his neck and dives for my cock. I feel his fingers scrabbling in the edge of my shorts to yank them down, and then the sensation of wet warmth around my dick. He brings me to hardness quickly. Any resentments I might have about the situation evaporate when I see his blue eyes looking up at me, craving praise for his performance. “Yeah,” I say, as I stroke that blond hair out of his eyes. “Good boy.”

“He’s good, huh?” asks Glenn. He’s shucked the cargo pants. There’s nothing beneath them save for a chrome cock ring. His fat little dick has a slight curve; it fits nicely in the palm of his hand. He takes a couple of steps and lands at the top of the bed with his back against the wall, where he starts masturbating as he watches. “Trained him myself.”

“Nice job,” I say, sparing him a quick glance. The sight of Glenn stroking his dick while he watches me is hot, but I’m enjoying watching Mark more. The kid knows how to suck. What’s more, he’s got a hunger for it. “He is a very good boy.” The praise has a narcotic effect on the kid. His muscles relax; his eyes close halfway. He loves hearing it. “He’s real pretty, too.”

“Fuck, don’t I know it,” said Glenn. He’s fisting his rod now; his hand is wrapped around that thing so tightly the head’s a dark beet red.

“How’s he fuck?” I ask, after a few more slurps.

“Spin the little cocksucker around and find out,” Glenn suggests.

I let my dick linger in the moist recesses of Mark’s mouth for a moment. Then I pull out and motion that he should change positions. The kid has been playing with his hole with one hand and using the other to position my cock, the entire time. Now he’s assuming the position like a champ—butt up, back nicely arched, legs spread at the perfect width. I spit on my fingers and spread it around his already-wet hole. It only takes a couple of fingers to judge that this hole is already well-stretched and much-fucked. My suspicions are confirmed when I shove in my cockhead and meet with zero resistance.

I slide in to the hilt. At the bottom I rest. He starts squeezing and milking me almost immediately. “Fuck,” I say. It’s not voluntary—just sheer reaction.

“Told ya,” says Glenn.

He seems content just to sit there, bating away as he watches. From time to time as I fuck he’ll reach up and squeeze one of his nipples. Once he reaches over to the bedstand and from the litter of bottles retrieves a container of poppers that he holds to his nose and inhales from, deeply. He holds it out to me with raised eyebrows. I shake my head.

“Sniff,” Glenn says to his boyfriend. The kid’s neck cranes out to reach the bottle. He takes a whiff, but Glenn grabs the top of his head like a basketball and forces it down against the brown glass neck for a sustained period of time. He gives Mark a moment to recuperate, then repeats the ritual once more with the other nostril. When Mark inhales the vapors, his ass blossoms around me; his hole becomes softer. Wetter. Slicker. More fuckable. I haven’t inhaled a fucking thing and already the aphrodisiac is working for me.

I’ve got one foot up on the mattress and the other planted on the carpet as I plow in and out of this boy’s open hole. Even though we’ve only used spit for lube, the pubes around the base of my cock are matted and wet, like they’ve been soaked. The kid’s producing his own lube. Some guys are better about that than others, that’s for sure. I can see my dick’s nearly as red and flushed as Glenn’s, as he beats away at the top of the bed.

“I’m gonna breed him,” I say at last.

It’s not a question. I’m not asking for permission. Glenn knows. He nods. “That’s what he’s for, buddy,” he says. Then, to his boyfriend he adds, “Wanna get bred by the nice man? Want your hole seeded by this total stranger?”

“Yes,” says Mark in a strangled sob. It’s the first word he’s said. Like I suspected, there’s a Germanic tinge to his accent. “I want to be bred.”

“Do it, then.” Glenn’s voice has an edge now. He’s close, I can tell. “Breed the little fucker.”
He gets himself off with his own words. Cum shoots out of his dick an onto his fur. There’s a string of them up and down his chest, all the way up to his neck, each one the color of pearl. “Fuck,” he exclaims, still shuddering. “Fuck!”

I’m too lost in the flow of my own orgasm to reply. It washes over me in waves, each stronger than the previous. I’m drowning in the sensation of it, unable for a few moments even to see. Then the waves ebb and I’m left panting with my dick half-out of the kid’s asshole. It flops out completely when he crawls forward to lick the semen from his boyfriend’s chest. Then he lays prone, limbs sprawled, with his head between Glenn’s inner thighs.

It’s a pretty tableau. I watch Glenn stroke his boyfriend’s hair for a moment. Then I reach for my tee, ready to head out.

“Hey hey hey,” says Glenn. His eyes meet mine, but they drop down to the pendulous weapon between my legs. It’s softened somewhat, but not completely. “I don’t think you’re done.”

I raise my eyebrows. “It’s kinda late. . . .”

There’s an awkward moment while Glenn attempts to untangle himself from Mark’s limbs. But finally he detaches himself from the limp shell of his boyfriend and stands. He struts over, stands directly in front of me, and uses his hand to pull my face to his. Our lips wrestle in a rough kiss. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’ve gotta. . . .”

“You don’t have to go,” he repeats. “Not yet.” He stares me in the eye, then turns around. His knees connect with the edge of the mattress. He spreads them wide, lowers his chest, and arches his back. His round ass parts to reveal a hole surrounded by fur. “Get the lube,” he orders his boyfriend.

My cock comes back to life, rising to meet the challenge. He’s right. I don’t have to go. Not yet.

Bait and switch. Fuck yes.