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 Maybe the photos are ten, fifteen years out of date.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.

Monday, July 13, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Camp

Usually beneath Provincetown’s dick dock I’m paying attention to only two things: either the man bent over or kneeling in front of me, or else the periphery where hostile intruders might suddenly appear. I’m not worried so much about the cops, really. I understand they’ve descended upon the secluded cruising spot from time to time. There are other outside forces to worry about. Unsuspecting hetero couples mistakenly wandering down this particular stretch of sand, for example. Maybe some straight guys looking to make trouble. It’s best never to get too complacent in public sex situations, no matter how safe they seem.

It’s a weird night, though, and for the last several minutes I’ve not really been doing much of anything. I’ve got my shoulder resting on a girder deep in the shadows, my right hand’s in my pocket, my left hooked by the thumb in a belt loop with the fingers draped decorously over the half-hard cock pointing to my hip bone. Guys are shuffling in the sand back and forth in front of me, but for the moment I’m not liking what’s on parade.

Then I see a streak of something out of the corner of my eye. My focus shifts to the beach. Although beneath the deck it’s pitch dark, the beach beyond the dock is light brightly by the resort’s floodlights above our heads. Down the beach, trotting on little feet, is what for split seconds I think is a dog. Then I notice the large triangular ears, the reddish-brown coat, the bushy tail, and I realize that I’m watching a fox scampering down the beach toward the center of town.

That’s unexpected.

A man stops in front of me. I haven’t been paying attention to the crowd, so rapt I’ve been in puzzling what a fox might be pursuing down the beach on a Saturday night. I take stock of the guy as best as I can in the small measure of light reflected off the water. He’s of average height. Athletic. He’s wearing a spandex top that hugs his muscles, and the way he’s thrust his hands into his pockets shows off his brawny forearms. His hair is cropped short. He rocks from side to side, his hips pointed in my direction as he studies me back. He must like what he sees; he steps forward.

I unhook my thumb from my belt loop and hold out my upheld hand. It’s the universal sign of invitation, in this dark climate. He steps forward and rests his crotch in the cup of my palm. He unzips, pulls apart his jeans, thrusts forward about six and a half inches of hard cock, and waits. Just waits.

Fuck. Like I said, it’s been a weird evening—all cock feeders and no cocksuckers. At that moment I’ve already swallowed down five loads from guys like this, guys who just unzip and wait for service. I’d like a little service myself, you know. But these cocks aren’t going to suck themselves, and I happen to be good at it. Considering the five loads in my belly, good and efficient.

My knees are buried in cool sand; I’ll be washing the black flecks of the New England seashore from the crevices for days. The stranger likes what I’m doing to his cock; he’s grabbing what short hair I have and pulling my mouth down on the shaft to make me swallow every last inch and then some. “Yeah,” he growls in a light tenor. “There’s a good cocksucker. Make it feel good. Make it feel real good.”

I’m liking the way his cock tastes—clean, still soapy from a recent shower. His pubes smell fresh as he grinds them against my nose and cheeks. “Lick my balls,” he commands, pushing me down by the back of the head.

I obey. I pop one, then both of his shaved nuts into my mouth. He spits out obscenities in a low voice as I swirl my tongue over their surface. His inches thrust into the air, still slick and shining with my spit, waiting for my mouth to engulf it once more.

My mouth. Any mouth. A cock like that doesn’t usually dry off beneath the dock. Before I can return my attention to that dick, another cocksucker falls to his knees to my left and consumes it. He’s so hungry for the meat that he forces me off the guy’s nuts.

That’s okay. The guy getting sucked helps me to my feet and reaches for my cock. I’ve been squeezing but not beating it during the blow jobs I’ve been giving, though I’ve been tempted to beat off during this last. I’ve seen this cocksucker before. I remember him from last year, actually; he was a German guy who took my cock in his holes and attempted to make me walk back with him a long distance to the trailer park in the town’s west end. He’s a good looking guy, though—and more to the point, good with his mouth. “Good boy,” says the guy next to me. He runs a hand through the German’s curly hair.

I run my hand over the man’s Spandex-clad chest. He helps me out by lift it up over his head and wearing it, yoke-like, over his shoulders, leaving his muscular chest bare. It’s sparsely hairy, and firm beneath my hands. He reaches out and plays with my nipples. “Your turn,” he tells me, pulling out his cock from the German’s mouth with an audible plop.

The German opens wide and takes all of my meat without effort. He’s deep-throating me effortlessly, taking my cock in seconds from dry everywhere except around the tip to sopping wet from head to base. I groan a little. “Yeah, he’s a beautiful little cocksucker, isn’t he?” asks the shirtless guy. I’m betting it’s a rhetorical question.

After a moment I withdraw, and guide the German’s head to my buddy’s cock. “Suck daddy,” he commands. The German grunts loudly and opens wide. “Oh-ho!” chuckles the guy. “Did you see that? He loves his daddy’s dick. Suck it, boy.”

Even in the dark it’s obvious how much the German is digging the dad/son talk. He’s moaning around the guy’s dick, sputtering saliva and precum so far that it spatters against my own skin. The guy ups the ante. “My own son, suckin’ on his daddy’s big dick. Yeah, just like I taught him. You love the dick that made you, huh, boy? Now, suck your uncle again.”

We’re attracting a bit of a crowd, now. The two or three guys who had been crowding in to watch turns into four or five, and then seven or eight. More guys are standing on the sidelines to watch the action between the three of us. “Yeah, my son’s sucking on his uncle’s big dick. Big dicks run in this family, huh?” announces the self-styled dad of our group. “Takin’ my boy on his first camping trip. Teachin’ him what being a man is all about. You like your camping trip, son? You learning lots?”

Honestly, I’m rolling my eyes a little bit at this point. To me, dirty talk or roleplay is like salt or pepper at a meal. Used sparingly, it’s great. A little bit even enhances the flavor. Too much just insults the cook. And this guy is just ladling it on, at this point. “Dad and his big brother are loving his little boy’s mouth on this camping trip, I tell you! Little boy’s going to go home a man!”, the guy’s saying loudly, so that everyone in the immediate vicinity can hear.

Corny as I find the chatter, though, I’m not leaving. I’m getting good head every now and again. And shocking as my readers will find the confession, I like an audience.

But then it just gets weird. “Maybe I should dress him up in his little sister’s panties, make him bitch out his cunt to daddy and his uncle, too! Get him back in that trailer and show him how daddy fucks little sissy boys!” The German, though. He’s so excited by everything that’s going on—the dirty chat, the cocks going down his gullet, the crowd—that he’s pushed over the edge. He makes a high-pitched whine as his throat engulfs my dick; I feel moisture spew from his nostrils into my pubes. Then, as he convulses on the sand, jerking back and forth, I feel another moisture all over my toes. His load spatters onto my feet and sandals. It’s a violent orgasm. He nearly chokes on my dick as he comes.

Then, abruptly, it’s over. “Come on, son, suck daddy’s dick like he taught you,” says the guy. But the German’s having none of it. It’s over. Gulping for air, he struggles to his feet. A few men from the crowd grab at him, trying to cajole him into giving them attention, but he’s done. He shoves them off and stumbles away toward the east end of the dock, where stairs lead back to the street.

The crowd realizes there’s no more show. They evaporate like a popped soap bubble. All that’s left is the other guy and myself. He laughs slightly as he pulls the Spandex back over his head, and I try to stuff my still-hard cock back into my pants. “You can’t be arrested for what’s only in your head, right?” he says, slapping me on the chest. “Know what I mean?”

Somehow it seems to me that if you’ve told a crowd of strangers and a couple of sex partners a pretty involved fantasy, it’s not merely in one’s head any longer. But whatever. “Fair enough,” I tell him, before he walks off in the opposite direction.

In my periphery, I see another streak of reddish fur. Another fox, running down the beach in the same direction as the first. Or is the same fox, circled back to make the route once more? I watch it chase its invisible prey until it disappears from where the pools of light from the floods end and the shadows begin.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done

So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.

It’s just a little much on my nerves.

I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.




So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.

There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.

Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.

There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.

A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.

I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.

I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.

I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.

They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.

As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”

“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.

Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.

I just nod. I expect him to get it done.

Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.

Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.

The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.

The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”

I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

No Man's Land

The first cruisy restroom I discovered in my youth lurked in a forgotten basement corner of the downtown public library of the town in which I grew up. Even calling it a ‘downtown’ is a little bit of an overstatement. Nominally the library was only two blocks from one of the town’s busier intersections, where the buildings were at their highest—but compared to the places I’ve lived since, I’ve realized that what I thought of in the nineteen-seventies as our bustling Southern metropolis was fairly podunk. The highest architecture there scraped the sky from four stories off the ground. Our biggest attraction was a Planter’s Peanuts shop, where a mechanical Mr. Peanut sign limned in neon lowered and raised his top hat a slow, metronomic style and the fragrant smell of hot nuts enticed hungry visitors.

But to someone searching for excitement, downtown was the place I wanted to be. I grew up in an age diametrically opposite to the current era of helicopter parenting. My folks pushed me out the door at every opportunity. They were thrilled to let me board a bus that would take me from our sleepy neighborhood with its one-room branch library to the downtown area, where the new library building offered opportunity after opportunity for illicit sex.

The main library had been built around and on top of an older building. Although the bulk of the circulating books were in the brightly-lit newer section, where patrons bustled around to find their reading material for the week, and students congregated at the big birch tables to study. There were restrooms in the new section, but they were antiseptic, busy, and devoid of action.

No, the real action took place in the building’s neglected no-man’s-land, where shadows and echoes alike gathered. I’d detour from the bright lights and low ceilings and take my business to the existing older section of the building, where the hallways were made of dark stone. The only people who ventured into this area were those visiting the music archives, where patrons shut themselves into glass booths to listen to scratchy classical LPs or pore over old operatic scores among the musty stacks. The men’s room was at the bottom of the basement staircase. There was a children’s library at the basement’s other end, but it had its own facilities and entrance. There weren’t any stacks or offices or amenities here. Anyone who ventured into this particular section was either lost, or there specifically to visit this bathroom.

I’d first discovered this particular restroom in the heady days of exploration after I’d read in the notoriously homophobic sex manual Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)—which happened to be the only sex manual my parents owned, and which they’d casually given me to read when I was ten—that homosexuals gathered in bowling alley restrooms in order to meet and have sex with each other. Since my part of town lacked a bowling alley, I figured that our local homosexuals were probably having to improvise in other venues . . . and thus there was a period of a couple of years in which I would Nancy Drew every public restroom I came across.

The two-stall basement men’s room turned out to be the first place where I found traces of cruisers’ graffiti. I need somebody to suck my sock, read a scrawl on the tiles followed by a recent date, the first time I went there. Sock-sucking sounded exotic (and erotic) in my imagination for several days. Not until a week of rubbing myself at the thought of it had passed did it occur to me that some other wag had added an extra curlicue to the original cruiser’s C, neatly turning it into an S. I frotted all the more furiously at that realization.

It was in that basement I encountered my first gloryhole of sorts. Peep hole, really. The library had taken out the original toilet paper holder on the wall between the stalls and left the smallest of holes to peek through. Usually men sat on the toilet and immediately stuffed small twists of tissue into the hole to prevent voyeurism, but there were men who, upon seeing my iris reflecting back at them through the tiny fissure, would immediately stand up and show me their wares. Most of the first glimpses of a partial erect cock I ever saw were through that tiny hole. The gloryhole at my parents’ college was larger and had more activity, but there was something inescapably erotic about seeing a man’s meat through that narrow hole, one inch at a time.

When I finally screwed up the courage to have sex in the restrooms a couple of years later, the library basement was one of the first places I returned. I’d lost my oral and anal virginity the week before and was raring for more. I remember how hard my heart beat during my descent down that twisting staircase from in front of the music listening rooms to the basement. By the time I reached the basement, the pounding sounded like timpani.

The restroom was empty when I sat down, but I didn’t have long to wait. I’d only just shut my stall door and pulled down my pants when I heard footsteps echoing along the hallway outside. The door creaked open a moment later, and I heard footsteps cross the floor. The man went straight to the other stall beside mine, closed the door, and played with the buckle of his pants. I heard them drop to the floor.

I looked through the little peephole, and saw motion. The man was leaning down to look underneath the stall; I could see the top of his back bob into view as he attempted to see who was sitting next to him. I knew what to do by that point. I raised and lowered the front half of my foot, keeping the heel firmly on the floor. A casual tap of the foot. Nothing forbidden about that.

His own shiny black shoe tapped. My turn. I moved my foot a little closer to the partition. Let it rest for a brief moment. Then lifted and lowered the toes once more. He responded in kind. Our feet were only a good dozen inches apart. I moved mine to close ten of those inches, and tapped once again.
Then his foot touched mine, seemingly sending electricity through my spine. I dropped my hand and held it right underneath the stall, my fingers cupped to give a resting place for his cock. He withdrew his foot almost immediately. I heard him pull off a length of toilet paper. Then, a moment later, he thrust a scroll of it beneath the stall, wrapped around a ballpoint pen. How old are you? he’d written.

I was twelve. I had a baby face. I probably looked all of ten. I didn’t even have pubes. I didn’t want the guy thinking I was an unsophisticated virgin. 14, I wrote on the paper. I thought the number might make me sound like a jaded habitué of this dank haunt.

There was a long, long pause. The poor fellow was probably wondering what to do. It never really occurred to me during my jailbait days that I was putting anybody at risk with my age. Gay sex itself was outlawed; man-on-man contact between adults was already taboo and forbidden. Accosted homosexuals got written up in the newspapers and were drummed out of town. The situation was already grim in theory. Realistically, sex with a minor in those days probably really wouldn’t have made it any worse. At last the tip of the pen reappeared beneath the stall. I unfurled the toilet paper wrapped around it. If you stick your dick under the stall I’ll suck it, it read. If you come around to my stall and suck me off, I’ll give you $20.

I stuffed the note in my pocket. I still have it, somewhere. I pulled up, but didn’t fasten, my pants. A moment later, I stepped out of my stall and knocked at the door of his. He opened the door and welcomed me in.

The man had thick auburn hair and an impressively bushy red mustache and matching sideburns. He wore a plaid suit that must have looked fashionable in the pages of the previous year’s Montgomery Ward catalog. His pants were puddled around his ankles, though; in his hand he held a very thick six inches. We didn’t need formalities. He stood up, eased me around to the toilet, pulled down my pants, and took my cock in his mouth. I wasn’t a big boy then. My meat was long for my age, but very thin.

He had no problem taking the entire length into his mouth. He must have sensed how quickly he was getting me to orgasm, because he backed off when my thighs began to quiver, then sat me down. He stood up and pointed his dick at my mouth. “You know what to do?” he asked.

They were the only words he spoke that day. I knew what to do.

I opened wide and let him sink his cock into my mouth as deeply as he could plunge it. I was still a novice cocksucker, but I’d been given a few tips the week before. So I wrapped my lips around my teeth, kept them as moist as possible, and moved my head back and forth along the shaft. His thick head nearly choked me several times as it pounded the back of my throat. I kept going, though, trying not to sputter or choke and remember to gulp air whenever I could. After a minute I lifted my hand up to grab onto his big, very hairy balls.

It was the last action that pushed him over the edge. He took my skull in both of his big hands and held it stationary. In and out he started pistoning his dick, not really caring how well I was coping with my first face fucking. After a couple of minutes of that rough treatment, he pulled his dick all the way out, held it a moment . . . then plunged it back in to hold it there. I felt his cock contract and expand. The back of my mouth started to flood with his seed. The load was much more bitter—and bigger—than the first load I’d taken the week before. I wasn’t prepared for that much quantity. I kept swallowing and gulping, though, until he’d unloaded it all in me. When he pulled out, finally giving me a chance to breathe, his dick squirted out a little bit more. It dribbled onto my chin and onto my shirt.

The blow job left me half in love with the guy. I remember gazing up at him with puppy dog eyes, still hard and my own cock unsatisfied. He maneuvered himself in the little stall so that he could pull up those plaid pants and buckle that enormous belt of his. Then he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out a bill on it. I’d never seen Andrew Jackson on currency of my own before. That single bill represent about two months of my regular allowance. He pushed the money into my hand and wrapped my fingers around it to make sure I had a grip. Then he nodded and, without making eye contact, he let himself out of the stall. I heard the restroom door creak and his footsteps vanish up the stairs.

I haven’t been back to that restroom since I was about seventeen years old. Partly it’s because I’m not sure it’s even there any longer—that library’s undergone a few renovations since. I’d hate to go hunting for it and discover it had been demolished to make way for a cell phone charging station or corporate-sponsored virtual reality demonstration on Our City’s River Heritage. Mostly, though, I’m afraid to erase the nostalgic and even romantic view of it I still retain. In my youth it was a Pandora’s box of mystery and eroticism, where every echo spoke of possibility. I’m afraid to see it as it really probably was—dilapidated, small, poorly-lit, and smelly—when it still exists in my memory as a wonderland.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Sunday Morning Questions: Bluto Edition

Every once in a while I’ll write a blog post that seems to touch a nerve. My recent entry about giving head to a man in his seventies opened up a floodgate of private emails—I’m still getting them, in fact. Most of the notes I received were of a celebratory nature, either from older gentlemen happily involved with younger guys: “I’m older than the man you sucked and I have a thirty-three-year-old boyfriend and I couldn’t have a better sex life!”, or “I’m in my late sixties and involved with a guy who’s twenty, and most of the time I’m the one wearing him out!”

Congrats on that, guys. I think it’s awesome when an intergenerational relationship blossoms so fragrantly.

A minority of my correspondence, though, came from men who seemed to have a good thing, but didn’t understand why—or felt that they were unworthy of it. “I’m seventy-four and seeing a young man in his late twenties,” wrote one. “He gets aroused with me, that’s for sure, and he always leaves me satisfied . . . and then some! But I can’t understand what he sees in me. I’m not anywhere near as attractive as him. I’m only of average size. I know I’m being stupid, but every time we meet I’m not enjoying myself fully because I’m thinking more about why in the world he associates with a guy like me instead of with hot guys his own age.”

Another wrote, “I’m just an average-looking college guy who loves, loves, loves daddies. The older the better. If I see a sexy older man all I can think of is the kinky sexual shit I want to do with him. But if I try to talk to one I freeze up because I know they’re not going to take me seriously. Older guys have their shit together. I don’t even know what classes I’m taking next semester. I don’t want to be attractive just because I’m young. What are they going to see in me? I want to be able to bring something to the table.”

I think all of us have experienced these inadequacies at times. Haven’t we? I’ve always been upfront about my own feelings of unworthiness—the multiple times I’ve felt that guys are out of my league, the times I’ve felt I’m not sexy enough, not wealthy enough, not muscular enough. When I was younger, I felt that I was too young for the older guys I desired. At my current age, I sometimes worry I’m too old for anyone who still has his own teeth.

The thing is, though, that it’s fruitless to try to micromanage other people’s desires. If a man of any age tells you that he finds you attractive, why question it? What’s the profit, there? If he’s seen you in a bar or in a social situation, he’s had plenty of time to size you up and decide that the two of you should spend time together. If you’ve communicated online or on an app, and the photos he’s seen are good representations of you (and genuinely are of you and not your favorite porn star), why waste your time trying to pick apart his professed attraction?

Ultimately doubting someone because he’s into you is an insult to the guy in question. You’re not only doubting his taste, but you’re giving him no credit whatsoever to make his own adult decisions. Let him be the one to decide if you’re the one right for him. Don’t dump him because you’ve decided you’re not right for him. Don’t distance yourself in case you suspect he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t refuse to meet him because you worry he’s not got a clear perception of who you really are. Let the guy choose. He might surprise you.

I think it’s always important to keep in mind that when we’re meeting a man for sex, we’re not just meeting his penis. We’re meeting all his insecurities, all the vulnerabilities he’s been carrying around, all the doubt he’s had in the last two hours when he’s readied himself in the mirror just to meet you. That’s one of the reasons a little kindness goes a long way—it’s a salve to all the stings and hurts in our lives. If someone’s being kind to you . . . please allow him.

Let’s get to a few reader questions, shall we? (And if you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, feel free to email me.)

Would you rather fuck the Fellowship of the Ring in an orgy, or hit them all one at a time, or (with your penchant for 'ugly-sexy') just pass over the whole lot and make your way through Sauron's army?

That’s quite the question, there. If you’d asked me before those Peter Jackson movies had come out, my answer would’ve been quite different. I would’ve gone with Sauron’s army all the way, because bad boys are always more fun.

After sitting through the movies though? Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the only thing that got me through it was having some man-on-hobbit fantasies involving some Sam on my dick. Oh, that’s right. I said it, my precious. Breeder and Samwise Gamgee, gettin’ it on. Girls, you can keep your Orlando Blooms, your Viggos, your Elijahs. I’ve got my eye on something a little tastier, and together we’re going to put the ‘mount’ in Mount Doom.

Please notice that I did manage to avoid a joke about ‘one cock ring to rule them all.’ You’re welcome.

Do you have any real conception of how many people you help with your blog? I’ve been reading you for several years and it’s remarkable how much you’ve changed my own perceptions about sex in general and my own sexual desires in particular, but I don’t get the impression that you understand how you affect people. I would have hung up my hat and retired from sex a long time ago, but you’ve helped me understand that I can have fun the way I want without apologizing for who I am and what I desire.

Thank you. I am honored, and genuinely touched, by your compliment.

I get people writing in a lot to tell me how much reading me has changed their lives. It’s not such an everyday occurrence that I’m blasé about it. In fact, every time someone shows me his appreciation in that way, I hug it to myself for a while because it’s such a blessing. Really.

The thing is, I don’t write to affect lives. It’s not my primary purpose. I write to share my sexual experiences with the world—the encounters I have, the bulletins I have from the leading edge of the sexual frontier, the reflections I have on my past. I’m just one guy sharing a solitary perspective on sex. If occasionally I hit a universal theme that resonates with another person, it’s simply a fortunate byproduct. I’m too modest a person in my everyday life to perceive myself as a life-changing guru.

I’m happy when it happens, though.

I’ve noticed you haven’t been writing as much lately. Is everything okay?

Everything’s good. I’ve been very happy the last several months, honest!

There have been a few times in the last couple of years when I’ve had to contemplate whether or not I wanted to continue writing this blog. Although I’ve gotten a lot of joy out of it in the more than five years I’ve kept it, and although I’ve met a hell of a lot of incredibly great guys because of it, sometimes the hassles seem to overshadow the fun parts.

I’ve had stalkers, troublemakers, psychos, name-callers, game-players, and guys who feel because I share parts of my life freely that they don’t have to observe any of my boundaries whatsoever. I’ve had men whose need for validation and attention is so great that they don’t really seem to care that there’s a real person behind the blogger. Even this last week I had someone whose need for attention was so great that he stayed up for hours one night leaving potty-mouthed comments on dozens of entries across my blog.

The compromise I’ve had to make with myself to keep writing is that I write when I want to. I write when I have a story that I really want to share. I’m not obligating myself to interact when the impulse isn’t there; I’m not trying to force myself to write a given number of times a week, just to keep the posts coming. If I share a story, it’s because I really, really want to.

I know that means I’m writing less this year than in previous years. I’m sorry for those of you who wish I’d post more frequently. But I think you can concede it’s better that I post once in a while, because I want to, than it is that I post multiple half-hearted entries . . . or post none at all.

I always laugh when you post about the losers you encounter. Any good ones lately? Thanks for the posts!

Well, I did have one who managed to flabbergast me with the sheer size of his ego, not that long ago.

There’s a local guy—name and profile link provided upon request, because he managed to piss me off so badly by being such an fuckwad!—who’s lived several places in my vicinity over the past four years. He started out a good few dozen miles west down the highway, then migrated closer and closer until he lived right in my town. I’m not going to deny his profile is hot. I mean, the guy’s a stud, judging from his photos. He’s one of those hairy muscle-ass types whom bears like to claim as being of their own tribe . . . he looks a bit as if Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto (or Brutus, depending on your generation) were a furry bareback porn star who’d not only eaten his spinach every day and grown muscles all over, but had knocked over Popeye to steal his spinach so that his muscles could grow muscles of his own.

He’d been hitting me up ever since I moved here. The problem, however, wasn’t distance. I was willing to drive out to see him in the days he lived a good hour away, and I’ve certainly been willing to drive the eight or nine miles to his current home ever since he took up residence here. The problem is that he would come online, hit me up strong and hungry, and then disappear for fucking months at a time.

The other problem is that we’d make a date to connect, and he’d never keep it. Every time he’d show up online, after being AWOL for an entire season, he’d tell me that we’d have to fuck man, fuck, man, we have to fuck! I’d leave him ways to contact me—my email, my phone number. I’d ask if he was free on Thursday—I had all Thursday off and was willing to come see him. Sure, man, he’d call me Thursday, sounds good, it’s definite . . . he promised he wouldn’t flake, man. Then Thursday would roll around. No call.

This happened so many times that I gave up on the guy. What’s more, he did it to several other guys I know in the area. My best friend attempted to hook up with him several times. “He’s going to tell you he’ll keep a certain day clear just for you,” I warned him. “But then that day will come and he won’t be around.” My friend, I think, was convinced that I was too cynical and this hairy muscle-ass guy wouldn’t disappoint him the way he’d consistently disappointed me.

When my friend was inevitably ditched and dismayed, though, it managed to piss me off even more than the multiple times when the guy had done it to me.

So I was done with him. I just ignored the guy when he’d log on. I’d read his mails, but not respond. I didn’t want to play the game any longer.

One day in April, though, after I declined to interact with the asshole, I got this email from him:

Okay man.... When the hottest Bottom in the room offers someone like yourself his ass, you are clearly intimidated (for good reason) or you are clearly not a Top. Confessing your a bottom certainly doesn't make you less of a Man, Look at me... Fortunately there are a lot of less fortunates in the room to for you to play with. Cheers...

I confess my jaw dropped. Really, this guy was lumping everyone else into the category of ‘the less fortunates’ just because he thinks he’s the hottest bottom in the room? Damn. That takes some gall. I wrote back the following response, waited until he’d read it, and then blocked him:

I have given you both my email and phone number in the past. You've never used either. When we've talked before and I've given you times I'm available, you've claimed you would hit me up....and never did. Multiple times. 
You're attractive. Sure. But assuming that you're the hottest bottom 'someone like myself' could pull is both egotistical and wildly incorrect. 
I'm glad you consider yourself fortunate. I hope your good fortune continues. Perhaps in the future you'll also be fortunate enough to realize that your looks aren't always going to compensate for poor behavior.

Somehow I’ve managed to get by, all these years, without being the recipient solely of pity fucks or charity sex. Sometimes I find the ‘less fortunates’ to be better lovers—and better people—than those who can only bring muscle to the table.

Sometimes I’ve even the hottest top in the room. But I manage not to be an asshole about it.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015


His apartment building is in a rough part of the town where I grew up. When I was a kid, my parents would never, ever have let me venture there. Thirty years ago it had a reputation of being marginally safe by day, but a free-for-all at night—the kind of neighborhood one drove through in a hurry with the windows rolled up, hoping that the traffic lights would all stay green.

I park my car on a street of neatly-manicured turf, next to a spanking-new modernist brick set of condos, and across from a set of old row houses so completely refurbished that they look like they’ve descended from the future. Nowadays, of course, the area is gentrified. Young couples are walking on the streets pushing strollers. Medical students are streaming from their shifts at the hospital down Broad Street, back to the condos and new-construction apartments and renovated spaces. The building I’m looking for is an old tobacco warehouse. Its only tie to the past now is the plaque over what used to be its front entrance, stating its construction date sometime after the Civil War. Everything else remotely period has been erased with double-paned plate glass windows and dark alloy trim.

He’s waiting for me inside the lobby. Looks just like his Scruff photos. Skinny little thirty-one-year-old hipster shit with ear plugs and a thick, bushy beard. He obviously pays a lot of attention to that beard. It’s a thick curtain that covers most of the much-washed, distressed t-shirt advertising a band I’ve never heard of. I can see his nipple rings protruding beneath the shirt’s thin fabric. He’s leaning against one of the massive circular sofas, waiting for me. His thumbs are hooked beneath elastic red suspenders holding up his ratty jeans. He’s got some beat-up old Chucks on his feet. At the sight of me through the glass, he springs forward and opens the locked door. “Well hey,” he says, with a soft Southern drawl.

“Hey there,” I tell him. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here!” There’s genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and he puts a hand on my biceps. “So . . . there’s a little bit of a problem.”

Oh, fuck, I’m thinking. The guy had been after me for two days. I’d gone to sleep the night before grinding a permanent dent into my childhood mattress, thinking about nailing this skinny little hipster’s hole. And now he was going to flake out on me? After I’d gone to the trouble to tell my dad I was going to be out for a few hours, ‘catching up with an old school friend’?

“My roommate was supposed to be out for the weekend, but now she and her fiancé have decided to spend the weekend at home.”

“Oh,” I say. Already in my head I’m thinking that I have to stay out for at least a couple of hours before I head back home. I guess I could just part ways and grab a coffee somewhere, or hit one of the city’s couple of gay bars. It’s evening, but still daylight; I could even grab my camera from my bag and get some shots of the downtown skyline in.

“Yeah, but I was thinking. . . .” His words yank me back from my quick alternative plan making. “There’s a men’s room off the gym down the hall, there. . . .” I follow his glance, down a stone-tiled corridor leading past the fancy gas fireplace and the glassed-in lounge off the lobby.

“Is it quiet?” I ask.

He nods. “No one ever uses it.”

I pause for a moment, considering the offer. “I’ll fuck anywhere,” I say at last.

He grins, relieved to have salvaged a bad situation, then takes my hand in his. Without a word more I follow him. He leads me out of the lobby and down the hallway, tugging me impatiently toward our goal.

The bathroom’s one of those enormous wheelchair-accessible rooms, tiled with black stone on the floors and walls. He ushers me in gallantly, like a gentleman, then steps in behind me. The door closes automatically. He pushes the button to lock it. Now we’re alone.

He’s already apologizing. “Okay, so it’s not ideal—“

I push him against the black tiles so hard that he lets out a whuff of surprise. I plant my lips on his and shove my tongue inside his mouth. It tastes sweet, fruity, like cherry Kool-Aid. He responds to the rough kiss by going limp against the wall, as if I’ve thrown him there. His beard grates against mine. His hands reach up and cup my face, drawing me closer. I’m so much taller than he that he’s having to lift his hips to grind against my own, hardness against hardness.

I grab his suspenders and attempt to yank them from his shoulders. One of them is pinned by his weight against the wall. It snaps down suddenly and stings the side of my hand. He shoves me away, roughly, stares me in the face, and then pulls off his tee by crossing his arms and yanking it over his head. It flies through the air and lands in the sink. Then he’s on me again. This time it’s he who pushes me back so that I’m stumbling the long way to the opposite side of the bathroom, our mouths furiously gnawing at each other.

When my shoulder blades connect against the cold stone of the wall, I shove my hands down the back of his pants. He’s wearing a jock. I play with the straps as he grinds against me. His muscular globes rotate beneath my cupped hands. The kid’s a good kisser. I don’t want this part to end. But he’s already tugging at my jeans. He’s got the button fly undone and is pulling them to the floor.

Before he kneels, he digs off the Chucks with his feet and kicks them to the side. He skims his narrow waist out of his jeans. His Bike jock used to be white, I’m thinking, but it’s seen a lot of use since then. It’s a tattletale gray, worn around the edges. The elastic looks chewed. Knowing this little pig, maybe it has been. He’s already on all fours on the floor, knees against stone, ripping down my jeans the remaining way and slobbering over my shorts.

“Is this what you want?” I ask, pulling out my erection. No, not pulling. Yanking. I haul out that thing like it's a weapon and slap it in my hand, showing it off. Keeping it at bay. The slap is louder than my voice, but he can hear the command my volume belies. My waistband forces my ball out, but the dick is standing straight up all by itself, the skin a deep red from the pressure I’m keeping around the base.

“Yes sir.” His brown eyes are big. He’s got hair falling into them across his forehead. He opens up his mouth. It’s a small, wet hole in an expanse of beard.

Next question. “Are you gonna treat it right?”

“Yes sir,” he rasps. His voice is heavy with sexual need.

“Show me.”

He gives good head, this hipster kid. He doesn’t start with tentative tonguing, or little licks or slight attention to the tip. He goes whole hog, opens his throat, and takes it all down. I’ve got that beard grinding against my groin; it’s chafing my balls as it cups them like a bird’s nest holds eggs. When he withdraws, my inches slither out, wet, glistening in the florescent light.

“C’mon,” I say, goading him. “Suck it like you mean it.”

One of his hands is gripping the handicapped bars so tightly, his knuckles are whitening. He’s learning forward to suck me, his shoulders bent back, his neck straining to extend as long as possible. He looks like an awkward bird, a fledgling attempting to spread his wings. I take pity on him. I grab his chin, lift him to his feet, then lead him over to the john. My own pants are still strangling my ankles, so I kick them off. They join his clothing in the corner. Then I sit down on the john, spread my legs, and let him kneel down once more.

“You probably wanted this all along,” I tease, a slight sneer in my words. “Oh, my roommate and her fiancé didn’t go away for the weekend. You knew I’d come over and you’d lure me in here because you’re nothing but a hungry restroom cocksucker.”

“No sir.” He takes his mouth off my dick and looks up at me, breathing heavily. His hunger has stripped away all pretense. There’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes. I know he’s telling the truth.

“Shut up and suck,” I tell him. He obeys. “Restroom whore, sucking on some stranger’s cock. Trying to get some stranger’s cum down his throat.”

Once again he pulls away. “Yes sir. I mean, no sir. I don’t want cum down my throat.”

“No?” I ask, my cock jumping. His was the correct response. “Where do you want it, then?”

“In my hole, sir.” He’s been so focused on cock that he needs to sniff deeply to clear his sinuses. “I want your cum up my butt.”


He nods. This hirsute little hipster has been reduced to a naked little boy, begging the neighborhood bully for his favorite toy. “Yes, please.”

“Big raw cock up your sweet little ass?”

He’s pulled out his cock sometime during his sucking. It protrudes over the loose elastic of his jock, red and thick and uncut. It bounces at my words. “Oh god, please.”

I stand up. Nod at the toilet. “Then bend over,” I tell him.

Without question he stands where my feet have just been. He grips the bar behind the toilet, and bends. Then he spreads his legs to lower himself. His hole lies beyond a dense thicket of fur; it’s like a black eye, winking at me when he contracts his ass muscles. I hadn’t thought to bring lube. In one of his texts the day before, the hipster had sent me a photo of the bottle of poppers and lube that he’d bought in preparation of our fuck. I guess he’d left them upstairs. No matter. I’ve got his spit as a base layer on my skin, and a thick outpouring of precum atop that. I work up some saliva, transfer it to my cock via my fingers, and spread it around. He’s good to go.

I can feel the warmth of him even before I’m in—it’s like bending over with a dish in hand and getting the blast from a preheated oven. He gasps as my big, blood-filled head shoves inside. I can tell he’s already opening for me, though. It has nothing to do with his experience, nothing to do with preparation. He’s just ready. His hole’s in heat, and I intend to take advantage.

“That’s right,” I tell him as I glide in. He resists and starts to push me out. “Arch your back,” I order. He obeys, and the resistance disappears. “Take it,” I tell him.

He doesn’t dare disobey.

When I’m in, he sighs. I can see him letting go. I’ve forgotten we’re in a public restroom. I know he has. He lets his weight hang from his hands, as they clutch onto the handicapped rail at waist level. His feet brace against the floor; his back arches even more, presenting his hole to me.

Like I need presentation. I’m already ram-rodding the thing. Between the two of us there’s more than enough juice to keep things slick. I didn’t need that new bottle of lube at all. This isn’t making love. This is fucking. Man-to-man carnality at its finest. No dinner, no date, no need to whisper sweet words in his ear. Just pants-off primal dick-in-hole fucking with one goal in mind.

“I want that cum,” he grunts, gripping and squeezing with his ass.

I haven’t been looking to shoot that quickly, but under the circumstances, maybe it’s better. “Right up your shitter?” I ask. “Is that where you want it?”

“I need it,” he begs. His head is hanging. His beard is horizontal to the ground, scraping his chest. His eyes are closed. He whips his head back and forth as if trying to shake off a night’s sleep.

“What do you need?”

“I need your cum,” he growls. He sucks his lips in to wet them. “I gotta have that cum. You gotta breed me. Breed me, sir.”

“Yeah?” My thrusts are full-bodied, now. I’m putting all my weight in them as I slam in, pull out to the tip, and plow back in again. “You deserve that?”

“Don’t care if I deserve it. I want it.” He’s wheezing like an angry pig now. “Please give it to me. Please—oh fuck!“

He can tell I’m shooting not by the noises I make. I keep the noise level down low instinctively—I grew up fucking in public restrooms, after all. He can tell by the way my dick swells as it releases the first jet of seed into his guts.

“Is that—? Shit.”

He seems surprised to have gotten what he asked for. “You wanted a breeding,” I growl.

“Fuck yes. Fuck!” He’s talking softly, but he’s accenting the words by whipping his head back and forth. There’s a snarl on his lip. His hand reaches for his dick; he starts beating himself furiously. “Breed that hole. Make it yours.”

The last of my load squirts out. My dick ebbs and swells a couple more times. I stay in, though, still hard. “Fucking restroom whore,” I grumble, thrusting.

His forehead is resting on the toilet’s hardware. “Fuck yes I am,” he whispers. “Just a fucking restroom whore.”

“You get what you wanted?”

“Yes sir.”

“Thank me for it, then,” I command. “Come on.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you, sir.” The litany grows softer and softer the more he repeats it. “Thank you for your fucking gift of seed, sir.” He lets out a soft choking noise. Cum spews from his uncut meat and hits the tile with an audible splatter. “Christ,” he swears. Then he takes up the prayer once more. “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

I wait until his muscles stop their spasms. “You’re welcome.”

When I pull out, my dick is sloppy. Sperm spills from the hole and trickles down his taint. Slowly he stands. When he looks over his shoulder, his beard leads. “So. . . .” he says, exaggerating his Southern drawl. “It wasn’t optimum, but. . . .”

“We made it work,” I conclude for him. I step into my jeans, then into my sneakers.

He’s collecting his clothes without shame. I watch him dress in the mirror as I wash my hands and rinse my face. We don’t speak again until we’re both ready to leave. “Okay?” I ask. He nods. I open the locked restroom door, look both ways down the hall, and step out. He follows.

It’s still sunlight when I exit the old tobacco warehouse. I look at my watch. Yeah, I’m going to have to kill some more time. Maybe I’ll grab a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll get a Krispy Kreme. Maybe I’ll just drive around and see some of the old sights.

Then back home with a story or two for my dad about the ‘school friend’ I’ve spent the evening catching up with.

Monday, May 4, 2015


“My wife says great things about you,” he tells me. I’m unsnapping his buttons. One by one they pop through the crisp pressed cotton of his shirt. As they release, I see more and more of his skin. “She says you’re great to work with.”

My glance flicks up to meet his, from the thatch of thick white hair that covers his chest. The man’s eyes are a gentle blue. Still staring at him, my hand reaches in to hold his ribs, caught between warm flesh and the second, button-down skin I’ve never before seen him shuck. He gasps; my fingers might be a little cool. His lips part. At no point do his eyes break the stare. I can see an emotion stirring behind his quiet. Anticipation, perhaps. Uncertainty.

I withdraw my hand so I can pull the last two buttons through their holes. His shirt drapes back against the multiple throw pillows of the guest bed. He is, in a word, breathtaking. Though over the years his skin and fur have coarsened, the muscles grown a little less taut, the man still carries the physique of an athlete. He lies there, half-disrobed, and watches me as I look at him.

“You should have seen me in my prime,” he says.

There it is, that emotion I couldn’t quite pin down. His tone is half-joking, but the other half is worry. He’s afraid he won’t measure up—that the difference between our age will be too insurmountable. I fix him with another stare. “I’m pretty sure I’m seeing that right now,” I tell him.

The words sound slick, but my sincerity comes through. He reddens, looks down, abashed, and then permits himself to grin. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Oh, I know I don’t.” My knees are digging into the mattress as I reach down to unbuckle his belt, then tug at the metal fastener of his khakis. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

He’s blushing furiously now. He can barely bring himself to look at me. He definitely can’t bring himself to look as I pull apart the opening of his pants and expose the hardness that lies beneath his Hanes. “I’m an old man,” he protests.

I’m curious. “How old are you?”


Fuck. I hope I’m half that foxy at his age. The man has movie-star looks—a thatch of fine, silver hair that falls over his forehead in a swoop. Eyes as blue as a pool of unspoiled water. A dimple in the center of his strong chin. His features are all uniform perfection until one’s eyes reach the tip of his nose, where it swells into a small, comical bulb that tilts slightly to one side. It’s an adorable quirk that brings the symmetry of the rest of him into absolute focus. “I know it’s probably too old for you—“

I blink slowly, trying to conceal the fact I’m rolling my eyes. When I open them again, I say to him, “We’re alone in your home. We’re in one of your bedrooms. You’re fucking around on your wife. I’ve got you half-undressed. I intend to get all of your clothes off. If you haven’t figured out by now that I find you very, very attractive. . . .”

He lets out the tiniest breath of a laugh. The heel of my hand rubs at the dick that strains at the fabric of his shorts. I watch as, for a moment, the last of his fear evaporates, leaving behind only hard desire. “I hope this won’t make things awkward for you around my wife. . . .”

I cut him off with a shake of my head. I get him to lift his rump, and I pull his pants down, leaving behind only his underwear and black socks.

“I didn’t think we’d ever do this,” he says, watching me fold his slacks. “I mean, I fantasized . . . I just didn’t think you. . . .”

“I knew there was something between us the first time we met,” I say. “Didn’t you?”

“As far back as that?” he asks, genuinely astonished. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’m easing off his shirt, laying him back in the nest of pillows.

I nod. I remembered that evening well. We both had sported the proper red, white, and blue of a well-to-do suburban cocktail party—red wine, white shirts, blue blazers. Upon our introduction, he’d squeezed my hand a little too hard. He’d stared a little too long. He’d spoken a little too close to my ear, a little too intimately. Was I supposed to miss his lingering stares, over the last couple of years? The conspiratorial winks, when he’d pass by? Was I supposed to ignore those intimacies, and pretend not to know what he was really thinking? Then he didn’t know me very well.

His breath catches as I hook my fingers into the elastic of his waistband. He seems astonished to find himself nearly naked. As if he’s inhaled what evaporated earlier, the fear returns to his eyes. “How long has it been?” I ask, softly. “With a man?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. It’s difficult to tell what emotion is closer to the surface—anxiety or need. “Years. Years and years. With my wife—“ I shake my head once more. I don’t need to know about his wife. I don’t want her specter in the bedroom with us. His voice trails off. “Even longer.”
The thought that this handsome man has been doing without saddens me. “Let me take care of you,” I tell him.

Once again his mouth parts. He nods slightly, his eyes shifting focus to various areas of my face, as if struck for the first time by our close proximity. He lifts his hand to touch my forehead, to brush the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. He puts the ball of his thumb to my mouth, and drags down my lower lip. It snaps back, upon release.

And then I move in. My mouth closes on his. I feel his chest heave; I can pick out the tattoo of his heart against his ribcage. His eyes close as he melts into me. He smells of aftershave . . . something old-fashioned, but expensive. The faintest antiseptic aftertaste of Listerine lingers in his mouth when my tongue breaks inside. His breath blasts through his nostrils like a steam whistle.

When I break away and plant kisses on his chest, he stares as me as I move steadily downward. He’s helpless when I pull back the band of his shorts. His cock springs out—thicker and longer than I expected. Much thicker, in fact. The guy is probably easily six and a half to seven inches around. He’s got a super-fat seven and a half incher with a classic mushroom head. My astonishment must show, because he speaks. “What?” he asks. “Is it not big enough?”

“Christ,” I say. “Are you serious?” He shakes his head, not getting it. “You’re fucking huge.”

His meat swells at the praise, but he’s not confident enough to take the appropriate pride. “Really? It’s not bigger than yours. On Manhunt—“

“It’s not as long as mine. It’s a hell of a lot thicker, though.” I wrap my fingers around the meaty handful and squeeze, making the skin on the head shiny and smooth. “Fuck, how do you pack all this in those Brooks Brothers slacks of yours?”

He’s so pleased by the praise—by any praise at all, maybe—that he looks like he wants to crow. In the softest, shyest voice possible, he whispers, “I’m glad you like it.”

He needs me to like it. So it’s time to show him how much.

I open my jaw to the maximum and allow my lips to slide down the shaft. His skin is pliable and warm; the taste of him is mildly salty, mildly soapy. He’s already making mild protests, telling me I shouldn’t, telling me I don’t have to . . . but mere seconds later he’s urging me on. I feel his hand, soft against the top of my head. He strokes me like me might a kitten.

I’m embracing his around his midsection. My arms curl around the outside of his hips; my hands rest on his torso. My chin scrapes the near-hairlessness of his nuts. My jaw’s already feeling stretched to the max. I can tell this blow job is going to test me. He’s pushing down on my head now, hoping I’ll go deeper, that I’ll take more. I don’t need the encouragement. I already want this man in every way possible, and possibly in more ways that he’s ready to try. For now, though, I want to be the best cocksucker he’s had. I want to be the cocksucker he deserves.

Because it’s obvious he hasn’t been sucked in a very, very long time. Every little thing I try elicits a response. The sensation of my breath against his spit-slick skin makes his groan. When I loosen my hand and stroke my fingers up and down his perineum, I feel gooseflesh spread down his thighs and across his chest. He shudders when I reach the base of his dick; his hips buckle and strain when I lightly tickle the sides of his nuts. He’s quite easily the most responsive man I’ve been with in a very long time.

When I encircle his cock with my thumb and forefinger and let it travel tightly up and down the shaft with my lips, he acts as if he’s never felt anything so intense and wonderful before. Maybe he hasn’t. I increase it to two fingers, three, then the whole fist as the feelings of pleasure multiply exponentially. Soon he’s trying to pull my mouth from his meat—trying not to climax too quickly. I’m determined, though. I don’t care how quickly he shoots. I don’t care about his agenda. Mine is to get his load into my stomach, ASAP.

I don’t have long to wait. When he comes it’s with an actual shout, somewhere between the pain from a long-suppressed release, and the unexpected joy of getting exactly what he wanted. It’s so loud that there’s a flash of echo from the empty rooms of the rest of the house. His sperm floods my mouth as he holds my head down. The load is bitter like coffee, and thick like pudding, but I’m grateful for it. I swallow quickly and milk the big head of its last few drops. Then I lie there still, a dog with a much-desired bone in its mouth.

It’s a few minutes before I release him. I’m still clothed; he’s naked save for the socks. He stares at me, motionless, as if I were a baby deer and he’s afraid of frightening me. “Do you have to go?”

I shake my head. “Do you want me to go?”

He laughs, but it’s only slightly. “If you suck cock like that, I don’t know why anyone would ever let you go.”

“You liked?”

“Oh yes.” His voice is soft. He puts an arm around my shoulder. “I liked it very much.”

I allow myself to settle into the crook of his arm. He smells good, like fresh laundry and a clean medicine cabinet. For a moment I revel in the soft touch of his hand as he strokes my hair.

“Do I get to kiss you again?” he asks finally, his voice a rumble where my ear rests against his chest.

I prop myself up on an elbow. Brush the shock of silver hair from his forehead. Then very slowly, very deliberately, I show him that indeed, he gets to kiss me again, as much as he desires.