Monday, May 21, 2018

Room 155

The hotel was a Howard Johnson’s fifty years ago, when my parents first moved from a cramped apartment to their first and only house. On Friday nights in good weather we’d walk three blocks down our sleepy street and see it through the bowers of trees—an orange-roofed and turquoise oasis sitting across from the freeway entrance. My dad loved the HoJo’s fried clam plate—he still esteems it (and its fifty-cent price) as one of the culinary triumphs of the twentieth century. I would tolerate my Little Boy Blue special of a hamburger patty and assorted bland vegetables, tossed on dishes sporting the silhouette of the chain’s famous Pie Man serving a kid and his dog. What I really loved, though, was the exotic, soothing dessert I was always allowed to order: a dish of orange sherbet, speared with a vanilla cookie. I played Pong, my very first video arcade game, at that Howard Johnson’s in second or third grade. Two years later there I played my second cabinet game, Midway’s Gun Fight.

Sometime in the late seventies all the HoJos in our area disappeared, though; another chain bought up the hotel, repainted the roof, and added some modern additions in the back. It’s changed hands several times since. At one point it was a Holiday Inn. When my mother died and I stayed there for the funeral twenty years ago, it had devolved into a no-name motel with hot water in the toilets and cold in the showers.

On this particular visit to my dad—my annual spring jaunt when I help him clean up his yard and do chores around his house—I’ve chosen this particular hotel to stay. Before I’ve always slept in my childhood home. My back’s not as resilient as it was in my teens, though. I can’t squeeze my six-foot-three frame into a twin bed quite as easily. But between its nadir and now, the hotel’s been renovated and refreshed to become part of a middle-tier chain. It’s close to my dad. The price is right. This hotel is respectable again.

Or so I think.

Sunday, 6 p.m.

I’ve told my dad that I’ll take him out to dinner after I check in. I’ve had a six-and-a-half hour drive from home through New York City and down the east coast with only one break. I’m exhausted. But after I get into my room for the next three days, and after I drop my luggage and my gear in room 155, I’m not super-anxious to hop back into the car again. So I flop onto the king-sized bed and fire up Grindr.

There’s someone 35 feet away from me—the photo is of a scrawny 20-year-old torso, hairless, his chin the only part of his face showing. He must in one of the rooms close by, I figure. But I’m not into hitting up 20 year-olds. When they come on to me, I welcome it . . . but I refuse to be part of any kid’s I can’t go on Grindr without all these old perverts trying to get into my pants narrative.

I’m browsing the other guys in my vicinity when the phone buzzes. It’s from that twink kid. He’s sent me a photo of himself without comment—a picture of his face. He’s got green eyes, red hair. He’s paler than me, which means practically paper-white. Cute, though. Cute as fuck. I’m still looking at his face when another photo pops up. It’s of his dick. Skinny, like the rest of him. Curved. Its head just as red as his hair.

A third pic arrives, this time of a skinny white ass. Are you at the hotel? he asks. Then, Looking for right now? I need dick.

My dad can go hungry for a half-hour, can’t he?

Give me your room number, I tell the kid.

He’s in 159—a mere two doors down from me. As far as Grindr encounters go, he’s been the closest body to me I’ve ever talked to, certainly the closest I’ve had an offer to fuck. Unlatch your door and be ready. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.

The couple of minutes is just so I can quickly brush my teeth. After I check my phone one last time to make sure he’s not changed his mind, I leave it on the room’s desk before I tuck the card key in my pocket and walk out into the hallway. I’m not even wearing shoes.

159 is two rooms closer to the ice machine. I push on the door—it gives way. It’s early evening but still bright out, but the kid’s got his privacy blind drawn and all the lights off. I can still see the luminous white of his skin on top of the bed. He’s face down. Skinny butt up.

And this kid is so damned skinny. I can feel his hipbones jutting beneath his skin as I assume my place behind him. He grinds back on the crotch of my jeans, the heat of his crack warming my dick beneath a layer of denim and the cotton of my shorts. He’s smooth, too. My fingers rub against his hole, trace up his crack, circle his buns. When I reach under to tweak his nipples, even his chest is smooth as a boy’s.

I’m hard in my jeans from his insistent friction. “You need dick?” I ask the kid. For response, he reaches above his head to clutch the headboard. His ass grinds against my bulge. “All right,” I say. “I’ll give you dick.”

There’s no romance to this encounter. No kissing. No preliminaries. I don’t even know his name. This is just some little whore in a hotel, letting a stranger nearly three times his age invade his room and then his ass. I unbuckle my belt. Unbutton and loosen my jeans. Yank down my shorts. My dick flips up from under the waistband and wedges itself into the boy’s crack. He groans at the sudden feel of flesh against his flesh.

I spit on my fingers. Work it around the length of my dick until it’s slick. Once again I spit. This time I deliver the moisture to the kid’s hole. He’s loose. Two of my fingers slip in with no resistance. Three. The insides of his chute are already slippery. Maybe it’s lube. Maybe it’s some other guy’s hour-old load.

I don’t care, either way.

My dick slides in as easily as my fingers. Maybe easier. There’s more pleasure as his hole gulps at my inches, though; when I’m all the way in, his ass constricts to clamp down on me like he never intends to let go. He arches his back, lifts his butt up even higher; I have to stand on tiptoe so that I don’t slide out.

Not that he’d let me. He’s an aggressive little whore. He starts ramming his hole down to the base of my dick. Every time he hits bottom, he grunts a little. I’m turned on by his sheer need, but I need to set the pace, here. I push down at the base of his spine to lower his ass a little, so I can stand on the flats of my feet. I keep my hand there, stilling his up-and-down motion; my other hand grasps his left hip to keep him from wriggling so much. I’m taming this little bronco, whether it wants taming or not.

He learns quickly that I’m in charge of his hole. I lift up my tee so that it’s out of the way when I thrust. “Yes, daddy, like that” he says, when I start long-dicking his hole. His voice is soft. Light. Almost feminine. Even when I’m banging him harder, spreading his skinny little legs as I push him into the mattress and kneel between his knees, he’s still softly moaning and begging for dad’s dick. I’ve got three hundred miles of driving tension to work out on this hole, and the kid is good at taking a hard fuck.

When I shoot, I’ve got my right hand gripping the kid’s skull, pushing his face into the pillow so firmly that his little cries of pleasure are muffled. My left hand is squarely between his shoulder blades, keeping him still as I bang into his skinny little ass. He can tell I’m shooting; he clutches at the sheets and says “Yes . . . yes,” as my meat throbs and expands inside him. Maybe it’s my breathing that tips him off; maybe it’s the increasing ferocity of the fuck. Either way, I shoot my three-day load inside the kid with my dick splitting him open to the maximum.

I stay in there a moment, grinding the seed in with my dick. Then I pull out. He’s left a hand towel on the side table. I use it to wipe off, while he lies there motionless. He makes no motion to rise. I then toss the cum wipe onto his butt. Pull up my shorts. Fasten my pants.

“Thanks, kid,” I say. Then I leave.

Elapsed time: 20 minutes. My dad won’t be late to dinner at all.

Monday, 7:30 a.m.

Big day planned with my dad—dental appointment, yard work, errands. But it’s seven-thirty and I don’t have to be there until nine, and I’m in bed, naked, lounging.

So I fire up Grindr again. There’s a message waiting for me from the red-headed kid: holy fuck u r a hot top.

It’s a compliment I’ll accept. He’s 12 miles distant now, though.

On the nearby screen, the closest guy is a smiling, attractive African-American kid. Bearded, skinny, young. 24, his profile says. And he’s only 40 feet away.

Fuck, lightning can’t strike twice, can it?

Apparently it can. Sexy, he messages me, while I’m still viewing his profile.

Yes, you are indeed, I reply.

Ha ha, I meant you. Are you at the hotel?

I am, I tell him. What’re you looking for?

His answer is short and sweet. White dick in my hole.

How do you like it?

Raw only, the kid writes back, and follows it by five emoji: three smiling devils, one pig snout, and an arrow pointing down.

I send him something better than an emoji: one of my dick shots. The deal clincher. As I expect, he writes back, Come now.

I tell him I’ll be there in 5, and he sends me his room number.

The night before I’d taken a shower. I’m clean enough for a morning fuck, I reckon. I brush my teeth, though, and pull on a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Slip on a cock ring. I’m good to go.

This kid’s room is three doors down the hall away from the ice machine, on the opposite side of the hall. All I’ve had to do for both these tricks is just pad down the carpet in my bare feet. The door’s off the latch, as I instructed. I push inside and close it behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness within. I mean, I had my blackout blinds drawn in my room, but it still wasn’t pitch black in there like it is here. And fuck, is it ever stifling. He’s got the heat turned up high, even though the morning temperature is in the sixties.

The only light in the room is a rectangle that appears on the screen of his phone, in the general vicinity of where the bed should be. I aim myself in that direction and find myself hitting the mattress with my knees. My eyes are adjusting, now; I can see a figure looming closer in the dark.

A hand touches my chest; another grasps the back of my head. There’s a mouth against mine that’s hungrily seizing my lips, pushing them apart with a probing tongue. This boy’s an octopus, eight hands doing crazy things to me all at once—rubbing my dick through the thin fabric of my shorts, tweaking my nipples, pulling my shirt over my head, seizing my short hair and using it to pull my mouth harder against his own. Not being able to see him clearly—or at all—makes the situation even hotter than the room.

My dick is rock hard when finally he flips me onto my back. I feel the heat of his mouth surround me, his hand clutching at my balls as he sucks me down all the way. I groan and try to sit back up, but he pushes me down. This boy knows exactly what he wants.

He’s got my knob sloppy with his spit when he tries to sit on it. I can feel resistance from his hairy hole as he struggles to spear himself with my inches. He’s a tiny thing, like the white boy the day before. But the ginger twink had a gape that could accommodate a Boeing; this boy’s pucker is tough to get into.

Once, twice, he tries. Neither time is he successful at opening himself. Finally I take pity on him and pull myself up and stand by the bedside. I flip him face down, on his knees. I spit on my hand, then sheerly by groping my way there, I spread the moisture on his hole. Finally I guide the head to the entry point and start pushing.

Third time’s the charm.

Now that I’m actually in him, he starts to open up. I’m down to the base when he collapses his knees and lies prone on the mattress; I let my weight push him into the springs as I begin pounding. He’s craning his neck to kiss me again; he has to strain so that our lips can meet. “You want my cum, don’t you,” I observe. He makes animal noises as his answer. “You want this big white dick breeding that black ass, don’t you, son.”

“Yes daddy,” is his eager reply. “Fuck me like you own it. Please!”

He’s open, now. Hungry for dick. The mattress is bouncing up and down as I pound the shit out of this boy, and he’s loving every bruise I might be leaving on his cheeks. I’m loud when I shoot; I’m hoping his neighbors in the adjacent rooms aren’t sleeping.

Oh wait. I’m one of those neighbors.

When my spent dick slithers out, he rolls over and grabs my hand, shoves my fingers up his hole. I manipulate the sloppy flesh as he jacks himself. He shoots within ten seconds, panting and heaving from the climax.

“You sticking around?” I ask, as I grope on the floor for my shirt and shorts. “Maybe we can do this again.”

“Supposed to check out this morning, but now I’m thinking it over,” he says softly, as he rolls over to check his phone.

“Let me know. I’d like more of that ass.”

“Fuck yeah.”

I let myself out.

Monday, 10 p.m.

You ever top?

Unlike every other profile I maintain, my Grindr information doesn’t specify any positional preference. I kind of like it that way. It broadens the offers I get. In theory, anyway. In practice, most guys look at me and come to the conclusion I top.

It’s a pretty good assumption.

I’m back in my hotel room after a long day with my dad. I send this blank profile in question a shot of my dick. The guy has turned off his geolocation, so I have no idea how far he is. He sends me back a pic of his own, of a lean, lightly-muscled body sporting a pert and round little ass. He’s what, in his forties, it looks like? The next photo he sends shows him manspreading in a coffee shop somewhere, handsome, smiling, looking like a lumberjack with a latte. His left hand, clutching a cardboard cup, sports a prominent ring.

Married? I ask.

Yeah. Hope that’s not a problem. Really get into guys who like guys cheating on their wives like me. Are you one?

I breed cheaters like you, I tell him. Might as well get to the point. I send him a shot of my bare dick plunged halfway into a jocked Latin hole.

I want that, he responds immediately. Come flood my guts. Now?

I ask him where he is. Lightning has struck not once, not twice, but three times in two days: the guy is in the very same hotel, one floor up. Fuuuuuck, I love this joint. I am staying here every time I visit my old home town, in the future. It might look mildly respectable on the outside, but on the inside, it’s one hundred percent pure sleaze . . . and I love it.

I’m upstairs knocking on the dude’s door within five minutes. He’s naked when he admits me inside. He must like what he sees, because the door’s barely latched behind us than he’s yanked my basketball shorts on the floor and gobbled my knob down his throat. He’s not the most masculine guy in the world; his eyelashes and lips are sultry, almost feminine, his voice soft and light as he begs me to lie down on the bed so he can service me. Plenty of down-low married dudes get away with that in their marriages, though, without the wife ever thinking twice about it. I’ve fucked enough of them to know.

The guy’s got a hot mouth. His hole is already juicy . . . prelubed, at least. When I rub it as he sucks me, my index finger just glides right in. There are a lot of men out there who take the moral high ground when it comes to married men who cheat on their wives for dick. I’m not one of them. Depriving them isn’t going to fix their marriage. It’s not going to stop them from cruising. These fuckers are going to get cock from someone or another. It might as well be me. Especially a hot, lean piece of ass like this one.

I admire the way his hole stretches, how the chute clutches at my dick as I force my way in. Force, shit. His hole is practically suctioning my meat into its vortex. “That what you wanted?” I ask. “This big bare dick?”

“Yes sir!” he yelps, as he starts grinding back on it.

“Married dad dick up your cheating hole?”

“Fuck, are you married too?” he asks. I shove my dick all the way up that cunt, then shove my left hand in front of his face as response. “Christ. That’s even hotter, sir. Does she know?”

That answer is none of his business. I keep fucking.

“Make babies in me like you made in her, sir,” he begs. “Knock me up.”

“You want this seed, huh?”

“I’ll do anything for it. Anything,” he stresses. I don’t know what else he needs to do for it at this point; he’s already got a stranger’s raw dick up his butt in a motel. Seems like a load in his hole is the given outcome of that scenario. “Just make those babies in me, please.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge, like denying him is a serious option.

This dude is seriously into the dirty talk. Filth pours from his mouth. He tells me he wants my babies, that he needs to be bred, that his pussy begs to be always wet from my bareback breedings. I flip the married slut over and rest my forearms on the soles of his feet while I pound and he continues talking about me knocking up his cunt. It’s my most arrogant fuck pose. Look at this, it says. I could do this all goddamned day . . . and you’re just a fucking armrest and cock cozy to me.

“Is this what you do? Rent a hotel room and let strange men sodomize you, faggot?” I ask him.

“Once a month, sir,” he says, between pants. “I don’t always get as lucky as I did with you.”

I’m close to shooting. I hold both his ankles with one hand, and use the other to give one of his nipples a savage twist. The sensation makes his hole contract . . . and that’s what pushes me over the edge. I’ve cum in two other boys in roughly twenty-four hours, but jets of my goo spurt into his hole. The married guy’s eyes roll up so that I only see the whites of his eyes.

I shove all the way to the base while the last drops dribble out. “Tell me what a lucky faggot you are now,” I order.

“I’m a lucky faggot, sir. I’m such a lucky faggot.”

“Why is that?” I just want to make him say the words.

“I’ve got a fuck god’s sperm inside my lucky faggot cunt, sir. I’m the luckiest faggot in the world right now. Thank you sir. Thank you.”

It’ll do. When I pull out, his hole vomits seed; it dribbles down his butt and onto the hotel bedspread. Immediately his fingers race to collect it and shove it back in. I’ve got my shorts back on by now; my shirt didn’t even come off.

“Hope I see you again, sir,” he said, an edge of pleading coloring the statement.

“Likewise, faggot,” I say. Then I’m out the door.

I am definitely, one hundred percent, positively going to have to stay in this hotel again.

Monday, April 30, 2018


Not that long ago I was complaining to a friend of mine about guys in the area. They’re flaky, I told him. They’re never available when I’m horny. My other half can leave town for a week, and the moment I’m able to start hosting freely, all the guys who’ve been sniffing around and asking and asking and asking when I can have them over suddenly evaporate and are nowhere to be found. There are days I spend all afternoon and evening checking The Grindr without a single nibble . . . but let me make the actual decision to give up for the day, take out my contact lenses, brush my teeth, and hit the sheets, and suddenly my phone is buzzing and pinging like mad.

And the hotel guys, I told him. Fuuuuuuck. Don’t get me started on the hotel guys.

Where I live, a lot of out-of-towners overnight in the local hotels. Some come from Manhattan, so they can be here early mornings when the overseas stock markets open; others are constantly flying in from all over the country to consult or confer with the several big financial firms nearby. These men don’t stay at the no-tell motel several exits down the freeway; we’ve only got the one cheap place, here. No, they stay at the multi-story Marriott that casts a long shadow over the six lanes of I-95, or they stay at the Hilton, or they stay at the Hyatt up the street or our tiny, pricey boutique hotels.

And while these hotels aren’t that far away from me, all of them feel just as inaccessible as anything fifty miles over. Visiting guys in the Marriott involves paying by the hour in their parking garage . . . if they have any spots, which is no guarantee. The Hyatt has an outdoor parking lot, but it’s open only until 5, after which it’s a cool twenty-five bucks to stow your car there for a quickie. And since the Hilton and the tiny little boutique hotels downtown have no parking whatsoever, it’s a gamble whether or not there might be something on the streets.

Then, after you’ve finally parked and emptied out your wallet, or walked three-quarters of a mile from the first place you’ve found to leave your vehicle, you arrive at the hotel and the guy’s room. What if he’s a boring-ass dud, like they often are? It’s too late to leave. You’ve invested.

So fuck the hotel guys, I told my friend. I’m done with all the hassle and the gamble and the uncertainty. Done. Kaput. Finito. Adios.

But you know how the universe works, right? The moment you put your foot down, the second you draw a line in the sand and dare anyone to cross it, the very instant you attempt to assert control over forces inherently wilder than anything you yourself can tame, the universe singles you out for notice. Not so fast there, little buddy, it says. I’ve got other plans for you.

It’s later the same day. Yes, the same day I made those declarations about never doing any more visitors in hotels. Around dusk, I get hit up on Grindr. Faceless profile, but his information says he’s 26. Right off he sends me a photo of himself—a selfie in a bathroom mirror, taken low to the floor, squatting down in only a pair of soccer socks, the head of his fat, stiff dick knocking against the tiles.

My own dick hardens at the sight. There’s another buzz. He’s sent a pic of his long legs, spread wide on a mattress, leading like twin highways up to the mound of his tight ass, framed in a jock. Fuck, I think. How come I’ve never seen this guy before?

Fuck me tonight? he asks.

I’m tempted. Really tempted. I send him a dick shot. Then another. Then a third, of my raw dick poised at a hole, my fat cock head nudging against the pucker.

It elicits the response I’m looking for. Breed me!!!

Where in town do you live? I ask.

My heart sinks as I read his answer. I’m visiting from Italy. He tell me the hotel where he’s staying. It’s not one of the big three; it’s a smaller boutique hotel on the water.

But I’ve just sworn off fucking dudes in hotels! I made a stance! Just hours ago! What kind of idiot would I be to break a vow I just took?

The kind of idiot of which the universe likes to make fools, apparently.

The Grindr guy sends me a few more shots of himself clothed. They’re professionally done photographs of him in expensive clothing. I’m a model and I’m here to do a photo shoot on location, he says. Please come meet and breed me?

A young, attractive, cum-hungry male model from Italy? At least when the universe makes me eat my own words, it serves up the dish as tastily as possible—I’ll give it that much.

Yeah, I tell him. I definitely want to meet and breed you.

The hotel’s only a five-minute drive down the highway. There’s no traffic. The street in front of his lodgings is empty; I can park right in front of the building and walk right into the lobby. I knock at the model’s door; he opens it promptly and invites me in.

He’s wearing nothing but a fire engine red jock with black straps. In his photos, he’d sported blond hair and a dark beard, but now his hair’s all dark. It suits him better. “I’m so happy you came to meet me,” he says in a deep voice. His accent is heavy, but charming. He reaches out and entwines his fingers in mine to lead me all of five feet to the bed. He turns, and wets his thick lips. “Such a sexy daddy.” He presses his mouth to mine.

I usually don’t feel all that sexy during my travel time to tricks. The rush of getting somewhere, the pressure to get the directions correct and find parking, the exertion of walking and navigating through strange streets and buildings—none of it is boner-inducing. But when this kid, this lean-bodied kid less than half my age, this kid as tall as myself who’s wearing nothing but a skimpy jockstrap from an expensive label, starts pressing his body to mine as our mouths connect, I respond. My limp dick stirs and stiffens, then strains against him, groin to groin. He’s holding my head with both of his hands, now. I let the flats of my palms explore his body. The bumpy road of his spine. The swell of his smooth, firm ass. The pebbles that are his tiny, hard nipples.

“I saw you and I wanted you to be my daddy,” he says in that accent that sounds more Hollywood than real. “Fuck me tonight, daddy. Fuck me.”

“I’ll fuck you,” I promise.

His room is a god-damned mess, I notice. He’s got two suitcases, both open. From the way the clothes seem to have landed over the chairs and the extra bed and even the floor, I wonder if they exploded from internal, overpacked pressure. He’s got a case of bottled water next to the TV, its plastic ripped open, several bottles already removed. There are watches and phone chargers and thick chain bracelets and a wallet and a passport on the desk, and poppers and two bottles of lube on the bedside tables. He pushes me down onto the mattress of the bed he’s sleeping on, and straddles me.

His fingers rip open my buttons. He’s still kissing me, but he’s tearing the clothes from me as he does it. My chest lies bare; he pushes a hand down on it to keep me still as his other fingers wrestle with my best. Then the top button of my jeans is undone. He yanks down my zipper. With a rush he tugs down my shorts.

My clothes are undone, but not off; the shirt around my shoulders and the pants around my thighs are just as effective bondage as any ropes or chains. He’s able to switch positions so that he’s sitting squarely on my sternum, facing away from me, before I can wrestle out of any of my things. I feel the heat and wetness of his mouth on my cock. There’s a sound of someone groaning. I realize it’s me.

He’s doing these, these things with his mouth. I can’t see him at work; I don’t know what it is. But it’s driving me nuts. Maybe it’s his tongue determinedly working around the head. Maybe it’s something he’s doing with his hand against the slick skin of my wet dick. I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want it to keep happening. My arms are pinned under his knees, but while he sucks I manage to work them out and over. His ass is just inches from my face. I have to taste it.

I manage somehow to convince him to back up a little bit, to lean forward and take my dick deeper down his throat, to expose his hole. My neck cranes up. My tongue flicks out to taste him. The boy’s skin is creamy and smooth. He tastes and smells of hotel soap, with the faintest hint of a masculine cologne. When he feels me eating his hole, he starts groaning as well. He removes his mouth from my meat and allows himself the luxury of enjoying my tongue on his ass. I can feel his thick cock pressing against my skin. Its heat is intense, white-hot. It’s almost as if he’s branding me, as if when he eventually changes position again, I’ll find myself permanently impressed with the banana shape of his uncut salami on my skin.

“Daddy,” he says, finally, screwing himself around to kiss me once again.

“What do you want, son?”

“You. Inside me.”

“Yeah?” Still tangled in my shirt, I lift myself up on my elbows. We’re face to face, our eyes intently staring. “You want daddy’s dick up that pretty smooth hole?”

For a second he looks vulnerable. Helpless. As if he’s so wrapped up in the moment that my words have disarmed him. “Please. Yes.”

“You want dad’s sperm in there, don’t you.”

“Oh yes. Yes. Please.”

“What if I tell you no?”

It’s a taunt. He knows it. It’s also an empty threat. This pretty boy, this fucking Italian male model, has got me wrapped around his finger. He plants his palm on my chest again. Pushes me down. Leans over to grab a handful of lube from the bedside.

I feel the cold goo as he spread it all over his dick. Another handful. Another intense rush of coldness as the lube drips down onto my nuts. He grabs one more pump of the stuff and applies it to himself. The next sensation I feel is the warmth of his ass crack, as it begins to slide against my head.

“Let me get all the way out of my clothes,” I urge.

He doesn’t give a shit about my state of undress at this point, though. He’s got dick on his mind. Grabbing the poppers from the side table, he takes a deep whiff and lowers himself, reaching back to aim my dick at his hole. I slide in with no resistance whatsoever. This is one well-fucked boy.

“Daddy,” he whispers over and over as he allows me in.

“Oh baby,” I whisper back.

When he lowers himself to kiss me, I can still taste the poppers in his lungs. His mouth tastes mine only momentarily before he raises himself again. Using his knees as a fulcrum, he raises himself up and down on my dick. There’s a dark stain spreading across his jock, where the head bulges. When I press the heel of my hand against it, he responds with a groan and more intense grinding on my dick.

The kid is skilled. I mean, he’s good. He’s twisting his hips in a way that’s catching my dick just right. Every time I try to assert a little control, to do my own thrusting, he shakes his head and pushes me back. He’s greedy. He wants this his way.

So I let him. I let him grind, and buck, and set the pace. I let him speed up to the point where I can feel the juices bubbling in my nuts, threatening to boil over, before he looks at me with lidded eyes and stops altogether. Just to show me who’s in control. I let him take me to the edge again and again. I let him make me beg for release, and watch him enjoy himself when he denies it.

But he can’t keep me from shooting forever. He knows it. After long minutes he finally rests his hands on my chest yet again, pushing his weight there. He arches his back, and lets that bubble butt slam up and down against my nuts. “Daddy,” he announces. “Breed me.”

But when I come, I’m not so much breeding him as he is stealing my load. He’s breeding himself. My dick is only the delivery system. He’s forcing out the seed, inhaling it with his hungry hole, driving down for more. He’s milking every individual sperm out of my nuts, staring in my eyes as I convulse and groan and gasp for air. At the receiving end of his relentless drive I’m helpless. He knows it. The little fucker gets what he wants.

Only then does he pull down the pouch of his jock and pull out his uncut fat Italian dick. One jerk. Two jerks. Three jerks, and it erupts. A geyser of seed cascades over my chest, splashing me in the face. Then another. Then a third, smaller, but still copious.

I’ve done nothing but lie there tangled in my clothing the entire time. But I’m fucking exhausted. He, too, is panting heavily. I close my eyes and try to still my pounding heart. Then I hear something. The faintest of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, slitting open my eyes.

He’s still mopping his own sweat from his face. “Funny?” he asks, not understanding.

No. He hadn’t laughed.

Somewhere, somehow, it’s the universe snickering at me, and at all my silly vows.

Monday, April 9, 2018


So here I am, butt making a dent in my mattress, legs spread with my laptop between them. The tiny dot of a camera in the top bezel is angled squarely at my junk. Just a typical Monday morning, right?

Whenever I get exhibitionistic on some cam site, viewers always ask me, Dude, what’s getting you so hard? Here’s the serious truth: I’m not watching porn. I’m not fixated on anyone else’s broadcast. I’m just admiring the sight of my fist clutching my meat. And right now it is seriously grabbing onto those inches. My fingers are wrapped, vise-like, at the base of the shaft, stretching out my taut, fat nuts below. The top two-thirds of my meat—yeah, not the top half, but the top two-thirds, because I’m big like that—is thick and dark red from my own grip and strain for a hole that’s nowhere near.

What gets me so hard on cam is the sight of my own rock star dick. I’m am one cock-proud, and cocky, motherfucker. This crank of mine is turning on the seventy (and climbing) spectators who are using the chat box to cheer me on and express an admiration that almost equals my own.

Fuck, I love looking at myself on cam. My shaft is slick and glistening from all the lube I’ve been slathering on these past fifteen minutes. Every now and then a bead of my own natural juices will bulge at the tip; I’ll make a show of corkscrewing my finger into it, mashing the head down hard to give the illusion I’m digging deep into the tip to retrieve it. A long spider’s thread of precum connects cock to fingertip as I lift it up and bring it to my mouth. My spectators go fucking nuts when they see the long strand, plainly visible against the background of the black tee I’m wearing specifically for this purpose.

fuck look at that precum, writes someone.

This stud could breed me anytime! messages sexykittenMO.

pvt me? write a few people at once.

I’m not looking to send private messages now, though. I like to respond to my audiences in the chat room, sure. When hungdad4sexybois tells me I look hot, I’ll wipe sticky goo from my fingers and tap back, thanks hungdad. When trucker007253 asks where I live, I’ll reply, NY, trucker. I’ll answer questions about my size and my marital status. Some shit I ignore. When I get asked if I’ve ever been caught jerking off, I refrain from the obvious answer, No, because I have ears that work. When guys ask me to pull up my feet and put them behind my head, I refrain from suggesting that they go find the Ringling Brothers if they’re looking for acrobats. The dumb shit, I just refrain from answering at all.

But damn. I sure love the sight of my image on the computer screen, choking my big fat hog and grinning like a fool while I do it. Seeing how turned on and erect I am just makes me even more turned on and erect; I’m trapped in a pleasurable feedback loop. I’m a perpetual boner machine, watching my fist slide up and down over my gleaming shaft. The bout of ego doesn’t bother me. It’s like my mom always used to say: if you’re gonna be doing some self-loving, best love yourself while you do it.

(Note: my mom never actually said that.)

Show you feet, says m4hotfems in chat.

lift up that shirt dude, says boyfordads.

Someone named torpedo announces, I’m camming too. Check me out, stud.

My enjoyment of cam rooms and sites always takes place in three acts. Act One is the slow-moving scene setter in which I turn on the cam and wait to see who starts watching. Act Two is the bulk of the show, when I have more than a couple of dozen viewers, but less than a hundred. It’s during Act Two that I can chat with the guys and gals viewing me, thank them individually for their compliments, answer their questions, grant a few of their requests, if they strike my fancy. I love Act Two.

Act Three, though, begins when the number of my viewers outstrips my ability to keep up with them. There’s something about the triple digits that pushes the whole experience over a cliff. Onscreen chat happens too fast and frequently; I have to resort to a less personal thanks guys! after a spate of compliments scroll down my screen. I get too many private messages to really keep up—it feels like I’m almost spending more time typing than showing off—and typing is not why I’m here.

Today, Act Three begins about forty-five minutes into my show. My viewership hits the triple digits, dragging me to the top half of the first page of broadcasts. Having more people in my room brings in even more people—and more of them are making demands. More of them are trying to lure my viewers to their own rooms. It’s a little bit of a clusterfuck.

I’m used to this pattern, though. I know it’s coming, the moment that little green dot above my screen blinks on. I’ve been down this road many times before. So I thank my viewers, encourage them to follow me, and sign off. Sure, I didn’t shoot . . . but my cam shows aren’t about the climax.

They’re about the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.

I stand up, stretch my stiff legs. Snap down the lid of the laptop. Time for a shower, anyway. I pad over the bedroom floor and across the hall into the bathroom, where I wash the sticky lube from my dick and let the warm water soothe my aching boner. My dick’s soft, but still hefty, by the time I’m toweling off.

I’m still damp and clutching my towel when I scoop up my phone from the end of the bed where I’d left it. Several notifications from Scruff have filled the front screen; I let my thumb unlock the phone to check them.

There’s a message from a guy less than five miles away. Were you just on cam? he’s asked, naming the site where I’d been publicly masturbating. Hot as hell if you were. Woof.

My first thought is a startled How the fuck . . . ? My Scruff profile uses my face; on the cam site I’d only presented myself from the bottom of my nose down. When I realize I’ve used the same name on both places, though, I relax. Plus, the guy’s fucking hot.

That was me. Enjoy the show?

Fuck yeah, he says. You’re amazing.

Like I said, this fellow is pretty amazing himself. Mid-thirties, body of a muscled bulldog, dark red beard. Rapidly he sends me a few shots of himself—one on the beach, tanned and sweaty, one of his round bubble butt bent over a bare mattress in a dark room. I flipped through those and the others, dick beginning to harden again.

You’re the one who’s looking amazing, I tell him.

I get dressed while I wait for the next message. I don’t have to wait long, though. I really need to give head this morning. Can’t host, though.

Honestly, the offer of head is highly attractive to me. I can’t host, either, though, and tell him so.

Kinda unsure if you’d be into this. But I’ve got a van we could meet in, and I know a place off the parkway we could do this, if you’re up for now. Before I can tap back a reply, he adds, There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.

A hundred bucks? To get blown? I ask. My dick’s now filling out the pouch of my jeans.

Two hundred if you can do it now. Might not be your bag but you’d be worth it.

Tell me where and when, I tell the guy.

I’m grinning like a fool the entire drive up there. Nah, my smile’s not about the validation the transaction implies. I don’t need validation—though it’s pleasant when I get it. I’m just thinking how god-damned funny it is still to be doing this at my fucking age. When I was a twink, sure, I could see guys shelling out their hard-earned bucks for a taste of me. But midway through my fifties? Preposterous, right?

Yet I’ve been doing this for how many decades, now? Not soliciting—never soliciting. But accepting.
And here I am, hopping into yet another suburban minivan in a parking lot with a stranger. He removes his sunglasses. That pic in his profile must’ve been very recent—he’s even wearing the same tee/hoodie combo that’s in his main photo. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he comments, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull his door shut.

“Really?” is my only question.

“Nah. Not really,” he admits. His dark eyes are looking me over. Up. Down. Mostly down, checking for signs of stirring in my crotch. “You seemed like the kind of guy who would step up to the plate. Here you are.”

“Here I am,” I agree. I’ve dressed casually. I’ve made myself easily accessible—in a parked car emergency situation, you don’t want to be fiddling with any more fasteners than you really have to. So I’ve got on a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The dark V-neck tee I’d been wearing on cam, earlier. Jeans—no belt. I sit there with my hands at my side, letting him see everything. “You want to . . . ?” I rub my thumb over my fingers.

“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. A moment later, I’m pushing folded bills into my own pocket. “Let me see that dick again.”

“Up here?” I ask.

He looks around and rethinks his request. “Back seat. Yeah? Think it’d be better?”

I absolutely thought it would be better. There’s enough room for me to squeeze between the seats; he follows so that we’re sitting in the minivan’s back seat, where the shadows are deeper. He reaches for my groin, rubbing the flat of his hand over the taut denim.

“Fuck,” he says. “You know how many dudes wanted this dick this morning?”

I nod. “I know.”

“Now I’ve got it.”

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” I tell him. (Honestly, it sounded better in my head.)

“You hard?” I nod again. He licks his lips. “Let me see.”

I unbutton my jeans. Unzip. Immediately my dick flops out. No underwear—like I said, in car sex, the less you have to mess with, the better. My meat is hard. Even though it’s been through a shower, it still feels moist and slightly swollen from the thorough lubing it had during the hour I’d been on cam. Kind of like a sponge swollen from an excess of fluid. And god knows my balls have an excess of fluid today.

“Shiiiiiiiiit,” he whispers, drawing out the word. My dick jumps when he reaches to take it in his hand. “That’s what I’m talkin' about.”

“All yours.”

He urges me to get comfortable. There’s only so much comfort to be had in the back seat of a minivan, but I pull myself sideways so that my back is pressing against the door’s armrest. One of my legs is up on the seat itself, and he’s got a shoulder leaning on my thigh. With my pants pulled down a few inches from my waist, my dick’s pointing at the roof when he finally opens his mouth and engulfs it. One of his hands cups my nuts.

“That what you wanted?” I ask. “That big dick in your mouth?”

His reply is a muffled gulp of pleasure.

“So make it feel good, then.”

He replies to my demand by taking all my inches down his throat. The fur of his red beard tickles against the inside of my thighs. He’s surprisingly good, this bulldog cocksucker. Fucker could have anyone he wanted if he walked into the Eagle. Yet here he is on a weekday morning, sucking off some strange dude in a suburban strip mall parking lot. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself, though—and I can tell he’s really enjoying himself. His eyes are closed as he bobs up and down on my meat. Every time he reaches the base he lets out a contented little grunt. The dude is lost in a sexual fugue, caring about nothing but the sensation of his lips around hard cock, of his throat as my engorged head stretches it. When I let loose with a glob of precum, he lets loose a rumble in his chest, at the salty taste.

The street we’re parked on is sleepy and not much traveled; it’s too early for lunch and no one’s visiting the ramshackle travel agency. The van’s back windows are tinted, and a building blocks the front windscreen, so I’m not much worried about being caught. I let out a few groans to let him know what good work he’s doing. They’re not feigned, not forced. I’m genuinely getting off on this scene. His spit is slopping out of his mouth and down the length of my shaft, drawing wet lines of sensation down my nuts as it puddles on the seat. He wraps his thumb and forefinger down at the base, making me more rigid than I already am.

Eventually he comes up for air. “Do what you did earlier,” he asks, staring directly into my eyes.
“What was that?” Earlier covers a lot of territory, for me.

“Put on a show.” He pulls himself up slightly to rest his weight on his forearms. “Stroke for me. Let me watch. Like this morning.”

There’s something so fucking arousing about the way he’s making his request. I spread my legs a little wider and spit in my hand. Then, like I’m considering the request—casually, you know, the way guys always do when they’re masturbating while thinking over proposals—I reverse my usual jack-off fist and start stroking with my thumb at the bottom, bouncing against my pelvic bone. Usually drives them wild on cam.

He’s no different. I can feel the stiff intake of breath as it stirs the wet patch on my nuts. “Fuck,” is the only word he mutters.

Yeah. I can do this. I’m aware of his intense presence between my legs, mere inches away from my crank. All my attention is focused on my dick, though. This is what he wants to see. Intense, sexual, preoccupation. I make-believe he’s not even there.

One of my hands reaches up and squeezes my own tit. My jaw drops, like I’m loving it. “Fffffffuck,” I spit out.

“Christ, you are hot,” he whispers, watching the show. “Can’t get over how I’m actually right here in front of you, watching you choke that fat dick.”

I pretend not to hear him. I spit again, apply the liquid to my slick meat. It’s red, now. Throbbing. I thwack it into my palm with a wet slap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “I didn’t get to see you cum on your cam show.”

“You want me to cum?” My voice is low. Deliberate. When he nods, I look at him directly. “Tell me.”

“Cum for me,” he says, excited. He hasn’t opened his pants the entire time we’ve been together, but now he reaches for his zipper and pulls out a cut five-incher that he begins to beat furiously. “Dude, please cum for me. Shoot it.”

“Yeah. I’ll shoot it.” I pull back into my cock-proud self-regard, staring at my fat prick while I pull on it. “You’d sure like that, wouldn’t you.”

“I’d take all your loads if I was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.” He’s pulled himself on his side, now, so he can whack. He’s beating so audibly that his balls are slapping against the denim of his jeans. “Take all your loads. Mouth and ass. Not a drop would touch the ground. Fuck, if I was your boyfriend, you’d be drained twenty-four/seven.”

I’m digging how deep into the fantasy he is. As he keeps talking about all the things he’d do for me if I were his boyfriend, I pick up the pace to let him now how much he’s turning me on. “I’m getting close,” I warn him.

“Feed me,” he says, abruptly shifting place to position his mouth near my cock head. “Feed your boyfriend. Fucking feed your boyfriend.” While he repeats the words, he starts ejaculating into his own cupped hand. “Fucking feed me, fuck, feed me please, motherfucker.”

“Here it comes,” I tell him. I can tell from the pulse in my nuts that it’s going to be a big one. There’s just something about the sensation of the spit and the close quarters and his insistent boyfriend chatter that’s pushing me over the edge. Obligingly I angle my dick so it’s pointing at him. His mouth opens wide to watch the flying seed. I feel his wet pursed lips close over my meat, hungrily sucking the ejaculate as it spews.

His eyes half-closed, he nurses at my softening meat. I let him. His dime, after all. Finally he wakens from his sexual reverie. “You’re going to let me do that again sometime.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Not a question. You’re definitely going to let me do that again. Soon.”

I shrug, and smile to myself. Who am I to argue? I’m already picturing another time with this guy. I’m picturing the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.

Monday, March 19, 2018

I Know You

The only reason I’m here, in front of this tenth-story Chelsea apartment door on a winter’s afternoon, is because I’ve dared myself. In fact, every step that’s brought me here has been a dare.
Now, arrived at my destination, I have to dare myself one last time. Ring the bell, I think. Let him know you’re here. Do it. Get it over with. When I hesitate, the irresistible last self-push: C’mon. I dare you to.

My index and middle finger rise to the eye-level pushbutton. With the backs of my knuckles, I press and release, sounding a bell on the other side. Done, I tell myself. Happy now?

The door opens. The man I'm here to meet wears a pair of baggy workout pants. Athletic socks with loose elastic sliding down his furry legs. A tank-top that’s obviously been chosen for utility over style, though it shows off the curves of his muscles nicely. His face—that mug I recognize instantly—peeks around the door. His dark hair is long. Not as long as in his movies; it’s been cut roughly at the same level as his jaw. But those soulful eyes are the same. Both his locks and his trimmed-short beard are shot with more gray hairs than I remember.

The spark of familiarity, though, was instant. I know you, I thought. It wasn’t for the first time.

The man says my name in a deep voice, followed by, “Come on in.” He extends a meaty hand to grasp my own, and pulls me over the threshold.

Hey. I know you, I’d thought, the first time I’d seen his profile online, in my track list. You’ve been in porn, right? He’d used a selfie as his primary portrait, but a lack of studio lighting and a professional photographer couldn’t disguise that intense stare, the sharp jawline, the rough-hewn masculinity. At the time I’d merely taken a quick glance at his profile before moving on. To be honest, I’d assumed that some horny cretin was catfishing unsuspecting guys, using pictures of a well-known porn top as bait. But then again, who’d have the audacity to pass off photos of a major gay porn actor as his own? Not just some schmo who bottomed in a couple of dirty flicks, but a truly well-known star from a big studio?

Then the man behind the profile sent me a message on the site, admiring my profile. Dare you to play along, I taunted myself. So for shits and giggles I replied. I thanked him when he said he liked my photos. I answered his questions about my location and availability. Frankly, I was waiting for the inevitable, leering attempts at cyber chat that would tip me off I was dealing with a fraud.

But those never came. Over the course of our correspondence, he wrote sparingly about enjoying reading, and about how difficult it was to meet articulate men. He unlocked photos for me that didn’t seem like studio shots scrounged from Google. He told me that yes, he did escort and massage for a living; he hoped I wasn’t offended by that. The fact that he’d hit me up first meant he was looking for something off the books.

He didn’t get to bottom often, he said. I had a beautiful dick, and he really wanted to bottom for me.

This is where I had to dare myself again. Say yes, I told myself. Dare to think he’ll want you.

So I said, sure. Of course I’d be happy to take care of him, if that’s what he wanted.

Give him your phone number, I prodded myself. Dare ya.

I gave him my phone number.

We moved pretty rapidly from online chat to texting. He sent me a number of candid shots of himself that convinced me, pretty much beyond doubt, that I was speaking to the very same porn star to whose scenes I had jacked off multiple times over the years. There aren’t a lot of tops in porn that I watch, thinking, Damn, I wish he would stretch me the fuck open. There’s Dan Fisk, maybe. And most definitely there was this guy.

This man always excelled in his one-on-one scenes with others. His studio never dropped him in the middle of a gang bang. Oh no. They always paired him up with one exceptionally hot bottom, put them together in a dimly-lit room, then let the camera roll. In his scenes, this man knew how to control a situation. He would start slow, intimate. Romantic, even. The way he kissed the men he was about to fuck always made me twitch with need; I’d watch his bottom boys respond with real lust to his every touch.

On video, this man was a little bit older, a little more seasoned, a little quieter . . . a little bit more real than the rest of the studio stable. I always found those qualities attractive. He looked like he had sex on film because he enjoyed it—because he was damned good at it—rather than just to earn enough dough to pay off his dealer. When that inevitable moment came in every video when he’d finally turn over his boy, part those cheeks, and slide in his sizable member, I would be pouring the lube over my own dick, sighing, and wishing the boy were me.

Funny, how I’d idly fantasized about this guy for years before running across him online—but solely as a bottom fantasizes about a top. I’d never once considered fucking him. I could recall him even bottoming in any of his appearances.

I really want to submit to you, he texted. Just forget about myself while I’m your boy. May I do that?

Give him what he wants, I dared myself. Fuck him. Fuck this alpha of alphas. Make him your boy. My rock-hard dick spurred me on. Mark that ass as yours.

So I made a date.

Here’s the thing, though. All this time I was talking to the guy, I hadn’t actually come out and said, I know about your career in porn. I’d never casually brought up in conversation, So what’s it like, banging Dawson? I’d never dropped a hint like, You look familiar. Kind of like the top in that third scene of Splooge Up My Guts 2: Electric Boogaloo. Why the silence? Hell if I knew.

My own reservations about hooking up with my fans are abundant, and I’m one hundred percent certain that sex blog fans are neither as numerous nor as persistent as fans of porn stars. (And sex blog fans are pretty damned numerous and persistent.) Being labeled a stalkery fanboy was something I wanted to avoid. Another part of me simply didn’t think it was appropriate to speak of his history in porn. If he wanted to bring it up, sure. It'd be fair game. But if this man wanted to have a private sexual vacation—bottoming, no less—away from his public sexual persona . . . who was I to deny him?

Before the afternoon of our meeting, I confess, I messaged my friend Ryan Wolff with a couple of the photos. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Do you recognize this guy? I asked.

Oh hell yeah, Ryan replied instantly, and named the man.

I was immediately relieved to be validated that I wasn’t exchanging steamy texts with, you know, a sandwich shop worker bearing a vague resemblance to a porn star. (The thought had crossed my mind, more than a few times.) He wants me, I explained. But I didn’t want to go all fanboy on him, so I didn’t tell him I recognized him. His real name is different from his porn name. I shared the name the man had given me.

That’s him all right. Ryan texted back, He’s retired from porn, but I understand he’s versatile. Knock up his ass real good.

And here I am. Ready to knock him up.

No. I’m ready to give him what he asked for. Today he’s not going to be a porn star. Today this man is going to be my boy . . . just as he desired.

I step inside the door, ready to apologize for my chilly hands, my frigid nose, my ice-cold cheeks. Once the door closes behind me, he ignores my frozen extremities and immediately cups my face in his hands, pulling down my head. His nails riff through the scruff of my beard. His eyes open wide, look straight into mine; he pulls our foreheads together. Our hips connect. Jersey to denim, seam to zipper, hardness to hardness. He smells of soap, and of a woodsy deodorant.

Still staring at each other, we grind together for a long moment until he breaks the silence. “You’re much better looking in person,” he says, then to my relief temporizes, “and I thought you were handsome in your pics.”

He looks just like he does in porn. Silly thing to think. Of course he does. Except he’s here—he’s real. He’s touching me, resting his hands on my chest, cupping my ass. He’s shorter than I imagined, to be honest. Everyone is, when I meet them.

Tell him, I dare myself. Just say, hey. I know you.

No. Ultimatums have propelled me out of my living room and down the New Haven line into the city. They’ve forced my grudging feet onto the Lexington Avenue train into Chelsea. Self-provocation has gotten me over the threshold. It’s time to leave dares behind. I'm here. Now. For him.

Once and for all, I decide to keep my mouth shut. This man can spend the afternoon free of the invisible albatross of the porn star—my gift this afternoon will be unburdening him of having to live up to anything. Of having to perform.

I speak his name. His real name. “Thank you,” I tell him, for the compliment. “You are one of the most ruggedly handsome men I’ve ever seen. Can I make you an offer today?”

“Yes. What?”

“Let me make love to you. Let me be in charge.” His forehead is still pressed to mine as I half-whisper the enticement. His fingers are clasped around the back of my neck; his thumbs rest on my collarbone. His response is a sigh, and a rumble deep in his chest. “You don’t get to bottom often, do you?”

Those soulful eyes are already boring into mine. He separates our craniums so that we can better see each other. Still we’re glued pelvis to pelvis, hands on each other’s hips, swaying back and forth in some slow, tuneless dance. “No,” he finally says in soft, low syllables. “I surely don’t.”

“You don't get to let loose.” Again he shakes his head. “Then let me be the one taking care of you today,” I tell him. “I intend to treat you right.”

“Yes. Please.” He leans forward, places a hand on my cheek. We kiss. His tongue slips between my teeth; his lips are soft, though his beard prickles through my own. “I need that very, very badly.”

In all the idle fantasies I’ve had about this guy over the last decade, if I’d scripted our conversation, I would’ve been in his role and he would’ve taken mine. But this feels good. This feels very natural, in fact. I enjoy taking care of my men. Why should a few dozen hours on video make this one any different? I jettison shed my jacket and backpack and shoes in his entry hall and allow him to guide me our of the hallway. His apartment is small, but tidy; he's curated his many books onto their shelves by subject. Sneakers snuggle in pairs beneath the bed. There’s a portable massage table folded against the wall. A bed occupies a spot between a radiator and the window.

It’s toward the mattress that I steer him now, maintaining the connection at our core. He stumbles back with awkward steps, his lips hungrily on mine. We kiss with increasing ferocity; it’s as if the feel of my mouth on his, my tongue deep inside, unleashes his need. I’ve seen his bottoms on film crave him in exactly this way, many times before. Now it’s his turn to give in.

He’s on his back, head on the pillow, hairy legs in the air. I’m on top of him, my groin still grinding against him, insistent, demanding, my chest against his, our lips fastened on each other. My dick feels like cement. It has to be bruising his most tender places. But no, I feel his own erection prodding back, just as hard, just as anxious.

We separate to rip off our clothes. No seduction. No more prolonging the moment. There’s just raw, naked need between us. He looks over my body while I stare at his. My eyes have the better half of that bargain. He’s still in great shape. Lean. Furry. His fat dick is dark and wreathed by even darker pubes, shot with silver. It points straight at me.

I have to taste it. I might not be taking it—not today—but I need that porn star dick in my mouth. He groans as I go down on him. Already his head is slightly musky and slick with his precum. It slides down my throat effortlessly. How many times does a guy get to worship a dick about which he’s fantasized? Out flicks my tongue, every time I reach the base, licking at his nuts. After a few moments, his sac is covered with my drool.

The entire time I’m down on his meat, he’s groaning. He’s seized my skull between his big hands; now he’s lifting me off, bringing my mouth to his, tasting his own precum from my tongue. My breath probably smells like his dick, but he’s sucking the air out of me, he’s breathing so heavily. He flips me onto my back, stares into my eyes with flinty intent, and then parts my legs so that can suck me.

He works on my nuts, first, licking them, sucking them into his mouth, teasing me with his wet lips. Then he travels up the shaft. I feel his hot breath on my skin—and then he’s down, swallowing my inches. I feel a crackle of sensations when his short beard abrades my sac, then the slick softness of his open throat.

“Suck it,” I whisper. He grunts and gargles on my hard meat. “Get it all good and slicked up for your ass, son.”

I don’t actually know how old this man is. I’m assuming he’s younger than I, though neither of us is exactly a spring chicken. I can see the effect that the word son has on this ultimate porn daddy, though. It’s as if every bone in his body melts away; his center of gravity drops deep into the mattress as every newton of tension and resistance drains from his muscles. Even his throat collapses around my cock, driving it more deeply down his gullet. He’s more relaxed than he’s ever made anyone on that massage table.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I murmur in his ear. He submits completely when I withdraw from his mouth and turn him face-down on the bed. I grab the extra pillow and easily shove it beneath his hips. “Let me see that hole, son.”

My growl elicits one in return, deep from his gut. He reaches back to pull apart his cheeks and expose the furry depths of his cleft. There’s so much hair I can’t even see the pucker at first. But there it is, deep inside, warm. Moist. Protected. When my mouth meets that private part of him, he lets loose with a noise that’s pure animal. It could be from pain; from what I’m doing, I know it’s of pleasure.

As my incisors gnaw at him, as my lips stretch his hole, as my tongue laps with broad, dog-like persistence at a place made sensitive by need and neglect, his howling intensifies. My thoughts are for his neighbors. He, however, seems to be operating in a place beyond all consideration for the adjoining apartments. He’s got no thoughts. Only needs.

He roars, pleating the sheets between his clenched fists. The noise doesn’t daunt me. I redouble my efforts and dive deeper. There’s a bit of struggle from his sphincter, at first. It tries to clamp down, to deny me what I most want. My tongue flattens, broadens, weakens its target. I’m relentless. I’ll get what I want, in the end. The beast quiets. Relaxes. The taste of his hole changes; there’s the faintest metallic tang as it releases for me.

“You like it,” I tell him.

There’s no need to explain what I mean. His face is contorted in a rictus of pleasure as he looks over his shoulder in my direction. He nods. The man likes all of it. The attention. The licking. The surrender.

With my index and middle finger, I probe at his pucker. He’s not as tight as I fear. The flesh gives way and parts as I twist my digits. He's not virgin-tight. On the other hand, he’s not sloppy-open by any means. I’m a good judge of how difficult it will prove to get into any given hole. I’m guessing that with this man, any barrier to me fucking him will be more mental than physical.

As if to prove my point, the moment he realizes he’s enjoying himself too much, the porn star clamps down like a vise on my fingers. There’s a dispenser of lube by the bed. I raise myself up and softly shush him as I press down to release some of the opaque lubricant into my fingers. It’s a bit cold, but warms instantly as my fingers deliver it onto, then into, his rectum. Kneeling now, I kiss a path up his spine, deviating at the shoulders, ending at the base of his neck. He’s still clutching his bedsheets, but his arms are over his head in a posture of complete surrender. I know you, I think, looking down at him. Then I reach for more slickness, to spread over my cock.

He watches me sleepily, his eyes half-lidded. Smiling, almost. My dick is engorged. Ready to go. But I hesitate.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m a man of abundant sexual confidence. I realize the measure of my power, once my pants hit the floor. I know the caliber of men I can attract, with a little luck and effort. At this decade of my life I should instinctively understand I can pull off most situations. But honestly? The reality of thus situation is catching up with me.

Who the fuck am I to top a porn star of this magnitude? Sheer chutzpah might’ve gotten me to this point, but what the hell do I think I’m doing? I’ve had several porn actors, including some major ones, as sexless close friends. I once made out with a kid who turned out to be a porn star in the restroom at Uncle Charlie’s, on his twenty-first birthday. I’ve slept with men who later revealed they’d been in a porn video or two in their past. But never, ever, have I fucked someone like this guy, knowing his past, knowing his level of fame. This is craziness.

At the mere altitude of five feet from the floor, I’m experiencing the giddy vertigo of someone who’s been hauled up the first steep incline of a fearsome rollercoaster, and who hangs in hideous suspense between the rise and the inevitable plunge to come.

I’ve gotten this far, I realize. Time to start the ride.

I slide in from behind. As he did with my fingers, almost immediately he starts to clamp down. With only about two inches inside, and his hole starting to fight me, I lower my chest to his back. “You are so damned beautiful,” I whisper into his ear. “Do you know how fucking hard you make my dick? Reach down. You feel that? You feel it?” He obeys. Nods. He feels it, all right. How long has it been since someone topped him last? “I am going to fuck you so deep,” I murmur. “Your dad is going to knock up that beautiful, amazing ass.”

That’s doing it. His hole flares. I slide in another inch.

“Such a good boy. Such a good, beautiful boy, giving up his pussy to dad.” I’m not only in his ass. I’m in his head. “Fuck, baby boy. You’ve got me. You’ve got almost all of me in there. You want all of your dad’s fuckstick up that hole, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes sir.” He stirs. Opens his eyes. Looks back at me with adoration.

I lean down and meet his mouth with mine. “When I’m done, this ass will belong to me. Right?”

“Yeah,” he growls. “It’s already yours.”

“Arch that back, son,” I tell him. “C’mon. You can do it.” He obeys instantly, and my last two inches slide inside and hit bottom.

I lower myself onto the man so that I’m weighing him down. Like most men, he finds the sensation comforting. His fingers wriggle to clasp my own as slowly I start grinding. I’m so deep inside I already can feel the nub of his prostate pressing against my cock head. “Feels amazing. Dad's really enjoying his boy’s hole. I know you're loving it.” He nods, trying to come to terms with the sensations flooding his body. “Do you love it? Tell me.”

“I love it,” he gasps.

“Say thank you, dad.”

“Thank you, dad.” Again we make eye contact. He says the words again, to make sure I understand his sincerity. “I mean it. Thank you, dad.”

“You’re welcome, son,” I reply—because that’s what good dads say to their boys. I thrust in with more vigor, making him gasp.

I raise myself with my palms flat on the mattress. Now I can pull out more, and thrust deeper. He lifts his head, enraptured by the sensation of my fuckmeat slopping in and out of his hole. “Don’t come yet,” he begs.

“Oh.” I let out a genuine chuckle. “I have absolutely zero intention of coming yet. I intend to enjoy this fuck. Our first fuck.”

“Thank you.” It’s more breath than voice.

He’s now as wide open as pussy, soft as velvet. For a while I fuck him in this position, urging him to enjoy himself, coaching him on how well he’s doing. I roll with him onto our sides, and hold his leg in the air while my dick splits him open, one arm encircling his chest. I whisper obscenities into his ears in the missionary position, the soles of his feet parallel to the ceiling. No position is better than the rest; he grinds and clutches at my cock with his hole through all of them.

“Let me ride you,” he says at last. Now is when he comes into his own.

This time, he puts me into place. He arranges a pillow for my head, and nestles me there on my back before he kneels above my hips. “Let me,” he whispers, when I reach down to help aim my dick. Fine by me. I tuck my hands under the pillow, palms up, and let him do his thing.

It’s odd. Until I’d walked into this apartment, my perception of this man these previous weeks has been of the porn star, the persona carefully crafted of muscle, stubble, dick, and gruff masculinity. Once I’d met him, once I’d taken control, the superstar receded until the actor became a man in simple need. Now, though, as he squats over me and grabs one ass cheek to pry it open as he guides my erection deep inside his guts—now I’m seeing the star power emerge once more. His forehead glistens with moisture as he whips back his head to clear the hair from his face. He cocks his jaw to one side as he lowers himself down, then grabs his knees when he hits bottom. “That load belongs to me,” he announces.

I agree. “Yeah. It does.”

“I've earned it.”

“You’ve definitely earned it, son.”

“Thank you, sir.” He’s not so much bobbing up and down on my meat as he is pivoting back and forth, but the effect is the same on my dick. My nuts are contracting; I can feel the skin bunching up. He raises his hands over his head. He’s showing off, now. If there had been a lens pointed at him, he’d secretly be searching for his best light.

Cocky fucker.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly grinning. “Let me look at you.”

Still churning my dick with his hole, he swivels from side to side, giving me views from all angles. Then suddenly self-conscious, he bursts into laughter. He rests his palms on either side of my head and lowers himself down to plant an affectionate kiss on my lips.

“You are beautiful,” I whisper, as our eyes bore into each other. “And it’s time to take my seed.” The announcement sets him into motion again. Grinding, squeezing, bucking back and forth on my dick. His hair fringes either side of his face, casting it into shadow. Drops of his sweat fall onto my mouth, but I don’t care. “You want it? You want my load?”

“I want it.” He looks deadly serious now. “I need it. I need your load in me.”

“Like you said, you’ve earned it.”

At least, that’s what I intended to say. He muffles the last half of the sentence with his mouth, though. His palms press down on my chest, squeezing the air out of me. He’s crushing me. But I like being crushed and smothered at his hands.

“Ride it,” I wheeze. “Get that load. Steal it.”

He’s already ahead of me. I can already sense the heat rising from my balls, feel the waves of sensation beginning to overtake me. He doesn’t let up. Maybe he’s more experienced as a bottom than I knew. Maybe he’s just been with so many expert holes that he’s picked up a few tricks. But he’s milking out this load, come hell or high water.

When I shoot, I barely make any noise. The pressure he’s exerting on my rib cage has left me gasping for air. I thrash, though, and dig my heels into the mattress as I thrust myself more deeply inside. He’s not touched his hard, fat dick the entire time he’s been on top of me—but now he grabs himself in his fist, pounds it twice, and starts hosing one of those porn star loads across my chest and onto my face. I’m shooting. He’s shooting. Two bulls, bucking at once, gulping for oxygen, rising and falling and rising and falling again.

For a moment, after we’ve sprayed everything we’ve got, we freeze in our little tableau. He’s looking at me, almost as if truly seeing me for the first time. There’s something in his expression . . . is it sadness? Longing?

I have to know. “You all right?” He nods. “What are you feeling?”

He lowers his haunches. Runs his hands through his hair. Considers his words. “Honestly? I was wishing more men treated me like you just did.” His mouth puckers up as he thinks some more. It's a wry and regretful expression. “I was wishing more men were like you.”

I blink. Then I murmur something. I thank him. He’s left me astonished . . . and a little sad.

Then he pulls himself off me and rises. Naked, he pads across the room in search of a towel. Before he disappears into the bathroom, he turns to grace me with a smile. His teeth are a little crooked. He’s a little shaky on his feet. But I know I’m seeing him at his most honest. He’s a man who in that moment, is shorn of pretense and stripped of all fantasy. What’s revealed is a man at his most essential.

I meet his grin with one of my own, and I think, Hey. Now I know you.

Monday, March 5, 2018

Grindr Roulette: A Drama in Three Acts

Trick 1: 4:50 pm

I’m sitting in S’mac in the East Village on a Monday night. There’s a small cast-iron skillet of macaroni and cheese before me. Chunks of ham stud the creamy pasta; steam still rises from the surface. It’s a cold day out, and I’m indulging in an early dinner. I’d rather be at home right now, feet up on my ottoman, heat cranked. But, grudgingly, I’ve hauled myself into Manhattan for a meeting this evening.

Are you sure we can meet? I’d texted the group’s leader earlier. I mean, is the building even open on a federal holiday?

Sure! he’d texted back. They’re always open.

I’m peppering the mac and cheese when my phone buzzes on the little cafe table beside me. It’s the group’s leader. No meeting tonight, he says. The building’s closed because of the federal holiday.

Well. Shit. Usually I like being proven right, you know? On a frigid winter day though, with the New York City wind blasting to the bone at every intersection, I was kind of kicking myself for not calling the Center myself from home, before my commute.

There are worse things than being at loose ends in the metropolis, though. So I close out my messages and fire up Grindr just long enough for it to register my location. Then I go back to my meal.

I’m three-quarters of the way through my skillet when I fire up Grindr again. Sure enough, I’ve gotten about eight responses. A couple are just taps from blank profiles—those I ignore. A couple more are from good-looking boys, but their one-word inquiry of Looking?? put me off. I might be looking, but I’d like a little more interaction than that.

There’s a message from a guy who’s a mere 250 feet away, though. In his forties. All I can see in his profile is a chest shot, but it’s a hot chest shot. The dude takes care of himself. Furry bod. Firm pecs. Trim waist. You look close and I need breeding, he says. Any other pics?

When I reply I’ve got some for swap, he immediately returns a photo of his face. It looks like the kind of head shots actors take in for their auditions . . . and if this fellow isn’t quite leading man material, he’s at least studly enough to be cast as the guy the female protagonist in a rom-com uses for rebound sex to make her ex jealous. You know the type. Handsome, in a bland way.

I send him back a couple of dick shots. Fuck, he writes. You’re hung! How soon can you be here?
Ten minutes? I say, looking at the remnants of my meal and guessing how long it would take to walk 250 feet. It’s 4:50

Sounds fucking hot. You got me so boned here. See you in 10, buddy. He gives me an address.

All right, then. I’m going to enjoy this one, I can tell. Hot guy, hot ass, needs breeding, is only a quick walk away. What could go wrong?

Ten minutes might’ve been an overestimation, I realize when I look up the guy’s address on my phone. He’s all of two blocks away, down Second Avenue and around the corner. I stall a little buy prolonging the last few forkfuls of the macaroni. Once I’ve popped a couple of mints in my mouth, I kill a little more time by bussing my table and taking a quick piss in the restroom.

I walk up to the address the guy gave me at exactly 5:00. I find his apartment number on the list next to the intercom and ring the bell. There’s a pause, and then the intercom speaker clicks. “Uh,” says a staticky voice. “This is kind of embarrassing. But . . . oh fuck. Just come on up.” The latch vibrates.

I let myself in and climb three flights to the guy’s apartment. This is the oddest reception I’ve ever gotten. Do I know the guy and not realize it? Does he recognize my secret superhero Breeder identity? What’s embarrassing, and why did he seem to be considering not letting me in at all? (Wasn’t that what he had implied over the intercom?) Had he catfished me? Was the photo he’d sent not his own?

The door opens the moment I knock. I hadn’t been catfished. The guy’s face was the same as in the photo he’d shared; he’s wearing only a pair of loose sweatpants, and standing there shirtless with an abashed expression on his face. But he makes no effort to gesture me inside. If anything, he plants himself against the half-open door and stands there as if to impede me from crossing the threshold.

“Like I said, this is kind of embarrassing,” he says without preface. “I really wanted a breeding, but your pics were so hot that I . . . kind of . . . finished myself while I was waiting for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “It’s been only ten minutes,” I finally say, each word leaden. The spark of excitement in my groin extinguishes.

“Yeah, but you know how it is.”

No. I really don’t know how it is to make a date with a guy for a hot fuck and then to masturbate so furiously that I’m spent before he arrives mere minutes later. I blink at him with incomprehension.

“Anyway, sorry. Maybe next time?”

“Uh-huh,” is all I can say.

Trick 2: 5:35 pm

I’m in a coffee shop up Second Avenue, closer to 14th Street, nursing my wounds with a latte that tastes vaguely of gingerbread in one sip, coconut milk the next. And I’ve got Grindr fired up again.
I’m getting messages on a regular basis; the guys on the grid are closest to me in mere tens of feet rather than the hundreds I get at home. You look like the kind of top I need right now, writes one guy. I’m ass-up in my apartment, cleaned out, and ready for your load, if you’re interested.

My disappointed dick is definitely interested. This guy is in his early forties. He’s got a professorial appearance about him. Something about the unkempt curly salt-and-pepper hair in his profile photo, his wire-rimmed glasses, his half-closed eyes, speaks of years of working toward some lowly tenure position. The fact that he writes in complete sentences with proper punctuation, on Grindr, nails home the impression. I could be interested, I type back. If this interests you.

I send him a dick pic. I have one photo I privately call The Deal-Clincher. It’s a self-shot of me reclining on my bed, legs spread, dick in hand, my head drawn slightly back, my brow furrowed, my mouth drawn into a perfect O. In the shot I look close to shooting, and simultaneously insanely smug—a little bit like I’m going to say either Oh my fucking god, this fucker’s about to blow!, or else, Oh shit, is this not the biggest dick you’ve ever seen in your life? I tend more to the latter, because in this particular shot my weapon looks like a fucking baseball bat. It’s so engorged that it’s purple. It fills up my hands. It looks like horse cock. I’ve got a lot of attractive shots of my meat to send out, but when I bust out The Deal-Clincher, it’s because I mean business.

What kind of idiot would NOT be interested in that monster? is his reply.

With satisfaction, I think to myself, Right?

His address is a little further north and closer to Union Square. I swig down the rest of my brew and start the trudge up that way. I’m feeling good about this one; the first guy was just an anomaly, I tell myself.

The guy buzzes me into his building and I take the elevator up the ninth floor. He’s naked when he opens the door, though the darkness of the hallway beyond keeps me from seeing much of his body. In the studio apartment beyond I can see bookshelves around two of the walls, crammed with volumes. Yeah, this guy’s an academic, all right.

Not until my backpack has hit the floor and I’ve kicked off my shoes does he step into the light to reveal the dark coils of hair covering his lean body, the hipbones jutting out at angles below his waist, his unusually large feet. “Thanks for making this so easy,” he says to me, standing on tiptoe to press his mouth against mine.

I reciprocate by leaning down to meet him. He purses his lips and projects the tip of his tongue through the tight embouchure. With the rapidity of a sewing machine, he thrusts it in and out of my mouth.

Oh dear.

Not every guy is a good kisser, I realize. But who the hell is teaching guys to make out like this? That protruding tongue business is about as erotic as a lights-out party with your own maiden aunt. I abandon any attempts at passion and allow him to guide me to the bed. He hops up onto the mattress on all fours and assumes the position. “Fuck it,” he demands.

No foreplay, I guess. No sucking of my dick, no sexy undressing, no attempts to get me hard and ready. Nothing. I guess I’m just there to perform. So I unbuckle my belt, undo the button of my jeans, tug down my pants and shorts, and rub his hole while I masturbate myself to stiffness.

“Oh fuck yes, babe,” he hisses, when my fingers stretch his hole. He’s already wet; it feels more like silicone lube than some other guy’s seed, though. “Get me ready. Get that big penis out and stick it in. Give your baby your big penis. Me wants it. Me wants it.”

His sex chatter is unerotic, but I’ve worked miracles with much less. My dick’s not exactly the overstimulated proportions it reached in that Deal-Clincher photo, but it’s hard enough to fuck. I add a little lube to it from the dispenser by the bed and slide in.

“Fuck that pussy!” yells the guy. “Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck that—aaaaaah!”

I have a vague idea of what’s going on from the sounds he’s making. Sure enough, when I pull out to look, the asshole has sprayed a load directly onto the bedspread. I don’t know whether he assumes that I’m done, too, because in order to see what’s going on, I’ve pulled out. Immediately he bounces up, though, and starts to pull on some around-the-apartment duds that are lying in a crumpled pile by the bed. “That was great!” he enthuses. “See ya round!”

I’d been in the dude for all of fifteen seconds. If that. Silently, I stuff my junk into my shorts, pull up my jeans, and fasten my belt. He’s standing by his front door, obviously itching for me to leave. Truth to tell, I’m no less anxious to get out, either.

It’s while I’m sitting down on a stool, next to where I removed my shoes, trying to unlace them and stuff my feet in and lace them back up again in that awkward silence, that I take a glance at his books. I see some titles that look familiar to me. “Hey,” I say, genuinely surprised. “You’re a Patrick Dennis fan.” I reach out and touch a spine. “First Lady? No one has First Lady. You’ve got Genius . . . 3D, Tony . . . Wow. You’re a real enthusiast, aren’t you?” I’m a little surprised; other than Auntie Mame, no one reads Patrick Dennis any more (and mostly they haven’t read him . . . they’ve seen the movie).

He was a major influence on my own writing style and outlook. What wouldn’t I give to have a really good conversation about one of my favorite authors with someone else who enjoys his novels? I’d even forgive bad sex for that.

I stand up, hoping for some response. But the guy just shrugs. “Sure. I guess.”

Okay then. I don my coat, grab my backpack, and head out once again.

Trick 3: 6:15 pm

Smart New Yorkers keep two databases in their heads. One is an ever-evolving list of clean and reliable public restrooms at places that aren’t named Starbucks. The other is a compendium of public spots, again not named Starbucks, where it’s possible to sit down and relax between appointments . . . or unsuccessful Grindr hookups.

The Barnes and Noble just north of Union Square sits on both lists. It’s right in the vicinity of the disappointing academic. The fourth floor has a section of seat for lectures and readings that’s fairly reliable . . . and there’s a clean restroom only a floor down. Propped in one of the end seats with my jacket on my lap and my backpack at my feet, I cross my legs and consider what to do.

I’ve had two disappointments so far. Realistically, I should just cut short my losses. Call it a night. Spend the next couple of hours shopping, or grabbing a drink at one of my favorite bars. It’d make sense to head over to Uniqlo and shop for some socks I need. What I shouldn’t do is fire up Grindr again. I’d just land another dud of an encounter. My dick probably smells like the academic’s ass. What if I did get a bite, and the guy went down on me, and came up gagging? What if, after two disappointments, I couldn’t even get it up? Nah. A third go at Grindr isn’t for me.

I’m on the app thirty seconds later, of course.

Hey. It’s a 20 year old. That’s all I know about him, because his profile photo is a starry sky.

Hey, I write back.

Looking to suck big cock. You got big cock for me?

Along with the message he sends a naked photo of his entire self. He’s a skinny little twink with a skinny little butt, smooth from neck to foot. He’s got sloppy brown hair and a fringe of scruff on his chin. In other words, he’s incredibly fuckable.

Yeah. I’ve got big cock. The kid’s given me a boner in the middle of B&N. In retaliation, I unleash the biggest weapon in my Grindr arsenal: The Deal-Clincher.

I want it in my throat. You want to come over?

I should say no. I know I should.

Give me an address, I say instead.

He send me a location a couple of blocks away, on Sixth and 17th. Be there in 10, I tell him.

I’ve got business in the restroom before I leave, though. I grab a handful of paper towels, run some lukewarm water over them, and in one of the stalls I clean up my dick as best I can. It doesn’t look dirty, but I feel a little bit better about shoving it in some kid’s mouth after it’s been in another man’s hole . . . albeit oh-so-briefly.

The walk’s not far, but it’s dark now, and the wind blows in my face like it’s determined to make a particularly icy point. I’m glad the lobby of the kid’s apartment building is stuffy and overheated, because I get a chance to thaw out a little on the elevator up.

The kid opens up the door on my first knock. He holds up a finger to his lips before I can say hello, then reaches out a hand and pulls me into the dark foyer. “Hi,” he whispers. There’s a pulled partition between the foyer and the living room beyond; I can hear the sound of a television sitcom on the other side. “In here.”

His fingers still wrapped around mine, the kid pulls me into a room to the right of the front door. It’s a tiny space. I realize almost immediately that it’s supposed to be a coat closet, or an umbrella room—some kind of pre-war outdated storage space that can barely fit a twin bed and a dorm-room mini-fridge. He’s put up shelving around the tops of the high ceilings to hold his clothing and books. A student, maybe, renting a tiny room in someone else’s apartment.

When he takes my other hand in his, and pulls himself close, I look at the boy for the first time. He’s got a pretty face. Big, open, liquid eyes. Soft pink lips. Pale, smooth skin. The fuzz on his jawbone is downy and trimmed to a point. There’s a corresponding line of thin fur that trails down his stomach to his pubes. He looks like a young James McAvoy as Tumnus the faun. “I really hoped you’d show,” he says in the softest possible voice.

I don’t get the impression that he’s not supposed to have guests. I do, however, understand that he’d rather keep our conversation quiet. “How could I resist a beautiful boy like you?” I whisper.

He is beautiful. Half of me is convinced something got to go wrong. He’s probably a bad kisser. He’ll get my pants off and decide I’m not the guy for him. Maybe he’s got a colostomy bag. Like the academic, he has to stand on tiptoe to press his lips to mine. I raise my hand. Cup his jaw. Pull him in.

No. He’s a great kisser.

He’d greeted me shirtless. All he’s wearing is a pair of soccer shorts. They slip to the ground in a puddle. His dick is hard already, curved, pointing toward my feet. I seize it with a fist and pull him closer. “Daddy,” he whispers.

“Be a good boy,” I tell him as I struggle out of my jacket. “Get my pants off and suck me.”

The kid obeys, but first kneels down to remove my shoes and socks. Then he unbuttons my shirt and slips it over my shoulders. Finally, he unbuckles my belt and unbuttons my jeans, and tugs them down with my shorts. He stares at my cock as he helps me step out of the last of my clothing, but not until he pushes me back onto the thin mattress does he finally open those soft lips and take my meat between him.

He’s no disappointment in the oral department, either. Fuck. Far from it. The sensation of his mouth on my dick is electric. He’s not gagging; I must’ve done all right in that bookstore washroom. He’s going down on my inches like he’s starving and it’s a nine-inch sub. Then he’s back up with his narrow waist between my thighs, taking my tongue in his mouth. Back down to the dick he goes, sucking and slurping on it hungrily. Then up to my mouth again, trembling with pleasure and desire as I run the flats of my hands down his smooth back and across his tiny little butt.

I’m not even aware I’m pulling apart his cheeks and fingering his butthole until he pauses, on one of his trips between my mouth and my dick. “I didn’t get ready to be fucked,” he whispers. “I just wanted to suck tonight.”

“That’s okay,” I say, meaning it. If anyone’s going to get me off orally, it’s going to be this kid.

Am I surprised then, minutes later, when he gets my dick especially wet with his spit, then reaches around and pulls my dick to his tiny little pucker as he makes out with me? I’m not, really. I say nothing, though. This can be his decision.

I feel him rubbing my sloppy-wet knob against his boyhole. There’s barely enough room for him to sit up on me without knocking his skull on the shelves overhead, but he rests his weight on his knees and leans back anyway. I tuck my fingers behind my head and watch him. He’s struggling, internally; he wants me inside him, I can tell, but he’s not sure if he should.

“It’s all right,” I whisper, startling him enough that he opens wide his half-closed eyes. “You don’t have to. You’re a good boy.”

I can see it written plain on his face. He doesn’t have to. But he wants to. He wants to be a better boy. The best boy.

He spits in his hand. Adds the moisture to his hole. Then slowly, almost painfully, he starts backing down on my cock. His own dick, fat and curved down, drips with precum. “Fuck me, daddy.” He mouths the words more than pronounces them. His eyes are closed again. He’s lost in a world of his own. “Fuck me.”

“Good boy,” I say again, and then again. “Good boy.” Over and over I use the words, as he engulfs more of me. Each time I invoke the phrase he sighs to himself. He’s happy to be a good boy. He wants to make dad proud, I can tell.

It’s not difficult to get all the way in the kid. He swallows the last few inches in a single, greedy gulp. He rests for a moment, then begins sliding up and down the pole. With his hands resting on my chest, he leans forward and looks down into my eyes. His lips part. For the longest time, I wonder what he’s going to say.

Finally it comes out. “I love it.” Plain and simple. What every dad wants to hear. “I love it. I love it,” he repeats.

“I . . . love . . . that . . . ass,” I whisper back, delivering each word with one of his thrusts. “Kiss me, son.”

When he shifts his weight forward, I pivot my hips upward and plant my heels on the mattress. I take over the hip action; he’s a curled ball over me, his mouth glued to mine. The bedsprings squeak as I begin pounding his hole from below. It’s not going to take long to shoot in the kid, I know.

“You want my load?” I ask. “You want dad’s load?”

He doesn’t have to assent. I can tell by the hunger of his kisses that he craves it. Then, “Please,” he says. “Please just fuckin’ load me.”

We’re still keeping it as quiet as possible. The TV’s laugh track from the other room is still louder than any noise the two of us are making. When I cum, it’s silently. My lungs seize. My cock lunges into the deepest part of the boy. He gasps, and presses his palms against the shelving overhead. While I quietly unload into his guts, he releases his right hand and furiously beats his downward-facing dick. It’s mere seconds until he releases a load onto my chest.

For long seconds we remain frozen in that tableau. Then slowly, like a rag doll, he crumples down onto the mattress beside me. My cock comes out with a sloppy squelch. I put my arms around the boy and become big spoon to his little, as his sperm glues my chest to his spine. He raises one leg for a moment, so that he can maneuver my cock between his thighs. Then he brings them back together again.

Jackpot, I think to myself, as the boy sighs with contentment. As he snuggles against me, the two of us cuddle and silently listen to studio audience applause in another room.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Good Enough

So here’s the thing about this kid: his butt is amazing.

It’s round. Round, hell. Those two globes offset from his hips at precisely the right angle, with exquisitely-calculated curvature. They’re the ultimate culmination of human geometry, the fruition of refined formulae, the pinnacle of every mathematician’s search for geometrical perfection since Archimedes. I could throw out a phrase like bubble butt to describe the thing, but the words aren’t evocative enough to suit the acme of this kid’s ass. Bubble implies impermanence. Bubble hints at something that can vanish before it’s been admired, much less memorized or immortalized.

No, this kid’s butt is solid. Meaty. Weighty. It’s the kind of butt that can take a slap and a pounding both, only to bounce back for more. It’s solid. Athletic. You look at it, and all you can do is wonder how many squats it took to bring about this consummation of meat and muscle. I’ve had many mighty fine asses, mind you, but this boy’s rear end is one of those that only comes around once in a lifetime. It’s the kind of butt that, had this boy casually ambled by during the sculpting of Michaelangelo’s David, would have made the mighty artist throw down his chisel in disgust, saying, “Fuck this amateur shit. Back to baking pizza.”

But let me backtrack a little.

I was cruising one of the sex sites when a twenty-year-old kid hit me up. Sup, he said.

The photos he’d chosen were blurry but intriguing. He seemed barely literate . . . or at least was determined to establish his masculinity through brusqueness. How was he doing today? Good. U. What was he looking for? Good raw dick. How bout u. Where was he?

When he named the neighborhood in which I live, I was a little taken aback. That’s funny, I told him. Me too. What street?

He named the street I live on.

Huh, I told him. Me too. It’s a long street, though, stretching over a mile down to the shore, so I told him my cross street.

He didn’t seem to recognize it. #43 here, he replied. I checked my phone’s map just to be sure, but my suspicion was correct: the address he’d given me was only a block away.

Now, forgive me if I sound unnecessarily dubious here, but my first instinct was that the kid was bullshitting me. I’ve run into obvious fantasists and scammers on these sites before, from the guys who throw up a couple of jailbait photos from Reddit and send me messages that read, Hi today’s my 18th birthday and my high school is out today and live only 1 mile from you and my hot uncle says I should let you bareback me, what does bareback mean??, to the dudes who post genuine pics of themselves but try to pass off 65 as 43 . . . and everything in between. My little uptight neighborhood is not exactly replete with boys looking to be bred. Remember, this kid hadn’t even known the name of the second cross street south of him.

On the other hand, I thought to myself, do I know the name of the second cross street north of me? No. I did not. I still don’t. So I left a little wiggle room for doubt, and told the kid to hit me up some evening that week. I’d take care of him. Then I signed off, assuming I’d never see him again.

Three days later. It’s a Wednesday night. I’ve got the place to myself. Sup, he messages me from out of the blue.

Ready to come over? I ask. It’s a challenge, really. I’m waiting for him to bullshit out of it with an excuse.

I’m a little surprised when he says, I need 20 to clean up. 7:30? Address?

I give it to him, and tell him I’ll be waiting out front on the sidewalk at 7:30.

It’s one of those nights that’s fucking freezing out. I’ve got on a down jacket and a cap, but I’ve stuffed my bare feet into my sneakers, so there’s frigid air drifting under the cuffs of my jeans and reaching up far enough to make my balls recoil. My mittened hands are wrapped around my torso, hugging the heat in, while I stand outside on my dark street, waiting for the guy.

Thankfully, it’s not too long before I see a figure ambling down the sidewalk. He’s on the wrong side of the street, though. Well, is it him? It’s too dark to see any features, but the person seems to be craning his neck to look at the street numbers. Dude, I’m thinking. Your address is an odd number. My address is an odd number. Why the fuck are you on the opposite side of the street?

“Hey,” I call out, when he should be in earshot. “Hey!” I don’t know the boy’s name. (Still don’t.) He’s got some thick wool hat covering his ears, so he can’t hear me over the slight car traffic on the two-lane road. He’s now walking past, going too far. “Hey, kid!”

He wheels around, finally. I beckon him over. He jogs across the street. “Hey. Thought you were number 88,” he says in an unexpectedly deep voice.

88 is not remotely my street number. Neither digit is even vaguely close. “Come on in,” I tell him, shivering, and already wondering whether I’m regretting extending the invitation.

For the first time, as he follows up the stairs onto my front porch, I can see that he’s as tall as I. Maybe taller. Six-four? I can’t see his face. Under his thick winter clothing, he’s bulky and shapeless. He could be two hundred and seventy-five pounds of seventy-year-old shambling flesh under there, for all I can tell out here in the dark. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m getting.

But what the hell. I had needs. I wasn’t having to to travel far to get this guy, and he was pretty much free for the taking. Might as well give him a go. Yes, basically I use the same rationale to decide whether or not to let the guy in, as I do when weighing whether or not to eat cheese that’s been sitting out on the break room counter at work for a suspiciously long time. I’m not too proud to admit it.

Once we’re inside my living room, his hat comes off first. “Sup,” he mutters, nodding at me as I remove my down jacket. He’s clearly twenty—he didn’t lie about that. Mediterranean looks. Lot of product in his short hair, cut in a fade on the sides and floppy on top. Handsome kid. I don’t expect him to be quite as good looking as he is, from the blurry photos he’d posted.

That’s it for the small talk, though. “I’ll put this here,” he says, and starts to remove the outermost layer of his clothing. It’s some kind of shiny shell that covers up an oversized baseball jacket underneath. He throws it on my rocking chair. Then he applies the toe of one sneaker to the heel of the other. It pops off with a clunk—a size twelve or thirteen high-top roughly the size of a small appliance. The other hits the floor to its side. He hooks his fingers under the elastic of his pants. Shucks them. They’re the same windproof fabric as his first jacket. Underneath those, he’s got a pair of baggy ripped jeans.

With the outer layers shorn, I’m beginning to see he’s more athletic than I would’ve guessed. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest.

He nods.

The kid is tall. I’m unused to men looming over me, but this looks down into my eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. Off comes his Yankees jacket, hitting the rug at the foot of my bed. He’s wearing a gray wife-beater underneath; I’m stuck motionless at the sight of his arms. They’re muscular. Sculpted. The boy is swole. His deltoids look like fucking tree trunks. A half-sleeve extends down his left arm from the shoulder to his elbow, the outline inked in but not colored. The thin fabric of his tank top clings to and outlines his pecs. There’s a gap between navel and jeans in which I can spy a perfect V across his narrow waist.

I’m speechless. My jaw doesn’t work. I say nothing. But that’s all right. This twenty-year-old kid, this muscled-up pup, this boy who looks like he should be headlining the next Magic Mike movie, takes a step forward so that his face is close to mine. For a split-second I’m anticipating a kiss. But then he drops to his knees, wraps his thick arms around my middle, and rests his cheek against the bulge in my jeans.

When he starts to kiss the fabric, eyes closed, his lips searching for the outline of my meat, I feel myself growing harder and harder. My rigidity excites him. His massive hands reach for my belt. I help him loosen it, then allow him to unbutton me. He pulls down my zipper. Once again, when he encounters my black trunks, he presses his face against the fabric. I can feel the warmth of his breath, and the chilliness of the tip of his nose against my skin.

I adjust my stance so that my jeans fall to the floor. He tugs at the waistband of my shorts, to let loose my cock. His mouth is already open to catch it. Even though the skin of his face is still cold, his mouth is wet. Tropical. Once I’m down his throat, he opens his eyes again and regards me with heavy lids.

I know that look. It’s the expression of a boy who’s fallen in love with my dick.

“Suck it,” I order. He doubles down on my inches, letting them slide slickly in and out of his eager gullet. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him grunt. Deep as his voice is, the guttural noise rumbles from his chest with a vibration that only amplifies my pleasure.

I’m picky about my blow jobs, you know. The vast majority of guys give bad head. The stimulation might be enough to keep me hard, but maintenance is not the same as arousal. This kid, though. He knows how to work his tongue. He knows how to vary his strokes. And he doesn’t rely on beating me off in lieu of real oral service. This kid sucks unexpectedly well, like he’s had years of practice. Maybe he has. So I let him suck me for a good long time, down on his knees, in the dusk of the bedroom, before I pull out.

“Take off the jeans,” I order, as I step out of my own.

Without protest, he stands up once more. He tugs off his top to expose that perfectly-worked chest. His pants drop. He pulls his feet, clad in white ankle socks, out of the pile of denim. His hands protectively clutch his crotch, where his hard dick stretches out a white, elastic fabric. He now wears only a much-worn, dime-store jock.

“I want you now,” he says, looking me in the eye.

Well. Okay. If some swole kid wants me now, I guess he’s going to get me now. I’m obliging, that way.

I pull one of my pillows to the middle of the bed. Pat it. Without needing instruction, he hops up onto the mattress, grabs the other pillow to bury his face in, and uses the cushion I’ve prepared to prop up his hips.

That’s when I see the ass.

That ass. That indescribable, sculpted, sent from heaven with a seraphim chorus of trumpets accompanied by a cherubim choir ass.

That’s when my jaw drops.

I stare at that butt for a long minute, motionless. “Jesus Christ,” I finally blurt. Appropriate, since I feel like I’m having a religious experience.

He turns his head on the pillow so that he can regard me with one eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—fuck, nothing is wrong.” I stammer out.

“Am I good enough?”

Is there anything more endearing than a kid like this asking if he’s good enough? In the second it takes him to ask, in these brief few words, I feel like I’ve had more insight into what drives this boy that probably his friends and family do.

All it takes is this ephemeral, fleeting glimpse of vulnerability and fear deep down, to turn him in my eyes from a Junior Tom of Finland improbability, to someone desperate for real, human contact.
I crawl onto the bed between his legs. “I’ll show you how good enough you are,” I promise.

This kid nearly cries during the long minutes I eat him out. He hisses and clutches the bedclothes when I part his cheeks and bury my face between the symmetrical globes. When I chew at the soft flesh deep within, he whines. The sensation is so intense for him that when he starts grabbing at his own ass cheeks I can’t tell whether he’s try to stop me, or to pull them apart to go deeper. Without confirmation, I naturally assume the latter. The whines turn to squeals, the grunts to half-vocalized swearing. Has he ever been eaten out in his life? I can’t tell.

One of my thumbs slips into his slick hole. He raises his head from the pillow. Is the wince on his face pain? Pleasure? Again, I assume the latter, and replace my thumb with my index and middle finger. My spit has made his ass slippery and ready for dick; a little more spit greases my rigid meat. My fingers still stretching his pucker, I pull myself to my knees.

“You want it?”

He nods.


The kid mumbles something. Only the pillow hears it.

Ask,” I order.

In a very low, barely audible voice, he enunciates the words. “Fuck me.” He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t say sir. He doesn’t need to. There’s an honesty in the way he mans up and finally demands what he wants. There’s a need that’s as naked and plain as what I saw earlier, when he asked me if he was good enough.

So yeah. I fuck him.

He’s a howler, this one. He bays as I slide into him. I can tell from the way he instantly accommodates me, though, that he’s in no pain. He’s moist all the way in. Either I prepared him well with my rimming, or he’s naturally self-lubricating. He’s as wet and soft as pussy, actually. “Fuck,” I exclaim, when I reach the bottom.

He replies in whimpers.

I wonder a lot about this kid. I wonder where he’s been, the last few years I’ve been living in this sexless cul-de-sac. I wonder how long he’s been taking cock, how long he’s been raw-dogging it. I wonder at which gym he’s a personal trainer. Because with this body, what else can he be but a trainer, right?

The one thing I don’t have to wonder about is whether he’s enjoying himself. Every stroke, every probe, every long pulling-out and sliding-in makes him gulp and yelp and moan. When I drive in deep and grind my hips, using that amazing ass as my cushion, he sobs and sniffs. He’s hugging the pillow like a teddy bear; he’s lifting his ass to help me plumb its depths.

I’m not holding back, either. I know the effect this butt, this perfect butt, is going to have on my dick this first night we’re together. He’s getting three loads, minimum. So I have absolutely zero problem with letting loose the first one in a prompt and expedient manner.

Like I said, I’m obliging, that way.

I can feel the tide rising, that red-tinged wave of pleasure buoying me forward. “You want my seed, son?” I ask.

He mumbles again. Unacceptable.

“Say what?”

This time, he’s more audible, and just as definite. “Breed my hole. Please.”

I give him what he wants. Beneath a red wave I sink. My sight grows blurry. All sound recedes. Nothing exists for me at that moment save for his ass contracting around my pulsing, engorged flesh, and the sensation of my seed jetting into his guts. For who knows how long, I kneel there between his legs, my hands cupped around those beautiful cheeks, as my senses slowly restore and I can feel my kettledrum heart thudding in my ribcage.

My dick snakes out. Plops between his thighs. He makes a move, as if to roll over. “No.” My hands keep him still.

Prone I go, chest against the mattress, to keep his legs spread. I pry apart his sloppy wet ass with my fingers. Dive in with my tongue. The scent of my sperm is powerful, down here. When I make contact with my tongue, his reaction is to draw himself up on his elbows. “Oh FUCK!” he shouts.

His surprise doesn’t stop me. Savagely I yank apart his cheeks and suck on the hole, tasting my essence as it oozes out. One of his fists hits the mattress; I can feel the vibration as it strikes. Again he beats against it, over and over.

I stop chewing at his hole. “No one’s ever done this for you after they fucked you. Have they?”

“Noooooo,” he whines, raising his head and shaking it. He’s near tears.

“But you love it, don’t you.”

He knows it’s not a question. He nods, his eyes closed, and I go back to work. At first, he continues to beat the mattress with his clenched fist, as if pounding at a door that will never open. Yet the longer I lap at him, the more of him I clean up, the deeper my tongue probes at that wide-open pussy that’s been fucked and bred, the less he resists. Weakly, he stops striking the bed. He gives in.

That’s when I know he’s ready for round two. And this time around, I intend to savor this ass.

This beautiful ass.

This fucking amazing ass.

This ass that’s now mine.