Friday, January 29, 2016

5 Foxiness Tips from a Foxy Fox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your life is too short to spend it in misery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

The Gift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suck me,” I say.

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

“Look what I’m wearing,” I whisper.

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

“You like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a beautiful sight.

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

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

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

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

“Stop!” he suddenly demands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, December 20, 2015

The Most Appropriate Christmas Gift Ever

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

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

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Big Spoon, Little Spoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” I say back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re all right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what lies before my eyes is breathtaking.

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

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

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

Saturday, November 21, 2015

A Little Primer on Orgy Throwing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aw, don’t be a pussy,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Cornflower Blue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“Promise first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a beautiful pussy,” I agree.

“It’s your pussy now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a good, good answer.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Sunday Evening Questions: Department of Odd Stank Edition

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

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

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

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

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

Point taken.

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

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

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

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

That said. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

I thought that was the bad part. But no.

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

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

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

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

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

So yeah. I’ve done it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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