Monday, July 24, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 7: J. Crew 101

So. Earlier this year it was time for my annual Craigslist ad.

No, I don’t have a particular day or season I place Craigslist personals. Theoretically, I could put up an ad a day if I cared to.

I just don’t care to.

I’m aware that the site works for other people in other areas. For me, where I live, Craigslist is pretty much the online cruising spot of last resort. The site where horny hopes go to die a slow and painful death. The dirty red light district of the internet where you’re pretty sure the digital equivalent of scabies lurk in every shadow.

What exasperates me about the site is that it’s a place where one can be scientifically precise about who one is and what one is looking for, and yet will be sure to receive emails offering nothing but the exact opposite. I’m willing to put down hard cash money that this afternoon, if you were to write an ad starting out with I’m a bottom with a small dick looking for tops only, the very first reply you would receive would begin with the words, Hi, I saw your ad just now and I am looking for a big-dicked top like you to fuck me.

I’ll only reply to profiles with photos will yield scores of emails from horny souls who don’t include pictures or who are curiously allergic to cameras. Say Please be local, and you’ll be fielding inquiries from Lincoln, Nebraska. (Unless you are actually from Lincoln, Nebraska, and then you’ll get responses from men in my neighborhood.) Include the restriction, I’m only free after five this afternoon, and I guarantee every reply you receive will include the words, LOOKING 4 NOW???

The sheer signal-to-noise ratio on Craigslist is so low that it takes roughly twelve months for me to stop my shuddering from my last experience to give it another try. On this particular afternoon in May, though, I found myself in Manhattan for a meeting. I had some time open in the evening after I was done, and was looking for a little mischief.

And J. Crew 101 . . . that’s my cue to welcome you to your tape.

I knew my meeting would take several hours and that during the time I’d be in the conference room, I wouldn’t be able to keep stabbing at the phone to keep track on the GPS apps I tend to like. I couldn’t easily open up a website to cruise. What I could do, without really being overly distracted or distracting to others, was to place a Craigslist ad for later on. I could check the emails I received discreetly and easily, without seeming to the others around the table like I’d rather be somewhere else.

The ad I placed was straightforward. I said I was a married dude looking for a mouth or ass to unload in. I gave all my stats. I stated the specific block or time I was available. I made clear I’d only consider responses with photos. I said that I could not host, but I would travel either to the guy’s place, or meet him somewhere like a bookstore. Then, my mind busily envisioning all the topsy-turvy replies I’d be sure to get, I attached a clear photo and posted the damned thing.

The meeting had barely gotten past the previous month’s minutes when my Yahoo! mail account started to blow up. With what I assumed was a surreptitious air, I held the fingers of my left hand up to my eyebrow, shielding my eyes in a pose that I was pretty sure connoted deep and philosophical thought, while with my right hand underneath the table, I browsed through the missives. Looking 4 now?? Top here to fuck you at your place, was the first promising response. Hi, do you have a car and can you come out to Passaic right now? was the second.

I suppose my general approach to Craigslist is fatalistic, really. I know that roughly all the responses I’m going to get are going to be utter nonsense. I know that every rare occasion I'm sent a hot email it’ll be from someone who is ‘too discreet’ to have any photographs of himself taken, and that every time I receive a scorching pic from a guy, it’ll be accompanied by a meth-fueled stream of consciousness so addled and incoherent that it will leave my boner limp for a week. I sat there in that meeting, fingers pushing up my left eyebrow, flipping through message after message and thinking, Nope. Nope. Nuh-uh. God no. Really, dude? Nope. Fuck no.

Then, toward the end of my meeting, I finally got a bite from a man named Jim—though I’m calling him J. Crew 101 for the purposes of this entry—that made me sit up and take notice. The guy sent a pic—of his butt, admittedly, but it was a good-looking butt. In his email he said he was a married guy (to a man) who was looking for downlow fuckings that he wasn't getting at home. He needed someone discreet with whom he could share some extramarital, stress-relieving sex from time to time.

Sounded perfect to me.

I went out to dinner by myself when the meeting was done. In a little sandwich shop I sat, exchanging some preliminary emails with the guy. J. Crew 101 lived in Chelsea, not far from where I was. The face photo he sent was quite attractive. Clean-cut, preppy, fair-haired, shy in appearance, wearing a Casual Fridays business shirt rather than a bare torso. I’m really looking for someone passionate, who’ll take his time with me, he wrote. I rarely get the sex that I need. I’m choosy.

Sounded right up my alley.

Even though the guy was only a handful of city blocks away, I was in no rush to pressure him into meeting. For one thing, I didn’t know if he was LOOKING 4 NOW. For another, he kept reiterating that he wanted a longer-term, unrushed, physical relationship. You don’t insist on closing the deal in four email exchanges or less for something like that.

Instead of the Craigslist forwarding service we’d been using, I gave him my real email address, and then my cell number, so that we communicate that way. For the better part of ninety minutes, I ate my dinner and read my book and got to know J. Crew 101.

J. Crew 101 started having sex later in life. He was one of those Catholic boys so terrified of hell that he didn’t even masturbate until he was in college. He got into a relationship young, without sowing any of his wild oats, he confided in me. His husband of fifteen years would probably be relieved to know he was getting sex elsewhere, because it would absolve his husband of the guilt and unfulfilled responsibility of keeping J. Crew 101 satisfied. Did I understand?

My life had been completely different, I told him. I was sexed young, and never really stopped. I made my confession, too: that in the last couple of years I’d been so discouraged by a couple of men that for a time—and this was perfectly true—I’d decided it was less soul-crushing to remain celibate than to get involved and broken again. It wasn’t that I was too easily disillusioned by the men I’d been seeing, I explained. It was that the men I’d been seeing seemed incredibly eager to disappoint me.

We exchanged several emails, and then texts, along that vein. It was nice to open up to a stranger; though I didn’t dwell on my recent sorrows so much that I sounded like an Eeyore, he gave me the space to state my recent disappointments and my hopes for a new beginning. And although he didn’t bad-mouth his husband, he let me know that something was lacking in his life, and that he was trying to rectify the situation . . . albeit by answering a Craigslist ad. Which we both agreed was not the most likely way for either of us to remedy our ills.

I liked J. Crew 101. As sunset began to fall, I took my phone and my backpack to a small park by the hospital and continued to chat with him. He told me that he felt confident to meet sometime soon, and floated a few possible dates. I told him my availability, and the times I’d most likely be back in his neighborhood. And then he had to go make dinner for his husband.

I spent another couple of hours in the city, having drinks with a friend, and was on my way back to the train when J. Crew 101 sent me an abrupt email. Hey, I think we want the same things, he said. But I think you're "too advanced" for me. Apologies. Good luck. 

The fuck, I thought. What was this ‘too advanced’ shit, and where was it coming from? I’m sorry to hear that, I wrote back with a clenched jaw, but a determination to remain polite. It’s a shame you’ve talked yourself into this decision. I won’t attempt to convince you to change your mind, as you’ve apparently conjured up a number of imaginary reasons why we wouldn’t be good for each other. I wish you’d spared me hoping that I’d made a new friend.

I really was trying not to be rude to the guy. Quite the opposite—I was aiming to be as nonjudgmental as possible in my response. At the same time, though, my feelings were of utter dejection. I mean, I’d found a guy—on Craigslist, of all things—who had potential. We liked each other so far. In person, our chemistry may or may not have worked. But we both wanted similar things, and we’d gotten along.

His sudden rejection not only stung, but it reminded me that perhaps I should’ve expected it.

One of the philosophies in which I’ve believed, for large chunks of my life anyway, is in the innate generosity of the universe. For many years I’ve always said that the universe always offers us a rich banquet of opportunities, and that all we have to do to keep receiving them is to tell the universe yes.

Say yes to new people, and yes to new conversations and ideas, and yes to whatever weird, fun, and wonderful strokes of good fortune come our way. Telling the universe yes, I’ll try that, or yes, I will, or most importantly, yes, I’ll take this chance is what expands our horizons and makes our lives rich and worth living.

Saying no, I won’t, or no, not this time, or no, I’m fine where I am is what diminishes us as men and women, and makes our lives smaller. Say no often enough, and opportunity will vanish altogether.

That’s what I believed, I’d told J. Crew 101 (in an abbreviated version) earlier that evening. A few encounters with bum guys—and I meant everyone in this series of essays, and those I have yet to write about—had shaken that belief. I’d closed myself off, and was only this last spring considering starting to say yes once again.

And now, when I was saying yes, please, to J. Crew 101, J. Crew 101 was saying not a chance. Slamming the door in my face.

I was shaken. But I recognized, somehow, that it wasn’t me. It was him.

I didn’t expect a reply from him to my polite goodbye. I got one, though. I googled your email, he told me. (After my last two entries in this series, we all know how I feel about being stalked online.) I found your blog. I’ve been reading it for the last two hours. I jacked off three times reading it. But you’re too advanced for me.

At that point in May, I hadn’t written in my blog in ages. I’d been on my hiatus for seven months. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever be moved to write again. I’d contemplated several times deleting it entirely—but enough former fondness for the project lingered that I hadn’t yet given in to the impulse.

But there it sat, my blog. Ironic, that most of my resentments to the blog lay in the way I’d been treated by a handful of longtime readers—and now it was causing a first-time reader to reject me outright. For once there was something cruel in the accusation that I was at the postdoc level of sexual depravity, while J. Crew was content merely to take the 101-level seminar. Not even take the seminar. Audit it. He didn't have the courage to commit  to completing anything—nor when he could walk out the moment it made him feel awkward.

I didn’t reply. What could I say to the guy that didn’t reek of recrimination? That he’d apparently found me and my blog enticing enough to jack off three loads in two hours, but that I was the sex fiend, here? What could I say that didn’t sound like an apology or a repudiation of what I am? Was I supposed to grovel I hadn’t written in the blog for months and months and would he pleeeeeease consider taking me back? That I’d reformed?

J. Crew 101’s decision was his; I didn’t intend to make him feel badly for making it. I’m always telling readers to know their own comfort levels, and to stick to them. That’s all J. Crew 101 did, essentially. I wasn’t going to apologize for my sexual being. I am what I am. (And he’d been the one to answer my ad for blatant and remorseless sex, after all.)

But most interesting of all, I didn’t want to renounce my blog. I wasn’t going to wave it away as a triviality, or claim it was just a passing phase, or diminish it in any way at all. I felt oddly defensive over the poor little neglected thing, all of a sudden. Even if I didn’t really want to add to it right then or there . . . at least J. Crew 101 lit a little spark of protectiveness in me.

These entries I’ve been writing out of sequence all along. Basically I’ve been trying to space out the more dire and difficult to write about with some of the more easy or comic annoyances. Maybe this should have been the first in the series, because it really gave rise to my desire to express all the grievances I’ve been bottling up over the last several years. My encounter with J. Crew 101 made me want to holler my anger aloud, to shout back, to catalog the wrongs that have fettered me, over and over again. Maybe it should be the series' last, since it kicked off these entries that followed.

So thanks for being an asshole, J. Crew 101—and you were indeed an asshole, even if you were the asshole who got me started on this path of airing my grievances. One of these days, before it’s too late, I hope you’ll open your eyes and realize that amazing opportunities are passing you by every day—even from something as grungy and unlikely as Craigslist, and even from 'too advanced' lowlifes like me. And I hope that you have the courage, some day, to say yes . . . before there’s nothing left to say yes to.



Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, July 17, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 6: Nick

“This is the most ridiculous thing ever,” I tell Nick as he pads in from the kitchen. He’s got an bowl in his hands. It’s set on a plate. A single spoon rests on the rim.

“But you’ve been busy.” His tone is teasing. He sits down on the side of his bed, and leans over. I’m naked, beneath the covers, and surrounded by the several pillows he’s fluffed to prop me up. “You need to save your hands for better things. Like . . . fucking me again. Now, open wide.”

Nick dips his spoon into the bowl and produces an Italian meatball, microwaved and covered with brown gravy. I’m still protesting, but more and more weakly. “I’m not a baby bird.”

“Open wide,” he whispers, and brings the spoon in for a landing. My last defenses break down, and I part my mouth. The spoon penetrates between my lips; he tips the utensil to deliver the piping-hot meatball onto my tongue. “Now chew,” he says, staring me in the eyes. I obey. “Good boy.”

A shiver passes over my body. It’s an intimate, surprisingly erotic moment. No one else has ever fed me meatballs in bed, before.

Have you ever had an encounter with someone who initially comes off as a fucking lunatic, but turns out to be surprisingly sweet in person . . . and then morphs into a lunatic again? That would be my history with Nick, the Greek escort. Welcome, Nick, to your tape.

Nick came more or less out of nowhere (and ultimately disappeared just as quickly) to give me one of the sweetest, and most baffling, encounters of last year. I was at home one evening folding laundry when I checked BBRT, which I’d had running in the background, to see if anyone was looking for sex. It’s rare that anyone is, in my sleepy suburb. I had one message from a guy from New Haven with a profile name of GiorgioSaint. I checked his profile first, something I always do unless I know the guy. No photos. Nothing in the description. No stats. Every field said ‘ask me,’ which is the hallmark of someone who either has just created the profile, or worse, never bothered to fill it out.

Hi, I’m Giorgio. Send me your email, said the guy’s message.

Ordinarily I would’ve just ignored the request. That evening, though, I must’ve felt cranky and contentious. (Hey, it happens.) Why in the world would I send you my email? I don’t know you, and your profile tells me nothing.

Send me your email. I’m out of messages and I want to tell you something.

Somehow I was pretty sure that the something this anonymous guy wanted to tell me was that if I logged into www.camtacularboyz.com I could chat with him for the low rate of twenty dollars for ten minutes, or that he had a surefire way to battle erectile dysfunction. Apparently I was mystified as well as cranky and contentious, though, because after a moment’s hesitation, I gave him my address. Then I prepared for the spam that was to follow.

About five minutes later I got the guy’s email.

Hey Mr. Steed! I am going to be upfront with you right from the start. I am NOT Giorgio Saint. I had to come up with an alias if I was to come onto the site in peace! I did NOT want to bother with blocking people or attitudes. Who I really am is Nick Basil Pappas. If you do a "Search" and put in my name, there you will find me. Those are my pics and they are current. I recognize you from your blog and I liked your writing and your attitude.

(And no, that wasn’t the name he actually gave me.)

I mentioned in last week’s entry in this series that I don’t use search engines to research my tricks. I don’t peep at their Facebook accounts, if I know their last names. I don’t hunt for them on (as my dad calls it), The Tweeter. In my opinion, it’s rude. It’s invasive. Just because one can do it, doesn’t mean one should.

Sure, I’ll occasionally look up old college classmates on social media when I’m feeling nostalgic, or if I want to see how much older than myself they look. But potential tricks or guys I’m fucking? Nope, not unless they invite me to. It’s such an solid plank in my sexual belief system that hopping online to research a person doesn’t even occur to me, and I usually become exasperated when I find someone’s done it to me.

When invited, though, particularly in these trying circumstances, I’ll bite. I copied the guy’s name and pasted it into my browser bar, and a moment later I had a pageful of results. Problem was, I wasn’t sure what to make of them. After a moment, I typed out another email. So you're telling me you're a bipolar unarmed man from San Diego who attempted to rob and assault a senior citizen in her home and was shot by police and taken into custody? Because that's what's at the top of the list when I search for Nick Basil Pappas.

What? No.

He repeated that he wanted me to Google the name, and I reiterated that I’d done exactly that . . . and come up with Nick B. Pappas’ rap sheet and a bunch of incredibly unflattering mug shots for photos. By now I was laughing at this idiot, and continuing the conversation merely because it amused me. The fact that he seemed totally unaware that a West Coast bipolar granny robber had hijacked the top spot in Google searches of his name seemed the cherry on the sundae.

At last Nick sent me an actual web page to check out, which I did. The link took me to a site where interested customers could solicit local male escorts. Suddenly, the conversation lost its fun.

Hey thanks, I told him, trying to stay polite for what was going to be my final email. I appreciate it, but I don’t pay for sex. Before I hit send, I spent a moment looking at the escort's photos. This Nick guy was handsome—handsome as hell, in fact, with his dark Mediterranean movie star looks and deep, soulful eyes. His eyebrows were dark, dense, and brooding. And the body. Shit. That body. Even though he was obviously in his forties or early fifties, Nick looked like he belonged on the cover of Men’s Health.

His photos were so professionally done that I suspected they’d been promo shots for porn films. When I did a more refined search for Nick Pappas gay porn (hey . . . he’d invited me to do it) I indeed found a slew of video clips from porn studios of Nick performing with stars I’d actually heard of.

Still. Paying for sex isn’t something I do. I closed the browser and sent off my reply.

But no, no, no. That’s not what the East Coast Nick Basil Pappas was asking for. He assured me in a series of emails accompanied by even more photos from his porn career that he wasn’t trying to solicit my business, but my expertise. (The choice of word was his.) He’d read my blog for several months. He wanted me.

He had very strict rules about what his clients could do with him. They could suck his dick. They could bend over and he would fuck them. He would give them massages, but he would not kiss them. He'd never be submissive, and encounters with his clients would never be at all romantic.

The photos he’d offered, I should mention, had me licking my chops. Nick was a bodybuilder, and the porn films he’d done unanimously played to his strengths. He sent shots from a film he’d done were he was the big buff prize straight guy at the gym all the queers were trying to attract. He’d played an Olympic athlete who’d fucked all the other athletes in the village. He’s played another type of Olympian entirely when he’d been draped in laurels and a sheet and some gold sandals for the part of Horny Zeus. There was a shot of him wearing nothing but a yellow hard hat and a skimpy tool belt, for a production where he’d been a horny dumb construction worker tricked into topping a man's hole for the first time by the boss’ smart-assed son. The guy was the kind of beefcake that are the bread and butter of porn, and I confess, I was a little surprised he was soliciting me in such an eccentric way.

Yet Nick said he wanted to meet because he intuited from my blog that I would take good care of him. He found me attractive. He liked my dick. In fact, he wanted to suck it. He wanted it to fuck him bareback, and to breed him. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted someone to take control and make love to him, because he hadn’t experienced any tenderness in his life for a long time. Because he trusted me, and because he liked me from my blog, he’d decided I was the man he wanted to do all these things.

After such an oddball start, I was touched by his rapid-fire confessions. And flattered, of course. If anything is illuminated by this particular series, it’s that I am too much of a sucker for a man who compliments both my dick and my writing, even though I know, I know that losing all perspective for a pretty compliment never turns out well.

Yes, I told him. I’ll be that man.

So I’ve driven a long way to see Nick. Over an hour and a half, it turns out, because the town where Nick lives has the same relationship to New Haven that Flint, Michigan has to Detroit—they’re sometimes referred to in the same sentence, but they’re not very close at all. When I arrive at his apartment building, I knock on his door. It opens. He’s standing on the other side, completely naked. Exposed. He seems, to my expert eyes, a little vulnerable. “You came,” he says.

“Of course I did.” I step through and into the gloom of his apartment. He’s got blackout shades drawn over every window, so it’s difficult to see. Not that there’s much decor to look at. Nick’s apartment has the spartan quality of a home that’s barely been moved into, much less lived in. Nothing hangs on the walls; the surfaces clear of clutter. Even the furniture speaks of a bare minimum. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He laughs. “I’m nervous,” he says. Even in the dark I can tell how very handsome he is. He’s exactly what his photos advertise—the porn pics, that is. Not the mugshots of the granny robber. Five foot five inches of sheer bulk. What’s funny is that this object of fantasy for so many men—the brawny lumberjack, the construction worker, the alpha musclebound literal god of all, in one film at least—is nervous of me. Of me.

“Oh, Nick,” I say, shaking my head. I step forward and place my hands on his narrow hips. Then I pull him close.

He falls into the embrace eagerly, resting his head on my chest. I feel the warmth of him radiating through the layers of my cotton clothing. Below my crotch, I can feel the heavy bulk of his soft cock as it swells with blood and begins to harden against me. “You’re what I want.” He utters the confession softly, as if afraid of breaking the solemn hush. “Can I belong to you tonight?”

For answer, I cup my hands beneath his chin and steer his lips to mine. He responds with a kiss . . . of sorts, anyway. It’s a peck on my lips, really. Is he being timid. I move in more aggressively for something deeper and more intimate. He responds by tightening his lips and pushing out his tongue so that it protrudes about a quarter of an inch, like the tip of a tiny pyramid.

And that’s just how he kisses, does Nick the Greek. About as lewdly as someone’s Victorian maiden aunt.

But that’s all right. He’s got other skills. After he leads me into the bedroom, he stands me by the high king-sized bed and kneels on the ground. His lips open to surround my hardened flesh; I feel the warmth and wetness of his tongue and mouth as he takes my inches to the balls. He groans contentedly to himself as, slowly, deliberately, he travels from tip to base to tip again, where lets the slick flesh rest against his nose and upper lip. It’s as good of a blow job I’ve had in some time, and I make sure to let him know it.

He’s anxious to proceed, though. “I so badly need to be fucked by you,” he says in a low and lyrical voice. “Am I fuckable?”

“Oh, Nick,” I laugh. “You are so very fuckable.”

“I really just want to be worthy of you,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. Maybe he uses these sugared words on his clients, I think to myself. Maybe not. But I’m not a paying customer, and when he’s looking at me in that liquid, trusting way, I have no reason to doubt anything he says. I let the good moment remain a good moment, free of doubt.

“Let me show you how worthy you are.” I say the words as I lie him face down on the bed, with a pillow propping up his hips. Then I start lapping his hole.

For long minutes he’s wordless as I lick and chew at him. He grunts. He moans. He raises his hips to give me deeper access. But he doesn’t speak until ten, fifteen, twenty minutes have passed. “Nobody ever gives me this pleasure.”

“Do you let them?” I wonder aloud.

He chuckles. “No. You know I’m selective about who gets to enter me.” Right then, right there, Nick makes a decision. “Fuck my hole.” Onto his back he flips, using the same pillow that’s nestled in his crotch to lift the small of his back.

“Are you ready for that?” I already know the answer. I just want to hear him say it.

“I’m ready.”

I kneel between his uplifted legs. Spit in my hand, rub it on my meat. Repeat with another handful of spit, for his ass. I position my cock at his hole. The head nudges his warm, pulsing flesh. Our eyes lock. He nods.

In I go.

It’s a sweet fuck. Every thrust yields new revelations, from the tightening of his nipples to the red blush that spreads across his chest and face, to the way his eyes bulge with pleasure. His hole opens wide for me. His cock, fully rigid for the first time since we’ve met in the flesh, swells into a fat nine inches. And when we kiss, his mouth opens slight. He still doesn’t admit my tongue, but it’s a start.

I fuck him for a full half hour in that same position, taking it slow, letting him enjoy long thrusts the entire length of my dick. His whimpers turn to utterances of satisfaction, then to pleas. “You want my cum?” I ask.

“Yes. God, yes. I want to belong to you. Make me yours.”

I let him have it. It’s an shuddering orgasm, intense enough to make my vision dim. My body is still shaking and jerking when he begins pounding furiously at his own dick. “Don’t pull out,” he begs. “Stay inside. Stay inside. Stay. . . .”

His own climax is even noisier and more violent than mine. He thrashes like a bucking bronco, sending me sprawling to the side. Juice oozes from his hole and onto the top sheet as his own semen jets into the air into a perfect arc. It splatters on his face. Pretty good for a dude his age, I’m thinking to myself.

I lie next to him, and wait for him to come to. He smiles at me, and laughs, aware he’s caused a commotion. “I made you miss dinner,” he says. It's probably the most unexpected thing he could say, in the moment.

“I’m fine.” I really am. Whipped, but fine.

“No, no, you need to eat.” It’s not usually what I hear from my fucks, but he nestles me beneath the sheets and a comforter, props pillows around me, and ambles off in the direction of his kitchen to see what he can whip up.

It seems fitting, in this barely-furnished abode, that a box of frozen meatballs and some canned gravy is all he can produce. But as he feeds me, ball by microwaved ball, I find myself enchanted by the sweet unlikeliness of this encounter. Nick’s not a kisser—that’s for sure. But there’s a honest, endearing quality to Nick’s naked need for affection and love that makes my heart reach out to him.

When we parted that night, several hours and loads later, Nick said to me, “I’d like you to come back.”

I confess to having felt a glow at the words. I hadn’t been sure if this was a one-time physical connection, or whether he wanted it to lead to a regular round of good sex. “I’d like that too.”

“Will I be reading about this in your blog?” He still held my hand as he asked the question.

“You tell me,” I said. “Do you want me to write about it?”

He seemed to think over the question, but only for a mere split second. “Yes. Write what you want. I’ll look forward to reading it.”

Fair enough. I let him give me another couple of his ladylike pecks on the lips, and then we parted.

Sweet, right? I drove back home feeling like I'd hit the jackpot.

But then.

You know there has to be a but then, right? It usually takes a lot for me to lose my temper with a guy. It’d be pretty unlikely I’d be stomping around writing a burn list post and growling, That guy totally pissed me off by giving me sweet good sex and feeding me meatballs in bed! God DAMN him!

No, the initial encounter with Nick over the internet had been awkward as hell. In person, he was attractive, and kind, and loving in bed. It really was a highlight to make love to a guy who’s been the object of so much lust, whether through porn vids or escort ads. You’d think that after we met, everything would have been smooth sailing.

You’d be wrong, because the minute we weren’t face-to-face any longer, all our communications went straight to hell.

When are you writing about me? he started asking, basically the minute I got home. What are you going to say? I told him I didn’t know when I’d be writing about him, and that it probably would be after I’d let the encounter gestate a little bit. Don’t use my real name, please, he begged.

The inquiries continued daily, several times a day, for the better part of a week. Are you writing about me yet? When will it come out? Will it be tomorrow?

Listen, I eventually told him, over the course of several texts. I intend to write about you. I really do. We had a great time, and I was hoping it would be the first of many great times. I’d like to celebrate the night that we had. But when you’re so overeager to see your entry (this was my attempt at tact, by the way, and trying not to say ‘When you bug the shit out of me about your entry. . .”), it makes me anxious, and the anxiety prevents me from sitting down and writing it. If you give me a little space, and time, you’ll see it.

Oh. Space and time. You don’t want to see me again.

That’s not what I’d been telling him, I tried to make clear. All I really wanted was a little freedom from the constant inquiries into when he’d see the entry about himself.

I thought we’d reached an understanding. I mean, when someone says, Okay, I understand, you’re justified in thinking you’ve reached an understanding, right? A couple of blissfully text-free days later, though, he sent me: Is your post up yet? I’ve been waiting a week to see it.

I didn’t lose my temper. Honestly, I didn’t. I did reply, carefully choosing my words, that I thought I’d made it clear that the pressure he was putting on me to sit down at my laptop and pound out an essay about pounding him out, wasn’t exactly conducive to my creative process.

This is bullshit, he wrote back.

Well, what’s there to say to that? I said nothing, in fact. I thought I was being generous in overlooking it.

Two hours later, though: So I guess you’re not talking to me now. I thought we had a good night together. I guess I was fooling myself.

I’m not usually a fan of passive-aggressive behavior like this. It turns me off so much that usually I won’t acknowledge it, much less fall into its intended manipulation and re-enter a conversation on the defense. You and I had an incredible night together, I assured him. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe we can talk all this out the next time we meet? I think it’s easier that way than in text.

I realize that not everybody is a great communicator in writing. I disagree with the trope that emails and text automatically lack the nuance that in-person conversations can have; after all, over the years the great writers of the world have packed plenty of nuance into their sentences, paragraphs, and books. Not everybody’s adept at it, though, and I was beginning to realize that if I wanted a real conversation with Nick, without confusion, face-to-face was going to be the way to do it.

He didn’t reply, though. I wasn’t going to nag him.

Then, another two days later. I guess I wasn’t good enough to make your blog. Sorry I couldn’t make the cut.

Dude. Something was wrong, here. I sighed, and tried turning my mind to other things. I’m not suggesting that musclebound porn actors/escorts with the faces of movie stars can’t have insecurities. Everyone has insecurities. What I did know, however, was that however this man felt about himself, whatever self-perceived void he was trying to fill through me, neither I nor a blog post was going to make him complete. I might have a few sexual and writing skills, but I can’t heal all of that. I didn't deserve his hostility, either.

Nick made me sad. I'm sad right now, thinking and writing about him. I probably could have sat down and forced out a sketch of our night together—but it wouldn’t have felt right, nor would it have been enough for him. As I write this essay, enough time has passed that I can remember our time in the flesh with unalloyed fondness, separate from the annoyance he was immediately after. But that week when he was nagging me four, five, six, ten times a day to hurry up and write the post? All it really was doing was making me peevish.

I was still processing the last message from him when my phone vibrated again. Don’t bother texting me or trying to contact me any more. Goodbye.

Guys. Don’t go throwing around ultimatums you don’t intend to stick to. I’ve had this exact situation happen enough in my life to know that when someone tells me never to text or call again, the guy isn’t going to be happy when I actually follow his admonitions. Still, I hoped Nick would come around. I thought I’d give him some time to simmer down.

A day after his command not to text him, though, he texted a last time. I can’t believe you haven’t tried to apologize. This is fucking ridiculous.

And that, friends, was the point I’d had enough. Even the sweetest evening can’t counterbalance weeks of haranguing. Maybe our communication might have been better if we’d talked it out over coffee (or sex). But Nick wasn’t even giving me incentive to write a short essay about him, much less drive another hour and a half to iron out our differences.

So I file this one under Regrets, my friends. The incident makes me sad for what could have matured into something beautiful, but died stillborn.

Nick, if you’re reading this post—which I doubt, but who knows?—the entry you thought you deserved would’ve ended right before my But then. It would’ve been an entry worth a boner and a smile. It would’ve been romantic, even. Readers would have envied us both.

Here’s what I wish, though: I wish you’d loved the reality of what happened that night, and let that reality be. I wish you’d not let doubt or worry force you into pressuring me; I wish you hadn't needed constant reassurance of my sincerity. My blog doesn’t take faulty encounters and make them golden. It’s not my job to take a snapshot of an evening and then to soften the edges, erase the wrinkles, and make everything picture-perfect. If our evening of lovemaking and meatballs felt real to you, then it was real. If it felt good in the moment, it was good.

The next time you encounter someone who provides exactly what you want and need, love him for what he is and what he gives you. Don’t insist on dragging him into the crap, afterward.

Let good things be good. That’s a lesson we all can learn.



Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.

I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, July 10, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 5: Cheater

To some, this series might seem little more like the venting of a crabby old man stood up by one trick too many. From my perspective, the truth is a little more complex. I’ve been exploring (exorcising might be a better word, really) the ways in which some of my readers have actively shut me down as a sex blogger. I used to post multiple times a week. Now I find it an effort to muster any enthusiasm about posting at all. By definition, my fans are supposed to be supportive and enthusiastic about my creative efforts. Yet there are a handful of them who have behaved so appallingly, or disappointed me so deeply, that I’ve found myself muted, without words.

After a few posts about readers who were just clueless, I’d now like to turn to a different type—a reader who intentionally exploited what he knew about me for his own personal ends. I’ve talked about this incident with a few close friends, but have never before discussed the details publicly.

So hey there, Cheater. Are you still stalking me? Welcome to your tape.

I met a man online early in 2013. A local guy, five exits down the freeway. The photos he sent were so blurry it was difficult to make out anything other than the fact he was vaguely slender and in decent shape for his age, which was a half-decade more than mine. He was looking for a regular top, he told me. His husband didn’t keep him satisfied; he loved the thrill of fucking around. Cheating made him harder than anything.

I’m married too, I wrote back. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.

I started having sex at a young age in restrooms and parks, he told me. My horny hole knows how to keep a big-dicked top like you satisfied for hours.

Hey, I wrote back. I started at a young age myself, also in cruisy tearooms and parks.

Wow, I guess we have something in common, then, he told me.

It really seemed we had a hell of a lot of things in common, the more we chatted. He told me he had a fetish for wearing jocks while being fucked, because he liked the way they framed his ass. He confided that he liked calling a man dad during sex because it took him back to his early days of being used. He really liked to be fisted, but only if the fisting top took his time and made the experience slow and sensual.

After all these things I would thrill with delight as we seemed more and more compatible. I peppered my replies with multiple exclamation points. I love jocks for the very same reason! I love being called dad!! That’s exactly the way I like to fist a guy!!! This is perfect!!!!

Finally, he reeled me in with one of his later texts. This is kind of weird and you might not be into it, he said. But I have this fantasy of being a dominant bottom with a top. Telling him what to do. Even tying him up and using his cock for my pleasure, or teaming up with another bottom and both of us using him.

I nearly passed out. As I’ve said on these pages a few times before, being used and even restrained by a dominant bottom (or several bottoms) has been a fantasy of mine for years. (Sadly unfulfilled, still.) I was already half-infatuated with Cheater for seeing eye to eye with me in so many ways. The fact he wanted to bring to fruition one of my deepest desires made me determined to meet him and make it work.

We fucked twice that week in a seedy by-the-hour motel down the freeway. Cheater turned out to be a handsome older gentleman, a preppy Westchester conservative in Dockers and a button-down Oxford shirt. Yet, as I hoped, once those slacks hit the floor, he turned into a nasty little fuck. He kissed well, he sucked well, he begged for my dick and my cum, and his stamina was nearly as good as my own.

I can’t overemphasize, here, what a hot fuck Cheater was. He seemed to know everything he could do to drive me wild for him. He chewed on my nipples in exactly the right way, kissed me deeply when I needed to be kissed. Sometimes, in the middle of me driving my cock deep into his guts, he’d cup his hand around the back of my head, look at me with liquid eyes, and whisper, “I love what you do to me, Sir.” He knew when to keep quiet, and when to speak—and when he spoke, he almost always said the right thing. After I’d shoot, he’d often turn me around, hold me in his arms, and sweetly kiss the back of my neck. It was as if, at some point I didn’t recall, I’d handed him a map to all my erogenous zones. I didn’t have to tell him what I liked. He somehow knew how to make me melt with a touch, or a word.

He arranged for us to fuck at a business he owned . . . a florist’s shop. Now, longtime readers will remember that I had a pretty significant encounter in my early life when I topped a man for the very first time ever in the rear room of a florist’s. I hadn’t been inside one (that is, either a rear room or the rear of a florist) since. So imagine my reaction when, as instructed, I walked through the shop’s back door and saw Cheater lying on top of a metal florist’s table, naked, legs up, hole exposed, in the exact same position that had convinced me to switch from adolescent hole to bareback top man.

“This is fucking crazy,” I said. “Something like this happened to me a million years ago in a shop just like this one.”

“Tell me later,” he ordered. “Fuck me now.”

Well, I obeyed, all right. I raped the shit out of him, and the greedy little pig loved it.

The sex that Cheater and I had was dirty. Nasty. There were tender moments, but then he’d do or say something was so similar to men I’d known and treasured in the past that he’d have my erection raging again. We had sex in the dirty motel. We fucked in his shop. He bought an over-the-door sling so that I could bang him in the back room. We fucked outdoors in a cold and snowy park.

Every time I’d shove myself inside those sweet lips, he’d howl and beg for my slick inches. I’d grunt and rut in his slimy, cum-filled hole and make him tell me I fucked him better than his husband. He’d howl how much more he needed me, how much more I meant to him. For six weeks we fucked like this, several times a week, making time for each other as much as possible. Sneaking around. We’d go home stinking like the other.

And I loved it.

I was so blindly infatuated with the guy that it took a while for me to notice that he had a few . . . well, odd ways to get thrills. For example, one evening I’d gone out to a bar for karaoke with a couple of close friends of mine. Half an hour in, he strolled in through the doors, looked around, met my eyes, smiled, and kept moving across the room. He had a man in tow with him—the husband he cheated on, I presumed (correctly), a dull-looking lump who seemed to be wishing he were anywhere else.

Now, I’d mentioned to Cheater that I was going to out that evening, and I’d casually told him where I planned to be, but I certainly hadn’t invited him to join me—much less to invite his husband. Cheater strolled on by, however, seeming to take no notice of me while smiling to himself as if enjoying a private joke. Then he positioned himself at the bar’s far end with his husband, directly in my line of sight. We didn’t interact all evening, but he stared at me, clapped and whooped when I sang karaoke, and once, when his husband was looking away and my friends were otherwise engaged, shared with me a conspiratorial wink.

In the back room of his shop, the next day, I banged him mercilessly. “That was a fucking stupid thing to do, bringing him with you,” I growled, thrusting hard enough that I hoped it hurt.

“It made you hot though, seeing the man I’m cheating on,” he taunted. His ass ground down on my dick, just as eager.

Honestly? Yeah, it riled me up. Fucker was taking a risk, parading his husband in front of me. Or was he parading me in front of his husband? Either way, it was wrong, and it was hot.

But it was still a little weird.

I was so overwhelmed and turned on by the scorching sex we had, time after time, that I was initially willing to overlook a few other little oddities as well. For example: about six weeks into the relationship, one morning I’d taken my Monday jaunt to Fairway for the weekly groceries. Halfway through my shopping trip, my phone vibrated. Don’t forget to pick up spaghetti, read a text from Cheater.

That’s crazy, I texted back. Did I tell you I was doing groceries this morning? I didn’t think I had.
Ha-ha-ha, was all he said back.

The thing was that when I’d gotten the text, I’d been in the pasta aisle.

Funny, right? Ha-ha-ha.

A few days later I was at the barber, sitting in the chair, when my phone buzzed again. I couldn’t get it out of my pocket until after the barber had finished cutting and brushing and blowing away the stray hairs. After I’d paid the cashier and exited the shop, I activated the screen and read, Just a little off the top, okay?

Ha-ha-ha. Funny again. Right? Was I wrong to feel paranoid about these texts? After all, we did live in the same vicinity. Maybe I'd even said something to let him know where I'd be. I sent him a text of complaint, but kept it so mild as to be milquetoast. You seem awfully interested in my whereabouts. 

For some reason, though, I still wasn't too concerned. I knew Cheater was taking a ski trip with his boyfriend at the end of the week. Maybe he was just going a little stir-crazy at work, and needed to tease me to keep himself in a good mood.

I hadn't written in my blog about Cheater before that point, even though we'd fucked for six weeks. The same week as those two texts, though, I decided to sit down and create an entry about him. I was proud of it, when I was done; it was one of the better posts I've made on the blog. Even today, reading it (and no, I won't link to it directly), its hot. It's nasty. It captures the raw heat of the fucks Cheater and I shared. I got a boner re-reading it just now—and I don’t often get aroused at my own work. For the entry, I changed the particulars of his job and his location to protect him, but the encounter I wrote about was quite true to life. I hit the button to upload it thinking what a damned good job I'd done in capturing him.

Readers seemed to agree, in the comments. I had multiple fans tell me they wished I’d fuck them that way.

From this point on in the relationship, things got very weird, very quickly. It all started the day after I’d published my Cheater post on my blog.

That morning I got a text at the mall when I was out with my family. (Going to the Apple Store?) I got a text at a Home Depot, later on. (Plumbing on aisle 30!) Then Cheater started pulling out random facts from my past and presenting them to me via text. I didn't know your mom taught college!, read one. Then he tossed me another with the name of an academic paper I'd written, years ago. More followed—a barrage of publicly-available facts he was gleaning from search engines.

When that evening Cheater started sending me texts with quotes from press interviews I'd given a long while back, and comments on a photograph of me that had appeared in a newspaper at one time (no, it wasn't a mug shot) . . . well, that's the late point in which I ceased thinking of his little intrusions into my life as slightly odd but possibly coincidental, to distastefully stalkery.

Look, I get that people research each other on the internet these days. I don’t—except once, when a guy asked me to, which is an entry I’ll be getting to next week. I find Googling someone invasive and predatory; worse, I find letting the person know you’ve done so unthinkably rude.

If you have to be a creeper, for gods’ sakes, don’t fucking brag about it to the guy you’re creeping on. I once kicked a decent fuck to the curb because when we went out to lunch, he hung around the cashier specifically so he could peep at my last name on a credit card—and then proceeded to use my last name later as if I’d shared it with him. Which I hadn’t. Had the guy simply asked me what my surname was, I probably would’ve told him. To be sneaky about it and then boastfully reveal to me what he’d been up to? Unforgivable.

So how am I going to react when someone who’s been sending me texts for a couple of days all but bragging about how he’s following me around the county, spying around corners in the supermarket and stalking me to the barber shop, suddenly presents all kinds of electronic evidence that he’s digging into every aspect of my life possible? You bet your ass the answer is poorly.

Cheater and I hadn’t met face to face since before the stalking behaviors surfaced. I hadn’t had a chance to look him in the eye and to ask him to stop—so it’s not that his upsetting texts went on for weeks and I allowed it to progress unchecked while I continued to use his ass. The surveillance, both physical and via search engine, started suddenly and escalated quickly. My mind was so numb with shock that for several hours I couldn’t really decide what to do. Break it off? Give him a little more benefit of the doubt and ask him gently to desist? Hope that the week-long ski trip he was taking with his husband would cool him down?

But then I got a text from him mentioning something about a couple of seminars I’d taken as a junior in college. I don’t know how he found out the names of the courses. Maybe I’d written about them, somewhere in my past, though I doubted it. Maybe—and this was the possibility that chilled me—he’d somehow finagled my college transcript from my alma mater. Whatever the explanation, the sexual fog that had been clouding my better judgment cleared instantly.

I am very concerned that you are spending so much of your time Googling me, I texted immediately him back. Please consider this my official request that you stop. I didn’t get a reply. Then, because at that point I was still spending too much time trying to be the Nice Guy, I fretted for a few hours over whether I’d been too hard on the fellow.

Not that it mattered, after what came next.

That evening, my phone started to buzz. I looked at the number; Cheater was trying to call me. I was at a dinner with family and couldn’t pick up. Quite honestly, I assumed he was calling to apologize and make it up to me. Over and over he called, and every time the phone went to voice mail. Eventually I had to set the phone not to disturb me.

Then the texts started, rapid and non-stop. YOU FUCKER!!!! he sent. IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK OF ME???? I didn’t know what he was talking about, or how to reply, until the phone buzzed again. I READ YOUR POST ABOUT ME, MOTHERFUCKER.

My post? The one I’d published on my blog twenty-four hours before? How in the world—?

Oh.

Fuck.

That was the moment that a hundred individual pieces flew into place to form a picture I’d been overlooking from our very first communication. It was the moment when suddenly I could see everything clearly. Cheater hadn’t merely stumbled onto the one post I’d written about him. He’d known about my blog before we’d met, even. Cheater was one of my long-term readers—a fact he’d never once mentioned.

He’d been waiting for this post about himself all along—and now that it was out there, he didn’t like it. The disguise he’d been wearing for six weeks dropped, and for the very first time I was seeing the real man I’d been fucking.

For months, possibly years, Cheater had been gleaning bits of information about me from my blog and storing them away like a squirrel with its acorns, waiting for the day he could use what he knew to lure and entrap me. The fact he had an unerring sense of where to touch and where to kiss me? Picked up from multiple entries in which I’d laid bare for him and everyone else that map of my erogenous zones. The words he’d say during sex? The jocks he claimed he loved to wear? Plucked from blog posts in which I’d mentioned they’d specifically excited me. That scene in the back room of his shop? He definitely exploited the coincidence to keep me enflamed.

I felt like a fucking idiot. How likely was it that some random guy from a sex site would have the same ultimate secret sexual fantasy as I? I’d initially felt kinship for this guy because we’d both spent our early teens and adolescence sucking dick and bending over for men in public parks and tearooms. Most likely he’d fed me a line of bullshit, just to establish rapport.

When one of my readers picks up on things I enjoy from my blog and uses it during a sexual encounter with me, I consider it flattering. It tells me he’s been paying attention. He knows it’s going to make me happy, and I know he’s doing it to please me. There’s reciprocity, there. It’s vastly different from someone—this someone—who stacked the odds in his favor with his secret knowledge of my likes and dislikes. It’s different from a manipulator who used my own words and revelations against me, as a weapon. Strategizing, secrecy, and deception—that’s how this asshole had declared war on me, and I had no idea I’d been conquered until my defenses were long down.

His texts kept coming in. WHAT WE HAVE IS SACRED AND YOU MADE IT DIRTY!!! IS THIS WHAT YOU REALLY THINK OF ME???

What, I wondered, did Cheater assume I was going to say about him? Did he, too, expect to be another Spencer? Our sex had some sweet moments, but romance had never driven the relationship between us. Nasty, perverted fucking—well, that’s what we did. We’d never spoken of flowers and feelings when I’d been nuts-deep in him, banging him against the door between his back room and his shop until the hinges had given way. I hadn’t been reading him Baudelaire during our bareback motel fucks and his whore’s baths in the cheap fiberglass sinks.

Every word of the entry I’d written about him had been almost verbatim. Every snarl, every curse word, every whimper. So what if I’d drawn myself as a sadistic top and him a cum-soaked hungry hole? That’s exactly the way it had been between us each and every time we fucked. What had he expected as he checked my blog morning after morning during those six weeks as he waited for me to write about him—that I’d happily bask in his approval when he finally unveiled that he’d been reading me all along?

Fuck that.

My reply was short and sweet. I’m doneYou fucked up. Then I blocked him.

That was a bad period in my life, friends. Every belief I’d ever held sacred about my relationship with blog readers fell to pieces. If I couldn’t trust someone I’d been fucking for weeks, how the fuck could I trust any of the incorporeal readers who claimed friendship with me? All the enjoyment I’d experienced in sharing my sexual adventures evaporated.

Before this incident, I’d been posting in my blog several times a week, for several years. After Cheater, I stopped posting for over a month. I eventually had to come back to reassure people I hadn’t died. I attempted throughout 2013 to regain my joy in sharing again, until later that year I was knocked down a second time and left for dead by another reader (whose time in this series will come in the near future).

Then my posts became erratic. Resentful. Guarded. And people wondered why.

You betrayed me, Cheater. You weaponized my own words, my confessions, and used them against me—then attempted to shame me for expressing them. You left me exposed and vulnerable and frightened; for months I was depressed because of you. The distrust you cultivated still lingers. When I contemplate resurrecting regular blog posts—when I sit down to write of my sexual exploits—the revulsion and apathy I mostly feel is directly because of you.

If only you’d been honest from the start. But you weren’t. And here we are, because of it.

For months after, I still had to suffer with Cheater’s continued stalking. He couldn’t text, but he could leave dead flowers on my doorstep, or little gifts of dog shit. He couldn’t send messages on websites or via email, but he could leave nasty, ugly anonymous comments on my entries, daily, for months and months. Every time I attempted to write in my blog, I knew I could look forward to one of his hissing, venomous anonymous screeds. I never approved them so they’d be visible, but I still had to read to screen them.

It’s been years since the fallout, and I’ve avoided writing about Cheater—and every other reader who’s given me reasons not to write—because he’d finally given up and stopped harassing me. I didn’t want to stir the hornet’s nest.

But you know what? I’ve figured out that I’m tougher than I gave myself credit for, at the time. I’m no longer concerned with being the Nice Guy. Not giving voice to my grievances does me no favors. Keeping quiet about what’s bothered me is what has thwarted me creatively.

I’m fighting my way back, resentment by resentment.

And I’m not even halfway there.


Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, July 3, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 4: Antonio

“What’re you thinking?”

The guy straddling my hips has his hands hooked around the back of his neck, elbows angled upward to display twin Brillo-like patches of armpit hair. Little coils of chest fuzz spring from between his nipples; his eyes are a luminous white against skin the color of strong coffee. He’s had my cock buried in him for the better part of ten minutes, and he’s been milking it steadily the entire time. Our mingled juices flow down my shaft to make my pubes lie slick and flat against my skin.

“Hmmm,” I eventually say to his question. “I’m thinking my dick feels great inside you.”

“And?”

I like the way he’s leaning back against nothing, showing off his muscular body for me. The kid has a cocky grin on his face. Kid. He’s in his early thirties. Still a kid to me. “And I’m thinking you look good, too.”

“No. . . .” he says, and for a charmed moment I think he’s being shy or modest or some such shit. He ducks his face away from me, then looks slyly back. “I mean, what’re you thinking in your head?” For a confused second, I wonder if he’s assuming I’m able to do my thinking somewhere else? In an external portable thinking pod, maybe? “Don’t you write as we do this?” he goes on to clarify.

“Oh,” I said, comprehension finally dawning.

“You know. Tell me. What’s my entry going to say?”

Antonio . . . welcome to your tape.

I confess that when I hook up with someone—readers, regular fucks, doesn’t matter—I have a writer’s habit of attempting to memorize details. My eyes try to scan a fellow so I’ll remember his appearance, so later I can bring a sketch of him a bit to life when I write a journal entry. My ears listen for dialogue, picking up little quirks of speech and snatches of what men say when they're alone and unguarded; my other senses attempt to ferret out the meanings behind what’s left unsaid. Body language. Where a man’s eyes focus—or don’t. The passion he puts into his lovemaking.

I’m always drinking it all in, storing it all up until that time comes when at last I sit down with my notebook and try to put my thoughts back in order. That’s when I sort through the sense memories, reconnect the strands of dialogue, and attempt to link actions with intentions.

“I don’t really write it in my head as I go along,” I chuckle. In my head, though, I’m thinking . . . .
The boy looked shyly at me, his thick eyelashes almost batting like a Southern belle’s. “What’s my entry going to say?” he teased.

“I don’t really write it in my head as I go along,” I chuckled, thrusting more deeply into his hole to wipe the coquettish smile from his lips.

As an afterthought, I thrust more deeply into his hole. That action doesn’t, however, wipe anything. “C’mon,” Antonio wheedles. “Tell me what you’re going to say. Are you going to tell your readers I’m the sexiest boy you’ve fucked?”

I’m still in a good mood, and he’s keeping my dick hard, so I’m willing to play along. “Eh.”

It’s a tease, and he knows it. His ass clamps down like a vise, making me throb. “Fucker. Are you going to tell them I’m the best fuck you’ve had?”

“Are you going to be the best fuck I’ve had?” I ask, this time more serious.

“Damn straight.” His palms rest for a moment on my shoulders to press me down. Then he places them onto the mattress and leans over me. He’s got a handsome face. His facial hair is carefully trimmed and shaven close; his eyes are a deep brown. They stare at me with an intensity that makes me harder. Nearer and nearer he comes. I tilt my chin up to meet him in what I’m sure is going to be a passionate kiss.

“Your blogger buddy said I was ‘one of the hottest pieces of ass I’ve had in years,’” he instead informs me, breaking the momentary spell he’s cast.

I blink. I’m not really able to tell whether or not he’s teasing. When Antonio originally contacted me, he did with almost a letter of reference, suggesting I consult another sex blogger’s website to see what the guy had written about their encounter. I wasn’t really familiar with the other blogger, and if I may be blunt, I didn’t think much of his writing style, or the fact that his entries were a basic no-details format that all read along the lines of Met this guy on Grindr who said he wanted my big cock, so he came over to the apartment and got on his knees and took my cock and nut in him, fuck yeah! But the blogger in question had indeed said that Antonio was a hot piece of ass—which I guess at the time was good enough for me.

Antonio had come at me hard, too. I love your blog, been reading you since the beginning, he said, which I always take in with a grain of salt to mean that they’ve read maybe the last two entries before clicking on the links to one of my sex profiles. I’ve been fucked by the rest. I want to be fucked by best.

And if there’s a theme that readers should pick up on in this series of posts, it’s that I’m sadly susceptible to this line of flattery. Compliment me on my dick photos alone and I’m likely to be kindly disposed to you, sure. Compliment me on my dick and my writing? Like a bad habit, I’ll be handing out my phone number and a GPS location while shouting, LET’S FUCK, BABY.

“Don’t talk about my skin problems,” he says, pausing his gyrations on my cock. “When you write about me, I mean.”

“What skin problems?” I ask, baffled. I’m looking at his face for old scars or blemishes, but there are none.

He actually lifts up on his knees so that my dick falls out of his hole with a wet plop on my belly, and pivots around. “Right here,” he says, pointing to an area on his shoulder blades. All I really see is dark skin, but he indicates an area of imaginary acne with his fingers. “I get these breakouts. That’s why I wanted to sit on you, so you wouldn’t see it if you fucked me from behind.”

“That’s why I wanted to sit on you, so you wouldn’t see it if you fucked me from behind,” says the boy, craning his neck to see the imaginary spot over his right shoulder, I write, in my head.

“You know how else I wouldn’t have seen it?” I growl. “If you hadn’t stopped mid-fuck to FUCKING SHOW IT TO ME.

I don’t follow that plot path, though. Instead, I try to get things back on track. “I have no intention of writing about your skin problems,” I assure him. I take him by the hips. My cock is rigid, standing straight up in the air. It would be so easy to sit him back down on it.

“When I was a teen, my mama used to have to take me in for shots, it got so bad.”

“Well, I can barely see anything now, so. . . .”

“Those shots hurt like a son of a bitch. And the pus. Used to leave stains.

Readers, there’ve been many times I’ve set out what I think are some basic rules for bottoms to follow. Usually they run: show up when you say you’ll show up. Treat your top with respect, and he’ll pay you back in kind. Remember that even if getting the load is your goal, still make your top feel good; he might be inclined to see you more often that way.

Not once have I before felt compelled to lay down what I think should be one of the most fundamental laws of sexual interaction: Never, ever, go into lengthy discussions about pus while copulating.

“Sometimes it was greenish.” He shuddered, and readers, so did I. “It was nasty.”

I felt emboldened to speak up. “How about we not talk about pus?” I suggested. I’m pretty sure it was the first time ever I’ve had to speak that particular sentence aloud, during sex.

“You’re right,” he smiled. He went silent, and groped for my cock. A moment later, I was back in the warm confines of his ass.

So we’re fucking. He’s grinding. I’m moving my hips in a circular motion myself, pulsating in and out of his slick chute. For a moment, everything’s back on track, and I’m absolutely prepared to ignore the disgusting conversation we’d moved past, and enjoy the rest of the fuck.

“Aw, shit, I know a couple of people who are going to crap their pants when they find out I got you,” he says.

The fact I’m blinking my eyes rapidly at his remark is what clues me in to the fact that I’m irritated, long before the itchy effects of the emotion actually begin to register in my brain. There’ve been several times I’ve suspected that guys have bedded me more for the bragging rights than the actual sex. Once they get my notch on their belt, I never hear from them again.

“The Breeder. I’ve got the Breeder’s dick in my tail. I wonder how many loads the Breeder is going to shoot up my hot ass. Maybe I’m the Breeder’s hottest piece of ass.”

“Ssssshh,” I suggest, putting a finger on his lips. For a ridiculous moment I remind myself of Dianne Wiest in Bullets over Broadway, shushing the loquacious Jon Cusack with an imperious Don’t speak!
Silence falls yet again.

Something’s broken, though. My dick’s still hard, but at this point it’s more out of mechanical reflex than actual desire. I don’t really want to be here, with this guy, at this moment. I could’ve relished the fuck if he hadn’t kept talking about it—if he hadn’t kept trying to make me experience it as a finished piece of writing that, in his mind, apparently went I met this guy named Antonio who wanted my big cock and he came over to my place and got on his knees and took my cock and nut in him, and fuck, was he the hottest piece of ass the Breeder has ever had.

Part of me felt as if he expected me to be taking fucking dictation while he took my fucking dick. Mostly, though, I feel shut down, shut up, backed into a corner. He'll wait months to read about himself before figuring out it's an entry that will never be coming. What have I got left to write about, when he’s yanking my words away from me, phrase by phrase?

Antonio is still staring up at the ceiling, absent and lost in his own little world as he bounces up and down. “Maybe I’ll be your next Spencer. What do you think about that?”

Oh, I think to myself. Maybe he did read more than two entries.

But I still think it’s as unlikely an outcome to this particular scenario as one can get.



Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, June 26, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 3: When An Experiment Fails

When I’m with a man . . . when I’m inside a man . . . I’ll often tell him he’s beautiful. I don’t have to praise anyone’s looks to flatter my way into his pants. With a single photograph, usually the size and proportions of my dick do all that work for me. I don’t tell a sex partner he’s handsome to fluff his ego. In fact, I won’t tell him he’s good looking if he’s not.

No, when I tell a man he’s beautiful, it’s solely because he deserves the praise. It’s because he’s opened up for me—legs, hole, and soul—and put himself into a vulnerable position. When men are at their most vulnerable, they’ll believe truths about themselves they might not otherwise.

But this story is not so much about fucking, as it is about a friendship. Hamilton, welcome to your tape.

A long time ago I had sex with a man in a Manhattan hotel room.

Okay. I know, given the number of men I’ve fucked in Manhattan hotel rooms, that my opening sentence doesn’t exactly narrow anything down. But this guy was different. We had—I thought, for a while—a connection.

His name was Hamilton, and his photos were deceptive. I don’t mean those words in their shadiest sense. That is, he didn’t post photos of an Adonis and show up looking like a slightly less comely Wallace Shawn. The pictures he unlocked for me on Manhunt were sexy as hell, admittedly, featuring a lightly muscled, narrow-waisted body decked in a leather harness, and an impressive and rigid cock jutting out with menace from a pair of slick black chaps. All the photos had been taken, it looked like, lit solely by the red glow from a police car light. The effect was devilish.

He listed himself as a top, but he wanted an experienced man like myself to show him the pleasures of his hole. I was only too glad to oblige.

When I met him for our afternoon together, I was greeted at the hotel door not by the sex demon I expected, but by a perfectly respectable man dressed in a natty tweed suit and tie, beaming from ear to ear finally to see me. He was a good-looking guy, absolutely, but for a short time that afternoon, the dissonance between the sexy little clean-cut man who looked like the host of an HGTV decorating show, and the raging Prince of Lust from the Manhunt profile, was difficult to reconcile.

Until I got his clothes off, that is, and buried my dick deep into his tight, hairy hole. That’s when the spark ignited in his eyes, and the flames between us flickered white hot. I banged him three times on the mattress of that four-star hotel, holding him down while I talked about how pretty he was, and how hot his hole felt, what a pleasure it was to fuck a hot boy like him, and how I was going to paint his guts with my seed.

A bucket of sweat and cum later, he surprised me by climbing on top of me, flipping me over, and spitting in his hand and spreading it over his dick. “You want my cock, faggot?” he growled in my ear.

Yes, sir. Yes, I did.

That fuck was primal. I melted, looking into that handsome face as he drove into me again and again. That’s when I realized those Manhunt photos weren’t deceptive at all. Hamilton might’ve dressed in a particularly dapper way when I met him, but behind closed doors, he unleashed a beast that got what it wanted. Anything it wanted.

Afterward, we lay on top of the bed, still and quiet, covered with rivulets and exhausted, seemingly worn out. “You are a hell of a good bottom,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

Maybe it had been true in that moment. Maybe, after torturing myself for years over my inability to enjoy taking dick in my ass, it was a truth I needed to hear after I’d opened my hole and exposed my vulnerable underbelly. Either way, it made my dick stir into hardness once again.

“No, no, I think I’m worn out,” he protested with a laugh when I positioned myself over him on the bed, one palm flat against the mattress to either side of his shoulders. He chuckled weakly when first one knee, then the other, pried apart his legs. Then, when my rigid dick probed his dripping pussy, he moaned a little, and allowed me to slide inside.

I looked in the face of Hamilton, that satyr, that man of many facets, and parted his hole with my dick until it hit the base. My own seed squished around my rod in its slippery home. “You are fucking beautiful,” I told him. He shook his head, nay-saying the compliment. “You don’t know how attractive and sexy you are, do you?”

At his shy non-response, I shook my own head and began picking up the pace with my thrusts. His body responded as it had before, with hunger. He might have thought he was done, but his hole now told him differently.

“You are incredibly good to look at, Hamilton,” I whispered to him. “You truly are beautiful.”

His lips parted with a small sigh of contentment. Happiness, even. “You make me feel beautiful.”

“Because you are.”

“But you make me feel it,” he said, smiling.

“You need to give yourself permission to feel it more often,” I suggested. Then, with my hands cupped around his sweet face, I pounded another load into him.

We met again a couple of months later when he was again in the city. For the first part of the excursion, we spent several hours in bookstores, talking and catching up. In the interim we’d established a friendship via email. We’d talk about the holes we’d fucked—you know, the way we do in the rarified enclosure of The Tops’ Lounge—and reminisce about the afternoon we’d shared. We exchanged dozens of emails about reading and art, and about writing and our own feelings of being oddballs in the sexual culture.

I’d even come out to him about my blog, and asked permission to write about our encounter together. He’d granted it—and when my post about him came out, he was furiously shy about his appreciation.

When it comes to afternoons out, I can’t think of one that was more delightful. Even now, when I think about it, it’s cast in a rosy glow—giving each other books to look at, laughing about topics dear to my heart in which none of my other friends have any interest, discussing the difficulties of writing. Several times during the afternoon, I noticed other men cruising Hamilton as we walked toward them. I’d nudge him. “That guy is totally into you,” I’d say.

“No,” he’d laugh. “Absolutely not. He’s out of my league.”

“Bullshit! He’s checking you out! Look!”

Hamilton would at last raise his eyes and briefly meet those of the man giving him the once-over. Then he’d blush like a schoolgirl. “Well, fuck,” he’d mumble.

“It’s because you’re totally hot,” I told him.

“I’m not. Seriously. I’m the scrawny little ninety-eight-pound weakling who the hot guys hate. They’re only looking because—well. . . .”

“You’ve got this notion of yourself in your head that’s totally at odds with the reality of you,” I said.
“You’re getting all this feedback from the real world that should be telling you I’m hot! I’m hot! But you keep repeating to yourself, I’m not, I’m not.”

“I’m not hot,” he mumbled. Then, as concession, “But you make me feel like I am.” It was an echo of the afternoon we’d shared.

I also echoed back to that afternoon. “Give yourself permission to feel it more often.”

We returned to his hotel shortly thereafter, stripped down, and repeated our first session—although I did all the topping. The entire time I kept telling him, you are beautiful, you are beautiful. I fucked like I was trying to pound the message home—or at least silence that inner critic who kept telling him otherwise.

It was afterward, when we were panting and sweaty once more, that he looked me in the eyes and said, “I never think of myself as attractive. But you make me feel like an entirely different person.”

“So why don’t you allow yourself to be?” I asked him quietly. “Let yourself be an entirely different person. Do it as an experiment. Just for a day. Try it on and see how you like it.”

He nodded, and I let the subject drop.

I’ve written about this incident before. I received a letter from him not long after in which he confessed that the question I’d asked—so why don’t you allow yourself to be?—resonated with him so much that the very next day he gave himself the assignment of getting through the day, assuming he was sexy, and hot, and handsome, and attractive.

So he looked at himself in the mirror, and liked what he saw there. He went out into the streets, and for the first time noticed men and women admiring him. He flirted with a barista and got a cookie. He kept repeating the experiment, day after day, and found his confidence growing.

It was one of the few times in my blogging career, honestly, that I felt I’d made a concrete difference. Oh, I have readers write to me and tell me I’ve changed their lives, and it makes me so happy to hear those words. It genuinely does. But I don’t personally, in the flesh, know any of the fine men who make these assurances.

I knew Hamilton. We were friends. He was one of my rare friends who didn’t make a big deal about my blog, or treat me any differently because of it. Knowing I’d helped him a little, as a friend . . . well, it was everything to me at the time.

The problem was, subsequently, that as Hamilton’s confidence grew, the less he seemed to need me as a confidante. We continued to exchange emails for a time, but while mine were full of chat about books and sex and theater and sex, his grew more and more terse. Just got your email!, he’d reply to me. I’ll send one back after I finish this lecture I’m preparing. When I didn’t get anything, I waited a week or two, then sent another. I owe you an email!, he responded. I’ll be doing it this weekend!

After the third reply in which he told me he would write back to me as soon as possible, I conceded defeat. I got the message. I stopped writing. I commented only rarely on his many Facebook posts, knowing that my contributions there were being drowned out in the flood of chatter from his thousands (yes, thousands) of social media followers.

Hamilton would come to town. I’d hope for another invitation to meet him—if not in his hotel room, at least at a bookstore, or for lunch or coffee. The invitations never came. Again, I got the message.

Friendships wax and wane, I sadly know. I try not to take friends for granted, because I know that they’re just as likely to vanish without warning as they are to arrive unheralded. Friendships are meant to be enjoyed while they persist, and to be remembered with fondness later if they’d been cultivated well. Maybe, I told myself, Hamilton’s friendship was only supposed to last for as long as it took for me to deliver that one message from the universe: You are beautiful. Why don’t you allow yourself to be?

It was small solace, that thought. But it helped me let go. I clung to it for a while, as I seemed to become more and more invisible to my former friend.

What consolation I derived, however, was short-lived. Hamilton’s self-dislike began to creep back onto his social media postings. One day he’d post a screed about being the ugly guy being pushed around by the muscle gods of the gym. He’d follow it up a couple of weeks later about feeling freakish and ugly around groups of gay men. Last year, he wrote a couple of Facebook posts that revealed such depths of fury toward his self-image that for weeks after I had to let my eyes skip over anything he subsequently had to say.

That experiment I’d proposed had obviously failed.

Again, as I’d had to do with the friendship that Hamilton and I had once shared, I forced myself to concede defeat. Letting go for the second time, though, hurt. I thought I’d made a difference. I hadn’t. Not a lasting one, at least. If I couldn’t contribute lastingly to someone I’d once considered a close, dear friend, how the hell could anything I said, anything I wrote, make a difference with a total stranger? A blog reader?

This Faggot, from my previous entry, had claimed I’d changed him. It’s how he approached me. My words, he told me, had made a concrete difference in the day-to-day quality of his life. But in the end, was I able to change him enough to get his dick out of his hand long enough actually to meet me? Nope. Was my writing, my ethic, enough to convince him to act toward me with the same good faith to which I’d extended him? Not in the least. If that’s the kind of change I’m making in readers—no thanks.

At a low point in my life, I was forced to confront the fact that perhaps, despite what men told me, my words, my advice, the very things I believed about sex and love and life, meant absolutely nothing. Nothing I had ever done had felt so futile. Why write at all? Why create?

Self-image issues often run deep. They can’t be erased by a simple encomium or a quick platitude. Years of hearing how ugly one is from other people leads to even more years of one telling oneself the same falsehoods, until the pattern is so deeply engrained it feels impossible to fight against. I know all these things. I’ve struggled with them, myself. I still do. Daily. But sometimes I can get through a day in which I allow myself to be foxy as hell, to all and sundry. Sometimes I can make it two days. A week. I give myself that permission.

There’s nothing that I can say that will repair anyone. I know this, too. Every man gets to haul out the self-help toolbox and treat himself as a fixer-upper. It’s the individual’s responsibility to look in the mirror, daily, and say, Today’s the day I’m allowing myself to be all the good thing things I wish for.

Every time I climb into bed with a good-looking man and I tell him how beautiful he is, I’m going to wonder if he really hears the message I’m trying to tell him. Judging by my spotty track record, I’m going to guess not.

But I’m going to keep on saying the words, anyway. And I’m going to hope that some day, someone will listen, and believe me.

Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.

I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, June 19, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 2: This Faggot

Some men seek sexual adventure. They love the thrill of the chase, the electricity of two men making eye contact across a crowded room; they relish the prickle across their skin when a man sprawled on a park bench lazily lets his finger drift across the hardened bulge in his jeans. I am one of these men. I enjoy sex. I’m good at it. I make it happen, enjoy it to the fullest, and gird up for the next exploit.

Many men—most men—only dream of sexual adventure. When the real thing presents itself, they retreat, snail-like, and hope that it goes away. This Faggot was one of those men . . . and This Faggot, welcome to your tape.

A month ago, our brief encounter happened. My April allergies were unusually severe, this year. My eyes had been so itchy and red that I couldn’t wear my contacts. My nose ran like a faucet. For about three weeks I stumbled around looking like a bespectacled professor who’d fallen face-first into a barrel of pollen. For most of that time I kept to myself. Spit, piss, and cum are acceptable bodily fluids for an encounter, but most men don’t care to be sneezed and snotted on.

Then came May, and relief—I could step outdoors again, and breathe fresh air, and sit on my front porch with my tablet in my hand and . . . of course, cruise for hole.

I was on the bareback site when a young fellow sent me a message there. Hi, this is out of the blue, Sir, and you don’t know me. But this faggot wanted to testify that you and your blog have changed its life. This faggot has to thank you for that. There are reasons why you are revered in the community of bloggers by faggots like this one, and converting this faggot from celibate into cum dump is just one of them. Also, if it’s not too presumptuous for it to say so, you are extremely, extremely handsome, Sir. Anyway, thank you, and this faggot will understand if it is not your type.

I checked out the kid’s profile. He was in his early thirties. Lightly-muscled body. Save for a patch of sparse fur between his pecs, he was mostly smooth. Fat dick, for a bottom. Lean and round ass. His face, though. When I get a message from a guy who says something along the lines of ‘I’ll understand if I’m not your type,’ I usually expect some kind of extreme—extreme scrawniness, extreme stockiness, or extreme butterface.

This Faggot—as he called himself—was starkly handsome: cheekbones like scalpels, wide green eyes, a sharp chin and the brow of a scholar. He lived in Manhattan, so he was local to me. In his photos he carried a certain air of entitlement—the good young professional looks and grooming of a stock broker, maybe, or a high-earning finance guy. I could’ve been reading into it, though; there’s only so much about a person’s character you can tell when in most of his pics he was kneeling on beds with an arched back, in obvious heat, while a series of black dicks stretched and gaped his holes.

Ivy League graduate gone wrong is totally my type, you know.

Like Wile E. Coyote over the Road Runner, I licked my chops over his photos for a moment. I sent a short reply, thanking him kindly for the copious compliments, then said, If I had anything to do with those amazing photos of yours, I’m happy to have been inspiration.

He wrote back within a minute. Oh Sir, just hearing from you makes this faggot so happy! Short history: this faggot used to be a condom nazi. This faggot even read your blog pretending to disapprove of it, but you just write so beautifully that I broke down. Your beautiful words made this faggot realize that it wasn’t having good sex at all the way it was. Or ANY sex. You made this faggot admit to itself that all the hating it was doing was a cover-up while it pretended to be committed to its boyfriend. All this faggot’s secret sexual fantasies were of being a cum whore who never refuses a load from ANYONE, Sir. So this faggot got itself on PrEP and started taking loads from strangers. This faggot guesses it was secretly trying to make you proud all along, Sir.

Now, I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t eating up his story. Friends, I was gulping it down like a pig at the trough. If there’s any trend you’ll notice in these entries, it’s that when a reader of mine throws down a few compliments and peppers them with some Sirs and Dads and some gestures of submission, this revered blogger’s response isn’t to keep the guy demurely at arm’s length. Fuck no.

If you want really to picture my reaction to that kind of approach, imagine me injecting a horse hypodermic of Viagra directly into my veins while I roar, BRING ME ANOTHER!

When This Faggot asked if there would ever, ever, ever be the slightest chance that a superior top like me might want to hook up with him, I gave the guy my cell phone number so we could take the conversation to text. He was a local, after all. I’ve hooked up with guys from BBRT with less interaction.

SIR, you are so beautiful in all your photos. This faggot has fantasized about you for years, he texted immediately. Jerked at your escapades. Admired your ability to communicate the emotions of your fucking along with the feelings in your body. This faggot only wants to please you and be your pig, if you give it the opportunity, Sir.

A faggot’s role is to please a man, I told him. You’re already pleasing me.

This faggot hopes to be a pig to make you proud, Sir. Right now it is just another basic faggot. It will do what you want it to do and wear what you want it to wear. This faggot prefers to keep its useless faggot cock covered so it does not lose focus on worshiping your beautiful breeder dick, Sir.

I was hard as he texted me. Shit, what top wouldn’t be? This hot little cunt wasn’t just striking the right notes . . . he was whacking them over and over again with an enormous Looney Tunes-sized cartoon mallet. What about that boyfriend of yours? I asked. Is he going to have a problem with a stranger dumping loads up your hole?

This faggot is a cheating faggot, Sir. It is its pleasure to help you release that cum into the world. And Sir, you are not a stranger! You are a man who helped a faggot find enlightenment. A teacher. A mentor. A man I've admired for so long.

Jesus, I texted. That’s humbling to hear. And from such a handsome boy.

Never be humbled, Sir. Your exploits have helped scores of faggots find themselves. That fact should make you swagger even more than that fucking huge and perfect breeding stick between your legs. And honestly, most guys don't even acknowledge this faggot. It did not expect a God like you to even respond to it, let alone show interest. This has already made this faggot’s day.

BRING ME ANOTHER!, roared my ego again.

I’m ashamed to admit that at this point I let the guy phone me. Ordinarily I don’t like talking on the telephone. From childhood it’s always seemed unnatural, listening to disembodied voices at the other end of a magic stick (or these days, at the other end of a square of glass). But this guy wanted to discuss when we could meet. When I warned him in a text that I wouldn’t be doing phone sex in any form, he said he completely understood and didn’t want that from me. He simply wanted to hear my voice and negotiate a fuck date.

This Faggot had a sexy voice, actually. I could tell he was nervous, when I called his number. “Oh god,” (or maybe O God, referring to my status with him), upon answering. “It’s really you. I—I mean, this faggot—didn’t think you would call for real, Sir.”

“Well, I wanted to arrange our first fuck.”

“Before we figure that out, Sir, please let this faggot express how sincerely attractive and hot it finds you. It has jacked off to your photos so many times, and even more times to the words you write so amazingly beautifully in your blog. This faggot messaged fifteen guys this morning before I—it—worked up the nerve to say hello to you, and you are the only one who responded.”

“Aw, shucks, son,” is what my mouth said, but inside my rampaging ego was brandishing the wad of compliments like a thick stack of dollar bills at a strip club and making it RAIN, baby. (On myself. Because I deserve it.)

We talked about the timing of our tryst, and decided that I’d come to his place two days following. I had a meeting that day near Chelsea, where he lived. “This faggot will do everything and anything you tell it, Sir. It will take your cum, your piss, even your snot, because it all comes from you, Sir, and it will all make this faggot stronger, better, complete.”

“Well sure,” I said, not wanting to argue with that caliber of offer. If only I’d gotten it during allergy season, right?

“May it make a request, Sir? Will you wear your special metal BREEDER cock ring? This faggot wants to feel that BREEDER cock ring touch its teeth as it swallows your cock. It wants to lick the word BREEDER. Knowing how many men have seen it before this faggot when they kneel and worship you and take you inside them. It will remind you that you are this faggot’s God and its reason for being.”

I thought it over a moment. I mean, who am I to disagree with that kind of persuasion? “Yeah. I’ll do that,” I said. My voice might have been a little husky with lust.

“This humble faggot wishes you could fuck me today, Sir.”

“I wish I could too. But you’re a pretty boy, son,” I said. “Fucking handsome as hell. If you’re so horny, why don’t you get back on BBRT and find a dick to stretch your hole . . . just to cool you down until day after tomorrow? You want to do that for me?”

“Oh god yes, Sir,” he moaned. “It will do it right now. It will take all the piss and cum it can all DAY for you, Sir. It wants to make you proud!”

“Good boy. And then you’ll tell me about it.”

“Yes SIR. This faggot will tell you about every dick that unloads in its cumdump ass!”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, son.”

“Goodbye, Sir. I love you, Sir.”

The last three words took me aback for a moment. During the trip from my porch to my desk, I thought about them. He hadn’t said the words automatically, the way someone might rattle them off to their talkative old dad at the end of a call. Nor had he alarmed me; he hadn’t made the declaration sound dangerous and stalker-like. It had come out sounding fairly unconscious, and sincere.

Thank you for letting me hear your voice, he texted as I sat back down at my desk.

I hesitated before typing my reply. Were you aware of what you said to me, when you said goodbye on the phone?

Yes, Dad, he replied. It slipped. This faggot hoped you had not heard it. It was excited.

Say the words now.

It said I love you, Sir.

Did you mean it in the moment?

Yes Sir. It meant it.

My boner raged. So you’ll say those words when I’m loading up your little faggot hole on Thursday?

Yes Sir. This faggot will say it and mean it. Thank you, Sir. You deserve to be loved more than anyone.

Yeah, I told myself. I did deserve to be loved.

I was in a good place. I had a commitment for Thursday. I had the guy’s phone. I had his address. He’d gotten my attention, and inflamed my dick, my interest, and my ego to equally grotesque proportions. This was going to be a good experience. I set down to work, hoping my raging erection would subside.

Then. Five minutes later. He texts me again. Your faggot sent messages to a bunch of tops, even ones with ads looking to just load holes. No responses.

Of course you’re not getting responses, I thought to myself. Jesus. It’s been five fucking minutes.

This faggot is sorry daddy. It told you it was not worthy of your attention. You deserve much better, and there are boys out there who always seem to be able to get cum in their holes…and this faggot promised it would do this for you. FUCK, it is such a failure.

I was a little taken aback by this weird, sudden temper tantrum of defeat. I mean, I’ve known, admired, and fucked some pretty successful sluts in my time, and I can’t think of one who would have thrown his hands in the air after ten minutes online (on a weekday morning, no less) and yelled, “SCREW IT, I’M OUTTA HERE.” I tried to sound conciliatory, though, when I texted him, Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. If it’s not going to happen, you can’t force it. It’s okay.

You don’t get it. You could spend you entire day going from hole to hole. Everyone wants a piece of you. I’m just a shit nobody that no one wants to fuck I guess. Plus I failed you. I told you I was a basic faggot.

I was considering the way I should respond to this dark and curious turn when he texted again, mere seconds after the last. Still no takers for my hole. I’ve given up and signed off. I'm sorry. I'm a failure. Nobody wants to use me. To be honest I was going to delete my profile this week. I might as well do it now.

I’m not attracted to failures, I told him. I’m attracted to you. Therefore you aren’t a failure.

I'm so average and you are a part of the top of one percent among gays. You gave me one easy assignment and I couldn't do it in a city like NYC of all places. I think that underscores I should give up on sex for good. And now you know why my boyfriend can't even bother to fuck me or look at me. I’m too average. Below average, even.

At this point, even I was starting to realize that his compliments about me were way too over-the-top to carry any water. Top one percent among gays? Pfff. Top three percent, maybe. Top one percent was just hyperbole. And once again—once again in a succession of many, many encounters with readers who claimed to admire me, claimed to want to meet me—I felt as if I were being punked. This Faggot was suddenly so baffling, so improbable, that I wondered if I’d been set up for inevitable disappointment from the very beginning.

For some god-knows-what reason, however, I decided to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Listen. There are plenty of times I can't find a fuck to save my life . . . and I'm a top. If you knew how difficult it was for me, with my big dick, to get laid sometimes, your opinion of me would do a one-eighty. Failure is not defined by the inability to arrange a hookup at a moment’s notice. Not for me, not for you.

His downward spiral continued, however. By this point, I noticed, he’d dropped the entire ‘this faggot’ schtick. I'm so embarrassed. I feel like if I can't even get regular guys into me how can I get one like you?

At this point, my confusion began turning to irritation. You don’t seem to realize you’ve already got one like me. You’ve GOT me. We’re still meeting day after tomorrow, right?

I sat at my desk, phone in my hand, waiting for a reply. Nothing. After a minute I fired up my browser, and checked the website where we’d met. When I looked in my mailbox, all the messages we’d exchanged had vanished. I searched for his user name there. Nothing.

You deleted your profile, I texted.

I told you I would. And right now I'm laying in bed stroking and reading your blog.

This is the point where I gave up. This faggot could have had me, the real person, in the flesh. Less than forty-eight hours from that moment, he could have enjoyed the fuck of his life. (I’m not so much exaggerating my own prowess, mind you, as marking how sorry his sex life used to be.) Yet there he was, alone, diddling himself in the cold blue light of the computer screen with a version of me that could never touch, taste, or enjoy him back.

My blog is not a real, living thing. He could have had the real me, so easily. It makes me sad you deleted your profile, I tapped out, wondering why I even bothered.

I'm sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.

I looked at my watch. Between the time of our phone call and the time of his last message, a mere quarter hour had elapsed. Over the course of less than ninety minutes, This Faggot had gone from courting me with compliments and promises, to setting up a first date, to promising me outrageous sexual satisfaction, to telling me he loved me, to circling the toilet in a puddle of his own self-despair, to breaking up with me.

I’d jumped all the hoops of a five-year relationship in less than an hour and a half. No wonder I was fucking exhausted.

This Faggot kept his promise. I haven’t heard from him since. On the day we were supposed to meet, I left a polite text saying that the ball was in his court and I’d let him decide what to do . . . but I suspect my number had been long blocked by that point.

Was he depressive? Could be. Was he feeling guilt at fooling around on this boyfriend of his, and decided to pull back? I guess it’s a possibility. Did he simply feel as if he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and that he couldn’t perform up to the the standards of a God who was among the top three percent of gays? (Oh, heck. Let’s make it the top two percent. No need to be over-modest.) Maybe? Or could it simply have been, as I often fear, that he simply didn’t find me attractive enough and needed a way to wriggle out of his commitment?

There’s no justification behind it. No matter what the answer, I’m the one left swinging in the wind when he vanished.

When readers approach me with compliments, and with stories of their own about how my writing has been a catalyst to their own sex lives, it feels to me that finally I’m reaping a little of the seed I’ve sown—pun firmly intended. It feels like I’m getting a little love back.

What leaves me so dispirited after encounters like these—and there have been many—with readers is that they’re so damned draining. When readers turn out to be like This Faggot, jerking the rug right out from under me, it leaves me bruised. Worn out. Sour. Men like This Faggot leave me unwilling to engage with any of my readers—even those who sound and behave like totally reasonable people.
I have been bruised so many times, now.

As a writer, and as a sex blogger who has put so much of his private life on display for everyone to enjoy, I find myself stupidly susceptible when one of my readers appears willing to give back to me—and I’m not simply talking about when they want to repay me with their holes. Even if just a little, and even if just once in a while, This Faggot was right about one thing: I do deserve to be loved.

Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.