Sunday, March 1, 2015

Sunday Morning Questions: Hipster Mage Edition

Earlier this week I was full of righteous indignation over Google’s decision to ban adult images from Blogger, the platform on which I host my blog. Although Google had been fine with adult content for over a decade—welcomed it, even, in their mission statement—they announced with little fanfare that any blogs containing X-rated photos or videos would be hidden from public view. The turnaround left a lot of my fellow bloggers in a panic.

I gave the announcement a couple of days to sink in, then with a heavy heart spent an evening deleting photographs and videos from past entries. I started back at the very beginning—2010, when I started keeping this blog. I managed to purge an even hundred entries before my eyes were spinning. One hundred out of nearly eight hundred. I figured that was good enough progress for an evening.

Then the next morning, of course, I discovered that Google had suddenly reversed their decision and decided to allow blogs with adult content to continue—instead, they’ll crack down on the unlawful distribution of commercial porn instead. Seventh-eighths of my blog is relieved that they reconsidered their hasty, reactionary move. One-eighth of my blog, though, is now missing its photos and is kind of ticked off about it.

I’m also a little annoyed that although Google saw fit to notify every adult blogger via email about their initial crackdown, and also by messages atop the Blogger console web page warning users to clean out offending images by mid-March, they haven’t really seen fit to distribute the word about their change of mind in a similar manner; the change-of-heart announcement appeared in a forum that no one I know reads, somewhere in a corner of Google’s bureaucratic space. It got picked up and redistributed and announced on many a tech blog, thank god—but they haven’t sent around an email to apologize for putting their users into a panic, or anything.

Still. I should be thankful I still have my blog here, as well as some of my images left. So let’s get to some Sunday morning questions. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, the fastest way to get them answered in my occasional feature here is to email them to me at the address on the sidebar with Sunday Morning Question(s) in the subject line. The more I get, the faster the answers will come.

What, for you, is the key to good sex?

You know, so much goes into any one sexual encounter that it’s really, really tough to offer any one single thing that will prove the magical key to making every encounter fantastic. (Of course, having an amazing dick like mine helps.)

More than that, though, these days I feel when both parties go into an encounter with the mindset of wanting to please their partners, and with a willingness to cast aside all the petty stuff that can inhibit or hamper an encounter, they’ll have a good time. If two guys (or gals, or any combination thereof) can ignore for a few hours the little worries of the home, the big concerns of the workplace, the fears about money and the everyday anxieties about being good enough to deserve sex, or pretty enough to get sex, they’ll have a good time. If they hop into bed with smiles on their faces and their attention focused on their partners, ready to accept attention and equally willing to give it, they’ll have a good time.

Just remember, those of you hunting out good sex: if what you’re bringing to an encounter is anxiety, anger, or fear, the chances are pretty good that the sex you’ll have will only make those bad things worse. Learn to breath, to smile, to give yourself positive messages, and to wipe away as much of that bullshit as possible.

Or at least learn to hide it well.

Do you prefer to be addressed by your name, or as ‘Sir,’ or ‘daddy,’ or what?

A few weeks ago I was approached by some semi-local guy somewhere online—I’ve forgotten whether it was an app or some hookup site—who decided that I was going to be his beta top. That is, he was the Alpha in the situation, and I’d be his sidekick top. Boy Wonder to his Caped Crusader, I guess. If he threw a group, I’d be invited and I’d fuck the holes he told me to fuck. I’d hold down the bottoms he told me to hold down. If he wanted me to plug a bottom’s mouth while he was fucking the hole, I’d do as I was told. I guess there was some lube carrying and maybe some sword polishing to be done in his vision of the modern-day equivalent of a knight’s squire, too. I don’t know.

To be honest, it seemed totally relaxing. I’ve been totally accustomed, over the last twenty-five years, to having to manage every aspect of a sexual encounter. Taking a step back to obey orders without having to think them up sounded like a fucking vacation. So I told the guy that his parties could be fun, and that I was in if he’d have me.

That’s when the nightmare began. If I was going to be in his stable of tops, the guy informed me, I’d have to call him Sir. Every single time. If I left the address ‘Sir’ out of a sentence, I would have to beg his forgiveness (Sir). No, I would have to beg his humble forgiveness, Sir. If I referred to him to any of his stable of bottoms, I would have to call him ‘Our Gracious Master’. It was just in direct address that I would call him ‘Sir.’ In the middle of his stream of directives, he then changed his mind. Instead of ‘Sir,’ I was call him ‘Sire.’ That’s what his stable of bottoms called him. ‘Sire.’ And if I forgot to call him ‘Sire….’

It was at that point that I blocked him and his line of bullshit. Christ, I hadn’t even been invited to a party yet and already it was just so much work.

Look. I don’t have any particular need to be called any particular title. My ego doesn’t need the inflation of being called Sir; I’ve got better things to do with my time and my dick than make guys jump over linguistic hoops just to get to the goods. There are a lot better ways for them to prove how much they want my meat—directly—than by adhering to any artificial demands for a title.

However. I’m very much turned on when a man addresses me by a title, whether it be Dad or Sir or Papi or Owner, when it means something to him. When a man truly wants me to be his master, or the sexy dad who fucks his hole, or the aggressive top Sir who plunders his ass, and when he uses one of those words to signal his feelings for me and his regard for me, nothing makes my dick harder for him.

Men who use those words with sincerity, need, and naked honesty will get a response out of me.
I’m always likely to prefer ‘dad’ over ‘daddy,’ though. Just a personal thing.

You have a knack for making yourself feel approachable. I mean, I’ve read just about every entry (I think) and feel like if I sat down next to you somewhere that I could start a conversation about a dozen things, just like one of my real life friends. Do you think one of the reasons you’ve been stalked and taken advantage of by readers is because you seem so accessible?

The short answer to your question is yes, I do believe you are correct. I have a definite ability—when I care to—to project through my writing a certain amount of warmth, honesty, and informal attainability. It does have a tendency to make perfect strangers feel as if they can walk up to me and start a conversation.

Which is great. I was on vacation earlier this month somewhere with a much warmer climate (and had a great time, thanks for asking) and had no less than five guys recognize me as the author of this blog. Two of them approached me through Scruff (You don’t happen to have a blog, do you. . . ?).

Two others found me when it was quiet and I was on my own. They sat down and very quietly and very shyly informed me that they’d recognized me from my photos and just wanted to say that they were long-term fans of my blog. Very nice. Very sweet. And finally one Australian guy—and no offense to the four others, but I had to admire his style and accent—came up to me at midnight at a cruising spot to whisper in my ear, “Are you Mr. Steed? I fucking love your writing, mate. You write my favorite blog!” We ended up having a really nice half-hour talk in the pitch black until twelve-thirty rolled around and he had to go to a pre-arranged fuck.

(I guess being someone’s favorite blog writer isn’t enough of an honor to score an invite to a fuck? Maybe it’s just Australian reserve.)

At the same time, I wish some of my readers would remember that my blog only reflects a part of my life. A great part of my life, sure. But it’s not all of me. Nor is it really enough for anyone simply to drop into my life and assume that suddenly we’ll be besties forever.

When I talk in my blog about the extreme difficulties I have with a very small handful of my readers, I kind of get the impression that people think I’m just griping about being called a name here and there. If only it were that easy! Insults about my appearance or my sex life I can shrug off easily. It’s the insults to my privacy and to my good will that afflict me more.

For example, from this week, I had a reader who attempted to post a comment to my blog that contained my real-life name . . . like I was going to let that one pass. What he felt he was pulling with such a stunt I don’t know—but it was definitely some attempt to establish a hold over me. I’m not freaked out that a reader knows my name. Plenty of them do. The guy didn’t frighten me. He didn’t impress me with any spurious cleverness. But he certainly pissed me off to the point that I won’t be publishing any more comments from him again, or interacting with him. Why would anyone purporting friendly intentions do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense. It was a violation, pure and simple—and one of those outrages to my propriety that seem to be coming more and more frequently these days. For what reasons, I really cannot fathom.

I am friendly with the vast majority of my readers. But it doesn’t make us instant friends. That is a privilege with no shortcuts.

Are you still gaming?

If you mean video gaming, sure! It’s my biggest hobby.

I think everyone knows I used to be a big World of Warcraft player—I druid-healed for many of you in dungeons and raids during the Pandaria expansion—but I haven’t played that for a couple of years now at this point. I’m still a big player of Diablo 3, which I regard as basically a big slot machine that I click mindlessly in the hope of bigger and better gear jackpots. I indulge in a lot of Minecraft. Yes, I know a lot of six-year-olds play Minecraft. I like it for the same reason they do. It’s a big sandbox in which I can do whatever the fuck I feel like, whether that’s building enormous towers, exploring, or just going down in my impressively vast mineshafts and digging for diamonds for hours on end.

I do most of my gaming on the Wii U and on the Playstation 4. If anyone wants to befriend me on either of those devices, I’m open to it. Just contact me by email with your IDs.

Recently I finished Dragon Age: Inquisition. It took me fucking forever to get the hipster mage who caught my eye to give me his ass. I mean, key-rist. I did all the little favors he oh-so-coyly asked me, and would he go to bed with me? No. When I killed my first dragon, he suddenly warmed up a little and told me how manly and dashing I’d been out there, whipping my sword around. So I killed another dragon, then another, thinking maybe it would impress my little hipster mage. No luck. All he’d do was kiss me chastely and continue to give me come-hither glances.

I was a little frustrated with the guy by the time I’d finished killing all ten fucking dragons in the game. “Screw you, hipster mage,” I told the guy. “I’m not hanging around any more. I’ve done all the quests. I’m killing the end boss and finishing the game and you know what? It’s your fucking loss.

Then of course the moment I finished killing the game’s Big Bad and everyone across two imaginary continents loved and adored me for saving them from the forces of evil, he came oozing out of his lair to tell me that he had reconsidered and wanted to be my boyfriend forever and ever. Oh sure, now that I could have my pick of the entire population. Asshole.

Yeah, I went through with it. I mean, I'd put so much time into it. Yeah, the sex was . . . okay. You’d think a guy with a mustache like that would be a little more creative in bed, but whatever. I got his hole.

Lesson learned: It’s easier to get laid in real life than in a fantasy role-playing game, people.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

On Google and Censorship

A few years back when I decided to create this blog—or as I like to think of the time, the good old golden days when I was too ignorant to realize what I was getting myself into—I searched for a long time before I chose Google’s Blogger platform. I went with Blogger for a few reasons. It was free, which I wanted. It was fairly easy to use, and allowed me a certain amount of customization without my having to delve deep into the HTML coding pot. It was fairly easy to remain anonymous upon. It had, at the time, a robust system that allowed users to track and read series of blogs fairly easily, along with a healthy network of already-existing sex bloggers.

But most of all, I felt encouraged to use the platform because among Google’s promotional materials was the following promise about adult-oriented material: "Censoring this content is contrary to a service that bases itself on freedom of expression." Sure, Blogger would display an adults-only warning that had to be clicked off before one could proceed to the good stuff. That didn’t bother me. When Blogger eventually decided it didn’t want adult advertising on its site, I was a little perturbed despite the restriction not applying to me. As long as I had the company’s say-so that my sex blog was welcome on their site, I could live with those limitations.

Well, that certainly came to an abrupt end Monday when Google sent out an email to every blogger with adult content notifying them that “in the coming weeks, we'll no longer allow blogs that contain sexually explicit or graphic nude images or video.” The abrupt U-turn was like a fucking bombshell to the blogging community here; I got panicked tweets and emails from other bloggers within the hour. By Tuesday morning I had an email box full of letters from readers asking what I was going to do now that Google was banning my blog.

Part of the panic was bad reporting from the press. Various news outlets repeatedly said over and over that Google was banning all adult content from their blogging platform. It’s not; the letter that Google sent out explicitly states that it applies only to sexually explicit nude images or video. To any blogs on the site that still contain these images or videos after the twenty-third of March, Google reserves the right to shut down public access. The blogs will by fiat become ‘private-only,’ and anyone who wishes to view them will have to request permission and a password from the blog’s owner.

Wait, how bad can that be?, I know some of you are thinking to yourselves. To some people, not that bad at all. The problem, however, is that casual web consumers will be unable to find with ease new blogs to read; a reader running across an intriguing blog title would have to contact the blog’s author and wait for hours or days or longer to receive permission and a password to access the thing—and only then find out it either wasn’t to his or her taste or hadn’t been updated in three years. Worse yet, the private blogs require readers to have and to use and request passwords through their Google accounts. Those valuing their privacy (and there are already enough justifiably paranoid men and women out there) won’t like that option. The simple fact is that Blogger’s password-protected blogs lose a lot—a lot—of readers.

So no, I wouldn’t be happy about being forced to go private-only. It would cut down on casual readers stumbling across my blog, and I still have plenty of those. It would prevent readers who use RSS feeds from catching up on new posts, as well as those who read it through websites relying on RSS updates like RawTop’s Breeding Zone. (In Breeding Zone’s case, though, the RSS sucker for all the blogs the site used to propagate has been fucked up and non-functional for nearly a year, and although I’ve asked him about it twice, RawTop seems blithely uninterested in fixing it.)

Well fuck, just leave Google then, another big chunk of you are saying. Sure, I could do that. I’m not sure where I’d go. Tumblr is the Wild West of porn for now, but I’m not placing any bets that it will stay that way forever. I could go to Wordpress, start my own site . . . but some of those options aren’t free or low maintenance. I’d also lose the already-robust ledger of readers I have who access me through Blogger’s blog-reading tools (though how robust that particular stable will remain, once dozens of their favorite blogs all vanish at once, is doubtful). I’m keeping my options open in the longer term, but I’m not going to migrate as a kneejerk reaction.

The simple fact is that my blog really has never relied on photos or videos to grab readers. I post them occasionally (not enough, according to some people). But not regularly. They are the occasional spice to the buffet of verbiage my readers are accustomed to feast upon. I will need to change the sexually-explicit photo showing off my copious pre-cum in my blog header—which I’ve done already. I will need to go through the past four years’ of posts in order to see which ones have explicit image, in order to delete them. Which I will spend some time doing, very shortly.

To be honest, though, doing that sounds like a royal fucking pain in my ass . . . especially when, as I’ve noted in a couple of recent entries, the blog already has been feeling like work instead of fun.
More important, that option may be fine for me, but it’s not so okay for bloggers I admire who are fine, robust writers and who do tend use a lot of erotic images in their writings—my friends FelchingPisser and BikeGuy13 come to mind. As tedious as removing images sounds to me, it’s going to be a hundred times worse for them and for my many other brother and sister bloggers who are suddenly anathema to Google. Nor do I have any faith that the company won’t bring down the hammer again and demand that all writers of erotica vacate the premises immediately.

Plus I’m just generally pissed off. I understand that Google is allowed to host and deny whatever it wants on its servers. I get it. But it’s infuriating for a company to claim for years that it is a bastion of freedom of expression that opposes censorship, and then overnight to start a rampant campaign of that self-same censorship.

My brand of sexual expression here is not illegal. The pornography posted in Blogger’s adult blogs is not illegal, either. The company has quite simply decided, after a decade of welcoming and encouraging sex bloggers to use their services, to turn its back upon them. Again—their right. But it’s equally our right to be angry over the abrupt about-face. It’s our right to bitch about and protest it. It’s also our right to wean ourselves away from the parts of Google that the company wants us to use and make a profit from, whether that means their email services, their phone ecosystems, or the Google search engine itself.

What all this ruckus boils down to is that in the short term, my blog won’t be disappearing. I’ll obediently weed out the offending photos, change my header, and keep posting here for now when the fancy strikes. In the longer term, though, I’ll see what the fallout might be and weigh my options.

Monday, January 12, 2015


Ten days. Ten days I hadn’t shot. Piece of cake, I’d thought originally. With the holidays, with family continually around, with school out and something on the agenda every day, with seeing friend and never having any privacy, it would be easy to save up for ten days. Right?

Well, the first three days were fine. I was busy. Always on the go. Never alone. The week after Christmas wasn’t entirely bad, at first. There were sales that needed attention, still parties to plan for, shows to see. The closer my date to Kent came, however, the tougher it became to keep my mind off him. Off what I intended to do to him, when the moment came. I’d climb in my bed at the end of a long day. I’d slide between the rich flannel warmth of the sheets, pull them around me, turn out the light. Then I’d start seeing his sweet face in my imagination. Hear his voice. Feel the warmth of his lips on my skin. My cock would grind fruitlessly into the mattress as I’d close my eyes and begin to dream of Kent. When I’d wake up, I’d still be hard and wanting him.

Torture. Absolute, fucking torture.

The day before our scheduled meeting was even worse. All I could think about was fucking his tight hole. No matter how unromantic, how unerotic or mundane the circumstances, all I could do was think about my best boy and I, alone in his apartment, fucking like dogs. I carried my dick hard in my jeans for the better part of the morning; it flopped around in a state of turgidity for the afternoon, stimulated by the least thought of its use.

I am having a very, very, very, very hard time today holding off for another 24 hours, I finally texted him.

Some say the journey is the reward. Most of the time I agree, Sir, he replied. Right now I don't. Filling my hole with your seed and owning it is your reward.

That didn’t help.

Will you make a promise to me about tomorrow? I texted him back.

Yes, Sir.

I tapped out my thoughts. In the heat of the moment, I am going to want to shoot inside you quickly. I need you to promise to help me resist that temptation. Because I want to experience and relish you before I let loose. Promise you'll help me remember this resolution tomorrow.

A moment later, his reply. I can do that, Sir.

He’s a good boy. Does what he’s told. I like that.

So this is exactly how it has been going down. I’ve tried my best not to act like a savage. Even when he welcomed me into his apartment, though all I wanted to do was shove put my hands on his chest and shove him down to the floor, to mount him, to take him with no preparation, no lube, no foreplay, I greeted him like a gentleman. I set my shoes neatly on the front mat, dropped my coat and my bag. I’ve made out with him. Reacquainted myself with his lips, with the warmth of his smooth skin, with the smell and taste of him. I’ve listened to his contented little sighs as my hands have slipped down the back of his pants to cup his ass, as my fingers gently massaged the pucker of his hole.

“Take off your shirt for me,” I tell him.

He struggles to his knees. Begins to lift the fabric of the T-shirt hugging his muscles. “How do you want me to do it?” he asks me. He has a lazy smile playing across the roundness of his lips. I can tell, as he speaks, that he’s trying hard to remember his promise to me. “Just . . . take it off? Or should I do it in a sexy way. . . ?”

I erupt with a little laughter. “Just take it off.”

So he stands on the mattress. Grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up might and over his head. Then he extends his palms to the ceiling and writhes there, stripper-like for a minute, looking any place but in my direction. “What are you doing?” I say, laughing with affection. “You’re showing off for me.”

“A little,” he concedes, grinning.

This time, when I speak, it’s a little raspy. “Get down here,” I order.

“Yes, Sir,” he replies.

I get his pants off. Turn him over. This time, I set loose my inner cannibal. For the better part of a half-hour I consume his hole. I salivate at the sight of it, I chew it, I slobber over its length. My tongue forces its way in there. He’s gasping at the other end of the mattress. Clutching his pillow like a little boy. Burying his head in it. I know it’s extreme pleasure he feels—I know my skills and how they work on him. In the mood I’m in, though, if he had been in pain, I wouldn’t have given a shit. Cock demands what it demands. And mine is heavy and ponderous between my legs, demanding satisfaction. It’s drooling, it’s leaving a trail of slime on the blanket he’d spread so neatly over the site of our coupling. My cock has been waiting for a week and a half to plunder this hole. One way or another, it means to take its due.

He pushes me off him. It’s difficult, but he manages. He looks me in the eyes. His eyebrows are raised slightly. I know the expression. It means he’s humored me long enough, indulged my whim, but now he’s done with it. “I know what I promised you,” he says. “But Sir, I think it’s time.”
“It’s time,” I agree. My jaw is protruding. My face is covered with the smell of him. I feel like a brute from the savaging I’ve already given his hole.

Then he speaks again. “Will you allow me to sit on it?” he asks. “Please, Sir? Allow me to work it with my ass? Please allow me to milk out that first load? Please let me make you come that way.”

I consider. I want to mount him and make him submit. I want to fuck him like I’m raping him. But I nod, and sigh, and allow him to push me back against the pillow and the headboard, and take control.
I feel the cold of the lube has he reaches down and behind to apply it to my dick. My dick’s head slips up and down his crack as he maneuvers another payload of the stuff to his hole. And then, a moment or two later, I’m in. He’s sliding down my pole as he pulls apart his own ass cheeks. All I’m conscious of is the sheer heat of him, the warmth of his flesh as it wraps around me and engulfs me to the base. That beautiful face of his breaks into a smile the moment he’s managed the feat. He’s surprised at himself yet again for managing it. He’s relieved it’s in.

But mostly, for a naked moment, he’s happy. That’s the biggest compliment he can give me, that smile. He’s at his most himself, and where he wants to be.

I am too.

I let him ride. He gains in confidence the longer I’m in there. It’s not long before he’s sliding up and down with vigor. Every time he reaches the top of my dick, he squeezes with his hole. It gives the head a little extra sensation. I know I must be leaking precum like crazy inside him; the longer he rides, the slicker he gets.

The entire time, he watches me. He judges my reactions. He adjusts the tempo, the intensity, to match them. He studies me, his eyes boring into mine. At long last I break the velvet silence of our fucking. “You know what I like about you?” I whisper, then immediately correct myself. “One of the many things I like about you?”

He shakes his head. No. He doesn’t.

I allow him to continue drawing quivers from my body as I stare him in the face and speak. “Most guys . . . when they give me pleasure . . . they do it accidentally.” I’m panting, like a man who’s run a marathon. It’s difficult to form the words when all I want to do is groan. I resist being subdued into wordlessness and finish my thought. “They don’t know what they’re . . . doing.” He’s squeezing his hole again, gripping me so tightly I cry out. It’s a challenge to make myself heard, at the hands of such cruel carnality.

“You, though. . . .” I manage to say. “You dole out pleasure almost . . . scientifically.” My eyes are heavy, lidded. All I want to do is sink into a barely-conscious state in which I’m wallowing in the sensuality of the moment. But I need to make my point. “You apply stimulus. You observe the outcome. Judge it. Then you repeat the . . . ah! . . . process.”

He smiles at that. Then crashes down on my dick, swallowing it completely. Cruel fucker.

“You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

He nods, admitting it.

I have to stop his assault on my cock. I raise myself to my elbows, still him with a palm to his chest. He rests on my dick, not moving. Listening to what I have to say. “You even knew we’d end up here—with me craving you like this, with me needing you so badly—you knew we’d end up here from the start. Didn’t you? From that first message you sent me?”

After a moment, he nods. “I suspected we would, Sir. Yes.”

I have to know. No, I need to know. “How?”

By way of reply, he looms over me. Puts his hands on either side of my shoulders, so that he’s looking down into my face. “I had an intuition.”


Straight into my eyes he looks. “Because you are such a beautiful man. And I wanted you.”

From deep within rises a rose of a blush, red and thriving. I feel it blooming all over my body, blossoming from the base of my spine up and down every limb. It enflames every square inch of my body, taking me aback. I seize his words gladly. I don’t fret about if I deserve them. I don’t repay generosity with disrespect by batting them away. I take the compliment, and let it enhance the sensations already overwhelming every nerve ending in my body. Knowing it comes from a beautiful man with a beautiful soul helps me relish it all the more.

“You make me feel. . . .” I can’t find the words. There are no superlatives superlative enough. “Magnificent,” I tell him at last.

He pushes me into the mattress. I’m submerged beneath increasing waves of pure sensation. I never want to rise up, never want to breathe lesser air, not ever again. Then, just before I drown in his pleasures, I hear his last words. “I only bring out magnificence that’s already there. Sir.”

“Come with me,” I order. His eyes widen. “You’re going to shoot with me,” I tell him. I struggle out from under him. Pulling out from inside him is a shock to both our systems; we fit together too well to be apart for long. I flip him onto his back. Shove the pillow beneath the small of his spine. Then I shove my inches back into him like the savage I can be, not caring for his pleasure, but whimpering for the sake of mine.

It doesn’t take long. I hit the button inside him that sends the electricity shooting to his cock. Again and again I ram it, as he spreads his legs wider. Deeper I plunge into him, making my mark on that hole that’s already mine. My boy’s breathing comes faster and more shallow with every thrust. “Oh god,” he moans.

When we come, it’s together. I’m vaguely aware of his spasms beneath me, but mostly because they contribute to my own orgasm. Every pulse of his body grips my cock, pulls more juice from it. My forehead bangs his wall. My ten-day load erupts almost painfully from my body, leaving my nuts feeling as if they’ve ejected molten lava. They feel distended yet empty, as if their shrinking will leave the sweetest ache. When I look down at Kent, I see his torso glistening.

Two men, covered in spit and semen. Two men, smelling like the beasts they are together.

Two men, bringing out magnificence in the other.

Monday, January 5, 2015

Your 2015 Resolutions

It’s the new year. You’ve decided you need to make some resolutions—get your life back on track.
I feel you. You’ve come to the right place. I’ve had all kinds of readers come out of the woodwork and ask me for advice in framing their declarations for 2015. I don’t blame them for trying. The first of January always brings a fresh new start. A clean slate. A new perspective. Three hundred and sixty-five pristine days ripe with opportunity.

Yet I’m afraid that some of you guys will squander the opportunity by coming up with resolutions that are . . . well. Let’s just say flabby. Underdeveloped, maybe. Every year I hear from guys, “This is the year I intend to improve myself!”

“Fantastic!” I’ll reply. “What are you going to do? Learn a new language? Read that volume of Proust? Take up the banjolele?”

“No,” they’ll say, blinking. “I mean I’m going to take care of myself.”

“Fantastic! So what, you’re going to learn to cook? Start an IRA?”

“Uh, no, dude,” they’ll say, looking at me as if I’ve suddenly sprouted an extra head. “I’m going to go to the gym and work out every day.”

Listen. I’ve got nothing against you guys who enjoy going to the gym. Quite the contrary. I have mounted many a gym bunny over the years. They can be fun. But I’m old enough and wise enough to know that improving yourself is more than just being able to take a better shirtless selfie.

Trust me on that.

Behind all the mania for gym memberships this time of year, for gay and straight men alike, is deep down a conviction that without that perfect body we’ve all seen in porn videos and on magazine covers and in cologne ads, we simply won’t get laid. Physical fitness is grand and the cardiopulmonary benefits are fantastic and the autoimmune response to exercise yadda yadda yadda, but at heart there’s a conviction so many people have this time of year: that nobody’s going to want you in bed if you can’t pose sideways in a mirror, lean back at the perfect angle, and snap a pretty shot of yourself in your best pair of name-brand underwear.

If you think that all you have to bring to the table is a good shirtless selfie for Grindr and maybe a V chiseled at your waistline, son, you are going to have a rude awakening down the road. There’s nothing wrong with being buff. I’m not saying it’s silly or stupid or trite. But unless you’re intending as well to do a little work on your personality, your outlook, and your brain, your chances of getting laid in 2015 are going to be about as much as they were in 2014 . . . and for a lot of you, judging by my email, that’s anywhere between average to dismal.

So here I am to offer up three simple suggestions for self-improvement.

You’re welcome in advance.

1. Try saying ‘yes’ more often. These days I look at profiles online, or at the descriptions of yourselves in the apps all you young whippersnappers are using, and I still shake my head and marvel how some of you manage to get your dicks wet. “No fats, no fems” still appears from time to time (what is this, America Online in 1993?). “No guys older than my dad!” “No blacks!” “No white men!” “No married men!” “No guys in a relationship please!”

And then there are the ‘you must bes.’ “You must take care of yourself.” “You must have a regular job like me.” “You must be HIV-negative.” “You must be all top.” “You must live within 9 miles of me.” They’re just another way of saying no. Of exerting a false sense of control. Of walling yourself off from experience, brick by brick.

Guys, step outside those little comfort zones. You can tell yourself all you want that your preferences are your preferences and that you can’t change them. The truth of the matter, however, is that the nests you’ve made for yourselves are often incredibly small (and small-minded). With every ‘no’ you utter, with every large subset of humanity or experience you reject out of hand, you’re just putting another brick in that wall.

So say yes. Have a date with a guy ten years older than you’d ordinarily consider. There’s no obligation to sleep with him, or to see him again if you’re genuinely not interested. Try topping instead of bottoming sometime—or vice versa—instead of stomping your foot and insisting you’ve got a role and you’re sticking to it. Say yes, you’ll go to that sex party you’ve been interested in attending but haven’t yet gotten the nerve. Say yes, you’ll try something different.

You want real self-improvement? Stop turning up your nose to opportunity and start saying yes to the many fantastic experiences that life has to offer.

2. Stop thinking about the sex you want. Start having it. You know what the problem is with most of you poor motherfuckers? You jack off too much. You pull up a website and watch amateur porn, you swipe on your phone and bring up a movie, you pop in a DVD and you whack off. Pbbbt. Job’s done.

I get it. It’s easier to jack than it is to make human contact. Meeting a guy is tough stuff. You have to clean up (and clean out). You have to get dressed, get in the car or get on the subway, travel. There’s that awkward conversation before and after. The sex might not even be good—it’s a crap shoot sometimes. Your hand and a good fuck flick is a sure thing. You can do it in your sweatpants. Your hand doesn’t care that you haven’t showered or shaved. You don’t feel obligated, while you’re getting dressed after, to ask your flushed palm about whether or not it had a happy childhood or how long it’s lived at its place. Five minutes, and you’re back to watching Netflix while feeling nice and relaxed.

But fuck, guys. If you’re jacking off three, four, seven, ten times a day (you know who you are) and using that as a substitute for any kind of intimacy with another guy, you’ve kind of lost the right to rant and rail against your lack of a real sex life. Masturbation is fine as a quick release valve. I recommend it for girls and boys of all ages. It is, however, a mere Tootsie Roll of sexual nourishment. And none of you muscleheads so intent on improving yourselves would ever make an entire diet of Tootsie Rolls.

So take your hands out of your pants and get the fuck out into the world. You can have the sex you want. In the immortal words of The Rocky Horror Picture Show: don’t dream it. Be it.

3. Get your asses on PrEP. If you’re HIV-negative and want to stay that way, and you’re barebacking, you should be on a prescribed course of Truvada, courtesy of your physician. Full stop.

PrEP, of course, is an abbreviation for pre-exposure prophylaxis, in which men (and women) who have tested as HIV-negative take a pill every day; it contains medicines that prevent HIV from being able to infect someone exposed to it. Its effectiveness is as good as, or better than condoms, depending on what studies you read. No, it doesn’t prevent one from catching other sexually-transmitted diseases, as many will be quick to point out. But you know what? Condoms aren’t totally effective against that, either. And unless you’re using a condom during oral sex—and no one is except for that one solitary weird guy without any photos on Adam4Adam who stridently insists on it in his profile—you can still catch those other diseases during your foreplay.

“But I’m not one of those barebackers,” says the man who does indeed bareback with his boyfriend, but doesn’t know his boyfriend is fucking around behind his back and exposing him to risk. Or, “I’m not one of those awful people who has unsafe sex!” says the fellow with the spotless online profile who has the date of his last test proudly displayed (“NEG AND STAYING THAT WAY!!!” emblazoned beside it) . . . and yet who caves in front of a cock like mine and tells me that although he doesn’t really fuck raw, he’ll make an exception.

Or maybe you’re one of those guys who admits that he barebacks and needs the intimacy and warmth of it from time to time, but thinks you’re doing the right thing by picking the guy on Scruff or Manhunt who has ‘neg’ listed in his profile and asking him to play raw with you. There are an awful lot of you out there, too. I’ve fucked you.

It’s time for some truth-telling. There are all kinds of sneaky little games you guys play with yourselves to enable yourselves to fuck raw, all kinds of voodoo calculations and self-delusions. It’s a new year, though, and we’re writing some resolutions for ourselves, so let’s face up to the facts: we engage in these unhelpful behaviors because we’ve convinced ourselves that barebacking is a bad behavior.

It’s not. People enjoy barebacking. Humans have barebacked for the vast majority of history. They watch bareback porn. They read bareback blogs. In fact, you know who’s barebacked? Your mama.
Guys bareback. You are likely going to bareback. Do-gooders can tsk and chide all we want, but it happens. Take responsibility for your behaviors, if you’re neg and truly intend to stay that way. It’s not up to your parents, or your doctor, or your husband or wife. It’s not up to the guy who fucks you. Admit what you’re doing, take responsibility, see your doctor, and get on PrEP.

But I can’t get on PrEP, I hear you whine. I’m worried about the side effects. You know what? We have all heard way too many god-damned people worrying about the god-damned side effects of god-damned Truvada. I have a friend on Facebook who went on PrEP (and good for him!) but who has, every day since, seen fit to announce to broadcast EVERY DAY the side effects. Not that he’s experienced any, mind you. On day thirteen he had a little bit of digestive trouble but it could have been, he readily admits, the Thai food. But for forty-odd days, now, I’ve been treated to daily recountings of hypochondria that rival Andy Warhol at his most paranoid.

Frankly, when my friends go on Ambien, or anti-depressants, or meds for high cholesterol, or pills for acid reflux, or aspirin, or any of the pills we take on a daily basis, none of them feel compelled to relate the side effects—or even think much about them. Combine side effects with PrEP, though, and suddenly everyone’s all concerned. It’s as if we’re still convinced that we have to pay, somehow, for a pill that might improve our sexual experiences. You know what? Shut up and take the damned pill. If you are the one-in-a-million person who experiences constant flatulence or kidney failure, you have my permission and encouragement to discontinue what is at heart a completely optional drug.

But I can’t get on PrEP, you’re saying. It’s too expensive! Yes. It is expensive. Very fucking expensive, if you ask me. But you know, unless you go to your doctor and discuss Truvada with him or with her—including its cost—you’re not going to know exactly how much out of pocket you may be. Your health insurance may cover a big chunk of it. You may be eligible for a discount from the manufacturer for a healthy portion. The state in which you live may have programs for which you are eligible that will help cover the costs.

Instead of sitting back and deciding for yourself that it’s out of your range, get up and make a few phone calls. Talk to your medical professional. Try your local gay and lesbian community center and ask them about potential programs. Search online. Don’t concede without a fight; do what you can to make it happen. Because you deserve it.

Now, if you’re an HIV-positive guy, you can amend this resolution to read that you’ll keep your asses on your daily antiretroviral regime that’ll keep HIV to an inert level. If anyone reading this is still convinced that their HIV-positive brothers on antiretrovirals are somehow tainted or untouchable because they carry a virus—even though it’s not doing them or anyone else any active harm—you know what’s another virus that stays in your bloodstream for life, virtually inactive, after you’ve been infected with it? German measles. And I don’t see any of you being all self-righteous and proclaiming in your profiles, “GERMAN MEASLES FREE AND STAYING THAT WAY!!!” So get over yourselves.

There. Now you’ve got a start on your resolutions. You can figure out the rest for yourselves. But you know what I’d suggest? Resolve to be kinder to each other. Resolve to be kinder to yourselves. Resolve to be honest, and responsible, and to treat every person in your life in the way you would like to be treated.

If you ask me, that’s improving yourself.

What are my resolutions, you ask? Why, it’s to be even foxier than I was in 2014 . . . Which admittedly is a high bar to set, since I was already pretty damned foxy. What else?

Wednesday, December 31, 2014


New York City is a wonderful place to be alone. I know, I know—it’s a place where citizens jostle shoulder to shoulder in the subways and streets, where restaurant patrons should expect to be wedged together at tiny tables like pieces in a tight puzzle. It’s a city of noise and conversation . . . other people’s noises and conversations, that is. Welcome or not, they’re an unceasing white noise to the honking, the roar of the busses and trains, the clatter of construction. It’s a metropolis where you always seem to be swimming against the tide to get anywhere, against a crowd of faces you don’t recognize.

And that’s exactly why I find it ideal to become lost in. In a city this enormous, I’m a tiny singularity. A grain of sand in your bed attracts attention. You can’t escape that. But who distinguishes between the multitudes of grains of sand on a beach?

In New York, no one’s paying attention to me—they’ve got other things on their minds. Jobs, crises, sightseeing attractions, love affairs, worries, woes. Nobody knows my name, knows where I came from, where I’m going. I could appear—and have appeared—in the backgrounds of countless tourist photos in Grand Central or Times Square. Even then, captured and still in mid-stride, I’m not really there. I’m just part of the gray blur.

And yet, New York City is also the kind of place in which I’m always running across people I know, more so than the smaller cities in which I’ve lived before. I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop deep in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, when someone I know from Los Angeles will casually walk in. That guy I met at social party in White Plains will walk past me on the street and say hello. With so many millions of people crammed onto so small an island, the sheer probability is that two of them, familiar with each other, will collide at some point.

That was the case with me, this last week. I’d gotten tickets to a show with a couple of friends. Great seats, in fact. Close enough to the stage to be spat upon by the actors—always a sign of quality. I’d arrived early enough to get my program, take off my coat, check in on Facebook, settle in. I was coming back from a quick run to the bathroom (it’s easier to go before the show, than to try at intermission, trust me) when I resumed my seat, turned around to scan the crowd, and felt a flash of recognition. Someone I knew was sitting near me.

When I wrote in November about my hiatus from both fucking and my blog, I mentioned there was a guy I’d been seeing. One of the big reasons for my officially-declared Boys ‘R’ Stupid Month had been because of this particular gentleman. He was mature—younger than I, but old enough to have grey in his hair. Handsome as hell. Muscular. Successful. Every time we connected he made me feel special. Like I was more than just a fuck to him. He was romantic with me, and made extravagant promises of even more spectacular times together. Then he up and vanished. Didn’t return calls, texts, emails. There comes a point at which didn’t want to be That Guy—you know, the one who keeps sending increasingly forlorn texts out into dead space. So I stopped.

And there he was, my handsome former playmate, sitting not seven feet away. Well, fuck, I thought to myself.

That wasn’t the end of it. I was sitting there, rolling the Playbill in my hands and feeling hunched-over and miserable, when not thirty seconds later I saw someone else stroll down the aisle. He was dressed in a suit. Tall, slender long-haired, beautiful. The kind of man who stands out in any crowd. Heads turned to admire him as he passed.

I knew him, too.

I’ve never discussed this publicly in my blog before, but for about eleven months of 2013 I was seeing someone. And seeing him fairly exclusively, too. Although I wrote about him a few times in a casual way, I never really addressed the fact that I was heavily involved both emotionally and physically with the young man. I kept silent for a couple of reasons. One was that when I was involved with the dancer, Spencer, a few years ago, I eventually came to regret sharing so much of both the joy and the pain of it in the pages of my blog. I loved Spencer. Readers loved Spencer. Readers wanted me to end up with Spencer. When I didn’t ride off with Spencer into the sunset—even though our eventual separation was always a foregone conclusion—a lot of my readers treated me as if I’d done the unforgiveable. The rest of my readers understood, but always seemed to be waiting for me to generate a Spencer replacement to fill that void in my life.

This guy was not a Spencer replacement. We made passionate love several times a week. I was deeply fond of him. Many of my happiest memories of 2013 were of time spent in his company. Of walking down the street, holding his hand. Of lying in bed and attempting to help him with his many problems. I was protective enough at the time, though, that I didn’t want my readers thinking I’d found a replacement for Spencer. I was also wary about sharing too much information about him—or about my feelings—because at the time I was also just coming off a particularly scary incident with a blog reader who was stalking me in my real life. Sharing details just didn’t seem prudent, either from a practical standpoint, or for my emotional well-being. I kept quiet, for the most part.

Then, after many months spent in his company, this beautiful young man moved from a nearby apartment into one that was further away . . . though not out of reach. It might as well have been Siberia, though, the way it turned out. Because basically, after he moved, the affair was over. I never saw him again. I’d text him the way I used to, and get a delayed response. Then fewer responses. Then no responses at all. He didn’t return emails, or phone calls. I felt as if I’d been erased from his life with no warning and no explanation. It hurt me deeply. And I didn’t want to write about my despondence in my blog, either.

But there was this guy, in the flesh for the first time before me since I’d helped him pack his belongings into a U-Haul truck, walking down the carpet of the theater like a male supermodel, oblivious to my presence. He took a seat across the aisle from me, one aisle down. Well, FUCK, I thought to myself.

So I sat there in this massive crowd of people, friends on either side, a former trick immediately behind me, a longer-time lover ten feet to my left. And all I could wonder was what I had done wrong to deserve this weird conjunction of events. I wanted to sink into the ground, actually, and let it swallow me up for good.

But you know what? That black mood didn’t last long. With both guys I’d ended up feeling treated shabbily, but I hadn’t really done anything wrong to either of them. Theoretically, I already knew it; thanks to a quirk of fate or a twist of probability, having them both in proximity to me, like some kind of ominous alignment of stars, nailed home the reality. I hadn’t done anything wrong to them. There was absolutely no reason for me to be ashamed of my behavior. If anyone was to do the slinking down in his seat, it sure as hell wasn’t me.

So I sat up. I uncurled the Playbill out of the tight baton into which I’d made it. I moved my focus from the two unfortunate points behind and beside me, and started chatting to my friends once again. I damn well made sure that neither guy was going to ruin my show. During the intermission, I didn’t hide myself with hunched shoulders. I didn’t avoid turning around. Neither man saw me, as it turned out—or at least, they didn’t let on that they did. I was just part of the background blur. One of the crowd. And that was fine. I had a great evening after all.

I’ve always been convinced that the universe gives us what we need, when it’s appropriate to receive it. Sometimes it’s a reminder of former events gone wrong. Sometimes it’s a wake-up call. Sometimes it’s a person. I’m glad I received, in the handful of last days of 2014, a reminder of past disappointments.

Even more happily, I’m grateful to face the fears they stir and realize once and for all that not only have I moved on—but moved on for the better.

Here’s to 2015, everyone.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

First Date

In my youth I never dated. I never experienced that first blush of embarrassment upon asking a girl (or a boy) out for a movie. I never had to work up the nerve to ask someone out to the junior prom. I never suffered from telephone paralysis trying to summon up courage to utter the words, “I was wondering if you'd maybe like to go out with me sometime. . . ?”

The whole dating thing, from my perspective then, was just a long and unnecessary preamble to getting laid. I could get laid. I got laid. To get laid as a teen all I had to do was bike down to the local park, skulk around the public men’s rooms in the woods, and collect as many loads as I wanted to take. A couple of hours later, I could be back home, satiated, to read a book or play with my Atari 2600 or practice my piano. To get laid, I could get a ride with my parents to the university at which they taught, telling them I had to do ‘research’ in the library for school. Most of my research I'd do in a kneeling position in the tiles of the library or campus center cruise men’s room, but the results verified every scientific theory I every had that men really, really, really liked to blow their loads in the mouth of a twinky blond cocksucker.

In college if I wanted to get laid, all I needed to do was walk to one of the campus’ many cruise areas—the student center restroom, the tiny park next to the tourist bus stop, the dark and isolated men’s rooms in the college library. I had a boyfriend of sorts in college, but we didn't date. We didn't even really eat together at the campus cafeteria. We pretended we didn’t know each other by day, and then fucked and declared undying love for each other in the dark shadows of night where no one else might see us and suspect our deep homosexual passions.

My cynical view of dating was deeply colored, however, by the fact I intended to live single, forever. At the time I considered myself not only unlikely in my lifetime to form any lasting emotional attachments, but unworthy of any such thing. All I have to do is look back in my journals of the time to see my convictions; I repeatedly attempted to convince myself that it would be best to live to an old age without ever declaring my passions to anyone.

I thought it would be kindest, both to my parents and to my friends and extended family, never to let them know I preferred sex with men to the more traditional arrangements they might have expected of me. I’d had sex on the sly for years; I reckoned to myself that I could continue that way for a few decades. Then one day, when I was exceptionally ancient—forty-five, say—I'd give up sex altogether and live the celibate life of a confirmed bachelor. A flat, a cat, and a lonely adulthood until I died with a saint-like smile on my face derived from the satisfaction of knowing I'd never discommoded anyone with my inconvenient lifestyle.

This was, of course, back in the nineteen-seventies and eighties—which might as well have been centuries ago, in terms of how far we've advanced with the rights of the LGBT population since. But I lived in the American South, in a very small, very conservative city. I didn't know a single out adult. I'd only been exposed to gay life as a subculture of secrecy and sneaking and fleeting moments of pleasure with as little emotional connection as possible.

I thought I’d made my peace with all that. I’d settle. I’d make do.

So perhaps it’s not wildly impossible to comprehend why I didn't actually go on an official date with someone until my first year of graduate school. I would have been about twenty-one at the time. I’d moved back in with my parents for a couple of years after college, but I was studying full time and teaching multiple sections of undergraduate entry-level classes. I lived in an apartment in the basement of their house, and had my own entrance. I’d won a scholarship. My grades were A’s, straight across the board. It sounds like I had my shit together. But in fact, I was a nervous and bumbling boob when it came to normal human interaction with anyone, especially men.

I don't remember the guy’s name. I barely remember what he looked like—I have an impression of him being slight of build, balding, bearded, handsome. Older than me by at least twenty-five years. Very attractive. We met—of course—in some kind of cruising place. Probably the second or third floor of the Business Building on campus, which had notoriously seedy men’s rooms that even in 1986 were packed to occupancy from mid-afternoon until the building was closed. After I'd taken care of this particular guy—through one of the glory holes, under the stall, I don't remember—he chased me out of the men’s room and spoke to me at length outside. He'd enjoyed being with me. He wanted to see me again. How about Friday night?

I'd had men chase me out of the tearooms before. They'd enjoyed my holes so much that of course they wanted more. That part didn't scare me. I was used to going home with men and fucking. What surprised me with this guy, though, was that when I met him in a campus parking lot for our date that Saturday night, was that he didn't immediately take me to his place. No, he wanted to get something to eat.

Almost immediately this strange turn of events three me into a tailspin. Eat? Eat dinner the hour of seven-thirty at night? My family usually bolted down its meals at five-thirty. The college cafeteria had closed at seven. I was vaguely aware that restaurants might have been open after the sun set, but certainly no God-fearing red-blooded Amurrican I knew would ever consider eating at that late hour. Not unless they were trying to prove how much more superior they were, like some kind of European or something.

I was also uncomfortable with the venue to which he took me. Eating out to me then meant chain restaurants. My dad loves his chain restaurants. Eating out, to me, involved a big colorful menu with pictures of the food items at somewhere like the Big Boy, where the family sat in an isolated booth and ate food that tasted like food from every other Big Boy anywhere else there might have been a Big Boy.

This guy, though, took me to a cute and tiny place where the menu was printed on a thick, unlaminated stock of paper that contained absolutely no pictures of the entrees whatsoever. There were no booths in the narrow little space. There were only tables lined up in what I naively thought was New York City-style restaurant seating—tight and cramped and intended to accommodate as many folks as possible. (Of course, having lived in New York for a few years now and having eaten quite a lot at its exceedingly cozy establishments, I’m aware that little restaurant in Richmond was airy and spacious in comparison. A New Yorker would look over the shoulder of the three strangers wedged in next to him, seen the actual elbow room between diners, and laughed in derision.)

What was worse was that this guy wanted to talk. During dinner. While I sat there staring at the solitary glass of water that was my meal (I’d already eaten at five-thirty, like a normal person), my date animatedly ate the food he’d ordered in enormous quantities while he peppered me with questions like, “So how long have you known you’d rather be with guys?” Or, “Have you come out to your parents yet?”

In public. Where people might overhear.

In my adolescent imagination, everyone was already gawking at the two of us and carrying on scandalized conversations behind cupped hands. Do you see those two over there? Confirmed homosexuals! You don’t say? Well I never! I think one of them is the son of that college professor! Oh no! What will his parents think? Wasn’t he a good student? Such a shame! Do you think his former Boy Scout leader knows? That kind of thing. They weren’t, of course, but I wasn’t accustomed to being out in public with any of my tricks. If he wanted to ask me questions like that, my reasoning ran, he should have done it in bed, behind closed doors. And maybe in a whisper.

At least a hushed voice, which is not what he used in the restaurant. I hunched over my water, glowered, and wished myself somewhere else. Anywhere else, in fact.

The dinner seemed to last forever. In my imagination, it had about fourteen courses, all of them exquisitely slow. Finally he paid his check, folded the napkin in his lap, and escorted me outside.

“Now,” he announced. “Let me take you to a movie.”

I had to endure dinner with a handsome guy? And then a movie? Oh god. I could’ve died.

We ended up at the Terry Gilliam movie Brazil at the Regency Mall. The theater itself was packed. I kept worrying that someone I knew would see me. And worse, the movie itself didn’t start until well after nine, and I didn’t know how long it was supposed to last. An hour and a half? Two? I spent the entire duration of the film miserable and trying to make mental calculations about what time the film would get out, and how long it would take to drive back across town to the campus where my car was parked, and what time I’d finally get home.

None of my calculations, even the most generous, seemed to indicate I’d make it back before midnight. Because of that, I was miserable. I felt like a sixth-grader staying out well past his curfew. I felt like a criminal.

It was an over-reaction, sure. And a silly one at that. Even though I was legally an adult and didn’t have to ask my parents permission to go out at night or stay out, I’d never actually been out that late before. Ever. If I had night classes I was still home by nine-thirty; I didn’t have that many friends in the area to do things with. My parents had never once known me to go out with anyone. My staying out past midnight was unprecedented. Inconceivable, really. I sat there in the dark theater, flinching whenever my friend would attempt to put his hand on my leg in an inconspicuous way, with a brain fevered by fear. Would my parents yell at me? Could they yell at me, at my age? Would they demand to know why I’d been out much later than I’d told them? Would they ask me with whom? Already I was trying to fabricate excuses and fibs about how I’d spent my evening. I couldn’t pay attention to the movie, in all its excess. I was too fucking miserable.

As I predicted, we didn’t get out until close to midnight. To say I was tense during that trip back to the campus where I was parked would be a massive understatement. I was rigid. In the passenger seat of his car, I had my right foot pressed hard against the floor where the accelerator would’ve been had I been driving, hoping I might somehow psychically influence him to take it a little faster. When finally he pulled up next to my car and turned off the ignition, I was so anxious to get going that I basically shouted, “WELL BYE!”

“I was hoping you might want to go home and spend the night with me,” he protested, rather mildly.

“I can’t,” I said. I was angry, at that point. If he’d wanted me to go home with him, he could’ve done it hours before.

“You don’t want to go home with me?” he asked.

“I can’t,” was all I could say.

He seemed deflated. “But why not?”

For the first time all evening, it hit home what a real ass I was being. “I just can’t,” I told him. Then I got out of his car, got into mine, and raced home like my life depended upon it. It was about twelve-thirty when I slunk into my basement apartment and directly into my bed, where I let the sheets cool my face and my embarrassment.

I felt badly about how I’d treated the guy for days—years—afterward. I mean, I’d been an ungrateful little shit. I’d been sullen, and childish, and had let my own provincialism trump my manners and good sense. I’d let fear cheat me out of an enjoyable evening, and a man who was interested in me as something more than a pair of holes. I felt embarrassed that as adult as I was by the legal definition, I wasn’t adult enough to manage a little civility. I wasn’t adult enough to be able to change the topic, to ask him questions of my own, or even simply to relax and be what I was without worrying about what others might think of me. I’d handled the whole thing badly from beginning to end, and hurt a man’s feelings.

I got an unflattering glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I decided I didn’t like what I saw. I never treated a date like that again. I grew from that night.

The irony of the whole thing, of course, is that the next day when I met my parents with glib lies about how I’d met some of my graduate school friends for dinner and how we’d all spontaneously decided to go see a movie together, it turned out they didn’t really give a crap how late I’d stayed out. They were thrilled that I’d been out socializing. In fact, they’d always thought it a little worrisome about how introverted I’d been since I moved back home. Didn’t I want to go out more often?

I never saw my first date after our abortive evening together. I don’t blame him for avoiding me, frankly. One good thing came out of that evening, though: after such a terrible first experience with dating, the only place to go was up.

A special holiday note to my readers: don't forget you can send me a thank-you gift for Christmas! Or even some holiday email would be awesome.

Thursday, December 4, 2014


Outside the bedroom window, dark muffles the city. Like a woolen blanket, it settles on the river and renders bridges into vague memories of their former shapes. It hushes the sounds of barking dogs, the scrape of thick-booted soles on the pavement, the distant hum of traffic.

Inside the apartment, the two of us nestle among a few stolen hours. The old radiator rattles and clanks into life. The heat it produces is nearly overwhelming. My boy has left the window open to compensate. Occasionally frigid air, sharp and thin as a blade, slices across out bodies, followed by those diffused, distant sounds from the dark metropolis.

I barely hear them. My focus is on the here and now, on the boy who has slithered his way down my torso to nestle between my legs. Kent’s hands clutch my waistband and toy with the button. “May I?” he asks.

Oh yes. He may.

At my nod he unbuttons the denim. I lift my hips; he tugs the jeans down to mid-thigh. My erection flops onto my stomach with a loud slap. Slowly, lingeringly, he cups his strong hand around my length. His lips part. When he opens his mouth, I feel the warmth from his breath, even more summery than the radiator that’s keeping the room toasty. It's like a furnace blast, his heat.

“Wait,” I tell him at the last possible second.

He looks up at me, his face a bewilderment of emotions. Confusion. Curiosity. The disappointment of a boy denied his favorite toy.

“I want you to memorize this dick tonight,” I tell him. My voice is soft, insistent. I'm dimly aware I sound as if I'm attempting to hypnotize the boy. “Really memorize it. I want you to know this dick better than anyone else’s. Understand?”

His fist keeps my throbbing meat pointed to the ceiling. “Yes, Sir,” he agrees.

I'm pleased not merely at his agreement. I'm pleased because he really listens to me. He likes the instruction. Thrives on it. When I stare into his eyes, he's right there with me, not breaking our gaze, hardly blinking.

For the thousandth time I think to myself how fucking beautiful this kid is. Not matter how much he attempts to slick down his hair, it tousles itself as it dries, then springs into a boyish curliness. Those eyes are as clear and pure as his thoughts and deeds are anything but. He looks wholesome—the kind of boy every guy would be proud to bring home to mom.

And I own his hole. Mine. That beautiful furry pucker is all mine. My dick leaps in his hand at the thought, causing him to hold it a fraction more tightly. “Son,” I tell him. “I want you to know every inch of that dick. Every bulge. Every vein. The way it curves. Every hair at its base.” He nods, absorbing every word. “I want you to know that cock better than any cock you've ever known in your whole life. I want you to know that cock better than any fuck partner you've ever had. Better than your husband’s.” I let that one sink in. “Better than even your own. Understand?”

He’s still totally with me. “That's what I'm here for, Sir,” he agrees. “Your pleasure, Sir. You own me.”

“That’s right. I own you. And your owner wants you to get to work,” I instruct. I lie back against the headboard, linked fingers providing a hammock for the back of my head. And I watch.

Fixated on my eyes, he lowers his head and moves his mouth to my balls. Our stares are still fastened on each other when his tongue darts out, makes itself broad and flat, and begins to lap at my nuts. Fuck. It feels good. He's going nice and slow and taking his time to wet them up. All the time he’s lapping at my tender flesh, he’s watching me, judging my reaction. It's tough to stay stoic under this sweet torture. I grab the pillow from the head of the bed, stuff it under my neck, lay back, and groan. As my eyes close, I see his narrow with satisfaction. He know he's doing his job—doing it right, and doing it with enthusiasm, too.

He opens his mouth. It widens and stretches to accommodate my girth. I feel a flash of warm breath, the tenderness of his lips on my shaft, and then wetness as his tongue and cheeks softly embrace me. My cock becomes his total focus. He breaks his stare with me, though he continues gauging my pleasure with quick glances now and again. Right now his entire universe can be measured in eight slick inches.

This is what I like best about the boy’s blow jobs: he's not fixated on my cock’s head, or so anxious to get to its base that he neglects what's in between. His is the first blow job I've had in ages—years, if I’m being honest—in which I've been able to appreciate his work along every fucking inch. I feel his tongue and lips below the flare of my crown, an inch below, four inches along the shaft. He's not just pleasuring one little spot, or a localized area. He wants the whole thing to feel good.

And it does. My legs are shaking from the intensity of his attention. He's taking my admonition to heart. He's not in a hurry to get me off. The opposite, if anything. Kent is making slow, lingering love to my dick, and relishing every moment of it. He’s not propelling me along to an orgasm. He’s eking out every shiver, every half-laugh, every sharp intake of breath and quick jolt of electric energy up and down my spine. He’s giving me indulgence for its own sake. Everything he does is for my pleasure.

I'm trying to relax, but he's making it impossible. It feels as if my shaft is growing more and more rigid by the microsecond. I alternate between sinking into the soft mattress and heaving slow, grateful breaths, or panting rapidly at the sheer intensity of the tickling, deliberate ministrations of his lips and mouth along my length.

He loves that dick. He loves my dick, because it belongs to me. He's memorizing it, just like I instructed. Every vein. Every bulge. Its gentle curve. His tongue is tracing the shape of my shaft so he can recall it later. He’s making his mouth my home.

There’s a big difference between this kind of treatment and an everyday blow job. I always tell my special men that I want to fuck them so well and fuck them so thoroughly that they will forever regret any dick that's not my own. He seems to have a similar agenda. Any other head I get in the future I'll be comparing to his. Every damn time. And every damn time the other poor sucker is going to come up short.

He’s already discovered secrets about my cock that even I didn’t know. God damn him for being so good.

It’s a long time later that I get my revenge. He’s on his back, legs held wide apart in the air. I’ve crammed a pillow under the small of his back so I can get his butt high and at the perfect angle for wrecking. “Go slow,” he begs. He means it. I’m large. He’s apprehensive. “Please, Sir.”

I smile down at him as my lubed-up head disappears into his glistening flesh. My cock is purple with engorged need; I watch it disappear inch by inch.

“Slow,” he begs. His eyes are half-closed. He’s turned his head to the side. He looks as if he’s falling asleep. The grunt of satisfaction he lets out when I reach the bottom, however, tells me he’s merely lost in the sensations.

“Sssshh,” I whisper to him. “You don’t need me to go slow.” I knew how his hole reacted when I jammed my fingers inside to lube him. I could tell by how he welcomed my shaft inside that he didn’t need any special treatment. This is only our second meeting, and already his ass is conforming itself to the unique shape of my dick. It’s reshaping itself, making itself ready for me and only me.

I’ve discovered secrets about his ass, too.

And he doesn’t know the half of them yet.