Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Souvenir

I’m fucking him, but I’m thinking of you.

When I forced my way inside an hour ago, it was tight. It resisted. Now his hole is wide open. Sloppy. It’s oozing two of my loads onto his floral bedspread. Those pussy lips are stretched wide. They’re inflamed from the fucking, made puffy and swollen from the constant thrusting of my dick. He’s turned-out, worn like an old rubber band. He feels good. I could fuck this ass for days.

But I’m still thinking of you.

Maybe it’s the decor. We’re fucking on a massive torture chamber of a bed. The room is overstuffed and overdecorated. There are tapestries hanging everywhere. The wallpaper is flocked. There’s not an overhead lamp—but there is a heavy chandelier. There are lamps done up in red velvet, and chairs that look like they were lifted from the Game of Thrones set. With all the triptychs and gold-framed icons and lit votive candles and heavy furniture littering the joint, it’s like we’re fucking in the goddamned Cloisters.

Maybe it’s the guy himself. He’s a little more feminine than I remember, a little more perfumed. His grunts are more like gentle moos. He kisses well, but his breath is slightly sour. I could power through and perform regardless. Fuck, I’ve already bred him twice, despite those minor details.

Because it’s not his performance that’s at stake here. The guy’s making me feel good. He sucks without a gag reflex, so I can grab the back of his head and skullfuck him without having to worry about going too deep. Fuck, the cocksucker likes it deep. His hole is nice and clean, so I can whip it out when I’ve fucked and know he’ll clean me off like a good boy. No, it’s not his performance at all.

But a little distracted, is all. He’s kneeling on the side of his four-poster monstrosity, his head buried in one of the dozen pillows, his hard uncut cock pointing straight down to the floor. His ass is wet. Glistening. He’s a tall man, a smooth man. And I’m thinking of you, small and furry. I’m imagining it’s your hole I’m stretching. I’m imagining the sounds you would make as my head nudges against your lips, parts them, and makes it home deep inside your cum-filled hole.

I’m not usually like this. I’m usually in the moment. I don’t like for my head to be elsewhere—it’s not fair to the guy. It’s not good for me.

But damn. I wish he were you, today.

It’s you I think of when I guide him forward into the middle of the bed and assume my place behind him. When I plant soft kisses on his neck, on his shoulders, down his spine, I think of the pleasure they’d bring to your flesh, not his. I think of how you’d quiver. In my head I hear the thanks you give as my meat slithers to the base and swells at your core. I think of your sharp intake of breath, how you’d arch your back, how you’d lift your head and tilt it as if to look at me, even though your eyes are still closed.

I think of holding you in my arms and letting you know that you’re desired. That you’re beautiful. That you’re loved.

When my fingers dance down his spine, it’s your spine I feel. When I grind savagely into the hole I’ve already made mine, I’m thinking about you, sixty miles away. You’re probably still in your shorts. You’re probably still watching TV and thinking about the day ahead.

I’m wondering if you ever think about me, this way.

My third load floods him after a flurry of sharp, short thrusts into his deepest recesses. He cranes his neck, speechless, to stare at me with wide open eyes. I avoid his glance as my nuts empty into his gut. I don’t want to be in this moment, good as it feels. I want to be inside you. I want to be marking you, to be seeding you.

I’m fucking him. But god damn, am I ever thinking of you.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Happy

“Good boy,” I murmur as I look up at the man riding my cock.

Every time I say these two words, I get the same action. His brow contracts and furrows as he stares at me as if he hopes I’m telling him the truth. It’s as if he can’t believe anyone would ever call him a good boy. Then the truth sinks in, and his eyes light up as he begins to believe it. It thrills me, that play of raw emotion on his face. It’s why I say the words again. “Yes. Good boy!”

He tilts his head, looks at me with those glowing brown eyes, and melts.

He’s got stuff on his mind. I knew it when I came over, though I offered him the opportunity to decline spending the afternoon with me. He said he needed the company, though. He needed the cock. So here we are out on the deck of his house in the back country on a perfect August Sunday. Maple trees grow high in the ravine behind his home; they lean in an shelter us from the summer sun. For over two hours we’ve fucked and sucked back here, our naked and writhing bodies seen only by birds flying overhead. He’s thrown a comforter down on the wooden planks, and nestled a pillow beneath my head. Then he’s ridden me relentlessly until I’ve blown my loads into his guts.

“Do I really please you?” he asks.

Fuck. The words are almost a knife to the heart. As if he has to ask. “Absolutely,” I say, with the same hushed reverence I might display in a museum or a church.

“Do I make you happy?”

His look of worry is almost tangible. As our hips gyrate slowly I reach up as if to wipe it from his face. “You are so extraordinarily beautiful,” I tell him, staring into his eyes. He truly is. I’ve had the good fortune to attract the attention of many good-looking men, but even the prettiest of them would feel threatened by this guy. He’s in his thirties—in his prime. He’s got a boyish and masculine face that’s rendered movie-star handsome by a firm jaw covered in dark stubble. His chest is muscular, deep and tanned. My praise makes him flush. He’s not being falsely modest or coquettish. He genuinely is tickled to hear it from me. “You are so sweet.” Still raising and lowering himself on my stiff cock, he tips his head to one side, basking in the praise. “And you love my cock,” I whisper, making it sound nasty.

“Yes,” he nods. “I truly love your cock.”

“I know. And you make it feel so, so good. That’s why I call you a good boy. I mean it. Yes. You make me happy.” I pull myself up to my elbows, and guide his mouth down to mine. When we pull away from the long, deep kiss, I nod. “You’ve made me very, very happy all afternoon.”

“Fuck,” he says. He reaches into the white jock he’s been wearing. It’s all askew now. His junk has been hanging out the sides for a while. But he hasn’t yet touched himself. All the focus has been on me. “I think I really need to come. Please?”

There’s a whine of need in his voice I can’t deny. I nod, and he grabs furiously at his dick. It doesn’t take him long to shoot. Six strokes. Seven, maybe. Then I feel hot wetness flying onto my chest and face and over my shoulders. His body spasms. He’s suddenly heavy on my pelvis, and his hole is squeezing my dick so hard I’m half-worried he might take it off. His head flies back with such vigor that I worry he’ll crack his skull on the deck railing behind. But instead, he grimaces, bucks, and holds his rictus of pleasure and pain until at last the wracking sensations ebb from his body. “It’s not always like that,” he says, panting and looking at me with worry.

“It has been, both times I’ve seen you,” I say. I’m sliding out of him, letting my dick flop wetly between my thighs, as I maneuver him down.

“I needed that so much,” he says, once he’s spooned his back against my chest, and I’ve wrapped my arms around him. “Not just me cumming . . . the whole thing.”

“I know, sweet man,” I say into his ears. I wait a few minutes until his breathing has subsided into a normal pattern. Then I ask, “Tell me about your mom. When did she pass?”

“Last September,” he murmurs. “I know I should be over it by now, but earlier today, when I was spreading her ashes with the family. . . .”

“It’s okay,” I say, holding him tight. “Tell me about her.”

“I never knew my mother growing up,” he said. “She left when I was a kid. There wasn’t any big fight, no messy divorce. One day she was just gone, and I didn’t know why. My dad wouldn’t talk about it at all, and I got scared to ask. It was like she vanished completely.

“Then one day I was sitting in Madison Square Park and a woman sat on the bench with me. She said—“ He takes a deep breath, and the following words tremble. “He said, ‘I know this is going to sound like a strange question, but is your name Bobby?’ And I looked up into this stranger’s face, and I knew, I just knew it was her.”

“Wow,” I say. “How did you feel about that?”

“It was amazing,” he says. “Ever after that we were like this.” He holds up his index and middle finger, crossed together. “We went to my apartment and talked and talked into the night. It wasn’t until it was late when I asked why she left. She said, ‘Son, what would you think if you found out your mom was gay?’ And I just hugged her and smiled and said, ‘Mom, have I got something to tell you.’”

He’s curled a little further in on himself, into a near-fetal position. I hold him tightly, and he takes my fingers in his hand. We’re silent for a little while, then he speaks again. “My mom lived in Peru for several years, I found out. There was a period three years ago when I was unemployed, and the family she lived with while she was down there came up here to visit. They heard I was unemployed and taking time off between jobs. ‘Come spend a month with us!’ they said to me. ‘Spend two! Spend three!’ They were so, so sweet. I ended up living with them in Peru for three months. It was amazing. The mountains, the forests, the sheer beauty of it all. And the last month I was there my mom came down. She’d been sick for a while, but she was feeling well enough to travel for a change. We made the most of it. We hiked. We camped on the mountains and saw the places she remembered. It was a gift. The last good time, really.”

His voice grows raspy. “So there’s this drink they have down there that they serve with every meal. Chicha morada, it’s called. They don’t drink water with meals. They drink this chicha morada. Every table has a pitcher of it at mealtimes. I found a market here that sells the purple corn you use to make it, and I boiled it with apple peels and pineapple rind. Cinnamon. Cloves. Sugar. Lemon. We toasted my mom with it as we scattered the ashes, earlier. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

There’s a lump in my throat that I try to clear before I say, “Aren’t you glad you sat down in the park that day?”

Suddenly he twists on the blanket. The days are shortening, and the last few honeyed minutes of daylight before dusk are slipping away. He takes both my hands in his. His eyes glisten with tears, but they’re bright. So bright, and so alive. “She would be so happy that I did this,” he tells me. “She would be so happy that I’m with you, on this beautiful day. Celebrating life. Living it, while I can. She would be so happy.

We look into each other’s eyes for a long, long moment, both of us grinning like fools through the tears. “Come here,” I say at last. “Let me give you a hug.”

He falls into the embrace like a lost little boy glad to be found. I hold him long and hug him hard, wishing I had the power to ease his pain. Together we lay on the blanket and gaze at the sky, our flesh glued by sweat and semen, happy to be among the living and the feeling.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Night at the Dick Dock, Part II

I notice his eyes before anything else. Big and wide, they are. In the dim perpetual dusk beneath the Boat Slip dock his pupils are so dilated and straining for light that they’re black marbles, shining and glossy as he stares.

He’s fixed on me. Now that the French cocksucker has abandoned his post, I have men crowding in to take his place. It doesn’t matter that I’ve blown my load; it doesn’t matter that I’m temporarily spent. I’m still mostly hard, and I’ve got hand after hand groping for my spit-sloppy cock. I have mouths on my neck, fingers rubbing my ass. This guy has some serious competition.

Those eyes, though. Fuck. Those eyes are black holes with their own gravitational force, and I’m over the event horizon, past the point of no return. There’s no escaping the pull of those eyes. That’s why I stare back at him, pull him close, and savagely press my lips against his.

Come to think, he never had a lick of competition after all.

The Frenchman had been a great kisser. This guy, though, is off the charts. My brain no longer registers the fact that I’m surrounded by two dozen men pushing and shoving to get my meat in their hands or mouth. All I know is that I’ve got my elbows resting on this fellow’s shoulders, my hands stretched out and languid, as my hips grind against his. We’re putting on two shows for these fellows. His is the dance of the victor. Mine is unhurried strut of the predator with his prey between his jaws.

He’s a sexy fucker, too. I can tell that when we take a break from our kissing and continue to grind as we stare into each other’s eyes. He’s got short black hair swept to one side and one of those faces that would look impossibly good at any age—classically handsome in youth, dark and inviting in its prime, youthful and rugged as he gets older. I’ve known him for two minutes of intense tongue-fucking, and already in my imagination I can see the entire arc of his face through time. He looks good through it all.

“How about that,” he whispers. “I guess I dropped my keys.” Slowly, inevitably, his dark eyes locked with mine, he drops down to his knees. He wraps his hand around my shaft and points it at his lips, claiming his prize. “Let me do this for you while I’m down here.”

You know, I’ve just shot an enormous load down a stranger’s throat. The Frenchman still probably has the taste of my sperm on his tongue, it’s been such a short time. But I’ll be damned if in this guy’s mouth my cock is just as hard as it was before I came. Harder, even. He’s got major skills. Most guys have an issue getting the whole length down their gullets without choking or clamping down on head so obnoxiously that I’d rather be doing anything else than getting head. Nope, this guy knows how to handle me. He knows how to open his throat and admit me in. He’s not trying to get me off quickly, he’s not greedy for the load. He just wants to give pleasure, and he’s got the tools at hand to do it.

He’s standing up again, jealously keeping my cock pressed against his body as he stands on his toes to make out with me once again. He’s got his prize. He intends to keep it.

My hands are down the back of his jeans. His ass parts as my hands slide between the smooth cheeks. I remove my right hand, pause our makeout session for a moment, and transfer a glob of spit to my fingertips. It goes down the back of his pants and straight onto his hole. I can feel him gasp and squirm when my fingers go exploring inside the warmest and most private spot on his body.

God, I want this hole.

“Do you have a place to go?” I whisper in his ear.

“I’m staying at the campground,” he tells me. Fuck. Is everyone in this town staying at the goddamned campground? I already know from the Frenchman that it’s apparently far enough of a walk that I don’t want to make it.

“Damn,” I growl. “I wanted inside that ass.”

“You want to cum inside?” he asks, teasing me. His lips brush my ear. “You want to spray your seed inside my hole?”

Fuck yes, I do. I turn him around. He braces himself against the support beams overhead. He’s got his shirt yoked over his head and his pants down. I press my cock against the crack of his ass and grind. I mock-fuck him right there while he gasps and lets out little cries of need and want. And once again, the guys throng around.

They try to insert their hands where our hips connect, to see if I’m inside him. They growl at me as if they think I’m inside the guy, instead of just humping him. They try to feel the connection of meat to hole, to get the smell of the fuck on their fingertips. I feel arms behind and beneath my balls, trying to grasp my dick from the underside. There’s someone lying in the sand, trying to slide along the ground between my legs. Doesn’t matter. I keep grinding. He’s letting out little moans that are sexual catnip to the crowd. Every one makes them press in closer, to handle us more roughly.

A man pushes his way through the crowd to stand opposite me. He’s tall, and pale in the dark. He stoops down to look at my bottom. I’m feeling a little bit of a jealous fire burning in my breast when he stands up again, unzips, and puts his hands on his hips. Then my partner leans back, still humping my cock in his ass crack, and whispers, “That’s my husband.”

Oh. That’s different. I reach out for the guy’s dick. It’s like a fucking blunt weapon. I can’t see it in the dark, but my hands are guessing it’s ten inches. A thick, heavy ten inches. Respect. No wonder this guy didn’t have any problems deep-throating my eight. It’s a cakewalk for him.

The boyfriend disappears after a minute. My guy turns around. “I think I dropped my keys again,” he murmurs in my ear. Then the man with the eyes is back on his knees and impaling his throat on my cock. He’s worshiping the fucking thing, giving it the respect it commands. He doesn’t need to clamp his fist around my shaft, doesn’t need to beat it. He gives me pleasure just by using his lips, his tongue, the wetness of his mouth. He’s a pro.

But I can’t shoot. It’s not due to his lack of skills. It’s not his fault at all, in fact. During all the groping and the snatching by the crowd that had been around us, someone had gotten a substantial amount of sand on my dick. I’d brushed off as much as possible, but a couple of the sharper grains have scratched up that sensitive area right beneath the head. I can’t tell if they’re still buried in the wet flesh somewhere, or whether I’m just puffy from the abrasion, but I know tomorrow I’m going to be hurting like hell.

I pull the guy up to his feet. I kiss him. And I break the news.

And you know what? He doesn’t move on. He doesn’t go hunting for more prey. Even though my dick’s ripped up and sore, his entire focus is still on me. “Let’s go sit a while,” he says, and he takes my hand. Fingers intertwined, zippers zipped and buttons buttoned, we scatter sprays of sand as we trudge back to the drive leading away from the beach. Moments later we’re sitting on a concrete piling by the hotel, legs pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, like lovers. And we talk.

He tells me about his home city, his hobbies, his husband. I talk about my life and my family. I’m usually fairly easy to talk to, but I don’t open up to others quite as easily. With this guy, I feel as if I’ve known him for years. I’m telling him anecdotes like he’s an old friend. In fact, it’s not until I can’t suppress any more yawns that I look at my phone to check the time. It’s three in the morning. That’s how long we’ve been at it.

My walk home is still a long one, so I say my farewells. He rests his hand on mine before I go, to tell me something. “You know what attracted me to you down there?” he asks. I shake my head. “Your eyes,” he says. “They’re beautiful. Even in the dark I could tell you had the most incredible eyes.”
Funny, I think to myself, as I gaze into his. I was going to say the very same thing about him.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Night at the Dick Dock, Part I

This year I’m an old pro at this particular cruising site. I head down the drive toward the beach without trepidation, not even casting more than a passing glance at the tide creeping in. Last year, like a noob, I made the mistake of trudging through the sand to an entrance halfway down the dock, where everyone could see my slow progress under the harsh light of the street lamps above. This year I know exactly where to round the pillar at the drive’s foot, and I slip into the shadows before I’m seen. Last year I might have been the curious explorer. This year, though, I’m a seasoned pro. This is just as much my hunting ground as it is any other man’s.

My eyes adjust to the gloom almost immediately. It’s after eleven, but there’s not much of a crowd here. Not yet. I saunter past a heavily-spectacled older gentleman with a pot belly. He’s got his fingers inserted in the fly of his almost phosphorescently-white shorts. When I pass by I feel the fingertips of his other hand brush my elbow. I can afford to bide my time a bit.

Individuals lurk the furthest recesses beneath the dock. In the darkest of shadows they wait, checking me out as I pass. I’m not ready to commit to any of these guys. I can do better. Instead, I take a position in a niche right in the middle of the dock, away from the others. I hook a thumb through one of my belt loops, lean against the post, and wait.

I’m not losing anything by waiting. I don’t go for the bait; I wait for my prey to come to me. I know my role in this sexual ecosystem. I’m the instigator. I’ll make my move when I’m ready. Not before.

Men pass me by in the night, taking in what they can see of me in the near-darkness—my narrow frame, my long body, my hand casually cupping the bulge in my shorts. Occasionally they’ll pause in front of me, hoping I’ll reach out and pull them to me. I merely nod, let them pass, and continue to wait. I’ll know what I want, when I see it.

It doesn’t take long before a man stands at the post opposite mine. I can tell by the way his head bobs and sways in the shadows that he’s trying to figure out whether I’m as good as I might seem. He’s checking me out as much as possible, using a peripheral vision that’s slightly sharper in the low light to get a better impression of me. I can tell more about him from where I stand. He’s blond. Maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. He’s got on a muscle tee. I can see his biceps, luminous against the dark. His hair is a light color. Blond, I think. I can’t really see his features, but I’m thinking he’s probably the best of the current bunch. Handsome, even.

Yeah. This is the one.

I’ve got both thumbs through the foremost belt hoops, framing my crotch. I can see his head weaving as he attempts to make sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. I unzip. Rub my hand over my stiffening dick. Stare right in his direction. Then, just to make sure I’m crystal clear, I beckon him over with a curved index finger.

He obeys.

Yes, the man is indeed handsome. Up close he smells lightly of expensive cologne and more strongly of soap. When he presses his mouth on mine, he tastes of mint mouthwash. The guy’s a good kisser, I have to say. The hunger I feel when we connect intensifies. I force his hands down on my cock and let him feel what he’s going to be getting. He groans at the feel of my hard meat, then even as we’re kissing, I feel his hips curve into a smile. He’s happy he’s getting a big one. I like that in a man.

Like I said, I’m an instigator. Even though there are two or three dozen men milling around beneath the dock in the near pitch-blackness, no one’s having sex yet. No one except me, that is, with the hottest guy here. Right on cue, smelling the pheromones, just about everyone who’s staggering around by themselves converge on the two of us. I’ve got my hand on the back of the guy’s head as I pull him deeper into the kiss, but over the top of his head I can see the piraƱas swimming nearer.

He’s down on his knees to deep-throat his prize. Scarcely has he gone down when other men are vying to take his place. I feel hands reaching for my head, hands trying to pull my face to theirs. Hands run up my stomach beneath my t-shirt, fingers tweak my nipples. I pretend not to notice. I pull my head away so that I can gaze down on the fellow on my dick. He’s my focus. When I see the glint of his eyes as he gazes up at me, I know once again I’ve picked the right one.

There’s quite a crowd around us now. Maybe twenty men are feeding from our sexual energy. My instigation is spreading as men begin to fondle each other, to kiss, to couple off, even as they attempt to pull me away from my quarry. The blond has to struggle to stand up, the crowd is so thick around us. He clutches onto my dick with his hand to keep anyone else from taking it from him, then he whispers something into my ear.

The syllables are lush and sweet, like a scented summer breeze on a foreign isle. It takes my brain a moment to register that he’s spoken to me in French. I think he’s telling me I’m a handsome man. “Thanks,” I whisper in his ear. Then, “Do you have somewhere we can go?”

He takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the drive. I take a moment to buckle up and then we push our way out of the crowd. I doubt any of those on the edges are aware that we were its epicenter. Then we’re free, and walking up the drive.

I can see him better in the street lamps. He’s not just handsome. He’s hot as fuck. Blond hair, muscles, scruff on his face. “I wish to be naked with you,” he says, in what’s almost a comical French accent. It’s almost like someone attempting a Maurice Chevalier accent, but he’s completely for real. “Do you have the place to go?”

“I thought you did,” I said.

His face contorts with irritation. “I am at the—what is the words? Camp ground?” I know there’s a campground somewhere in the coastal town, but I have no clear idea of where it is. “We can go there, but it is a long, long walk. A very long walk.”

Well, fuck. My dick is still wet in my shorts, and even though I’m up for a long walk if it means getting into the guy’s ass, he seems dubious. We’re still holding hands; his fingers are intertwined with mine. I’m touched at how much like a boyfriend he’s treating me. “Let me suck you more,” he says, in that charming accent. “Let me drink you.”

I’m not going to say no to that.

Hand in hand we return to the dark area beneath the Boatslip. The action is full swing now. We push past clumps of twos and threes and occasional fours and fives to the area where we were before. The crowd is dispersed, but the little niches against the hotel’s foundation are filled with couples. We find a new spot a little further on. He drops before me worshipfully, and hooks his fingertips into my waistband.

I unbuckle, pull down my shorts, and let my heavy cock fall onto his face. He starts to suck, grunting with pleasure as he does. I lean back against the post and allow myself to enjoy it.

My eyes are closed when I feel someone lifting up my shirt. My neck shoves through the hole; I feel the fabric wrenched back like a yoke, exposing my upper body to the night air. There’s a mouth on my nipple, a pair of bearded lips on my stomach. There’s wet suction on my other nipple. Then someone draws me into a kiss.

Once again I’ve got a throng around me. Though I stay in place, I feel like a crowd-surfer at a concert. I’m throwing myself out to the masses, letting them buoy me safely in their grip. There are mouths all over me and men vying for my attention. Hungry faggots are trying to pull my Frenchman off my dick, but he’s not going anywhere. He’s planted in the goddamned dirt like a fencepost. He’s not going anywhere.

I’m the center of attention. I’m the cock of the walk, right now, right here. And I’m confident enough to know I deserve it.

When I have my orgasm, it’s not waves of pleasure. It’s almost as if I’ve got a kidney stone to pass, and the climax is the moment it leaves my system. I feel relief of the most intense kind. It’s gratification without the titillation. But the amount of cum I gush into the guy’s mouth is substantial. I can feel him gulping to keep up with it. When he’s done, he’s wiping cum and spit from his chin and panting. Once again he has to push his way up through the crowd; I let him hang onto my waist as he attempts to get his balance.

“That is what I needed,” he murmurs into my ear. I can smell my sperm on his breath. “Thank you, beautiful man.”

He holds my face in the curve of his palm, and then disappears into the darkness.

Friday, August 1, 2014

Seven A.M., Cape Cod

Very few people are awake in this beachside community at seven in the morning. As I walk down the main street out of the commercial district, I pass a couple of locals still wiping sleep and sand from their eyes as they trudge into town. Very few cars, though. Everyone in this community is on foot.

It’s a sunny morning. Every now and then the clusters of seafront restaurants and shops give way to stretches of sand. Beyond the beach rolls the surf, which bears the cool breezes to shore. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt because I know the temperatures will soar once the sun rises above the rooftops. For now, though, it’s cool and almost chilly. There’s a spring in my step.

I pass the town hall, the shops, the library. Where the commercial district peters out are a mixture of tiny, three-table restaurants and art galleries, then guest houses and the occasional old hotel from the nineteen-fifties. Finally even those disappear, and I’m surrounded by houses on either side.

His place is past the ancient little grocery, a tiny hole in the wall where metal chairs on either side of the front door rust in the salt air. It looks like a regular Cape Cod home, but there’s an addition on the back that’s as big as a barn. A number of mailboxes by the sidewalk tell me that there are at least six apartments in the structure. I check my phone and read the note the guy sent me, then follow his instructions around the garden path to the back, then up the stairs to the second floor. A yellow welcome mat lies outside the door, as he said. I turn the knob and step quietly in.

It’s not wood, I think to myself. His profile said the private glory hole in his home was solid wood. But what’s separating the kitchen from the living room where I stand isn’t a sheet of plywood sporting a hole, but an actual cloth bedsheet suspended from a rod that dangles all the way to the floor. It’s got a tribal print that I couldn’t picture on any of my mattresses, any time, but what the fuck. It’s all right. The only part I intend to dirty are the several inches just below the oval he’s cut into it, down at mouth level.

I kick off my hiking sandals. Drop my shorts. Step out of my trunks. In the closeness of his apartment I’m a little sweaty, but that’s all right too. Then I align my junk with the hole and ease it through.

For a split second I can see the guy on the other side, knees splayed out on a nest of sheets and pillows. He’s naked. Furry. Tattooed. In his forties. He’s got a sleeve that starts at the collarbone and insinuates itself down his arm to the wrist; it’s a thick layer of dark inks in a sinister design. In the split second before I fill the hole I can see the glint of metal through his nipples, his defined muscles and lean hips, the grizzled fur on his chin. His mouth drops open in anticipation.

When his lips surround my cock, I let out an involuntary gasp. This is what I needed. I’ve got a three-day reward in my nuts if he can coax it out. He seems determined. With a steady sucking motion he nurses me to half mast, then fully erect. I can feel his tongue flick out to lick the underside of my balls.

Yeah. This is going to be good.

The guy’s smoking hot. He sucks long and slow, taking time to savor my shaft. I can feel his nostrils billowing warm air on the wet skin, as he backs off my inches. He’s determined to enjoy this encounter as much as I am.

When I lean back, buckling my body into a bow-shaped figure, I can see that he’s a hell of a handsome dude. His hair might be prematurely gray, but he’s masculine as hell, with heavy brows and thick hair. I confess I originally thought the cloth glory hole was a bit of a sham, but he’s making it work for us. He’s cupping my balls in a sheath of the fabric so that as I gently thrust in and out, the sheet is rubbing against them and creating a sensation that’s making the seed in my nuts churn. I like this; I like the way the sheet allows me to thrust suddenly without resistance. I like the way I feel the heat of his body through it, only a thin layer away. I think I prefer the anonymity of the wood in general, but for this guy, fuck yes. It works.

From time to time I pull out and make him beg for it. Silently beg, that is. We don’t exchange a word. I’ll take my meat in my fist and show off the red head, the inch or two of throbbing flesh protruding from my hand. He’ll try to dive for it, to snatch at it with his soft lips and tongue. I’ll hold it just out of reach, though, squeezing it hard so that a glob of pre-cum will ooze from the tip and slide down to join the wetness already making the head shiny. I want to make him hungry for it; I want to make him slaver. I like watching him pout, watching his lips tremble with frustration and need. Then I’ll relent, and remove my hand, and shove it back in the fucker’s mouth, just to hear him moan and burble with pleasure.

Closer and closer he gets me. I’m in no hurry at this time of the morning. It’s my vacation; I’ve got nowhere to be, no work to get to. No appointments. No one even knows where I am; they’re all asleep back at the cabin. This load has been building up day by day, though, and it’s time to feed it to his hungry hole. I back off once more and jerk at it, showing it off. His entire world is a three-inch hole in an expanse of cloth at that moment. I can feel the laser-like focus on my cock as I display it for his approval. Then I grab his head through the sheet and pull it onto the eight inches until it strikes the back of his throat.

One gush. Two gush. Three. He sucks and slobbers. I feel his drool running down my balls, hear the gulping, feel the muscles convulse around my shaft. The orgasm nearly blinds me. Some feel amazing and shivery, some are just a relief to have. This one’s almost painful, it’s so necessary; it feels like knives, or teeth gnawing at me, Alien-like, from the inside. At the same time, it feels so damned good.

When I open my eyes, I see he’s got his tattooed arms around my waist, enveloping my lower half completely in sheet. He holds me there tightly, refusing to let my cock out of his mouth. Then slowly, gently, he lets go. The fabric sways back into place. My cock drops heavily down and points at the floor, drained.

“Thanks,” I say, loud enough for him hear. I see his chin dip down in a nod. That’s all I need. I step back into my trunks, don my shorts, slide in my sandals, make sure I have my wallet. Then I’m out the door, where the smell of the ocean fills my nostrils and a breeze dries the sweat I wasn’t even aware was on my brow.

Seven-thirty, my phone says. Invigorated by the morning exercise, I head back to town, with breakfast in mind.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Sunday Morning Question: Texas Tea Edition

I always find that things ebb and flow, in my sex life. There’ll be periods of high sexual activities followed by lulls; I’ll be doing group after group for a while, and then none for a long time. Some weeks I’ll have so many offers that I legitimately couldn’t take them all if I tried, while others I can’t find a mouth for my cock if I wrapped it in bacon and a twenty-dollar bill.

The quality of the interactions I have with men, both online and in person, tends to follow a sine wave, too. I had a great couple of weeks off on vacation in which I very easily met some incredible guys. Then I returned to normal life and a flabbergasting amount of outright rudeness.

Oh, I’ve this week had the usual stand-ups and no-shows, the guys who come on strong and then, after we’ve made a firm date for coffee the next morning, manage to ‘completely forget’ about it when nine a.m. rolls around, leaving me sitting at the local Starbucks sipping my skinny mocha and tapping my foot until finally I just get up and leave. I’ve had a lunch date in which I seemed to get along with the guy and we made an agreement to get together and discreetly bang sometime in the future, only to get home and discover the other guy had not only Googled up articles about me online over a decade old that he presented to me with all the pride of a housecat offering up the fresh kill of a baby bird at my unsuspecting feet, but somehow managed to find three old phone numbers (one for a job I haven’t worked at in over fifteen years) and wanted to know which one was best to keep in touch with me.

I mean, even Mr. Killer Stalker of 2013 wasn’t that thorough, especially in the space of an hour and a half.

There might’ve been a time in my life when I would’ve found any of these experiences soul-crushing, but now I just have to laugh. No, really. Instead of feeling dispirited by the little-mindedness of it all, I try instead to find amusement and even delight in the ways that boys have of surprising me, even as they’re displaying both bad manners and bad taste.

Take, for example, this brittle repartee that I am quoting verbatim:

HIM: Wow! You have a really great smile! And dick!
ME: I appreciate the compliments. Thank you. You’re a handsome man yourself.
HIM: I didn’t say you were handsome.

Technically he’s right. I shouldn’t have assumed. But ouch. Right? Trust me, laughing helps when you get a kick on the shin like that one.

Or this:

HIM: You have a hot dick. You kind of remind me of a guy on television.
ME: Thank you. Which guy on television?
HIM: The one about that family that moved to Hollywood.
ME: Beverly Hills 90210?
HIM: No. Oh, I know. You remind me a lot like a kind-of-hot Jed Clampett.

Because trust me, you can’t make up that kind of comedy gold.

Let’s get to some questions from readers, shall we? If you’ve got questions to ask your resident sex blogger, either get on spring.me and ask me there, or send me email to the address in the sidebar with Reader Question in the subject line. I have a backlog of these that I work my way through, but I’ll get to them sooner or later.


Your child goes off to college and comes back during the summer. He's made a very attractive friend who happens to live in the same neighborhood. He shows interest in you. Would you ever consider fucking him?

Oh please. I was already texting the kid and getting nuts-deep in his hole before I got to the word 'neighborhood.'


I understand updating a profile keep it interesting, I've noticed guys abandoning their profiles creating entirely new ones. Is there a new trend emerging? 1 guy has had 3 on MH, 4 on Adam and Jack'd! Do you think a new moniker helps or hurts?

I've noticed the phenomenon myself—though it's difficult to account for, in many ways.

I can understand why some people have three or four profiles on a website like Manhunt, for example. It's a site that requires a paid account in order to do much of anything beyond read and respond to three or four emails a day; having a second or third account allows someone to double or triple the amount of activity he can undertake there.

Why someone would need multiple accounts on a free site like Adam4Adam or on a GPS app like Jack'd is beyond me, though in the past people have attempted to explain to me why. I knew one fellow who kept two profiles because one was 'nice' (with only a face and a chest photo) and the other 'naughty' (the camera was pointed lower). I knew another fellow who kept one profile that said he was in the mood to bottom, and another profile for when he felt more versatile. And I've known a couple of people who flit between cities and keep a separate sex profile for each.

There are legitimate reasons for a person to eliminate a profile and start anew. I'm not going to knock those in the least. I do find it slightly irritating, however, when someone will start a conversation with me on one profile and then assume I'll recognize them when they approach me on another—especially if there's no continuity between the photos in them both.

In light of the recent murder using the Grinder App while sad and tragic I found it disturbing that a man of 25 in a 17 month relationship had an "open relationship" they weren't together long enough to have a relationship to open! Is monogamy dead?

One of the things I've learned over the years is that there’s no shortage of people out there who are more than willing to invalidate other people’s relationships.

I've got conservatives and fundamentalists telling me that gay marriages are an abomination. I've got gay friends who say that if a relationship is open, it's not a ‘real’ relationship at all. I've known people who had fancy weddings with extensive registries who look down on those of us whose weddings were much humbler and hastier affairs. I've known people who've become serious after a very short period of time, only to be told by outsiders that it wouldn't last.

I'm not going to judge how long is appropriate for a relationship to be in existence before the pair open it up to others. For some couples it's bound to take a long time. Others might be ready for it instantly. That's a matter for a couple to decide on their own, and not for you or me to judge. What's disturbing is not the open relationship, but that someone would murder anyone else—and murder, sadly happens not only only to men on Grindr, but to people in all walks of life in the real world. It happens in families, and to straight people, and to people who are half of a monogamous couple.

An open relationship did not cause this death. A murderer did. That’s what we should be focusing on.


Do you believe there is such thing as "the gay look?” Not effeminate men but average looking men who are tagged gay cos of their general appearance.

I believe it's possible to have a personal gaydar that's pretty accurate.

I know people talk about being able to identify other gay men by having something they call 'gayface' or by the way the men dress, or by the way they walk or talk or, god help us, the way they cross their legs when they sit down. Perhaps some of those indicators actually work. (I personally believe in the 'gayface' thing myself.)

I've always prided myself on my gaydar, however, but it's based not on the way men look, but on the way they behave when they think they're not being observed. From my teens I've always observed the way guys look at other people around them—whether they check out the women or the men, where their eyes linger on the body when they do look someone over. Is it at the guy's watch, briefcase, and car keys? Or is it at the guy's eyes, chest, and crotch? Because of those is what straight men do, and the other is what gay men do when they assume no one's looking.

While straight men let their gazes linger on the bodies of attractive women, gay men's eyes wander over male forms. Even those men who think they've managed to button down and corral their desire do it for a split-second before habit and fear rein in a perfectly natural instinct.

Some men might have some kind of external indicators that constitute a gay look, accurate or not. My own experience is that there are little behaviors that are a better indicator of secret desire.


What age is the oldest guy you have recently fucked? As I hit 60 I find it curious what role age plays in sex.

There’s a guy at one of my group sessions who has a monster dick. I’m not exaggerating. The thing’s at least nine inches and beer-can thick. I feel like a little pea shooter when I’m erect next to him. He’s an older guy with gray hair, but he’s got a good physique on him, is handsome as all get out, and has a pair of blue eyes that could make a guy do anything.

I’d spent half a morning with him sucking his dick and fucking him and being rewarded with coffee-flavored kisses when he announced to the group that he had a birthday that week.

“Happy fortieth!” I said, thinking I was shaving off twenty years and complimenting him at the same time.

“How old will you be?” asked the group host.

“Sixty-nine,” admitted the guy.

Readers, if I’m still performing like that man when I’m sixty-nine, I’ll start taking the extra vitamins today, thanks very much.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Post-Gay Bar

So I’m sitting in a bar. It’s not a gay bar—it’s definitely not billed that way. It’s not entirely a straight bar, either, because I’ve seen a good third to half of the patrons at the area’s one gay club. It’s what they call typically ‘post-gay’ around here—we’re supposed to be so above it, so hip and welcoming, that gay bars are no longer necessary. Maybe it’s true. There are bars of all stripes in the New York suburbs, but very few of them are gay.

No, this joint is one of many bar/restaurants nestling next to each other on a strip in White Plains, which after dark becomes busy with young metropolitans hopping from one establishment to the next. I like this place, though; the bartender’s cute, the drinks aren’t wildly expensive, and every now and again I get to stagger off my stool and sing some karaoke.

Then a guy sits next to me. Over the loudspeaker some chick is caterwauling something off the top forty. The volume’s hair, and the effect is ear-splitting. I always try to be polite in karaoke bars when the singer’s bad—they’re not being paid for it, after all. But the effect to me is like iron tongs scraping blocks of ice, and I’m afraid I turn my face away from the stage and draw it into a rictus of pain.

“Damn,” says the guy. “It’s a good thing she’s cute, because she sure sings like ass.”

I give him a silent look that’s intended to say Amen to that. I look him over. He’s wearing a chambray shirt, worn but clean. Gray slacks. His hair is silvered, lush, curly. He’s a good looking guy. Smells good, too, like fresh citrus. His clothes occupy a space between white-color professional and blue-collar laborer. I’m not quite figuring him out yet. “I haven’t been to this bar before,” he says, as he grabs the bartender’s attention and orders a beer. “You?”

“A few times,” I say. I look down. The guy’s got an impressive bulge down the left leg of his jeans.
“I was next door, heard all the commotion. Thought I’d come see what was going on.” I can’t tell if he’s looking me over or not. He’s definitely looking at me. But he is looking at me? I don’t know. “You seem like the kind of guy who gets a lot of action. Am I right?”

He’s right, but I’m not committing to coming off as cocky. I just grin, shrug, and take a swig from my glass. “Karaoke action, maybe,” I say, by way of modesty.

“Right. I bet that’s not the only action. You singing?”

“Already did. It’ll be a while before I sing again.”

“Maybe we can talk some, then. I’m Louis.”

My dick stirs in my pants as I shake Louis’ hand. I still haven’t figured the guy out. These so-called ‘post-gay’ bars in this sophisticated part of the U.S. are a mixed bag of blessings. The up, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody gives a damn who’s gay or who’s straight. The down, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody can really tell who’s gay or who’s straight without some name tags. Either way, I like talking to new people, so I give him my name and tell him I’m glad to meet him.

He tells me he’s an engineer who studies drain lines. That makes sense to me—the clothes are a mixture of the down-and-dirty and the supervisor-in-the-yellow-construction-hat. “Seems like a great crowd in here,” he tells me. “Kind of a mix of hot chicks and gay guys, right?” I’m still wondering on which side his pachinko ball lands on when he adds, “I was down in the city a couple of weeks ago and I went to this bar in the Village, Marie’s Crisis?” I tell him I’d heard of it. “Place was fucking packed with the gays. They sing a hell of a lot better than this chick, though! I was pretty sure I was the only straight guy there.”

There’s the name tag I was looking for. Hello, my name is Heterosexual.

He leans in even closer, though, giving me a little bit of an erotic thrill. “With all those gay guys I’m sure could’ve got my dick sucked easy if I wanted at that place, know what I’m saying, though?” he murmurs. And even though I’m not the kind of guy who fetishizes sex with straight men, I’m still a little giddy and aroused at the confidence. I’m pretty sure he’s got me pegged, too; we both know what we are, and we’re both comfortable with ourselves and each other. It’s a post-gay bar thing, right?

We listen to the karaoke singers for a while, exchanging small talk. He tells me about his place up the Hudson; I talk a little about moving from the distressed midwest to the swanky neighborhood where I now reside. Then he leans over and puts a hand on my shoulder, and moves in. I lean forward until my ear is near his lips. “So buddy,” he whispers, soft and intimate. “There’s a pretty lady at twelve o’clock. Your twelve o’clock,” he corrects, when I try to look behind me. “Check her out. Is she my type?”

We’re within kissing distance, almost; the intimacy hits me like a sack of wet bricks. I find I’m totally erect as I look at the woman three seats down from him. She’s dressed up for an evening out. Her dress is cut low on top and cut high at the legs; she’s got a mane of glossy black hair hanging down her shoulders, a clutch in her left hand, left knee atop the right. “I don’t know what your type is,” I murmur into his ear, as the smell of lime tickles my nostrils.

“Is she a blockaway?" he asks, soft and low.

“What’s a blockaway?”

“You know. A dude or a chick who only looks good from a block away or more.”

He gives me a broad grin and a wink while I roared out loud. “She’s not a blockaway,” I assure him.

“Then she’s my type. Do a brother a solid and help me out here.” He jerks his head toward the woman. “Soften her up a little.”

It’s been a long, long time since I was a straight man’s wingman. My dick is still hard when I slide out of my chair with my glass in my hand and mosey over to the woman’s far side. Most of the crowd is up by the karaoke stage; it’s fairly quiet in the stretch of bar seats beyond where the woman has parked herself. I wave my glass at the bartender, set it down on the wood surface, and slide it back. Then I rest my arms on the seat beside the waiting woman. “So are you singing tonight?” I ask her.
She gives me that automatic look of reproach that woman tend to use when they’re alone in public places and don’t care for strange men hitting on them. It’s icy, and distant. Then she turns to dig for something imaginary in her purse.

“You should sing,” I tell her. “The hostess has a huge book of songs. She used to do karaoke at the gay bar way down the road until she moved here. That’s where I used to hang out. But at least this place serves food.” I watch as she processes the information. She looks around at the post-gay bar crowd and draws the correct conclusion, but I’ve already moved on. “Of course, some people find it’s more fun the drunker they are.”

“I’m really not much of a singer,” she says, taking her drink from the bartender and sipping it prettily through the straw. “But I did do ‘Love Shack’ once.”

Christ, everyone and their sloshed aunt has done ‘Love Shack.’ “You should totally do it,” I say, giving her a big smile. “Everyone would love you up there. You’re gorgeous.”

She flushes, and flutters her eyelashes. Flattery from gay guys is always the best. What reason do we have to lie? “Oh, come on.”

“Seriously, you are!” By now, my friend has moved up behind the woman. He’s standing upright, drink in hand, behind her shoulder. “Oh hey, do you know my friend Louis?” I ask, shamelessly stealing a line from How I Met Your Mother. Then I mumble something about seeing the karaoke hostess about when I’m going to sing, and leave the two of them alone.

I’m down the bar, watching Louis talk to the woman. I’m struck by how close his approach looks to an outsider like the way he walked to me: posture open, leaning in, close, intimate. She’s laughing and smiling at her, and she’s smiling at him . . . though perhaps not as broadly as she’d smiled at me. Eventually I turn away and listen to the music again.

He’s back five minutes later. “Nice work, my brother,” he says, slipping me a private secret handshake that I nearly fumble at the last minute. “You are a good, good wingman.”

“But you’re back here,” I point out.

“She’s waiting for someone. There’ll be another.” He sits down to wait with me, and we pass the time talking, inches from each other.

He’s correct. Another woman makes her way into the bar and takes a seat at the tables in the back. I bring her to his attention. “Definitely not a blockaway," he says with approval.

“You know I’d do this for you,” he said. “Though I kinda suspect you don’t need me to.”

“What are wingmen for?” I ask, as I crack my knuckles and get to work.

I use the same approach. Ask her if she’s singing. Let it slip that I’m likely not after her body. Introduce my friend. And leave them alone. This time, though, it seems to stick. He’s at the table for five minutes, flashing his pearly whites, staring her down. Ten minutes. Then he’s beside her on the bench. When I take the stage to sing at the fifteen minute point, he’s to his arms around her, and they’re absorbed in their own little universe. Job done.

Three songs and I’m out. I give my buddy a wave on the way toward the door. I’m surprised when he makes an apology to the woman and skitters over to stand next to me. His arm’s around my shoulder and he gives me a hug and a toast with his glass. “I pretty sure I’m in this one. It’s all thanks to you.”
Again, the intimacy of the embrace, of that shared common goal of getting laid, makes me hard as a rock. No matter what holes our dicks go into, he and I both share that need of getting in and getting the job done. My heart’s thudding as I show some demur to his praise.

“I owe you one,” he says, looking me dead in the eye with his baby blues as I go. He points at me. “And I always pay my debts.”

I’m doubting he pay this one in quite the way I have in mind. Still. It’s nice to be owed.