Monday, November 24, 2014


There’s an expression men wear on their faces in certain naked moments. It’s a look of religion; it’s the look of truth about to be told. The young man lying on his back with his legs spread apart, his ass positioned up in the air, laid bare and open for my erect cock—he wore that expression. His eyes were wide, his voice breathy and full of wonder as he spoke. “Your eyes are so intense,” he said, raising his head to meet my eyes.

I stared back at him, steeping myself in his beauty. His muscular body. The breadth of his shoulders, the supple curves of his biceps. The narrowness of his waist. The perfect globes of his ass. His white, unblemished skin. And most of all, the masculinity and boyishness of his face, from the solid squareness of its shape to the hint of a snub at the tip of his nose. Of course I’m intense, I think to myself. I’m trying to memorize every detail of this boy. The head of my dick nudges against his hole, jumping at the warmth of it.

Then his lips part again. When he speaks, his words sound like prayer. “Looking into your eyes is like . . . looking into the eyes of a wolf,” he whispers.

My own lips close. I recognize the truth of what he’s told me. In actuality, at that moment I feel like a wolf. I’m a predator, closing in on prey crippled by the chase, too weak and limp to escape my slavering jaws. Only moments before I’d had him face down on the bed with a pillow shoved roughly beneath his pelvis, clutching at the bedclothes as I slobbered and chewed at the pucker of his ass. I’d eaten him out like I was a starving thing. I’d snorted and snuffled at him, pawed and probed, taking satisfaction in the cries he’d rasped out in the quiet of his Brooklyn apartment bedroom. Each of my growls was feral. Every grunt was of pure, satiated, animal pleasure.

I give him a smile. My lips part. My fangs show. I begin to slide into him, parting soft flesh with hard. “Slow,” he begs. “Please. Slow.”

I’m already one step ahead of him. I’m pushing softly, entering only as quickly as he allows. His ass speaks to me as fluently as his lips; I know exactly how quickly I can go. His eyes close. When they open again, they’re lidded, hazed. He still sees me clearly, though. The look he’s giving me is unwavering, full of awe. It’s just as intense as anything I could muster. I’m occupying all his focus.

At that moment in his life, there’s only me. No job worries, no husband, no dog waiting for a walk, no dinner to cook or shower to take or text to which he has to respond. Just me. My raw cock. This fuck.

“You feel so good,” I tell him, when I reach the bottom. “You’re mine, now.”

“Yours,” he echoes softly. “Only yours.”

“This is my hole,” I tell him, beginning to slide in and out.

“Your hole. It belongs to you,” he says, with a look of utter and absolute love in his eyes. “Do anything you want with it.”

“I will,” I tell him. My face is a foot above his. I’ve got my fists planted in his mattress as I piston my meat in and out of his slick, smooth chute. “Because it’s mine.”

“Because it’s yours,” he agrees. His handsome face has softened, gone slack as he melts into the sensation of my cock stretching out his hole. “Please load your hole, sir,” he begs. “Load your boy’s hole.”

“I’ll get there,” I tell him. “We only have one first fuck.”

I intend to make it last.

Sex at its best strips men down to their essences. Rabid wolf. Prey. Our connection, flesh to flesh, purges all the inconsequences and bullshit of our two everyday lives. All we are, all we want to be, is happening in that moment. Sadist. Sacrifice. Engorged flesh. Soft, pliant opening. My gift to him is of his own purity. I give him the chance to be what he most truly is; I provide him moments in which he can unburden himself of himself, to become what he wants more than anything. His most authentic self. He’s my boy. My hole.

And like a miser of flesh I take it for myself. I covet that hole. I’m greedy for it, anxious to conquer it. I need to plant my seed inside it, to mark it as mine. All mine. No one else’s. Mine.

“Please,” he begs, his eyes blazing into mine. That face—so honest, so full of need. He’s so beautiful.
I’m nearly ready. But not yet. “You know why I saved this load for you?” I ask. I’d known we’d have this afternoon together a week before, when we’d made the date. I’d kept it in my pants since them.

He shakes his head slowly. I feel his ass clench down on my cock. It nearly pushes me over the edge. “Why,” he says, the desire for it naked in his expression.

In a soft voice, I explain. “Partly it was to flatter you,” I say. “Sure it was. But that’s not the real reason. I did it because I knew it belonged to you. I did it because I wanted it to be you.” Our lips meet. We kiss softly. Wetly. “I saved up a seven-day load because I knew you would be worth it.”

“Am I?” he asks. “Am I worth it?”

I nod. “Oh, son,” I sigh. “You truly are.”

He lets out a gulp of pleasure like a sob. At the sound, my load gushes inside him. I can feel it pumping out of me, molten as lava. It coats him thickly, painting itself onto the walls of his guts as I spray what feels, in that moment, like an unending stream of the gooey, sticky stuff. My cock feels the difference immediately. It’s coated by my own semen. It glides more smoothly than any bottled lube.

He’s beating his own cock. His eyes beg me for permission to blow. I nod slightly. He erupts. A spurt of his cum arcs onto his chest, splashes onto his abdomen. Another follows, its path nearly matching the length of the first. My load’s buried inside him, but I know if I’d pulled out, it would puddle onto the sheets as copious, as thick, as glistening as this.

For a long, still moment we remain where we are, he and I. We stare at each other, hearts still thudding.

Then, as the blood clears from our heads, he reaches up, and pulls me to him. “Your hole. You own it,” he whispers, as he kisses me deeply.

I recognize the embrace for what it is: a promise that we are connected forever in this moment. A recognition of how thoroughly we’ve reduced each other to our bottom lines—our alchemic essences. Cock. Hole. Giver. Receiver. Sir. Boy.


Willing prey.

Friday, November 14, 2014


It’s a chilly morning and my breath unfurls in frosty curlicues before me. The sun’s on my face as I walk toward the man’s apartment, however, and I’m still toasty from my car. I’m a little surprised to find him sitting on the building’s steps in gym shorts. His legs are spread, his smile broad as he recognizes me. He’s got one hand thrust into a lightweight jacket pocket. The other holds a cell phone. He lifts his chin in greeting, says something in Spanish to the person on the other end, then ends the call. “Come on inside,” he says.

This neighborhood is filled with apartment buildings like this. They look like single-family residences from the outside, once inside they’re a warren-like complex of tiny flats crammed into every available space. I let him maneuver around me in the tight stairwell once I’m inside, so that he can lead me down into the basement. There are three white wooden doors at the bottom of the steps. He opens one with his key, and escorts me in to a clean, surprisingly sunny residence. I pull off my jacket and toss it on the sofa as I glance around. There’s a tiny kitchenette, and a sofa where he’s tossed a Playstation controller, and a large television hung on the wall. Before I get a chance to look at more, though, the man puts his hands on my hips, and pulls me to him.

Our lips meet. The guy kind of looks a little bit like a brute. His shoulders and broad, his chest deep and developed. His Latin features are hewn rough on his face; his eyebrows are broad charcoal smudges. But his kisses are light. Wet. Soft. His mouth tastes sweet, like honey water.

While he holds the back of my head, refusing to let my lips pull away, his free hand unbuttons my shirt. I kick off my sneakers as he stares hard into my eyes. When I put my palm to his crotch, I feel the hardness there. For a split-second I worry that my hands are too cold from the raw morning. But he grinds forward at the pressure, and uses his wandering hand to grab the small of my back and yank me closer.

The rough treatment makes me let out the smallest of gasps. He hears me, though. He knows I like it. His hands move up to my shoulders, and push me down.

He helps me pull his shorts to his ankles, letting them and his underwear drop in one smooth, swift motion. His uncut cock is dark, chocolate-colored. The sheath covers almost the entire head; only the slit peeks out. Already it’s glistening. When I open my mouth wide and take the six inches to the root, he grunts.

Within seconds, my saliva lets my lips glide back and forth along the whole length of his shaft. I feel him shift from foot to foot as he spreads his legs and lets his balls dangle more freely. Then he seizes my skull and yanks it down, roughly, until his cock head is plugging my throat. I’d taken a deep breath at the appropriate time, though. I’m prepared to relax and let him savor the sensations as he impales me for a long moment. When I back off, though, and his cock slithers out and drops heavily from my lips to my chin to point to the floor, I’m gagging and gasping for air. My eyes sting from the tears he’s drawn with that thick, dark ramrod.

He likes the sight of those tears, too.

He enjoys watching me as I dive once more for my prize. Holding me at arm’s length, tilting my head as I suck and slobber. The man forces me to look at him as I go deep on his meat. His dark eyes bore down. Though I feel water filling mine every time he stretches my throat, I strive my hardest to keep from blinking. Only when I’m awash in my own tears do I finally squeeze my lids together. Rivulets stream down my cheeks.

When he moves me into the bedroom it’s nothing more than a rush of blur and motion—a few seconds of deprivation and an empty mouth. Then I’m lying on his high queen-sized mattress, rumpling the primly-made bedding, and he’s straddling my face. One of his big hands grabs the back of my head like a basketball, yanks it up, shoves a pillow beneath. Several times he shoves it down, craning my neck upward, until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t give a shit about my comfort. He’s just trying to get my open, begging mouth at the perfect angle for his dick. That dick is his only concern for the moment. His dick, and the wet mouth that he’s using.

And I’m not so much sucking him anymore as getting the hole fucked. I keep my jaw wide and my throat loose and my teeth wrapped with my lips. I want to stay out of his way as much as possible, basically, as he pounds my mouth. He bones it like pussy. He plants his palms into the mattress above my head and rests his weight there. His knees are splayed far to either side. The bony parts of his hips bruise my cheeks as he thrusts hard, in and out. My nose is full of the sharp, musky smell of his black pubes. It’s my responsibility to gulp breaths when I’m able—not his to facilitate it. I know what I’m there for.

I can tell he’s getting close when his precum begins to flood my mouth. It’s salty, slightly sour, slick enough to make the passage of his inches even faster and smoother. I feel his hips buckle, his legs twitch. Then he drives in to the back of my throat, smothering me with his pelvis, grinding those hairs so hard into my skin they abrade. I feel his meat swell and subside, grow and shrink, several times over until he’s finally dumped the entire load.

When finally he pulls out I’m both choking and trying to get air into my lungs, but I’m gracious enough—and proud—not to let my distress show. I swallow that thick, pungent semen and lick both it and his precum from my lips. I blink away the moisture from my eyes, and wipe my nose. He climbs off me, his mostly-hard dick swinging like a pendulum as he hops off the bed and pads into the bathroom.

I still have on my shoes, my pants, my shirt. Nothing came off. All I have to do is crawl off the bed and make sure everything’s tucked in, check my hair in the mirror. He emerges from the bathroom and tosses a lukewarm washcloth at me. While I wipe my face with it, he studies me. Taking it back, he comments, “Pretty good cocksucker for a white boy.”

I nod, grateful for the praise, then turn to go. “Hey,” he says, grabbing my forearm with a strong grip. Then he pulls me into another kiss—just as deep and passionate as before. “Come back sometime,” he whispers, looking into my eyes again. I nod again, and grin. He guides me to the door, undoes the chain locking it, and lets me out.

It’s still cold outside when I trip down his steps and onto the sidewalk. I can still see my breath on the air. But my hands are a little warmer, my face a little redder, and my throat a whole lot more sore when I make my way down the street with my long shadow dancing down the pavement before me.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

A Long (and Relaxing) Silence

Two years ago I took my blog on hiatus for a few months because of a pretty severe encounter with a stalker, who was also one of my readers. As you can imagine, the experience left me wary for a while of sharing any details about my personal life. And it doesn’t get much more personal than a sex blog.

A year ago I took something of an enforced break from writing when my health faltered. For a couple of weeks, I couldn’t even really sit up, much less have sex or have the energy to write about it.

Recently I’ve taken a break because . . . well, to be perfectly frank, I’ve been having something of a snit. I admit it. The reason sounds childish. But there it is.

My bad mood started sometime in August, when two ominous fronts collided and created the conditions for a perfect storm of massive pique on my part. I’m not really quite sure what happened on the first front—whether Mercury went into retrograde or not, or whether there was something in the local waters, or whether all those shirtless photos Nick Jonas was flooding onto Instagram made everyone feel inadequate about themselves. But for a while there, just about everyone I was cruising for sex was being a total dick.

Without going into too much detail, in my personal life there were a couple of gentlemen I took to bed with whom I had incredibly intense and connected experiences. I would’ve been okay if they’d been one-time encounters. Honestly. But both of them, as we lay there in post-coital entanglement, made elaborate plans how how we should be seeing each other regularly. One was a young guy with a sense of sexual adventure who told me about the places and parties he wanted to take me, so we could show off our fucking to others and have them join in; the other was a more mature, more passionate lover who wanted me to spend weekends with him at his cottage in the country, screwing like rabbits. I liked both men. They appealed to the pig and the romantic in me.

Of course, I never heard from either of them again, after I drove home. I sent emails and texts that got no replies. After a couple of weeks, and with a lot of disappointment, I just gave up on them both.

Online I wasn’t encountering just the standard assholery, either—the guys who unlock their photos for a hot second and then immediately lock them again before I’ve had a chance to look at them, or the ones who commit to a date a couple of days in advance and then stand me up before 48 hours have elapsed. No, I’m used to them. I’m used to the guys who hit me up hard and horny on Scruff, who want to wheedle their way into my pants one minute, and who ignore my existence the moment they’ve jerked off. These guys went above and beyond that already-low bar of behavior.

For example, this exchange, reproduced verbatim, was pretty typical of what I encountered:

SOME GUY: You have a really great smile! And dick!
ME: I appreciate the compliments. You’re really handsome as well.
SOME GUY: I didn’t say you were handsome.

There was the guy who said You’d almost be hot if you weren’t so old. And there was the guy who gave me the back-handed compliment (I think?) of You look like the creepy pervert who hangs out at the high school stadium staring at the cheerleaders but I find that kind of hot in a way. I could go on for quite a while, but why revisit each and every affront? August was a month in which guys managed to put my ego to the rack and pillory in just about every conceivable way.

Normally I can shrug that shit off. It’s just part of the crap with which one gets spattered when one’s dredging the local waters for sex. At the same time, though, I was getting stressed out by a fairly sizable contingent of my readers.

Most of my faithful followers know that over the years I’ve been plagued by a handful of trolls, ill-wishers, and the downright psychotic. Hurtful though their responses can sometimes be, lately they’ve been nothing compared to burdens put on me—and I say this as gently as possible—by readers who would consider themselves well-meaning, upbeat, and positive. And I had a lot of those this summer.

The common theme between them all seemed to be that I owed them all something. They read my blog, was their implication, so now it was my turn to give back. For example, I had what turned into a contentious discussion with one reader who at first chided me on Manhunt for not replying to his mails there more quickly. After all, he read me all the time, so I should be responding to his messages first, and immediately. Then he asked me if I could give him the name of my blog and its URL. When I suggested that if he really were a regular reader, he should have the thing bookmarked instead of bugging me about it (I probably worded it more tactfully, but that was definitely my implication), the guy blew up. I should be more nice, he complained. I really needed to go more out of my way for my readers. I owed them that kind of courtesy. (I blocked him, and good fucking riddance.)

Then there were several readers who were going to be in my area, some quite close, some not so much. Many of the former expected—didn’t ask, just expected— me to show up and provide stud service on demand, simply because they were readers and they wanted it. Many of the latter expected—didn’t suggest, didn’t negotiate, just expected—me to drive up to two hours away to fuck them because they said so.

There was one reader who started sending me drafts of his book, a 300-plus-page memoir, for critique. At first I attempted to make some vague comments about the opening first pages while strongly suggesting that he find a local writing group or someone (not me!) who was actually willing to commit a huge chunk of time to reading the damned thing. When those hints didn’t take and I outright told him that it was tough enough finding time to read the books I wanted to read, much less the unpublished projects of aspiring writers I had no desire to slog through or critique in detail, especially when I hadn’t ever, ever asked to see said projects, I was rather huffily told that it was curious I should expect people to read my blog and never do anything in return for them.

I had a handful of readers who would send me very, verrrrry long emails. Ordinarily when a reader sends me an email, if it’s short enough, I’ll respond back relatively quickly. If it’s long, the reader usually will have to wait a longer time for a response, because it’s more of an investment of my time to do the reply justice. If it’s very, verrrrrrry fucking long, he’ll be waiting a while. A couple of these wordy readers, however, started to send me follow-up emails to their original verrrrrrrry long inquiries that were variations on the following:

1) Did I get the original email? Because they could send it again.
2) Hey, they’re just wondering, did I get the emails to check up on whether I got their original email? Because they sent an email and I never replied. Just checking!
3) I still haven’t replied to the original email or the follow-ups. Would I like a copy of the original email again? Because they could send it if I didn’t get it.
4) I hadn’t responded to their emails yet, was I dead? Or was my email not working?
5) They’ve decided they must have said something terribly wrong in one of their several emails, because I haven’t replied. They were very sorry if that’s the case. If it wasn’t, could I respond to the original email?
6) They were sorry if they was inundating me with emails. They just wanted me to read their email!

Look. There are times I have lots of free moments to answer emails. And there are times when I’m busy with work and life and fucking and my time with my laptop is at a minimum. I try to answer email when I can. But the one best way to guarantee I’m going to postpone answering your email is to badger me with follow-up emails asking me why I haven’t answered your email. The one best way to guarantee I’ll never answer any of them is to send so many that I start grinding my teeth and actually feeling my blood pressure elevate whenever I see your name appear in my inbox.

I think the straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was the reader who told me he didn’t believe I was married. Nope, I was just saying that because—well, I don’t know why. Apparently he just didn’t seem to think I was a bill of goods anyone would actually buy. My word wasn’t good enough. The fact that I’m always wearing a wedding ring doesn’t matter, because anyone could wear a cheap ring. Of course I should’ve just rolled my eyes and told the guy that it was a shame he didn’t take me at my word. But no. I have a morbid curiosity that gets the worse of me. I caved and asked him what would constitute acceptable proof? A scanned copy of my marriage certificate, he informed me. Oh, and an immediate Skype tour of my bedroom, so that he could see there were two clock-radios and proof of living arrangements for two people, and not just one.

Never mind that asking someone to do such a thing is, in my opinion, horribly invasive, inappropriate, and offensive. I owed him a copy of that legal document.

I’m fully aware that anytime I complain about fans of my blog I sound like I’m some refugee from a formerly-popular-but-recently-dissolved boy band who makes a solo album that’s chock-full of songs about the pressures of stardom and how he wishes his fans would just leave him alone so he can chill, yo. But the fact is that while running a sex blog of some popularity has allowed me opportunities to meet and correspond with all kinds of fantastic people, there are nearly just as many times that fans have made my life a misery. Not all of them are bad as the time two years ago that one of my fans used my blog to stalk me in real life—but often close.

I’ve always felt that writing my blog is a gift from me to my readers. I don’t earn money from it. I rarely get presents out of it. I don’t ask readers to support advertisers or buy my T-shirts. The bargain between us is simplicity itself: I’m supposed to have fun seeking out sex and having it. I’m supposed to have fun writing about it. I’ve spent countless hours doing so over the course of several years so that I can share it with thousands of people. That investment of gas and lube and sweat and the long periods of time it takes to write about it is supposed to be a sweet giveaway from me to the strangers who are kind enough to take their time to read me.

Rather than take my gift at face value, there are a handful of readers—and again, I recognize they might think they mean well—who seem to assume that I owe them more than what I already was giving. Either their numbers surged, or I was in a bad enough mood that I allowed them to overwhelm me. Because suddenly, around summer’s end, none of it was any fun anymore.

I told a couple of close friends that I was declaring August and September to be ‘Boys R Stupid Months,’ and just withdrew. I gave myself permission to stop blogging until it felt like it would be fun again.

And you know, a couple of times it almost felt like it might be. I posted a couple of entries, hopeful that the old joy in sharing would return. Almost immediately I got reminded why it had become un-fun, as guys who’d never before commented would leave comments like Nice blog post but here is a list of typos I found EXTREMELY off-putting. . . or This doesn’t sound like the blogger I expect! or, god help me, Welcome back I guess but why haven’t you written about the Landscaper?

You know, being somewhat anonymous the past couple of months has been pleasant. I fuck, and don’t feel compelled to capture every little detail so I can recount it later. I don’t feel as if I’m having to be sexy, 24/7, in order to fulfill a reader’s expectations. An inbox full of reader emails? I’ve enjoyed seeing it as an option rather than a bundle of little obligations that add up to a prescription for anxiety and tense obligation. Being selfish has been, on the whole, a hell of a lot more relaxing than being giving.

Now, nobody can make writing fun for me again. That’s not anyone’s responsibility save my own. If I am to continue—and to be honest, I haven’t entirely decided whether that’s the case yet—the impetus for it has to come from within. It’s a decision that only I can make.

But readers, if you’ve gotten this far, there surely are a lot of ways that you can refrain from making my experience unenjoyable. It pains and even surprises me a little that I have to ask: but maybe a few of you could actually think about that, before adding to my to-do list? Maybe you could think of me as a person first, and an erection second? Perhaps you could ask yourself whether it’s appropriate to want copies of my legal documents, before making the demand?

Because that could make the going all the easier, trust me.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


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


“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 pirañas 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.