Monday, June 26, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 3: When An Experiment Fails

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, sir. Yes, I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, and I let the subject drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That experiment I’d proposed had obviously failed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Maybe one of these men is you.

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

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

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, June 19, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 2: This Faggot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BRING ME ANOTHER!, roared my ego again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodbye, Sir. I love you, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

Say the words now.

It said I love you, Sir.

Did you mean it in the moment?

Yes Sir. It meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You deleted your profile, I texted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Maybe one of these men is you.

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

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

All of us could stand to do better.

Monday, June 12, 2017

13 Reasons Why/Tape 1: Dad


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

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

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

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

Maybe one of these men is you.

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

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

All of us could stand to do better.

Tape 1: Dad

There are some fantasies I can get behind.

Can I tell you something personal and true? he texts me, one hot spring morning.

You know you can, I say.

When I stumbled on your blog, I read your latest entry with the biggest boner, sir. It was hard not to jack off and shoot right there. You write so well, sir.

Thank you.

I’m sitting on my front porch, reading these words. There’s a big plastic cup of ice water sweating onto the table at my side. I reach for it, intending to drink, but my fingertips rest on the dewy surface instead, as another text pops up on my screen.

Then I read more, and more, thinking to myself, could this be . . . ? I thought I recognized you, sir. Something about the way you used your words. It sounded familiar. Then I noticed you had links to your profiles on your page, so I clicked them.

My cock stirs in my sweat shorts. I know good storytellers. This guy’s a storyteller, plain and simple. Between that and the flattery, he’s hooked me from the first line. I’m willing to follow wherever he goes.

Then fuuuuuck, sir. I saw who it was. The man I’d been rubbing myself to, the man I’d been fantasizing about giving myself to—YOU. I saw your pictures, dad. My own dad. The man whose seed made me.

I swallow. I’m still thirsty; my hand still rests on the moist tumbler of water, but I’m so rapt, so aroused, that such a mundane act as lifting the glass to my lips might break the spell.

Do you remember teaching me, dad? At night? In my bed? After mom had gone to sleep?

He expects an answer. I wouldn’t forget that, my fingers tap out. My heart is pounding so fast that I stumble over the tiny letters on my touchscreen. I wouldn’t forget teaching my own son.

It hurt so much that I thought I’d die the first time you opened my hole. Remember? How old was I?

You don’t remember?

I think I was 12 or 13. The fantasy he’s spinning conjures images, imaginary but with the sharp clarity of recollection—the distinct tang of an adolescent’s laundry hamper, the flash of a taut white ass by moonlight, the sound of a moan as my hard dick thrusts into soft flesh. I’d fantasized about it happening, and then you did it. You taught me how to take dick. My own father taught me to take his breedings.

At this point I’ve forgotten about the water entirely. My shorts are tented; my dick is rigid and in need. You needed to learn, I tell him in a text. My boy needed to learn.

He starts sending me photos. You haven’t seen me in a long time. Look how I’ve grown, he says, sending me a shot of his big, muscular body sprawled out on his sofa. His legs are spread. His dick, ignored, is a fat uncut log that lies across his hairy abdomen. His hands are spreading the golden-red cleft of fur surrounding his hole; his mouth is open in an expression of ecstasy. In another photo he’s sucking dick, his bearded jaw stretched wide to accommodate a fat black dick, while another white hand reaches from behind to grab his curly red hair. The guy—my supposed son—is fucking beautiful.

He could be mine, I think. More photos come in, each of them increasingly explicit. This ginger muscle bear of a man could have been my spawn. I would have been, well, seventeen when he was born. But it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of plausible belief.

When you and mom divorced and she took me away, I never thought I’d see you again, dad. Then I find out you’re a sex blogger . . . and still so handsome and sexy to boot. I am the luckiest boy.

On my porch, I clear my throat. There’s no hesitation when I tap out my reply. Let me make you happy in person.

I was hoping you’d say that. I’m so happy. You’ve made me so happy, dad. Will you be writing about me in your blog?

Do you want me to, son?

Yes. I want to make you proud. I’m proud that my dad is my lover. I want everyone to know about it.

We meet the next day. He makes it easy for us to connect; he doesn’t have to work during the day, his apartment is a block away from the 7 train. He wants me there. He wants to make this good for me. He wants his dad. The need is apparent in every text he sends, in every lewd photo he shares. Even as I’m taking the train to Queens, he’s texting me every couple of minutes to check on my arrival time. When I’m strolling down the block past the noisy bodega, he’s sending me a real-time photo of his furry hole.

He buzzes me in. I climb up two flights of stairs and knock. There’s a sound of footsteps on the other side. The door opens. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a jock and a pair of white sneakers.

He’s only an inch or two shorter than I. Flat red nipples sit on perfect pecs, surrounded by and covered by his red-gold fur. His beard, bushy and carefully-cultivated, reaches to his collarbone. His green eyes are alight with desire as he looks me over. This boy is so beautiful. I’m already breathless from the walk and the climb and the nervousness of the first meeting; the sight of him standing there nearly naked, his rigid short dick trying to poke a hole through one side of the jock, temporarily knocks out of me what wind I have remaining.

We stand there silently for a moment, each of us framed on either side of the door. “I know it’s been years since mom took me away from you, sir. But have I changed much?” He clears his throat. Maybe he’s as nervous as I. “Have I changed a lot, dad?”

“No, son.” I step forward through the door. I put my hands on the sharp bones of his pelvis, and let my fingers slip beneath the elastic of the band. “You’re still my boy.” When I plant my lips on his, and thrust my tongue into his mouth, he relaxes and melts into my hands.

His apartment is a mess—a narrow warren of hallways and small rooms where suitcases are stacked on top of bookcases on top of cabinets, where clothes are tucked under the desk and in the wardrobes and under the bed. It smells of cigarette smoke and some neighbor’s seafood lunch. I don’t give a fuck about the squalor. I’ve got my boy back at last. I lead him to the bed as if I already know the way, and shove him onto his back. His legs fly up as I kneel on the mattress and separate them with my knees; he links his fingers behind his head to lift it as we kiss even more deeply. He wears no deodorant; his pits smell musky and masculine. “Oh god, dad,” he moans. “I used to worry that all my memories of us were a dream, that you didn’t love me any more.”

“I didn’t forget you, son,” I say into his ear. My lips travel down his jawbone. “I couldn’t forget my only boy.”

“Do you remember when you used to come to my room after fucking mom? Do you remember what you used to say to me?”

He’s clearly expecting an answer. My mouth is more interested in chewing on those broad, flat nipples of his, but I venture a guess. “I know I used to tell you how you were a much better fuck than she was,” I say, as I drive my fingers into that hairy cleft framed by the jock. I find his hole lubed already, slick and ready for my fingers. He groans as they slip inside.

“Yesssss,” he whispers. He unhooks his fingers and grabs the toes of his sneakers to open his ass wider for me. “Did you mean it? Was I really a better fuck?”

“Oh god yes, son. So much better.”

“Was my pussy sweeter?’

“Much sweeter.”

“What was it you used to call me, that special nickname that you’d use when we were naked together?”

My dick is raging in my shorts, and I’ve stood up from the bed to let it loose. The question takes me aback a little. I try to think quickly, despite the fact that the blood that’s usually in my brain is all now located in the eight fat inches emerging over the elastic of my trunks. “Um. Daddy’s little buddy?”

“Yes.” He sighs with contentment as I kneel back on the bed. “You’re going to fuck me now, aren’t you, dad. You’re just going to take me, like you used to. Your right. I’m your boy, after all. I'm daddy’s little buddy.”

“You want to be fucked? You want dad’s dick in you again, little buddy?”

“Please dad. Please fuck me. Just fuck your son. Fuck me. Fuck me. Aaaaaah!”

He yells when I plunge in. He’s pre-lubed, and I’ve added some spit to the mix, but he’s a tight, tight fit.

“Oh god, yes. Yes. I’m so happy.”

I like making boys happy.

He sighs, contented. “So, so happy.”

I slide in an out, establishing a rhythm. He’s hanging onto his ankles like a gymnast; his face is red and flushed with heat and excitement. All this time, every moment of it, I’ve been trying to memorize the details—the hardened glint of his green eyes, the prickles of red on his skin as our fuck intensifies, the softness of his hole wrapped around my rigid meat. He’s giving me so much to remember, to write about. The entry I write about him will sizzle. Entry? Fuck. I’ll becoming back for more of this. Entries. “You still take my dick like a pro, son.”

“Thank you dad,” he says,

There’s a pause. We stare hard at each other, for the last time both perfectly content.

Then. “Remember when mom went away for a week? And you and me were alone?” I nod. Okay. Sure. “After you and mom argued? What did you argue about again?”

I’m still maintaining a steady rhythm that falters one for a split second as I try to grapple with his out-of-the-blue question. “Our arguments had nothing to do with you, son. You were a good boy.”

“I know, I know you loved me. But what did you argue about?”

He could’ve let it drop. Anyone else would’ve let it drop. But this one didn’t let it drop. “It was about money, son.”

“Yes, about money. And then she went away for a week. Where did she go?”

Christ, I thought. Seriously? “She went to stay with her sister.”

“Which one, dad?”

I blinked several times. “Your Aunt Rachel.”

“Aunt Rachel had boys too, didn’t she?” Where in the world was this going? “Didn’t she have two boys? My cousins?”

“Yes, son. She did,” I said, agreeing with him. Maybe it was the fastest way to get him back into the fuck.

“What were their names, dad?”

“I don’t remember, son. We hardly ever saw them.”

“Did you ever look at them, dad? Did you ever want to pound your fat dick into them the way you fucked me?”

I pulled my dick out of his hole. It gaped as I withdrew, and pulsated in need. “No, son. The only boy I wanted to fuck was you. My own beautiful boy. Daddy’s little buddy.”

“Oh fuck,” he says, so softly it’s little more than air. I’ve made him happy again. Finally. After all the damned questions. “Thank you, dad. Thank you so much.”

Okay. We’re back in the groove again. I pick up the pace as I plunge in and out of his hole. He’s shoved a pillow under the small of his back to support himself as he lifts his ass up with every thrust to meet me. I’m leaning down to kiss him when once again he opens his mouth to speak. “Remember how you comforted me when my dog died?”

He’s not doing this now, I think, appalled. Aloud, I say, “Really?”

“Yes, it really meant a lot to me. What was the dog’s name?”

“Bingo?” I blurt out, mortified at how ridiculous it sounds as it flys out of my mouth. A thousand dog names to choose from, and of everything I could choose, fucking BINGO as the name-o?

He didn't even seem to realize how absurd it was, either. “I was really sad when we had to put down Bingo, but you made me forget it all that night when you came to me in my room,” he said, so totally lost in the fantasy that he failed to see the increasing annoyance registering on my face. “You were deep inside me and holding me in your arms and you said. . . .”

What the actual fuck. Was this dude kidding me? Was a fucking camera hidden in the mess surrounding the bed? Was there a smarmy host of a YouTube sexual prank show about to pop out and tell me that I was being punked?

Despite the fact that I was being rapidly turned off at his weird insistence I participate in some weird kind of game of Incestual Mad Libs, I gamely tried to yank his attention back to the here and now. To me and to my fat dick inside him. To what was happening, to what was going on—to get his mind off the baroque fantasy for which he was attempting to enlist me as a mere collaborator. “You’ve got to forget all the bad times, son. Focus on the moment. You like dad’s cock, right?”

Maddeningly, he runs with it and says, “Yes, that’s exactly what you said. And it consoled me so much. You always know the right thing to say, dad. Remember when you got me my first jock? How old was I?”

“Fourteen,” I snap. Maybe if I just fuck and pretend I'm somewhere else, I'll get my nut and then I could plead some excuse to make a quick exit. Like a dog’s funeral, say.

“Right. Fourteen, and you took me to….”

“Dick’s Sporting Goods.” I preemptively add, “Bike brand. Four-ninety-five.”

“And you put it on me, didn't on you. My first jock, and you put it on me and told me I was a man now. You said that the coach would look at my ass in that jock. What was the coach’s name, dad?”

“Hey. Son. I’m not interested in him, or those memories.” I sounded brusque. I knew it. I couldn't conceal my testiness or my annoyance any longer. Having sex with this guy, muscle stud though he was, was like trying to fuck while a swarm of annoying gnats surrounded my head. Maybe a better man—or a more desperate man—might power through, but dammit, those gnats were fucking annoying. This casual encounter was turning out to have more lore than all three hundred films in the Lord of the Rings series. I fucking couldn't keep up.

But he persisted his wheedling. “What was the coach’s name?”

I excused myself to the guy’s filthy bathroom, where I remained until my temper subsided enough to leave politely.

To this day, you wonder why I won't return your online messages. Now you know.

You wanted me to write about you. For the longest time after that disastrous afternoon, I wouldn't. I don't like showing well-meaning souls behaving inanely. But by being deaf to my requests to engage in the present, to leave behind the fantasy, to set aside your complicated agenda—or at least bring it all into the moment—you turned powerful potential into the worst kind of reality.

You took a scorching hot premise for an encounter and ran too fucking far with it. In the process, you shut me down as a writer. If I'd recorded the truth of that hot spring afternoon as it really happened, you'd have hated it. If I'd glossed over your shortcomings, if I'd written puff porn for my blog, I'd have hated myself. So I stayed silent.

I don’t keep a blog to stay silent. Doing so left me a little more dead inside. At least, until now, long after, when I’m addressing a one of many resentments I should have confronted long ago.

Welcome to your tape, son.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

A Sex Blogger's Credo

If you are ever the madcap, slightly insane kind of person ever to aspire to keeping a long-lasting sex blog, know that there’s an unannounced, unheralded side effect: an overriding sense of obligation.

I never get a sweet sense of glowing satisfaction from the project (though I should, given its volume and longevity). Always I have a nagging sense of something left unfinished. Maybe I feel I've got an entry in me that hasn’t been written, or an encounter that hasn’t been catalogued. There always seems to be a deadline approaching (self-imposed), a memory to be recorded, a challenge to record something done before in a new manner. There are only so many different insertion points in a sexual act, after all. Finding novel ways to discuss inserting tab A into slot B becomes a daunting task.

I get pressure from the outside, too. Readers ask for more entries about one particular person. They want to hear less of the mushy stuff. I get encouragement to show sides of myself that aren’t always what I consider my core, while I’m squelched from sharing other aspects. When I’m not writing, readers have a way of letting me know I sure as hell should be. Long-term readers demand my attention; I owe them, they feel, because they've stuck around so long. The new readers make themselves known as well. They write in with the same old questions, the ones I’ve answered a hundred times before, the ones that make me grind my molars when I see them asked again. I owe them the answers, they seem to imply. Just because they’ve taken the time to read.

When I’m not thinking about the writing, there’s always the pressure to have the raw experiences (pun intended) to generate material. In the sex blog business, that means fucking. I have to consider which fuck will be next. Who makes the cut for an individual entry. There are trysts to arrange, travel plans to make. Maybe I desire one of those evenings where all I really want is to lie there and be serviced while I ponder what happened the night before on How to Get Away with Murder—but I feel obligated to make the sex spicy, make it fun, make it worth reading about. I have to exercise my powers of observation, to remember the conversations, to take note of what the guy did that stands out. Not only does sex become a form of work, but I’m having simultaneously to be the moonlighting writer who’s making constant mental notes so he can scribble it down later.

Since the day I started writing my sex blog, it's provided me one interesting and unexpected opportunity after another. Over the last three years, though, I think I’m honest in saying I’ve experienced more disappointments than fringe benefits. I’ve been stalked in my everyday life by a reader. I’ve been harassed by multiple others. One man left me nearly for dead. Most hurtful of all, however, have been the readers who’ve opened up just enough to care about them, only to abandon me when I’m inconvenient or inessential. I wrote beautiful tributes to one because no one had ever seen him with such esteem; my essay about him made him glow. But he found find my admiration awkward in the entry that followed, then without warning demoted me from the lover he needed in his life to someone he used to know.

They come to me for validation. They leave without returning it.

Then there are the readers who make promises. They want to meet. They want to perform unspeakable acts for me that will make my toes curl. Any fantasy of which I can dream, they promise to fulfill. So I allow myself to be led on by pretty faces and prettier promises, and it’s months and sometimes years later when it registers that they never intended to do any of the things they pledged to do so well.

To many, the sex blogger about whom they’ve fantasized is essential and exciting in the heat of an eroticized moment. In the next, he’s an afterthought. An unsightly stain.

I'm resilient, but my feelings aren’t bulletproof. I grieve for the vanishments. They’ve left me emptied out and lonely. The never-ending obligation of keeping the blog afloat kept me marching stolidly onward for many a year, though. I thought I was fighting the good fight. I thought that if I did what I do best, my spirits and fortunes would turn. I thought if I stuck to my core beliefs, I’d recapture the love of writing the blog again, even though it had been beaten out of me time and time again.

Then at the beginning of this year, I relieved myself of obligation. Write only when you feel like it, I told myself. Forget about the sense of always having to provide, of always being the good sport or the reliable one. Forget about the fan mail, the comments, the fleeting pride in notoriety. Stop thinking you owe people anything, I told myself. It’s okay to ask yourself what they owe you, for giving so much of yourself, for putting it all out there publicly.

I felt petulant and stubborn at first, but gradually I began to relax into my neglect of duty. It’s taken months, but gradually I’ve come to realize that it’s okay to let go. It really is. Beautiful flowers wilt beneath the harsh sun all the time; lush fruits wither on the vine. For several years I accomplished what I set out to accomplish. For a handful of time I opened myself wide to opportunity and had the blessing of sharing so much of myself with an audience I loved. Few people ever really achieve that dream.

Am I letting go completely? I don’t know, to be honest. The urge to share has always been a part of my life. Tomorrow I might honor the impulse to write about a random blowjob. Perhaps it’ll be weeks before I make another entry. I can’t see into the future well enough to know when, or if, I’ll write again. I will say that for the last few months I have so very much enjoyed not feeling obligated—not by anything, or anyone.

I do want to take this opportunity, however, to make a few positive points and state the things I firmly believe—the very beliefs that prompted me to begin this sex blog, in fact. A sex blogger’s credo, if you will. I’ll begin with:

1. Your sex life is worthy of recognition. Your sex life is worthy of thought, examination, and celebration. The Puritan impulse is so strong in so many people, even today, that they shun the very notion that it should be aired or shown the light of day, much less be put under the microscope. It’s ‘just sex.’ To them, it’s as deserving of discussion as nose-picking. It’s something done in a dark corner with people’s eyes averted, then hastily cleaned up.

Nonsense, I say. Our sexual dreams and desires occupy so much of our head space, so often. It’s okay to experience desire. It’s human to yearn for more sex, for better sex, for intimacy. Hunting for sex in all its forms, then wanting more, is what we as people spend vast chunks of our life doing. What we rarely do is talk about it, or share those experiences.

But here’s the thing: if we don’t discuss them, if we don’t share, they’re lost forever—and we are lost forever. We are telling our successors on this planet that we were above such things, that they never played a part of our lives, our relationships, the choices we make on a daily basis. If we don’t communicate, we let ignorance prosper.

It takes a brave heart to talk about one’s sex life—especially to do so in public, with everyone watching. But doing so is not only bold, and truthful, but noble. It’s shining a light in those dark corners. It’s shouting, I am a sexual being, and I worthy of being heard. Do so, and a handful of people might recoil in disgust, but there will be multitudes who yearn to join your voice with their own. They will silently cheer you on.

2. Your sex life is a beautiful gift, and it is yours alone to cultivate. Sex is amazing. It can take form in the quiet intimacy between two lovers. It can become the red-hot, heart-pounding bliss of animal fucking. You can have as much of it as you like. It’s a hobby that optimally doesn’t cost more than the overhead of travel and a bare minimum of equipment. You can have it pretty much anywhere you want.

But here’s the thing: I see so many poor fuckers who just let all those beautiful opportunities slip by; they think that sex is something that happens to other people. Never to them. They want good sex. They masturbate constantly and have very specific fantasies they’d love to make reality. But they aren’t willing to take the steps to make anything happen. They won’t take the risks for the sex they spend so much time craving. They pace their self-imposed cages like trapped animals, longing for freedom—though they never recognize that the doors to those cages have always been open to them.

You have the power to make your sex life what you want. You have the power to shape your relationships—your marriages, your friendships, the relationships you have with lovers—however you want. A marriage doesn’t have to be loveless and sexless; it doesn’t have to be monogamous. But you have to take the steps to reshape it into something mutually satisfying for both of you. You have to make yourself heard.

I’ve never known anyone, even the most depraved of sensualists, who went to the grave bemoaning the fact that they enjoyed their life too much. But my email boxes are full of messages from people who never have sexual enjoyment in their lives.

Time slips like water through our fingers, friends. It’s up to you to make your life one that you’ll be happy to have lived.

3. You are a beautiful person. You. Yeah, you! You’ve got qualities that no one else does. All the stupid shit that you think prevents from having the best sex of your life? Fuck those. They only hold you back if you let them.

Listen up. I’m a man of many physical imperfections and extremely modest looks. I’m not a twink. I’m an old fart. No one is ever going to pick me out of crowd and take me home because I’m on Grindr with a photo of my oiled-up physique. But I have had sex, and I continue to get offers and have sex, with incredibly beautiful men whom I might say were ‘out of my league,’ if I truly believed in the concept. Why? Because despite my moles, my paleness, my lack of tone and the fact I’m never going to be on the cover of Details, I put myself out there and make my best qualities work for me. And work, they do. My confidence shows.

Do yourself a favor and once in a while forget the many imperfections about which you beat yourself up daily. You’ve got amazing qualities that are going to attract someone. You might have the best smile in the world. You might give the best blowjobs. You could be witty, or the best Call of Duty player, or have a great garden where you could fuck outdoors. Celebrate those things. Be secure in those things. They’re going to be what attracts someone into your bed, as much as a six-pack.

4. The only thing we really owe each other is kindness. And kindness should be reciprocal. Does this need explanation?

Let’s recap.

You are a beautiful person.

You’re worthy of the sex you want to have.

When you have it, honor and celebrate it. And treat each other well.

Of all the lessons I’d want anyone to learn from anything I’ve written here, those are the most valuable.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Dick Dock 2016: Cocksucker

“This one’s the best.” The man’s voice is audible in the darkness. Audible, but not loud. My mouth is full of his cock; I’m grunting to myself with feral need. But I still can hear his voice, somewhere above me, as my knees grind half-painfully into the sand. “I mean, seriously good. Head and shoulders above the other cocksuckers.”

He’s talking about me, this muscle-bound man in the striped shirt.

“Let me try him,” I hear the other man say. There’s sudden heat on my cheek as the second man unbuckles his pants and unleashes his dick from the denim. I feel his hard flesh prod against my jawline.

The other man growls. “Gonna finish first.” The meat he’s thrusting into my mouth is short and squat. Four and a half inches, maybe. Fat, though. A mouth-stretcher, but not much of a challenge to swallow whole. I impale myself on it, though it barely tickles the back of my throat.

“I’m next.”

Their conversation is barely audible, but it drifts through my frenzied consciousness with clarity. Some detached somewhere, though, there’s a part of me trying to analyze the situation. Their words are so quiet—am I supposed to be able to hear them? Usually when men want their cocksuckers to get off on the praise, they say it in a boastful, obvious kind of way. Loud. Forceful. Porny. I do it to the men kneeling before me, when they deserve it. It spurs them on to even better worship of my big meat.

These men, though. They’re basically whispering to each other. I hear it. It’s audible. But I could’ve easily missed it over the occasional cry of jollity coming from Commercial Street, or it might’ve easily been muffled by the shuffle of men through the sand around me, or by the sex sounds coming from other dark corners under the dock. They’re talking almost like they’re having a quick, quiet survey of a menu at a local restaurant and trying to pick out the best dish.

My thoughts evaporate as I taste a sudden glob of precum from the man’s fat hog on the back of my tongue. He’s ready. I tighten my embouchure around his meat, and use my left fingertips to coax the approaching load from his nuts. My right forefinger and thumb make a corkscrew around the sensitive ridge of his head, spiraling down the shaft. He grunt once, softly, then lets go with a load moan that everyone in the vicinity can hear. “Fuck!” he yells. His hands grab my head and pull me town onto him. My nose grinds into his pubic hair. “Fuck! Fuck!”

There’s no doubt about who’s having the most fun under the Provincetown dick dock, this night.
His loud orgasm brings seemingly every other man cruising for sex into my vicinity. I feel the heat of men all around me, smell their strong and varying scents. I hear the sounds of belts being unbuckled, of zippers coming down. My tongue almost stings with the strong taste of the muscular man’s semen; I’m guessing he’s a smoker. Then he withdraws, strokes my furry chin, pats me on the head like a good dog, and stumbles away as he fastens his pants

The man he’d been talking to just says, “Mine.” He steps into place before me and pushes me down on his dick. It’s short. Maybe four inches. Skinny. Sucking him is like sucking a nine-year-old boy. My right hand reaches up and grabs the man next to him, who has maybe five average inches. My left hand gropes out; someone places it on a third dick even shorter than that.

Here am I, the biggest-dicked man under the dick dock that night, being forced to be its number one cocksucker.

Twenty minutes before, there’d been nothing going on. I’d passed only three lone souls beneath the support beams of the quiet dock before I settled into the shadows at the far end. It’s a quiet week in town. Even the harbor seems subdued, with the water settled and sleeping between high and low tide. For what felt like the longest time I’d waited and watched as men had tiptoed down the wood steps from the access road, and tried to make out their features in the streetlight before they’d ducked beneath the wooden floor of the deck above and merged with the gloom. I’m wearing nothing but a dirty tee and a pair of sweat shorts and sandals. No underwear. My hand had been down the front of my shorts the entire time, stroking myself, so that my hardness was apparent beneath the thick jersey.

When a cruiser would walk by, I’d use my thumb and forefinger to outline the length of girth of my meat; there’s enough light reflecting from the deck’s spotlights on the sand for someone to get the gist of what I’m trying to sell, here. But for the longest time there were no takers. No one was trying to do anything with anyone. Just wandering, back and forth. No action.

You know me. If anything, I’m a catalyst. So I wait until I see something I like. He’s a tall black guy with a good build. At first he’s cagy about his interests; he stands in a neutral place on the other side of the passageway the support beams create under the deck, midway between another cruiser and myself. The other cruiser moves closer to him; the black guy waits, then moves away to a place ten feet beyond, on the opposite side. Another cruiser places himself in a diagonal, opposite. Like chess pieces we move, one at a time, slowly, reconfiguring ourselves until the pattern of desire becomes apparent. When finally I follow the black man to the far end of the dock, I’m confident I’m the one he wants.

But I guess it’s not my dick he desires. When I pull down the elastic of my shorts and let the erection within spring out, he ignores it and pushes me roughly to my knees. He fumbles with his shorts and jerks them down to his knees. I reach out and grab for him. If it takes some cocksucking to get the action down here started, I’ll do it.

The black dude is a little bit of a disappointment, though. He’s maybe four and a half inches, and not very thick at that; worse, he basically is in my mouth for all of ten seconds, hammering away at my mouth like it’s some kind of living Fleshlight. Then he ejaculates a quarter teaspoon of sperm, pulls out, and strides off.

Not much of a blow job, but it gets the action started, just as I predicted. I try to rise to my knees, but a leather daddy takes his place wearing a harness over his bare chest and a pair of jeans already unbuttoned to cup his balls. I try to stand up to be on equal terms with him, but he’s not having it. His hands grab my shoulders and shove me firmly back onto the sand. This dude’s got a tiny dick too, a four-inch thumb with a round knob at the end—but he’s also got needs, and I’ve got a wet mouth for him to sink into. After him came the muscular dude in the striped shirt, then the little boy dick, which I suck off in an expedient fashion. Its owner is loud in his gratitude, and bends down to reward me with a sloppy kiss. He turns out to be a handsome gray-haired older man in expensive summer wear.

“I want a taste of that,” says another guy, who immediately bends down to taste my mouth with his tongue. He’s a handsome fucker, this one. Lean, redheaded, wearing a t-shirt with cut-off sleeves that proclaim his love for Boston. His kiss is fucking electric. His light beard grinds against mine, and he lifts me to me feet so that his arms can encircle mine. My shorts drop to my ankles; his hand grasps my right butt cheek and gives it a firm squeeze before his index finger probes my hole. Fuck yes, I automatically think to myself. This dude could get whatever he wants.

What he wants is head. I’m back on my knees against sucking his dick, a solid five uncut inches. My tongue slobbers over it, darting out to lap at his furry balls. I’m so hungry for this ginger’s dick that I’m humming to myself happily, unconscious of the cock-starved noises of self-satisfaction that I’m making as I lunge back and forth to take him. I feel his hands on my head and his fingers traveling down my back, reaching for my ass, as he curves over me and reaches for my hole.

He’s not long, but fully erect, the kid has a head that mushrooms out. I withdraw to stare at it, then look up and into his eyes. “That’s a beautiful dick, sir,” I breathe.

He stares back at me for a moment. There are men all around us, crowding in. Hands reach out to tug at my head and grab my attention away from this stunner. More hands reach for him, pulling at his nipples, lifting his shirt, trying to take his dick away from my mouth. There’s even another man on his knees beside me, trying to edge me out of the way. There’s a maelstrom of attention on the outskirts, with the two of us the quiet eye at the center.

“Come with me,” he says at last, as he helps me to my feet. He pulls down his shirt and waits as I attempt to pull up my sweat shorts over my raging erection. Then he takes my hand and pulls me away from the crowd. They collapse on top of each other in a frenzy as we leave them behind.

Together we walk to the very far end of the dick dock, where there’s a deeper cavity at the back than the rest of the slip’s length. We’re alone here, just this lean man from Boston and I. There’s still sex going on thirty feet away, but no one’s grabbing at us, no one’s trying to divert our attentions away from the other. “You like my dick?” he asks.

I nod. “Oh god, yes.”

“Then suck it, cocksucker,” he says.

I descend to my knees once more. He reaches into his pocket, simultaneously lowering his pants as he pulls out a bottle of poppers. He bends over and thrusts it under my nose, using his thumb to close off my right nostril.

What am I going to do? I can count the number of times I’ve sniffed poppers on a single hand—or just my thumb and index finger, really. But he wants me to sniff. So I inhale deeply. The acrid chemical scent stings my nose in rings as it travels to my lungs. I hold it for a moment, then exhale. He moves the bottle to the other nostril, this time using his thumb to close off my left nostril. The top of his other hand holds my head steady. “Sniff,” he orders. I inhale deeply again.

The poppers cause some kind of very short-term memory loss. He’s shoving his cock deep into my mouth as I’m trying to get my breath. My mind is half panicking, thinking to itself, why do I feel like I’m passing out?! and utterly forgetting that I’d inhaled the man’s poppers only seconds before. The confusion passes quickly, though, and soon I’m back into the rhythm of pleasing this man. I arch my back, lean into him, and suck him to the root.

His cock is slick with my spit when he pulls it out again, a few minutes later. “I fucking love your mouth,” he growls at me as he ruffles his palm over my hair. I pant, eyes aglow at the praise. “I need to shoot. You’re going to swallow?”

I nod. I know my job. Our eyes lock briefly before he pulls my skull onto his meat again. He fucks my lips like he owns them. His thick mushroom head opens the back of my throat as I grunt contentedly to myself and allow him to sodomize my mouth as he pleases.

He doesn’t utter words at the brink of his climax, but I can tell when he’s coming. His cock ejects a warning jet of precum, thick and sweet and salty all at once. His cock swells; his balls retract. He lunges into my mouth with a barely-suppressed holler, then lets loose what has to be multiple days of unsatisfied need. My mouth floods with the stuff. It’s more sour and astringent than I thought it would be from his precum, but I let it lie, acidic and tangy, on my tongue and in my cheeks until the last drop drains.

“Your turn,” he says. I manage to swallow the mouthful of seed he’s just blasted into me before his lips close on mine. My hand jerks furiously at my dick. Seconds later, my load erupts into the sand below my outstretched knees.

He lowers his shirt and pulls up his pants. “See ya round, I hope,” he says curtly, before nodding at me and wandering off.

When I get home, my knees are red and abraded from having been ground into the sand by all the men expecting me to suck their dicks. More grit covers my shins. I have to empty it from my sandals and wipe my feet on the mat before I can enter my rental. Even then, I still have to take a shower to get the sand completely off me.

Yeah, I had the biggest dick at the dick dock, that night. But I also swallowed more of it than anyone else.

Monday, June 6, 2016


When I slip inside the back door of the fuck’s townhouse, I’m greeted by the scent of cumin. It’s strong enough to tickle both my nostrils and the back of my throat. Washed coffee cups and plates line a rack of blue plastic by the sink. The counter is cluttered with opened boxes of crackers and kids’ cereal; a basket of ripening bananas hangs by the window. I close the door behind me and stride to the doorway beyond which the linoleum gives way to carpet. Stairs leads me to my destination: the bedroom at their summit.

He’s sprawled there on his mattress, hands cradling the back of his head. His knees are drawn in opposite directions to point at the bedposts. If his mission is to draw my eyes to that shadowed, furry crack he’s exposing for me, he’s doing a good job. His eyes are half-closed, gauging my reaction as he nods his head in welcome. He’s a sexy Latin man with skin the color of parchment. His beard is meticulous trimmed to a fine, dark layer. He’s wearing a backwards trucker cap to look tough. He looks almost exactly like the photos he sent me—beefy, muscled, super-masculine, bristling with dark hair in all the right places. The dude is the kind of trade most that gay men would do a double-take over before they muttered to themselves an admiring, damn!

It’s what I say now. “Damn!” The corners of his lips curl upward at the syllable. He likes hearing that. “You look good.”

The praise stirs his dick. It’s not long—a snub-nosed, uncut five-and-a-half inches or so. But it’s fat. It plumps out rather than lengthens, creating a heavier indentation on his hairy thigh where it rests. His eyes still dart up and down the length of my body, taking me in. Finally, they lock on mine. “Thank you, papi,” he says in a lightly-accented baritone.

He hasn’t moved since I stepped into the bedroom. I kick off my sandals, hook my thumbs under the elastic of my sweat shorts, and let them drop to my ankles. I’m wearing some black underwear that display my bulge; my dick is filling them out in a pronounced diagonal to the left side. He licks his fat lips. “What do you want?” I ask.

“Your pretty white dick,” is his prompt reply.

“Yeah? Huh.” I say the words as if the thought had never occurred to me. This time my thumbs slide under the band of my shorts, pulling them down far enough to expose the top of my pubes. “Where do you want it, then?”

His gaze is fixated on the protrusion beneath the black cotton. “Down my throat,” he says, swallowing hard. “And up my spic pussy.”

“I might be able to arrange that.” I keep my tone droll, but neutral. “You worth it?”

“Yeah.” When I raise my eyebrows, he changes his tone. “Yes, papi. I’m worth it.”

“You can say that all you want,” I tell him. “But the words are fucking worthless. You’ve got to prove it.”

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says, uncoiling from his position and turning over. He sidles on his belly to the bed’s bottom and leans on his elbows until his face is level with my crotch. I can see the full circumference of his ass now. Honest to god, it’s fucking perfect. Just the sight of it is like all my birthday and Christmas presents shoved into tight, round package. “Let me have that fat white dick, daddy. I’ll take good care of it.”

I pause a moment as if considering my options. He waits expectantly, not daring to reach out and grab it until I give the go-ahead. At last, slowly, I nod. My fingers pull down the fabric. My meat springs out, unleashed at last. Immediately it finds a new home in his mouth. My trunks fall to the floor.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” I order, when it’s clear he’s going to try to hoover it down. At once he desists from the rough treatment. His mouth travels back and forth over the shaft, slowly, slickly. I can feel his tongue sliding over the surface, savoring the sweet precum already flowing from the tip. It tickles the sensitive area just below the head, lengthens to slip outside his wet lips to tickle my balls. “You like that white dick, don’t you.”

It’s never a question. Not with these guys. I know they all like it. He surfaces from the blowjob long enough to hiss, “Yessssssss.”

I nod again. I didn’t need his acknowledgment.

It’s not long before the base around my shaft is drenched and dripping with his saliva. My pubic hair is matted down in wet, curled tendrils when he comes up for air again. “I need it up my pussy, daddy,” he begs.

“Huh,” I reply, managing to sound again surprised at the notion. “Can that little Mexican cunt of yours handle this?”

“Puerto Rican,” he corrects. I knew that, too. It was a deliberate mistake. He sees my eyebrows raised, correctly judges the expression on my face to read, Do I look like I give a fuck? “Yes,” he replies, humbled. “This Mexican pussy can take all you got.”

“Show me,” I say, removing my t-shirt. It falls into a puddle of bleached-out red cotton on the floor beside my underwear and my shorts.

Instantly he flops onto his back and lifts his muscled legs into the air. His crack is hairy, but not so much that I can’t see his hole now. Though the flats of his feet are parallel with the ceiling, he doesn’t need to hold his calves in order to keep them up there. They’re rock steady. His hands are too occupied spreading open his cheeks for my inspection, anyway. He’s no amateur; he’s not starting with a single pinkie teasing the lips. He’s using one hand to pull back the muscle and the other to open up those flaps. He’s shoved three fingers, four, up that hole, and doesn’t show any sign of discomfort.

“This is your boy’s pussy, papi.” The hat’s brim has caught against the mattress behind him, and fallen off. Beneath, his head is shaved, covered by only a slight black shadow. I see now that there’s a faint outline of a crudely-worked tattoo on the side of his neck. “This pussy cunt is all yours to rape. I need it hard and deep in my pussy, papi. Real hard.”

My cock’s enraged. Red. Angry. It’s demanding entry. But I play diffident, and reach down to test the hole with my own fingers. They slip in immediately; this fucking slab of beef has wet it up with oil-based lube so that it’s greased and ready. It’s soft and pliant; I could probably slide my whole fist up there with no resistance. “Fuck,” I say, almost involuntarily. “It really does feel like pussy.”

“You need to rape me, daddy,” he begs. “You need to stick it up there and rape this spic bitch.”

I’m still manipulating the soft flesh. “If I stick my dick up that hole, it won’t be ass any more,” I promise. “It’ll be one hundred percent cunt. You want to get cunted, son?”

“Yes, papi,” he pleads. “Cunt this bitch. I want your babies. I want—!“ His jaw goes slack as, without any more than a quick coating of the residual lube from his hole, I shove myself inside. He’s just was soft and warm around my meat as I expect.

“What do you want?” I command him to share.

“I want it all, papi. I want—I want—!“ His mouth works, though he’s having difficulty forcing out words. Instead, he’s vibrating with a great moan that emanates from somewhere deep within. His eyes roll back in his head. His head lolls to the side. And still that moan keeps resonating, almost making the cage of his chest sound like a hollow echo chamber.

“You gotta tell me what you want, son,” I said, torturing his prostate as I drive in deep. “I can’t give your pussy what it wants if you don’t say the words. You want me to pull out?”

“No no no!” he cries, summoning the strength to plead. As if I’d really ever pull out. “I want your babies. I need you to rape this bitch hole and plant your seed deep up my cunt. I gotta have the seeds from that beautiful white dick dripping from my pussy lips, papi. I just gotta.”

“Say it,” I tell him, giving him the full fuck treatment. His legs, high in the air, haven’t moved an inch, especially now that he’s supporting the backs of his thighs with his hands. Even when he moves them down to pull apart his ass so I can shove in deeper, they stay rock solid. “Say the fucking words, faggot.”

“I need that cum,” he whimpers. “You gotta wreck that pussy with your dick, baby. I need it turned into total cunt forever by you. You gotta own this bitch’s spic cunt, papi, pump it full of your seeds. Knock me the fuck up and keep me pregnant!”

“All right,” I say, my tone still level and determined. “If that’s what you want, you little shit.”

I’ve worked myself into a climax pretty quickly with this beefwad, anyway. If he needs the breeding that bad, he’ll get the breeding. My sperm jets out into his hole; I shove it deeper with a savage thrust that makes him yell. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” he shouts. “You’re cumming in that pussy cunt! Fuck, you’re doing it, papi, you’re really knocking up this little spic bitch!”

I don’t need to comment. I hold onto his ankles to stay upright until the waves of pleasure recede. When I open my eyes, he’s grabbing onto that fat hog that’s been slapping against his belly. It only takes a few strokes to push him over the edge. Then and only then does his hole clamp down hard on my meat, squeezing the very last drops from the shaft.

I’ve got no plans to linger. It’s not that kind of encounter. If he wants to talk to me later, he knows where to contact me. I scoop up my tee and let it slip down my arms onto my torso. My underwear and sweat shorts are easy to step into, and all I have to do is slide my feet into my sandals and I’m ready to go. “See ya,” I tell him. Another satisfied client, I’m thinking as I’m fancying myself the McDonald’s of breeding, with millions of customers served.

“Wait up,” he says, as I’m walking out of the bedroom.

I turn, waiting for the inevitable compliments, the entreaty for me to return soon.

Instead, I get, “Why’d you wear that t-shirt, man?”

It’s not the question I was expecting. “Huh?”

“That t-shirt. You can’t be coming to my crib wearing that shit, man.”

I take a second to look down at myself. Is the tee dirty? Did I get some unsightly food stain on it? But no, it’s just a plain old t-shirt. Not even a logo or a screened print on it. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

“It’s pink.”

I blink, and think about it a minute. “Well, it’s kind of a faded red, really. . . .”

“What kind of shit are people gonna think if they see you coming all in my back door with a pink shirt on?”

I raise my eyebrows. Seriously? “Maybe, if someone asked,” I say, weighing my words carefully, “you could tell them that it was really faded red. And none of their business?”

He’s picked up that cheap black trucker’s cap again and nestled it on his skull, brim toward the front this time. I can see he’s a Yankees fan. He pulls it down so that it shades his eyes. Tries to look tough. “That shirt is pink, dude.”

My gut twitches in an involuntary laugh. I stand there looking at this stocky little shit lying back on his bed, trying his best to look cocky and virile while my just-fucked warm sperm is leaking out of his ass. I’m thinking about all things I could be saying—should be saying—about how if he was really that worried about his masculinity, maybe he shouldn’t have his windows open while he’s begging a strange white man to rape his pussy cunt. I’m considering icily informing him that if he doesn’t want his neighbors to think he was in the slightest way anything less than the macho, butch brute that he apparently aspires to be, perhaps he shouldn’t be knocking the color of my tee, but thinking more about the wisdom of going legs-up and begging guys off some sex app to ‘knock up this little spic bitch.’

All I do, though, is shrug and say, “Well, okay. I don’t have to come back. Later, dude.” Then I’m out the door.

“No, no, don’t take it like that, papi,” he’s calling down the stairs. I hear him stomp around as he clambers to his feet and attempts to follow. But I’m already through the cumin-scented kitchen and out the back door toward the parking lot. He’s not going to get his clothes on quickly enough to follow me.

Maybe later I’ll accept his multiple apologies through the app that brought me to him. For now, though, I’ve already made up my mind: there’re plenty more bitches to knock up. So I take my ass—and my pink shirt—back home.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Sunday Morning Questions: Moments of Recognition Edition

Some questions about recognition—or lack thereof, in today’s occasional feature. Got questions for your friendly neighborhood sex blogger? Send them to the email in my sidebar, with a subject line of ‘Sunday Morning Questions’. Of course, if you have questions you don’t want answered on a Sunday morning, you can submit them the same way, of course . . . but I do reserve the right to use the questions and their answers in my blog sometime.

You really get recognized on a regular basis? What’s it like when some stranger comes up to you and asks if you are who they think you are?

The short answer: yes, and it’s okay.

A couple of points, first. Although I don’t show it on my blog, I’m not so rigorous on my various sex profiles about keeping my face anonymous. In fact, I’m adamant about keeping my own face photos unlocked, because I’m not really fond of guys who lock and unlock and dole out peeks like barkers at a sideshow. When people see me on a website or a GPS app and ask if I’m the guy who keeps this blog, I don’t lie about it. I say yes.

So quite honestly, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes—or even much of a Scooby Doo—to see my face and say, “Oh, so that’s what he looks like. Okay.” There’ve been several times in the past, however, when guys have thought that they’d really stumbled onto the secret of the century and have attempted to use their knowledge of what I look like as leverage against me. Like that’ll get them anything.

Most of the people who’ve recognized me online, have been totally delightful about it. They’ll say hi, they’ll tell me they read the blog, I’ll thank them, and then we’ll each go our merry ways. My public encounters have been much the same—and I’ve had a lot of those as well. I’ll be in a Starbucks, or sitting in a theater, or in a bar, or on vacation, or in the mall (seriously . . . it’s happened at the food courts of malls, three times) when someone will approach me, half-smile, and nervously say something along the lines of, “I know this is going to be a weird question but. . . .”

It usually is a weird question, too. Unexpected, at least. Being recognized is great when it gets me a quiet compliment or two. My blog is a tiny sliver of my life, though; I’m not thinking about it or its contents all the time. So when someone approaches me, especially in a bar or at the food court, I’m most likely thinking they’re going to ask “Do you mind if I take this chair?” instead of “HEY DUDE, ARE YOU A FAMOUS SEX BLOGGER?” When the latter comes out of their mouths, particularly at an indiscreet volume (and it has), I’m likely to feel like a deer in the headlights, honestly.

There’ve also been times when I find out I’ve been recognized only after the fact. Someone will see me perform in a karaoke bar someplace, and three days later I’ll get an email saying “Nice blog! By the way, did you sing an Erasure song at . . . ?” Last week I took the L train cross-town and that night I had someone leave a comment on a past entry to the effect that they’d seen me but hadn’t wanted to introduce themselves. Also last week, I went bar-hopping with friends and had no less than three messages on Scruff from readers who asked if they’d really seen me.

My long answer, I guess is that yes. I get recognized. It happens fairly regularly—and sometimes it happens more often than others. Being recognized in public feels mostly fairly weird, because I’m never really all that sure of what people expect from me once they’ve approached me—and also because a handful of people are fairly indiscreet about their inquiries, even though I might be with friends or family or colleagues.

If you are one of those people who see me out and about, and you do want to walk up and say something to me, don’t hold back just because you think I’ll freak out. I would be much happier, however, if you were simply to hold out a hand and something along the lines of “Hi! I enjoy reading you online!”, instead of “HEY DUDE, AREN’T YOU THE BREEDER?”

I know everybody’s got to remember you after you’ve been with them but have you ever been with anyone you couldn’t remember after?

I really appreciate your confidence that I’m unforgettable. Sadly, that assumption has already been proven wrong, more than a few times. There have been several guys I’ve met up with who, months after the fuck, will contact me with a message of, hey guy hot pics maybe we should meet sometime.

A few years back I told the story of a stoner I used to fuck, sometimes weekly, for close to two years whom I stopped seeing after he started doing drug deals through the mail slot in his front door . . . while I was fucking him. (It’s pretty sad, and typical of Detroit, where I was living at the time, that he was not the only guy I saw who paused mid-fuck to perform drug deals through his mail slot.) When I encountered him in a bathhouse a few years later, after he’d gotten himself cleaned up, and we struck up our fuckbuddyship again, he had absolutely no idea who I was, nor that we’d been together countless times before.

I had another encounter with a guy with an unusual name from Maine who once flew to Detroit to attend a fisting party one of my best friends threw. He spent the weekend at my friend’s house, took not only my dick but both my fists and the dick and fists of my buddy, and posed for over three dozen photographs, most with his face visible, of me mounting and using him. Cut to ten years later, when a guy with the same unusual name from the same place in Maine contacted me online to ask if I’d like to get together with him when he visited Manhattan. Hey ——, I wrote back, using his unusual name. It’s ——. We met at my buddy’s —‘s house when you flew to Detroit and visited on Valentine’s weekend in 2002.

This guy wrote back to say he’d never met me and had never been in Detroit. I sent him his photos and asked, Aren’t these you?

No, he said.

Just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, I asked my host buddy if the guy online wasn’t the same guy we’d both bred a decade before. “I don’t know what that fucker is on,” said my buddy, “but if he doesn’t remember being worked over by you, he’s crazy in the head.”

Crazy in the head. I like that theory.

Did you get my birthday gift? Did you get a lot of birthday gifts?

I received several birthday gifts this year, thanks to my kind readers. I got a stretchy cock ring, several packages of underwear, some filters for my camera, a book, a game, two bottles of lube . . . and maybe something else I’m forgetting. But it was a birthday bonanza! Thank you guys!

There are many times when Amazon doesn’t inform me who has sent me a particular item—so don’t be shy about speaking up and asking me if I received something. That’s very often the only time I learn from whom it came.

I kind of think you must have a sad life if sex is all you have time to do or think about.

Ah, but sex isn’t all I do. It’s not all I have time for. Outside my blog, I have a life that has room for all kinds of activities—social, intellectual, recreational, and yes, sexual. I work, I volunteer, I spend time with family, I create, I teach, I share. I have hobbies, I travel, I’m a great cook, I take advantage of cultural opportunities. I have a rich and satisfying life that I am zealous about keeping that way.

So no. Sex isn’t all I do. It’s just something I do really fucking well.

I kind of think you must have a sad life if all you have time to do is jack off to my blog, then try to project how badly you feel about yourself and what you've just done onto me.