Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Text Message Sex Roulette

Jim had to leave after one load, Monday morning. I showered and cleaned up and tried to settle down to do the work I’d sworn I’d do earlier. I’d barely sat down to my computer when my phone’s screen lit up. Hey handsome, read a message from a vaguely local number. What r u up to today?

I had no idea who it was. When I looked at the text message history from that person, there were only two of the briefest clues. One was a message from him saying On my way now on the fifteenth of the month. The other was from me a couple of minutes later, saying, See you soon! with a smiley face. I looked at my calendar for the fifteenth and remembered it being the day I’d spoken to that all-female college class, but I had no recollection of how I’d spent the morning or afternoon. My journal didn’t help. The name ‘Mike’ meant nothing. Everyone I know is named Mike. There are so many of them in my life that I refer to them by different monikers—Canadian Mike, Accountant Mike, Irish Mike, My Brother Mike—whatever helps to label them.

Frankly, I was a little embarrassed that I couldn’t keep track of my tricks. But you know, that’s what comes of being a bit slutty and having so few memory cells that I have to offload everything into my journals. Besides, I was still horny, so I decided to play Text Message Sex Roulette and see what I got. Come on over! I texted this mysterious Mike. How bad could it be? I couldn’t remember having sex with anyone who truly repelled me other than the porn star guy in the bathhouse last week, and I certainly didn’t give him my number.

It took him about a half hour to arrive. The minute the car pulled up in front of the house I remembered exactly who this Mike was. He’d been a fifty-year-old guy from Manhunt whose profile boasted a bunch of leather-clad photos of himself looking tough and butch and mean. In our brief correspondence he’d seemed like a nice guy, so I’d had him over the day of that college lecture. He’d strutted into my house in jockwear and an artfully-battered baseball cap, but there were a couple of things that his gear-focused photos didn’t really reveal. The first was that he was quite short. Not quite Lollipop Guild-short, but getting there. That’s fine. I’m six-foot-three and just about everyone's short to me. I like short guys. The other was that when he opened his mouth—nope, it wasn’t his voice, that was fine—he had a pair of incisors that were just a touch longer than his other teeth. When I'd seen them for the first time, a couple of weeks before, I’d automatically given him the nickname of Gopher Mike.

I know. Awful. I can’t help what my brain does sometimes. He was a sweet guy and hot in the sack—I’d fucked three loads into him the first afternoon we’d met and was getting dressed when he wrestled me back down to my bed, cleaned off my dick with his mouth, and somehow managed to talk me into giving him a fourth. The guy has a sexy tattoo-covered body and I like his aggressiveness in bed, even when he’s bottoming. There’s nothing gopher-like about that.

Monday we started making out the second he walked in. I wrestled him out of his leather jacket and grabbed his ass. He rubbed the long bulge snaking down the right leg of my jeans. I didn’t waste any time. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said.

He’d dressed in a red jockstrap and a white tanktop that showed off his pecs. Obviously he enjoyed stripping for me; I enjoyed watching him take off his clothes slowly and deliberately with his eyes locked on my face. I’d shucked my jeans before I’d cleared the door, and lay on my back with my dick point at the ceiling, stroking it for him. When he opened his mouth and began to swallow it, the last thing I was thinking about was his teeth.

“Put your legs up,” he growled. “I want to eat your hole.”

I did him one better. I hopped up to put my face in the pillows and flipped right over for him. He took both arms and hauled up my waist to meet his mouth, and buried his face in there. I really enjoy being rimmed by someone who knows what he’s doing, but I’m awfully shy about asking a guy to do it. Never mind that I could rim for an entire night without surfacing for air—it always seems to me an imposition to ask a guy to eat me out. (Maybe it, occurs to me, because when I rim it’s usually as a prelude to fucking the hole, and I feel badly about asking someone to rim what they’re not likely going to fuck. I don’t know. Everyone has hangups.) I was glad, then, that he just took it.

When he came up for air long minutes later, I’d dripped a puddle of pre-cum on the blanket. “That’s it,” I said. “Not waiting any more.” It was his turn to eat the pillows. When I reached between his buns, I found that he’d already lubed up his hole before he arrived.

(Which means what, every fuck I’ve had in the last five days has been pre-lubed? I’m not going to say I don’t like it. I do. But is this a trend, all you bottoms out there? Or don’t you like the brand I use?)

Regardless. I drove into him, already frenzied by the nerve endings tingling in my hole. “I love eating your ass,” he gasped out. “You’ve got such a hot ass.”

“I don’t have an ass,” I told him, fucking harder. “It’s flat.”

“I like that.” We were mating like breeding dogs, but gasping out conversation to each other when we could. “There are two things I like,” he said, a few words at a time. “One is tall guys. And you’re really tall. The other is small asses.”

“Well thank you,” I told him. Then I pushed his face down into the pillows, thrust once hard, and shot my second load of the day—his first. Immediately I rolled over to the side with him, and reached down. His six inches were hard and pre-cum oozed all over the shaft. “Beat my dick,” he told me.

I grabbed the meat with my left hand and jacked it with my left hand while pulling him against my chest with my right arm. “Wait a sec,” he said, bounding up. “Let’s do it this way, like last time.”

The last time he’d visited, Mike had perched me at the very edge of the mattress, and then had stood up and lowered himself down on my dick. He was short enough that he could ride up and down without bending his knees very much at all, and he took my still-slick dick without even a gasp. While I fingered his nipple he bounced up and down, beating himself furiously.

It only took him a minute to shoot. “Can you do it again?” he asked.

I only laughed, flipped him over and onto his knees, and then entered him from behind. It’s my favorite position. I like looking down and seeing my meat stretching the hole wide, and I love the sight of a round ass lifted up for my pleasure. When I see that, it’s as if all is as it should be.

(An image has been removed to comply with Blogger's
draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

After my third load—his second, I flopped face-down on the bed again. He lay beside me. “You know,” he said, “I could eat your ass all day.”

“PLEASE DO,” I said, in all capital letters.

He laughed. “You’re a nice guy.”


“What I really wanted to do was fuck it,” he said, unexpectedly. I raised my eyebrows. “I wanted to eat you and make you feel real good and then just kind of move up and slide in you, just a little bit. I'm not that big. It wouldn't have hurt. Then I would have pulled out and eaten you a lot more, and then put a little more in you. Just to show you how good it feels. I wouldn't have done it all the way. But I didn’t know if you wanted that.”

I didn’t know if I wanted that, either. Though I admit it sounded appealing, on a certain level. “You’re a nice guy too,” I told him at last, not committing to anything.

“I just want to make you feel as good as possible so you’ll keep having me back.”

I watched as he sat up and pulled on his tank top. “That’s not going to be an issue,” I said, before giving him a big bear hug.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

The Football Player

I first met Jim when I was on I was broadcasting in my office, legs spread wide, a thin layer of lube on my dick as I pointed it at my laptop and stroked. Occasionally I’d dig my fingertips in the slit and pull out a pearl of precum that would leave a long and glistening trail as I raised it to my lips. (The photo currently at the top of my blog was a random shot from one of my cam shows.) I’d been answering the standard questions I always get whenever I go into cam4—no I wouldn’t show my feet, yes I could self-suck but I really don’t like it, no I wasn’t going to do it on cam, and no I wasn’t a prerecorded porn tape—when one guy suddenly said in chat, Hey, I recognize that zip code. You’re just up the street from me.

I sent him a private message and found out that in a room full of people from New York City, Turkey, and Germany (I always seem to get a lot of Germans), this guy lived about a mile and a half away. Want to come over? I asked.

I fully expected a no. Fuck yes, he said. Stay on cam until I get there, then shut it off. I want you just as hard and ready when I come through the door.

So that’s how I met Jim. He’s partnered and sexless at home, like many of the men I fuck. It’s a pity, because he’s a good-looking guy. What's really the pity is that he disguises it so well. The spouse used to watch one of those television shows about clothing—I don’t think it was the Tim Gunn one, but it might have been the one with that Carson guy from Queer Eye—in which the host would take the poor woman getting the style makeover for the week to a lineup of women dressed minimally. They’d range from big-boned at one end to more petite at the other, with four or five graduated body types in between. The host would ask that week’s guest to stand between the two women she felt best represented her own body type. Inevitably, the woman would stand between two of the larger-breasted and larger-hipped models, only to be told by the host that no, based on her actual weight and measurements, she really should have stood next to the smallest.

Jim’s got the same kind of body dysmorphia. He’s muscular and stocky, but in a good way. Still, he seems to think he’s a much, much larger and heavier man than he really is. Monday morning he arrived to my place wearing a sweatshirt from a Catholic boys’ school sized XXXL (yes, I looked at the label when he was in the bathroom afterward), a super-baggy T-shirt, cargo pants with enormous floppy pockets, and droopy drawers. I’m no Tim Gunn, but I want to sit him down and tell him, Listen, you’re a sexy man with a muscular football player’s build. Don’t dress like you’re trying to conceal a family of clowns.

He’s got a beautiful ass. It’s the kind of ass you see in porn—perfectly round, smooth, with handfuls to grab onto. Once I got his saggy clothing off, I bent him over, knelt down, separated his cheeks with my hands, and buried my face in the crack. Almost immediately I tasted the sweet and gummy fluid he’d liberally spread around and in his pucker. His ass hairs were wet from the stuff. After I wiped off my nose, I used my middle finger to prod at his hole. “Oh god,” he said. “It’s been so long.”

“You won’t have to wait much longer.” I stood up and unzipped my pants and let my dick flop out. I wore one of my metal cock rings; his hands immediately reached out to grab and tug at it. Now it was his turn to fall to his knees and suck at my dick. Jim has a good mouth. I told him so, over and over again, in a soft whisper. Finally, driven half-crazy by the sensations he was producing, I hopped up onto my bed and beckoned for him to follow. Like a dog still hungry for a bowl of food being taken away from him, he lunged and followed, still trying to keep his mouth on my dick.

I pulled him up on top of me and kissed him. Jim’s a great kisser. Making out with someone is my favorite activity, bar none, and when I find a man who knows what he’s doing, it makes my dick swell to twice the size. I loved the weight of him on me as we expressed our passion, the gentle grunts of satisfaction as we mashed our mouths together, the swelling of his dick against mine. “Fuck me,” he said at last, when he pulled away. “Just slam the fuck out of me.”

He rolled over and onto his knees at the bed’s edge. I stood between his legs, positioned myself behind him, spat in my palm, and spread it over the head of my dick. “When’s the last time the boyfriend fucked you?” I asked, teasing it against his hole.

“God, I can’t even remember.” I could barely hear his voice, so muffled it was against the blanket. “Too fucking long. Fuck me.”

I continued to graze the tip of my dick across the wrinkled indentation that pulsed in front of me. “Is his dick as big as mine?”


I leaned down and blew a stream of air over his slick ass. The sensation made him twitch. “Whose dick do you like better?”

“Yours!” he said without hesitation.

“Whose dick do you want more?”


“Do you want it now?”

He was almost choking with frustration when he gasped out, “So bad!” I slid in with almost no resistant, then held still when I reached the base. His back arched down. His head jerked into the air. “Oh god,” he yelled, his mouth open as wide as it could go. Then, a moment later, much more softly and passionate, “Oh god.”

I fucked him slowly at first, pulling out to just beneath the ridge under my head and then sliding slowly back to the base. He’d used so much lube before he’d arrived that it was leaking out onto my balls. My hands were so goopy that I had to wipe them on the blanket. Gradually, naturally, I increased my pace. Jim’s ass is full enough that it can take a real pounding, so after a few minutes of sweet talk and grinding, the room was full of the sound of our flash slapping “Do it, do it, do it,” was his mantra by then, and he kept repeating it over and over in time to my thrusting.

He came the same time I did, groaning and depositing his small load atop the bed. I let out mine with a mighty whoosh of air and then collapsed on top of him. He turned his head, craned his neck over his shoulder, and kissed me again.

While he was dressing I asked about his sweatshirt. “Did you go to that school?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “My nephew does.” I began imagining that perhaps the nephew misjudged his sweatshirt size and gave it to him as a gift, when he added, “I bought it during a booster event. Thank god they had one in my size.”

Monday, March 29, 2010

Roses and Thorns

I've known and fucked Jason for two years. I've never seen his face.

Oh, I've caught glimpses of it from time to time. I've seen his sharp chin as it settles against my nuts. Sometimes it's softened by a crop of fuzz. Sometimes it's bony and clean-shaven. I've observed many times the curve of his pink little lips nuzzling around my meat. Once in a while the tips of his long brown hair will bob below the restroom stall partition and brush against my thighs.

I know well the leanness of his hands, and the taut strength of his hairy legs. Scrolling thorn-studded vines of plump roses decorate the insides of both his arms, decidedly retro in appearance but somehow perfectly modern. They look like the kind of ink you might see on Popeye's biceps, re-imagined and forced into full bloom by a real artist. It's the tattoos I'd recognize immediately if I saw Jason out in public—but like I said, I never have. I've only seen them as he's reached beneath the stalls to grasp at my dick, or when his hand has darted underneath my balls to tease around my hole or to grab my ass and pull me closer.

Jason first met me when he was eighteen, and cruising Squirt for older dick. He was young and lean and horny and lived with a pop who was always home; I was old and jizz-filled and ready to get inside him and didn't have a place to play that day. "How about somewhere public?" he messaged me. "A toilet? I'll do you anywhere, dude. I need that dick."

I named a local mall. "Sears," I told him. "First floor men's room, men's department." I told him what shoes I'd be wearing, and he told me he'd be in black sneakers. We agreed to meet in twenty minutes' time.

I half-expected him not to show. When I arrived at the Sears, I went to the bathroom, chose a stall, dropped my pants, and started stroking. I'd fucked and sucked in there many, many times in the past. I was in the very stall where I'd once met a businessman who was into humiliation; I'd roped him to the toilet hardware with his necktie, fucked him, pissed on him, pulled up my pants, and left him scrambling to extricate himself before he was discovered. (He loved it. Emailed me about it for years, though I never met him again.) The thought of that long-distant afternoon alone was enough to keep me rock hard. I'd only been there a couple of minutes when first the outer door creaked open, followed by the gunshot snap of the inner door's hinge. Through the crack in the stall I could see an impossibly skinny kid dash by. A pair of black sneakers shuffled into the next toilet. I heard the sound of a belt unfastening, followed by the heavy clunk of the kid's jeans as his huge belt buckle dragged to the tiles. He sat down, and tapped his foot. I tapped mine back.

Then his hand snaked under the metal partition, palm up, anxious to hold something. For the first time, I saw the thorny vines that decorated him. I knelt down and put my purple-red dick in his hand, and let him prove himself.

The first time he only sucked me. Sometimes that's all we do together. I don't shoot very easily from blowjobs alone, and even warn most guys up front that mere head is unlikely to get me off. Jason's never had an issue getting me to unload, though. Even the first time he knew exactly how much pressure to keep around the base of my dick as he greedily slurped up and down its length. He knew, as if I'd directed him, when to stroke my nuts on their sides, coaxing the sperm upward. And when I shot a very few minutes later, he impaled his throat on the shaft and took every drop, just the way I prefer. Yet I'd said nothing at all in that quiet men's room. The only thing that could have been heard were the soft sounds of sucking, our heavy breathing, and the very gentlest of my moans. He took his mouth off my dick, and then I felt something wet land on my cock and stomach. When I leaned backward and craned to look beneath the stall, I saw that he'd shot his own load on my meat. I watched his fuzz-tipped peaky chin graze my skin as he licked off his sperm. Then I withdrew back into my own stall, pulled up my pants, flushed, washed my hands, and walked back to my car on trembling legs.

After that first day we started meeting in other restrooms, every month or so. The local Home Depot is one of his favorites—the floors there are grimy but we're rarely interrupted. We've done several local colleges, one of the rest stops, a park restroom in the summers, and a building in the downtown area. We attempted a casino one time, but the foot traffic was too steady.

The only time we've met face to face is once at my house, late at night. My family was actually away for a few days and I was there alone, but when we were chatting online I told him they were upstairs asleep, and that he should be a good boy and come taste my dick while being very, very quiet. To my surprise, he was all for it.

My neighborhood is pitch black and unlit by street lights, and there was no moon that night. It was easy for me to meet him at the side door, guide him up the kitchen steps, and take him into the family den, where he knelt between my legs and lapped at my cock and balls like a good little boy. Right before he came, I put my hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear. Sshh. I cupped his ass as he convulsed and squirted out ropes of semen. It was the only time we've kissed. Still I didn't see his face that night, nor he mine. We were nothing more than silhouettes in the darkness.

We'll always have Sears. That's where I met him Saturday morning. He recognized my shoes instantly when he sat down in the same stall next to mine. I dropped to my knees and spread my legs beneath the partition as his mouth rushed to greet me. "Hi, daddy," he whispered, before taking my dick between his lips.

Saturday we fucked. His hole was lightly greased. My torso was pressed tightly against the clammy, cold partition while my waist and legs were fully underneath. I felt the pressure as gripped my meat with one hand while he lowered himself onto it. From his feet I could tell that he faced away from me as he squatted down and accommodated my girth. Inch by inch, he started to take it. Not until he'd taken most of my eight inches did he rise up again. When he did, it was with a gentle rocking motions. Every bob up and down started to bring me closer and closer to orgasm.

We know when we meet in the public spots that our time is limited. It didn't take him long to settle into a more aggressive rhythm. "Fuck me, daddy!" I heard him whisper. The partition thudded a little with every rise and fall. Closer and closer I got until I was on the edge, willing myself to shoot while simultaneously wanting not to. Then I felt a splatter on my nuts and thighs, accompanied by the sensation of his hole clenching. He'd shot his load on me. Knowing that was enough to push me over the edge. Still clutching onto the underside of the stall, I blasted inside him, shooting harder than I had all week. Once my breathing had subsided, we both withdrew and started mopping at the floor with toilet paper, until the evidence was gone.

A middle-aged chubby guy walked into the restroom while I washed my hands. He looked me up and down with speculation while I ignored him. I watched as he darted into the stall I'd just vacated. Jason was still in the next john, waiting for me to leave so that we wouldn't see each other. I didn't stick around to see if there was any action or not. I had to get home.

I think we both know that neither of us is ugly. I used to have an avid curiosity to see what he looked like, and even tried sticking around afterwards to catch a glimpse. Now, though, I accept that the anonymous aspect of our coupling somehow makes it hotter . . . especially as it's been going on for two years.

One day, somewhere unexpected—along some street or outside a Gap in a mall—I'm certain I'm going to walk by a good-looking kid who'll have thorn-studded vines climbing the insides of his arms, abloom with plump red roses. I'll look at his face, and he'll look at mine. There'll be a moment of recognition and surprise, and we'll know all we need to know.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Friday at the Baths

One of the nice things about what I do for a living is that if I decide to take the day off and sleaze, I can. I don’t have to call in sick to anyone, or do what I did when I had a day job, which was to pretend to have ‘a meeting on the other campus’ and go do whatever the fuck I wanted. Today I decided to give myself the day off and spend it at the baths.

I arrived exactly at 12:05. “The lunchtime crowd’s going to love you,” said the deep-voiced, goateed guy behind the desk, who’s bottomed for me more than a few times. “When they arrive, that is,” he added.

He wasn’t kidding. For an hour I wandered around the place wondering if there’d been some kind of bomb scare in the city of which I wasn’t aware. I eventually sat in my room and played games on my phone until in walked. . .

#1: Rick was 59 years old, bald, handsome, and fairly fit. He stepped into my room like he owned it, and shut the door. “You look lonely,” he said, and put a hand on each of my knees so he could wrench my legs apart. He sucked well, and I loved it when he flipped me over, slapped my ass, and announced, “You are so damned fuckable, boy.” To my ears, that’s a huge compliment. Even though I consider myself a top guy, and even though I haven't been fucked in over half a decade, hearing someone say those words makes me blush like a pleased schoolboy. I almost never get to hear it, though. For one thing, I have no ass. For another, the vast majority of guys I play with don’t want me to be fuckable. They want me to find them fuckable. Since I rapidly discovered that Rick didn’t get hard and that therefore I wouldn't be accused of leading him on if I enjoyed a little assplay, I didn’t mind letting him manhandle me like his little bitch for a few minutes until I took a break.

#2: The Banker is a guy I’ve played with several times before. I have no actual proof he’s a banker, but he dresses like one. When this distinguished, gray-haired gentleman walks into the baths he’s always wearing the finest and most flexible of wire-rimmed spectacles, an obviously expensive, tailored shirt, fine slate-colored woolen slacks, a conservative tie in a pastel color, and the inevitable shiny penny loafers. Then he takes all that shit off and reveals a chest covered with a carpet of fur and a short, curved dick that gets hard, stays hard, and blasts hard.

I saw him walk in and immediately thought to myself, hot damn! when I saw him enter the room next to mine. I gave him a few minutes to undress and shower, but when I heard him return, I opened my door, walked into his room, knelt down on the floor, and was immediately rewarded with a mouthful of banker cock. He knows by now I can take a pretty hard face-fucking, so my head was banging against the drywall before he let loose and gave me a juicy mouthful.

#3: Mark I met in the steamroom. I was sitting on the top shelf when in walked a stocky gent with a policeman’s build and an enormous handlebar mustache. He’d trailed me in, obviously hoping to find me there, and when he saw me playing with my hard dick, he sat down on the ledge before me and stared at me. The guy had the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever noticed through the steam.

While a crowd of four or five guys watched, Mark expertly deep-throated me without choking or gagging, while simultaneously yanking on my nipples and somehow wetting his third finger and jamming it up my ass. When I writhed and squirmed away from the unexpected invasion, he shoved me roughly against the wall, surrounded his mouth with mine, and kissed me so deeply that suddenly I didn’t even mind the digit prodding my prostate. “I wanna suck that dick to the root,” he growled.

“Let’s go back to my room,” I managed to pant.

Inside the room he twisted and chewed on my nipples so hard that they’re still sore now—which I kind of like, to be honest. “Looks like the boy can stand some pain!” he said, applying the pressure even more. He slapped my balls experimentally, sucked me, and then continued talking about how he was gonna bend me over and fuck my boyass like the little bitch I was. (I don’t know why I was giving off such a bottomy vibe to those guys, that afternoon. Highly unusual.) “I wanna do anything for you,” he said. “Just name it. Name it and I’ll do it right now.”

"Anything?" I asked. "Seriously, anything?"

"I said anything and I meant it! Name it, boy!"

“Could you eat my ass,” this boy said, after a minute. “Please, eat my fuckin’ ass?”

“Except that,” he announced, abruptly standing up and putting on his towel. He opened the door and stalked out, but not before saying, “I’m a doctor. You don’t want to know what comes out of that hole.”


#4, 5, 6, and 7: Craig pounced on me the minute I stepped back in the steamroom after the aborted encounter with Mark. He was lankier and thinner than I, and younger as well. When I sat down on a lower ledge, he immediately got down on his knees and began going to town on my dick. Good head, too. The best I’d had that day.

While he was sucking, a sexy muscular guy in his twenties sat down next to me and began kissing me and playing with my nipples. He was joined by two guys I’d seen in the showers earlier, both also in their twenties, both with beards and long, shoulder-length hair. They looked like brothers. Both of the long-haired fellows also reached down to play with my dick and to rub their hands over my chest. One of them pulled my head forward to suck his average-sized meat—and I discovered that both of the long-haired guys were wearing rubbers for oral sex. A mouthful of latex isn’t really my thing. I let the muscular guy suck them both while Craig continued to suck me. Then I reached down between Craig’s legs, my middle finger discovered a wet and slippery hole, lubed and ready to go. Finally I was going to get some ass. “Want to go back to my room?” he asked. I agreed.

The minute the door closed, Craig instantly assumed the position, butt up, knees spread, hands clutching at his butt cheeks to pull them apart for me. I spat on my dick, worked in the head, and began to fuck. The kid had a great, great hole. Tight, wet, and greedy. “Oh fuck,” he said. “I’m so glad you didn’t want a rubber.”

“You don’t have to worry about rubbers with me,” I whispered.

“Are you going to stay in or pull out when you shoot?”

I didn’t answer. He'd find out soon enough I don't pull out. I kept fucking. By that time I was so horny and frustrated that I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer. I pounded the skinny little fucker so hard I thought he might snap. When it came time, I thrust all the way in and let loose. “Breed me!” His breath was hoarse as he played with himself. A moment later, he shook and quivered, spraying his load onto the cheap sheets.

We exchanged numbers. The kid only lives about a mile from me, which could be a plus.

#8: Another muscled guy came into my room when I was resting. Like Rick, he didn’t wait for permission. He simply walked in, shut the door, and stood there with his hands on his hips. He was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, and had wavy long hair with a single gray streak on one side. “Did you fuck that guy?” he asked. “I saw him sucking you in the steam room. Did you fuck him?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Damn, you’ve got a big dick.” He lifted my hand away from my crotch. I’d started to get hard again at the sight of him. He looked at me speculatively. “Did you suck that guy?” I shook my head. “You want to suck me?”

“Let me see it,” I said. He dropped the towel. His cock had a downward curve, and was hard and respectably-sized. He made it twitch. “Yeah,” I told him. “I’ll suck you.”

I stayed on my knees for a good ten minutes, giving him a good wet hand-and-mouth job. He kept his hands on the back of my head the entire time, and occasionally would lean down to plant a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “Good boy,” he’d say. “Very good boy.” The closer he got to shooting, the more aggressive he got; he put his hands on top of his head as if to show off his body, looked into my eyes where I gazed up at him with a mouthful of meat, and made short, hard thrusts. When he shot, it was almost silently. He forced my head down on his dick and held it there, letting out three bursts of fluid. I waited until he was done and had withdrawn, and swallowed.

“Your wife let you fuck her with that thing?” he said, gesturing to my dick as he put on his towel. The guys think they're all clever for noticing my wedding ring. Little do they know I've learned it's like a cocksucker magnet. Guys in the baths love giving a married guy what they think he lacks.

“Yessir, she does,” I replied.

“Lucky bitch.”

#9: The porn star occupied the room directly behind mine. He wasn’t an actual porn star, as far as I know. He merely looked like one. Killer body. Beautiful rugged face. Shaved head. Vivid, colorful ink running from his beautiful biceps down his back, and curving around his luscious butt to end on the fronts of his thighs. Not random tatts—a solid work of art. His dick was thick, vacuum-pumped, and sported a zero-gauge p.a. Around his neck he wore a heavy chain and a rusted lock that looked as if it’d been there for a long, long while. Big heavy black boots weighed down his enormous feet. His hands were meaty and ape-like—almost paws. He lay in his room on his back, legs in the air, eyes staring at the ceiling, fingering his greased-up, slimy hole and playing with his thick meat. The overhead light was on full bright. He was just waiting for someone to come in.

When I went in, Craig, the guy I’d bred, was already in there, feeding the porn star dick. The porn star gulped at it greedily, his eyes mere slits of fucklust. I stood next to him stroking and showing off my meat, while Craig reached behind to play with me and tug at my balls.

Finally Craig stepped aside and let me assume my place over the guy’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” said the porn star to me. When he spoke, it was with an over-enunciated, lightweight effeminate voice that really belied the tough-fuckmeat image he was going for. “I simply cannot suck a dick that someone else has touched.” I raised my eyebrows. I can see not sucking a dick that’s been in some stranger’s ass. (I’m not a doctor, and I can figure out why I might not want to. Even though I’ve done it.) I can maybe see not wanting to suck a dick that someone else has been sucking. But not sucking a dick that someone (whose dick you've just eaten like a red Twizzler) has squeezed with his hand? Is crazy.

“I just got out of the shower,” I assured him.

“If you rinse it off, I’ll suck it then.”

I wrapped my towel around my waist and stomped off to the showers again, growling all the way. Craig was still in the porn star's room when I returned. I made sure not to let him accidentally graze me in case the disinfectant queen had a fit. “Do you have poppers?” he asked. When I said I didn’t, he asked Craig the same thing. “How about the people in the hallway?” he said. “Do they have poppers?”

I wasn’t planning to ask random strangers in the hallway for their poppers, so I put my dick in his mouth to shut him up. He sucked for a while—and looked good doing it—but after about two minutes he stopped. “Are you planning to cum soon?” he said in that voice. “Because I don’t want to have to be doing this all day.”

What a rude fucker he was, I thought to myself. “Then let me use your hole instead,” was what I said.

He acted like I’d suggested I pour chili-infused honey on his testicles and let loose the bucket of fire ants. “Oh my god no!” he squealed, and actually held a hand to his chest. “I don’t get fucked!”

Then here's my seasoned advice: don’t lay there with your legs in the air fingering your greased hole and giving drill-me glances to every man passing your doorway, asswad. "Sorry to inconvenience you," I said, and walked out.

I left after that, and got home at exactly 4:02, three minutes before the boy got home from school, and a half hour before we left to pick up the spouse at the airport. Somehow I managed to squeeze another load out before the trip across town.

Not exactly a terrible day at the baths, but definitely not a good one, either. My load count: Took two orally, delivered one in the rear, jacked one at home. Number of times I was called 'boy': More times than in the previous five years. Dim bathhouse lighting and men not wearing their glasses, my monstrous ego thanks you.

Saturday, March 27, 2010


He and I usually share the same sorts of obsessions, but one particular entry in Mr. Gloryholejunkie's blog recently spoke to me when he talked about how in days of yore, wankers would leave 'courtesy' copies of gay porn rags in restrooms for lucky guys to use as jerking material.

The very first printed porn I ever saw was such a magazine.

It was a copy of Honcho, left in the second floor men's room of the college I attended. It was the cruisiest of the several cruisy restrooms in the small rural town. Back in the early nineteen-eighties, one of the easiest places to get sex no matter where you traveled was to hit the men's rooms in a university library; one of them was sure to be hopping. (It's not a bad rule of thumb now, either.) The one I haunted back then attracted a steady stream of students, staff, out-of-towners, tourists, and faculty. Especially faculty.

One day I went in, dropped my jeans around my ankles, and found a magazine tucked away in the corner. The pages were already stiff from use and the cover and many of the inside pages were sticking together from dried cum. I had to blink several times to make sure it was real.

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I'd been having sex for almost a decade at that point, and lots of it, but I'd never, ever seen it in glossy, full-color print. Where would I, in that sleepy little southern town? I can't even imagine where anyone bought it. I'm guessing that some poor kid had managed to get his hands on a copy in one of the cities and couldn't bring himself to keep it in his dorm room for fear of discovery. Then a few others had used it in the men's room and left it behind for similar reasons.

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I remember looking at the pics and keeping my hand stroking constantly over my wet dick. I shot one load, ate it (I still do, when I jack), and was working on another when someone came into the tiny restroom. Was it the person who'd left the magazine, coming back to reclaim it? A cruiser? Nope, it was some guy who proceeded to ruin the mood by taking over the other stall and unloosing the smelliest, loudest dump imaginable. I rolled up the Honcho tightly, pulled up my pants, and snuck back to my dorm room.

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I was a Honcho purchaser after that, through much of the eighties. I got rid of the collection long, long ago, but I did keep one copy--the original one I'd discovered in the restroom. I still have it, too. The cover has disintegrated, and a lot of the pages are rigid as cardboard, but damn, it brings back a lot of memories of those days I spent with my knees on the tiles, playing with dicks I couldn't see beneath a marble partition.


Thursday night I had a speaking engagement at the august local institution I always think of as the University of the Mall Parking Lot. It was the second speech there in as many weeks. Last week my talk was in front of an all-female class. Thursday, though, I had guys in the audience. Some actual cute ones, too.

There are always a couple of kids at these things who take a hard focus on me when I give my speech about making a living in the creative arts. I think they see me as an experienced success in my field, god bless ‘em, and during the Q&A period these particular students will inevitably ask a lot of complicated questions--they're trying to impress me, generally. There was one in the audience that night, sitting in the front row, scribbling notes. He’d pause when I’d pause, and when I’d begin speaking again his hand would furiously dash across the page while he squinted at me through his wide, heavy-framed geek glasses.

The kid was no more than nineteen or twenty and totally adorkable—he had a close-cropped blond head, a pointy chin, bright blue eyes, and was struggling to grow a beard but only coming up with a patchy crop of peach fuzz. His ratty plaid shirt was open three buttons to expose a pale white chest and the tiniest patch of hair. I’d smile at him from time to time and make eye contact, but I couldn’t shake the conviction that he was transcribing every damned word I said. When it was time to open the floor to questions, his hand shot up immediately. He asked something so convoluted and intellectual that I wasn’t sure he understood it himself—something about how our brand of creative artists were the last bastion of . . . whatever. It was the kind of thing that kids think about when they’re young and noble and full of abstract ideals. I answered him as best as I could, but the entire time I was looking at his fuzzy face and thinking, Damn, kid. You are so fuckable.

I wasn’t at all surprised when he approached the table afterward. He lingered after the more casual questioners left, then approached and gave me his name. “I think it’s really, really great of someone of your stature and professionalism to take an entire evening out to come talk to aspiring artists like us when you have nothing to gain by it whatsoever, I mean, it’s like, really great of you.” I couldn’t pay much attention to his hyperbole. I have no stature. Professionalism, maybe. Basically, I make a living doing what I love, and that’s about as far as it goes. But mostly I didn't respond to his overblown fawning because his backpack was pinning down one shoulder of his plaid shirt. With those buttons he'd left opened, when he leaned forward, I could see the edge of a flat, pink nipple.

“Yes,” I said, nodding, deadpan. “It is really, really great of me.”

He didn’t realize I was joking until I cracked a grin. He pinkened. “Oh! You’re joking.”

“I’m a verbal person,” I assured him. “I like getting out and meeting people. And I like talking about myself. Opportunities like this are the perfect combo.”

“And I guess you get to find some new groupies when you do, huh?”

“Sometimes.” I don’t think he knew what he was opening himself up to. I cocked my head and asked, “Why, are you volunteering?”

The kid turned a shade of beet red, all over. I swear I could watch the flush start in his pale, white cheeks and spread to his ears and forehead, and then rush all out once down his neck and exposed chest. He looked stricken and afraid to move, rooted to the spot. It almost made me hard in my jeans. Christ, if that embarrassment was almost so tangible, I could’ve scooped it up and slapped it on my dick as lube to bang him—which I very badly wanted to do. When he could finally move, he opened his mouth and stammered, “Hah-hah, you’re joking again.”

I smiled and gave him a card, but not before I scribbled my cell number on the back. “Call or email me sometime if you have more questions. Or if you want to talk,” I said innocently enough, but with meaning. He turned the card over in his hands and stared at it for a few seconds, then nodded, mumbled out thanks, and scurried off.

Cute little fucker. I doubt he’ll call, but enough adorkable and eager-to-impress college kids have followed through in the past and ended up with their legs over my shoulders. It could happen.

Friday, March 26, 2010

The Second Offer

Thursday morning I logged into Manhunt and almost immediately got an email there from an out-of-towner. I hear you’re a great top, he wrote.

Oh yeah? I asked back. Who’s been blabbing?

He named the profile of a top buddy I’ve teamed up with at a couple of bareback parties. The two of us are pretty open about sharing names of good prospects, not to mention holes together, so I wasn’t really surprised it was him. Scarcely had I read the note when the guy started instant messaging me:

mascdiscreet: i loved your bone shots
mascdiscreet: and cum ones
mascdiscreet: woof
mascdiscreet: what you up to today?
>> sounds like I might be fucking you
>> I only fuck bareback though
mascdiscreet: god i hope so stud
mascdiscreet: you host or looking to travel?  free time today?
mascdiscreet: can make it worth your time $ir

This is where my interest really perked up.

>> oh yeah?
mascdiscreet: yes for sure
>> what're we talking about
mascdiscreet: i really REALLY need a fuck
mascdiscreet: $100
mascdiscreet: ?

If there’s anything I learned in my teens about negotiating cash for sex, it’s never to go with the first offer. I waited about fifteen seconds, and he came back with another price:

mascdiscreet: $125
>> I don’t know, man, I’m kind of busy today. . . .
mascdiscreet: $200
>> that’ll work. we've got a deal.
mascdiscreet: you still bearded now?
>> yep
mascdiscreet: hot
mascdiscreet: is that really your body in the pics? you look so thin
>> that’s me
mascdiscreet: love that
mascdiscreet: you verbal or not so much?
>> depends on the vibe
mascdiscreet: i am all about pleasing the guy’s dick
>> what hotel are you in?
mascdiscreet: i dont have one, was just coming down for a meeting.....and was thinking about asking if you'd be into doing it in my van. its a cargo van, we can fuck in the back. but i think there is a red roof in right by my meeting, if thats cool?
>> if we do the van, I’m only dropping the pants
>> but you'll be stripping all the way. got it?
mascdiscreet: hot
>> and you're paying up front.

I negotiated to meet him in the parking lot of a mall out in Novi, about a half hour away. I got there first, and found myself a spot in a quieter area of the parking lot, right near an aisle marker so he could find me easily. He arrived about ten minutes after me, circling my car with his gray cargo van a couple of times before pulling to a stop right beside me. Through the rainy window I could see him nod, gesture to his unlocked door, and disappear in the back.

I joined him in the van’s rear, where he’d covered the windows with towels and laid a thick rug on the floor. The guy looked just like his Manhunt pictures, so there weren’t any nasty surprises. Handsome face—very masculine and clean, strong features. Younger than me by two years, according to his profile. A seven-inch, fat dick surrounded by pubes that had never seen a clipper. His body was big and ungainly; he had to weigh about two-thirty-five or two-fifty, but his frame was broad enough that he carried it well enough. And like I said, the face was handsome, so when it dipped down next to mine, wanting to give me a kiss, I welcomed it.

And man, could he kiss well. Beautiful soft lips, long, lingering sucking action—just perfect. I grabbed his hand and put it on my dick, which was hard and snaking down my left pants leg. “You got something for me?”

“In my jacket.” When I raised my eyebrows and cocked my head, he murmured, “Oh. Yeah. Okay,” and went to get it. He counted out the twenty dollar bills and waited. I nodded, stuffed the cash in my pocket, and we went back to making out.

“Get out of your clothes,” I told him. I rubbed my dick through the denim while he scrambled out of his plaid shirt and khakis. The guy had a furry chest and huge, eraser-sized nipples. “Now get out your poppers.” His eyes barely left mine as he grabbed at a little black satchel that he unzipped. “Take a hit.” He unscrewed the little brown bottle and breathed in deeply through his right nostril. I shook my head when he tried to put the cap back on. “Now the other one,” I told him.

“It’s going to drive me crazy if I do that,” he said. I shrugged. I can be a bit of a dick when I’m being paid. He obeyed, though. When he moved in to kiss me again, the fumes reeked out of his nose and mouth into my own. I reached down and felt between his legs—he’d already greased up his hole for me.

“All right,” I said, struggling to a half-leaning, half-sitting position. “Sit back and see what you bought.” I’d already removed my hoodie. I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and pulled them down around my ankles. I was wearing a tight blue T-shirt with a deep V-neck, no trunks, the jeans, and a pair of beat-up old Converse, as well as two rubber cock rings. I did look pretty hot, for me. Hell, I would've done me. Anyway, I was hard and already precumming, so when I started stroking for him, my hand made slick noises up and down the shaft.

The van was quiet save for rain on the rooftop and the sound of my stroking. “Fuck,” he said at last. “Your body is even better than your photos. What’s your waist size?”

“Twenty-nine, thirty,” I said.

He looked at my wedding ring. “How long have you been married?”

“Twenty years.”

“To a woman?” I nodded. “I’m gay. Partnered. Fifteen years. He doesn’t like sex. Especially anal sex. He thinks it’s dirty. Have you been paid for this before?”

“Are you paying me to talk?” I asked. “Because I’m still waiting for you to please my cock.” Like I said, I’m apparently a little bit of a dick when I’m getting paid.

That was his cue to start sucking. The guy was good, but I could’ve told he didn’t had much sex with that partner of his, because he could only suck for about ten seconds at a time before getting overexcited and having to pull back. He was a choker, too. He’d try to take me to the base, and then figure out too late that he wasn’t experienced enough to handle it. “Oh god,” he said, after gagging for the third time. “I need that in me.”

“Then let’s do it.” I got him onto his knees and bent him over while I rubbed some lube from his satchel on my dick. After instructing him to take another hit of the poppers, I let my dick nose around his hole until it found its way in. He kept saying he hadn’t been fucked in six months, but it didn’t matter. After a few hits of poppers, he was loose and hungry for it.

And also way, way overexcited. He was going to shoot any second. “Oh fuck,” he grunted once I was in. “I’m going to want to see more of you. I want to get a hotel room and fuck all day with you. Would you do it?”

“If you’re paying,” I told him, fucking away.

“You take real good care of a guy who takes care of you,” he gasped out, a couple of words at a time. “I can tell.”

“You take care of me.” I could tell that he was getting closer and closer to the edge, because his big body was jerking and spasming as he grabbed at his cock more and more furiously. “I take care of. . . .”

I didn’t even finish my sentence before he started shooting. The first rope sprayed out and hit the wall above the wheel well. The rest splatted on the rug. His ass squeezed my cock out before his groans had stopped. I was surprised when he winched himself around and began cleaning my dick with his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he said a minute later, when he was holding me in his arms and making out with me. “Fucking incredible.”

I’d zipped back up by then, but he was still naked. We made out for a little bit. Since he was still clearly horny, I sucked on his enormous nipples and talked dirty about how hungry his hole had been for my raw dick until he was hard again. It didn't take long. He grabbed a hand towel, spread it across his belly, and furiously jacked out another load while I bit and squeezed. Then I gave him a final kiss, grabbed my sweatshirt, and left.

I hadn’t even gotten out of the parking lot before he texted me. Wow and thanks!!!, he said. That was awesome. How much would it take to get you alone in a hotel room for an afternoon?

We can negotiate it when the time comes, I texted back. Set it up.

I could swing 300 in cash and 200 in gas cards, he messaged, if you take care of me real good.

That’s a start
, I told him, and let him begin thinking about that all-important second offer.

What can I say? I make my living as an artist. We artists can always use the money.

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Thursday, March 25, 2010

Gun Oil

Scruffy stood me up last night. We’d made plans earlier in the day that he’d come to my place between eight-thirty and nine. It was somewhere between then that he texted me to say that he wasn’t feeling well and that he was going to lie down. I didn’t hear from him again. It’s okay—I’ve been fucking the kid for three months now, twice a week or more, and every single time he’s been courteous and polite and shown up exactly when he’s said he would. I mean, I just dicked him yesterday.

I just like the kid, that’s all, and I’d ignored all the guys hitting me up via email all day, sniffing around with the spouse gone. I’d had that abortive rest stop sex in the morning that left me horny all day. So when Scruffy called off our planned fuck, I fired up the web browser and began seeing what I could get.

Finally I got one of my regulars from to invite me to his place. Dennis lives about a mile south of me. He’s thirty-eight, a sandy blond shorty who goes to lengths to show off his little jock body. He wears shirts with deep cuts that show off his biceps, the curves of his pecs, and down to his cut abs; in all his profile photos (the ones with clothes, anyway) he’s wearing a baseball cap, beat-up sneakers, and shorts that show off his muscular legs. The fucks with Dennis are always the same. I give him a heads-up when I leave my house, and five minutes later he props open the door to his apartment building. I park, walk in the building, let myself into his unlocked apartment, and make my way to the back bedroom, where he’s got the blinds drawn and the TV playing porn. Tonight it was some Treasure Island movie I didn’t recognize. He was lying on the bed, poppered up and rubbing gun oil in his hole.

“Wife must be gone,” he said while I kicked off my shoes and removed my hoodie. He watched as the pants came off. I wasn’t wearing trunks underneath—just the thickest of my chrome cockrings. I was mostly hard already. The sight of all those furry muscles stretched over Dennis’ tiny frame has a tendency to do that to me. “When did you fuck her last?”

“Do you really care?” I asked him.

“No,” he admitted.

“Put your ass up.”

“I’m all greased up already,” he said, though he turned over.

“Don’t care.” I shoved him down on the bed and put my face against his hole until my mouth and beard were covered with the sweet-smelling gun oil. His pucker blossomed out against my tongue, and he grunted as I sucked at it. Then, after a few minutes of that, I got up on the bed and flipped him over, my hand still working at his butt. We made out some, but he was weird. Distracted. Usually Dennis is a deep kisser who goes helpless when I’ve got my mouth over his. Last night he tongue kept darting in and out like a cuckoo clock. When I lifted his legs and got my cockhead in, he started giggling to himself.

But I was wound up enough that I didn’t care if he’d been tweaking. When I finally drove all the way in he gasped and his toes curled tight around my ears. Then he relaxed and accepted it. I’d been at a simmer all day, so I knew I wasn’t going to last long, my first load. When I told him so, he said, “I don’t care . . . just get off on you . . . getting off. I was thinking . . . nah, you don’t care, just . . . stuff going through my head, doesn’t really . . . have to do with you.”

He had been tweaking, or something. The bed was covered with his shit. The giant pump bottle of gun oil was banging between our legs while I fucked him. He kept losing his popper bottle and having to roll around to retrieve it. Towels were everywhere, and the two remotes for the DVD player and the TV were digging into my back when I finally flipped us both onto our sides. He’s so tiny that fucking him with my arms around him always gets me off; I pulled him down hard on my dick while it spat its first load into his guts.

“God, you’re still hard,” he said, after a minute.


“I got the impression it was a big load.”

“Your impression is right,” I said.

Then I grabbed his hand and put it at the base of my dick, where his hole was stretched around me. When he held it up and looked at it in the television’s light, it was slick with sperm. “Fuck,” he said, slathering it onto his own dick and rubbing furiously.

I fucked him again right after, ignoring the fact that he was talking to himself most of the time. By the time I bred him a second time, he was telling me all about how he’d comparison-shopped for his television and thought it was supposed to be among the best, but he hated how the porn looked on it. I didn’t really give a shit what kind of substance-addled rant he was on; I’d just wanted his hole for an hour. I pulled on my clothes and shoes, got the hell out, and went home to sleep in my empty bed.

I would’ve much rather have been with Scruffy. At least he’s present when I fuck him. Then again, I’ve never known Dennis to be anything less than horned up and eager for it—maybe it’s just an off day for everyone.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Helmet Head

The spouse had a flight out of town today. On the way home I hit the 275 rest stop—it’s the one benefit of having to drive out to that side of town.

I pulled the car to the lot’s far end, as I always do when I cruise there. Usually I sit outside and stroke while I cruise the men in the other cars, but nobody was in their vehicle today. I thought there might be action going on indoors, but when I went into the men’s room, the only person coming out was a scary-looking custodian. I pissed, washed my hands, and got ready to leave.

Then a cruiser walked in while I dried off. I could tell he was a cruiser by the way he stood at the urinals—off to the side, body askew, his core swiveled slightly to the right. His hand moved back and forth like he was shaking off the last drops, but I knew better. The guy was hot. Maybe mid-thirties, shaggy brown hair, scruff on his face. Lean body. Nice Banana Republic clothes.

I stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, and hauled out my dick. We stared at each other openly. He had one of those tools with a monster helmet, an enormous head that looked like it would split holes wide open. His eyebrows rose at the size of mine. “Nice,” he whispered.

“You too,” I whispered back. “Beautiful.” Then I reached out and stroked his. I had a good handful before I heard the squeak of the outside door. We separated. Another man walked in—tall, stocky, gray hair, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-one or forty-two. He looked over his shoulder at us as he headed for the stalls, then stopped once he reached the doors there. Then he fondled his package. It was safe to play.

My buddy showed me his hard dick again. “You married?” he whispered, nodding at my wedding ring. I nodded back. In the mirror, I could see the gray-haired guy playing with himself as he looked at me. “You wanna . . . ?” He reached in front of himself, mimed holding someone’s head in front of his dick, and thrust back and forth into the air. He really dug in with his hips while he did it, and pursed his lips in sexual heat.

“Fuck yeah,” I said, getting ready to kneel on the ground and slurp on it.

The door opened again. Back to safety positions.

When it was clear, the gray-haired guy came over to stand between us. When he reached for the other guy, helmet-head shied away. He only wanted me. I let the gray-haired guy play with me, though. He jerked my dick in helmet-head’s direction, showing it off to him. Helmet-head hissed in appreciation. “You want some. . . ?” The guy was a master of mime. He pretended to grab invisible hips and pull them in. His dick arced up and in, up and in, over and over. “You wanna get fucked?” he asked, just in case I didn’t get it. “Or fuck me? What do you want, married stud?”

“I wanna fuck you,” I whispered back. My dick was dripping now.

“You wanna fuck me?”

“Fuck yeah.”

He turned around and began to pull down his pants, right there in the middle of the men’s room. Then we heard the door open again. The gray-haired guy scooted out as the custodian and a trucker came into the room. The custodian had a mop and bucket and didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Helmet-head zipped up and washed his hands; I followed him. We stood side by side at the driers. Protected by the wall, he pulled out his still-hard curved meat one last time and let the hot air blow on it while I watched. I just grinned, laughed, and walked out of the room.

I was kind of hoping he’d follow me to his car, but instead he left the restrooms and went back to his sedan. As he drove out of the parking lot, he gave me a peace sign.

I wanted to hang around and cruise longer, but the custodian clocked me. Besides, I have the scruffy kid coming over tonight, and I can take out my frustration on his hole.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

A Sexual Education: The Gloryhole

My dad taught his classes in a large slab of brick and concrete known as the Business Building. In 1975 it was the newest building on campus, and one of the very few that had centralized air conditioning. In the middle of a muggy southern summer where the sun simultaneously blazed down from overhead and baked the insides of your legs as it reflected from the asphalt streets, the jets of cold air that would blast down as you walked into the building were a godsend.

Both my parents worked, and had worked out a system for the summer. Three times a week my father would pick me up from the daytime band camp I attended in the mornings, and take me to school with him until the late afternoon. My mother would pick up my sister from her morning swimming lessons and settle her in an empty room at the campaign headquarters where she was working. Both of us were easy to keep occupied; we’d simply take a book with us and read the afternoons away.

When I went with my father, I had the choice of either remaining behind in his office—not a bad option, as the converted Victorian townhouse in which his office resided had creaky floors that rang out like gunshots whenever someone would walk across them, and could easily be imagined as haunted—or accompanying him to the Business Building. Attractive as kicking back in his office might have been, I usually went with him to class, because I’d usually be guaranteed a few quarters in spending money for the vending machines, and the opportunity to read and eat candy in air-conditioned comfort in the student lounge.

It was one afternoon in the Business Building that I stumbled into the men’s room on the second floor and heard the sound of door slamming, followed by the rapid sounds of multiple belt buckles slamming against the tiles. I ignored the ruckus, headed to the furthest of the four stalls, and closed the door behind me so I could do my business in private.

Only I didn’t really have privacy. Not until I had my pants down did I noticed that to my left, right in the middle of the partition between my stall and the next, was a large hole, about the size of a softball. On the other side, I could see the curve of a jawline covered with beard, a flash of t-shirt, and then, as the other occupant stood to his feet, a man’s penis. It was curved and rock-hard. A globule of precum-bulged from the slit.

Oddly enough, though I was surprised, I wasn’t at all shocked at the sight. In Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), Dr. Reuben had gone on at curiously-obsessed length about how whenever homosexuals wanted to meet each other, their only recourse was to visit the men’s rooms in bowling alleys and have sex in the stalls. Richmond in the mid-nineteen-seventies had but one bowling alley, and it was on the far side of town, so on some level it seemed perfectly logical for the city’s homosexuals to shift their adventures somewhere more central and (more importantly) cooler in the middle of a hot southern summer. So I watched in fascination as the man next to me turned slightly to point his dick in my direction. The backs of his fingers sported dark tufts of hair that I gazed at as they curled around his stiff meat and traveled its length, back and forth, back and forth. I managed to intuit at once that my pillow and I had gone about masturbating all wrong.

The man sat back down. I saw his beard again as he leaned forward to look through the hole. I leaned back far enough that he couldn’t see my face at his angle, and covered my hands over my genitals. My dick was rock hard; it couldn’t have been any harder. As it had when the man in People’s Drugstore had touched me just a few weeks before, my heart began to thud violently—it pounded with such insistence that I worried I’d have a heart attack and that the paramedics would find me dead with my pants down and my dick hard, shaming myself and my parents forever. Again the man stood up and angled his own cock toward me, poking the round, full head through the hole so that I could see it more closely. He was dripping more, now, and the bead of his pre-cum caught on the top of the glory hole and stretched into a shiny, sticky thread.

When I didn’t do anything, he retreated, and tried to catch another glimpse of me. Maybe he saw how small and slender I was, and realized I was more than half his age at the very least. He didn’t try to urge me to touch him again, though. I watched as he turned his attention to the stall on his other side. After a few seconds, he was down on the ground, his knees spread wide and his feet bound by the trousers around his ankles. He thrust his knees and dick beneath the far partition. I saw a hand from the third stall reach underneath and snake across his hairy buttocks, and the shadow of a head as it lowered itself down between the man’s legs. Then came the loud and undisguised sound of sucking.

The man who’d been showing off to me looked over his shoulder squarely at me, through the hole. He winked at me, knowing I was watching, and then his mouth dropped open as he let out a loud moan. Our eyes locked—mine wide open, his slitted and glittering—as he climaxed. I watched as his hips bucked back and forth, and heard the sounds of appreciative grunting from his invisible partner. When he stood up, his dick was still wet and glistening from the attention it had received. My friend shook the last drop of semen from its tip, then peed into the toilet bowl, shook himself, and began to zip up.

I had a fear that if he left the restroom first, I might emerge and find him waiting outside, and I couldn’t let that happen. I yanked up my pants over my aching erection and dashed outside, then ran down the stairwell and into the lounge chair where my father had left me. He found me there a few minutes later, after his class let out. I’d managed to stop shaking by that point.

Three times a week I went to the Business Building after that, and once the school year started up again, I found excuses to convince my parents to take me with them to their classes. I found relatively quickly that all the upper floors of the Business Building were used for cruising. The action would begin in the second floor restroom, where I’d stumbled that afternoon. Once those stalls filled up, the men would spill up to the third floor, and then the fourth, and all the way up to the tiny two-staller on the seventh floor if it were a busy evening. The two stalls that shared the glory hole were the most coveted of all, though; men would lounge against the walls in the second-floor bathroom, waiting for a chance to take their place.

Sometimes the men would check me out through the hole, realize how young I was, and drape a piece of toilet paper over the gape so that I couldn’t see what they were doing—though that happened extremely rarely. Most of them looked through the hole and licked their lips with invitation, or peered or through the gaps in the stall doors to try to get me to show them my dick. I always refused, and kept my hands over and off my own throbbing cock. I never balked to look at theirs, though, when they’d pull it out for display. Nor did I close my eyes when the men would open their doors and thrust their dicks into a willing mouth, or stop watching when one of the cruisers would prop a foot on the toilet seat, bend over, and offer their asses to the perfect stranger waiting to fuck them.

For several months, from the other side of that small hole I spied, and observed, and learned.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

A Sexual Education: The Bump

My father did the grocery shopping in our family, when I was a kid. My mother couldn’t take the smell of a supermarket for very long; the mingled smells of produce and meat and disinfectant upset her lifelong-touchy stomach. I usually went with him, for the simple reason that while he took an hour to plod along the aisles of the Colonial Market and comparison shop, I got to run around Azalea Mall. The supermarket anchored one end of the little mall, and Woolco the other. A Thalheimer’s and a Woolworth’s rounded out the major stores.

When I was eleven, the summer between fifth and sixth grades, I was whittling away the minutes in People’s Drug Store, standing in front of the long and bright display of magazines in the store’s front section. I seem to remember I was reading an issue of Cracked—a journal I never bought, as it was little more than a lowbrow cousin to Mad, to which a portion of my allowance was devoted. I’d read it from the stands, though, and on that particular warm afternoon I must have been fairly absorbed in the pages, because the sensation that followed affected me like a bright shock from static, making me jump and blink my eyes, startled.

It was just the slightest of sensations, really. Just the faintest touch through the fabric of my pants, right beneath the head of my cock. Typically I wore Levi’s corduroys in those days, though that particular afternoon I was wearing one of my two pairs of dressier slacks—a pair of green denim pants with wide flares around the ankle. The slacks were super-tight and embellished with raised seams that ran down the front of each leg. (Hey, it was 1975.) Almost immediately I began to get hard. I reacted in surprise because I hadn’t done anything to arouse myself that way. My magazine wasn’t particularly saucy, and I hadn’t yet reached that age of puberty when I was one walking erection, though that hormone-driven phase was to come very, very soon. I looked around to see if anyone might notice the bulge that had swelled across the front of my pants, but the only person in the area was a man who’d walked by moments before, as absorbed in his magazine as I’d been. I shook my head and went back to my reading.

A moment later, the man standing several feet to my left put his magazine back in the rack, then slowly crossed in front of me again. I was paying more attention this time as he passed, and noticed that he slowed when he was in front of me. Again I felt the slightest of tickles, this time traveling the length of my erection—as if he was using a fingernail to trace prominent outline there.

Never before has my heart beat so hard. I thought it might pound its way out of my chest. It felt as if I was encased in a giant timpani and made to suffer during an angry tattoo across its top. My eyes were so filled with rushing blood that for a moment I couldn’t see clearly, but then I took a look at the man who’d just touched me. He was in his late thirties, perhaps, and had one of the enormous porn mustaches that men often wore in that decade. His shirt was tight across his broad chest, and synthetic, and brightly-patterned, and the top two buttons opened to expose a pale and hairy chest.

I knew at that point that I was more attracted to guys than girls. I’d read the sections about homosexuality in the sex manuals my parents had given me, and I’d recognized myself within the pages, somehow. Yet I’d never really looked at an older man before and thought about him as a potential partner for sex. Hell, I hadn’t even known it was much of an option. At that point my sexual experimentation had consisted largely of occasionally bunching up a pillow between my legs and rubbing against it furiously until I enjoyed a dry orgasm; I didn’t have a clue of how to masturbate with my hands, nor had I the urge to seek anyone out for sex. I didn’t even fantasize, at that point. I humped my pillow, thinking about nothing. No pornographic movies played through my head. I didn’t have any specific fantasies. My sessions with my pillow were pure instinct, with no concrete thought.

When I looked at this man, I found him moderately attractive. But frightening. The smart part of me knew I should walk away, or retreat to somewhere with more people around. The few inches of me engorged with blood, however, prompted me to stay where I was. It wanted to see what happened next. The man picked up another magazine and leafed through it, slowly, casually. Then he tossed it onto the rack, and began walking in my direction. As he passed in front of me, he paused. His hand was curled into a fist, which was the pendulum suspended from the pivot at his shoulder. Out it swung, until the side of his fist collided with my hard dick. It rested there for only a moment—long enough for me to feel the warmth and the pressure, through the denim—and then he walked away.

I watched as he walked out the back door of the drugstore and stood just outside. His head craned forward to look back in my direction. He wanted me to follow him, I knew. I couldn’t make any such decisions, though. My heart beat so loudly that I was sure everyone in the mall could hear. I wanted to follow and see what happened, but some instinct told me I shouldn’t. I could be kidnapped and murdered, I reasoned. No matter what my dick wanted, my self-preservation seemed to win out. I simply stood there and waited.

It didn’t take him long to return. I froze when he approached, wanting to be touched again, but not wanting to appear to desire it. This time, however, he simply positioned himself next to me. “Please,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “Come to my car. I’ll do whatever you want. We don’t have to go anywhere. Anything you want. Please.” Once again he turned and walked out the door that led to the parking lot, and waited.

This time, I moved. I walked very quickly in the opposite direction, into the mall, and down its length to the Colonial Market at the other end. I helped my father with the bagging and with the loading of groceries into the car, keeping very quiet the entire time. The moment the last head of lettuce was put away, I ran to my room, pulled down my pants, and bundled up my pillow.

For the first time, that summer afternoon, I had something concrete to think about while I rubbed myself.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Fag Tax

Yesterday morning I’d been on cam for about an hour, showing off my goods in a lascivious manner for any and all to see, and I’d amassed over two hundred and sixty viewers—men and women both, enough viewers in total to vault me onto the site’s front page. It was also so many viewers that I’d more or less given up trying to chat in the room associated with each camera, because the messages were flying by too rapidly. I’m about the politest of men who displays his penis and body to strangers on the internet, and I try to respond to everyone who asks a question, and to give my thanks to those who bless me with compliments, so giving up was really a last resort. Then I got a private message from someone: Your dick is fucking amazing, sir.

And because I am the most polite of exhibitionists, I replied. Thank you.

It is truly the superior tool of an alpha male, he messaged back. Other men should bow before you and recognize your superiority.

My natural instinct with this sort of compliment is simply to ignore it as overblown (though, you know, not untrue or anything), but instead, I simply wrote back, Damn right.

May I offer you a tribute to your superiority? he asked. I didn’t know what he meant, so I simply typed back a question mark. I would like to make a deposit to your PayPal account. It was such an oddball request that I didn’t respond right away, so he typed, I get off on offering tributes of money to superior men. I can try to explain if you want.

Explain, I said.

There are others like me who worship superior alpha men such as you, he wrote. (Shut up, those of you who know me. I hear your snickering.) Since I cannot express my admiration and abasement in person the least I can do is give you cash. Please sir. It is even more fulfilling than sex to me to give my tributes.

I’d heard of the concept of cash slaves before—usually internet-only relationships between a submissive type and a dominant involving the exchange of cash for verbal abuse and perhaps some on-camera sex play—but I’d always thought of them as a mythical thing or at least something that would never impinge on my life. I got him to email me his photo, so I could see what I was dealing with. He sent me several shots of himself—a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties. A boy-next-door type. White, attractive, and buttoned-down. So what is this shit? I asked. You want to pay me your fag tax or something?

Oh fuck. Yes sir, he wrote back. Please let me pay. Let me pay my fag tax.

Out of curiosity I asked, How much?

Would $40 be sufficient for sir?

Holy fuck, is that all I’m worth to you? I typed.

I will give you $60, he wrote. Of all the lessons I learned from my teenaged whoring around, though, it’s to recognize a soft negotiating price. $75. Please, sir.

I don’t think so, I typed back. Then I dug my finger into the tip of my penis and withdrew a long, sticky stream of pre-cum that I pulled into the air. On my broadcast screen I could see a silvery, gleaming thread that bowed into an arc before it snapped. My public room chat screen filled with appreciative comments.

Fuck, wrote my would-be cash slave. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ten minutes later I had a hundred more dollars in my Paypal account. He’d checked off ‘services’ as the reason for payment. The little memo he wrote read, Paying my fag tax.