Friday, April 30, 2010

Moments in the Woods

He stood in front of the Taco Bell with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his baggy khakis. They were pants so faded and worn that I could almost see his knuckles through the threadbare pockets; the legs were two inches too long, so that the hems had dragged upon his heels and been trodden away until there was little left but hanging threads. He wore a plain white T-shirt, with its V-neck stretched and pulled out of shape. My first impression was that he looked everything like his photos—blond, blue-eyed, impossibly young, and even more impossibly pretty for a town of gas stations in the middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.

My second impression was that he looked nothing like his photo. The angle at which he’d taken the pictures he’d sent had obscured his body, leaving me with the impression that he’d be short and slight. The kid was short, that much was for sure. He couldn’t have been more than five-six. Slight, no. Beneath that much-worn T was a broad frame of steel and muscle—the buffed-up, worked-out body of a Madison Avenue ad campaign. The perfect test tube concoction of youth, masculinity, and roaring hormones. I sat in my car for a moment and watched him as he pulled out his hands and balled one up. When he nervously ground it into the other palm, his chest flexed slightly and his biceps rippled. I hadn’t expected him to be built.

I unfolded myself slowly from the car. Slowly, because I’d been driving for nearly nine hours at that point. He didn’t recognize me until I approached him. My own hands were stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. “Hey kid,” I said.

He feigned indifference, but his slightest movements told me how nervous he was. His eyes darted away from, and then back to mine. Back and forth, back and forth. “Hey,” he said at last, swinging his arms back and forth.

“You haven’t been waiting long?”

“Five minutes. About that,” he said. In his email the night before he’d told me he lived only a mile from this exit, and from the road I’d called him only shortly before to let him know I was near. He looked me up and down, nodding. No one was around. In a soft voice, though, he asked, “So. You still gonna bareback me?”

“Yes.” I maintained my gaze even as he avoided mine.

“Cool, cool,” he said.

“You still want it bare, right?”

Again he nodded. The briefest, most economical of head jerks. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. I want it. It’s just. . . .” He looked away again.

“First time you’ve played raw,” I said for him. He thrust his hands in his pocket and looked up at me through those blue eyes, affirming it. He didn’t drop the tough act, but he looked almost shy. Vulnerable, even.

It made my dick hard.

“So where’re we going to do this?” I asked. When he jerked his head for me to follow, I watched as he sauntered over to a battered red Ford truck parked nearby. I climbed back into my own car and together we pulled out of the Taco Bell parking lot and onto the road where trucks and cars roared off the turnpike on their way to other places.

I’d placed a Craigslist ad for this region of Pennsylvania the afternoon before my driving trip to Virginia. I’d gotten about 36 responses in total. Though I thought I’d worded the ad fairly clearly, in the great tradition of Craigslist, apparently I erred. I’d stated that I would be driving through the county on April 23 and would be available around dinnertime for some play before I drove on; roughly half the people responding to my ad thought I’d been looking either for immediate sex, or that I’d be available on May 11 when they commuted through town for the South Central Pennsylvania Butter Worker’s Convention or some such idiocy. I’d said I was looking to top raw and fuck a load in a hole, and roughly a third of the responses I got began with some variation of “Hey I don’t do anal but if you want to meet. . . .” I concluded my ad with the words, “Only responses with clear photos will receive my reply,” and a mere eight of the people who wrote me included photos.

Only one of the respondents who’d sent a photo and asked if I could give him his first barebacking got my response, though. I followed him away from the oasis of truck stops and Subways and burger joints, down a two-lane road that wound through family restaurants, and then past houses, and finally past nothing but trees. For five minutes we drove until he came to an old car repair shop, long shuttered and closed. A sign resting against the dusty garage doors reflected an ancient and almost inconceivably low price for unleaded. Around the back of the filling station we drove onto a gravel-covered clearing. His tail lights flared red as he pulled to a stop.

He jerked his head for me to follow him into the woods. The air was chillier beneath the trees with their fresh leaves, than it had been back in the sun-baked asphalt of the truck stop oasis. It smelled greener, though. And it was quiet. I couldn’t even hear the turnpike that had to lie over the rise to the north. I followed him into the wood along a path that was little more than a wandering line of trampled leaves. We reached a tree that had fallen over sometime in the winter, and he stopped. Abruptly he sat down on the trunk, and swung his legs like a little boy. “This okay?” he said.

I nodded.

"Cool." Without a word or a signal from me, he kicked off his sneakers. Then he hopped up onto his sock-covered feet and with both hands, skimmed off the ratty white T. Beneath the cotton was a porn star’s body. I barely had a chance to admire the curves of his arms, the firm roundness of his shoulders, or the glory of his chest because he unbuttoned his khakis, stepped out of them, and tossed them onto the ground without even bothering to see where they fell. In his white socks and white Hanes he looked like a go-go boy at a gay bar.

The remainder of his clothes didn’t stay on for long. When he kicked out his legs to grab and shuck off the socks, the thick blond hair on his legs glinted. He then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and yanked them down to the ground. Without my even asking, he’d completely stripped naked. No self-consciousness, no doubts, no hesitations. Just me and the woods and his naked shelf and his boner, a five-inch thick stub of uncut flesh. It throbbed.

He rubbed his hand around his jawline, up his sideburns, and into his hair, watching me stare “So am I good enough?” he asked at last.

I nodded again. Oh yes. He was more than good enough.

“What do you want?” he asked. I swallowed hard and cocked my head, then rubbed my hand across my stiff dick, which had raised a ridge along my right leg.

“Oh, I know how to suck,” he assured me as he dropped to his knees. The ground underneath us was soft enough for him to kneel. His fingers reached out and undid the button of my jeans. He briefly grabbed my dick through the material of my shorts; his finger tickled around the wet spot that had already soaked through. Then they joined the mess of denim around my calves. His mouth opened. “Fuck!” he said, before thrusting his head onto my meat. He hadn’t lied. He knew how to suck. I didn’t know who’d taught him or where he’d practiced, but he wasn’t hesitant or inexperienced. Within an instant he had me harder than hard and gasping. “It’s better than the pictures.”

I didn’t say anything. I just wove my fingers through his hair and pulled him onto my dick, setting the pace for him. Nice and easy, not as quickly or as frantic as he wanted and needed. His hands ran up and my legs. He played with my ass, then my balls. His eyes were closed as he sucked.

I don’t remember how long I let him work on me. It seemed like a very long time. I didn’t want him to stop. I still had another five hours to go on my trip, however, and I couldn’t linger for too long. “You like my dick?” He made a noise. I yanked his mouth off my meat. “I said, do you like my dick?”

“God yes.” A thin line of spit connected us for a moment. It snapped and splashed him by the eye. “Yes. Let me suck your dick. Let me suck you off.”

“My load is going in your ass, runt.” One of my blog readers had used that word in an email to me the week before. I liked the sound of it. Runt.

He liked it too. He stared at me from the ground with my dick the only obstacle between us. “Are you really going to bareback me?” I raised my eyebrows. He knew the answer to that question. I didn’t have to respond. “How do you want it?” he asked.

I gestured for him to stand up. He followed my command and turned around until he was propping himself up on the tree trunks, his meaty hands firmly clutching the bark. “You cleaned out?” I asked.

“Yes,” he assured me. He wasn’t lying. When I knelt down, the cleft of his butt smelled of Dove soap, as if he’d scrubbed it red moments before he’d left to meet me at the Taco Bell. He didn’t say a word when I licked and sucked at his hole, but when I spat on it and rubbed a finger against the raised pucker s, he hissed. The kid was so fucking young, I realized right then. His skin was so soft. So pink. The flesh was tight and rigid. His hole seemed to radiate heat. I continued licking at and fingering it while I added my own spit to what remained of his on my own dick.

Then I stood up and went in, slow. He seemed almost prepared for it to hurt. I think we were both surprised when it slid in without much resistance. “Is it in?” he asked, almost in a panicked voice. For a moment I thought he was going to try to struggle away, to undo what had already been done. “Are you in me bareback?”

“Oh, I’m barebacking you,” I told him.

His hands scrabbled back. His fingers clawed at his ass. I thought he was pulling at the cheeks in order to help me get deeper, but no. He wanted to feel it for himself. His fingers touched mine as I helped him feel my rigid rod slide in and out. He let out a cry from his chest, once it sunk in that what he’d craved, what he’d probably dreamt about for however long he’d been getting his little ass used, was really happening. It was the kind of moan a man makes shortly before he bursts into tears, but instead of weeping, he sighed deeply. “Shit, yes.”

He relaxed into the fuck. His cheek rested against the bark as he thrust his ass up and into the air. The kid didn’t seem to care that the mark it made might linger. “You like it, runt?” I asked him. His ass tightened at the question. “You like my big bare dick in that little hole?”

“I wanna come with you, dude,” he said. His fingers worked furiously at his little dick. “I wanna fuckin’ come when you do.”

“I’m not coming yet,” I told him. Gradually I ramped up the speed of my fuck, taking pleasure in the sensations of his ass, eventually thrusting so deeply his whole beefy body shuddered from every slam. His hole was open wider than I thought possible—though it was true he’d told me he’d been fucked before, but not barebacked. He didn’t even seem to noticed that I was pretty basically pulling all the way out and plunging back in again.

I might not have been coming, but he was. I barely noticed it at first, as he was so quiet about it. I knew it was happening when his legs buckled, though, and he almost jerked himself off my dick. Thick ropes of white cum landed on the leaves between his legs. I shoved myself back in and held my dick inside as deep as I could as his ass clutched at me. Not until he stopped shooting did I resume my rhythm.

He wasn’t enjoying the fuck as much now that he’d cum. It didn’t matter, though. I did. He didn’t object as I fucked harder. He rested his forehead on his forearm and took it, with his eyes closed and his butt still lifted to meet my thrusts. “Breed me,” he whispered, as I picked up the pace. “Fuckin’ breed me. Fill my boycunt. I want my first sperm load.”

“You want it?” I asked, pushing in and out faster.

“I want it,” he told me. “I want my first breeding. Give it to me.”

“What’re you going to do with it?” I asked him. “I don’t want you pushing it out when I drive on my way.”

“I’m keepin’ it,” he said. His voice echoed hollowly against the tree trunk. “I’m gonna keep that sperm in my all day and all night if I can. I want your sperm. Please give it to me.”

On and on he talked, asking for my sperm as I fucked. I’d wanted to hold back, to enjoy his young ass the way it was meant to be enjoyed, but it was tough. I knew I was close when my dick began to buzz as if it had been a struck tuning fork. Seconds later, I caught a harsh breath and began to unload in the runt’s hole. “Fuck yes!” he groaned. “I want it! I’ve wanted your sperm! Give me—!”

He was shooting again, I noted with surprise. The amount of fluid wasn’t nearly as much as the first time he’d shot, but it was still enough to make a thick splat onto the already wet leaves between his feet. His back arched forward, and he gasped and rolled his hips. My dick immediately began to slide out. He was done.

He kept his word, though. The runt clenched his butt cheeks together and sat down on the tree trunk, panting. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing. All I had to do was pull my pants over my still-hard dick and fasten them. He sat there totally naked and watched me. Once again I saw the shy look in his eye when he asked, “Was I okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, grinning at him.

“I was good enough?” It was a serious question. He wasn’t merely fishing for compliments. I wanted to hug the kid right then, but I thought he might take it as condescension. I knew that someone in his life had to have told him that he wasn’t good enough at some point. Someone had to have. It was as plain and naked as he. I wanted to assure him that whoever that had been was a fool, and best forgotten. That he should get out of Nowhere and get the hell away from whomever it was, fucking with his head.

It was too big a liberty to take, though. “Hey,” I said, staring him in the eyes to make sure he knew I meant it. “You are more than good enough. For anyone.”

He paused for a second, then nodded. His arms crossed over his chest, and he spread his legs so that his softening dick hung between them. “Okay. You would know. I guess.” As he had been a few moments ago when he’d expelled me from his ass, I could tell he was done. “See ya,” he said.

“See ya,” I repeated. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and left by the path by which I’d come in.

I saw him emerge from the woods a few minutes later, after I’d checked my phone and pulled my car around on the little gravel lot. He was dressed, and scuffing his feet in the dirt. He stopped at the sight of my car. When I pulled around the abandoned filling station, he stood there in the cloud of dust he’d kicked up, then raised his hand and held it in the air. He wasn’t waving, but letting me go with his unspoken thanks.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Thursday Morning Questions

I'll still be on the road today, arriving back in Michigan from my trip to visit my dad. Today I'll recap a few more questions I've received on My regular postings should resume tomorrow (unless I'm whipped). Thanks for bearing with me during my absence!

If you have any questions you'd like to ask, feel free to use the widget on the right side of my page, or email me directly. I love talking to my readers. And fucking them.

For a hot fuck, how much is a bottom's skill and how much is anatomy?

A hot fuck requires two people (at minimum). The top's just as much responsible as the bottom for creating the heat and passion that results in a truly hot fuck.

That said, I've been with a few bottoms who have mad skills and crazy-hungry holes that always seem to get an extra load from my nuts that I didn't know I had in me. Skill definitely plays a part in that, and practice makes perfect. If anyone needs some practice....

What type of undies do you wear most often?

I go commando a lot.

When I wear undies, I tend to like square-cut trunks, or sometimes boxer briefs. My size is small, if you want to send me some!

If you replied to an ad such as on craigslist for an anonymous fuck and walked in but discovered you knew the bottom from work or elsewhere, what would you do?

This situation has happened to me with a teaching colleague. I fucked the hell out of him. At my previous job I ran into someone I worked with when I was at a bathhouse. I fucked the hell out of him and sucked his dick.

Where is the most public place you have fucked a guy or came close to being seen by others without trying?

In an old teaching job, I once got head from a guy who was sitting under my desk while my office door was wide open to the hallway and I pretended to work. Actual fucking, though? It'd probably be any of the restrooms or rest stops where I've hooked up with guys, or perhaps the dance floors of a couple of Canadian gay bars.

Besides the sex, what's the gayest thing about you?

My sorry weakness for Swedish and British pop music.

You may have answered something along these lines, but what are your feelings about using restraints during sex?

As long as I'm not required to own all manner of elaborate restraints, I'm all for them. I think it's sexy when a man hands his trust to me and lets me take away his freedoms.

I would like to find a bottom who will truss me up and then service me with his ass and mouth without me having any control, as well. That's about the one fantasy I've had that I've never tried.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you like to control what goes in and out of your bottom's hole?

When I'm with a bottom, I like to have as much control as possible over his hole. I get to dictate what toys I use on him, when and how much dick he takes, and if other guys are present, whose dick he works on.

If I'm involved with a bottom and am apart from him, he gets to pick who's fucking him and who's not. In general, I like my boys to be slutty when they're away from me.

Having read Happy Hole (which was very hot to read, and well written), I noticed you debunked the myth that all fisters ... prefer to be call 'Sir' in the off hours. How about occasionally?

I cannot deny that a nicely-timed 'Sir' makes my dick swell.

A well-timed 'Dad' makes it swell and lengthen visibly, though.

What is the sickest thing you've done? ;)

Of the ones to which I'll admit on this forum, they'd have to include the time (alluded to in my blog) I met a guy into humiliation in a Sears public restroom, where I tied him to the stall toilet seat with his necktie, pissed on him, and left him to escape on his own. (He loved it. He wanted a repeat for years. Some inspired moments can never be matched again.)

The most disturbing person I had sex with was a preacher when I was young who liked to fuck me on his church's altar, complete with blasphemous talk. He liked me to shoot my loads in his Bible, too. I thought it was kind of eye-rolling silliness even in my teens, and found it a little weird that it was the only way he could get off.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Wednesday Morning Questions

Today's the day I'll be leaving my dad's place and returning home to Michigan. Since I'll be on the road all day today and tomorrow, I'll be answering some reader questions from

In your blog, are all the pics of you?

In one entry I took photographs of an issue of Honcho. I am not a magazine, nor am I any of the models who appear in its pages, in that one entry. All the other photos are of me, yes. I hope you like them.

What is your idea of great foreplay?

Let me tell you what my idea of bad foreplay is, first. Bad foreplay is when I arrive at a guy's place and all he wants to do is drop his pants and have me shove it in. I've done it before and I'll do it again, but I crave a little more intimacy than that.

I love to make out. I'm a great kisser. When I find a guy who kisses well and passionately, I'm in heaven. I am very much into guys who are into sucking and biting nipples, licking and sucking any part of my body, and who love to rim and (especially) get rimmed. My appetite for foreplay is never sated, even after fucking.

I really like a guy who'll touch me. My neck and back love the feel of soothing hands on them. Stroke me and I'll purr like a tomcat.

Do you shave down there? And do you like your dicks shaved, trimmed, or hairy?

I trim. I shave my balls when I remember and usually keep my bush cut fairly short. It's blond hair, so there never really looks like there's a lot down there anyway. (Except on my nuts. That gets pretty gnarly if I don't shave.)

I like a pair of hairy nuts plopped in my mouth. I also like to look on a nice smooth pair. I'm pretty easy, really.

I noticed that, of late (in your blog) that many of your hookups come self-lubed. Do you have a lube that works best for you?

What's up with the self-lubing, the last couple of weeks? Bottoms, it's exciting to find that you're so hot to be fucked that you've self-lubed, but not for guys like me who love to pig out and munch on a hole. Let me do the work of getting you primed!

I'm not picky about lubes, so long as it washes off easily, doesn't have a lingering perfumey smell, and isn't so viscous that it distracts from or interferes with the sex at hand. I haven't yet found a brand that's won my loyalty and devotion. If anyone wants to send samples my way, I'm fine with that. :)

True trivia: I've never bought any lube in my life. Every bottle I have (and I have a few big ones) has been left behind at my place by bottoms who either forgot it, or left it behind so it could be used at future meetings with me.

For a prospective bottom, do you prefer a shaved butt hole?

You know how some people, when they've met a total stranger for the first time, will remark when he walks away, "He really had the prettiest blue eyes?" I'm one of those people who doesn't notice eye color as a matter of course. I couldn't tell you what color were the eyes of any of my friends.

In a similar way, I don't really notice if a man has a hairy or shaved butt hole. I like 'em both. If the guy had hair long enough to braid hanging from his hole, I might not want to go face-diving down there, but I haven't encountered it yet. Thank god.

I am top. Borderline troll. What's your advice for me to get action in a bath house?

Everyone goes to the bathhouses to have fun. We're all there with the same goal. Getting sex once you're inside is about advertising your strengths. As a top, your strength would be a hard dick that's ready to be shoved in some hungry hole.

Show off the assets. You know how bottoms at the baths will turn the lights down low in their rooms and like there with their butt up in the air? You can do that too. Get a private room, turn the lights down, open the door so that some of the light from the hallway shines in, and sit there with your dick in that light. Get it hard. Stroke it. When men pass, it'll be the first thing they see. You'll get some horny guys wanting dick in no time.

Show it off in the steamroom. If the baths have a dark room or gloryhole, take it there. My personal style is to let the cocksuckers and bottoms come to me, rather than to chase them

Nothing puts guys off in the baths more than the notion they're being stalked. If you find an attractive guy and he doesn't seem interested, don't follow him around and hope he'll change his mind. You'll probably drive him into hiding. Be cool, and laid-back, and the sex will happen.

Have you seen 1000 load fuck? It's an ultimate cum fantasy of mine! Ever though about mailing one of your lucky fans a vial of your seed?

Yes, I have that movie--one of my favorites in the last year, in fact. I've sent guys articles of clothing coated with my seed before, but never a vial of it.

Why stop at one lucky fan, though?

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

David, Part II

(While I'm visiting my dad, I'm posting some older journal entries for today and tomorrow. What follows is an old journal entry from 2003 that's continued from yesterday.)

I don’t know why meeting David had mortified me. I can hazard a few guesses, but my perspective has changed so greatly over the last two decades any one of them would be difficult to explain. All the sex I’d had in the five years before, by and large, had been with men older than myself. I’d been used, photographed, banged, passed around, and never really felt any shame when it happened.

When David walked into that house, however, and appeared in the bedroom door, it was the first time my slutting around had been laid bare for someone my own age. My life had been neatly compartmentalized to that point. I had my friends and peers, and I had the collection of men I’d slept with. I might be friendly with the men fucking me, but they weren’t my friends. Likewise, my friends didn’t fuck me.

David frightened me, I think, by being my peer, wanting to be my friend, and wanting so obviously to enjoy sex with me. It was too much for me to handle. From what I recall, I went back to my dorm room that afternoon and hid. As it grew darker, I badly wanted to go down to Crim Dell and meet him, but every time I imagined him there, waiting in the campus’s most picturesque and romantic spot, my stomach churned with fear. I pictured him leaning against the fence overlooking the duck pond, its Japanese bridge framing his impatient silhouette. I pictured him looking at his watch and waiting for me.

I also pictured myself showing up and not finding him there, and returning to my dormitory disappointed and shaking.

I stayed in that night. I didn’t go down to meet him. Ten o’clock came and went and I remained curled up in the corner of my room where my bed met the wall. Midnight passed, and one, then two. I didn’t fall asleep until nearly dawn.

When I look at David’s photograph in my old college yearbooks, he appears slightly cross-eyed. That puzzles me; the expression was nothing like the David I knew. I could see his approach on campus after that from far away—the red of his hair allowed me to spot him long before I could make out his features.. When I could, I’d duck down some byway or gravel path and avoid him. When I couldn’t, our eyes would lock as we passed. If he was in the middle of a conversation with a friend, he would stop talking so that he could stare at me as I walked by. When I looked over my shoulder, I would see him craning his neck to gaze after me.

I yearned for David all that year, but never said a word to him. His attention mortified me, but not as much as the knowledge that I had stood him up that autumn evening.

By my sophomore year, I was involved in the theatre department and co-starring in a two-person drama written by one of the more talented student playwrights. It was part of an evening of one-act plays. David turned out to be in one of the other productions. Our paths, however, didn’t cross until the night we ran technical rehearsals on all three plays. While we waited for our turns, we sat ten feet apart. Though we pretended not to be noticing each other, he was all I could think about. I feared him getting up and speaking to me. I worried he still wanted an apology for never meeting him. He watched me from the corners of his eyes the entire time. When I was onstage for my play during the performances, standing at attention in a soldier’s role, eyes straight ahead, I could see him standing above the bleachers of spectators in the walkway that ran around the room’s edge. He stood there, watching no one but me, for every performance. And then he would disappear.

During David’s last semester on campus we shared a class in seventeenth-century poetry together. He sat in the row ahead of me, one seat over, next to his friend Shana from the theatre department. Every Tuesday and Thursday we would both go through an elaborate charade in which we’d pretend not to know the other existed. He would swivel in his chair and pretend to look out the window, even while his eyes would sidle in my direction. I would flush a deep, deep crimson and pretend I was listening to our short, frizzle-haired female professor. He would talk loudly about going up to New York on his spring break and visiting a gay bar. His friend Shana would hush him, worried that someone might overhear. He’d meant for me to overhear, however. Maybe he’d thought I’d forgotten how I knew him.

How could I forget, though? Whenever David was around, he was I could think about. My skin seemed to blush, warm, and grow tight in his presence, like a grape swollen to bursting in the afternoon sun. If he turned suddenly in his seat, I would flinch as if I’d been struck.

Toward the end of the semester he appeared in our class carrying a single white rose. It lay next to his notebook throughout the lecture, but from time to time he would pick it up with his soft, small hands and hold the bud to his nose. Twice he turned around in my direction and let his eyes flick to mine as he held the rose on his lips, casually, offhandedly, as if bored with the lecture and having a private muse on some other topic. I nearly had a stroke.

At the end of the class he turned to Shana. “This is for you, sweetie,” he told her. She beamed and took it. They left the seminar room together. David very deliberately scanned my direction to see if I watched, yet refused to meet my eyes. I just wanted to slink back to my room and hide.

The day of the final exam, David was in a giddy, playful mood. He toyed with Shana’s hair and cracked jokes I couldn’t hear. Shortly before the professor walked in, he grabbed a mug of water she’d brought with her, walked over the window, and fished something out of his pocket. While Shana protested, he poured the water over the something and brought it back to where they sat. “I found this in the river,” he said. “See how beautiful it is when it’s wet?” Shana didn’t seem overly impressed, but she agreed with him and hushed him so the professor could begin her lecture.

The course had been tremendously difficult for me, and of course I’d never been able to concentrate during the lectures. I was pulling nothing but Cs on my papers and tests, and the only way I’d been able to tackle the final exam had been to memorize vast quantities of the professor’s favorite poems and to regurgitate them back into the blue book. I was the only sophomore in what was a senior-level class. I was also one of the last people to hand in his test booklet and leave the classroom. I walked down the arched hallway and down the stairs and through the front door of the Tucker building and out into the sweet Virginia sunshine, relishing mingling sensations of apprehension at my performance and relief at the class’ completion.

I felt a touch on my arm. David had been leaning against the old brick wall of the entrance, waiting for me. He barely looked at me as he pressed something into my hand. “Had we but world enough, and time,” he said. I was still so surprised that I could barely comprehend him, but I did note how stiff he sounded. It was as if he had practiced his line thoroughly, but barely had the courage to speak it. Before I could reply, he sprinted down the steps without a word more. When I opened my hand, I saw that he had given me the stone he’d earlier shown Shana. It was dry and still warm from his hand, and it was plain and ugly.

I never saw him again.

I was angry with him for that moment for months. The line was from Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress,” a poem we had studied in class. Every negative interpretation I could attach to the quotation and his dubious gift, I attached. Mentally I railed at him for suggesting I’d been my Jamestown road friend’s whore. I resented David for thinking me coy and calculating, rather than merely frightened to death of him. I thought he had given me a stone as a booby prize—it was the rock in Charlie Brown’s trick-or-treat bag, or a representation of how hard he thought my heart.

I kept the stone, though. I buried it in a Godiva chocolate tin from the 1950s that had belonged to my father and where I kept other small treasures. I didn’t look at it again until a year later, however, when I found out that David was dead.

He had moved to his beloved New York right after his graduation in 1983; the obituary I ran across in my father’s alumni newspaper said he’d died of complications related to pneumonia—probably a euphemism, I realized even then. David was most likely the first man I knew to die from AIDS-related infections.

David's stone was still there in the Godiva tin, smooth and round and a speckled, anonymous grey. It wasn’t until after I learned of his death that I thought to put it under water. It came alive then with layers of rosy pink and deep, chocolate browns. Flecks on its surface reflected light back at me. It really was a beautiful thing to behold.

When David comes to mind these days, it’s always with a sense of loss—both the loss of his life and the loss of my missed opportunities. Certain things remind me of him. A certain shade of red hair. Light blue eyes the color of the sky. A particular tilt of the head, or an aroused hiss of breath. A white rose.

Every couple of years I take my Godiva tin and dig to its bottom where sits a plain, round, undistinguished stone—the kind of pebble I might kick out of my way if it rested on the sidewalk. I let the water run over it, and I admire its colors. Its rose-colored strata endure and never change, unlike youth or shame or even fear. And I wonder not so much why I feared David, or why we never really spoke or touched again, but how I should ever have thought that he could give me a gift that wasn’t truly beautiful.

Monday, April 26, 2010

David, Part I

(While I'm visiting my dad, I'm posting some older journal entries so that you won't miss me. What follows is an old journal entry from 2003.)

“Don’t get up,” he told me.

I was already pulling on a shirt, panicked at the sound of the back door opening at the other side of the condo. It was the first time I’d been in a man’s bed and heard someone unexpected enter his home. “Someone’s coming,” I said, panicked. Was it a lover? A wife? A policeman?

“Seriously. Don’t get dressed,” said my friend. After twenty-two years, I’ve forgotten his name. He was one of those alumni of the college who never seemed to leave Williamsburg after graduation, loving the little city so much that he’d stayed there for twenty years. Although he worked in Richmond and spent large portions of each month in the D.C. area, his home was townhouse on Jamestown Road. His advice came too late, though. I’d already pulled on my t-shirt. When I heard steps at the top of the staircase, I pulled the hem of my shirt over my erection. “You didn’t have to do that. It’s just my buddy David. He’s picking up some stuff. You know David?”

It was 1981. I was seventeen and in my first month as a freshman. I barely knew anyone who wasn’t on my dorm hallway. I certainly didn’t know the older kid standing in front of me. David had hair in a shade of light copper, like a penny new from the press; the skin of his lightly muscled arms was pink and creamy. He wore a grey t-shirt with the sleeves cut-off, jeans, and tennis shoes. “I didn’t know you had someone here,” he said. The apology was honest. I could tell how uncomfortable he had been, seeing me.

“That’s okay. Let me get your stuff.” The man stood. His penis was still dripping semen from the tip as he ambled off downstairs.

“I’m David,” said the redhead. He stared at me with eyes of the most intense blue hue I've ever seen. I introduced myself, frightened to move. My t-shirt was covering my still-raging, unsatisfied erection, but any movement would reveal it. I wasn’t entirely stupid. I knew it was obvious what we’d been doing, but I kept hoping for some less embarrassing solution to the situation. “Are you a student?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he put a hand to his chest. “I’m a junior.”

“Freshman,” I admitted.

David looked at the staircase just outside the bedroom, and hesitated. Then he took a step closer. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch my cheek. The stroke’s arc took him to the neck of my shirt. He rested his fingers on it and paused, waiting for me to protest.

I did not.

He lifted the t-shirt up and over my erection. I was unsatisfied and still hard, despite the fright. The sensation of his skin’s warmth along my neck made my cock even harder. When it popped out from under the cloth, unrestrained at last, he drew in his breath sharply, surprised at my size. It sounded as if he was hissing. Those blue eyes regarded my cock for a few seconds before he caught my gaze once more and cupped me under the chin. “I wish I had a boyfriend like you,” he whispered to me, his voice barely audible. “Meet me tonight.”

My heart pounded in my chest so hard that my sight seemed to dim. I wish I could explain the way of my thoughts, twenty-two years ago. These days I would’ve said, “Sure!” My seventeen-year old self, however, I could only wish myself gone, away from the embarrassment of that situation, gone from David’s blue eyes and from my friend’s bed. He must have seen the conflict in my face. “Just meet me tonight. Promise. Ten o’clock, Crim Dell. I’ll wait for you. I just want to talk.” The condo’s owner started back up the stairs. “He used to fuck me too,” he whispered. “Ten o’clock?”

“Here you go.” Our friend held out a plastic grocery bag. I don’t think I ever actually saw what it contained, but from the way it hung, my impression was that it held some clothing.

David had taken a step back, away from me. My cock was back under the t-shirt. The man yawned and launched himself back into bed, not bothering to cover up. “Want to stick around?” he asked David. “Boy’s got a prime mouth.”

The red-head looked at me and shook his head. “I have to do things. Later.”

“Come here,” said the man, grabbing at my shirt. I felt the stitching protest at the seams as he pulled me back and guided me down on him. I performed automatically after that, though, wondering how soon was soon enough to make an excuse to leave and hike the mile back to campus, but not too soon so that I wouldn’t run into David on the way out.

(Part II will appear tomorrow.)

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Big Brother

(While I'm visiting my dad, I'm posting some older journal entries so that you won't miss me. What follows is an old journal entry from 2007.)

“My little brother,” the guy named Tom used to call out as he dragged me across the closed-off street in front of the Hibbs Building, my neck snared in his rigid embrace. He didn’t know any of the students lounging beneath the trees or sitting on the concrete benches waiting for their next classes to start, or who’d bought sandwiches from the cafeteria on the building’s second floor and were trying to relax in the still-warm afternoon heat. “This is my little brother, everybody. Look!”

He just yelled out for the silly joy of it, hauling me around in the meaty crook of his arm, making me trip and stumble to keep up. We didn’t look like brothers at all. I was lean and narrow and fair, and he was dark-haired, short and brawny, a jock in his prime, one hundred percent pure Italian. He didn’t care how different we looked. Occasionally he’d ruffle my hair with his knuckles, or stop to plant an exaggerated smack of a kiss on my forehead—exactly the sort of thing a playful older brother might have done to embarrass his shy younger sibling. I think he did it for the pleasure of seeing me blush. I never failed him.

Whenever I think of Tom, I picture him wearing one of his red shirts. Primary red—not one of the lesser, adulterated shades. He wore a red polo shirt the day I met him, one of the thirty students sitting somewhere in the middle and back of one of my father’s seminars.

When I was fifteen and starting the tenth grade, my parents sat down to look at the high school’s graduation requirements and reasoned out that the only thing keeping me from skipping the eleventh grade and graduating in three years would be a single credit each in English and social studies. The former I could take care of in summer school; the latter I made up by auditing one of my dad’s introductory seminars in American History for a semester. I was miserable my first day in that class—obviously younger and more out of place than the other students, and worried about having to participate at their level.

Then Tom, who was sitting next to me, turned during the break, leaned his arms on the scratched wooden surface of my classroom desk, and spoke before I could sneak out and hide somewhere. “What’s your deal?” he wanted to know. “You a kid genius or something? Graduating college at thirteen?”

I flushed furiously and said no, I was taking the class for high school credit, and that I was older than thirteen. “Cool,” he said, nodding. Tom was a junior at the time, I found out later; he was already twenty-two. It was tough for me to look at him, he was so attractive and masculine. His eyes were dark and his hair was shaggy and long like mine, but hours playing sports and lifting weights had turned him into one of those athletes whose attentions I’d avoided at school, for fear of taunting and maybe even possible beatings. He bulged in every place imaginable, where I was stick-thin. I thought that if I said too much, I'd betray exactly what I was. Having him so close made me unable to meet his gaze, like a dog wary of a possibly hostile presence suddenly invading its space. “So why this class?”

I blushed even more and admitted that the professor was my father, expecting the conversation to end with a flash of scorn and brief enough small talk for him to make a getaway. “Okay,” he finally said. Then, unexpectedly, he laid one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the front of the writing desk, and pulled it a couple of inches closer. “You can be my little brother this semester. I’ll look out for you. All right? How's that sound? Cool?”

“All right,” I replied automatically, out of politeness and a lack of anything contradictory to say. I already had one brother, much older than Tom, whom I'd come to depend upon. I wasn't seeing much of Mikey that year. I liked being protected, and it felt good that Tom being so friendly.

“All right,” he repeated. “Let’s go get a Coke, then.”

Being Tom’s little brother apparently consisted of twice weekly accompanying him to the classroom building snack bar during the two-hour class’s ten-minute break. He’d buy a cellophane-wrapped packet of Lance crackers there, or a Slim Jim, or a orange drink in an ice-filled Styrofoam cup, half of which he’d usually share with me, though I’d protest I had my own pocket money for snacks. Then he’d suggest we get some fresh air. Out in the quadrangle in front of the building, he’d act as if he’d been released from some sort of cage. His massive chest would expand as he took a breath of deep air, and then he’d become silly. “C’mere, kid!” he’d bellow, and then I’d find all hundred pounds of myself snatched up and bench-pressed over his head, as easily as if I were a rag doll. Or he’d sling me over his shoulders and jog around, laughing, like some kind of frat prank. His easy physicality always came as a shock. There would be long moments between finding myself lifted up and spun around and the laughter that eventually came . . . but it always did come, in the end.

After classes, in the long minutes in which my dad would fend questions from the students who crowded around the lectern, Tom would take me outside, where he'd sit down with me while I waited. He’d ask me questions about my life. What I studied in school. What subjects I liked best. What TV shows I watched. Or, “So, do you like girls?” He’d crack his knuckles over that one, or watch me slyly while I’d color and fumble for words. “It’s cool,” he’d say, when I’d stammer out something. “You don’t have to answer if you don't want.”

Of course I liked girls, I finally managed to say. “You have a girlfriend then, huh?” he asked. Because I thought I ought, rather than because I wanted to, I made up a romantic interest. Her alleged name was Beth. I’d known her since third grade. We just hadn’t done anything because . . . because she was Catholic. “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding with the wisdom of seven more years. “Those Catholic girls are the worst.” Then my father would come out of the building, blindly peering around to find me in the haze of students. Tom would stand up, puff out his chest and gather his bag of books, and cuff me around the neck. “See you later, little buddy,” he’d call out, before striding off.

Tom wore a red T-shirt the day he asked my dad if it would be okay if I went to the library with him for a couple of hours after class, early in the semester. “He can be like, a real college student. If that’s cool with you,” he told him. My father didn’t mind; he was thrilled that I was socializing with another classmate. So once a week Tom and I would take off to the newly-built library and find a brightly-lit, quiet corner with a table we’d share.

He’d pull out his books and study for a while, pulling faces whenever someone would invade our solitude, or asking me whispered questions about that week’s reading or lecture. Eventually he’d get restless and playful. Sometimes he would tear a sheet of paper from his spiral notebook and fold it into a triangular wedge so that we could flick it back and forth, playing an impromptu game of tabletop football.

Sometimes we’d skip the library altogether. Tom would take me to the student gymnasium, where he’d show me the basketball courts and the locker rooms where I’d avoid looking at the guys in the steamy showers. He showed me how he lifted weights and where he swam laps. Sometimes he’d join in a game of hacky sack outside the gym entrance, dancing and pulling faces as he attempted with the others to keep the little footbag in motion, showing off his moves for his little brother.

One afternoon we were walking to the library together after class he stopped outside the building’s entrance, hands on his hips. I watched him bite his lip for a moment. Then he studied me. “So,” he said. “How about we go to my place?”

“Okay,” I said, automatically, because I’d never disagreed with any of his suggestions.

“Yeah?” he asked, not betraying any emotion. “You wanna?”

I thought about it, this time. “Yeah,” I said. I really wanted to.

The campus didn’t have much in the way of dormitories, then. Tom lived a few blocks away in a townhouse divided up into student rooms. His own little home was in the basement, with only a panel of window at the top admitting light. “So this is it,” he said, throwing down his bag and letting the battered door close. The room was neater than I expected, but that could have been because there was so little in it. Some free weights sat on the floor in the corner. He had a crate full of LPs acting as his night stand, next to a mattress and box springs that sat on the floor. The week’s laundry sat packed into a basket by the door. “I don’t have much in the way of chairs,” he apologized, flopping down on the bed. His legs sprawled off the side. He kicked off his sneakers. I watched them land beneath the window well.

“That’s okay,” I mumbled.

When he patted the mattress, telling me to sit down beside him, I obeyed. My own feet remained firmly on the floor; my elbows rested on my knees while I waited for what I hoped would come next. He sat up, too, so that my back wasn’t to him. “You’re not really into girls, are you?” he asked, his voice husky and soft. His fingertips softly swiped my cheek as he brushed my long hair away from my face.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to tell the truth, nor did I want to lie to him.

Tom absently rubbed his biceps, exposed thanks to the red shirt from which he’d hacked off the sleeves, and nodded. “It’s cool, little brother,” he said, patting my back. After a moment, the pat turned into a rub, long and slow, up and down the outline of my spine.

Then I felt something soft on my neck—his lips, softly planting a kiss there. Then another, just below my ear. Acknowledging what he was doing, I reached out and put my hand on his knee, barely a butterfly’s touch. He rested his own hand atop mine, and after a moment, pulled it up his thigh to the denim covering his crotch. I felt nothing but heat there, heat so intense it felt like I’d raised my palm to an uncovered oven burner.

“It’s cool," he whispered. "Don't worry. It's only if you want to.” I looked at him, square in the eyes, while he brushed away more long, blond straggling hair from mine.

And then slowly, gently, I helped him take off his red shirt.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Friday Afternoon Bonus Smut

One of my blog readers bought me a silicon teardrop cock ring from my wishlist.

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

I've got to admit the thing is highly erotic.

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draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

It made jacking off a distinct pleasure.

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

The sturdy shelf that reaches down from the base of my nuts provides some additional stimulation that made my orgasm pretty damned powerful; it felt like I was shooting in slow motion.

The links that follow are for two short video clips I took while wearing it for the first time. I opened an Xtube account so I could share them with you guys. Enjoy!

Link One: Stroking with the Teardrop

Link Two: Half an Orgasm with the Teardrop (I was having difficulties grabbing my camera phone and turning it on, for the first half!)

On Hiatus . . . Only Kind Of

You know, when I started this blog, I didn't intend much out of it. At the very least I thought I'd have a private place to share my current and past sexual experiences—something I very much needed, because sex is a pretty big part of my life and I enjoy writing about it.

What I didn't expect was the sheer amount of support and kindness I'd get from total strangers. The comments you guys have made on my entries and the emails you've sent have been fantastic. I hadn't expected to make friends from this enterprise, but I have, and I continue to. Even someone I had previously known and admired who turned out to read my blog opened up to me in an unexpected and touching way when I wrote about him.

New friends are amazing things. So thank you very much, all of you, most sincerely.

Now the semi-bad new: for the next seven days I'm going to be visiting my dad in central Virginia.

My elderly dad, I have to explain right up front, lives in some Luddite fantasyland in which he has no internet connection, no WiFi, and an actual Betamax machine sitting on top of his television. While I'm there I'll have my iPhone with me for checking email and Twitter and for attempting to make a few hookups, but for the most part it'll be me, him, and forty channels of basic cable.

And I can't make blog entries from an iPhone. Trust me. I've tried.

Fear not, however. I've lined up a solid week of stuff for every day I'm absent. You'll be getting three sexy old journal entries you won't have read before, a day of dirty photos, and answers to all the questions you've ever wanted to know about me—or some of them, anyway. It'll almost be like I haven't left at all.

As a special bonus, check back after 3:00 this afternoon for a bonus post in which I show off photos and short videos of me stroking and shooting with a new cock ring.

Feel free to reach out and give me a sanity check with comments and emails. I'll respond to each and every one. I promise. I'd especially love some emails today while I'm making the fourteen-hour drive from Michigan to Virginia. It'll break up the monotony of the road. (The dirtier the better!)

And again, if there's anyone in central Virginia looking for some fun over the weekend, hit me up. I'll probably have several days worth of sperm churning in my nuts.

You probably won't notice that I'm even gone, but I'll see you guys when I get back!

Thursday, April 22, 2010


I call him Whore. That’s what he likes to be called, preferably while I push his face down in the pillow, or as I grab a handful of his hair and yank his neck back to scowl at him. “You’re a whore, aren’t you?” I’ll growl the words in his ear, just so I can feel his muscles slacken. His resistance lessens, and I’ll drive myself into him deeper. Finally he agrees. He is a whore, yes, he is, and that’s how he deserves to be treated.

Whore looks remarkably like actor Charlie Sheen. When he first sent his photo to me, months ago, I thought to myself, That looks like a naked Charlie Sheen leaning on a giant back hoe. He followed it up with another, and I thought, If Charlie Sheen were to be prone on a giant yellow back hoe with his butt in the air, that’s how he’d look. Even now that I’ve known him for a while, I still have out-of-context Charlie Sheen moments. If Charlie Sheen were wearing nothing but a dog collar and kneeling on the floor with my boot on his neck, that’s exactly what he might look like. If I screwed Charlie Sheen, I bet he’d bang his feet on the wall over his head just like this!

In the past he’s tried to shock me with stories of how many men have had him in a weekend, a day, a single night. But I’ve been down that road myself and could match him story for story, exploit for exploit. So when we meet now we get right to business. Most nights I’ll show up to his brick duplex and by the sole light on the front porch see him through the window, sitting naked in his living room, surrounded by the antiques he inherited from his late mother, waiting for me, already hard. I’ll step inside, letting the sound of my zipper speak for me. On the edge of a baroque Victorian chair he’ll kneel while I straddle and enter him. “Whore,” I’ll whisper at last. He’ll have been waiting for that word. It’s a challenge to him. The more I repeat it, the harder he’ll meet me, thrust for thrust.

Tuesday night he greeted me at the door in a silk bathrobe with a Japanese print. Boy, I thought. If Charlie Sheen were ever to do a movie where he greeted someone at the door in a really faggy-looking bathrobe, he’d look exactly like this! “Let’s take it to the bedroom this time,” he told me.

The Whore’s not a romantic. The moment we reached his bedroom at the very back of the house’s first floor, just beyond the living room, he dropped his robe and bent over the bed, playing with his hairy crack and teasing his hole open with the tips of his fingers. “Take it,” he moaned.

I kicked off my boots. I unbuttoned my shirt, letting every release pop in the darkness before my fingers moved down to the next. I unfastened my belt, and let it jingle for a moment before the buckle crashed against the floor. My jeans slid down, over and off my feet. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Before I kissed him, before I spoke a word, I swung back my arm and then let my palm crash against his right cheek. He stifled his cry of pain and surprise. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like that . . . whore.”

“I did,” he whimpered. “I did. Please.”

I shoved myself in him right then and there, growling at him and barking orders that he was only too glad to obey. When I came minutes later, it sounded as if I was in pain; I shook and shuddered. “Don’t pull out yet,” he begged me. With some awkwardness we maneuvered ourselves onto his high bed, me on my back while he clutched onto me with his ass muscles. “Please stay in?” he begged.

“I’m still hard, whore,” I told him. “Go for it.”

He rode up and down, quivering with pleasure as I talked dirty to him and twisted his nipples. I only lasted a couple of minutes before I felt the urge to take over once more. I put him onto his knees and drove into him again and again. “Yes!” he yelled. “Yes! Yes!”

I heard the front door open right then. I stopped. “Crap, is that your tenant?” I asked him.

“Sheeeeeee-it,” he groaned. We listened to the voices outside for a moment. The guy who rents a room from Whore had brought at least one other person home with him; it sounded more like two or three. From the sounds we heard, I could picture them taking off their coats and settling down on the living room furniture to have a talk.

“I’ll make some drinks,” one of them said. “What’re you guys having?”

We were all of ten feet away. Whore got up and closed the bedroom door.

“Maybe I should go,” I told him. My clothes were in a pile on the floor, by his dresser.

“Nuh-uh,” he told me, pushing me back down. “This is my house. They’re guests in it. We do what I want.”

“Yeah, but. . . .”

“You not man enough to finish what you started?”

“Can you be quiet?” I asked.


It started quietly enough, anyway. Once again I climbed on top of him and started thrusting, running my hands over his chest. Soon I was heaving closer and closer to a second orgasm. “Deeper,” he whispered. Then more loudly, “Deeper!” Then finally, “Fuckin’ BANG ME!” he yelled. “COME ON MAN, GET OFF LOAD NUMBER TWO! ARE YOU A BITCH OR A STUD? WELL? ARE YOU A PANSY-ASS BITCH OR A FUCKING STALLION, STUD?

It was too late to keep quiet at that point. “You’re the bitch, you fuckin’ hungry whore!” I yelled back. “Come on, fuckin’ take it!

YEAH, FUCKER!” Right then he rolled over on me, so that I was on my back, still inside him, while he was lying face up, furiously wailing away on his erect cock. “YEAH! YEAH!” he screamed. His body began to convulse at the same time as mine. Both of us were yelling and gasping when suddenly his load flew over his shoulder and splashed me in the face.

From the living room—silence. Then a spate of furious talking.

“Wow,” he said, panting.

“No shit,” I answered.

I got dressed and tried to do something about getting my floppy hair to lay flat, but it was no use. Even in the darkness, I could see in the mirror I had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look. “I guess there’s no other way out?” I asked him.

“Nope.” The Whore pulled on his bathrobe again. “Don’t sweat it. The roommate knows I’m popular.” That’s quite a euphemism. Popular.

It had to be done. I opened up the bedroom door, grinning to myself when silence fell in the living room just beyond. Five men sat on living room furniture, staring at me. How bad can this be? I asked myself. I should have felt dirty, but I didn't. After all, they were the ones sitting on the chairs and sofas I'd had sex on many a time. “Evening,” I told them, nodding and smiling at them all as if we all were indulging in the polite fiction they hadn’t heard anything.

I didn’t look back over my shoulder until I heard someone call after me. “Thanks for making me walk funny, top stud.” The five pairs of eyes that had been staring at me suddenly swiveled to my friend in his bedroom doorway, propping himself in the frame with both hands.

“Take it easy, whore,” I called back, right as I let myself out.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010


There’s a particular kind of exasperating online bottom whom I recognize as the sort who never intends to get naked with me. He never intends to meet. In fact, he never intends to leave the safe warm glow of his computer monitor, but wants to sit there until the end of time, whacking off and asking tops this question within the first three sentences of conversation:

Do you know any other top guys you can whore me out to?

My answer to this not-so-rare breed of men is usually polite and couched in as soft and reconciliatory a form as possible, keeping in mind my experience that these guys never show up and never want to do anything but masturbate to their fantasy of being a bad boy to multiple men. And my carefully-worded answer is thus: NO.

Then I pretty much stop talking to them.

Here’s my thing about bottoms who want more than one top. Number one: do you know how very difficult it is to find another top in some cities? If a top guy asked me to find multiple bottoms for a party I could swing a bottle of lube and knock over a dozen volunteers without even opening my eyes. Tops though, are in pretty short supply. Number two: even if I did find a couple of other guys willing to top, do you know how hard it is to coordinate a time when they can all show up? Number three: do you know how many will flake out?

My sorry little preface is all because contrary to what I just said, Monday I went to my third gangbang in a week. All three had one bottom and multiple tops. So maybe I’m just a big ol’ crab who doesn’t like to throw parties.

I only went to the Motel 6 gangbang, Monday afternoon, because I very much like the top who was throwing it. Phil is a lean, tall top—leaner and taller even than I—with a bald head and a dark red goatee that makes him look like a mean fucker. He’s a hell of a nice guy, though. A good kisser. Friendly. And when he hosts a party, I go if I can and contribute a load or two to his pet bottom for the day. He enjoys watching me fuck, I get to pump out a load, and the bottom gets a load in his hole.

It’s a networking thing. It’s all about networking.

I didn’t have much time this afternoon to play—and frankly, after two gangbangs last week I really wasn’t in the mood for another big group. I’d been craving some tender one-on-one sex for days, and my Scruffy hasn’t been available. The impersonality of a group just wasn’t satisfying-sounding for me. However, like I said: networking. So I went right at the party’s start, knocking on the Motel 6 door precisely at three o’clock in the afternoon.

Phil opened the door and smile. He was naked save for a yellow jockstrap and a pair of boots. “Well hey,” he said. “Right on time.” He closed the door quickly behind me so that the men working on the dumpster directly across couldn’t see. “Usually it’s the best for last. This time I guess we got the best for first,” he said to the bottom.

I looked across the room. On the bed was a good-looking guy wearing a blindfold. His hair was crispy and spiky from gel, and he knelt on the bed with his butt in the air already. On the bed beside him lay a number of toys—a couple of dildos, a butt plug, a leather paddle. A tub of lube and a squirt bottle sat on the bedside table. Phil had brought his portable sling and set it up in the middle of the hotel room. It was quite the setup.

“Got you a real big dick for the first one,” said Phil to the bottom. “Turn around and get him hard.”

I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and let the bottom get to work. I didn’t know his name. I couldn’t tell much about him other than he had a fairly good body and appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. He sucked me to hardness in a matter of seconds, though. “Now I’m gonna rim your pretty ass,” growled Phil into my ear. He shoved me over.

It was kind of tough to find a position in which I could feed the bottom my dick while giving Phil access to my hole, but at last we all compromised on me leaning over the bottom’s shoulders and back while he continued to suck, and Phil prying apart my ass so he could spit on it and probe it with his tongue.

3:05. I slapped some lube on my dick and turned the bottom around so I could fuck him. Phil reached out and guided my dick in. I was still in my pants and shoes when I knelt on the bed to ease forward; Phil yanked off my Chucks and then removed my pants and shorts and placed them all in a neat pile in the corner. When I started fucking, he went back into rimming position and drove me absolutely crazy by licking and sucking at my hole and nuts while I slid in and out of the bottom soft, smooth butt.

3:12. I pulled the bottom up to his knees at the bed’s edge, so I could give Phil the show he really wanted. He likes to throw these parties for the up-close-and-personal porn. The more up close and more personal, the better. When Phil saw me standing up and slow-dicking the bottom from behind, he shouted, “Oh yeah!” and threw himself down onto the motel room’s carpet. He settled his head on the box springs and stared up between our legs, watching me slide in and out of that ass from only inches away. I took long, slow strokes so he could see every inch gliding; I took tiny stabs so that just the head popped in and out of that outer ring. I ground my hips from side to side. Every conceivable motion I could have used to fuck that hole, I employed, all so Phil could enjoy.

“Gimme a taste,” Phil begged. The bottom had only moaned softly the entire time. I don’t know whether he was under orders to remain silent, or whether he was just in a dick-induced haze. I let my dick flop out; the tip struck Phil on the nose. Greedily he gobbled it down and sucked off the bottom’s ass juices before he shoved the tip back into the hole. For a few minutes more I alternated between the bottom’s butt and Phil’s hungry mouth.

3:20. Phil had to get up to answer a knock at the door; in walked Jeremy, a reed-thin black kid I’d fucked before. “Good to see you,” I said, nodding at him. Jeremy blinked a few times as he walked past to find a place to undress. Phil didn’t even greet the guy. He was too busy closing the door and rushing back to lie down and watch me finish.

3.24. While Jeremy stroked his monster dick to hardness, Phil licked at my nuts until I felt the old familiar feeling beginning to churn in my nuts. My breathing hastened; my pace quickened. I didn’t have an earth-shaking orgasm, but it was nice and sweet and doubly tingly from the mouth still playing around my balls. I emptied deep inside the bottom and remained there for a moment. I could feel my load, the bottom’s first for the day, oozing out around my dick and down my sac, where Phil was ready to receive it. “C’mon,” Phil said, urging me to pull out. “Give me what I want. You know what I want. It’s all I ask.”

Phil likes to rim a load out after it’s been deposited. That’s his price for admission to these things. He’ll pay for the hotel and the lube and order the extra towels and bring the sling and the toys and set up and tear down. All he asks is that the guys shoot their loads in his bottom and allow him to clean them out with his mouth and tongue. Who am I to argue with that? “You taste so fucking good inside him,” Phil said to me. His words were muffled by the fact that his face was firmly planted in his bottom’s hole. “So fucking good.” Like a baby sucking at a mother’s nipple, he moved his face back and forth, back and forth, nursing out all the seed. I ran my hand over his head and breathed heavily until he was done.

3:27. While I was putting on my clothes, the fuck bus let off its passengers, apparently. Jeremy was fucking when Phil answered the door, and four guys walked in. Mikey was one. I’d fucked one of the others, but didn’t know the other two. They hadn’t actually driven together. It was just coincidence that they’d all arrived at the exact same time. “You gotta leave already?” Mikey asked.

“You missed your brother’s performance,” Phil said to him. He’s another of the ones who knows about Mikey and me. As did all the other men in the room, after that statement. Phil slapped me on the ass and went to watch Jeremy fucking. I’d done my duty for the day.

“I’ve got to go,” I told him, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“I missed it?” He sounded put out.

I gestured to the three men already naked, and the three others in various stages of undress. “I think you’ll have plenty to keep you occupied.”

Sometimes Mikey acts like he’s my junior. “But I don’t know any of these guys,” he growled at me, trying to keep it quiet.

I clapped him on the shoulder before I left. “Networking, Mikey,” I told him. “It’s all about networking.”

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

High Elvish

The boy was cute. I would have put him at twenty-one or twenty-two. Old enough, that is, to be legally consuming the mug of beer he clutched in his hands. His hair was dark and shaggy and was patted down in a carefully negligent swoop that covered the entire of his forehead. The smallest, downiest patch of fuzz adorned the tip of chin, as if he’d dipped it into the magnetic particles of a Wooly Willy child’s toy. His eyes were wide, clear, and blue. From where I sat in the smoky bar’s booth, my long legs sprawled out over the bench, I noticed those eyes looking at me, over and over again. Every time they met mine, they skittered away like timid mice. I wasn’t afraid to stare at him outright. So I got to see the shy dance of his own gaze as it danced around the room, followed by the magnetic return to me before it dashed away again.

He was a little like the current American Idol contestant Tim Urban, this kid, save for a little slighter and not quite as wholesome. Then there were his forearms, the undersides of which appeared smudged. I thought at first that perhaps he’d laid his arms on a dirty table and they’d come away grimy, but the more he raised his mug of beer to his pretty little lips, the plainer it became that he’d had both armed tattooed in an elaborate script. I was convinced for a while it was some erudite saying in a fancy font.

He saw me looking, and out of defense crossed his arms over the Atari logo T-shirt he wore beneath his ragged plaid shirt. The position only gave me a better view of those arms.Then when I saw the diacriticals, I realized that he’d gotten his arms covered in High Elvish. The kid was some kind of Lord of the Rings fanboy, and had actually picked out an Elvish quotation and had it inked onto his skin.

The scrappy chin fuzz, the Atari shirt, the total geeky fanboyishness of the tattoos—well, it gave me a total mental hard-on. And it wasn’t as if I was imagining that the kid was staring at me. I had his full attention most of the time, even in those moments when he was studiously avoiding looking my way. We were in a crowded suburban bar packed with drinkers and couples eating dinner and smokers having their last hurrah with smoking indoors before the Michigan smoking ban goes into effect next month. It was a straight bar, a sports bar, and the sort of place where the fanciest thing on the menu was the ‘Swanky Frankie’—a hot dog wrapped in bacon and deep-fried. I had a night away from home and was surrounded by a bunch of friends. He was at a crowded table of guys and girls his own age, all of them drinking and whooping and eating the free popcorn with both hands. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place where you pick up guys.

We had eye-fucked each other for over a half hour when finally I excused myself from the table and stood up. I stretched. When I found him—surprise, surprise—staring at me after my public yawn and extension, I let him have half a sheepish grin. Then I made my way to the men’s room.

The bar’s restrooms were at the back. A half-drunk slattern exited the women’s room, making its hinge protest with a high-pitched creak when she leaned too heavily on the door on her way out. She stumbled by, unsteady on her feet, as she gave me the up-and-down. I slipped into the men’s room and stood at one of the two urinals.

It wasn’t too long before I heard the restroom door open with a slow, tentative push. I didn’t even look around. I just listened to his soft footsteps as with uncertainty he walked in, pretended to check his hair in the mirror, and coughed. Then, after a pause that seemed eternal, he sidled over to the urinal next to mine, and unzipped. I’d started to grow hard the moment I knew it was him. I turned my head slightly, enough to know that he was looking over at me. When I knew I had his attention, I took a step back.

My cock was plainly visible, jutting from the fly of my jeans. I stroked it in my right hand and cupping my balls with my left. I like showing off my dick to strange guys. Know they’re getting an eyeful turns me on. Seeing the hungry look on his face, the unconscious working of his lips as he listened to whatever inner monologue he had of lust and need, simply made me all the harder.

A bead of precum bulged from my slit as I turned to him. He angled his body toward mine, too. His dick was only half-hard, and not large at all, but it was hooded and shaved and clutched so hard between his trembling fingers that it was turning purple. I turned a little more in his direction and thrust out my hips and cock. “Touch it,” I ordered him in a whisper.

His fingers were still shaking as he obeyed my order. His arm turned so I could see the letters so carefully inscribed along their length, that elaborate script that would have been better suited adorning the One Ring. The kid reached out and took my meat from underneath, and squeezed. It was hot in his cold hand. I stared not at what he was doing, but at his face and those beautiful blue eyes. He looked mostly at my dick, stroking it in his hand as if he’d never held one before other than his own. Occasionally though, his glance would dart up to mine and then away again, almost as if he were embarrassed at being caught doing what he was doing.

“Suck it,” I told him, after a while. I used my hands on his shoulders to press down. Obediently, without question, he knelt down onto the dirty tiles.

Again he looked up at me, a question in his eyes. Do I have to?

I nodded. Yes, he did.

His mouth opened. His tongue flicked out. He leaned forward at an angle. Then, from outside the restroom came the awful squeal of the door to the women’s room, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot. The kid scrambled up to his feet. A wild look was in his eyes, as if he expected the vice squad to have appeared behind him. The kid stuffed his junk back into his pants so hastily that I feared for its safety. Then, like a little doe frightened by hunters, he darted on light, fleet feet out of the restroom and back to his table.

I followed a little while later. He’d taken a seat with his back to me, so he couldn’t stare at me any more. His arm was around the shoulders of a chubby, pretty girl. From time to time he’d whisper in her ear as if confiding something. I knew his attention was still on me, though, because he couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder to see if I was still there.

I didn’t return to the restroom that night, and I didn’t attempt to engage him any further. Sometimes making a boy admit to his desire is all I need; I like watching that internal struggle as he attempts to balance the sexual heat against his compulsions to remain a good boy. Saturday night, the heat won out—it was brief, and it didn’t result in anything, but the heat won. That’s a victory for my side, any day.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Muscular / Intelligent / Educated

Muscular / intelligent / educated.

The second and third words of his Craigslist ad were what really attracted me. It’s an old saw that the brain is the most important sex organ, but it’s a saw with which I happen to agree; a dirty mind is all the hotter for me when there’s an actual mind there. I like knowing there’s substance. When I sent a response, I found that the guy could write a letter using complete sentences. The few missives he shot in my direction were masterpieces of the carnal and profane. I wanted him.

And when he showed up at my place this week fifteen minutes earlier than he said, he wanted me. “Oh yeah,” were the first words out of his mouth when I shut the door. His hands went to my shoulders and shoved me backwards, while he simultaneously invaded my mouth with his tongue. I was relieved I’d had time to brush my teeth before his early arrival. “Fuck yeah,” he growled, grinding his body against mine. The guy was hungry. As we made out right there on the other side of the front door, he pressed against me so hard that it hurt. But I didn’t object. I wanted it, too.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested, panting, when he took a break from my mouth to chew on my ear.

“I want you inside me,” he said, mouth hanging open in a mean-looking scowl after he spoke. His jaw cocked to the side, as if trying to envision all the nasty things we’d do. “I gotta have you in me, buddy.” Next thing I knew, his hand cupped the back of my head as he drew me in for another kiss. The stubble of his five o’clock shadow scraped my face, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him.

He was a handsome man, too—model-quality good looks. Thirty-eight, chiseled chest, beefy pecs, narrow, tapered waist that he showed off with a tight, fitted tee. Upstairs, he pushed me back onto the bed so that I fell there with my legs hanging over the edge, and then he grabbed my foot and ripped off the sock. “What size?” he asked. Staring me eye to eye without wavering, he widened his mouth and took all five toes inside.

I convulsed with pleasure. “Eleven, eleven and a half,” I gasped out.

“Big feet. So the stereotype is true, huh?” He let go of my foot so suddenly that I nearly banged my heel against the bed frame. “Wanna watch me strip?”

I did. He took off his clothes slowly, easing out of them with a sinuous, sideways dance, as if he moved to some inner porn movie track only he could hear. The entire time, he kept his eyes fixed on mine, shucking his clothing until he only wore a pair of white briefs. His hard cock tented out. When my eyes flicked downward to take it in, he grabbed it with his left hand, and then pointed with his right. “Your turn.”

Then he was on me again, his mouth devouring mine as he unbuttoned my shirt and laid my chest bare. I winced, as I always do, at being exposed, but his mouth moved from mine and across my chin. He dragged his lips to my nipple, and bit hard to make me groan. “Fuck yeah,” he growled, pleased at my response. Then his hands wrestled with the fastening of my jeans, ripping them open. He separated from me to remove them while I took my arms from my shirt. “Nice underwear,” he said, nodding with approval at my black Banana Republic boxer briefs.

Nice enough that he wanted to bury his face in them, apparently; he dove for my groin and moved his mouth up and down my inches, breathing hot air through the fabric to make my cock twitch. When he came up for air, the stubble of his face had accumulated black lint from my underwear. I wiped it away just in time, because next thing I knew, we were kissing again, linked mouth to mouth, groin to groin, hardness to hardness. I pump out a lot of pre-cum when I’m aroused. Too much, some people have said, once they realize what a sticky mess I am. I could tell my briefs were wet from the combination of his spit and the fluid my own cock was rapidly producing. Over the mattress we rolled, fighting for dominancy, waging a silent battle to see who could press harder into the other.

Finally I grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head, pulling him away from me. “Suck it,” I told him. “Suck it like you wanted to.”

A thin thread of spittle still connected our lips. It vanished with a pop. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I wanna suck that monster.”

“Suck it, then,” I told him, and pushed him down. With his mouth he grabbed my cock through the fabric of my boxer briefs once more. “Suck it for real.”

I pulled down my waistband and exposed my cock, and waited for his mouth to engulf it.

And waited.

And waited some more. Then I felt the gentle scraping of skin against my cock’s head, and looked down. He had pulled his thumb against its length. His face had lost its look of hunger. When he looked back up at me, he said, “You got AIDS dick.”

“Excuse me?” I said, struggling up to my elbows.

His voice had changed as well, from low and sexy to reedy and annoyed. No, not annoyed. Disgusted, as if I’d ripped him off or cheated him. “You got AIDS dick,” he said, flopping it back on my belly, as if even touching me was too much to bear. “Fuck. I can’t believe this shit.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked.

He pointed to the head of my cock. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he said. “That’s AIDS dick.”

A black lesion, dark and cancerous, had blossomed there on its right side, spreading a good half inch from the slit down. Smaller, darker irregular shapes like commas surrounded it, mostly near the shaft’s top. I ran a finger over the lesion, so flat and hard that it seemed like part of my own skin. While he cursed and sat back on his knees, I pulled my mouth into a grimace, licked my thumb, and moistened the spot. The would-be lesion peeled back almost painfully, glued there by my pre-cum.

“This,” I said, holding up the black spot between my fingers, “Is lint. From my boxers.” With his fingernail, he gently peeled off one of the other spots. “It’s just lint,” I repeated.

“Aw fuck, I thought you had AIDS dick,” he said, stubborn.

“What’s AIDS dick?”

“You know. Dick that’s got AIDS.”

“Seriously, that’s how you think you tell?”

He looked at me in surprise, as if everyone knew that. “Yeah, sure!” Then he pulled himself up onto the bed and crawled forward, hovering over me. “But now it’s okay.” He grinned. “Just lint.”

His mouth went for mine, and for a moment I gave in to his insistent kiss. I could easily see how we could smooth over the moment, how I could fuck him the way he wanted, see each other more often the way he wanted.

Only I couldn’t see it. Not really. He’d offended me on levels deeper than I could explain—not by his accusations, but his ignorance. “You know,” I said, wriggling out from under his muscled torso. “I think maybe. . . .” My cock still throbbed for him. Thinking real thoughts gave me a headache. “You’d better go.”

“What the fuck?” I repeated the request until he believed it, and endured his silent anger as he pulled back on his clothes. A few moments later and I stood with my back once more on the front door, arms crossed, wondering if I’d been an idiot. It would have been just sex. Sex with a guy that most people might have assumed was out of my league. I couldn’t go through with it, though, because I had a conviction that he simply wasn’t in mine.

Muscular / intelligent / educated.

Only not so much the latter two.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Three Encounters

Earlier this week I wrote about the obsessive list I kept in my teens of the men with whom I had sex—every encounter I recorded in minute script and a code so elaborate it took me long minutes to figure out thirty years on, when I re-discovered the last last weekend.

I had so many positive responses, both in the comments on my journal and in private emails, that I thought I’d share a few more of the brief entries and see what I could remember about them.

Red hair beard 35 flannel shirt, Jefferson Hotel, + - $
This is the second entry in my list. It was the first stranger I had sex with. The second dick I ever took.

The public library downtown, in the city where I grew up, was mostly a pleasant modern building that had opened just a couple of years before I became sexually active. The basement was a scary place in what was left of the building’s original section. The men’s room down there was a dark and gloomy two-seater near the children’s section, and it was the first place I ever saw any graffiti advertising gay sex action. Suck my Sock here Tuesdays 1-2, was the first ad I ever read on a restroom wall. It took my innocent self a couple of weeks of wondering why anyone would suck a sock to realize that someone had added a curlicue beneath the first C of the word cock. Once I made that connection, it completed a electric circuit to my dick and I was on my way.

One Saturday morning, when I was supposed to be studying, I was down in the basement hoping to find some dick. I didn’t have long to wait. The door flew open with a shriek and admitted a man with an unruly mane of auburn hair and an equally unkempt beard. (He wasn’t homeless. This was merely the nineteen-seventies.) In his plaid flannel shirt, he looked a little bit like the Brawny paper towel man, which was not a bad thing. The crack in the stall door allowed me to catch a glimpse of him as he crossed the little bathroom and sat in the other stall. Through the peephole between us I watched him drop his pants, then lower his head. I could see a green eye staring at mine.

I knew enough about cruising etiquette that when he flashed his hard dick at me through the peephole, I flashed mine back, stroking it for him to see. It couldn’t have been very long back then, or very hairy, but god knows I was turned on and not ashamed to show it.

A moment later, through the peephole he thrust a blue Bic pen surrounded with toilet paper. I unfolded the tissue. What do you want to do? it read.

I don’t know, I wrote back.

After I’d returned the pen and paper, it only took a moment for it to reappear. How old are you, kid? he'd scrawled.

14, I wrote back. I’d lied and added on two years to my age, naively thinking that it’d make a difference.

There was a very long pause. I thought I heard him sigh. I watched through the peephole as he used the wall as a writing desk. His fiery red dick was still rock hard and pointing to the ceiling as he wrote. When he thrust the pen back, the tissue around it read, I’ll give you $10 to let me suck you here. Or $50 if you go to the Jefferson Hotel with me and let me do what I want.

What do you want? I wrote.

My dick throbbed at the answer. I want you to suck and swallow my dick and then I want to suck you off.

Well, you can guess which one I picked. My allowance at the time was a dollar-fifty a week. We went to the Jefferson Hotel down the street—an elaborate, old-school hotel that at the time was slightly stodgy and in disrepair. He didn’t have a hotel room there, but instead took me to another restroom where we spent an uninterrupted twenty-five minutes sucking out each other’s loads before he gave me a combination of fives, tens, and a twenty. I went home with a stain on my shirt and a new knowledge that not all cum tasted the same.

Gym Teacher, curly black hair mustache gym shorts gym shoes, Carillon drive, + - @
Apparently I was impressed by this guy’s gym attire. I remember the encounter well, though, because when I spotted the man cruising the restroom near the park carillon, he was wearing a pair of shiny shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of those dreadful calf-high athletic socks with the multi-colored stripes near the top that everyone wore in the mid-nineteen-seventies. And I know he was a gym teacher because one of the first questions he asked me, after he demanded my age (to which I added the standard two years), was what school I went to. “Oh, that’s okay then,” he said, when I told him which one (truthfully). He named a school on the city’s south side and told me he worked there. “I teach gym. Just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be running across you unexpectedly. Whew.”

Whew indeed.

It was a late August dusk when I met him. This park was further away than the one I usually frequented, so I’d made up some bullshit excuse to my parents so I could stay out later than they might ordinarily allow. My bike was chained up, so I allowed the gym teacher to take me to his car. He drove away from the park and stopped on one of the dark residential streets, and turned off the ignition. When everything was quiet, we climbed through the gap into the front seats into the back. He sat me on his lap, and made out with him. Even at my young age I knew he wasn’t particularly good at it.

It didn’t matter, though, because kissing and affection wasn’t what he wanted. He lifted me up and yanked down my shorts. His hand curled around his lips as he spat into his fingers. Then I felt myself being speared by his spit-slick dick.

The entire time he fucked me, he kept his eyes closed as if he were thinking of someone else, or pretending I wasn’t there. There was a long moment of suspense in which he stopped fucking when a car drove down the sleepy street. Its headlights danced over us for a second. We’d arrested our movements and sat very still until it drove away. Then his piston-like fucking resumed.

After he’d filled me up and we’d crawled back into the front of his boat of a car, he didn’t say a word to me until he’d driven me back to the point where’d he’d picked me up. “Okay. See ya,” he said, leaning across to open the door for me.

And that was that.

Shirley. +
I didn’t need any more notation for this one. Shirley was a colleague of my father’s. A male colleague—he'd been named Shirley in the grand tradition of many Virginian fathers and sons. He'd seemed an ancient man to me in my teens, though he wouldn’t have been any older than his late fifties at the time. Shirley had one of the thickest southern accents I’d heard, and trust me, I’d heard many a thick accent from my Georgia relatives. When I think about Shirley I actually picture Colonel Sanders in my head, which is not at all what he looked like. But Shirley was of the same iconic archetype of grand old southern gentleman. And he was what was politely called, back then, a confirmed bachelor.

Which is why I wasn’t surprised when I saw Shirley’s enormous automobile gliding up and down the back road in the park I normally haunted for sex, when I started cruising. He drove past where I sat pretending to read by the duck pond. On the second trip, he slowed down and looked at me with recognition. It was on the third trip that he stopped the car, called my name, and announced, “I do declare.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he said, “I was wondering if you wanted to set a spell with me in my car.”

We parked near the picnic structure and sat there in silence for a long while, staring straight ahead. After a few moments, his hand landed on my left thigh and rested there, not moving. We continued to gaze out the windshield as if we were birdwatching.

It was a good five minutes before he finally said, “Do you mind?” in the same tone he might have used if onto one of his antiques I’d put a drinking glass that he intended to lift in order to slip a coaster underneath. Then, when I nodded, he unzipped my pants and proceeded to give me the most polite and genteel blowjob I’d ever received (or have gotten since).

When he was done swallowing my load and dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief, he said, “Shall we have a gentleman’s agreement not to mention our dalliance, then?” I nodded, not really wishing to talk about it with him. He shook my hand, I got out, and we parted.

Until the following week, that is, when we did the exact thing all over again.

Saturday, April 17, 2010


I can guarantee we'll be back to our regularly-scheduled diet of smut on the morrow. For one thing, I already wrote the piece at four in the morning when I was having a bout of insomnia—it's going to be some more memories yanked from the list of tricks I kept in my youth that I covered in the Incriminating Evidence entry I made earlier this week.

There are couple of things I'd like to draw my readers' attention to, however. Don't worry. You're not in trouble.

1) I'll be driving from Michigan to Virginia on the 23rd, and then back again on the 27th or 28th. I usually drive a route along the Ohio and Pennsylvania turnpikes, then head south from Breezewood in Pennsylvania down into central Virginia. If there's anyone who'd like to offer me a quick fuck pitstop on those days, let me know. Or if you're in the central Virginia area and would enjoy a good breeding, I'm up for it. It'd all depend on your availability, when I was passing through your neck of the woods, and how much stuff around his house my dad needs me to take care of, but I think we can work something out. If you're interested, drop me a line with some photos and let's talk!

2) On the sidebar of my blog I've set up a link to my wish list at Because I am shameless. If you're ever inclined to send one of your favorite blog writers a sex toy, so he can take photos with it/use it in his romps/make his dick feel better, now you can do so discreetly and even anonymously. It'll be fun for everyone, I promise.

3) My buddy iBLASTinside is conducting an exercise this weekend in which he's soliciting anonymous sexual confessions on his blog. You can check out the confessions here. At least one of them is mine. I'd be interested in seeing yours, too.

That's it. I've appreciated your comments and private emails over the last week, particularly on a couple of entries I was almost reluctant to write and post. Your support means a lot, guys. Thanks.

Friday, April 16, 2010

The Itch

This entry will take more courage to write than most.

I’ve always been open about the fact that I was pretty much exclusively a bottom boy when I first started having sex with men. I stayed that way until the day I was twenty-one or twenty-two and I hooked up with a florist who took me in the back room of his workplace, stripped down to his skin, hopped up on one of the metal worktables, lubed up my dick, and guided me into him. The feeling of his ass around my cock was so electric, and my orgasm was so fast and amazingly strong, that I was hooked on topping after that, and rarely looked back.

I attribute my years as a bottom to making me a better top. Once in a while, though, the old itch returns. The following is difficult for me to admit for a number of reasons, but I fantasize about bottoming more than I really care to admit. The last time I was successfully topped, though, was about six or seven years ago. It’s been a while.

Last May the itch got too much for me to handle. I wanted it scratched, and badly. After mustering up the courage (which took a few days), I wrote a Craiglist ad that read:

Let me be blunt. I've been pretty much exclusively top since my early twenties. Since then I've bottomed for three, maybe four guys, and liked it only with one. I'm looking for a versatile man or another top who's willing to take his time and be real gentle about opening me up and helping me want it. I'm nervous as hell even asking for some butt play.

The stats: I'm forty-five, taller than average, more hung than average, 160#, bearded, good looking. I'm open to all ages and races. Only responses with photos will get mine.

I got only three responses. One was from a guy I knew socially and disliked, and who did not impress me by sending a photo that was ten years and a hundred pounds out of date. Another was from a former playmate that I didn’t want to see again. The third, however, really caught my eye.

I'm discreet, 48, 5'11", 160, 34w, 42c, br/blu, trim bearded, in great shape - swim & work out daily, well hung with 8"ct, shaved, clean, DDF, I'd would love to be the man to flip you.  I have the understanding, patience and experience.  The appeal of flipping a top is really growing on me as an exciting first experience. I can't send pictures through CL, but will send face pic for yours when you reply. 

We swapped photos. The guy was handsome. I mean, really handsome. He seemed to appreciate all the same foreplay I enjoyed. His lean good looks were really appealing. What hooked me, though, is that when I asked about a quirk in his email address, he responded with a thoughtful multi-paragraph reply about Native American tribal totems and their importance to him. It was that mixture of smarts and piggishness that appealed to me the most.

I told him upfront in my email my sad limitations—that although I enjoy anal attention, I honestly have extreme difficulties asking for it when I’m with another guy. He’d know that I was enjoying it when it happened, certainly. Would he ever. But I told him I was essentially asking him in advance, while I could still do it comfortably, to take charge, set the pace, and get me to the point where he could fuck me. He was fine with that.

It was only two days after I placed the ad that we met. Neither of us had any surprises from outdated photos. I found him astonishingly attractive, and he seemed very into me as he maneuvered me into the bedroom and onto the mattress. He knew how to take charge nicely, I had to admit. He loosened me up with a lot of passionate making out interspersed with talk about how attractive he found me. Piece by piece he removed my clothing, refusing to let me help.

When we were both naked, he turned me over and raked his beard over my neck and back while he breathed warm air on my skin, all to make me gasp and shiver. My butt quivered when he gave more of the same treatment to it—and then he used his hands to separate my cheeks and bury his face between them. I was in absolute bliss for the half-hour or more he rimmed away. The guy was spoiling me, to be honest; I wanted it to last forever.

When I was wet and wanting, he used lube and spit and eased his thumb up my hole. I gasped and clutched the pillows, but it felt good. I needed it. The prostate massage he began to give me had me quaking. “Do you like it?” I remember him asking me.

The question unloosed my lips. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I remember saying over and over again. I couldn’t stop. For several long moments while he eased in and out, just playing with my chute with his fingers, I repeated the two words over and over, almost as if I was praying. Just as I always do, however, when I’m enjoying anal play, I started to feel guilty about it. I know it makes no sense, and I know it’s something I need to stop doing. I’m aware of my issues; I just have a problem overcoming them in the heat of the moment. My “oh gods” changed and became a soft and whispered stream of, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I’m not even sure I was aware of it.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, noticing the change after a moment or two. He left his thumb in my hole, but moved up so that his mouth was closer to my ear. I could feel his cock rigid against my back. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” I said, breathless. “You’re not hurting me.”

For a minute I thought he didn’t believe me, because he stayed so still. Then he said, “You were raped.” The way he phrased the words wasn’t really as a question, so I didn’t really feel the requirement to answer. “As an adult?” That was a question. I raised my head once, then lowered it in as close to a nod as I cared to get. “Fuck,” he said. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Please don’t be,” I managed to say. It was really too complex a topic to address right then, with both of us hard and naked and his left thumb jabbed up my hole. There are parts of my history I’ve made peace with, and that’s one of them. It’s just unfortunate that one of the lasting side effects has been a certain muteness and a lot of apprehension, in the heat of the moment. But afterward he changed. I don’t know if I was damaged goods to him (I certainly don’t think of myself that way), or the unicorn in a glass menagerie (I’m not), or whether he worried about what his drooling dick wanted to do reflected badly on himself (it shouldn’t have).

He played with my ass a little more, and we made out and enjoyed each other, but then we ended up doing what’s happened every other goddamned time I’ve gotten up the nerve to bottom and sought out a top to do it—he talked about what a big dick I had, sucked it, and talked me into fucking him. Twice.

Which, you know. Doesn’t take a lot of talking, admittedly.

When he left, I wanted to kick myself for putting my ass in the air for a hell of a nice guy who was hot to top me, but astute and attuned enough to be insightful. I should’ve stuck with a dumb brute who just wanted to fuck, though intellectually I know that would’ve had me yelping and diving beneath the bedsheets faster than a virgin facing a boatload of pillaging Vikings.

I have my issues. We all do. I try to be honest about mine when I can. Most of all, I try to be tender to this particular issue. Sometimes I poke fun of it, because if it takes itself too seriously, lord knows where that will lead. Mostly I acknowledge it, and honor it as a part of me.

But on those rare occasions I get the itch, I’ll be damned if I don’t want it scratched.