Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Face Fuck

Free gutter care for a year! the text message read, at ten on Monday morning. Text yes or no to this number!

Yes, I texted back. When can you be here?

Give me twenty minutes, the Bulldog texted back.

It was his code, he’d explained earlier in the morning. The code he used with men who were attached, out of discretion. To my surprise, he’d shown up at the house in a pickup truck wearing a utility shirt, tight-fitting over his enormous chest. gutters.com, read an embroidered nametag on his chest.

Either he actually did gutter work for a living, or he knew how to carry a charade to its logical extreme.

I wrote about the Bulldog back in April, when I’d first met him at a hotel gangbang while I was fucking the designated bottom:

The black guy came out of the bathroom naked and hard and sporting a metal cockring. He was a good looking brute with a carefully-trimmed three-day growth of beard, a barrel chest, enormous arms, and a tattoo of the Jesus Christ Superstar logo on one bicep. He didn’t so much push Mikey out of the way as take his place when Mikey stepped aside. Next thing I know, the black stud was reaching between my legs and yanking on my nuts. His thumb plunged up my ass, like a cork.
The abrupt sensation could’ve done two things. It might have pulled me out of my fuck trance altogether, or it could have pushed me over the edge. I’d been fucking long enough that it did the latter. I squirted immediately while everyone urged me on in whispers. When I pulled out, the big bulldog dropped to his knees and immediately began cleaning me off.

That afternoon I’d been turned on by the Bulldog so much that I actually thought there was more chemistry between him and me than there’d been between me and the bottom. My casual inquiries into the Bulldog’s identity went ignored, though, so I figured I’d never see him again save by random chance. He tracked me down on Manhunt, however, by going profile by profile through my entire suburban city until he happened upon my face; then he wrote me and told me we should get together.

I was flattered, of course, that anyone would go to that much trouble to find me. “We’re both tops,” I said, trying not to sound as if I was pooh-poohing the notion. The dude was hot. Of course I wanted to get together with him. “What’re we going to do?”

“I’m going to suck your dick,” he wrote back. “And you’re going to gag on mine.”

Fair enough.

When he unbuttoned his jeans yesterday, he exposed a pair of turquoise briefs. Papi, read the waistband. I looked up at him from my position on the wood floor of my bedroom, while he gazed steadily down at me. The fucker was handsome as he had been at the hotel, only now I wasn’t having to share him. He still had the light growth of beard, the tightly-cropped hair that was little more than a sprinkling of stubble over his skull, the tight-slitted eyes, the aggressive, cocky stance. When he plopped his dick in my face, it was soft and smelled of soap. At the base was an enormous, heavy chrome cock ring. “You like?” he asked, pulling it to the side to display it. I nodded. “I wore it for you.”

I didn’t give a fuck what he’d worn, frankly. It was how fast I wanted to get his pants off that was all I could think about. I leaned forward and breathed on his dick with my mouth, stirring it to life, before my tongue flicked out to lift it up and suck it in. There’s something almost sacred about those first few moments when a dick hardens; you can feel the meat, soft and spongey, growing and separating your lips. Then you feel the flange swell and harden; the complete shaft follows as the entire dick roars into readiness. The Bulldog went from flaccid to engorged in no time flat. When I looked up at him, he was staring steadily down at me. He rang his fingers through my hair, which was overdue for cutting, and tipped my head back. “You suck good,” he told me. “Did you suck me at the hotel?” I shook my head. “Did you want to?” I nodded. I’d wanted to very badly.

On the bed, he propped himself atop both pillows and lay back with his hands over his head. All I’d done was unzip so that I could play with myself while I’d sucked him in the kneeling position; he tucked the ball of his heel against my shaft and pressed his foot against my meat while I curled on my side on the bed and began servicing him.

I may be a top guy, but I love to suck dick. The Bulldog’s meat was enormous. I mean, not merely huge, but fucking huge. The photo I’d seen of it in his profile made it look like a dark, shiny weapon. Up close, and between my lips, it seemed more like a blunt instrument. I couldn’t take more than three-quarters of it down my throat. Not on my own initiative, anyway. Then I felt his hands seize the back of my head, pull down as he thrust up, and grind. My furry chin grazed across his nuts; I felt my lips brush against the bristly coils of his pubic hair.

He didn’t say anything as he face-fucked me. I could’ve been a sex toy to him, for all the attention he gave me. To be honest, I was fine with that. I wanted my mouth used. I loved the sensation of his shaft as it thrust in and out, mashing my lips until it felt as if my teeth had made a permanent and painful groove in their back. He was thick—far thicker than I. So thick that after ten minutes, my jaw felt as if it would give out. Tears sprang to my eyes as he continued relentlessly to fuck my mouth.

As if he sensed my pain, the Bulldog withdrew abruptly. Not to have that enormous dick in my mouth was almost more excruciating. I wasn’t without it long, though. Without a word, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me down onto my back, so that my head was hanging over the bed’s edge. His feet thudded as they hit the bedroom floor. My jaw opened. Almost immediately I was rewarded with more dick, sliding in and out of my throat as deep as he could stab it.

He was in complete control now. He set the pace with a quick, even thrusting, not seeming to care that I was sometimes gasping for breath when he’d pause at the base and make me choke on his meat. My nostrils were covered by his sack; the blood in my head was making me giddy. The only noises he made were little sighs of contentment and grunts of pleasure. I, on the other hand, was reduced to strangulated whimpers that only seemed to increase his girth. My jaw had ached before from being stretched so wide, but now the pain was so intense that I felt it could never stop. I didn’t complain, though. I’d asked for this. I’d wanted it from him. I could only imagine what a hole would feel like, under assault from such a weapon.

After long minutes he withdrew. His dick curved down to meet my face, and a long, sticky rope of my saliva connected it to my lips. He picked me up like a doll and threw me onto my back so that my head just missed the pillows. The Bulldog stared at me for a moment, and then went down between my legs.

He sucked even more aggressively than I had, taking my dick to the root. His thumb probed for my hole, but he didn’t do more than graze the outside—he tickled it tenderly. His other fingers toyed with my nuts. “Oh, fuck,” I moaned. My legs shuddered, and my back arched. Part of me couldn’t believe I was being rewarded this way.

His sucking didn’t last long. The next thing I knew, he was straddling me, holding himself over me with one fist on either side of my shoulders. His narrow, slitted eyes stared into mine, but he didn’t say anything. When I looked down, I could see his rock-hard dick pointing directly at me; my own cock leapt up to meet it, butting briefly against the head. His right hand left the mattress and traveled over my head. My forehead first, where he brushed away the lanky strands covering it. Then my scalp, where his fingers gently, sweetly ran his fingers through my hair. Without warning, he tilted his head to the side, and covered my mouth with his own.

The Bulldog hadn’t kissed me at the hotel—he hadn’t kissed anyone. He’d not made any move to bring our mouths together when I’d greeted him at the door a few minutes before, or anytime since. I’d mentally decided he was one of those men who never kissed, in fact. But oh, he knew how. His hand cupped my jaw as I responded by pulling him down onto me so that I could feel the full weight of his body upon mine. My legs opened and wrapped around him; I could feel his brick-hard cock butting up against my pelvis and seemingly piercing the flesh above the bone. His hand moved to the back of my head, mashing me harder against his lips, pulling me into him until my lips felt bruised and red. His tongue invaded my mouth, making me lose control of my body. I clung to him like a baby, not wanting to let go.

He showed no signs of wanting to stop, either. It was as if that first kiss loosed a flood of passion he’d left unexpressed for far too long. He let it drench me, and I gladly drowned in it. The kissing erased any pain left in my jaw from nearly a half hour of being brutally face-fucked. I felt renewed. Repaired. Ageless.

When the kissing ended, he said nothing, but stared into my eyes again. The corners of his mouth curled into the slightest of smiles. He planted his lips in the center of my forehead and left there a soft impression, and then put my head on the pillows and straddled my chest. I knew what was coming.

With his fingers he pulled down my jaw. That enormous, meaty cock of his pushed in between my lips and tunneled down my throat. He held it there, as if emphasizing his complete dominion over me. Finally he spoke. “You want my nut?”

I gulped. It was all I could do.

“You ready?”

I looked up at him and nodded.

During that final assault, I kept my hand wrapped around his shaft. “Wet it up,” he kept saying. “Wet it up, baby.” My fingers kept a tight hold on his dick as he pistoned in and out. He lifted his hands above his head and gave me the perfect shot from below of his muscular torso. His head lifted once to the ceiling as he gave in to the sensations he was feeling, and then his eyes locked with mine.

I know how long the home stretch lasted by the clock—a good twelve minutes. It seemed like an eternity to me, in the best of ways. I lost all sense of self. I was only a mouth. A thing of utility. A brainless hole, having the living shit pounded out of it. All the aches, the little pains, the uncomfortableness vanished in the sexual heat, and I was happy to be taken out of myself.

When he came, he flooded my mouth with shot after shot of cum. It was bitter, and tasted of metal, but I didn’t care. It was his, and I wanted it. He waited until I’d swallowed it all to withdraw, and then to lay beside me. I couldn’t move. Nor did I want to. His hand moved to my head again, gently stroking my hair.

“So who plays the piano?” he asked, breaking the silence after five minutes.

“I do.” My throat croaked into use, and I realized how stretched and battered it really was.

“You play for church, or what?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Mostly for myself. Sometimes for some of the local schools, when they need an accompanist.”

“What kind of music?”

I was flattered at his interest. “Classical, mostly,” I told him. My jaw ached dully, as if I hadn’t used it for talking in years. He clearly wanted more of an answer, though. “I like Beethoven. Schumann is a favorite. And for the kids—well, it’s the kind of shit that kids sing in school. You know.”

“Itsy-bitsy spider?”

“Well, someone has to play the itsy-bitsy spider song to them, right?”

He laughed at that, and cupped the very top of my head with his palm like a basketball. “Rocking chair, rocking chair,” he sang to me, in a surprisingly pleasant tenor. “You know that one?” I shook my head and grinned. “My first grade teacher. She taught it to us. Nobody ever heard it, though. Rocking chair, rocking chair, I like to sit in my rocking chair.” He curled his body around mine and lay on his side, so that his mouth was near my ear. Softly, he continued singing. “Back and forth, counting sheep, until my rocking chair puts me to sleep.”

I hadn’t shot during our sex together, but the hum in my ear vibrated through my body, leaving me abuzz with pleasure. It was better than any orgasm. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the sound of his voice.

If I had to endure nearly an hour of brutal mouth-fucking to have the Bulldog tenderly serenade me a childhood ditty about a rocking chair, it was but a small price to pay.

Monday, June 28, 2010

The Word

For a Sunday morning, the hallway of the Marriott was quieter than I expected. I’d anticipated a hustle and bustle of patrons eager to make their way down to breakfast, or wrestling with their luggage in an effort to make a flight. Instead, the hotel’s fourth floor was silent, save for the rattle and hum of the ice machine near the elevators. I padded down the hall’s thick carpeting until I reached room 437.

The door was cracked, as I’d told the man it should be. The security bar had been flipped around. Its round end poked between the door and its frame, as if the occupant had stepped out for a moment to fetch a soft drink from the vending machines. I pushed the door open, and slipped into the darkness.

The man had done his best to get the room as dark as possible. He’d crushed the bottom of the drapes to prevent the morning sun from squeaking through the cracks, and turned out every lamp in the room. The only light came from a glowing laptop on the table across from the bed. On the mattress itself lay the man I’d be fucking. His legs were spread, his knees bent, like the upside-down opening of a vase of black glass. Though his waist was narrow and his torso trim, his ass was large and muscular. His profile said he was twenty-five; I might have suspected he was a good seven years younger, just from the leanness of his hips and the tautness of his skin. Two twin globes of dark flesh, quivering and grinding in the laptop's blue glow, waiting for me to make my move.

I was in no hurry. Around the edge of the bed I stalked, taking slow and deliberate steps. His head was cropped close, and he kept his face buried in the bedspread. The bed was so neatly made I wondered if he’d slept in it at all, the night before. I didn’t say a word.

Both the bottom and the bed sighed in unison when finally I knelt with one knee on the edge. My index and middle finger, upturned and curled, entered the cleft of his dark-skinned ass and dug for the hole. I didn’t raise my eyebrows to find he’d already slathered his ass with lube, inside and out. What did surprise me was the sheer heat rising from inside. Perhaps the air conditioning made the difference more electric, but he felt as if he could burn me.

I placed my other knee on the bed, and shoved my legs up against his so that the groin of my camo shorts was close to his ass. “You want my white dick, don’t you?” I asked into the silence. He immediately began to reposition himself, trying to turn so he could face me, but I shoved him back down. “I didn’t say you could look at me.” He paused for a moment, as if he might try again. Then he subsided, burrowing his forehead into the blanket, submissive and obedient. “That’s better,” I told him. Then I unzipped.

When he’d emailed me the day before, the man had gotten right to the point in one of his early emails. I have two things to ask, he said. The first is I ask that you stay completely clothed the whole time, including shoes. You can leave off the underwear to make it easier to pull out your big cock, but otherwise totally clothed...I want to be the only one naked and exposed, i find it makes me feel more sub. I would also ask that you fuck me from behind. I fantasize about a big-cocked stranger simply walking in, puling his cock out of his fly, and staring fucking my throat and ass, without even bothering to get undressed....HUGE thrill for me. Please. I need to be totally sub.

What’s the second thing? I'd written back.

When he had told me, I hadn't been surprised.

I left on my high-top Converse and my camo shorts. I’d worn a gray athletic T-shirt that hung around my hips. My dick was already rock-hard from the sight of the man’s muscular body. The sight of my stiff rod parting his charcoal-black ass and sliding on in made me pump pre-cum like a spigot. He gasped at the invasion; his head reared back so that I could see his high forehead and the almost-straight hairline defining it. His eyes remained closed, though. I pushed down between his shoulder blades and pinned him to the bed as I slid all the way in.

My zipper raked against his ass as I reached the base. I knew he could feel the cold teeth biting and nipping, because I made sure to grind and catch the sensitive flesh. Once I was in, I rammed a little harder, just to make sure he felt it, and I forced my dick to swell. The cotton of my clothes pressed against his naked skin as I lay atop him so that my lips pressed against his ear. He smelled of soap, and the mildest of sweats. “Do you feel it?”

He said something muffled into the pillows.

“I didn’t hear you,” I growled, and shoved in again, hard. “I said, do you feel it?”

Then I used the word, just as he’d asked. His second thing.

He reacted violently and submissively. At the sound of the two guttural syllables, his back arched. His ass rose into the air, and seemed to deepen. His hips swiveled, and tried to shoulder the burden of my weight and take me in past the root. He groaned. “Oh god,” he said. He buried his face in his elbow. Then, at a pianissimo, “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You like this dick?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You like this big white strange dick up your shitter?”

“I love your big white dick.” The words came out haltingly. “I need your big white dick. I need your cum. I need it so bad.”

I slapped him with the word again as I rose to my knees and started to thrust. He cried out as if he were cumming, so I reached down to see if fluid was gushing from his dick. He was thick, and his meat was hot in my hand, but as slick as it was from pre-cum, he hadn’t shot yet.

For a good ten minutes I fucked him, thrusting in and out and putting him through his paces. I knelt on one knee and positioned my right foot so that it was planted on the mattress, and forced him to lick and kiss my sneakers. I used the word like a cudgel, striking him with it again and again, beating him with it on the most sensitive parts of his body in order to watch the flesh pimple and rise. I battered him with it as I worked his hole into a raw pulp surrounded by skin chewed by my open zipper.

Just as he’d asked.

When I shot, I held my head at the back of his head and thrust it violently into the mattress, rough enough that it should have left the blanket’s stitching impressed on his cheek. “Take it,” I ordered him, using the word liberally. “Take my cum. It’s what you wanted.” He responded with gasps and chokes.

My dick flopped out of his ass when I was done, slapping against my shorts before I tucked it back inside. Still face down, he murmured, “I didn’t cum yet.”

“That’s not my fucking fault,” I snapped, faking unconcern. “All I give a shit about is getting my nut. You want to come, get your own fucking self off.”

I didn’t need to complete my thought. Because I’d peppered my speech with the word some more, he’d shot before I’d finished my first sentence. His ass hung in the air as if suspended from invisible wires. Ropes of sperm dripped down onto the bedspread. He remained motionless, as if trying to halt time so he could capture it forever. I kept a mental snapshot of the sight for myself.

And then I walked out, a long streak of cum dripping down my thigh.

He texted me a half hour later on my phone. You really understand, said the message. Thank you.

I didn’t message back. There was no need.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Cherry-Poppin' Edition

First off, on this humid Sunday morning, let me thank one of my readers for brightening my week with a gift that made me spread my legs, slightly:

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

The music of Bacharach and David, plus Krisen Chenoweth. How could it go wrong? Thank you, generous reader!

I do love answering questions for you guys. Earlier this week I thought I'd nearly gotten to the bottom of my formspring.me question box, but then it filled right back up again.

Remember, very often good questions lead to some longer blog posts, so don't be afraid to ask something. As long as it's not judgmental, or repetitive, or too invasive about my home life, I'll answer just about anything.

Up this week, some wild sex, dirty virgins, double penetration, and my secret life in drag.

(Edited at 6:30 pm. Why didn't anyone tell me this was my 100th post today?)

Have you found any use for your skills as a writer when hooking up? (In other words: are any your writing skills "inter-disciplinary" skills?)
Not really. Most men don't really care for a large vocabulary when you're dirty-talking them; they want the short list of Anglo-Saxon vulgarities, snarled in their ear.

My writing skills really only come into play when I parse through the remembrances of raw data after, and try to make sense of the 'story' that happened there.

Do you shave any part of your chest?
Shaving my chest would require the presence of hair there. If your question had been, "Do you ever cut that weird solitary hair that appears right above your neckline?", my answer would be a hearty yes.

Wildest sex?
Yes please. Oh, was that a question? I've had a lot of wild sex, but I'd venture to say that probably a lot of the after-dark sessions I used to have on my back on a picnic table taking all comers, when I was a youth, were probably the times I had sex with the most enthusiasm and abandon.

Been to the Detroit Eagle?
Oh sure. I used to be a regular on Friday nights, years ago. The place is a bit of a dead zone though. If you're heading there some night, let me know.

I am wearing a leather studded strap that goes around my cock and balls and snaps closed. What is this called. Is it a cock ring, or does that term apply to genital piercings?
That's a leather cock ring you're wearing.

I tend to prefer the metal or stretchy cock rings. Every time I put on a leather one, I either pinch my scrotum or pull out several hairs with the snaps.

Have you kept in touch with any of the guys you've hooked up with in the past (either for friendship or intention to hook up again)?
Most of the guys I currently see are men I've been with before, sometimes for months. I think I have a great track record of being friends or a long-term fuckbuddy.

There are also guys with whom I've connected physically that I maintain a very close level of communication, either on the phone or via email or chat, so that we maintain our friendship. Absolutely.

Have you ever had sex with a celebrity?
One, before he was a major television personality. I'm not at liberty to say who.

Oh, and I had sex with one of the dancers on So You Think You Can Dance, long before he was on the show. Again, don't ask who, but he was adorable. I don't think he counts as a celebrity, though.

Have you ever gotten too close or attached to one of your fucks?
By 'too close,' do you mean have I fallen in love with one of my fucks? Yes, I've fallen in love with a couple. Sometimes the feeling has turned out to be a mere crush. A couple of times, it's led to a long-lasting and intense emotional relationship between lovers.

May I make a suggestion? Next time you have the itch to bottom, wear a jockstrap so it becomes less about your dick and more about your ass! I would love to hear about you getting filled up!
That's a good suggestion, but that jockstrap would have to be pretty darned hard to take off. A couple of my blog readers have sent me some nice leather jockstraps lately. Maybe I should give it a whirl!

Help me decode your blogspot address "mrsteed64"
I like The Avengers. And then subtract my age from the current year, and I think you'll have your answer.

How many virgins' cherries have you popped (that you know of)? Are there any that stand out?
There's honestly no way I could count the number of guys who've chosen me to be the first man to fuck them. For one thing, a lot of the virgins I've had didn't even tell me until after--in some cases, a couple of years after. For another, I don't really keep count.

I can be very good with first-timers because I enjoy all the preliminary foreplay that comes with getting a man relaxed and ready. I love to kiss, to touch, and to eat hole for a long time. I can fuck very gently, and I know what positions make a first-time entry the least painful.

A guy always remembers his first time. I generally think it's the responsibility of the top to make it a pleasant memory.

That said, I don't usually choose first-timers over more experienced guys. A lot of guys seem to think that tagging a virgin is the ultimate psychic experience, but often it isn't. There can be a whole lot of work for a very very little return.

In a 3 way with two tops stuffing a hole, who gets the most pleasure: the bottom or the two tops descretely rubbing their dicks together?
Definitely the bottom. At least, in my experience. I've never shot during a double penetration.

Have you ever had sex with active-duty military?
Yes. Often. Particularly in the DC area.

Have you ever bottomed to a black man?
Years ago, yes. I've bottomed to many black men.

How long have you had this crush on your neighbor? What has hindered you two from hooking up?
I don't think my back-yard neighbor is actively bi. Bi-curious, maybe. Or he could just be a straight man who gets an ego boost from the gay guy who obviously lusts for him from afar.

Whatever it is, it's certainly led to a lot of smoldering glances over the back fence during the last five years.

If you had a drag name, what would it be?
Pansy Pots. Because I was driving by a garden nursery that had a big sign that read, PANSY POTS 2 FOR $4 and it sounded like the perfect drag name.

Not that I would be very convincing in drag. Really.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Cruising 101: Online Cyber-Bravery

I wrote yesterday’s entry because I receive a lot of questions from guys who keep up with my blog. The regular Ann Landers of hookup etiquette, that’s me.

As simple and natural as meeting guys online is for a lot of us, though, I know quite well that it’s a minefield laden with explosive and scary dangers, for others. But everyone has to start somewhere, right?

One of Breeder’s Readers wrote me this week with this question:

You seem so optimistic, advising that a guy should walk up to someone and say, "Can I help you discover your inner bottom?" Why do so many guys resist the suggestion that they be so forward?

As I discussed yesterday, I think it’s perfectly possible to be a successful and popular top without having to be forward at all. Walking up to guys in a bar, or at a cocktail party, or in some beer tent at a Pride celebration, is no easy prospect for a lot of us. In some contexts, it’s easier to be bold than others. In a bathhouse, or perhaps at an adult bookstore, it might be simple to figure out what guys are interested in. At the baths you might see a guy lying in a sling with his ass exposed to the world. You can pretty much guess he’s there to be fucked. That fellow rubbing the bulge in his jeans right in front of a glory hole at the bookstore? You can guess he wants some oral attention. The fellow in the suit sporting a comb-over and a ginormous pair of sunglasses, even indoors? He’s either a conservative gay-baiting televangelist or a local elected representative, looking for a hustler to pee on him. Make sure to take blackmail photos.

Less sexually-charged atmospheres are a little trickier, though. I can make conversation with just about anyone without fear, but even I would balk and turn pale at the prospect of walking up to a stranger and uttering the words, “Can I help you discover your inner bottom?” Yikes. Just couldn’t do it. Which is one of the reasons that online cruising is, for the timid, probably the easiest path to gettin’ some.

Being brave in real life requires a lot of things. Motor coordination, to control your legs as you walk over to the guy and sidle up to him in a suave way, not to mention for your arms to keep yourself from spilling your drink all over his too-tight shirt. Verbal skills, so that you say something smooth and cool instead blurting out the little dream fantasy you had over by the pinball machine about growing old in a log cabin the two of you built together with your own four hands. Approaching someone in the flesh involves being able to keep track of the stuff he’s actually saying so that you don’t end up staring at him and blurting out the non-sequitur, “You smell good.” Then you’ve got to be able to ask the guy to come home with you, which can be terrifying for the novice—and worst of all, you need to be able to remain graceful if he turns you down, instead of sinking into the floor and melting away from shame.

That can all be pretty heady stuff. Online, though, you can do all of those things without leaving the comfort of the toilet from which you’re cruising while you take a dump. (No, wait, you do that too, right? It’s not just me?) You don't have to be forward. You don’t have to be dressed well. You don’t have to have your hair just so. You don’t have to smell of cologne, or to have brushed your teeth.

In other words, if you’re trying to pick someone up on an online adult site, you only have to possess a fraction of the courage it would take in person to accomplish the same thing. If you’re a top, as I mentioned yesterday, all you really have to do is have a few clear photos, an inviting paragraph about what you’re interested in, and to advertise yourself as a top. Your inbox will be flooded by the time the ad is approved. Tops are in demand.

If you’re a bottom, you may find yourself having to track down the fewer numbers of tops and enticing them to you. This is where you can be cyber-brave.

Most sites have a function on them in which you can send some kind of signal of interest with a minimum of investment. On Manhunt, it’s the wink. On Adam4Adam, it’s the smile. On other sites, there might be a local custom that you unlock your private photos, if you have any, to express your interest. In any case, you click a button, and within a moment the target of your interest has a message in his inbox that lets him know you looked at his profile and liked it. If the recipient is someone like me and you haven’t been annoying, he’ll be polite and say, “Hey, thanks for the wink!” Or at least he’ll wink back, if he’s in a hurry (like I am sometimes).

A lot of men on these sites aren’t me, however. Some of them have forbidding profiles that will say something like, ABSOLUTELY NO WINKS. These guys are basically offended that you’re not going to nut up and say hello to them. They’ve got a point, but I don't entirely get the animosity—a friendly hello is a friendly hello, in my book. When you’re being cyber-brave, writing someone a quick note doesn’t take that much more cyber-courage than hitting the wink button. You don’t have to mention that log cabin, or give the guy your life history. You don’t even have to propose sex. Keep it simple, and keep it short. Something like this will do:

I was looking at the profiles of guys in my areas and had to tell you what incredible photos you have. Thanks for sharing!

What man could resist replying to such a nice compliment? If he does, he’s probably a dick and you’re better off without him. If you’re feeling bold, you can try something like this:

Your profile’s amazing and our interests are pretty similar. If you get a chance, check out mine and let me know if you’d be interested in getting together sometime.

It’s to the point. It’s flattering to the guy you’re trying to seduce. If he expresses interest, all you need do is talk about the place and the time. If he ignores you or declines, it might sting for a few minutes, but honestly, have you lost any dignity? Not really. You were polite and gave it a shot. You didn’t say anything that the guy’s going to be snickering at with his bar buddies. All you need do is pick yourself up and move on to the next profile you find attractive. It’s that simple.

Now, there are probably a few things you should not do. I’ll cover a couple.

1) If your profile has no photos, don’t be surprised if you get no response. Even I, polite as I am, rarely respond to profiles that have either no information or no pictures (unless the guy opens with, I have photos to send you if you have an email address to share). Also, don’t be surprised if people block you when your opening salvo is a curt, UNLOCK YOUR OTHER PICS.

2) Don’t be passive-aggressive. If you send a nice note at first and don’t get a response, don’t follow it up five minutes later with one that reads, Hello? and then another every five minutes after that, adding more question marks each time until finally you finish up with a sad sack Well I guess you aren’t interested. As I said yesterday, a lot of the time, some of us (especially popular tops) aren’t really clinging to the browser, waiting for replies. The more emails you send trying to provoke us into a response, quite frankly, the less likely we are to write back. If your emails have a barely-veiled hostile tone that make your lack of sex my fault, like, So are we EVER going to fuck?, my answer is likely to be a hearty no. The moment I can smell someone trying to manipulate me into responding by being downtrodden and trampled-upon is the moment I put someone on my ignore list.

3) Definitely don’t be psycho. If you send someone a quick message of interest and get no response or a polite demurral, please don’t take out your frustrations on the guy by writing back an angry letter venting all your frustrations about not getting laid and the male sex in general. And for the love of god, don’t write out your misery by saying in your profile in all capital letters, WHY ARE ALL THE ONLINE MEN SUCH TOTAL DICKS? You’re not doing anyone any harm but yourself.

4) Don’t hound the poor guy. This is probably my pet peeve with a lot of men on cruising sites. There are certain guys I know, if I see them online, will immediately message me with something like, Are you free now?? Being persistent is one thing, and can be accomplished without badgering. Mail the guy with something like, Hey, nice to see you again. I hope you’ve been having a great week. If he’s searching and interested, he’ll write back. Don’t drive him offline with an immediate and unrelenting So can we fuck today??? (And trust me, you can run guys offline that way . . . or force them to put you on their ignore lists.)

If you’re considerate, have an ounce or two of human decency, employ what sense of humor you have, and don’t try to project a persona online that’s not your own, you will eventually be successful. Not every time. Not every day. But you will be successful in hooking up. You need not have the body of a Greek god. I mean, jeez, look at me. You need not have an enormous dick, or the most experienced hole, or a perfect face, or a cute accent. Being genuine, and cyber-brave (which we established is much easier than being brave in person, remember), and avoiding the pitfalls of whininess, passive-aggression, and just plain freakazoid behavior will win you fans. Myself included.

Heck, in fact, try out your cyber-bravery skills on one of my profiles, if you need the practice. Just make sure to have at least one dirty photo. The Breeder likes his eye candy.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Cruising 101: Bottoms to Tops

Two of Breeder’s Readers (that’s what one of my friends calls you guys—I’m thinking of making T-shirts) came at me this week with remarkably similar questions.

My friend Jayson asked, How much time a week to you think you spend on the on-line site and e-mail back and forth sex search management? And an anonymous person wrote and wanted to know, How much time do you spent sex hunting? With the amount you fuck, it’s got to be a lot.

My short answer is that I spend both a lot of time looking for ass, and very little at all. Let me explain.

If I’m hunting for sex online, I take advantage of the sites that let me log on, announce my availability, and then move on to some other activity. I’ll log onto Manhunt, for example, and change my looking-for status from ‘Ask Me’ to ‘Right Now’ or ‘Later Today.’ If I want to cover my bases, I’ll log on to Adam4Adam or BBRT and do the same. Then, because I’m conscientious, I’ll move out of my browser and into my everyday-work computer desktop space, and settle down to do a day’s labor.

Every twenty minutes or so I’ll check back on the sites to see if I’ve gotten any messages. If so, great. If not, I’ll go back to work. Eventually, on good days, I will get someone soliciting sex from me. If I’m interested, we’ll talk about it and hopefully get together with a minimum of emails. If I’m not interested, I’m always polite and friendly about it.

The amount of time I might stay logged onto a site is anywhere from ten minutes to two or three hours. How much of that time will I typically spend poring over profiles, looking at pics, and checking out the prospective guys in my area? Basically none.

One of the reasons I don’t do any active solicitation of my own is that I’m a top guy with a big dick. Trust me, I’m aware how horribly arrogant that sounds. On a certain practical level, however, for every top there are an awful lot of full-time bottom guys, not to mention the versatile men who are only being versatile because tops are in short supply. Going online to one of those sites as a top guy with a big dick—not to mention a nice smile, a pleasant personality, clear and recent photos, and a profile that’s completely filled out—is very much like throwing a bucket of chum into a piranha tank. All the hungry fishies want to sink their teeth into that meat.

And again, although I’m aware how conceited it sounds, if you ask any good full-time tops in large metropolitan areas, I think you’re going to get the same answer—we don’t really hunt because the game pretty much comes to us. At least, my top friends have said the same.

If you’re one of those bottom guys on a web site who’s been pining for a top guy to message you, but he never has, take a lesson from me. The guy is probably doing what I do, which is to sit back, play Peggle, and let the offers roll in. He may potentially find you extremely attractive, and want to explore the goods you have to offer, but the laws of supply and demand are such that when he’s casting about for a place to plant his seeds, there’re just a whole lot of plot owners out there already begging him to garden in their back yards.

And what if you’re a naturally reticent bottom, prone to shyness and not really used to approaching guys? If you’re cruising online, I’m afraid you might need to get accustomed to making the first move, with the top men you like. Tomorrow I’ll be talking a little bit more about that, if you’re interested.

Thursday, June 24, 2010



Hip against hip, two curves in parallel. Belly to back. My leg crooked over his, capturing his thighs. My arms around him, his chest hairs tickling my wrists. I can feel the nub of his nipple against the heel of my hand. When I rub it slightly, the ridges on my skin make the Decorator shiver. Even that sensation is too much, at this moment.

My lips are at his neck, my nose in his short, fair hair. When I breathe, pillows of air linger, trapped between us. They stay warm for a moment before they dissipate. My breath still smells of his mouth, and of all the equatorial places my tongue has traveled across his body. The bristles lining my upper lip have trapped his scents. All I have to do is wrinkle my nose to smell all of him.

He wants to be held tightly, afterward. “Don’t let go,” he whispers. The room has been dark all evening, lit only from outside by white fairy lights strung in his back garden. From the bed I can see three of the tiny bulbs on the top branches poking above the window sill. We lie there in the dark, in the quiet, saying nothing. Glued together by sweat and grease and by the connection of moments before.

I’m still inside him, spent but still hard. He wants me there.

As we lie there, connected and pressed tight, I feel his shoulders loosen. They slump into the mattress in small jerks. I hear the faint moist sound of his lips parting. He breathes heavily, then stiffens. A rumble sounds in his chest, half-amused, half-apologetic. I hold him more tightly, and feel him respond by pushing back against me.

It’s okay to let go, I mean the embrace to say.

Again his muscles relax, one by one. His head slumps into the pillow. His mouth opens, and his breathing sounds become deep and rasping. They tickle at the back of his nose as they pass, until at last he’s snoring. The sound makes me smile.

The room is cool, but there’s heat blossoming between our bodies where our skin touches. It's what the dead must envy most about the living, that heat. It seeps into my chest and stomach. My cock is kept stiff by it. His hands press at mine in his sleep, clutching and releasing to echo the movements of whatever dream is passing through his mind.

The weight of his body presses against my bicep. I feel my arm growing heavy. Prickles, then buzzes, dance along its nerves. I flex a few fingers to see how much feeling is left.

Will he wake if I pull my numb limb from under him?

He does not.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

The Goods

The following announcement may stun some of you: I like to show off my goodies on camera.

I know! Shocking! Most of you are probably thinking that you’ve never seen lascivious photos on A Breeder’s Journal like this one, in which I flash my erect member while showing off a gift that some very kind anonymous donor chose to send me from my Amazon wish list.

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Thank you most sincerely, anonymous donor. The book looks awesome! You would probably be amazed (and maybe a little appalled) to see how geeked out I was when I saw into what exquisite detail Stephen Fry was going into the construction of a sestina. I am eternally in your debt, and forever grateful. Thank you.

But yes, I do like to show off. In a public situation—bathhouse, group party, cruisy men’s room—I’ll be the first one to haul out his dick and get it hard. Naturally, cam sites are a good fit for me. Particularly when I don’t have time to meet up with anyone, but I want to drop my pants, get hard and sticky, and show off.

Cam sites have been around for ages, of course. I remember getting a bit of a thrill back in the day with CU-SeeMe, a primitive software program in which one would hunt around for hours in order to find the IP addresses of mirror hosts, and then have the dubious privilege of sitting in a virtual chat room with five other people on choppy, grainy, black and white cams, hoping that one of them would pique one’s interest. Actually, the way I remember it is more like masturbating solo while sitting in a room with five other blank cameras, hoping that someone else would broadcast.

CU-SeeMe began going through so many iterations and paid versions that I lost interest, in both it and the other software packages with similar functionality. For a while I started showing off on squirt.org and men4sexnow.com, but they both have severe restrictions on either the amount of time you can spend on their sites, or the number of other broadcasters you can watch.

Then last year I discovered the biggest sexual time-waster in the world, cam4.com. Cam4.com is easy to navigate and use. It’s web-based and doesn’t require any special software; as long as you have a browser that displays Flash-based video streaming, or a cam that Flash will recognize, it’s easy to get interactive. Hundreds of people are broadcasting at any given moment, and it’s possible to browse through thumbnails of their shows in order to see who’s appealing, who’s scary, and who’s too good to be true. Male, female, transgendered, couples, trios—it’s all there on display, to be riffed through like old-school cards in a library catalog.

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Cam4.com might be the Sears Wish Book of exhibitionism—it’s possible to find everything there, any kink, any perversion, if you do a little bit of dedicated searching. Lately, though there have been a couple of other sites I’ve enjoyed showing myself on. Manhunt has a very good chat service with both local and special-interest rooms. There’s even a room for gay gamers, which I appreciate. I’ve enjoyed hanging out in the bareback and Dad/Son rooms there, for the past couple of weeks. The site could use some reorganization, I admit. Though it’s possible to dock several cameras from different room in a side panel for viewing simultaneously, pulling that panel out covers up your own camera feed. And listen, I am just narcissistic enough that I enjoy watching myself almost more than most of the other people. Don’t block me, Manhunt!

Menchats.com has a video option as well, and while it’s not all that cleverly implemented or as heavily populated as Manhunt or cam4.com, I’ve met some interesting guys there. I’ll be exploring it more in the future.

I do have a few pet peeves about behavior in the chat rooms, though. This applies particularly to cam4.com, where people appear to model their behavior using the high standards given us by screeching howler monkeys on a rampage.

1) Why is everyone so concerned whether I can self-suck? If you ask and I quite politely tell you that I can, but that I prefer not to, and that I will not, don’t keep trying to cajole me into it. Or worse, badger me. I’m not going to do it just to prove to you I’m able. I don’t get pleasure from self-fellating, nor do I really understand how it’s such a turn-on to so many guys and gals on cam4.com. Sucking my dick is your job, not mine.

2) I may show you my feet once. That’s about it. I am not going to suck them on camera for you, no.

3) If I’m in a room with a hundred viewers or more (I think the most I ever had watching me on cam4 was 350 people at once), chances are good that I’m enjoying the attention. Why in the world, Mr. Pest, would I leave all those people in the lurch in order to go one on one with you? Particularly when I have no idea what you look like?

4) When I’m on camera, I take things at my own pace. Ordering me to CUM NOW!!!! is not going to put me over the edge. Barking out things like SHOW FEET or SHOW ASS NOW is not a turn-on for me. If you were paying me—well, then maybe I’d be your private dancer, your dancer for money, I’d do what you want me to do. Otherwise, welcome to me silencing you through the moderation tools.

5) Listen, I’m really flattered when someone likes me enough to send me some private compliments and start up a private chat. I get off on that more than I do watching anonymous strangers whack off. It’s that personal connection that gets me going. Watching me stroke myself once on cam, however, shouldn’t the basis of a life-long relationship. If you seriously want to move to my city after ten minutes of watching me toy with my pre-cum, so that you can buy a little home for the two of us and take care of all my sexual needs for the rest of my life, I’m likely to think you’re a wee bit premature.

If you send me a three-page email, as one guy did Tuesday, outlining the dishes you want to cook me, including a comprehensive list of your specialties, asking me what neighborhoods would be best for us to establish our lifelong love nest, writing an explicit fantasy of how you would wake me in the middle of every night with a blow job, and filling out the narrative with descriptions of my future in-laws and the kinds of massage in which you’re expert, I’m likely to think you’re a bit crazy.

The massage might tempt me a little, but you’re still crazy. I do like a good massage.

For the most part, however, I’ve met a bunch of very nice guys and gals through the cam sites. The majority are polite, appreciative, and considerate with their requests and thanks. The howler monkeys are a nuisance, but I’ve learned to deal with them.

All right. Who's camming with me?

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Tuesday, June 22, 2010

One Encounter

When I first started keeping A Breeder’s Journal, I wrote about the comprehensive list I kept in my youth of all the men I had sex with—no matter how briefly, or how many times. If we kissed, sucked, fucked, or so much as groped, I’d scurry home, pull my ever-growing record out of its hiding place (in the recess behind the drawer of the old dining room table that served as my desk, in my room), and scribble down the latest fucks.

Here is another encounter from that expansive list, from 1976.

Mustache and eyebrows 2nd fl Hibbs basement Hibbs metal + - @

It wasn’t the fact that the stranger was in possession of eyebrows that was so astonishing. It was the fact that his eyebrows were equally thick and uniform as his mustache. It was as if three enormous caterpillars had wandered onto his face and decided to nap there.

I was sitting in the middle stall of the men’s room on the second floor of a classroom building on the campus where my parents both taught. The doors to the student cafeteria, such as it was, were twenty feet away, but at night they were closed and this part of the building tended to be deserted. Which made it perfect for horny students to cruise each other. The gray marble walls were covered with inked graffiti advertising times to meet.

I wasn’t a student, of course. I was a horny kid who’d just been fucked for the first time a week and two days before and several times since, all by the same dick. I’d also sucked off a stranger I’d picked up in the Richmond Public Library basement restroom two days before that night. Two notches on my belt, and I thought I knew it all.

My jeans were around my ankles. I had my T-shirt hiked up my skinny little chest to my nipples. And my little dick was in my hand. I’d been watching two guys sucking through the peephole in the marble partition earlier, but I’m fairly certain I wasn’t shooting cum at this point—my dick would have been merely red and angry from all the stroking I’d done. My heart beat a little faster when I heard the outer door swing open and a pair of slow, deliberate footsteps enter the room.

The fellow who’d entered the empty restroom stopped at the urinal across from my stall. I listened to him fumble with the fabric of his fly, unzip, and then pause. No sound of urine followed.

I’d cruised enough restrooms at that young age to know the drill. My dick in my hand, I leaned to the right and peered through the crack in the door. I saw the guy at the urinal turn his head and look over his shoulder. Our eyes met.

Inch by inch, I opened up my stall door so he could see the painfully skinny blond kid beating off in the heat of a summer night. Though he was nothing more than an average-looking guy, all I could see was that enormous Fuller Brush of a mustache, matched and maybe even rivaled by the bristly eyebrows. The man couldn’t have been any older than twenty-four or twenty-five, but to me, he was a real man, seasoned and ancient. He blinked at the sight of me. Then, in the flash of an instant, he pulled up his zipper and turned. I thought he was going to leave.

Instead, he strode over to the stall and planted himself in front of the door. His arm shot out to prevent me closing it. “You’re coming with me,” he said at last. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips.

I didn’t dare disobey. I wanted to suck dick.

He took me down a back stairway into a basement bathroom at the bottom of a stairwell, next to the closed campus bookstore. It was even more deserted than the men’s room near the cafeteria. The minute we were both in the smaller enclosure, his hands were reaching for his oversized belt buckle. “You’re a mighty little cocksucker,” he said in a rush, undoing it with a clank. “I bet your mouth feels real good too. You a good cocksucker? You a real good cocksucker, boy? Take your pants off.” He kicked open the restroom’s one stall and pushed me into it as he pulled down his green slacks.

My dick had been painfully stiff from the moment I’d attempted to stuff it into my tight jeans until the second it met its release again in that dimly-lit restroom. He didn’t give a shit about my dick, though. “Turn around,” he said. Though he kept his voice quiet, he didn’t dampen it entirely to a whisper; he was loud enough to carry considerable force. “Let me see that butt. Fuck. Fuck!” I flushed. Passive as I was at that moment, I still had considerable pride about being able to recognize arousal and even to enflame it. I was a newborn Circe playing with nascent powers I barely understood. “I bet I’ve got something you never seen before,” the man said. Although his slacks were unbuckled and unbuttoned and lay open around his thighs, he hadn’t yet pulled down his white briefs. He rubbed his hand over the bulge of them then, showing me the fat dick they barely restrained. “You wanna see it? Look at this.”

His dick flopped out of his drawers. It was short, thick as a forearm, and ugly as fuck. When I saw the flash of metal at its tip, I knew I wanted it badly. “It’s called a Prince Albert,” he said, showing it off. His dick might have been as hard as mine at that point. The round piercing must have been one of the bigger gauges, heavy and wicked looking as it was. He tugged at it with his forefinger. His dick was so hard that it barely moved in response. “So. You ever seen one of these, cocksucker?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know such monstrosity was possible.

“Suck it.”

The metal ring forced open my lips and teeth before I was able to open wide enough to accept it. Instinctively I knew better than to let it chip my teeth; from the sucking I’d already done on Mikey’s dick and the bearded redhead from the library restroom, I knew to open my mouth wide, let my lips curl to the underside of my incisors, and let him do all the work. He tasted not filthy, exactly, but not clean. It was the taste of a cock that hadn’t been cleaned since the morning, on a hot day when everything got easily sticky. The metal ring battered my molars, but eventually the guy figured out where he was going the deepest. His stubby flesh battered my throat for a few moments, bringing tears to my eyes.

The shock of it was nothing compared to that of having my teeth rattled to the roots when he ripped his dick out of my mouth, however. My lower lip started to sting, as if he’d bruised it on the way out. “Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, and leaned my chest and forearms against the wall where he pushed me. His left hand reached for my hole and felt it. The tip of his thumb invaded me, making me jump.

“You been fucked yet?” he asked. I nodded, while I watched him spit on his dick. “Well, you ain’t been fucked like this.”

I thought my first time had hurt. The three minutes that followed were brutal. I was in heat, though, and stayed hard throughout. He was too overexcited to last long; it seemed that barely had he managed to get his pierced dick in me that he started shaking and pushing me so hard against the tile walls that I thought he might crack a rib.

“Not bad,” was his remark, after he pulled out and yanked up his slacks. He couldn’t stop sniffing, as if the orgasm had set off his nasal drip. His hands were trembling hard. It took him much longer to manage his belt buckle than it should have. Then as quickly as he could, he dashed for the exit and left, saying only, “Keep on truckin’.”

Which I think was out of date even in 1976.

The man with the P.A. had been the second man to fuck me. I had to clean his semen off of my jeans and underwear, where it had fallen. Then I carefully wiped my raw and sore hole, and checked my lip in the mirror. It was bleeding slightly from where he’d bruised it, but it would heal quickly enough.

Once I was reasonably clean, I closed the stall door, sat down, and beat myself to a climax. Then I did it twice again, before leaving the building and going dutifully to sit outside my father’s classroom until he’d finished his lecture.

Monday, June 21, 2010


Soft, his ass is.

You wouldn’t expect it to look at him. The first time I met the man five years ago, was after hours at the college where I worked full time. I had to leave my desk to let him through the security doors. He stood on the other side of the glass, skin the color of dark molasses, the ropes of his muscle taut as he waited with crossed arms. He wore a ragged gray sweatshirt with the neck and the arms ripped off. The holes exposed tendrils of his armpit hair, wet with sweat, and the rounded sides of his pecs. One nipple poked out provocatively.

I hit the bar and let him through the door. He swaggered in, nodded, and pretended not to look me up and down. He thrust his hands deep into the grimy pockets of the orange athletic pants he wore. Their swish-swish-swish was the only sound we made as we walked back to my office. He followed me with a swayback posture, his narrow waist jutted forward.

Once my office door was closed, he said nothing. He rarely does, even now. Instead, he stared at me, eyes hooded and half hostile, until I said in the softest possible voice, “Take it off.”

Again he nodded. His thumbs hooked beneath the elastic of his sweatpants, and with one swift motion sent them skidding to his ankles. He was naked beneath them. His thighs were perfect columns, flaring down to his knees, and his calves were covered in springy hair. The edges of his pelvis were visible beneath his brown skin; the cut muscles of his stomach pointed down to the dick that was already three-quarters hard, and pointing outward. It was cut, and dark as the rest of him, and as large as mine.

He didn’t say a word as he shucked the ratty sweatshirt. I took a moment, that initial visit, to enjoy the sight of him. So lean, so muscled. So hard-bodied. “Turn around,” I ordered. His head dropped and he obeyed, for the first time showing me his round, perfect backside. His ass was like twin water droplets swollen to fullness, pulled out and down by gravity, but stubbornly clinging to the slender reed on which they’d fallen. “Jesus,” I muttered.

When I walked over and put my hand between his legs, letting my index finger trace the length of his crack, he sighed, and bent over. That’s when I felt how soft his ass truly was. Despite the spare hardness of every plane of his body, that butt was soft, and round, and filled my hands. He craved a man’s touch down there. As I explored, he sighed and bent further, arching his back to lift his ass high into the air. “Tell me what you want,” I said in the quiet.

“I want your white dick in me.” I could barely hear his words.

I gave it to him.

That’s how it would begin, in those days when I was an academic. He’d come to my office, either after hours or during lunch, strutting through the halls with that pelvis leading and his shoulders swaying to some invisible rhythm. He’d nod at me as I closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Then he’d strip naked—completely naked—climb up onto the desk, spread his knees as far as he could, lower his head, and wait for me to invade him.

After I left the college, we started reconnecting at my home. He would write me an email and show up a few minutes later, sometimes in his dirty gym gear, sometimes in his blue work coveralls. It didn’t matter what he wore. It came off the minute he stepped through the door. His shoes might lie just inside, followed by his socks, his pants at the bottom of the staircase, and his shirt or sweatshirt just outside the bedroom door.

If he wore underwear—and usually he didn’t—it would be a pair of his girlfriend’s panties. There was always a new girlfriend, it seemed. If he showed up wearing something soft and lacy, I’d ask. He’d tell me in as few words as possible that the new one had three kids, or that she was divorced and childless, or once, when the drawers were unusually elaborate and of good quality, that she worked as a dancer at one of the many strip joints on the outer borders of Detroit, where the clubs have names like ‘The Captain’s Club’ or ‘The Landing Strip’ or ‘Trumpps,’ or some suggestive moniker. Once, after he made some rudimentary inquiries of whether I had a wife or a girlfriend, he asked if he could wear a pair of her panties to start. I made sure to give him a pair on his next visit. He’s kept them since.

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The panties are nothing to me. For him, though, they’re a sign of submission. They’re an outward symbol of what he wants to give to me, and how he wants to be made to feel. When he wrote me over the weekend, he simply said, can u make a baby in me tmrrw?

Of course, I wrote back. I will knock your cunt up, boy.

On my bed yesterday he buried his head beneath one pillow and used the other to prop his ass in the air for me. Like an ink stain splashed on the linen, he was, dark and impossible not to look at. His hands grabbed hold of the headboard and creaked it forward as I knelt on the mattress to inspect his hole. “So damned soft,” I whispered to it, from only a few inches away. The breath from my lips made him twitch. When I licked out with my tongue, his body flinched. Every muscle seized when I buried my face in that cleft and ate at it savagely. My beard raked against the tender, exposed flesh there and left him shuddering and hissing.

Hard as his body is, and tough as he wants the world to think him, he knows that when he’s exposed, and vulnerable, and in my hands, he’s soft. He’s made for use, and he signs himself over to me for it, every time. I enjoyed lapping at his sweet dark hole for a long time and making him jerk and moan. But every time I always end up asking, just as I did the first, “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your white dick in me,” he said yesterday, from beneath the pillow.

He got my white dick once again. I went in slow, using nothing more than my own spit as lube. He always claims that I’m the only man fucking him. It may or may not be true. I really don’t care. He’s tight enough to be telling the truth, though. When I pushed through that rigid, tiny hole yesterday, his entire body seemed to lengthen and grow two inches taller. It’s as if taking my dick makes him larger, somehow—bigger and even more of a man than he already is.

He was so soft inside, though. Sweet and tender. When I fucked in and out, the round cushions of his ass responded with a quiver. My skin slapped against his, slowly and deliberately. The pillow fell away; he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how deep I was inside him. I watched the muscles of his arms rearrange themselves as he gripped more tightly to the headboard.

My friend is not built for endurance. He wants a fuck, not a lovemaking session. He doesn’t kiss. He merely comes to display himself for me, to strip, and to take my dick. So I made the most of it yesterday, plunging deep in and then pulling back slowly so I could see the insides of his chute cling to my meat as I withdrew. Seeing how much I stretch him open always turns me on. Yesterday the sight made me fuck him harder. Soon I was clutching the rails of the headboard as well, the edges of our fists touching, white on black, as I drove into him. Save for our gasps, weak grunts, and swallowed cries, our fuck was silent.

Until I came, that is. The orgasm ripped out of me almost painfully, making me rasp out and leaving my throat raw. He buckled and twisted, and shuddered. Every time I shoot, he shoots as well. For a moment we lay there, still as a photograph. Then his ass clenched down, and squeezed me out.

I knew there would be a puddle on the bed from his own dick when he got up. It was there, a fat comma-shaped moist spot on the blanket. While I still panted and rolled into a sitting position, he had already slipped into his baggy sweatpants, cut at the knees into shorts. “Yeah. Later,” he said in a gruff acknowledgment before he ducked out in the hallway. From the railing he grabbed his sleeveless T-shirt, and at the base of the stairs he stepped into his grimy sneakers, one after the other. He didn’t even bother to pull on his shirt until after he’d stepped out through my screen door and as he took the porch steps down to the street. Anyone passing by at that time would’ve seen his taut torso stretched and on display for the neighborhood, still glistening with our mixed sweat. Hard, lean, and chisel-sharp.

And if they’d been especially sharp-eyed, they might have seen me naked, standing well back from the door, watching him go. I might be the only man who knows how soft he truly is.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Mourning the Back Yard Neighbor Edition

It is a sad Sunday morning for me, readers. The end of an era has come. Yesterday, when I was driving down the adjoining street after a thunderstorm so I could check out the remains of a tree sheared in half by high winds, I saw something that astounded me. Yes, it was my back yard neighbor Michael's house, sitting there all neat and tidy with curb appeal up the wazoo, with a Real Estate One sign parked in front of it.

The fucker is moving.

Quite honestly, it felt like a slap in the face. I don't care that the man has three children under the age of ten and lives in a two-bedroom house. Clearly he should have thought of the ramifications of having that extra baby after he'd moved in and made me his salivating fan. All that energy I invested in stalking him is going to be for naught, once he's no longer around. Will my new neighbor have luxurious long curly locks? Doubtful. Will the new neighbor strut around in the nude in his kitchen, or sprawl shirtless in his backyard nursing a beer between his legs while studying me frankly from a distance? Hah! That lightning doesn't strike twice.

Here's hoping the house doesn't move. Damn it for being so cute! On the plus side, if any of my readers are in the market for a two-story house with a cute screen back porch and me as a back door neighbor (in every sense of the phrase), you're in luck.

Here's a few questions I've been asked on formspring.me to keep you occupied on this Sunday. As always, feel free to ask me more. I'm pretty frank about most things.

How does it feel to be worshipped and adored by so many guys?
Are you implying I am? Most of the time I don't feel adored or worshipped, though sometimes I feel mildly flirted with. I could really do with a little worship, frankly.

On a broader level, it does feel very nice to have guys be so kind to me, both on my blog and on Twitter. I've never lost the capacity to be surprised at, or delighted with, compliments. Every single one makes me feel as if I should be wrapping it up, pressing it in the family Bible, and saving it to bring out and reminisce over on a rainy day. I mean that most sincerely.

So I'm grateful.

how long does it take you to write one of your post? i love your ability to paint a picture as you write, it always makes me feel like i am there.
The average length of time it takes to compose a journal entry is probably between a half hour and an hour. Then I spend a few minutes re-reading and revising, and then I post it for the following morning.

Sometimes I'll revise a little more before the post appears. Then I go back and correct stuff when the sharp-eyed readers tell me exactly what errors I've made. And they do tell me.

What does a bottom have to learn to be fucked the way you want?
I really had to think about this one. I think it boils down to the following: he needs to learn to relax, to enjoy what's happening, and to trust me to make it good for us both. I know what I'm doing.

I always figure most guys who put a pic in a CL post are fakes. What do you think?
I have put my photos in my Craigslist posts, and those aren't fakes.

I've also seen my photos reappear in other mens' ads (or I'll have one of my sharp-eyed friends spot it and tell me). At that point, they're fakes, and I usually write the posters and request their removal.

I don't use Craigslist very often in my area because at least where I live, the guys who are looking there aren't all that enjoyable. However, I've run across about the same proportion of real photos to real-but-ten-years-or-more-old photos to absolute fakes. My experience with Craigslist has been that the number of guys from it who flake is substantially higher than other sites.

Damn, that is an accomplishment. Can you elaborate on that 4 hour session you had? ;)
I've had a lot of long sessions. Typically they took place on lazy afternoons or long evenings when my partner and I were both relaxed and enjoying each other. I'd fuck, shoot, stay inside, and begin fucking when we were both ready. Which is always pretty quickly for me.

The one former buddy I had with whom I enjoyed a lot of marathon sessions had a similar sexual development to mine. We would swap stories while I was fucking him, and talk about the similar kinds of places where we used to cruise, and work each other into a frenzy while talking about our pasts.

All those guys from your loss of virginity period: ever get an STD?
Nope. The only sexually transmitted nuisance I received during my teens was a case of crabs, and that wasn't until I was 19.

Yes, Craigslist is Flakesville. What's your ranking of other sites, least to most flakes?
Every site has a lot of flakes, unfortunately. But here you go.

1) BarebackRT.com: This bareback site isn't for everyone, and it does have a lot of guys who are there to look at photos rather than meet. However, I've met a lot of good guys from there, and only a few total flakes. It's especially good on the road.

2) Manhunt: There are a lot of men who irritate me on Manhunt, but the sheer numbers of guys who have accounts there make it easier to find someone to have sex with.

3) Adam4Adam: It's not the best site in my area, but when I've been traveling, I've gotten a ton of responses from guys who followed through.

4) Craigslist: I usually don't both responding to, or placing, ads in my area. I've used it for travel, but the number of flakes is too high to guarantee results.

5) Squirt and Men4sexnow: Skanky guys, and a high flake-to-real ratio.

There are other sites I haven't tried, like asspig.com or bnskin.com. The administrator of bear411 said I wasn't bear enough for their site, so I've not revisited that one, either.

ok warning, this is a real nerdy question. i saw u added a wow gamecard to ur wishlist. what class/spec do u play? what server?
Oh my god, best question ever. (Though yes, it is nerdy.) My main is a feral druid, and my favorite alt is a holy priest. How about you?

Places like bars, how do you decide who's a likely bottom?
To be honest, I assume that pretty much everyone's a bottom.

I know that sounds like a smart-ass answer, but save for a handful of times, I've rarely run across anyone who didn't want to bottom--in a bar, in a bathhouse, online, name it. There are a lot of bottoms out there. There are a lot of men who call themselves versatile who would truly prefer to bottom but switch just because someone has to. And there are a lot of tops who want to take a break and give it up.

So yes, while it may be true that I'm an arrogant S.O.B. with a sense of entitlement to men's butts, it's also a fact that no matter where I go, I'm wading in a sea of bottoms.

You've previously mentioned that you suspect that you're the biological father of two children outside of your own relationship. Have either of the two couples you've helped impregnate tried to demand child support?
No. With one of the couples, I signed a contract that made clear that while I was the sperm donor, I did not have either any claims upon or responsibilities for the resulting child. The other couple simply had me fuck them until she was pregnant, and then they stopped contacting me. It was only later, after I inadvertently discovered that he had a low sperm count and they'd been trying for a baby for years without success, did I figure out I'd been used for sex and sperm.

There are worse ways to be used.

So... I've never been fucked before. Each time I'm jerking it, I get this burning desire to have a cock up my ass. How would you handle someone like me?
First, I'd suggest purchasing a small toy and using it on yourself while you masturbate. Small, notice I said. A lot of first-timers buy something way too large, discover it's more painful than pleasurable on their initial tries to take it, and give up. Something finger-sized or slightly larger might help.

Fingers work, too. Use plenty of lube and simply play with your hole as you masturbate, and work up to inserting your toy or fingers and seeing what you enjoy. Replicate the things you like, and analyze the stuff you don't.

Finally, find someone you trust to give you your first fuck. Let them in in advance--I prefer knowing, at least, so I can be extra-supportive. A lot of tops prefer experienced holes, so tell him you're not in order that he won't be unduly frustrated. And please make sure to rinse yourself out before you give it up. That way neither you nor your top will be embarrassed.

The steps from virgin to experienced bottom aren't many, and aren't difficult to take. You simply have to act upon it, rather than fantasize.

Honorable slut daddy sexy grizzly bitch you, Sir: Have you ever had sex with a CIA or an FBI person?
Your grizzly daddy bitch is flattered that you think he could seduce an agent of espionage or a skilled FBI professional. but the answer is no. Not to my knowledge, anyway.

Of course, if I had, I'd probably be required to give that answer anyway, wouldn't I?

Saturday, June 19, 2010

All About My Mother

I've written about my father a couple of times within the pages of this journal. I'd like to give my late mother a little space. It's difficult for me to write about her, sometimes, because she's been gone so long.

I'll warn you from the start, however, that there's no sex in this entry. If that disappoints you, you've my archives to paw through.

So here's something you don't see written very often: my mother wanted me to be a female impersonator when I grew up.

It’s not an admission you hear from the lips of most men. Even the thorniest of Mama Roses might have blanched a little at such a revelation. But there you go. When I was six, my mother took a trip to England with her mother-in-law. It was the only time she was ever able to venture out of the United States, other than the time she won an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas for winning a nationwide contest on why, in twenty-five words or less, she liked Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. (She didn’t really like macaroni and cheese that much. I did.)

While she was abroad, my mother made a point of visiting all the places she wanted to go, snapping photos of everything, and coming back with a hundred colorful stories to tell. Among them was the announcement that she’d found the perfect profession for my first-grade self. She’d been to see Danny La Rue at a cabaret show in a London hotel, and come away with an epiphany. “Female impersonators aren’t women,” she explained gravely. “They just dress up in women’s clothes, look beautiful, sing and tell jokes, and then they’re men again afterward. It's very lucrative. Doesn’t that sound like fun? It’d be perfect for you, don’t you think?”

I did not. I never did. I wasn’t a sissy boy by any means. I didn’t play with my mother’s old purses, or wear her heels, or prefer sewing to other hobbies; I didn’t have a Barbie. But perhaps I wasn’t exactly the picture of robust boyhood that you might find gleaming on the cover of a Cub Scout manual. I disliked team sports, though I later excelled at swimming and tennis. I didn’t like running around outdoors like a hooligan, but instead spent my outdoor time in private spaces I’d clear beneath bushes, hiding quietly with a book. I was quiet instead of loud, thoughtful instead of reckless. I was the kind of boy who didn’t mouth off in school, or ever get in trouble, or make mischief, or disobey a teacher. I was thoughtful instead of outspoken. I can’t say it got me very far, but I’m sure my elders appreciated the peace.

No, I wasn’t an effeminate child, and I was actually shocked at the notion that my mother—my own mother!—thought the best career choice for me was professional female impersonation. She didn’t push it on me, to her credit. She didn’t begin buying little organdy frocks in my size and leaving them suggestively on the bed, or anything. Every now and then she’d float the test balloon in my direction, though, and I’d roundly shoot it down. However, I think it took all her willpower, years later when Victor/Victoria, one of her all-time favorite films, was released, not to turn to me and say, “I told you it could be lucrative.”

By that time she’d already chosen another profession for me. “You should be a chef,” she announced when I was in the third grade. By that time she’d already conscripted me into making easy meals for myself when she and my father were both teaching—by middle school I was the short-order cook of the family, which was fine with my mother, since she hated spending any time in the kitchen. “In Europe, all the chefs are male. It’s very highly regarded,” she announced.

I didn’t believe her. The late nineteen-sixties and seventies weren’t like today, when men crowded the culinary schools so they could get a shot at getting their own show on the Food Network, or a spot on Top Chef. The only male who cooked in that era with any visibility was the Galloping Gourmet, and I'm very sorry, but Graham Kerr was not exactly the most masculine of men. In my horrified eyes, chef was only one shade of lavender butcher than the option of female impersonator. Scarier was the fact that I was actually really good in the kitchen.

It’s unfortunate that my mother embarrassed me a little with her choices, but I recognize now it was her early acknowledgement that she realized I was different. Perhaps I wasn’t a sissy, or a tomgirl, but her instincts told her from an early age that I was not like other boys. I think by managing to invest such enthusiasm in the prospect of my becoming a female impersonator or a culinary artist, long before these heady of Rupaul's Drag Race and tattooed bad boy chefs, she was telling me that whatever I was, I was perfectly okay. And so would be whatever I chose to become when I grew up.

I might not have grasped the nuance, but I got the message clearly enough. My path through life hasn’t been typical. I don’t always take the easy choices, or the most lucrative paths, or even the most logical routes to an end destination. I’ve always progressed in fits and starts. I try different lives and see if they suit me; the artistic career that I love is something I wandered into because I was too afraid to hope for it. I'm convinced that my wayward journey keeps me young, and keeps me interested. I was not your typical boy. I’m still not your typical man, much of the time. I have doubts and fears, like anyone else. Sometimes they're paralyzing. But because of my mother, I have a deep inner conviction that not being typical is perfectly fine.

When I came out to my mother while I was in grad school, she wasn’t surprised. She’d grown up wanting me to be a drag queen, and then a chef, and then in high school had decided that it would awesome if I horrified my father’s family by marrying a black woman. My revealed sexuality, to her, was a shiny silver medal, not a consolation prize. It was as equally capable of horrifying my father’s family, and it gave my mother a too-short chance to show the world what a cool, liberal mother she could be.

I miss my mom. It’s kind of comforting, in a way, to know that if for some reason I’d decided to become a professional drag queen, I would’ve had her total support.

And probably unrestricted access to her false eyelashes.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

IML & Me

One of my readers this week was asking me what I felt about the leather scene. To sum it up briefly, I've always felt it was perfectly easy to have great sex without anything in the way of gear. I think guys in leather are hot, but once in a while it seems as if those who rely upon the gear do so as a crutch.

Case in point. While I was traipsing around IML’s Leather Mart during Memorial Day weekend of 2009, fending off offers to try the tester jug of Boy Butter and gently turning down an plea from a barrel-chested older bear to try on a yellow blindfold for him so he could ‘see how it looked on a boy like me, and besides, it matched my shirt,’ I noticed a guy staring at me. The first time I saw him was somewhere in the middle of the Fort Troff booth where I was gingerly inspecting a bin of cock rings floating in an amber fluid. When my eyes caught his, I explained my hesitation. “Hi. It looks like someone peed in here,” I said.

The man had a close-shaved head, big eyes, and a rugged, masculine face covered with an artful one-day growth of stubble. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather vest. He was also about as tall as a Smurf, but despite that, had the excellent good looks of a porn star from a higher-budget studio. “I think someone spilled ginger ale,” he replied, with a heavy accent.

I smiled, shrugged, and moved on, declining to investigate. I noticed him a little later, weaving in and out of the racks of leather I was examining. “Hey again,” I said, when he approached me. His eyes were fixed on me and full of intent. “Having fun?”

“You know,” he said with that charming accent again. “You are the first person who has said hello to me this entire conference without me having to speak first.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

I gestured to his textbook pecs, his perfectly proportioned arms, the narrow waist, as if it were a gimme. “Look at you.”

“But it’s true,” he said. “You were the first.” Then, impulsively, he added, “Give me your email address.” I didn’t ask why. When a handsome man asks for your email, you give him your email. “Thank you,” he said, tucking the slip of paper in his pocket. He flashed a winning smile and then vanished into the crowd.

When I got back to the hotel room much later I found he’d emailed me quite a long and surprisingly literate message in which he confessed that he was attracted to me and outlined in great detail exactly why I should return to the Hilton that evening and, essentially, bang his brains out. Accompanying the missive were quite a few revealing photos that he hoped might appeal to me. Well, what can I say. I was feeling charitable. I sent a few photos of my own back, and agreed to meet. When he emailed me back with his phone number, he added, Please wear all your leather!

I don’t have any leather, I wrote back. Is that okay? Does it change your mind?

That is fine, he said. Come as you are.

As I were was simply a pair of jeans, the white Chucks on my feet, and the yellow and grey T-shirt that had matched the leather blindfold I’d declined earlier. And when I walked into the Hilton’s lobby to wait for my friend, after I’d called him from outside, I looked like a fucking freak.

First of all, the lobby was packed. Every leatherman staying in the joint was packed into the rococo rooms in front of the elevator. Not a single man wasn’t bare-chested, harnessed, and boot-blacked into perfection. And there I was, trying to look casual and confident, but feeling like the only gay in the village wandering into a Westboro Baptist Church tent revival and hoping that no one would notice. It was fruitless. Guys wove around me and avoided me as if I carried a cup and sign reading, I have leprosy, please help.

After what seemed like an eternity, my friend Bruno finally showed up. And Jesus Christ, but he was decked out. He wore the leather-studded cap, the eyepatch, the studded collar, the complex harness, the vest, the studded jockstrap, the chaps, the boots. Upon spying me, he couldn’t simply discreetly motion for me to follow. Oh no. He had to roar, at the top of his considerable lungs, “ROB!” and then lunge at me. I’m probably imagining things, but when he did, it seemed to me as if the entire lobby went silent and stared.

“Hi,” I said, rather mildly.

“Let me take you for a drink,” he said, his arm around my butt.

“Okay,” I agreed.

He stuck his hand down the back of his chaps. “Crap,” he muttered. “I forgot my wallet.”

“It was the one too many pieces of leather to keep track of, huh?” I said. “I can buy you a drink.”

“No, no,” he said. “Come with me to the room and we’ll get it and then come back down.” Through the lobby he steered me as man after man stared at him with envy, and at me as if I were the ugly drag queen that the cutest Jonas Brother had suddenly started dating.

I had a sneaking suspicion that once we were in his room, we wouldn’t be going back down. I was right. The moment we were up there, he was pushing me down to the bed so that I could be at face level with him. He kissed beautifully. Because of his height, the leather-to-weight ratio of his body seemed awfully high and he was very heavy on me, but I didn’t object. “I need you to make love to me,” he said.

“Where are you from, anyway?” I asked, curious at his accent again. He told me he was Brazilian, and then rattled off a long sentence in Portuguese. “What was that?”

“I said that you are a beautiful man and that tonight you are going to strip me naked and use me as you will, that you are going to turn me into your little bitch and that when you enter me with your mighty member, I will whimper and become totally yours.”

I debated it briefly. “Well, okay.”

I yanked off my pants and let him suck me for a while in his full leather regalia. Every now and again he would lean back and show off for me, flexing his arms or holding his hands over his head and stretching to display his hairy chest. Gradually we got his clothes off—not easy with all the fastens and snaps and buckles, and the darkness—and got his ass into the air. I buried my face between his cheeks and sure enough, he began to whimper. And buck. And beg. “Are you ready?” I asked, a few minutes later.

“Yes,” he said, squirming. “Fuck me. Please, please fuck me.” I got myself ready and began working myself in. He clutched the pillows and yelled, “Yes! Yes! Do it! Make me yours!” Just when I reached the base, he wriggled off and declared, “Okay. That’s enough.”

“What?” I almost yelped. My head spun.

“I need a rest,” he said, panting. So I gave him a rest. For twenty-five minutes we just talked. Or rather, he talked about his job and I listened, while we cuddled and I rubbed his back. It was nice, but I was soft when he suddenly grabbed my dick and announced, “Now you fuck me again. Fuck me right.”

“Let’s do it,” I agreed, hardening instantly.

Again it was the same routine. I entered him slowly while he shook and shuddered and begged for it. The moment I was all the way in, he leapt off again, and followed it with another half-hour of talking. When he was ready to go again, I felt I had to be firm. “Listen,” I said. “This time, we’re fucking longer than fifteen seconds.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But you are so big!”

“Well, you knew that when you invited me over,” I griped.

“You will have pleasure this time,” he promised. “So much pleasure.”

I flipped him onto his knees, reapplied the lube, and slid inside. He seemed easier to get into, the third time. “Yes!” he yelled. “You feel so good! I am all yours! I am your little bitch! I am taking your big cock inside me! I am coming! I am coming!”

“What?” I asked, startled.

The little Brazilian thrashed and jerked, spewing ropes of semen across his bedspread. My dick popped out of his hole as he fell full-faced into the pillows. After a moment in which all the blood seemed to drain from my head into my still-throbbing dick, he popped up again. “That was fun!” he announced. “You can clean up in the bathroom.”

I grabbed my T-shirt and stomped off in the direction he indicated, silently thinking evil things about leathermen and their perverted notions of sex. “Maybe we can do this again tomorrow!” he chirped, while I got dressed.

“Maybe,” I grumbled, thinking, Never.

Bruno text messaged me all that weekend, but I politely declined the opportunity to see him again, even though he attempted to sway me by saying he had a really special leather outfit he wanted me to see him in. I told him that I was out with friends, the following night, and couldn’t get back to his hotel.

Not all the dress-up in the world can disguise the fact that when sex is bad, it’s really bad. Not even the cutest accent in the world can compensate.

If there are men out there into leather who'd like to make me change my mind, though, I'm all ears.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

More Adventures with Whore

I recognized the voice the instant I answered the phone. It was Whore, my favorite Charlie Sheen lookalike. “What’cha up to?” he growled at me. His low baritone was teasing and familiar.

“Just kickin’ back after work.” I lapsed into an argot of guy talk I rarely use, because it gives the impression that I’m sittin’ around the garage, one hand suggestively danglin' between my overall-clad legs and the other clutchin' a brew. “How about you, bud?”

“Hangin’,” he told me. His voice dropped to an intimate level. “I’m feeling kinda whorey.”

“No no no,” I corrected. “You’re not feeling whorey. You’re a whore.”

“Yes.” His voice went weak, as if I’d knocked the pretense out of it. He choked out the next three words. “I’m a whore.”

“And the whore’s looking for cock, isn’t he?” I didn’t hear a reply. I didn’t need one. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Whore greeted me at his door dressed in a short kimono-like robe. “You took too long,” he told me. He jerked his head to invite me in, and led me through the dark living room and dining room to his bedroom at the back of the house.

I read the time on my cell phone. “I got here in eight minutes.”

“I needed you sooner,” he said. His robe fell to the floor, and he followed it, resting on his knees to unbutton my jeans. “God, I’ve been so hungry for you.” Without underwear, my already-hard cock popped out of the fly, and he stuffed it into his mouth without hesitation.

“That’s because whores are all appetite,” I murmured to him in the darkness, letting my pelvis grind in and out of his mouth. His cheeks huffed and expanded as he made coughing and gagging noises—not because I was occluding his expert throat, but because he wanted me to think I was. “All appetite and no restraint.”

I hauled him up then, using his chin to drag him to a standing position before I grabbed the back of his head and forced his lips against mine. “Let’s fuck,” I whispered, yanking myself away from the sloppy kiss. “You know that’s what I’m here for.”

He fell back on the bed then. My jeans were already around my shoes; I pulled my head through the neck hole of my t-shirt but left it on, so that it pulled across the back my neck like a yoke. As he lifted his legs for me, I climbed up onto the bed, jeans and sneakers and all, and after a few moments, slid inside his already-lubed ass.

We fucked, volleying profane encouragements at each other in animal-like growls, for close to five minutes, when suddenly he looked at the clock radio on his bedside table. “You might not like this,” he told me, “but I have someone else coming over.”

“Oh?” I asked, stopping my thrusting.

“And he doesn’t like three-ways.”


“But,” he said in a sly voice, as if he’d planned it all along. Which he had. “It doesn’t take him long to get his business over with, and I thought . . . if you were into it . . . I could do him in the living room and then come back here and we could finish.”

“You want me to sit back here in your bedroom and listen to you get fucked by some strange guy in the living room?” I asked him. We were playing the game in which I was pretending to be dubious, though we both knew that I would sign on to the plan. Right then, the doorbell rang. “You fucking pig cunt. Whatever. But you’d better make it loud for me.”

“I promise.” He pulled himself to a sitting position after I’d slopped out of him, and grabbed for his robe from the floor. “I’ll make it loud for you, I swear. You’ll hear. All for you.”

I lay back on the bed after he disappeared, legs spread, my hand covering the bottom half of my cock. The heels of my shoes dug into his blanket. Two rooms over, I heard the front door open, followed by a brief conversation I couldn’t distinguish. Then I heard them move to the chair at the back of the living room, only ten feet from where I lay. Next came the sound of a zipper, the whisper of denim sliding down, and a sharp hiss of pleasure.

“Yeah!” Whore’s voice was twice the volume of any of our usual encounters. “Fuck yeah, hot cock invading my tight whore ass!” My own dick swelled at the sound. “Fuckin’ hot top’s gonna make me his bitch! Yeah man, make me feel that big cock of y—oh! Oh yeah! That’s it man! Do it! Fuckin do . . . me . . . right!

Whore lives in a duplex; I couldn’t help but wonder what his neighbors were making of all the noise from the first floor. Frankly, I didn’t much care. I spat on my hand and began stroking myself, quietly, so that my presence wouldn’t be betrayed. “You like that ass? Yeah? You like that ass?” Whore yodeled from the living room. “Come on, man! Time to do it! Yeah! Yeah! I can tell you’re close!”

Yeah,” I heard the other guy whimper. “Yeah, let me . . . I’m gonna . . . OH YEAH!”

YEAH!” Whore yelled at the same time. “Fuckin’ hot load all up in your whore!”

The sound of the stranger’s climax almost pushed me over the edge myself, but I squeezed my cock and stopped myself at the edge. Within moments, Whore appeared in the bedroom. “He’s gone,” he told me. Only then did I hear the distant sound of the front door closing. The man had been there for perhaps all of four minutes. “I’m filled with his stuff. He got some on me too.”

His chest glistened with droplets of semen in the light from the neighbor’s porch filtering through the gauzy curtains. “You are such a goddamned whore,” I told him.

“You know you loved listening,” he said. I admitted I did. “It was all for you. You ready to be finished off, stallion?” he growled, throwing himself backwards onto the mattress so that he bounced.

“You have to ask?” I took a moment to prepare myself, then slid into him once again. The stranger’s fluids made both our chests sticky. Whore smelled of his own cologne, and of spunk, and of another man’s sweat.

Bang it,” he said. “Bang my ass! Bang it like—shit! Shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiit!”

His own cock, which had been hard and dripping the entire time, suddenly started spurting over his nipples and chest and face as he hollered in orgasm. This was no faked display, this time; his face was contorted in what looked like absolute pain, but his body shook in pleasure. Again, somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered about the neighbors upstairs. Not for long, though. The sight of him drenched in sperm sent me over the edge, and I let out a roar as my nerves began jangling with electricity.

Dressing was easy, as I hadn’t actually removed any clothing. I fastened the top button on my jeans, pulled down my t-shirt. While I was running my fingers through my sex-mussed hair, I remarked, “So is there someone in the kitchen waiting for me to leave?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’ve got one in every room of the house, waiting for the next to finish off.”

“It’s as complicated as those Russian nesting dolls.”

He grinned at that one. “You’re fun.”