Friday, July 30, 2010

The Incident: Part 4

I worry a little that my readers picture me as a fragile, wounded bird this week. The tone of the emails from readers I’ve been getting has been unvaryingly supportive, but there’s just a touch of over-concern for my well-being that makes me suspect that Breeder’s Readers are imagining me sitting alone by candlelight, slugging back strong drink for fortitude, and then pouring out my heart while listening to the Carpenters or Wilson-Phillips and sobbing quietly to myself.

Um, no.

This incident happened a very long time ago. I made peace with it a long time ago, as well. Writing about it hasn’t made me feel sad, or shamed, or angry, save in the most abstracted of ways. I’ve been trying very hard to get it right on paper, that’s for sure. But in a sense, it’s the story of someone who lived a long time ago.

Of course, there’s more to it.

I didn’t leave my apartment at all for at least a week and a half, after the assault. I missed the first classes of the new semester. I let mail pile up in my box downstairs. I ran out of food fairly quickly and was subsisting on the canned goods I never thought I’d eat, peanut butter, and the butts of bread loaves.

My injuries weren’t actually all that substantial. The cuts on my head amounted to a small V-shaped laceration on my forehead and an uglier one on my right cheek; I still have a pale, ghostly fingertip-sized scar there to this day. My right ear had some slices that healed fairly quickly as well. For a couple of days I was off-and-on dizzy and convinced I was concussed, but I didn’t want to have to visit a hospital and explain what happened to me. My hole recuperated. There was no irreparable damage there. It took weeks before I got over the feeling of having been fucked by a knife, though.

I didn’t want to tell anyone, in fact. I wanted the incident to go away, to disappear. Part of me was convinced internally that if it was never spoken of, if it didn’t become a part of my official recorded history, if there were no files, no conversations, no post-mortem examinations of what happened, it would vanish. It would be one of those untold stories that was as insubstantial as smoke or fog, and like those vapors would dissipate and be forgotten.

Even when I did leave my apartment (I was starving, basically, and had to eventually), I’d scamper back to its protection almost immediately after. I shopped in bulk so I wouldn’t have to visit the supermarket more than once a month. I’d dash to a class, take notes and say nothing, then streak immediately back home with no socializing, no speaking. The less talking I had to do, the better. It was a bad month of my life—at one point I woke up one morning and realized I’d literally not opened my mouth to say a word in weeks.

Part of my reluctance to open my mouth was directly Tom’s fault. I had a weird conviction that he’d been right about the FBI bugging his apartment. I hadn’t taken it seriously at all until the day I finally left home to go to the supermarket; when I came back, I found exterminators in my apartment, who claimed they’d been there to spray the outlets. Exterminators in my apartment building weren’t uncommon—the place was a roach motel—but the timing of it was so odd that I couldn’t help but be paranoid for a very long time that they’d been bugging my place, too.

But here’s the codicil to the story that I’ve never been able to figure out.

I avoided the bar and the campus cruising spots for a very long time after that, so I wouldn’t have to run into Tom again. And I never did. I didn’t report him—which I regret now—I didn’t confront him. I was too busy trying to deny that any of it ever happened. One day, about three weeks after the incident, I did see the familiar shock of blond-white hair walking out of my apartment building, when I looked out the window. I waited for a very long time before going to the lobby. In fact, I watched Tom walk two blocks before I dared venture down.

The daytime manager hailed me at the front desk when I passed. “Some guy dropped off something for you,” he said. And he handed me a little package.

I could tell immediately it was a thin paperback book, judging by the size and flexibility of it. It had been clumsily wrapped in brown paper from a lunch or grocery bag and, in a frenzy of “My Favorite Things” cliches, tied up with twine. I pulled off the wrappings and found myself holding a battered, used copy of Voltaire’s Candide. No note, nothing. It wasn’t until later that night that I thought to look inside. Written on one of the first pages was a short note: Read this and you’ll know why.

My first reaction: What the fuck?

My reaction today: What the fuck?

I have never been able to figure out what in the world he meant by those words. CunĂ©gonde is raped in Candide. The Old Woman’s past includes rape. Candide himself learns from the Bulgarians that soldiers feel entitled to rape any woman they can. Was he trying to tell me to keep optimistic despite being assaulted? That my youthful optimism was totally misplaced? That he was a Bulgarian soldier?

Or was he just balls-out crazy? I don’t know. I just don’t. It’s odd and somewhat ironic that Bernstein’s Candide has been one of my favorite musical works for the last ten or fifteen years; when I want to wrap myself in comfort, I’ll put on one of my many versions and let the familiar music surround me. I've no bad memories associated with it whatsoever.

What the original novel has to do with anything that happened to me, though, remains a mystery.

I never saw Tom again, as I said. Eventually I realized that silence wasn’t possible any more, and I sought counseling. I talked about it. I wrote about my feelings afterward—though I've never actually written out what happened until this week.

Little by little, bit by bit, I healed. I really did.

I explained it to a reader thusly, a few days ago: at this point, the assault is very much like having had a severe leg injury, long ago. At the time, it hurt a lot. When it happened, I found myself hobbling for weeks and months. Over time it’s healed, though. I don’t even notice it any more. There might be a wintry dark day now and again when the cold gives the old leg injury a twinge. But it doesn’t prevent me from getting around at all. I don’t limp. I don’t give it preferential treatment. Sure, jab at it with your fingertip over and over again and ask loudly, “Hey, does that hurt?” and I’m likely to kick you in the nuts and say that yes indeed, it does.

But the old injury doesn’t impede me, if that makes sense. The vast majority of the time, I pay it no never-mind. One very bad night didn’t cripple me. I’m not handicapped, or damaged. I don’t hobble, or shorten my stride. I still walk upright.

Despite the odd twinge from time to time, I'm doing all right. I’m a very lucky man.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

The Incident: Part 3

(Breeder's note: Please see the ground rules before commenting. Thanks.)

A few years later, when I had a favorite student assistant move into the same building, I finally got to revisit what Tom’s apartment might have been like. I don’t have a lot of distinct memories of the place from that January night, either entering or leaving—just some impressions that I interpolate with my recollections of that move. But later, when I was struggling to get my student assistant’s mattress through up the stairs and front door, I was struck by how narrow were the staircases of the stately apartment building. It had been built in the nineteen-twenties, before air conditioning and electronics and oversized, plush furniture.

The stairwells were tight and awkward, and the hallway leading from the apartment entrance into the living room was also barely wide enough to squeeze through, much less navigate a queen-sized set of bedsprings around. But inside the spacious one-bedroom apartments, the ceilings were tall, the floors were wood, and the rooms were dark and cool from the shade of a knotty oak tree that overgrew the building. Tom was long gone by the time I helped my student assistant move, but I still had a shiver of recognition that day; it wasn’t even his apartment I was helping her inhabit, but it seemed to echo with malice.

So I don’t remember much about my approach to Tom’s place. My mind has steadily eroded that portion of the night from memory. I don’t remember what we talked about on the long walk back from the bar to his apartment building, south of campus, or even if we talked much at all. I do recall passing my own building, and answering a question about whether or not I enjoyed living there. And I remember looking around Tom’s place and marveling about how sparsely furnished it was. Even in the dim, white-blue light from the street lamps outside, I could tell it was less a living space and more a prison cell.

Here are some of the fleeting things I remember noticing: no rugs lay on the floors, and no photographs or poster hung on the walls. There was a cheap formica table with a single chair near the kitchen area, and a small table that held a telephone near the entrance. The phone itself was one of those old rotary-dial models that one used to lease from the phone company itself. It looked as if it weighed a ton. There was a single sofa in the living area, and a very small portable television rigged with a wire hanger in lieu of an antenna. Through an open door off the living room I could see a bathtub with no curtain in one small room, and a sleeping area in the other. The double bed was almost clinically made up with white sheets pulled so tight that they seemed as one with the mattress.

“So what about—?”

I'd meant to ask about the bottom guy that Tom had talked about summoning for us to share. “Sshh,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. I blinked several times at the urgency of his whisper. “I don’t want them to hear.” He pointed to various spots around the room.

For a moment I didn’t understand, until I remembered his paranoia about the FBI bugging his apartment. I am not sure I bought into it, but I remember having humor enough to play along. “Okay,” I said twice as softly, as I began turning around to face him. “Where’s this—?”

The last thing I remember for several minutes after that is seeing the metal base of the very heavy telephone swinging in an arc toward my face. It connected with my right cheek so hard that its bell sounded, a high-pitched ring that seemed to linger and never fade. Fireworks bloomed before my eyes at the impact, but I don’t remember it hurting at first. I staggered, too shocked and surprised to do much else. Then he swung out again with the phone and brought it down on my forehead, hard. I felt the curled cord snap across my face with a sharp sting, and remember watching the handset descend from above and stop at my face. I wondered to myself why it seemed to have been so high in the air. Then I realized that I was lying on the floor, Tom was still standing above me, and that the receiver had landed next to me. I still seemed to be hearing the bell. My body was vibrating at its exact frequency, so that the sound and I were one.

Then I blacked out for a while.

I came to on the bed. My head and body still seemed to be vibrating from the blows. I felt as if a great weight held me down, increasing my personal gravity by three times as much. Now my head hurt. My brain’s pounding was intense and almost unbearable. It was several moments before I was able to endure the pain enough to open my eyes. When I did, I wished I hadn’t. Something immediately began stinging at them. When I raised my head and a trickle of metallic-tasting fluid tricked down my cheek and into my mouth, I realized it was blood.

I made a noise. Immediately I heard a voice in my ear, and realized that the great weight upon me was Tom himself. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarled in my ear. I tried to speak again, not really understanding. “They better not hear this." He shoved my head down so hard that my nose almost snapped against the mattress. I felt fingers jabbing at my asshole, shoving themselves inside along with some kind of cold, cold lube. Much later, when I was cleaning myself up, I realized it had to be Vaseline.

His penetration of me was torturous and difficult. Instinctively I clamped down to prevent it. He, in the meantime, had no qualms about fucking his ugly dick in me anyway. If I yelled, I don’t remember it. I cried some, but even that was too painful for me to continue. When he was in, he fucked in an unvarying in-and-out pattern, stabbing me with his cock. I could feel little bites on my ass from his zipper, so either he’d only yanked them down partway or merely unzipped. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered after a while, still keeping his voice down. “Do something. Don’t just fucking lie there.”

He wasn’t challenging me to resist his assault—I was too hurt and stunned still to do that anyway. The fucker actually wanted me to fuck back, to make the sex better for him. I have always been stubborn to a fault; even when being assaulted I decided to sent the biggest fuck you to him I could by going completely limp. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t have much fight in me. I simply lay there and endured his clumsy, abrupt thrusting, and prayed for it to be over.

It wasn’t, not by a long shot. He seemed to fuck me for hours, shanking my hole in a non-varying rhythm, never growing softer, never seeming to get closer to his goal. From time to time he’d pause for a few seconds and rearrange my limbs or pull my hips higher, almost as if he was plumping up a pillow that wasn’t quite comfortable enough for him. Then he’d be off again, plunging in and out while some disembodied part of myself wondered for how long it could possibly go on.

I’d never been in such white-hot, ragged pain. My head hurt badly; my jaw was now aching with such fire that I wondered if it would ever work again. The act of breathing alone nearly killed me. My hole felt as if it was simultaneously burning and being fucked by a knife with every thrust. Whenever Tom moved his hands to rearrange me, it felt as if bruises blossomed where he touched. I was bleeding like I’d never bled before and never have since. The plain white sheets were crimson and sticky from my head wounds. Whenever I was brave enough to open my eyes, I’d see that the stains were growing bigger and bigger.

Mostly I kept my eyes shut.

“Christ,” Tom eventually said, still in that hushed voice. “You are the worst fucking lay I’ve ever had. I’d be better off fucking a corpse.” Somehow I knew that turning myself into a rag doll was prolonging the experience, and that it was making him savage me even more roughly to get some kind of a reaction, but I didn’t much care. I lay there, drifting in and out of pain and maybe even consciousness, until I felt a series of merciless bangs, accompanied by pauses in between. His dick felt as if it had barbs beneath the head when he yanked it out. It was over. The weight of him disappeared, and I heard him stomp off. I was left alone.

I don’t remember exactly how long I lay there until I was able to pull myself together. It probably wasn’t very long, but I was still so stunned and reeling that I had no objective view of time. When finally I sat up, I had a hard time of it because my feet were still tangled in my jeans and shorts. One sneaker was still on my foot. The other lay nearby, the laces still done. I’d been wearing a jacket, sweater, and shirt when I’d entered the apartment. I saw them on the floor by the front door, in a wad. When I stood up to adjust my pants, I nearly careened into the wall opposite.

The white sheets were covered in blood when I left. I was certain my face was covered with it, too. I could tell by the way I was sniffing that I'd sprung a nosebleed at some point. Out I stumbled to the living room, where Tom was hunched over on his sofa, hands dangling between his knees as he watched something on the little TV. The telephone was back on its stand. “Key-rist, are you still hanging around?” he asked. He made it sound as if I disgusted him. “Get the fuck out of here already. Go on. Get!” He stood up. When I bent over to retrieve the rest of my clothes, he shoved me toward the door. His voice dropped down to a whisper again, as he remembered the listening devices he thought were around the apartment. “You got a hell of a lot to learn about how to bottom.”

He shoved me so roughly that I went sprawling down the hallway toward the front door. The narrow passage kept me upright. He reached past me, opened the door, and pushed on my chest to force me out. Then he shook his head, and kicked out the remainder of my clothing after me. My coat and sweater ended on the landing; my shirt flew into the air and landed on the stair railing before it slipped off. I heard the door slam.

I had to finish dressing in the apartment hallway. I was fearful that someone would catch me there; already I was feeling shame about what had just happened. Once I was in my winter clothes, I managed to walk down the stairs and outdoors. Walking hurt, and my shorts were soaked with the semen dripping from my hole. Every step brought back vivid memories of the raping that my ass had just endured. It felt as if my insides would never again be the same. I’d never before felt so fragile, as if my body was jerry-rigged from second-hand Scotch tape and children’s paste and little bits of string.

Somehow I managed to get back to my apartment building without anyone noticing my bloody face and distressed state—no one was on campus, so that helped. The night manager of my apartment building was back in his office when I slunk through the lobby. My greatest fear, that someone would be either in the elevator or the hallway when I made my way to my apartment, was thankfully unrealized. I fumbled with my key, and let myself into my little home.

I remember not wanting to look at myself in the mirror, not wanting to see how much damage there was to my face. I didn’t want to shower, either, dirty as I felt—taking a shower would require getting naked, and once I was naked I’d have to assess exactly the extent of my injuries. I wanted to crawl into bed, but I didn’t want to dirty the sheets. I couldn’t lie down on the sofa, because it wasn’t mine and I didn’t want to bleed on it.

So at last, without much thought, I grabbed an extra blanket, wrapped it around my shoulders. I lay down in my little bathtub, and curled up into a ball. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t, really. I lay there and stared into the darkness.

After a long time, I fell asleep, and dreamed over and over of what had happened hours before.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

The Incident: Part 2

(Breeder's note: Please see the ground rules before commenting. Thanks.)

Back in 1987 I remember being surprised to find out that there was an actual gay bar near the university campus. By the time I discovered it, I’d been living in the squalid little downtown neighborhood for weeks, and didn’t think there was anything in the block of gated buildings beyond a nail salon, a 24-hour braiding establishment, and a Popeye’s chicken.

But the bar was a narrow establishment wedged in between all those places, invisible to the naked eye and really only there if you knew where to look for it. I remember on my first venture inside I was convinced I was heading into some kind of crack house, only to be surprised that the place really wasn’t that bad at all. The drinks were cheap, and the hamburgers were good. So if I had a little extra cash and was sick of my one-bedroom apartment, I’d walk the half-mile to the bar, order a rum and coke, and nurse it while I soaked up the atmosphere.

I’d visited the bar all of about twice the night I saw Tom come in. My heart sank immediately. It was bad enough that sometimes it felt I couldn’t cruise the campus restrooms without him encroaching on what I thought of as my territory. Now here he was in the one bar I’d discovered, and approaching me. He stomped over with his old-man gait and sat in a bar stool beyond the one beside me.

Fuck, I thought to myself. He’s going to talk.

He did. “Slow night in the tearooms, huh?” he said after a couple of minutes. I was surprised that his voice sounded young—a light baritone that was at odds with his stern exterior. I smiled a little bit and nodded, hoping he’d take the hint and leave me alone.

But he didn’t.

At first the conversation he made was awkward. He introduced himself and told me his name. I learned that he’d attended school in Ann Arbor, though for some unspecified reason he’d never finished his degree; he talked about finishing it up at my university and asked advice about specific programs. He didn’t mention sex at all, for which I was grateful. He asked what I was studying, and if I lived on campus or in the surrounding neighborhood. I casually mentioned my apartment building, not giving out my apartment number or anything. Dozens of families lived in that building. Divulging my residence there didn’t seem like a bad thing to do.

And that was it. Not much of a conversation, to be sure, but it made me feel more at ease about him. When I saw him in the restrooms a few days later, I wasn’t as inclined to run away as before; I remember that the first time I encountered him again, we both shared the mouth of a black undergrad in the periodicals wing. Side by side we stood, dicks pointed in the same direction as that hungry mouth went back and forth between them. I remember that at one point Tom put his arm around my waist and held me there as we were being sucked. It didn’t feel bad at all.

On the evenings I’d go to the bar, he’d sometimes be there. I’d sit next to him and we’d compare our fucks for the week, or talk about the regulars in the tearooms we both knew. “You never get fucked?” he asked me, one time. “You look like you should be fucked.”

“Nah,” I lied. I did get fucked then. I hadn’t done it as much since I’d discovered the pleasures of raw topping, but it happened occasionally. Just not in the restrooms, and not around Tom. Though I tolerated him enough to share a mouth with him, I was still not attracted enough to him, or especially to his dick, to let him fuck me. “Just not my thing.”

“We should share a hole sometime, then,” he told me. I made a non-committal noise. I could probably do that, I reasoned.

Over the course of a couple of weeks I discovered a few facts about Tom. He’d never finished college because he’d been arrested twenty-five years before—and been in federal incarceration all that time. In fact, he’d only been released a few weeks prior to my first sighting of him. I asked him why he’d been in jail. “Oh.” He laughed. “Just because of a little bomb.”

Apparently during the late sixties and early nineteen-seventies, Tom had been part of a University of Michigan group of radical activists protesting the war; he’d been arrested after a bombing of government property and shut away for over two decades. The story was genuine. He showed me a few clippings he kept in his wallet of his arrest and trial. The hippie activist story made sense of his long hair and lack of dress sense, at least. Tom told me that he was fairly sure that the FBI had placed bugs all over his apartment, which struck me as romantic but unlikely. Plus, he taught me a lot of nifty facts about how to make homemade bombs. (None of which I ever put to a practical test, mind you.)

I still wasn’t attracted to Tom, but he was more interesting to me. I told him a little bit about my studies and my background, but I still wasn’t especially forthcoming with information. I didn’t think of him as a friend, certainly. But the point was, I didn’t think of him as an enemy, or an adversary, either. He was just a guy with whom I occasionally shot the shit in a crappy bar, and with whom I shared the mouths of undergrads when we happened to be cruising the same spots. That was it.

The night of the incident would have been in January of my first year in the city. I’d just returned from a week in Virginia visiting my folks, but school hadn’t started yet. Most of my graduate student apartment building was empty, populated by only a few families who’d stayed in town for the holiday. The campus was deserted, and the classroom buildings and library closed. After a week at home, I’d returned up north sex-starved and horny. So I hit the bar. I’d only picked up a couple of guys there during my visits, but I figured if I was going to get lucky, that was going to be the one place it’d happen.

The bar was pretty quiet as well. Only a couple of the regular patrons were there. Even the bartender seemed ready to close the place up, at eight in the evening. After a little bit, though, Tom walked in, his feet hitting the floor like a Clydesdale. I was bored and grateful enough to welcome any familiar face, so I didn’t object when he sat down next to me.

He asked about my holidays, and told me he’d spent his alone. “Not much in the way of fucking, either,” he said. “But I did meet this hot kid who wants two dicks.”

“Yeah?” I asked. At that moment, it sounded interesting.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Lives in my building too. You ought to come by some night and tag him with me.” He took a drink from his glass, then looked sideways at me. “Want to?”

“Want to what?” I asked.

“Want to tag him? Tonight? He’ll do it All I’ve gotta do is ask and he’s there. I know he’s home. His light was on when I left.” I thought about it for a moment. I hadn’t had sex in a week. The campus wasn’t going to get back to normal for another couple of days. I had nothing better to do that night. Fucking some undergrad in his dirty apartment sounded pretty good to me. “You could come back to my place, relax while I get him, then we could fuck the shit out of him. He’s good stuff, trust me.”

I listened and thought for a moment. “All right,” I said. He started to gulp down his drink, so I finished mine and left it on the bar. “Let’s do it.”

When I think about that night these days, I want to think of it as one of those cheap-o horror movies in which the heroine, alone in her Cape Cod cottage by herself on a stormy night when the mental institution patient has escaped, decides to go investigate by herself after hearing strange noises emanating from the basement. Don’t do it, you stupid bitch! I want to yell out.

At this point, yelling at the screen does no good, though. I’d made my decision, and five minutes later was stumbling off into the night, hands deep in my pockets and scarf across my face, to ward off the cold and the dark.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

The Incident: Part 1

(Breeder's note: Please see the ground rules before commenting. Thanks.)

When I moved to the midwest I was young. The furthest I'd been from home on my own was the fifty miles it took to drive from my parents’ house to the college I’d attended. I’d applied to a graduate school in the midwest on a whim, and ended up receiving a full scholarship, a free apartment, and a little bit of a stipend to live on. My parents used a rental van to move me and my too-many books up to my previously-unseen furnished apartment in a scary city in a scary part of town, dropped me off, and left me on my own. That’s pretty much how I took the first jump onto my life’s path.

I flourished somewhat. I made friends. I learned my way around the city fairly quickly, and figured out what neighborhoods to avoid and where I could find a local supermarket that wasn’t held up once a week. (Really.) I landed some teaching jobs outside the university, and had the first artistic success that would eventually lead to my current career. I don’t know if I realized it at the time, but I managed to establish all the roots of my current life fairly quickly and firmly.

I was, however, kind of lonely. I was a solitary person overall, and enjoyed my alone time—I still am. My new friends, however, lived well off campus in neighborhoods far better than my own. Once my classes were over for the day, that was it. They went home, and I was left to my own devices. And usually my devices and vices were pretty much the same. I picked up guys on campus, either in the cruisy restrooms or in the gym. I managed to lure guys to my apartment using my very first computer and the Prodigy service (anyone remember 1200 bps modems?). I met the guy who showed me how to top for the first time, bareback, and found myself slowly switching from bottom to versatile to top.

I was somewhere between versatile and top when I met the guy I’ll call Tom. We collided in the restrooms of the campus library. Back then, the university had a number of cruisy spots. It was possible to hit any one of four different classroom buildings and get a mouth on my dick within ten to fifteen minutes, any time of day. (These days, on the same campus, only one of the spots is still active, and it’s iffy enough that I never visit.) My favorite men’s room was in the library’s deepest recesses, however—way back in the periodical stacks, up a flight of stairs, and hidden behind a public telephone booth (remember those, too?). It only held two stalls and two urinals and frankly, the telephone booth was probably roomier. But anyone who showed up in that remote spot was there for one reason.

Usually I sat in the toilet stall opposite the sinks, where in the mirror I could see who was entering and leaving the room. When Tom barged through the swinging door, I thought at first he was a good twenty years younger than he was, simply because his hair was so blond it was almost white. It was also long, hanging down to his slumped neck in a straight fall. When he emerged from the shadows by the doorway and rounded the corner, I could see that he was probably in his early forties, round-shouldered, and mean-looking. He walked with a stomp and a shuffle, as if he were a grouchy old man looking for kids on his lawn to scare off with a hose. He even wore an old man’s baggy plaid shirt and a pair of jeans riddled with holes. He wasn’t wholly unattractive, but the fact he looked one handout away from looking totally homeless didn’t give off a good vibe.

When he stood in front of the urinal and stroked himself to hardness, though, I couldn’t help but peek through the crack in the door to look. He turned around and pointed his dick at my stall, and I responded by standing up and opening the door. My pants were around my ankles, my shirt was unbuttoned, and my own stiff inches were in my hand, sticky-tipped from beating. I remember his dick to this day: it was about seven inches long, thicker than mine, and ugly as sin. The color of his shaft was pale and white as parchment, while the head half-hidden beneath his foreskin was an ugly beet red.

I was repulsed and fascinated at the same time. Mostly repulsed, I admit. “Suck it,” he said.

I didn’t want to. His dick looked like it might smell, up close. “I gotta get going,” I whispered, and started to pull up my pants. He merely turned and faced the urinal again, to wait for the next student.

I ran into the guy many times in the toilets after that. He had an affect of dampening whatever fun I was having with other guys, when he’d bang open the door and stomp in. Usually my trick of the moment and I would slip back up onto our toilet seats, or point our business into the urinals until we’d made sure the newcomer was a sex-seeker like us, and then resume playing once we knew it was cool. When the long-haired blond man would arrive, he’d stare at us so balefully that I and the other guy might play with each other half-heartedly for a bit, and then give it up and drift away. The blond would bring out that ugly dick and try to join in. Sometimes the other guys would kneel down to suck him, but I just wasn’t interested. I’d zip up and leave to cruise somewhere else.

I'm aware that I'm describing him in the worst possible way. My memories of Tom are tainted because of what happened, I frankly admit. If I were being honest, I'd have to say that except for his dick—which really was the ugliest dick I've ever seen—he probably wasn't as hideous-looking a guy as I seem to be implying. Students sucked him off. Sometimes I'd slink into one of the cruisy restrooms and find him deep in a boy's ass. So obviously, despite a few characteristics that put me off, he probably wasn't as vile in appearance as I seem to remember.

Still, I never found his gait or his sullen demeanor attractive. If I knew it was his regular cruising time, I'd avoid the spots he'd haunt. Tom’s hair was so shockingly white that it was possible to spot him stomping across campus from a distance. I’d be crossing from my apartment to class, look south toward the science complex and see that shock of hair, those hunched shoulders, and that plaid shirt, and I’d know he was clomping his way to the library for a mid-day suck.

Occasionally I’d see him trudging down the street past my apartment building on the way back to where I presumed he lived not too far away. Avoiding him became part of my daily routine. I was never rude to the guy. I’ve got too much cruiser’s courtesy to treat someone like a troll. I didn’t make faces, I didn’t tell him to fuck off. I’d nod when we encountered each other, and acknowledge him, but I simply wasn’t interested in engaging with him sexually. He didn’t seem to care. In fact, we never even spoke.

Not until the night I saw him at a local bar.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Ground Rules

I’m not going to disguise the fact that I hit a rough patch last week.

I made one post before on my Breeder’s Blog that had roused my protective ire when a couple of anonymous commenters began disparaging my sexual partner. Last week, though, a couple of my readers started to insult and provoke me after a simple post I made about having a panic attack during an attempted fucking—one of the lingering aftereffects of my sexual assault, twenty-five years ago. The incident made me feel violated left me angrier than I have been in ages. So angry that it took a couple of days of time away from the computer before the buzzing in my head ceased.

In my comments last week, I responded that I was dismayed I’d ever been honest about my assault at all, given that a couple of people were piping up and saying essentially that rape victims deserve what they get. I said I wished I’d never written about it, and that it seemed unlikely I’d write about it again.

I’ve changed my mind about that resolution. I’m not surprised at my about-face, frankly; when I discover myself resisting something, sometimes I find that instead of digging my heels in the sand, gritting my teeth, and resisting the tug of war, it’s more valuable to follow the direction of the pull. So this week I’m going to be doing nothing but writing about my assault.

No, it probably won’t last all week. Just for a few days. I don’t think I could do it all at once. I’m writing this post for my readers as a warning of sorts, I suppose. On one level, I’d like to warn them all that the incidents covered in the next couple of days aren’t going to be the usual masturbation fodder. I’ll provide more of that once I’m done, of course. But I intend to exorcise a few demons before mid-week.

The other warning I’d like to make is that I’m setting some ground rules for interaction for the next couple of entries. It’s a shame I have to write these down, but recent event tell me it’s necessary.

1) Please be respectful of my experience. By talking about my sexual assault, I’m exposing one of the most vulnerable spots on my underbelly. I’m doing it voluntarily to a largely anonymous group of people. That act takes no little amount of courage on my part. If you come at me in the comments with disrespect—by which I mean insinuating that I asked for it or deserved it, or putting the word rape in quotation marks to imply that its status as a genuine assault is in question, or by mocking what was a fairly traumatic occurrence in my life, your comments will not be posted. I simply won’t respond to them.

2) Please remember that the past is the past. I cannot change what happened. I can’t change my response to it. Telling me the things I should have done are not going to change anything, and I am unlikely to post such comments or respond to them.

3) Please take for granted that I know my assailant was an asshole. Please assume as a baseline that I know you are sorry for what happened to me. It’s not necessary to post to say so. Too much sympathy will embarrass me, frankly, and make me feel as if people are thinking I am writing this series because I’m a hug-seeking attention whore. That’s not my intent at all.

Why am I writing about it, then? Because I know I have a lot of readers who’ve been through similar experiences, and because after my contretemps with commenters last week, I received a lot of sympathetic emails from people who thanked me for my angry responses to those comments and for my voice. I’ve never written out this experience before in full.

So maybe it’s about time, right?

There’ll be more smut soon. Thanks for putting up with my shadow boxing for the next few days. Maybe it’ll be worth it to someone.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Out Of My League Edition

I've had an interesting week. Interesting good, and interesting bad, both. It's made me think about what goals I'd like to accomplish in my blog, over the next few days. More about that tomorrow, though.

And the week after this, I'll have some interesting news to report.

For today, though, let's revisit some of the questions I've been asked recently on You guys know by now I enjoy your questions—and please, feel free to ask more. I answer just about anything that's not repetitive or too invasive about my home life. If you don't feel like asking your question in public, email me. I'm always glad to answer just about any question in that forum as well.

What if a guy wants to visit you, but you don't find him attractive. How would you handle that?
I don't think it would do either of us any favors to feign attraction. However, I am not so narrow-minded that I find only a very limited range of men beddable. If I genuinely am not interested, I say so up front.

From your answer to a previous question, it sounds like you were more nervous (as a teen) about sex with a girl than with men...why?
By that point I'd had a lot of sex with me, and almost always in a passive role. With my first girl, I was expected to take the lead and play the dominant role. That was pretty scary, and not all that natural, at that point of my life.

you don't believe in monogamy but yet your married and that's what marriage is, no offense just confused that's all.I don't think anyone wants to be married to someone who sleeps with other people.
Marriage and monogamy are not synonyms. Not even close. A lot of people equate the two, but one is a civil status and the other is a behavior.

Some marriages are monogamous. Some are not. Some people remain monogamous with another although they are not married. The two are independent of, and do not rely upon or require, the other.

Smooth shaved pubic areas on grown men is a turnoff for me - like having sex with a 7 year old what are your thoughts about shaved crotches ?
I have no problems enjoying a guy with a shaved crotch--I have fun with a nice bald crotch, in fact.

That said, I like the hairy ones, too. Call me easy.

What's best to do if a guy is tight and you have a hard time getting in?
Massive amounts of lube and a whole lot of rimming!

How is it that you came up with your sobriquet? Have you thought about a radio show with just such a title?
I'm a fan of the sixties TV show The Avengers. I don't think there's a radio station that would play my show, though!

I am very shy to hook up, even talk to someone I like. how can I solve the problem?
I used to be quite shy in my late teens. I eventually overcame it simply by pretending to be braver than I was, and doing the same things someone far more outgoing would do. Playacting being an extrovert actually helps overcome those shy tendencies.

Since Sunday is fast approaching - please provide intimate details of you and a trucker / truckers in the back of the cab.
I have had sex wih a lot of truckers, but only once at the back of the cab. It had an odd scent of vegetable soup that I found very distracting.

Why is your sexual appetite so voracious?
I don't believe my libido runs any higher than that of many men. I simply act feel free to follow through more than most.

Many men are voracious. They won't let themselves feast, though, in the spurious name of virtue, or self-control, or decency. Yes, I'm aware I'm sounding like a libertine in a period film exorting the hero to abandon an apple-cheeked lass in favor of an exotic French whore who's Bad News and probably riddled with syphilis to boot.

I try to make each sex experience the best ever. It doesn't always work though. Knowing that guys expect you to be the best, do you ever feel pressure to live up to the expectation?
I do try to make it good each time. Thankfully, so many other tops have set the bar so low that it's often not difficult to meet and exceed a poor bottom's expectations.

what turns u on more; innocence or sluttiness?
Sluttiness. Though I like to corrupt innocence, too.

Advice 0 after 2 fleet enemas, after using a dildo, I still had some liquid shit coming out of my ass and also on the dildo. What's a guy to do? signed, nasty panties
Are you emptying the fleet enemas of the stuff that comes pre-loaded in them? Because that stuff is a laxative, and it's only going to make the situation worse. If you have to use a fleet enema, empty it out and rinse it before using.

I recommend a reusable rubber bulb enema. You can rinse out as much as you like, wash it off, and fill up again if you need.

You have sometimes mentioned fucking guys you thought were "out of your league." Of them, who surprised you the most in joining you for a good pounding?
I first should say that when I use the phrase 'out of my league', it is me at my more thoughtless and probably self-hating. I do go through bouts of self-image problems like anyone, and years of being told by countless other people that the men I find attractive are 'out of my league' will make anyone buy into the concept, no matter how silly it really is.

Probably the most flattering guy I had join me who managed to make me feel unworthy was a beautiful fireman, thirteen years ago. He was totally straight, but knew of my bisexuality and was totally comfortable with it. We would share girls together--but he really enjoyed watching me work over a guy, too. He wouldn't participate, or become aroused enough to join, but he surely loved to buddy up and get an eyeful.

The guy was gorgeous. He looked like one of those model-firemen they use for the calendars. Muscles for days, perfect features, ice blue eyes. I enjoyed his friendship for the better part of three years.

How often do you get tested? If we were to meet, would u let me make u cum as many times as possible?
I test every three months, generally. I would hope you'd want to make me shoot as many times as possible.

After you've bred a guy, do you like it when he keeps your cum inside him (like with a butt plug)? Or don't you care what he does with your sperm batter?
I usually like it when the guys keep it inside them. There's nothing less sexy than a man who dashes to the bathroom to try to force it out on the toilet, or to spit and rinse his mouth. I've never had anyone put a butt plug in immediately after, though.

does watersports turn you on?
Indeed it does. It can be an extremely sensual act. Just don't ask me to do it in my bed.

What was the last great book you read?
Recently I finished reading Dan Simmons' Drood, which was a great and mysterious romp set in Victorian England with the characters of Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins locked in a rivalrous duel. One of my blog readers sent it to me as a gift from my Amazon wish list, and it gave me hours of pleasure. The last really intriguing book I read before that was Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger, a ghost story with a great twist.

do u find intergenerational sex hot?
Since most of the sex I had in my early and mid-teens was intergenerational, and I get hit on by a ton of college-aged kids these days, at the very least, I'm going to give this question an unqualified 'yes.'

I like being pissfucked. I find many men can't do it. Can u and do u enjoy it
I both enjoy it and can do it, if I'm done fucking and can get half-soft enough to let go. I find more bottoms that have problems handling it, once it starts, myself.

It's advanced piss play, and not for the novice, hot as it might be to fantasize about.

Two questions... I'm only about 6x6, uncut, but I think I'm a top. Does my relatively small size limit my options? Am I doomed to bottom-hood for forever!? Also, can you walk us through the whole public cruising shpeel? Tapping feet, eyes, handkerchiefs?
Dude. You can be a totally successful top at any size--simply by being the one who steps up, takes charge, and flips a guy butt-up.

6" x 6", assuming an honest measurement, is not relatively small. It's an average length combined with an above-average thickness. Considering that many, many bottoms (myself included, back in my bottom days) prefer thickness to length, I think you've got some goods tucked between your legs that you shouldn't be ashamed to use.

Advertise yourself as a top. You'll get action, I guarantee.

Cruising in public is such a broad topic. I read an entire book on it in my teens, so I don't think I could answer it in the confines of one of these questions. Be specific and pick one venue you're curious about and ask me again. I'll give it a go.

Saturday, July 24, 2010


Red is the color of his cheeks, just below the dirty-white waistband of his jock.

Not red. There has to be some more precise shade than that word, to describe the deep flush that spreads across his buttocks. Perhaps it’s the color of roses, pinkening at their edges. Maybe it’s crimson, deep as the blush that spreads across the boy’s face when I whisper dirty words into his ears. It could be more orange than either, like an astringent persimmon dripping with juice. Or raspberry—like him, a sweet morsel to be consumed. Lava red, hot and ceaselessly writhing. Fire engine, the color of urgency and heat. Scarlet, the color of sin.

Perhaps the rainbow of reds spreading across his butt are all those colors, or some wondrous shades of their own creation. My hand cups again and rises into the air, and pauses momentarily. Hesitating. Then it descends without remorse to collide with the left buttock. The boy gasps, and shudders, and jerks in my lap; his round, meaty ass quivers like gelatin from the aftershock.

Where I’ve struck flesh, more colors appear, deeper and redder than before.

I raise my hand again, slowly. Deliberately. Scruffy has had his face buried in the pillow; his pelvis weighs down my lap. The pillows muffles his gasps and his whimpers. Wearing a T-shirt and with his jeans still tangled around his ankles, he looks like a little boy poised over my knees for a retributive spanking. Only he’s no little boy, and most kids aren’t rock-hard and grinding into me, getting their bare-assed hand-paddling while they’re wearing a jock.

I know what he’s experiencing. In my youth, when I received similar spankings, I was told the experience arrived in stages. First the blush, then the budding pain, and finally the blossoming. The blush of color arrives after the first few slaps to the ass, when the sensation is still novel. The buds of pain arrive shortly after that, when each additional blow brings the boy closer to tears. It’s the worst stage, but also the shortest. Because after the boy pushes through the pain, the blossom begins. The cheeks take on a deep color, and the tingle blooms—a sensation of prickling and fire that spreads from the point of impact to the base of the spine, and tickles the body throughout. Every short moment of pain is worth the delicious prickle that follows.

From then, the hard edges of the spanking disappear. Nothing matters save the blossom as it reddens the cheeks and spreads and prickles across the skin. A boy will do anything to have that sensation continue, and only more slaps and spanks will suffice. It’s pain that brings a pleasure that lingers, and lingers.

Scruffy says something that’s inaudible into the pillows. I ask him to repeat it, more clearly. “Please don’t stop,” he manages to say. There’s moisture at the corners of his eyes, but he’s obviously, deliriously, happy.

I smile to myself. Those aren’t the words he’d uttered only a few moments before, before the bloom of pleasure began. So I raise my hand, bring it sharply down onto his ass, and listen to the sound of my flesh striking his. It’s followed by a gasp, and then a groan as he relaxes and enjoys the sensations.

And as I run the flat of my palm over his skin to soothe him, I watch the colors of red that blossom underneath. Carnelian. Flame. Maroon. Ruby. Apple-red, and vermillion. A hundred shades with and without names, for a pleasure my boy never knew he wanted.

Friday, July 23, 2010


His name was Bobby, and he played basketball. Those are the only two substantial facts I remember about the guy. In the days I used to keep my high school yearbook, I could have picked his photo out on the page—a picture of a handsome black kid with skin the color of caramel and a face shaped like the business end of a fist, squared-off and flat and just as confrontational.

I stood out in high school for two big reasons. It wasn’t because I was especially popular, or because I was well-liked, or because I had notoriety as the class brain or clown. No, I stood out because I hit my full height when I was fifteen, well before anyone else in my school had reached such a monstrous size, and because I was the whitest kid in school. The only white kid in my otherwise all-black school, in fact.

At that age, kids who stand out tend to get the brunt of the bad treatment, but I cultivated the art of being invisible. I slunk from class to class without attracting attention. I found quiet corners to eat my lunch. In the classrooms I was fine. The dangerous areas for me were the hallways, the boys’ room, the school bus, and anywhere on the school grounds not normally monitored by the teachers. That’s where I would worry about being picked on, or called out, or worst of all, beaten up. I wasn’t a strong kid, or particularly trained in fighting. Being beaten up seemed about the worst thing that could happen.

It never did happen, though. I managed to glide through school without being noticed much at all. Bobby was one student who did.

I sat in the middle of the school bus. Not close to the front, where the extremely timid would lurk, and not in the back where the rougher kids would congregate loudly. The middle was a safe, invisible place to be, overlooked by the more boisterous. Until the that day my sophomore year, when I was minding my own business and looking out the window, and suddenly found myself inhaling a scent that was at once sharp and intimate. The cotton fabric smelled like urine and musk; I found myself jerking my head away.

Bobby had boarded the bus, his athletic bag slung over one shoulder. He was still wearing clothes from a basketball practice—and in 1980, we didn’t wear long shorts for basketball. No, we had tiny little shorts that barely covered our business, accompanied by white socks with stripes of color around the top that came up to our knees. I hadn’t paid attention as he’d terrorized the freshmen at the front by holding out his dirty jock at them. So it was something of a surprise to realize that he’d decided to thrust it under my nose. “You like it? You can have it,” he said, dropping it on my lap.

I remember want to drop the dirty jock like a hot potato. My strategy when irritated or threatened, then as now, however, was merely to show as little reaction as possible. I pinched what looked like the cleanest portion of the waistband between the very tips of my fingers, and with an expression of remote disdain, dropped the jock into the aisle, right on the dirty bus floor. Bobby’s friends had been laughing at his antics before, but when Bobby scrambled to retrieve his athletic supporter, they laughed even harder.

I wrote it off as one of those moments in which my invisibility had inadvertently become opaque, but there were a few other incidents that followed. Once or twice, Bobby sat down on the bus next to me. I was certain that there’d be harassment to follow, but no. He just sat there, saying nothing, and seeming to expect nothing. Even when I had to push my way past him into the aisle at my stop, he didn’t push me, or yank down my pants, or do any of the terrible things featured in my imagination.

It wasn’t until the day of a school assembly that I suspected anything was up. For some reason the two of us were seated in the front row of the auditorium, next to each other—which strikes me as odd, given that he was two years older and we didn’t share any classes. The assembly was long and boring. At some point, very early on, Bobby moved his leg next to mine, pressed his bare, basketball shorts-clad leg against my corduroys, and kept it there. His leg was lightly hairy. I could feel its warmth through the fabric of my pants. I must have made some vaguely move to slide away from him, but his knee and calf followed, and very firmly adhered to mine as he sprawled out with his legs spread.

I didn’t pull away again. For the rest of that assembly I let him remain that close to me, knee to knee, wondering what it could mean. I’d already been having sex with older men for four years, by that point; I was no innocent by any means. But the only sex I’d had with someone else my age was with a sad boy lost in a haze of drugs, at the request of my older friend Earl; I’d certainly never had anyone else in school make any kind of erotic advance to me, and it really threw me.

It was about a month later, close to the end of the school year, that Bobby made his move. He spied in me in the hallway between Algebra II and Civics. “I want to show you something,” he said, over the hustle and bustle of boys and girls slamming their lockers and cutting loose.

“I’ve got class,” I mumbled.

“Come on,” he insisted, and gestured to me.

My high school was shaped like an upside-down T. The bulk of the classrooms were along the horizontal cross-bar, while in the back were a few of the advanced science labs, the orchestra and band rooms, and some meeting rooms where Key Club and the National Honors Society held court. Bobby strode through the hallway toward the back as if he owned it; I slumped behind, invisible and unnoticed, as the numbers of people began to peter out. I watched as he made his way down a staircase at the very rear of the building.

The bell rang. The hallways quieted down as the last people fled to their fourth-period classes. Only Bobby and I were in the stairwell, and I followed as he disappeared under the metal stair. The only way we could have been seen is if someone had come up to the windows set in the doors leading outside.

I was in real distress. I cannot stand to be tardy for anything—I never have been able to tolerate it, even as a child. And there I was, deliberately absent from Civics, and getting to be more of a truant by the second. I had never been in that section of the school before, and I didn’t know what Bobby wanted . . . though I hoped I suspected. “I’m late,” I stammered.

“I want to show you something,” he said in his lazy drawl, as he stared at me. His eyes stayed fixed on me as his hands reached for his pants. He wore no belt. All it took to open his jeans was a quick flip of the uppermost button and the almost-silent rending of his zipper. He yanked down on the elastic waist of his white briefs, and hooked them under his balls, so that he could show me his dick.

It was not the largest dick I’d seen, but it was thick; thick and two shades lighter than the rest of his skin. He’d been hard before he’d unzipped for me, and his head was bulbous and full. Without touching himself, he made his shaft leap up in the air. “What do you think?” he said.

I was too wary to respond. I thought it might be a trap of some kind. I said nothing.

He curled his hand into a fist and drew it over the upper half of his rod. “You like it?” Again he made it jump in the air. “Touch it.”

I didn’t move. I wanted to touch it very badly, but I didn’t want him to know.

In a soft whisper, almost a growl, he repeated, “Touch it.”

When he reached out for my hand and pulled it toward him, I resisted only slightly. He rested my hand on his shaft, which was so hot and rigid that it felt like an iron bar left to bake in the sun. I felt a stirring in my own pants as my fingers wrapped around it.

“It likes you too,” he whispered.

Almost immediately after I grabbed hold, he started to shoot. His cum flew and landed several feet away on the stairwell tile; it dripped from his head and grazed his sneakers. Finally, it oozed slowly from the tip as he buckled and shook. I’d already retrieved my hand and backed away, careful not to let any of the stuff on me.

“All right,” he said at last, nodding at me. He stuffed his still-hard dick in his pants, zipped, and buttoned himself. “Later.”

I remained standing in the stairwell, stunned, for a minute before I proceeded to class. I slipped in with excuses ready on my lips, but I didn’t need them. The teacher must’ve assumed that if her top student was late, it must’ve been for a good reason.

I never had another close encounter with Bobby. He didn’t sit with me again after that, and he graduated that year. But I remember smelling his sweat and oils on my hand the rest of that day, and how I would cup my fingers and palm close and inhale discreetly, whenever I could. And I remember looking over his yearbook photo after that, and wondering what in the world became of him.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


When it comes to my shortcomings, I try to be gentle. I dislike having them. I get impatient with myself when in public they dutifully come trooping forward without much provocation. But like a dad with a troop of mildly misbehaving kids, I’ll round them up as quickly as I can and discipline them at home later.

I’ll try to keep this short and sweet, because I don’t like dwelling on the negative. Last night I had a guy over. It was a guy I like and have enjoyed before—a man I’ve written about in these very pages, in fact. We were having a good time in the dark on a cool and breezy summer night, rolling around and making out and sucking each other’s dicks and playing with each other’s nipples. He whispered to me, “I want to make you feel real good tonight. Tell me what I can do for you.”

He’d already slobbered up and down my pole for a long time, at that point. He’d pinned me down and licked my armpits, and had kissed the back of my neck very gently and sweetly. I like the guy, but it was still with a little trepidation and shyness that I asked, “Could you eat me out?”

Because, as I’ve said before, I’m incredibly shy of asking for attention back there. It takes a real effort of will to do it, and I dislike myself for having to struggle. Being able to ask a guy to munch on my hole is basically the last, lingering remnant of that night twenty-five years ago when a man sexually assaulted me.

Even after my buddy asked the question, I lay there struggling, listening to two people inside me having an argument.

Frightened Me: Can I ask him to do this?

Assertive Me: Of course you can. You know this guy. You’ve been with him a dozen times.

Frightened Me: I’m just so shy. . . .

Assertive Me: You know he likes to eat your ass.

Frightened Me: But. . . .

Assertive Me: Get over yourself and ask him.

When finally I did ask the question, my buddy responded with enthusiasm. He pulled a pillow down and stuck it under my hips, to get my ass in the air. He spread my legs, and buried his face in the cleft. And he really went to down on me, for a good ten minutes. I went from tense and apprehensive to cautious and wary, and then for a couple of minutes down to completely relaxed and blissful.

It was while I was still relaxed and not entirely conscious that I felt my buddy shift his weight. He was on top of me, his legs straddling mine, his hand between my shoulders as he held me down. I felt his dick shoving forcefully against my hole. “Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” I yelled.

“Just let me put it in,” he whispered. “Ssshh. Let me put it in.”

“I don’t want. . . .”

“It’ll hurt but then you’ll like it,” he said.

All I knew is that it hurt. I like to think that when I enter a guy, especially a tight guy, I make it as pleasurable as possible under the circumstances. He wasn’t doing any of that. It just hurt, and he didn’t much care.

This is what you get for asking for it, whispered Frightened Me, all his worst fears justified. You wanted him to eat you. This is what you get. You can’t ever ask for it again.

For what seemed like a long time, but was probably no more than a minute, I lay there helplessly and let him poke at me, feeling like I’d brought it on myself. Then Assertive Me reared his head. “This isn’t working,” I announced, and wriggled out from under him. “Thanks for trying, though.”

I was grabbing my T-shirt and putting it on, followed by my shorts, which any reasonable person would take as a cue to go. My buddy automatically followed suit. We didn’t say anything until we were down by the front door again. “Sorry about that,” he said. “You sure are tight.” I just pressed my lips together in a wry line.

Even as I stood there, hating myself for what I’d asked for, I knew I couldn’t let myself off the hook. I know that not every guy plans to take advantage in such a clumsy and skill-less way. I know that I can’t use this as a justification for feeling miserable for not getting what I want and simultaneously not doing anything about it. It didn’t work this time. But the next time I ask a guy to rim me, he’ll do it and not assume I’m inviting him to anything more. And the next time. I just need to keep asking, and not settling for anything less than total respect.

My buddy paused by the front door as I opened it for him. “I hope you’ll see me again soon.”

“Of course,” I told him, before gesturing him out.

It was a bald lie.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Sunday Afternoon at the Baths

Thanks to the storms that blew through here last Thursday, my power’s been off and on all weekend. More off than on, though I’m grateful at least that at night, I’ve had electricity and air conditioning enough to sleep comfortably.

The neighborhood is a mess. It looks like a tornado whipped through, with all the downed trees and branches that have smashed through garages and wrecked fences everywhere. During the day, I’ve gotten to the point that when the power company crews working all over the nearby streets shut off my juice again, I shrug, grab my bag, and head for somewhere cool. And today I chose to spend the afternoon at the baths, which had the air on full blast.

When I arrived at the local bathhouse, it was just how I liked it. Dark, cool, and busy. My brief period of walking through the door and being the new meat was highlighted by a trail of men casually tailing me to my room, where they all took note of where I was and nodded and made serious eye contact through the door.

And that was the height of the activity for the day, sadly.

Guy #1: Mr. Tan

When I’m at these particular baths, I like to make a circuit through the facility first to see what’s going on. I walk up and down the central hallways and look into the rooms to see who’s there. Then I take a brief jaunt into the steam room, and relax there a bit. If nothing happens (and nothing did, today), I walk to the sling room and the gloryhole passage to see if there’s any public group action going on. And then I’ll return to my room and wait there. After all, if I have to wait for a mouth on my dick, I might as well do it in comfort, right?

In my room my usual modus operandi is to keep the lights low—approximately the same level as the hallway, which is pretty dim, but enough to let people see what I look like. I take off my towel, and sit on the bed opposite the open doorway, back against the wall. I usually keep my right knee up to prop an arm onto, point my left knee toward the head of the bed, and stroke my dick with my left hand.

When guys walk by, if they’re creepy I’ll simply lower my dick so that my hand covers it. If they’re attractive, I’ll keep masturbating and open my legs a little wider so they can see. I had a lot of people stalking my doorway today. They’d walk past, pause, then turn and stroll in the opposite direction while I showed off for them. One black guy with long braids wore down the carpet tread, going back and forth, letting his towel slip down a little with every pass.

But no one would come in. Guys were gawking like crazy, but for the life of me I couldn’t get anyone to slow down, stop in my doorway, and let me beckon them in. For something like forty minutes I sat there, playing and nodding and smiling and stroking at the guys I found attractive, and got absolutely no response.

Then Mr. Tan walked by. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, quite handsome, and very, very tan. In a better light he might even have been orange, I’d venture to say. His body was amazingly fit though, and he had a beautiful chest . . . and a teeny-tiny little dick. “Well hello,” he said as he walked into my room without hesitation, as if he belonged there.

I responded by showing off my dick. Without hesitation he went down on it, sucking me gently and erotically for a few seconds. Then he began to touch me. His hands were soft and supple, and felt great as he used his palms to stroke my shoulders, my arms, my chest. He rubbed the fur of my legs, and then smoothed down my beard and ran his fingers through my hair. I’m an addict to touch, so I started purring like a kitten. Maybe the forty minutes of waiting was going to be worth it, for this guy.

Then he looked at a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Hey, gotta check my voicemail,” he said, retreating. “I’ll be back.” He wasn’t. Didn’t see him again at all.

So no. It wasn’t worth it.

Guy #2: Daddy’s Boy

During my circuit of the joint earlier, one of the men who’d nodded at me as I passed his room had been a really handsome man lying on his belly with his head right by the doorway. Every time I walked by, he’d smile and nod. I thought the chances of having some fun with him were pretty good, so I left the cocoon of my room and ventured over.

“Are you a top?” he said, first thing. I nodded. “Are you married?” he asked, nodding at my wedding band. I just fingered it and smiled. “Hot!” he said. “I want daddy’s dick up me!”

From the hallway I’d thought the guy was maybe forty—probably less—but once in his room I was guessing he was slightly older than I. His hair was probably the most attractive thing about him. He wore his dark blond hair in an old-fashioned ‘do from the nineteen-seventies, thick and tousled and swept over his forehead, kind of like John Davidson during his Hollywood Squares days. When he sucked me, it was kind of desperately. “Fuck me daddy,” he said. “Fuck your baby boy.”

I flipped him over and entered his hole, but I knew from the beginning it was a losing cause. For one thing, he had the kind of ass that felt like it was filled with some kind of grit; he was clean, but it was far from comfortable. For another, his voice bothered me. He spoke in a high and reedy tone that reminded me of Gilbert Gottfried at his most annoying. Picture Gottfriend whining, “Fuck me, daddy! Fuck your baby boy!” and you’ll know why I asked him to be quiet.

“Come on, daddy! Your baby boy needs your big dick!” he’d say, after a couple more minutes.

“Sssshh,” I’d tell him.

“Fuck your baby b—!”

I’d put a finger over my mouth. “Shush.”

“Your baby—!”

“Shut up for daddy,” I tried.

It didn’t work. It was the most unerotic dirty talk I’ve ever encountered. After a couple of minutes I pulled out. “I’m taking a break,” I announced. Then I fled as fast as I could.

Guy #3: Santa

I have a thing for a sexy daddy. Back in my room, when an older man loomed in my doorway, my legs parted instantly. He was furry all over, wore a white beard, and although he was more stocky than bowl-full-of-jelly-like, he bore a perhaps-unfortunate resemblance to jolly old St. Nicholas. And let me tell you, there’s something unnerving about Santa Claus telling you straight off, “Bite daddy’s nipples, boy.”

I bit, though. Santa had a thick dick that poked my sternum as I chewed on his left tit. “Damn, son,” he said, directing my head to the other one. “You know how to give a man pleasure. Fucking built for pleasure, you are.” I only grunted at the praise. “Yeah. Now show me what kind of pleasure you can give a man.”

He pushed me down on my knees. I opened my mouth and accepted his dick, which he pistoned in and out while keeping a firm grip on the crown of my head and the back of my neck. He was just long enough to open my throat a little, but I had no problems taking him to the base. With every thrust I grunted a little; my eyes were watering from the brutality of the face-fuck.

“I knew you’d be good,” he said, lifting me up and sitting me on the bed. “Now let’s see what other kind of pleasure you can give to your daddy.”

He used the tube of lube by my bedside to grease up his hole. As I lay on the bed, Santa climbed up, straddled me, and settled his furry ass down onto my north pole. "Damn, son,” he hissed, once he was down to the base. “This is the best kind of pleasure of all.” I sat up while he raised and lowered himself on me, and he cradled my head in his arms the entire time so I could chew and bite on his tits. “Yeah, son,” he growled. “Make your daddy feel good. You know what to do, son.”

That was daddy talk done right. Plus, in a reverse, it was the first time in my life that Santa’s ever sat in my lap.

Guy #4: The Neighbor

I saw him in the steam room when I walked in. It felt like his eyes cut through the mist shrouding everyone, as he stared past the other men loitering around the walls directly to me. When I sat on the upper ledge, removed my towel, and let my dick slap against the wet tile below, he excused himself and pushed two men out of the way. Then he lay his own towel on the lower shelf below me, parted my legs, and began to suck as if he’d known he’d get my dick from the moment the door opened.

For the record, I was fine with that.

We ended up going back to his room. “I bet you’re a top, with a big dick like that,” he said. I nodded as we kissed. “I wish you could fuck me.”

“Oh, I can,” I said.

“No, you can’t,” he told me. “I’m not clean down there.”

At least he warned me. We had other fun instead. I let him suck me—which he did expertly—and then sat on his face while I played with his nipples, until he came. We were cleaning up afterward when he asked me where I was from. “Oh, I’m just across the street,” he said, when I told him, and named the city next to mine. “I’ve been without power for three days, since the storms. I wanted to come to somewhere cool.”

“No kidding!” I said. “Me too!”

“What are you near?” I named a market at the end of my street. “Oh my god, I walk there almost every day.”

It turned out that my last trick of the day lived all of a quarter mile from me, and that we’d both been driven to the bathhouse for the same reasons: the heat, the lack of electricity, and a boner or two to take care of.

Well, it’s one way to meet the neighbors.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Sex Object Edition

What a weird weekend it's been. The power's been off, thanks to storms, and then on again; then off and on a few times because of power line repairs since. My street seems to be the dividing line in the neighborhood between the haves and the have-nots. Every time my side of the street is without electricity, our neighbors across the street get it back. When mine returns, everyone opposite loses it. Can't we all just get along?

Luckily, I have juice at the moment, so I'll post some responses to questions at while I can. I'm always looking for more questions, by the way--anything that you suspect hasn't been asked before, and isn't too invasive about my home life, I'll answer. And you can ask anonymously!

Have you ever tried without success to bottom to a guy whose cock was too big for your manpussy to accommodate?
Not when I was a bottom in my teens.

I've had a lot of unsuccessful attempts to bottom in my adulthood, but that's usually because they haven't been able to get my hole open at all, regardless of size.

Do you enjoy doing bondage stuff? whipping? choking? 
I have restrained guys, but I don't own any restraint gear. I have never whipped anyone, and I wouldn't choke.

How and where do you like to jack off the most?
I enjoy jacking off in a bed, or a sofa, with the lights low and no pressures on my time or attention. I tend to stroke without lube, and progress from a gentle stroking to a chokehold on my dick. I shoot hard, but am not a distance shooter. Afterward I tend to eat the load if I'm by myself.

Did you get your hands on porn when you were a kid?
My father had a copy of the Playboy issue with the infamous Jimmy Carter interview in it. It contained a two-page Jockey briefs ad with which I used to masturbate. My parents also had a few sex manuals that I would use for sexual fodder. None of them had illustrations, though.

At the university library I used to read all the books about homosexuality on the shelves. A few of them were highly sexual; John Rechy's The Sexual Outlaw was chapters of erotica sandwiched between chapters of queer theory. I read them both. The book had a big influence on my developing psyche.

I never saw any outright pictoral porn until I was a senior in college, and didn't see any porn movies until I was 22 or 23.

How have your tastes and use of porn evolved over the years?
Interesting question. I think the first porn to which I was attracted was primarily written. I used to be fascinated in high school by the letters in the Penthouse forum section, because they featured real people having (what I then presumed was) real sex. Unfortunately, my father was not a Penthouse reader, so I'd only get to look at it when I'd visit the house of one of my friends whose dads subscribed to the magazine.

In college I found my first gay porn magazine on a restroom floor. I outlined that event in one of my early blog posts. After that I was an avid reader of Honcho magazine as well as a few other gay rags. I liked the pictorals, but solo spreads of guys jacking themselves off still didn't appeal to me. I liked the stories and illustrations better, because they had actual sex in them.

It wasn't until grad school that I bought my first VHS porn tape. I've bought some more tapes and DVDs since then, but my collection isn't that large. I enjoy them, absolutely—and I have a special fondness for TIM releases these days. They've never been a necessary for my sexual pleasures, though.

I can get off harder talking to a real person online than I can from watching hypersexualized muscle studs fuck on camera, a lot of the time. It's just the way I am.

Have you ever taken drugs? If so what type. Do you still occasionally use it for recreational purposes?
Nope, I am a total virgin when it come to the use of substances, save for one recreational use of Viagra. Which gave me a pounding headache.

Have you considered adding a "A Breeder's Journal 2" blog? Blogger has been known to randomly delete blogs, and a refuge in waiting would be something All your fans would appreciate! Great Writing.. thanks!
I don't have any copyrighted material in my blog, so I'm hoeing I won't get the random banhammer. If I do, I'd let people know on Twitter of my new location.

All mt entries are copied and pasted from my personal journal, so they're all backed up and stuff. Fear not.

Best rimjob you ever received?
Two years ago a guy from Manhunt spread my legs and went to town on my ass with his mouth. He ate me out so hard and for so long that the last twenty minutes of the hour-long rimjob felt like I was having one very long, protracted orgasm. It was incredible.

Unfortunately, I never saw him again because he was extremely passive-aggressive with me online, and when I asked him not to be, he was outright rude and aggressive. I had to block him. It was a pity, because I've never felt anything like that, before or since.

I could eat you out for as long as you're letting me know you're enjoying it. Would you feel any guilt or a need to reciprocate? 
Absolutely I would feel guilt and a need to reciprocate. But don't let that stop you!

The national press makes it seem everyone in Detroit is depressed, with good reason. Is it so?
The national press says a lot of things about Detroit that aren't necessarily true. When I moved to the city--and I moved to the inner city originally--it was the murder capital of the country and I expected to be living in a bombed-out city with muggers and murderers roaming the street. Instead I found myself living in a pleasant and green city filled with interesting people and lots to do, and I chose to remain here.

Admittedly, there are sections of the city that are frightening, and the racial and economic divides here run deeper than anywhere in the South, and for a while the unemployment rate among my professional friends was a little scary. But I still enjoy living here.

I would like u 2 choke me.
I know some guys are into breath control play during sex, but it's just too risky for me.

I had one guy pass out during sex from popper usage, and that pissed me off and frightened me enough.

I've only bottomed maybe 4 times. Would you be willing to give direction? I know how to take a dick, but I'd want to make your head spin. You'd have to tell me what to do. Is that ok?
Asking me to take charge and tell you what to do is a little like asking a lion to look majestic and to roar at stuff. It's just what we do.

I tend to be very good with novices and with people who've only had bad anal experiences in the past.

When you were still bottoming, how old was your youngest top?
I used to perform with another kid my age back then, but I hardly count what we did as actual sex. My youngest top was probably in his mid-twenties, in my teens.

did you ever rejected by a guy for having sex with him?
I'm not sure I understand the question. Do you mean, have guys rejected me as a potential sex partner? Absolutely.

Or did you mean have guys rejected me after having sex with me? Yes, there have been a few times that I've been rebuffed after I've had sex with a guy. A couple of times the guys who did so were pretty damned cruel about it, too. But guys can be dicks, pretty much, right?

How would you label yourself sexually? Gay, straight, bi, queer, other?
I would say I'm a four-and-a-half on the Kinsey scale.

Would you cum on the guy's back if he didn't want to be bred? Would you agree to that, and just cum inside him anyway, and say you couldn't control it? Thnx
Guys who meet me know where I'm going to shoot. The ones likely to ask me to pull out usually chicken out before meeting. So no, I don't lie to get what I want.

what does your parents react when they know you are bi?
Both my parents were extremely liberal children of the sixties for whom sexuality was no more of an issue than race or gender. To them, it's one of those aspects of a person that gives him his own flavor and offers its own rewards and challenges.

Do you feel like a sex object? If so, does that bother you?
There have been times I've felt like I've been treated like a dildo that simply happened to be attached to a tall guy. But oh, how I wish I felt like a sex object.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Rest Area

A painter would have captured the landscape in the darkest shades of navy blue, perhaps, or pitches of black. A broad stripe of the inkiest oils imaginable across the bottom third of the canvas, to represent the invisible terrain at night; a sinister shade of indigo to capture the moonless night sky. And then, from the center of the picture, shining yellow so brightly that it’s almost difficult to focus upon, a clean, modern building of glass and brick and blazing lights. Within that, just beyond the door, a man in a white T-shirt, brighter even than that.

It was two o’clock this morning on I-94, and I’d pulled into the rest area out of both habit and curiosity. After a day without electricity, I’d spent the evening halfway across the state, watching a theatrical production in which a friend of mine was involved. I’d gone out for drinks and a good, good talk afterward, and then started the long trip back home. It had been one of those trips in which the roads had been so deserted and the highway so dark that I’d had to use the high beams on my car for the first time in years.

When I parked in the deep curve of the lot snaking behind the rest area, a woman was sleeping in her reclined driver’s seat nearby, snoring loudly enough to be heard through the crack in her window. Several other cars stood by empty; on the building’s opposite side, a number of trucks idled. Within the brightly-lit rest area itself, however, only a single lonely soul wandered—a furry young cub wearing a white Hanes T-shirt.

I walked past him as I made my way to the men’s room, getting a good look. He was half my age at most, with a scrappy blond-brown tuft of hair adorning his chin. Chest hairs fought to poke their way from the neck of his shirt, climbing over and curling above it. He had a belly that poked out, and his shoulders slumped from how deeply his hands were plunged into his pockets, but he wasn’t at all bad. I smiled to myself as I watched him check me out while pretending to stare blandly ahead. When I planted myself in front of one of the urinals inside, I knew he’d follow.

It didn’t take long. While I tugged at my soft dick through the fly of my jeans, I heard a stirring at the door. The cub walked in, and staggered over to the urinal next to mine. While pretending to be sublimely unaware that we were the only two men in the building, and that we happened to be less than a foot and a half away from each other, he unzipped and shook his dick as if in preparation to pee. Then he stood there. And stood there.

I backed away from my urinal slightly, and inclined my head in his direction. He responded by looking me in the eye directly, and then standing on tiptoe to peek over the partition. By then I had a handful of hard dick to show him.

I backed further away and showed off my dick, squeezing it in my hand to make the head redden and flare. He played furiously with his own meat, making it buckle and flop with his stroking. It wasn’t the biggest of dicks, but it was thick and attractive; his balls were enormous, and his sac shaved and full. His fingers scrambled to pull out all his goodies from the fly of his gray cotton briefs.

He couldn’t take his eyes off my dick. I leaned back against the wall and showed it off. His hand reached out for my face, running a moist palm over my chin and beard, my chest, and my stomach, returning to tweak my nipples through my gray striped polo. Finally he looked up at me, as if for asking for permission, before he seized my cock in his hand.

He didn’t stop playing with himself as he stroked me. His finger dipped into my slit to play with the precum blossoming there. He grabbed it in an overhand grip and began to beat at me, freeing my own hands to cross behind my back. I simply reclined there, letting him do all the work as my excitement grew.

The next thing I knew, the tops of his grungy Nikes were scraping the tile as he dropped to his knees. He didn’t suck me, but he drew his face close to my meat, inhaling to smell the aroma of soap and arousal. My balls beat against the cold metal of my zipper as he continued to beat me off. From time to time his head would whip around to look behind him, but I had my eye on the door. I could have seen in the window’s reflection if anyone was coming in.

The urgency and unexpected heat of the situation brought me close to climax in the space of a couple of moments. He was ahead of me. I watched as his furiously-jerking left hand arrested itself and a single glob of semen oozed slowly from the tip and descended to the floor. I was carrying a three-day load, myself; I came copiously and silently as his right hand flew up and down my shaft. A spurt of it landed on his waiting tongue. A second spurt iced his chin, while a third decorated the front of his shirt.

He swallowed the first part of the gift, and used the inside of his forearm to wipe my semen from chin and then to wipe it on his shirt. The cub stood up, zipped, and nodded at me as he wandered back out again.

I stayed long enough to wash my hands and check my hair before leaving. As I exited the building, the cub was reclining against the wall near the door, hands deep in his pocket. It was exactly where I’d spied him as I’d entered. Was he waiting for another dick? Waiting for me to leave?

I didn’t know. I had another hour to go, and wanted to be home. What I did know was that whether he was conscious of it or not, my sperm was decorating his shirt just above the sternum, the thick fluid barely beginning to soak into the fabric.

I wonder how long he wore that necklace last night.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Bad News Friday

Alas, thanks to some bad storms last night, your diarist is without electricity today. I won't be able to make a post this morning.

Think good thoughts about the return of my power, if you would!

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Blue Bandana

The bandana is navy blue. I can see one of its corners peeking from his jeans, where they lie on the floor. He’s shucked his pants so quickly and neatly they’re simply two abandoned leg holes surrounded by crumpled fabric, an infinity sign made of denim. I pluck the bandana from his back right pocket, where it looks as if it’s been kept for a long while.

He’s on his knees, on the mattress, uncertain of whether to bend over or remain upright. Already his eyes are closed, though through the narrow slits I can see the glint of his irises as they dart back and forth, excited. I shake out the bandana and grab its opposite corners, letting my wrists rise and fall in circles as I spin the fabric into a loose rope. His tongue darts out across his lips, wetting them. Although he’s already bent forward, when I slip the bandana over his head and across the bridge of his nose, he allows me to pull him upright again. As I tie the knot, my knuckles graze the sharp, short spikes of his hair. His back arches as the knot tightens. A thin thread of fluid connects the tip of his cock to the mattress—a spiderweb’s filament that glistens in the last of the daylight.

He loves the blindfold. He craves it. When I drag my nails down the side of his rib cage, he responds with a hiss and small convulsion. When I stop, he moans. I slap his ass, slowly, deliberately, once, twice, three times, leaving behind red skin and goosebumps.

“Please,” he begs.

Not yet. I pull a thumbnail down the sole of his foot, causing it to shake. He cries out again when I pinch his nipples, twisting them in opposite directions. I part his legs with my own knees, bringing him down into a crouch, and I let the tip of my cock graze the crack between his buttocks. He moans again. “Please.”

Still not yet. I hook my fingers underneath the bandana and pull him upright, firmly enough that it seems like a command. He responds with a gasp when I pull his chin around and press my lips against his, my tongue deep inside his mouth. There’s almost too much stimulation for him now—the deep kissing, the insistent pull of the blindfold, my other hand’s fingers jamming lube inside him.

When I force myself inside him, it take him a moment before he acknowledges what’s happened. He breathes in sharply, shudders, then falls forward again. His chin is wet with spit and his own drool. It’s what he’s wanted. It’s what he’s come for.

“Thank you,” he whispers. I use the blindfold as a hand grip, yanking back his head with every thrust. He responds by arching up to meet me, and by issuing one long, animal groan that starts deep from the diaphragm and emerges as a cry of release and need, mixed. His hands clutch blindly at the pillow, turning into claws whenever I poke or tweak or pinch or slap some unexpected place.

When he climaxes, it’s urgent. It’s loud, and accompanied by a howl. He twitches and trembles. I follow quickly. The gyrations of our bodies subside.

My hands still shaking, I undo the blindfold. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them and smiles at me. I’m surprised at how dark those eyes are, and yet how shaded, as if our time together has been a dream, and this moment the waking from it.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010


There’s a certain group of guys that mentally I refer to as my leftovers. Even as I type it out, I cringe at the word—it seems to denote a second class of citizen. A lower tier of lesser men. And that’s not that I mean to imply at all. Heck, I make extra servings of dinners at home because I like leftovers for lunch.

No, I’m really talking about guys with whom I could never get the timing right. They’re guys I’ve intended to meet for months (or in some cases, a year or more), but couldn’t because they were only available on the evenings on which I can’t get away, or on Saturdays, which are always bad for me. They might have been close to my metropolitan area, but far enough away that it made more sense to grab someone closer to home than to hop in the car and drive for an hour. There are all kinds of reasons that a handful of men and I never seem to get to connect. Perhaps leftovers isn’t the best term, but it’s the one my brain settled upon for them, and I never meant for it to be derogatory.

Last Thursday night, when I had the place to myself, I decided to enjoy some leftovers. I hadn’t intended to have two helpings, but that’s simply how it happened.

One man with whom I’d been trying to connect for a year contacted me and asked how I was doing; I responded that I had my place to myself and wondered if he wanted to come over. I was happy to hear that he did. Simple and seamless, right? It’s the kind of start to an evening that I always look for. He arrived quickly, and once he stepped through the door I was pleased to see that he was as good looking as his photos had implied. When we kissed, it was soft and sweet. His hands felt good on my shoulders, my arms, the back of my head. And when I took him upstairs to my bed and felt him ease his body atop mine, I knew it was going to be good.

We undressed. He knelt down to suck my cock. “Fuck, I have wanted to sit on this for a long time,” he said, after filling his throat with it. “Can I? Can I sit on it?”

“Hell yes!” I choked out. I scrabbled in the bedside table for the lube and a towel. He slapped a handful of the cold goo on my hot meat, then used his fingers to slather it on his own ass crack. The next thing I know, I felt a tight gripping sensation on my dick, and pressure as he lowered himself down. There was a resistance, and then the smooth relief as his warmth surrounded my dick. He was down at the base, taking it all inside, and wriggling around in happiness.

He sighed, and lifted his head to the ceiling. Then, without warning, I felt globs of wet jelly splattering my chest and neck. He’d shot his load, just like that, barely touching himself. He came so much that it seemed as if he hadn’t shot in weeks. I was still blinking from the unexpectedness of it all when he rose to his knees and hopped off the bed. “That was great,” he said, pulling on his T-shirt, then his shorts. His feet went into his flip-flops. “We’ve got to do it again sometime!”

“Um, sure,” I said, uncertainly, but I was saying it into the empty dusk. He’d already vanished.

I was so unsatisfied by that encounter that I went online to look for more. It baffles me, really, how guys can be so selfish, or skittish, or whatever quality it is that has them scampering for the door once the flush of orgasm is over.

I didn’t have long to wait. Another of my leftovers messaged me on Manhunt. It was someone I’ve known for a decade, though only from afar—he’d been a friend of friends, long ago, and I’d had something of a little crush on him long ago. He’s not a traditionally handsome guy. In truth, I think a lot of men would find him a little bit like an overweight frat boy, out of shape with a beer belly, and with something of a bad complexion, but I’ve always thought he was a cute little Polish guy and thought he looked fun in bed. Was he available? I asked. He was, and he’d driven over within a half hour.

He’d always told me he was wild about kissing, and he did it well enough, though his wildness wore off after a few seconds. We stripped. He groaned and writhed when I rimmed him, and sucked fairly well. Promising enough. I lubed him up after a few minutes, and slowly entered him.

Something was wrong with the fuck, though. He held his ass too high, or I was too tall, or he was too tight, or I wasn’t going at it the right way. Something. I kept slipping out, over and over again. When I tried it on our side, I couldn’t get it into his hole at all. At last I positioned him on the side of the bed and fucked myself in. That seemed to work. He arched his back and stretched out his arms and groaned as finally I started to stroke in and out. . . .

. . . and then he shot all over the blanket, loud and copiously. I swore to myself under my breath, but at least he didn’t pull himself off me. For a few more seconds I continued to fuck, until he spoke up in a normal voice and said, “Can you shoot quick? I don’t know if I can take it any more.”

I smiled wryly, though he couldn’t see it in the night, and simply pulled out. “That was fun,” I told him. Then I helped him find his clothing in the darkness, and saw him out.

It was fun. They were both fun, in a certain limited manner. Nice guys. Sexy guys, in their own ways. Not leftovers in any derogatory sense.

But, like leftovers sometimes are, they weren’t a meal unto themselves.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Ounce by Ounce

“I don’t care what you do when you’re out there on your own,” I whispered into Scruffy’s ear. “I don’t care who you talk to or what you do with them. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re mine. All mine. Have you got it?”

Scruffy lay on my bed last Wednesday, face down, mouth in the sheets. I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. Now that it’s summer, he’s back to living at his folks’ place near the state capital, and it’s not quite as easy for him to come over when he needs me. Nor is it as easy for me to text him to see what he’s up to. His hands were above his head, grasping onto the wooden slats of my headboard. Scruffy wore nothing but a jock. Its pouch was printed in a camouflage pattern. When he’d undressed himself for me, moments before, ripping off his T-shirt and then lowering his pants like a shy boy, he’d waited for my reaction.

“Did you wear that just for me?” I’d asked.

He had let loose one of those sideways, crooked-jaw grins that lights up my day. “Do you like it?” I’d nodded, very slowly, as my dick had stiffened in my pants. “I got it at Pride. I wanted to make you want me.”

Oh, I’d wanted him. I’d wanted him just where I had him with my dick was three inches inside him and aching to go deeper, as I growled the words into his ears. Though the air conditioning was on, a thin layer of sweat glued our bodies together. “So whose boy are you?” I asked.

“Yours,” he whispered.

“Whose?” I repeated, raising my voice.

“Yours!” He let out a muffled sob as I stabbed the rest of my inches into him. “Fuck. I’m yours, I’m yours, all yours,” he cried out. “You boy. Always your boy.”

“Say it like you mean it.” I was fucking him steadily, now, sliding in and out. Scruffy’s outermost ring is always tight, and when he clenches down on my meat, it feels like he’s taken his thumb and forefinger and squeezed as hard as he possibly could. Inside him, though, is always warm, wet, and loose. I let his hole clamp down on my swollen base while the rest of my dick enjoyed the soft, pillowy heat of his insides.

“I do!” he protested. “Don’t you know I mean it? Every time you have me, I’m more yours. Every load you shoot into me makes me want more of you. Every ounce. Fuck. If you don’t know that. . . .”

I didn’t say anything. I knew he meant the words. Instead, I pushed down on the back of his neck and raised myself so that I was in more of a mounted position, and began to piston back and forth, very slowly, letting him feel the length and girth of me.

“I’m totally yours,” he murmured, almost as though he were falling asleep. “I love having you in me. I love carrying your seed. I love. . . .” I raised my eyebrows and waited, but he had fallen too far into the fuck. He was all sensation now. His skin prickled with gooseflesh where I kissed his moist back. When I looked down at his hole, it was pinkening. His ass jiggled with every thrust.

“You know I feel the same way,” I whispered to him. His hand clawed for mine. I let him squeeze my left fingers tightly.

“Please come in me,” he said, very quietly. “Come in me so I can have you inside me all today. You don’t know how good I feel when I can carry you inside me.”

“You know,” I said to him, very softly, just above his head. “My favorite part about rimming you is that I carry your scent in my beard for the rest of the day. I can smell you whenever I want.”

“Oh fuck,” he said. My thrusting was faster, now. “I love smelling you too. I love doing what you want. I love thinking about the next time we can meet, and what I’m going to wear to make you smile.” His eyes were closed as he spoke. Every one of my thrusts he met with his ass, taking my dick to the root and massaging it instinctively. “I love it when you make me your boy.”

“You are my boy.”

“I am your boy,” he repeated, agreeing. “I don’t care how old I get or how old you get, I will always be your boy. For life. I love being your boy.”

I yanked at his hips and pulled him so that I could thrust harder. Like a limp ragdoll, he complied. Over and over he repeated the words as he let me use him. When I began to shoot, he came to life again. His eyes opened. “I feel it,” he whispered. “That’s you, inside me.” I held still, gasping and choking until the orgasm began to ebb, and then we sank onto the mattress together. “Now I’m more your boy than I was before. Every single time, more your boy.”

“My boy,” I whispered, shushing him. My left hand traced down the side of his body, tickling his underarm, his nipples, the curve below his ribcage. Finally it wrapped around the length of his big, wet dick and began to stroke. His back arched, but he pushed his hole down around my still-hard cock to keep it in him, as I began pleasuring him.

Maybe every load I give Scruffy does make him, ounce by ounce, more my own. I like the thought of him absorbing me in installments.

What I suspect he doesn’t realize is that ounce by ounce, he’s taken away my interest in lesser fucks as well.