Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Stranger than Fiction

My venture out east last week reminded me of another visit to a big city I took six years ago. I’d traveled in order to meet up with one of my best friends, Lawrence. After high school, Lawrence dropped right out of college, moved to Los Angeles, and landed on his feet quickly in the entertainment industry—first as a personal assistant to an actor, and then as a manager to a lot of pretty famous comedians.

Lawrence told me he intended to visit one of his former clients, a gay comic actor of minor-to-moderate fame and recognizability fifteen years ago (no, I won't say his name), in a metropolitan area not too far from where I live. “You should come!” he suggested. “We’ll all hang out together. You’ll love the Comedian! He’ll love you! I’ve already told him all about you! He’s dying to meet!”

Of course, the last time I’d met one of Lawrence’s celebrity ex-clients, who was then holding down a prominent role on an action show, she’d gotten my name wrong all evening and kept asking for my opinions on horses and saddles. All was explained later in the evening when Lawrence took me aside and explained he’d told her I was a good writer, but that apparently she’d misunderstood him to say I was a good rider.

I was hoping this particular weekend celebrity encounter might go better.

I checked into the hotel where Lawrence was staying, and phoned him to let him know I’d arrived. He and the Comedian raced up to my room, where I was brushing my teeth when they knocked. I opened the door and mumbled for them to come in while I made myself presentable in the bathroom.

When I stepped out, my palms covered with sunblock that I was rubbing over my cheeks, I found the celebrity comedian in my hotel shaking onto the table a bag containing a green herb. My first thought was, Gosh, he’s a lot shorter than he looked on TV. It was true. He gave the impression of being five-foot-three and all of a hundred pounds, a wee little gay man I could’ve picked up and put in my shirt pocket.

My second, more rueful thought, was, There isn’t any way that might be oregano? This was no dime bag of weed. Oh no. This was a fucking Ziploc gallon freezer bag of the stuff, bulging to the point of overflowing, that he was dividing on my table, and sending flying in every direction as he breathed heavily.

I am such a Puritan. “Holy shit,” I said, as I tried not to flinch at the sight and run screaming from the room.

“Nice to meet you too!” said the Comedian, apparently used to being greeted in such a way. “Heard so much!” He licked some rolling paper.

Lawrence, however, knew I was in shock. “Maybe you should put your stash away,” he suggested.

“Calm down, mother. It’s only high-grade marijuana,” said the celebrity with a heaved-shoulder sigh, dashing any last hopes I might have had that he was an unorthodox spice trader. He proceeded to roll some joints that he stuffed into his shirt pocket.

“It’s so fantastic to have you both in the same room! Don’t you love each other already?” The Comedian and I eyed each other warily. “So what are we doing, exactly?” Lawrence wanted to know.

The Comedian squinted his eyes and announced. “We’re all going to the Spit.” When neither Lawrence or I showed any comprehension whatsoever, the Comedian explained, “It’s a kind of industrial place out on the lake where in the sixties and seventies, the mob used to dump dead bodies. But don’t worry. We’re just going for the illicit sex in the bushes. It’s the best spot to get hot young dick in the city. Hey,” he added, speaking to me in a crazy echo of the thoughts running through my own head. “Wouldn’t it be insane if the police busted in right now? Can’t you just see the headlines? AMERICAN ARTIST NABBED IN DRUG BUST WITH CANADIAN COMIC!”

“Or maybe GAY SEX DRUG BUST,” I said, imagining the tabloids all too clearly.

The Comedian’s eyes widened, as if contemplating phoning the cops and acting as his own narc, for the free publicity. “That would be fabulous!”

I’d been in the city all of twenty minutes by that point. Ten minutes later, we were in a cab that was ferrying the six of us to the mysterious spot known as the Spit.

“I know, I know, this is crazy,” Lawrence murmured to me in apology, while we watched the Comedian chew out the cab driver for not running a red light. “Sometimes it’s easier to indulge him.”

“You can’t deny it’s interesting, though,” I told him.

The Comedian kept up a cheerful monologue about all the men who’d fucked him in the last six months while the cab driver stared at him in the rear mirror and Lawrence and I kept our eyes on the road and the near-accidents we kept having, thanks to the driver’s fascination with the Comedian’s sex life. “It’s just a little bit down this way,” said the Comedian, leading us in an eastward direction, when we reached a marshy park near the waterfront and exited the taxi.

A little bit turned out to be closer to a mile. As we trotted single-file down a deserted, weed-fringed road that seemed straight out of a movie set where a bit playing actor’s single tone-setting line would be, “Here Rover . . . c’mon, Rover. Hey, what’re you digging up there, boy? Is that an arm?”

“Here we are!” caroled the Comedian. I looked around, bewildered. Had we actually arrived at a destination? An actual point of arrival? Where we stood didn’t really seem any different from the wilderness we’d been walking through for the previous half hour. There were vague paths through the nipple-high weeds with no real organization to them. Everything that wasn’t obviously a cattail looked like poison ivy. “So what should we do? All hunt for fun? Split up and meet back here in a half hour after we’ve all had our fill of the men? I tell you, if I don’t get my hole wet in the next ten minutes, I am going to crack like the surface of the Mojave.”

“Sounds great,” Lawrence told him amiably, the way someone might tell a six-year old that sure, he could leave out cookies for Santa. “Let’s do that!”

The Comedian scampered off, presumably to look for nookie among the bushes. Lawrence and I ended up wandering along the paths until we found some rocks on the lake where we sat and looked at the boats, and talked. It was the one relaxing part of the afternoon.

A half hour passed before we went looking for the Comedian. A harder task than it looked, quite frankly. After getting lost in the trails, Lawrence finally resorted to calling out the Comedian’s first name, over and over. At long last, and not very far away, we finally received a reply. “Can you keep it down?” The Comedian asked. “I’m trying to get fucked here. Ow.”

“Are you getting fucked now, buddy?” Lawrence called out, trying not to laugh. “Right now?”

The Comedian’s retort was world-weary and annoyed. “Yes!”

“Is he making it up?” I asked quietly. It was a reasonable question. I’d not seen a single soul out in the benighted wilderness since we’d arrived.

“Are you making it up?” Lawrence called out. “There’s really someone with you?”

From the bushes came a furious, “Jesus Christ on a stick, Lawrence. I’m trying to get my business done and you keep talking.”

“Sorry, buddy!” said Lawrence, not at all offended.

“Oh no, that’s all right. Go ahead. Get a bullhorn.” Now that I listened closely, over the Comedian’s rant, I could kind of hear someone grunting and huffing away in the background. I idly wondered if I’d had an accident on the freeway, and was in a coma, dreaming myself into one of the Comedian’s old sketches. “Walk around the Spit with a bullhorn and tell everyone, Attention, please! The world-famous comedian ____ ______, star of the ____ network show ____________ is being banged by a Mexican in the bushes!

"I didn't use your last name," Lawrence pointed out.

“Hey,” said an aggrieved fourth voice we hadn’t heard before. “I’m Puerto Rican.”

“So sorry, honey,” said the Comedian. “Whatever. Jesus. Are you even close?”

"I'm a little distracted?"

Lawrence and I chose that moment to tiptoe away.

It was a long afternoon, made even longer when we had to call a cab to meet us in front of what looked like a nuclear power plant out in the middle of nowhere. Apparently it was the custom of most of the men who cruised the Spit to drive themselves. Who knew? In front of the hotel, Lawrence and I brushed grass and weeds from the back of the Comedian’s shirt and the bottom of his jeans while he was being plied for handshakes from a tour bus of adoring Japanese fans.

And then he was off, donning a pair of notice-me/don’t-notice-me celebrity sunglasses and raising his collar to remain incognito, in a very un-incognito sort of way. “Oh my god,” I said, in my normal voice for the first time all afternoon, once he was gone. “He is a fucking nightmare.”

“I know, right?” said Lawrence, obviously delighted. “Wait until he comes to visit you later.” I raised my eyebrows. “I told him he’d have to leave his bag of pot in your hotel room,” he explained. “He’ll definitely be back for it.”

“Thanks, Lawrence,” I said, pulling my lips thin. “Thanks a lot.”

Monday, August 30, 2010

Don't Call My Name

In high school I was quite proficient in Spanish. I was skillful enough, anyway, that when we had a week-long Spanish class trip to Mexico, I immediately made friends with a narrow-waisted, shiny-haired Mexican gentleman from the street outside the hotel, who out of a fondness for me more or less single-handedly saved that week from being a total disaster for everyone by acting as our personal tour guide. Though to be frank, I’m not sure it was my weird-ass high school Castilian accent that charmed him as much as my little butt and my white-blond hair.

But that’s another story altogether.

While I was out east, I had Tuesday to myself. I slept in a little bit, had breakfast, took my shower, and then hopped online to see whom I could have over for some fun. Almost immediately on Adam4Adam I was messaged by a guy in my vicinity who said: q rico tu huevo ilike 2 cock baby sexy col my bb!!

Now, admittedly, my Spanish is way rusty, but I couldn’t make heads or tails out of that message. My eggs looked delicious? I gathered he liked my cock, but did he want me to call him baby? Or color him bareback? Or something else entirely? It was a mystery.

I wrote back something like, I’m sorry, I don’t understand, and got back a couple of question marks. Obviously the guy didn’t comprehend me, either—and it was a shame, because he was a gorgeous man, judging from his photos. His age hovered in the lower twenties while his dick sized soared to about nine fat inches. He was way bigger than I. My favorite photo of him, though, showed him slouching back in his computer chair, muscles pumped and his nipples betraying little dark fringes that were the only traces of hair on his golden chest. He looked thoughtful, and wore a pair of rectangular glasses much like the frames I usually sport.

I wanted his ass.

After a few more abortive attempts at communicating, finally he sent a single-word email I understood: Hotel??? I responded with the street address and my room number. A couple of minutes later, he sent me a time that seemed to indicate he’d be there a half hour.

He was prompt. I heard a knock on my door just as the hour turned, and when I opened it, he stepped in and smiled broadly. His teeth were white, even, and sparkling. He said something to me in Spanish that I failed to understand (I blame it entirely on his lack of a Castilian accent), though I thought he was saying something about it being easy to find the hotel, or something similar. “I’m glad you made it here,” I said, hoping I was in the right ballpark.

He raised his eyebrows. “¿Que?” he asked.

“Never mind.” I put my hands on his narrow waist, which funneled down to his ample butt. “I’m just glad you showed up.”

“¿Que?” he asked again.

We were rapidly devolving into a Fawlty Towers routine between Basil and Manuel, so I shut up and let my mouth do the talking. His own answered back immediately, as they pressed together hungrily. I loved how full his lips were against my own. They felt like cushions I could fall into, over and over again, without ever diminishing their plump softness. His hand rested on the cage of my chest, as if he was feeling for my heartbeat. I pulled away for a moment and rested my fingers atop his. “Rob,” I said, telling him my name.

He understood, and pulled my hand onto his own chest. “Alejandro.”

Thanks to Lady Gaga, that was a name I was unlikely to forget. “Tu estas muy guapo, Alejandro,” I said, running my fingers through his hair and wondering if I should’ve gone with an usted.

He seemed delighted with my lame attempts at communication, however. “You . . . sexy, papi!”

I’d like to say I pushed him down onto the bed at that point, but in point of fact, he was so overcome with puppy-dog enthusiasm at my rudimentary Spanish that he leapt on me and made me tumble to the mattress. I’d planned to remove the bedspread, because whenever I see a hotel bedspread all I can think about are those local news sweeps month exposes in which reporters run black lights over the bed linen to reveal all kinds of disgusting stains and dried fluids. But Alejandro was such a hungry kisser and so determined to take off my shirt and then undo my pants that stains were the last thing on my mind.

He had my dick in his mouth within a few seconds of me landing on my back. I was already hard and the insides of my shorts were slick with precum; by the time my head reached his lips, there was so much juice flowing that he stopped, looked up at me, and asked a question I didn’t understand. I think he was asking if I’d already shot.

“Just suck,” I whispered, pushing his mouth back down on me. The combination of his warm throat and those soft, pillowy lips made me sigh, deep from my chest. Idly I reached down and played with his brown, hairy nipples while he slobbered over my inches. In the dim light of the hotel room I could tell his eyes were closed as he relished every sensation of my dick sliding in and out of his mouth.

He licked my balls next, and kissed the insides of my thighs. Then he was back on my cock, muttering to himself in those moments when his lips were sliding up and down the exterior, rather than eating it whole. It sounded as if he were dirty-talking to himself. Then he pulled himself up to kiss me again. His legs straddled my hips, so that my dick was rubbing first against his own, then slipping back and between his butt cheeks. I reached around to feel his butt cheeks. The round globes of them filled my hands. He gasped when I pulled them apart and exposed his most private spot to the cold air of the hotel air conditioning.

My turn. I pushed his face into the pillows and assumed a spot behind him so I could rim his butt. He smelled not only of soap, but of a scent I recognized from my college days, when every frat boy on the make wore Polo. Alejandro had not only washed himself out thoroughly, but had sprayed his ass cheeks with cologne for me. I preferred the natural scent to the artificial, so I buried my nose and mouth as deep into his butt as I could. He responded by helping me out. His hands grappled back to lift and pull apart his cheeks, urging me in more deeply. Again, he swore in Spanish, and I found it deeply arousing.

I’d retrieved my mobile bottle of lube from the car earlier that morning. It was still warm from baking in the glove compartment the day before, when I squirted a dollop into my palm and spread it onto my red and steel-hard meat. He wanted me inside him almost more than I wanted inside him; his hips ground back and tried to seek out my dick’s tip even before I’d maneuvered it into range. “Calm down there, tiger,” I said to him. “You’ll get what you came for.”

He responded with something I didn’t understand. To my ears, though, it sounded like, Fuck me. Fuck me.

I slid into him. He opened like a fast-blossoming rose, spreading out so quickly and effortlessly it took my breath away. I had to stop when I reached the base, out of the unusual fear of shooting too quickly. When I encounter an unusually submissive bottom, the way his hole spreads to accommodate me and then grips down to keep me in often leaves me wanting to fuck hard right from the start, and Alejandro was begging to be banged. I didn’t hold back, and immediately began pounding his ass hard. With every collision of my hips to his ass, his cheeks vibrated and danced to my rhythm. His hands reached out and clutched one of the pillows. With a little whimper, he pulled it to his face and buried his nose and brow in its cool white cotton.

I fucked him on my knees, and then lying atop him with his legs pulled together, and on his side. But my dick best liked him in a doggie position with his ass in the air. At the bed’s edge I slammed in and out of him as his hands frantically played with his enormous uncut meat. From time to time I let my own hands slip down and between his thighs, where they would come away soaked from the precum leaking from his copious foreskin.

Alejandro could tell by my breathing when I was close to shooting. He responded by pressing his forehead against the mattress, as if he was attempting a headstand. His back arched. He seemed to watching me fucking him from underneath and upside down, as he beat his dick to a climax. We ended up shooting at the same time. I clenched and let loose only a split-second before he.

Alejandro’s load landed with a splat on the hotel bedspread. My dick slipped out of him. A moment later, my load slid from his well-fucked hole and dripped next to his own. So yes, gentlemen, when later this year or the next a news reporter investigates unusually large semen stains in a Stamford hotel in order to generate shock and horror ratings for the local stations, those will be mine, thank you very much.

We dressed fairly soon afterward, saying very little, and exchanging a quick kiss before I let him out into the hallway’s bright lights. We didn’t really need to speak, though. When in unison both of us had roared and groaned, then panted, and sighed, then at last we’d spoken the same language.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Skinny Papi Edition

There must've been something in the water in my future home state, when I was visiting there this week, to make me attractive to the local men. The local Latin men, specifically.

Every time I'd go online, I'd have Latin boys and men sending me outrageously flattering emails that forced me to wonder if there was a collective myopia among them. Or perhaps they were all super-horny at the same time. It's been known to happen. I consoled myself with the notion that for a couple of days at least, I was simply the new meat in town.

Then I was walking along a city street on the one day I had to myself, minding my business and checking out the various restaurants and shops, when I stopped at a corner to wait for the crossing signal. From across the street I heard a gruff and heavily accented voice call out, "Hey! Skinny papi!" Naturally I looked. A handsome Latin man sat on a park bench. Although the day was cloudy and cool, he wore a tank top that showed off enormous, ropy biceps covered in ink. A pencil-thin mustache perched at the lowermost slope of his lip. When he saw me looking, he nodded and smirked. "Yeah, you, skinny papi! You look like you need to eat something!" I raised my eyebrows, but let me face remain blank. "I'll feed you," he said. Then, in case he'd been too subtle, to make sure I got his meaning he grabbed the meaty bulge hanging down the left leg of his checkered pants. "I got something for you to eat, all right."

Well, who could resist a charming come-on like that? I cracked a grin at his audacity, which in turn made him let loose with the most crooked and cocky smile I've seen in a long time. I certainly wasn't going to take him up on his offer right then and there, and the light changed. "Peace, baby!" he called out as I stepped into the street and walked away. Then he pursed his lips a little and gave me a wink.

All I can say is that if he's typical of the men there, I'm ready to pack the rest of my stuff.

I have to thank you guys for the questions you submitted to formspring.me this week while I was away. I needed more questions to consider, and Breeder's Readers responded with over two dozen truly thought-provoking queries, dirty and clean. I'll be collating some past answers here this week—and of course, if you have any questions of your own, feel free to ask them either at that website (which allows you to ask questions anonymously), or by following the email link in the sidebar.

Have you ever had sex in a private airplane? in a commercial airliner?
Nope, not at all.

there is a fellow on xtube with a profile pic very similar to you on u on xtube?
You'd have to tell me who he is so I could check him out. Sadly, I am not psychic. My profile on Xtube is under mrsteed64.

any advice for a kinky young man who has just started exploring his homosexuality?
Absolutely. The number one thing would be to enjoy yourself. Your dick is made for pleasure. Use it.

Number two: don't let fear hold you back from experiencing life--including and especially your sexual life. Plunge in and try the things that give you pause.

Finally: take care of yourself. You only get one go-round.

Hey. Just happened on to this site over the weekend. Glad I found it. 51 yo married gay man...with less experience than I want with a man. You've given me the courage to go for it! completely I understand if you can't answer this question, but wo
I didn't get the question part. But knowing me, probably yes, I would. You should too.

Do I assume correctly that your Ph.D. work was somehow apropos English linguistics or writing or theater or~more generally~humanities?
My grad studies were in literature.

Have you ever had sex with a cousin of yours?
No, the few cousins I have are a generation younger than myself. I've barely met them, to be honest.

Which hand do you use when you masturbate?
I use them both. I'm ambidextrous when I masturbate. However, my right hand has a tendency to do most of the shaft and head work, while my left hand works on my balls and squeezes the base. I like a lot of sensation.

i'm guy from yesterday...how do you manage to get so much action with a family? could use your advice
I have more flexibility with my schedule, thanks to my career in the arts. I don't have a normal 9-to-5 office job; I arrange my days as I see fit in order to have home time, work time, and play time.

Even when I had a typical office job, however, I was usually scheduling sex on my lunch breaks, or during office hours. The shit I got away with....

What would you prefer in a sex partner - enthusiastic but a little clumsy or technically skilled but low energy/less engaged?
I'll take the former, every time. Low energy and less engaged will make my boner wilt. It's easier to dampen high energy and train someone to be more skilled than it is to get a low-energy person to pretend to enjoy himself.

So you obviously pride yourself on being an amazing top. Can you give us newbies some "nuts-and-bolts"-level tips on what makes a good top? Specifically what kidns of things do you do that makes you so good? Do's and Dont's?
You've got an interesting question because it's made me think long and hard (no pun intended) about exactly what makes a good top. Some of the conclusions I've reached include:

1) A good top is often the leader of an encounter. That means taking the initiative and setting the expectations. It may involve some bossing-around or direction of the bottom guy. Your chances are pretty good that he'll like that. If you're not an assertive type, you might want to exercise your authority while in the bedroom, because it really doesn't take much to become a leader when two guys are hard and ready for sex. The slightest of prompts will often do.

2) A good top is sensitive to the bottom's needs. I know there are a lot of tops out there who make a career out of being dicks who only care about their own orgasms. Yes, I know. And sometimes there are bottoms who just want to be used. That in itself, though, is a bottom's need, and if it's what the bottom wants, the top should be attuned enough to recognize it and deliver a hard, impersonal pounding. Likewise, if a bottom wants to be romanced and made love to, a good top will respond to that.

I do, anyway. But often I think I lose too much of my own desires when I'm with another guy and conform myself to be the yang to his yin, in order to make the perfect circle.

3) A good top delivers what he promises. If you're a five-minute man, don't talk a big game and fall short on the actual delivery. Word will get around, trust me. Either advertise up front that you're in an-and-out slamfuck looking for a quick cumdump (because there are plenty of bottoms who'll accommodate you), or fill out the encounter with a lot of foreplaly that'll keep the bottom happy until you mount and shoot quickly.

My general do's and don'ts would include: don't be an asshole, be polite, say 'thank you' afterward, and even get to know your sexual partners. Sometimes all they want is someone to be kind to them, to desire them, and to stick around for a couple of minutes after to have a real human conversation.

How do you like being well-endowed? In my experience, some hung guys love being told how big they are and the attention it brings, others find it a turnoff.
I am proud of my equipment, and love being generously hung. My dick gets me attention wherever I go, and it photographs well. What's not to like about that?

Sometimes I will admit I can tend to be treated like a dildo attached to a human body. If I'm not in the mood, that can be irritating. But I'd rather be endowed as I am than not at all, anyway.

Have you ever trysted with your nextdoor neighbor?
Never. I've never had a next-door neighbor worth fucking though. And my backdoor neighbor, on whom I had a crush, moved.

You're buying a new suit; you're trying it on; the tailor is measuring the pants' length; the tailor unzips your pants & begins to try to pleasure your penis. Has it happened to you?
I cannot say it has. When I was growing up there was a clerk in the boy's department of Sears who would bump against me suspiciously when he'd take my inseam, but it never led anywhere.

Where are you getting hit on by college-aged guys?
Where? On my blog. On yahoo. On Twitter. On online sex sites. In bars. In campus cruising spots. And on college campuses.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

A Saturday Quickie

One of Breeder's Readers sent me a gift from my Amazon wish list recently. I have to admit it's the first pair of trunks I've owned that had a special loop to hold my business.

I'm back safely from my short jaunt—just exhausted. We'll be back to a more regular routine next week.

(And no comments on Two-Twenties? You guys disappoint me. Sniffle)

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Being Stupid

(Since I'm out of town visiting my future home state, I'm posting an older entry from my journal so that you guys won't miss me. This entry is from 2004.)

Though my face was buried in the pillow, I could feel the cold wetness of the lubricant as he drizzled it over the cleft of my buttocks. “So beautiful,” he whispered, running the top joints of his fingers into the crack. In their wake, the lubricant cascaded further down, tickling the furthest reaches of my sac as he rubbed his fingers in a circle over my hole. “You enjoy that, don’t you?” he asked.

My agreement arrived as a grunt.

His hand moved away for a moment as he took time to ease the lube over his cock’s length. The room’s cool air suddenly chilled square inches of my flesh I rarely expose, causing me to contract; just as quickly I relaxed again as he climbed on the mattress and eased himself on top of me. I carried his weight completely. “Beautiful,” he whispered again.

I’d been sick of writing, that Saturday night. I’d needed some kind of physical activity to distract me from the world of words. I’d chosen him because of his hair—short, brown, fine, and spiky—and for eyes of a blue so pale they might have been grey. He had to be at least twenty years older than I. In a way I didn’t want to examine too closely, despite his age he resembled photographs of my father during his youth: lanky, fit, a kind face. Perhaps he reminded me of my father because he had that vaguely military hair style that all adult men seemed to have in the Kennedy era.

I wasn’t thinking of family or of photographs, though, when he started to grind and slide against me. I wasn’t thinking of anything but his cock, long and hard, easing a path along my cleft and gliding over my body’s curves until it crested at the base of my spine. He seemed content simply to rub himself over me, one of his hands twisting what he could grab of my hair and pushing my face deeper into the pillow. Occasionally I would moan, unable under his weight and pressure to form coherent words. “This is why I’m glad to love men,” he whispered in the darkness. “Sex between us is so primal. So basic. You like the sensations, don’t you, pretty boy?”

I nodded once. Under the force of his hand, the pilllow’s rough case seemed to grate against my cheek. Thankfully, he released me. I propped myself up on my elbows and tried to look at him over my shoulders. To either side, his taut, muscular arms supported his upper body, staunch as flying buttresses. “I needed to see someone tonight,” he whispered in my ear. “I live too much in my head.”

I only nodded. I understood the feeling. “I teach,” he said, somehow compelled to talk to me while he continued his frottage. He named a large university an hour away. “I teach Shakespeare there. Have you heard of Shakespeare, boy?” he asked, once more grabbing my hair and wrenching around my head.

I once taught Shakespeare to college students. At that moment, though, when my ability to articulate was vanishing rapidly, all I could rasp out was “Everybody’s heard of Shakespeare.”

I’d said too much. He pushed me all the way down until I was flat on the bed, barely able to inhale under his bulk. Still his cock continued sliding over the slick surface of my skin, harder and more insistent. “Sure they have, baby. I know you haven’t heard of the other men I study, though. Marlowe. Webster. Sydney.” He panted slightly.

I knew them all.

“You know why? Because boys like you don’t have to.” A firm thrust now. Its friction burned. “All you have to do to get through life is lie there. . . .” He thrust again, two, three times, his voice reduced to a scrape of noise in his throat. “. . . and look pretty.” His breathing became faster, his tone resentful. “Isn’t it? You fucking pretty boys don’t have to be smart, like I do.”

After one more giant thrust forward, he came. I felt his semen puddling onto the small of my back, and then slowly seeping to the sides as he huffed and puffed his way to rest. Once more the room’s cool air chilled the tracks of his wetness as they lazily trailed down my sides toward the mattress.

I lay there almost exhausted, as if I’d actually done anything more than provide him a pair of butt cheeks to rub between. And I wondered if I ought to be offended that he thought I was content to be an intellectual midget. He’d been condescending and, by almost any standard, fairly rude about his assessment of my worth, especially based on nothing more than fifteen minutes’ worth of nakedness together.

I kept my mouth shut while he dressed and left.

After the door closed, I still didn’t move. I was happy to be drifting between contemplation and sleep. I was dozily content. It felt relaxing to be pretty. Even if I knew the sensation would last only for a few minutes, it was wonderful to be stupid.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


(Since I'm out of town visiting my future home state, I'm posting an older entry from my journal so that you guys won't miss me. This entry is from 2004. I can't imagine typing the words "I hate my body" today.)

The invitation that arrived by email was so long and complicated, so heavy with qualifications and codicils, that my first reaction was that it couldn’t be real. My second reaction was that it had to be written by a lawyer.

It was an request to attend a hotel blackout party—essentially it was a hotel sex party with a lot of cloak and dagger pretensions. I eyed the invitation’s FAQ. Yes, there was a FAQ.

What kind of men would be present? All races, body types, and ages, with no restrictions.

What goes on at these parties? Sex.

How do I know who will be attending? You won’t.

Is this legal? This particular question went into a lot of detail—nearly a page’s worth—about the legality of hotel sex parties, essentially boiling down to the reassurance that as long as they remained drug-free and that all the members in attendance were of legal age, there would be no repercussions.

Then, down at the very bottom of the three-page email was a personal note from the party’s organizer: Hi, I hope you don’t mind the invitation. A friend of yours said you’d be perfect for this. Marcus.

A hundred questions came to mind. What friend? Perfect how? Do I really want to go to an orgy where the organizer has taken out a certificate of insurance?

A couple of days later, my friend Chris caught me online. “Did you get an invitation to this blackout party?” he asked me. Almost immediately I thought that maybe he’d been the ‘friend’ to tell the party’s organizer about me; Chris and I have known each other for years. He’s another top who, because of a slight limp, has always been self-conscious about meeting other men for sex; he’s worried that one of them will make fun of his slight lameness, I think. To him I’m the sex equivalent of Life Cereal’s Mikey; since I’ll try almost anything, he’ll send guys my way and then ask for a full report afterward. If they’re assholes, he’ll avoid them. If they seem like nice guys, he’ll usually follow up by meeting them himself, or inviting us both for a three-way.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Did you tell this Marcus guy I’d be perfect for it?”

“No, why?” he asked.

Well, I had to strike that theory. “Did you get an invitation?” I asked. “Are you going?”

“I will if you will,” he said. “No one will notice my limp if all the lights are turned off, right?”

“You worry too much about your limp,” I told him for the four hundredth time. “But I’ll go if you go.”

The night of the party, we ended up out in Ann Arbor, sitting in Chris’s car in the designated hotel parking lot. At the appropriate time stated in our follow-up email, we called Mike’s number on Chris’ cell phone and spoke the appropriate words: We’re here for the party. We both had to provide our email addresses so that they could be checked against the master list of party attendees. We were then rewarded with the hotel room number—for a hotel that happened to be across the street.

By the time we finally straggled up to the remote room, I was in a mood. I’d driven too far and had spent too much time shaving to be subjected to this nonsense. My mood wasn’t much elevated when the door opened a crack in response to my knock, obviously on the chain. All we could see was an eye. “What?” asked a deep voice.

“We’re here for the. . . .”

Before Chris could finish his sentence, the door slammed shut. We heard the sound of the chain bouncing against it, and then it opened again. “Get in.”

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. We stood in the outer room of a hotel suite, where around the wall’s edges were a desk, a couple of sofas, and a television set. In the blue-white glow, I could finally see our host—a handsome black man of middle height and a muscular build, looking us up and down so that the product on his longish hair shone from the TV’s light. “I’m Marcus,” he addressed me, his voice low. “And I’m going to need to see your ID.”

I balked. “Why?”

“You don’t look old enough to be here,” he said.

“I’m forty!”

I had my wallet halfway pulled out when, without warning, he stepped close to me, and took the back of my head in one of his hands, pulling me down. “You are in no way forty,” he told me. “With that baby face?” He released me, and I staggered back a little. “You might be two twenties, but you’re not forty.” I didn’t know whether to resent the manhandling, or relish the compliment. A broad smile broke out on my lips as I went with the latter. “You’re cute, Two-Twenties. Okay. Meet the other guys.”

There were other guys in the room, amazingly enough. Not many. Two of them were friends of Chris whom I’d not met, but of whom I knew a little about. There was a large bald guy spread across one of the sofas refusing to look at anything but the television. And there was a chatty older gentleman whose every exhale sounded like the heart-heavy sigh of an ground adolescent girl. “I thought there were about thirty guys who signed up for this,” Chris said.

Mike explained that yes, there had been close to forty people who’d said they were definitely coming, but that we were the only ones who had actually showed. It was like that at every party, he said; literally dozens of people would promise to come, but only one out of five would actually make the effort. Those who never showed were never invited back. “So we’ll wait a few minutes,” he said, “and then we’ll get started. If you guys want to. Hey, Two-Twenties,” he said to me. “C’mon. I’ll show you around the place.”

He put his hand on my ass and led me from the outer room of the suite through a door. “There’s a closet in here,” he said, pointing immediately to the left. “And a bathroom, in case anyone needs to clean up.” Behind me, I could hear the sounds of tentative conversation, but Marcus and I were the only ones in the sanctity of the bedroom. “The bed is nice and comfortable. Try it out.” His hand still rested on my left buttock. “Go on,” he repeated. “Try it out.”

I wasn’t exactly sure whether or not he was coming on to me or not, at this point. Sure, he was paying me attention, but at the same time, I felt slightly patronized, as if I was once again mistakenly being treated as a pretty boy. So I sat down on the bed and bounced a little. “Nice,” I decreed. He stood in front of me. I waited a moment to see if he’d do anything. When he didn’t, I took to my feet again. “Very nice,” I said.

“Maybe if you took your clothes off, the party might get started,” he suggested. Again, there was a pause in which we both waited. All I could think was, me? I hate my body. Why did I have to be the one who was naked while everyone else was clothed and watching television? When I didn’t reply immediately, Mike extended his hand and laid it on my other butt cheek. “Come on, Two-Twenties,” he said. “Let’s see if anyone else shows up.”

No one else did. For a very long half hour, the other men lounged in the chairs in the living room while I leaned against the wall, Marcus standing next to me. He told us about other parties he’d thrown where as many as fifteen people showed, and others where it was only him and one other guy. Every five minutes, one of Chris’s friends would clear his throat and say something about he wished the party would start already. “Tell Two-Twenties here,” Marcus would say, nodding at me.

I’d just nod and roll my eyes.

Eventually, though, I did start to get antsy. We’d been there for nearly forty minutes, after an hour drive and several minutes in the parking lot, and I was beginning to question the worth of all the time invested so far. So I slipped away and pretended I was going into the bathroom. So what if I have body issues? I’d been planning to get naked anyway, hadn’t I, although not necessarily first? What did I have to lose? I removed my clothes and stowed them away in a neat stack at the top of the closet shelving and, wearing nothing but a cock ring, lay in the dark atop the bed. Surprisingly, no one noticed my absence for three or four minutes, until finally, Marcus called back in his deep voice, “What’re you doing back there, Two-Twenties?”

“What do you think?” I called back.

A thin sickle from the streetlamp outside was the only light in the room, but it was enough to see shadowy forms. He stepped into the room to find me with my hands wrapped around my erect cock, my feet flat on the bed, legs bent. A hiss escaped from between his teeth. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he whispered.

I heard the popping of buttons escaping through holes, and the tinkle of his belt buckle being unfastened. Then he was on top of me. His skin was so dark that I couldn’t really see him as clearly as he saw me, but I could feel that the lawyer was all muscle, from the curves of his shoulders to the almost porn movie roundness of his butt. He smelled of aftershave and sweat as he pinned me down against the pillows. His fingers clenched my wrist, moving my hand down to his dick—it was larger and thicker than mine, but just as hard. He positioned himself between my legs so that its head knocked repeatedly against my hole, demanding an answer.

I was glad he kissed well; kissing’s the one act to which I respond most passionately. While we made out, grunting and groaning as we thrust against each other, I was dimly aware that the other men had made their way back into the room. The bed shifted slightly as someone sat on its edge; I could hear clothes being removed, words being spoken. But mostly my attention was on Marcus, the things he was doing with his hands to my nipples, my cock, my ass, and of our tongues forcing themselves into each other’s mouths.

“I’ve got to have that,” he said at last, releasing me from his weight. “You gonna give me some of that, Two-Twenties?” His ridiculous nickname for me just made me all the hotter for him. I nodded. I didn’t know what the hell he wanted—my ass? My mouth?—but I would’ve surrendered it gladly. “Good,” he whispered. He dumped a bag of accessories onto the bed, rummaging through its contents to grab the necessary equipment. I heard the rustle of cellophane, the snap of a lube bottle opening, the splurt of liquid. He grabbed at my cock and got it ready, and then before I could even really comprehend what was happening, he was on top of me again, straddling me and lowering his ass down onto me.

He was tight—very tight. But I slid right in, and he groaned at every inch. When I touched bottom, he let it rest for a minute, grabbing onto my hands and shuddering. Then he started to grind his hips, milking me, letting his weight rest on my shoulders. I felt someone else’s hand slide up my leg to my balls, playing briefly with the smooth skin there. Then another hand from the other side, as the party’s other guests one by one felt for themselves the spot where he and I joined. The room was quiet save for our heavy breathing and our grunts. My eyes were mostly closed, but I could sense the other people watching our shadowy forms heave and grind into each other, and hear them masturbating.

“After I nut I’m going to flip you over, Two-Twenties,” Marcus promised. “I’m going to flip you over and give it right back to you. You up for it?”

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t—and still haven’t—been topped in something approaching two years at this point, and the thought of doing it and having to wimp out halfway-in frightened me. At the same time, I was aroused enough that I believed wimping out wouldn’t be a possibility. “I want you in me.”

“I’m gonna be in you like you’re in me, Two-Twenties.” He relished saying the nickname, over and over again. “Two-Twenties is going to get my inches up his ass after I . . . oh, shit, yeah!”

The dirty talk always makes me fuck harder. From my position my back I drove up into him, meeting him mid-grind. “You are hot,” I said.

“I had my eye on you when you walked in, boy. Twoooo-Twenties! I wanted . . . shit!”

I felt the first spurt across my forehead, warm and wet and copious; the second flew over my head and landed on the pillow, where it immediately dripped down into my hair. He came freely, yelling with his teeth clenched, until the last spurt dripped out and into my navel. Marcus fell forward, our chests glued together by his fluids. His lips brushed against mine, then moved to my neck, where I could feel his labored breathing. After another moment, my still-hard cock plopped out of his hole. A hand reached out and squeezed it, then vanished.

For a moment we both lay there, our breathing becoming longer and more regular. Then I heard a noise in my ear. Marcus was snoring.

He’d fallen asleep on top of me.

It was nice, for a little while. I like the closeness and the intimacy of that. But then my arms began to sleep from where he still clutched them. He felt heavier and heavier. So I slipped out from under him. Slipped out, that is, in a process that involved shoving him off inch by inch while I tried to reclaim my limbs. I almost hoped he’d wake up while it happened, but he still snored away. All hopes of having my bottomless streak evaporated.

By the time I finally extracted myself from beneath him, the other men had disappeared. The older gentleman had left the hotel room altogether, as had the bald guy; Chris’s two friends were already in their clothing and saying their farewells. Chris himself was smoking a cigarette in the outer room while he pulled on his sneakers. “Damned good show,” he said. “You two were hot.”

I had to admit to a lot of disappointment. “Is that it?” I was still hard; I hadn’t been satisfied. My sex partner had fallen asleep on top of me and everyone else was leaving. “Is that all there is to a blackout hotel sex party?” I asked, quite aware I sounded like a Peggy Lee parody.

“What’re you talking about?” Chris wanted to know, genuinely surprised that I didn’t seem content. “You had fun. I got off watching. And best of all, I don’t think anyone noticed my foot.”

I wrote Marcus the next day, thanking him nicely for the invitation, and asking who had recommended me.

I still haven’t heard a reply.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

The Demon Lover

(Since I'm out of town visiting my future home state, I'm posting an older entry from my journal so that you guys won't miss me. This entry is from 2005.)

Out of nowhere I remembered him last night, surname first, a tickle in the back of my mind while I was having an unrelated conversation with someone. Didn’t you used to know someone with a German last name? my brain wanted to know. A few seconds later, it returned its own answer. Yes, you did. His name was Dennis.

God, I hadn’t thought about Dennis in years and years. Why was he popping into my head?

I’d met him in 1989, when he walked by a bench on campus where I’d been sitting with a book. At the time he was one of the most striking-looking men I’d ever seen; his most prominent feature was his enormous mane of hair, long and blond with darker streaks near his temples. It hung down his shoulders and nearly to his waist, framing a bony, masculine face with two of the smallest eyes I’ve ever seen. They were like slits, those eyes, dark and glistening like a snake’s. Despite the length of his hair, there wasn’t anything feminine about him. With his narrow waist and deep chest, his round and firm shoulders and the way he stomped down the sidewalk by the classroom building where I taught my literature classes, he struck me more as what a demon might look like had he taken form out from thin air. I half-expected to see horns growing from his head.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to stare at him. His eyes met mine as he past, the sun glinting from their obsidian-like hardness, almost frightening me enough to look away . . . but not quite. Though he kept walking, neither of us broke eye contact until he was a dozen feet away. Only then did I remember to breathe. Yet when he turned around near the door of the classroom building to look at me once more, I felt as if I was choking. He jerked his head, indicating for me to follow. Not knowing why—or maybe knowing all too well—I gathered my books and stood to my feet, shaky as a new-born colt.

I followed him down the hallway and up the stairs, thrilling every time he’d glance back to see if I still trailed behind. At the end of an empty hall he veered and disappeared into a little-used men’s room. Barely had I entered when he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the center stall. My books tumbled onto the floor. I didn’t stop to see where they lay.

His mouth was on mine almost immediately. Even today I can remember that the rough stubble on his face scratched against my skin almost painfully, and that he smelled sharp and almost wild, like a bed of pine needles after a rainfall. His hands flew down the front of his shirt, snapping buttons through their holes until his shirt flew off and over the back of the john, then releasing the buttons of his jeans until they fell around his ankles. He was unclothed even before I’d had a chance to take in what was happening—and he was so, so beautiful. He looked as if he’d been created to be seen naked. I could have circled my hands around his narrow waist and the fingers might have touched. Everything was perfect. His butt, perfect. The light muscles of his shoulders and the dark blond fur on his chest, perfect. “So hot,” he whispered in my ear before he devoured it. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about me or himself. “So hot!”

He managed to free me of my clothes and we stood there naked in the men’s room stall. I wasn’t even aware of my surroundings. We groped and pawed and licked and sucked each other for several minutes. His hair was everywhere, blanketing us from time and the world and good common sense. I remember that at one point he lifted himself up using the partitions as parallel bars and in a particularly athletic move, face-fucked me with a cock that made mine seem like a wee, tiny thing, while wrapping both his legs around my back. Mostly, though, he would slam me against the steel walls of our cubicle and whisper things to me. How beautiful he found me. What he wanted me to do. How deep he wanted me inside him. “I wish we were in a bed together,” he groaned. “A real bed. Right now.”

I managed to gasp out that I lived only a three-minute walk away.

I don’t remember how our clothes managed to find their way back on, or how I collected my books, but scarcely a minute later we were sprint across campus. He told me his name, Dennis. “You probably saw me as Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet this year,” he said, swaggering. “My reviews were superb.” Oh, I thought to myself, with a touch of understanding for his overblown flattery. An actor.

In the apartment he acted as if he’d been there before. Somewhere in the dimly-remembered trip between the front door and the bed, I thought maybe he had, sometime in my dreams. How else could I account for the way he knew exactly what buttons to push, where to touch to make me groan, exactly what to say to leave me speechless? “I want you inside me,” he insisted, spitting on his fingers and letting his hands guiding my cock to his hole. “You have to fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

“I don’t have any con—” He didn’t care. He yanked at my hips and pulled me inside him, thrashing as I entered with one surprised stroke. Neither of us lasted very long, after that. I don’t remember my own orgasm. I do remember his: several sprays of fluid shot in a long arc over his body and head, landing with a splatter against the wall over my headboard.

I didn’t even know that was possible, before then.

“We have to see each other again. We can’t just let this slip away,” Dennis murmured to me over and over again as I lay there, dazed. When I came to, I wrote down my phone number and name on a slip of paper for him. He kissed me long and hard against my apartment door, promising over and over that we’d become good friends and lovers.

And of course, it never turned out that way. I didn’t hear from him at all, no matter how much I willed the phone to ring. My thoughts of Dennis faded—a good memory of a nearly-perfect afternoon with a stranger who’d vanished as suddenly as he’d come into my life. Sixteen years later, I could barely remember his name.

I googled him, of course. I found his resume and headshot listed in a west coast theater company. His face after a decade and a half was unfamiliar, though I recognized his eyes, small and gleaming. He had no hair at all. Male pattern baldness had taken that from him, and not even his close-cropped buzz could conceal it. He was handsome. Settled. Successful, even. Yet he wasn’t the Dennis I remembered.

I closed off the browser with a little bit of sadness. I preferred the hungry, almost other-worldly Dennis that sometimes I'd imagined I’d conjured for myself. I preferred the demon lover with the wild and unruly hair with whom, as we’d come close, I had mutually whipped up a small whirlwind of passion and lust.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Dirty Instamatic Monday

These photos are from a lunchtime restroom encounter I had several years ago at a favorite cruising spot. You can see the guy sitting on a toilet seat in one of the photos, in fact. We crammed into a booth and had some fast-and-dirty suck-and-fuck action before anyone could catch us.

As always, clicking on the photos will take you to a larger version.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Road Trip Edition

Gentle Readers,

I will be away for most of this week, as I head on a road trip across the country to the state where I'll be moving in a couple of months. I kind of thought it would be nice to, you know, actually see the darned place before I move there.

Fear not, however—I've got you covered. While I'm gone, I've loaded up my blog to give you some dirty photos and a few sexy past journal entries. Save for the travel expenses at my end, it'll be like I've gone nowhere at all, right?

My bank of questions at formspring.me is running low. Very low. If you've ever had a hankering to ask me anything dirty, now would be the time. Surely we haven't scraped the very bottom of the barrel that is my sexual life, have we? The nice thing about formspring is that you can ask what you'd like anonymously, and no one will judge you for it. Least of all me!

So, shaving? 1) the back? 2) the cock? 3) the balls 4) the hole. For your sex partners - and for you? Kirk in Atlanta (no back hair, shaved cock, balls, and hole)
I would never ask a guy to shave himself--unless he was into that, in which case I'd possibly help him.

I find extremely smooth and shaved guys very sexy. I also find hairy men sexy.

I don't have any back hair (that I know of). I trim my own pubes short, and shave around my dick. I also shave my balls. My hole I leave alone--it doesn't get much attention anyway.

Sadly, I also have to shave my ears.

How'd you first meet Scruffy?
He messaged me on Manhunt. I answered back and was pleasantly surprised to have him in my bed within twenty minutes.

I saw him three times in the space of a week, and after that we started to see each other as regularly as possible. He's quite easily the favorite of my regulars.

It would be interesting were Scruffy to breed you...just once...but one knows that that will never happen.
I never say never. I think it'd be interesting to see how and if that worked--but I don't know that he's wired that way any more than I am.

Have you been taking Scruffy bare from the beginning?

Does Scruffy read your blog?
I don't know. I doubt it. I don't think he'd find any fault with anything I've written about him, though.

With the Eagle gone, where's the uniform/fetish crowd in Detroit?
Most of the Eagle crowd had migrated to the Hayloft long before the Eagle closed, along with the R&R downtown. I've never been to the latter. Someone should take me.

Did a certain French professor "breach your backdoor?"
Yes, he did, though I think honestly he preferred oral. (This question obviously is of interest only to those who went to my small Southern college, but I've discovered there are several of you reading.)

if an 18 year-old virgin asked you to breed his virginity away, would you do it?
If he asked me, yes, I would.

Have you ever done any acting, either as a professional or as an amateur?
I acted as a kid in community theater. I also acted in college, but not since then.

When did you most recently bottom to anybody?
The last time I bottomed successfully--that is, full penetration, and my partner getting off in my ass--was about seven years ago. It may be closer to eight, at this point.

Which is the bigger event, the fucking or the breeding?
I enjoy the fucking more. If the sex is really good, I don't need to shoot to be happy.

Conversely, if the sex is not that great, I'd usually kind of like to shoot and get it over with. That consideration isn't as big for me, though.

I don't like the word "breed". Makes me feel like a fat farm animal. Silly?
I think the word's intent is to objectify you, to turn you into little more than a receptacle for the stud's semen. Silly? No. Your feelings are your own and you should honor them.

Many tops get off on the concept of using you like an animal, though.

Is it weird that I feel intimidated by you?
I believe you. I just get so intimidated by so many other people that I naturally scoff at the notion of being intimidating to someone else.

What academic degrees do you have?
I have a B.A. and an M.A. I studied for a Ph.D. but dropped out when I realized I didn't want to be an academic for the rest of my life.

is there anything you won't do?
I have a few sexual limits, including anything that draws blood, involves feces, extreme pain, or me cross-dressing.

More importantly, I won't deliberately be an ass or hurtful to someone unless they've done something richly to deserve it. I won't make a date and then simply not show. I won't misrepresent my age or stats or what I'm into, or use photos that aren't of me. I think those things are more important in the end.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Monkey See, Monkey Do

When he walked into the bar last night, all my friends’ heads turned. They always have, at the sight of him. He’s a sexy man.

He’s not tall, or particularly muscular. His eyes are too tiny and set too far apart, and his forehead is too broad for him to be called classically handsome. What he has, though, is a degree of swagger. He strides into a room with his shoulders back and his jaw jutting, so that people notice the leanness of his waist, the broadness of his shoulders. They’ll overlook the small size of his eyes to see how blue they are, and miss the Neanderthal brow to admire the crisp planes of his military-cut hair. Like I said, he’s a sexy man.

“God, he’s hot,” said my friend Milton. “Look at him. He’s so hot. I bet he’s hung like a horse.”

“Mmm,” I said in non-committal tones.

“I bet he’s—” Milton picked up on my lack of affect. “Oh shit. You haven’t. Have you? You have. Fuck.” I didn’t say a thing, though I was smiling in a way that answered his question. “You have. Fuck. Is there anyone in this bar you haven’t done? Anyone at all?”

“There is a entire bar full of men I haven’t done. Yet,” I said to Milton. Then, mischievously, “Except one.”

“God damn you,” he said, slugging back his drink. “Is he hung like a horse? I bet he is. Is he? Is he hung like a horse? He has to be hung like a horse.” I shook my head. “You’re lying. He’s hung like a horse.”

Sadly, the guy isn’t even hung like My Pretty Pony.

I have always thought of him as Monkey—primarily because I don’t know his name. We met on Manhunt a few years ago, one summer day when he’d been begging me for my dick and I wanted to get off before dinner. He’s been weird about meeting, that first time—he lived in a subdivision he claimed was too complicated to navigate on my own, so he wanted to meet me in a parking lot and then have me follow him to his apartment. The so-called complicated part was apparently turning into the main drive of the subdivision and making a right. I can see how I might’ve messed that one up. Once he parked in front of his place, he stepped out of the car, tossed the keys into the air and caught them in a jaunty way, and swaggered his way to the front door. I followed.

He was a fine hunk of guy, and online he’d wanted to do dirty things to me. I thought it was going to be hot, once the door closed and we were alone. I was kind of wrong.

For one thing, the Monkey didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t kiss. He didn’t like a man to put his hand on his chest, or his legs, or anywhere that wasn’t between his waist and his thighs. He didn’t want to remove his soccer shirt, or lower his pants past the knees. His dick was short, yes, but I didn’t care. I’m not someone who measures the worth of a guy by the length of his penis. If the Monkey only had three inches, I didn’t mind as long as he knew what to do with those three inches.

But the thing was, he didn’t do much at all with them, save sit down and allow me to suck him off. The first time we met, I ate him for a considerable time with little to no response other than spurts of pre-cum, a rigid mouthful of dick, and eventually a squirt of semen that I swallowed. I had to stand up and thrust my own inches in his face in order to get him to make good on his internet vows to eat me like a peppermint stick. Even then, it wasn’t until the tip of my dick was at his lips that they parted and I had any indication that he was going to follow through.

He sucked well enough that day to get me close to shooting, which is rare. I warned him when I was close. “You want me to cum in your mouth?” I asked, and he shrugged. I took it for a yes. I held the back of his neck when I started to pump out the sperm. His mouth gulped hungrily around my meat while I came. Then the absolute moment I was through, he lurched up from the sofa with one hand on his pants to keep himself from falling on his face, and raced to the kitchen. Then he spat my load into the sink, ran the garbage disposal, pumped dishwashing soap into his hands, rinsed them off, rubbed the lather onto his face, rinsed that off, and then proceeded to wash his dick. It was just as frenzied and desperate as a kitchen sink version of the disinfectant scene of Silkwood. I was a little bit offended by the whole thing.

Not so offended, however, that I didn’t go back twice more. Same thing both times. Online, when he’d see me on Manhunt, he’d tell me how hot I was and how he had to have me, and how he wanted my dick and cum. When I’d arrive, I’d fellate him while he pretended I wasn’t there. Then I’d have to compel him to suck me, after which he’d run frantically to the kitchen and purge himself of my disgusting dick-germs and possible leprosy.

Hot as hell or not, I’d had enough of it after those handful of times. Because there was something else that bothered me—I’d frequently see the Monkey at a bar I frequented, and he’d never fucking say hello. Oh, he’d notice me. I would see him staring in my direction when I’d enter, and I could tell he was deliberately avoiding my glance when I’d walk by on my way to the restroom. But he cut me cold and dead the first time I waved his way, casually, and I never tried again after that.

I know that some people don’t like their sexual life aired in public. I get it. But last week at the very same bar I saw the Bulldog, one of my past encounters. He’s a man of few words, but even he clapped me on the shoulder as he walked by at one point and shook my hand in greeting. Most other tricks I know will nod discreetly or raise their hand in greeting when we pass, even if they’re with their boyfriends or wives. I’m not the kind of guy who yells out, “Thanks for letting me slobber over your big old fuckstick!” in front of a crowd. But it seems to me simple courtesy to treat someone you’ve exchanged fluids with as if they’re a human being with feelings who might like to be acknowledged. You know?

It’s the entire online/in-person disparity that I never understand with the Monkey. When I see him out and about, he acts as if he wishes I were anywhere else, even if I was between his knees. Online he’s hot for me to the point of stalkerish-ness. This morning I got a note from him on Manhunt, time-stamped last night after he must’ve left the bar, that said, Seeing you drives me fucking crazy. Please please please feed me your dick again.

And you know, tempting as the offer is to see my thick cock going in and out of those pretty lips, I’m going to have to pass. Head-turner or not, I want the respect more than I need the blow job.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Lawn Boy: Part 2

(Continued from yesterday.)

I remember that I’d expected to be cooler in Mr. Morgenfeld’s study, once I was out of the heat and the sun. His office was stuffy, though, and not as chilly as the rest of the air-conditioned house. The only circulating air came from the door I’d just entered. I’d actually been more comfortable outside, moving around and keeping a light breeze on my face and skin. “I didn’t bring any water,” I told him. Can I get something to drink?”

It was a lie. I’d left the house that morning with my father’s old army surplus canteen, which was in kind of gross condition, never kept anything cool, and always imparted to whatever was inside a dark metallic taste like swamp water. I’d left it out beneath a bush, though, and if challenged, I was prepared to say it was empty. Mr. Morgenfeld didn’t attempt to contradict me, though. Instead, in a strangled voice, he choked out syllables until finally he managed to say, “Well, um, sure, honey.” I didn’t make a move to find the kitchen on my own, so at last he had to rise from the ottoman and expose his arousal.

He was still hard, that much I could tell. He kept his hands crossed over his crotch and remained hunched over in an entirely unnatural position until he’d gotten to his feet, and then whipped around to turn from me and scamper out of the room. With pity, I noticed he had a tiny hole in his white underpants the size of a pinky tip.

I felt very much in control that day, I remember vividly. I often did, with older men. Very seldom did they want to take charge when they were with me; I had to give them permission to do what they wanted. Sometimes it was harder work than mowing lawns. I was entirely without guilt or remorse as I stood and waited for what felt like a very long time for the man to return from his kitchen. When at last he did, bearing a cheerful decorated glass filled with ice and Country Time pink lemonade, his hand shook as he proffered it. “Mrs. Morgenfeld won’t mind if you take that right outside,” he suggested.

Unfortunately for him, I was single-minded enough not to take the hint. I took the drink and sat right down on an overstuffed armchair, where I slumped back, spread my legs, and took a slow and deliberate sip of the too-sweet liquid. Plainly uncomfortable, he sat back down on the ottoman opposite, nervously cracking his knuckles. I let my eyes drop down to his open legs, where his dick was bulging in his tighty whities. He’d softened some, but not by much. At my glance, he lifted one leg and crossed it over the other, at the knee. “So are you looking forward to school?” he asked.

I shrugged. We sat in silence for a few moments, me taking minuscule sips of the lemonade, he anxiously tapping his fingertips upon his hairy kneecap. Mr. Morgenfeld wasn’t a bad-looking guy, I decided then. The glasses and his profession had made me dismiss him as a sort of knock-off of my father. He might have been a little older than my dad, but he had a good face, behind those thick rims. And the curly hair was pretty cute on a man his age. Yeah, I thought to myself. I wanted to do this.

“What grade will you be in?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Instead, I placed the glass down on his coffee table, prompting him to uncross his legs, lean forward, and find a coaster for it. I decided to use the move that I typically used in the park or when I was street cruising, which was to let a few of my fingertips move to the place where my cock head lay beneath the denim of my jeans. His eyes flicked from my face down to where my legs were spread, then hastily back up again. “Do you have a favorite subject, honey?’

I’d been semi-hard before, but my bold action made me feel like a bad, bad boy. My dick swelled so that its bulge was visible. I curled my fingers slightly and rubbed against the underside of my shaft.

Mr. Morgenfeld gulped visibly. “Don’t you like the lemonade?” he asked. “Do you want something else? Iced tea?”

“Your dick,” I said. Then, more loudly, "I want your dick."

I’d thought it was a smooth, improvised line when it popped into my head. It shocked the hell out of Mr. Morgenfeld, though. “My . . . my penis?” he asked in a choked voice, so sincerely taken aback that for a moment I thought I’d gotten the wrong idea entirely about him standing in the doorway masturbating as he watched me—like, maybe he had the itchy heartbreak of psoriasis down there?

But no, I knew I was right. I had good instincts about these things. “I want it,” I said. When he didn’t say anything, I scooted forward from the armchair, dropped down to my knees, and parted his knees with my hands.

He stopped me in a panic, holding one of my hands very tightly in his while he stared into my eyes. His legs went rigid. Then, just as suddenly, he let go of my hand and let his legs go limp, so that I could continue to open them. The bulge in his pants thickened and twitched. Again, he halted my progress. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing, son.” Oh yes, I did. I ignored his words. “Have you . . . have you done this before? You can’t have.”

I’d gotten far enough with him that I knew he was going to go through with it. If he’d been serious about throwing me out, he would’ve done it long before. I stripped off my damp shirt so that my naked torso glistened in the office light. I didn’t care what I had to do. I was determined to get that dick.

I was reminded of that game kids play in which they slap one hand atop each other’s, and then remove the bottommost from the stack to slap on top, faster and faster. I’d use one hand to pull open his legs and he’d stop me; I’d use my other to push at his other leg, and he’d stop that. Then we’d start the whole thing over again. Finally I reached the goal, though, and grabbed a handful of his dick through the white cotton. It was mostly hard, but still spongy around the head. “You can’t want to do this, honey,” he said.

“Let me just see it,” I begged.

After a moment, he relented. He stretched out the waistband so that I could see his penis. It was uncut, which was a rarity in that particular area of the south. Mr. Morgenfeld had some of the biggest balls I’d ever seen, as well—a dangerous shade of red, they were. And his dick was thicker than just about any I’d had. It couldn’t have been any more than six or six and a half inches, but it was a hooded monster, and I wanted it. “Now, that’s enough of this nonsense,” he said firmly, trying to regain the upper hand. “Curiosity in a boy your age is natural, but. . . .”

“Let me suck it.” It wasn’t a request. I was announcing my intentions

He seemed to realize how deadly serious I was. “You can’t . . . you shouldn’t. . . .”

It was too late. He wasn’t seriously fighting me off. His protests were of the token sort that I was already learning men make out of weak habit and for the sake of propriety, than out of any real desire. Before he could really make a genuine resistance, I had a mouthful of that uncut dick, and a mouthful only, as he attempted to keep me off it by remaining bent at the waist. Gradually, however, and as he realized I wasn’t going to relent, he settled back in the chair. His legs parted more easily. He allowed me access to another inch, and then another, and finally the entire shaft.

Mr. Morgenfeld had a great dick, that’s for sure. I’ve always been surprised throughout my life when the most nebbishy and nerdy of men have the most solid and beautiful of tools. His hand rested on the back of my head for a moment. Then he jerked it away, as if afraid to betray the need such a simple gesture betrayed. At that moment I didn’t care whether he whispered endearments to me or treated me like shit. I just wanted to suck. I wanted his dick in his mouth, and I wanted his load, in that order. The style in which he gave them to me didn’t matter, so long as I got them.

I could tell by the way he wheezed and huffed that I wasn’t going to be sucking him long. At least he’d stopped fighting me, and was letting me do my job. I didn’t even have to use my hand on him. My mouth was doing the trick. I’d been sucking him for all of about a minute when his breathing became louder and more forced. He attempted to back away from me and pull his dick out of my mouth, but there was really nowhere for him to go. Besides, I wasn’t going to lose the load I’d worked so hard to get. Even as he bucked and attempted to reclaim his cock, I latched onto it with all my might. I felt his balls contract and shift and his hips involuntarily begin to lunge forward. Then I found my mouth flooded—absolutely flooded—with several large gushes of semen. The fluid was salty and thick and seemed to keep coming. I’d rarely met anyone who’d given me so much to eat, but in several gulps I swallowed it all. Only when it was down and I’d sucked off the last bits from the tip did I finally let loose of him.

He was staring at me, shaking his head. “You haven’t done that before. Right?” I didn’t answer. I grabbed my T-shirt and pulled it back on while he watched. I didn’t bother tucking it in. While I tried to tame my sex hair, he cleared his throat. “Man who lieth with man as he lieth with a woman, commits abomination.” My eyes evaded his and I edge toward the door. I didn’t hold much truck with the religious intimidation, not even then. If I was going to get a hypocritical lecture from someone who'd enjoyed his blow job as much as I, then I would rather walk out before it started. To my surprise, though, Mr. Morgenfeld followed up the verse with a chuckle. “But Lord above, seldom has sinning felt so good.”

I left Mr. Morgenfeld’s house with a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket that day, and the taste of his sperm still in my mouth.

I would’ve settled for the usual twelve.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Lawn Boy: Part 1

I was reminded of an incident the other day, when talking to a friend on the phone.

When I was a kid, my dad made me into a lawn-cutting entrepreneur. Partly it was to teach me responsibility and the workings of a business—almost immediately he was making me keep a chart on graph paper of the jobs for which I was contracted, as well as a record of my payments. Included in his life lessons, too, was training on the concept of overhead. From the money I made when I trundled out our family’s own lawn mower for another neighbor’s yard, I had to pay for gas and a twice-yearly mower tune-up. The record-keeping was very anal, but I certainly learned how it was done.

My dad’s other goal in putting me to work was to provide cheap labor for members of our church. The church in which I grew up did not exactly have a youthful congregation. A large percentage of members were either well-seasoned academics, or retired faculty from the local Presbyterian seminary in our neighborhood. My father reasoned that there was no reason for frail seventy-year-old Mrs. Appleby, whose late husband had taught Latin for forty-odd years before passing away, to be pushing a lawn mower around her back yard when young, hardy, shiftless me could be doing it. “You want that old woman to have a heart attack and die over the lawn mower and roast there like a side of barbecue?” he’d ask in one of his less subtle moments of argument. “Huh? Do you?”

So from the age of fourteen until I went to college, I mowed. I mowed poor Mrs. Appleby’s yard, and I mowed the yard of the equally spindly elderly sisters down the street, and the yard of plump Mr. Ogilvie, who would bake while I attacked his grass and then give me a handful of oatmeal raisin cookies, after. I shoved that hateful mower over what seemed like most of the little city in which we lived, despising the scent of hot fuel mixed with chopped greenery. (And to this day, I absolutely hate mowing the lawn. It is the one household task I refuse to do. So far I’ve gotten away with it by pretending to be uncertain about how the electric mower works. Ssshh. Our little secret.)

Of all the houses I took care of, the Morgenfelds lived at the greatest distance. Their charming house sat on a solid acre and a half right on the edge of the seminary. Mr. Morgenfeld was a curly-headed, bespectacled professor specializing in the history of Christianity in Scandinavia. To my fourteen-year-old self he was positively ancient—so I’m guessing that he was roughly fifty. His wife was a pretty, older Danish woman with translucent pale skin and naturally pink cheeks, who used to say that Mr. Morgenfeld was such a stereotype of the absent-minded professor that they’d taken their particular house so that when he forgot to meet his classes, all he had to do was run across the street to reach the lecture hall.

The Morgenfelds’ lawn was so enormous that cutting it usually netted me twelve dollars instead of the usual five. It took seemingly forever, too, as I pushed their dollhouse mower through the weeds. (I preferred using their equipment, so that I didn’t have to deduct overhead from my fee.) For the first four or five times I mowed for them, I resented every moment of it. Nice people though they both were, I grumbled obscenities in my head while I mowed, wondering what kind of stupid people were stupid enough to buy such a big house with stupid grass that grew back week after week.

I didn’t say I was logical. I said I was fourteen.

It was perhaps in my second month of mowing for them that everything changed. Mrs. Morgenfeld had a secretarial job at a magazine connected with the seminary, and tended to be gone in the daytimes when I was doing the yard work for them over the summer. I’d tackled most of the house’s acreage and was working on the back yard, sweating and muttering and sneezing all at the same time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught motion behind the French doors that led to the Morgenfeld’s patio.

I turned my head not so much out of curiosity, but from reflex, wondering what it was. The doors opened into Mr. Morgenfeld’s study, and were lined with long lacy draperies that could be pulled to the sides to admit light. They were mostly closed, then. One of them was swaying, as if from the wind, or an invisible hand. I didn’t think anything about it, right away. A few minutes later, though, when I’d paused for a moment to wipe away from the sweat from my face with the hem of my T-shirt, I saw the curtain jerk. Someone had been behind it, pulling it back to watch me, and had dropped it when I’d looked over. And that someone was Mr. Morgenfeld.

Curious now, I kept my eye on the back doors whenever I came near. As my angle of vision changed, I could tell that Mr. Morgenfeld was standing behind the lacy curtain, staring at me. At first I thought that perhaps he was just checking up on my lawnsmanship. Then, gradually, I realized he was doing what men do when they’re alone. He was masturbating.

I could tell because, for one thing, when he thought I wasn’t looking his way, he would lift the curtain with one hand and make it easier to see that he was standing there in his shirt and his white briefs. His pants, presumably, were either completely off, or around his ankles. Grumpy and not thrilled about cutting grass I might have been at that age, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that there were a lot of men—a lot of married men—who enjoyed looking at guys younger than themselves. Enough of them had fucked me in the parks, or fed me loads in the restrooms around the city. It surprised me that absent-minded, horn-rimmed Mr. Morgenfeld was one of them. But it surprised me only a little.

When I finished up a few minutes later, I had a boner in my jeans that wouldn’t quit. My father had told me never to cut lawns in shorts, because if the spinning blades passed over a rock or branch and sent it flying, the projectile would slice off my leg if it didn’t have the protection of a thin layer of denim. The advice was perhaps kindly meant, but the fact I never questioned its practicality in the middle of Virginia’s hundred-degree summers meant that I was usually sweating like a pig but the time I was done. Mr. Morgenfeld answered the front door with his pants on, but there was a spot of moisture at a certain point on his right leg that told me he’d either just shot a load, or was pumping out enough pre-cum that it had stained when he’d gotten dress. I accepted my twelve dollars, got the hell out of there, and went home and masturbated furiously, thinking about being watched.

The next couple of times I cut Mr. Morgenfeld’s lawn, I kept an eye on the back doors. Sure enough, behind the curtains, Mr. Morgenfeld lurked. He’d draw back the lace when he thought I was too far to see, and would masturbate while he watched me push the mower. I couldn’t spy his dick, but I could see his hand working over it. Sometimes the curtain would jiggle in time with his stroking. Suddenly cutting the Morgenfelds’ lawn had gotten a lot more interesting.

It was perhaps the third cutting after my positive attitude change that I decided to do something about the situation. I don’t know how I knew it—I didn’t have any exposure to porn of any kind, and this was in the distant prehistoric days before the internet—but somehow I had an instinct that the dirty old man spying on the lawn boy was one of the hoariest cliches in the book. I didn’t care. I decided to put on a show for the guy.

Midway through my lawn cutting I stopped the mower beneath the shade of the catalpa tree in the middle of the back yard. I took off my T-shirt slowly and languorously, making sure to stretch my arms over my head and show off my torso. Then I used my shirt to mop off not only my face, which was drenched in sweat, but the rest of my body, which pretty much was not. In a voice honed by two community theater productions, I projected loudly, as I announced to nobody in particular save the catalpa, “Whoo! It sure is hot today!”

Oh, I was a little ham. I was one ten-gallon hat away from being a one-boy touring company of 110 in the Shade. Thinking back on it, I’m vaguely embarrassed for myself. I was a tall, skinny blond kid with enormous glasses, long hair, and no real body to speak of, and yet I was convinced I was putting on a strip tease that rivaled Gypsy Rose Lee. My little pantomime had really done the trick, though. I wasn’t facing the French doors, but from the corner of my vision I could see Mr. Morgenfeld standing not behind the curtain, but unshielded and looking through the partly-open door in the darkened study, his right hand clenching and releasing the dick poking out of his pulled-down briefs. Only when I stuffed my T-shirt in the back of my jeans and proceeded to start mowing again did he step back behind the curtain.

I was a smug little bastard. I loved knowing that I had him watching my every move. The taste of triumph motivated me to boldness. I made up my mind I was going to do something about it.

I didn’t really have much of a plan. But when my circuit took me by the patio again, I made up my mind. Without much warning or thought, I slowed the little mower and let its engine sputter to a stop. Then I marched up the grassy rise, crossed the paving bricks, and pulled back the door that was already slightly open. I heard a yelp, followed by the stumbling of feet. “Hello?” I said. “Mr Morgenfeld?”

“I’m here, honey,” he replied, trying to sound as normal as possible. It’s not uncommon, in the Southern city in which I grew up, for an older man to call a younger one honey. Last spring when I visited my old home town, the elderly guy behind the CVS counter wished me a good night with the endearment after I’d bought razors from him. It’s only at those moments I realize how much I miss the friendly custom. “My goodness, it certainly is hot,” he said, in his mild-mannered voice. “You’ll have to excuse me! I don’t know what happened to my. . . .”

If he’d intended to say pants, I could have answered that question for him. They were lying crumpled on the floor by the doors, complete with belt. I had to step over them to enter the study. And there, in the middle of the room, sitting on an ottoman with his legs crossed in a vain attempt to hide his very visible erection, was Mr. Morgenfeld in nothing but a worn dress shirt, dark socks, and a pair of white briefs.

(To be continued tomorrow.)

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Literary Tuesday

I know, I hear you asking, Literary Tuesday? Where's my smut?

Fear not. Today I'd like to share the tale with you of a deeply sexual man . . . a literary man, and a teacher. A man who began having sex with other men early in his life, and found it so thrilling and erotic that he devoted an entire secret life to it that he obsessively documented in his personal files and diaries. A creative artist who fucked his way through hundreds upon hundreds of men over the decades as he chronicled his sexual escapades in obsessive detail.

Wait, why do you think I'm talking about myself?

One of Breeder's Readers whom I can now claim as an acquaintance, Justin Spring, has written a biography that's hitting the shelves today. Secret Historian: The Life and Times of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade (Farrar, Straus and Giroux) is a look at a little-known but pivotal figure in gay American history. As Publisher's Weekly says:

Life in the closet proves boisterous indeed in this biography of an iconic figure of the pre-Stonewall gay demimonde. Steward (1909–1993) was an English professor, a novelist who wrote both well-received literary fiction and gay porn, a confidant of Gertrude Stein and Thornton Wilder, a furtive but exuberant erotic adventurer whose taste for sailors, rough trade, and violent sadomasochism endeared him to sex researcher Alfred Kinsey; later in life, he became Phil Sparrow, official tattoo artist of the Oakland, Calif., Hell's Angels. Spring fleshes out this colorful story by quoting copiously from his subject's highly literate journals and sex diaries—his Stud File contained entries on trysts with everyone from Rudolph Valentino to Rock Hudson—which afford an unabashed account of Steward's erotic picaresque and the yearnings that drove it. (His swerve from academia into tattooing, with its mix of physical pain and proximity to nubile male flesh, was essentially a fetish turned into a business.) Spring's sympathetic and entertaining story of a life registers the limitations imposed on homosexuals by a repressive society, but also celebrates the creativity and daring with which Steward tested them.
I downloaded the first two chapters of the book as a sample on my iPad and thoroughly enjoyed them; I can't wait to purchase the book today and find out what happens next. Steward's life leaps from one erotic escapade to the next, it seems, and I'm fascinated to see how he became connected with many of the literary names of the early twentieth century, as well as his strange relationship with Alfred Kinsey. The New York Times recently published an article on the work that only whetted my appetite for more.

I hope my not-so-subtle plug for a new friend's work is urging you to run to your local bookseller or your online vendor of choice to purchase what looks like a fascinating document about a man obsessed with documenting his sexual yearnings.

And honestly, I don't know why you thought I was talking about myself. Sheesh. You guys.

Monday, August 16, 2010


When he meets with clients, or works with the big three for the auto show, he’s known as Aaron. When he contacts me, he calls himself Cunt.

I’ve seen him in action as Aaron, the salt-and-pepper-haired daddy who commands respect as he organizes the biggest displays for the manufacturers. He wears tight dress slacks that show off his beefy butt, roped tight by an flawless black leather belt. His tailored shirts hug his body; his neckties are expensive and pristine. More often though, I’ve seen him as Cunt. Those times, he’s ass-up, hungry, and aching for my dick.

I’ve fucked Cunt for a good twelve years at this point, I’m guessing. It was shortly after I’d moved into my current home that he came over the first time. He wasn’t Cunt, then. He was a top who was relatively new to bottoming—and not very good or relaxed at it, either. Two years later he’d accepted his desires and learned how to please cock with his ass, and we settled into a more or less unvarying routine to which we stick, every time we meet.

Here are the things Cunt won’t do: kiss, suck, or use his mouth for anything but occasional replies to my commands. Here’s what he does very well: pussy up for a big dick. We don’t make love. We fuck. When I visit him, as I did Friday at dinnertime, I park in front of his exquisitely-maintained bungalow that’s only a ten-minute drive from my own home. I stroll up the manicured sidewalk, open the storm door, and find the front entrance ajar. No matter what the season, the inside of his home always smells like the ashes of fire logs, and of the oil he uses to keep shiny the leather of his living room sofas. If it’s winter, I’ll shuck my coat and my boots. Otherwise, I’ll head up the stairs and turn left, where the master bedroom door will be open.

And there he’ll be, kneeling on the bed. Ass-up, waiting, in the same position he assumed the moment I messaged to tell him I was on my way. Hole exposed and vulnerable. Cunt.

Cunt’s moved his bed to the center of the bedroom. A television rests on a ledge close by. Below the bed’s head is a bookcase, and a small stand where rests the latest issue of The New Yorker, open so that he can read while he waits for me in the position. On the bed corner rests a stack of small hand towels and a cylinder of lube.

Friday evening, when I strolled into the room and saw that familiar ass, I whistled as I kicked off my sandals. Off went my cargo shorts. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear—just the shiny gold-colored cock ring that the Astrologist had accidentally left behind the week before. “Nice,” I said. Without any preliminaries, I knelt down on the hardwood floor and buried my face between his cheeks.

He grunted slightly as I licked at his hole. I’d asked him specifically not to pre-lube. Since the Cunt doesn’t suck or make out, I need a way to get hard, and diving into an ass with my mouth is the surest way. Cunt doesn’t have a tight little hole. There’s nothing little about that well-used chute at this point. The lips of his ass began to pucker and bulge the more I sucked at it; there came a point when I could actually seize those lips with my teeth and chew on them. It was then that I got a real reaction. Cunt began to buck and grind his hips in the air, and to drive his butt backward so that I’d have no choice but to munch on them with even more vigor.

That’s when I stood up and backed away. Cunt doesn’t get to have an opinion or a say in what happens. Cunt’s just a cunt.

I snapped open the lube bottle and, using my middle two fingers, roughly shoved a dollop of it up the hole, and then slapped some on my dick. My entry into his ass was rough; I shoved half my dick in there without warning, and then waited while he hissed and contracted around it. Once he’d calmed down a little, I shoved the rest in. I didn’t say a word as I began to stroke, very slowly, in and out.

Cunt’s ass is round and meaty. In slacks it gives the appearance of being a muscle bubble butt because of the laws of compression. Surrendered to a top, it’s revealed to be very soft and pillowy, like a woman’s ample rear. I like that. It means that when I pound hard, the ass cushions my blows. His flesh quivers and rolls every time I slam against him—the perfect physics demonstration of the properties of waves. I slapped his ass hard enough to leave big red handprints, and all Cunt did was grunt. He likes to be plowed rough. It makes him feel as if he’s of use.

“Make it tight,” I commanded. They were the first words I’d said since the one I’d let drop on my entry. Immediately Cunt attempted to tighten his hole’s muscles to grip my dick. He did a good job. It wasn’t a vise-grip hold by any means, but my dick appreciated the extra pressure. It responded by letting loose a glob of pre-cum. “Good cunt,” I whispered.

It’s only a word. It’s a word that many gay men don’t like, but to Cunt, the word holds so much power that every time I utter it, it renders him helpless. He buried his forehead in the crook of his forearm and let out a sound that was more animal than human. I reached down and scritched my nails against his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

Cunt and I only fuck in one position. He doesn’t like to lie on his back and lift his legs in the air, or to roll on his side and spoon. He’d have to show his face, to do so. He’s a handsome man by any standard, but when I’m pants-down in his bedroom, he doesn’t want to be admired, or wooed. He shuns compliments and small talk. He wants my dick, and he wants it as deep, and rough, and hard as I can give it. For several long minutes I obliged. Gradually I built the tempo, increasing the frenzy of my fucking until I felt as if I was leaving bruises on his backside. I know my pelvis was sore.

Then again, without warning, I yanked my dick out. It glistened in the early evening sun. When he whimpered, I ignored it. “I could zip up and walk out right now,” I announced. He didn’t answer, so I said it again. “I could zip up and walk the hell out right now. And then what would your hole do for dick?”

When he replied—and I knew he would—his answer was small and shamed. “Don’t.”

“”Don’t what?” I said loudly. He muttered something. “I can’t hear you, cunt.”

Again, the word had power for him. His back arched; he lifted his ass higher in the air, trying to find my dick in unseen space. “Don’t leave,” he said. I knew the words cost him. “Breed me.”

When I nudged the tip of my dick against his hole, he tried to lunge back against it. I didn’t let him. “Why should I?”

“Because I need your dick,” he said. “Because I need your dick. I’m empty without your dick. Please, sir. Give me your dick. Give me your seed. Please give me your big dick.”

It was good enough to end my bluff. I shoved my meat back inside its warm home. The little interchange had brought me closer to orgasm than even the roughest part of the fucking. I rammed home so hard that the bed began to bounce forward and lodge into the little stand at its head; the New Yorker slid from its place onto the floor. His chest thrummed as he clutched at the sheets and growled out, in his loudest and most bestial voice, “Fuckin’ breed me.”

It’s the only command I ever follow from Cunt. I unloaded in him with several sharp thrusts. The bedroom was air conditioned, but I was sweating like a pig anyway; beads of perspiration fell from my forehead and the long lanks of my hair onto his back. One more sharp jolt, and a shudder, and then I was done. I stood still for a minute and let the sparks clear from my eyes. Then I withdrew.

My dick slopped out. A glob of my cum followed. It splatted onto the floorboards with an audible plop. I followed. My knees hit the wood and my face went back into his butt. Using both hands, I parted his cheeks so that I could get at his well-fucked ass lips, which were glistening with lube and the white streaks of my load. I’ve always loved the taste of my own cum. I especially like eating it from a hole I know is guaranteed to be clean, after I’ve delivered it.

When I stood up again, my face was as wet as his ass. My beard smelled of the fuck. It wouldn’t be the first time I left Cunt’s home reeking of sex and sweat. “More?” he asked.

“Gotta go.” I stepped into my sandals and then began hauling up my cargo shorts.

“More?” he asked again.

“Gotta go,” I said, meaning it. That’s when he flipped over on his back. His dick—a big, thick knob nearly as big as mine—was rock hard and an angry red. He scooped some of the mingled fluids from his hole and rubbed them into his engorged flesh. His eyes stared into mine as he began to stroke. I paused at the sight of his big, strong forearms working so hard over his meat. His pecs bounced as he jerked. My own shorts hung just below my balls; my half-erect dick began to stiffen again.

With my right hand, I stroked it fully into hardness. I hadn’t intended to stay, but I liked showing off while he watched. I knew he was looking at my dick, and imagining it inside him. The thought made me swell. My left hand still hooked the belt loops of my shorts so that they snugly held up my balls. There was enough cum and lube on my dick that as I ran my fist back and forth over it, the sound of slickness filled the bedroom.

I stood there, and he lay, while we stroked for each other. His eyes closed. Then, wordlessly, he convulsed. I watched as a geyser of sperm flew from the tip of his dick, two feet into the air. It splattered down onto his chest and face. He made no effort to wipe it away. He shook and shuddered with his silent orgasm. I simply stroked while I watched him.

Then his eyes opened. “More?” he said, just as hungrily as he had before he’d unloaded. He flipped onto his front, then pulled in his knees and sidled to the bed’s edge. Cunt was hungry.

I paused for only a moment before replying. “Yeah,” I said, dropping my shorts on the floor with a thud, and then stepping forward. “I can do that.”