Sunday, October 31, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Halloween Edition

For all of you celebrating the most festive gourd-centered holiday of the year tonight, I wish you a safe and fun time, full of treats and tricks. People have been asking me all month what I'm intending to dress as for Halloween. I've been telling them I'm coming as a sex god. Or an anal probe. One or the other.

As I always do on Sundays, I'll be assaying a few of those questions that you guys are considerate and creative enough to keep asking. If you've ever got questions for me, feel free to use formspring's anonymous service to make your inquiries. Additionally, you can email me directly, using the link on the sidebar. Over there to your right. No, a little further right. Yes, now down. Yes. Where it says email. You've got it. As long as the questions aren't repetitive or aggressively obnoxious, I'll tackle them for you!

In order to go bb on a guy, have you ever promised to pull out to cum? Have you promised and then shot inside anyway?
No, I'm pretty up front about what I expect and want, and don't resort to trickery to get it. I get plenty of offers without having to do that kind of thing.

Where's your buddy's gloryhole? ;-)
Head north from my house half a block, turn right, drive to the second light, and six blocks north of that, on the left-hand side.

What a cool buddy to share that experience with you. How did you guys meet?
I wrote about my buddy with the gloryhole in a blog entry at this address:

Have you ever won a karaoke night?
Indeed I have. Once. On a cruise ship.

Which do you prefer, doing a pump & dump, fucking a guy the way you want to, or fucking a guy the way you think he needs it (which may be different from what he asks of you)?
I will usually opt for fucking a guy the way I perceive he needs it. Often the style will indeed be the way he wants it. Sometimes, however, he'll not be aware how badly he needed a particular style until it's over and done.

Knowing what I want is sometimes a challenge. People close to me tell me often that I am too much of a chameleon when I fuck, melding into other people's coloration instead of displaying my own.

Aside from the time you were caught in the restroom by police (that was a great story), have you ever been caught in "the act" by say, a guy's wife or the mall restroom attendant?
I have not had any close calls in restrooms that were anything like that I experienced with the cops, in my teens. I did have a close call in which a very handsome guy I was fucking received an unexpected visit from his elderly father, mid-dicking. I think the father was more embarrassed at barging in with his key unannounced, than we were.

I seem to recall having another close call in my early twenties with a married man in which she actually made it to the bottom of the stairs (we were in the bedroom above), but the husband quickly asked her to go down and take out some hamburger from the freezer in the basement so it could thaw, and snuck me out the back door while she was down there.

So, with your profligate sharing of your body, its various parts, and its various fluids - have you ever spent energy sharing those same tasty delights with female recipients? I am a boy, but have a girl that is majorly turned on by your escapades.
I have indeed, many a time. Y'all should invite me over.

What are you some of your current favorite songs or most recent songs you've heard and liked ?
I'm too old to be a barometer for popular music. Lately I've been listening to Professor Green's new CD, "Alive 'Til I'm Dead" (his goofy "I Need You Tonight" is my favorite song this year), and the Pipettes' new release, "Earth vs. the Pipettes." I'm still playing the Scissor Sisters release from a few weeks back to death, too.

OMFG mate! As far as I'm concerned, everything you touch turns to GOLD...cock (yours, your trade and blog followers), sexual experiences and their corresponding musings. With that in mind, I often wonder what (or which) blogs, websites or groups YOU gra
Gra....vitate to? Grab? Grant my attention? My ravenous ego will scarcely let me type the following words, but that was almost too much compliment (thank you!), and not enough question!

When is the last time you had a penis in your bum?
Close to eight years ago, at this point.

What's on your "Things I want to do before leaving Michigan" list?
I have a list of favorite restaurants I want to visit. Most of them are little dive places of which I know I won't find the likes anywhere else.

There are a number of people I'd like to meet with again before I go. It's leaving behind people and sexual partners I really enjoy (some of whom I've enjoyed for years now) that stings the most.

Spooner or Spoonee? 
I definitely like both. I tend to be the spooner, though, because so many people like to be spooned.

You say you are a working artist. Please be more specific. It also sounds like you have taught at the college/university level. Please give me some details as I also have been in the arts and currently teach at a university internationally. Thank you!
I leave my exact area of expertise vague, so that I can maintain the laughable notion of a little bit of privacy. Yes, I'm aware that broadcasting my sex life daily to a bunch of strangers on the internet entitles me to precious little privacy, but let a guy have his illusions, won'tcha? Figuring out what kind of creative work I do is not that difficult, truthfully.

I hold down part-time teaching gigs at the college level when the whim strikes.

Do you prefer hairy and beefy, or skinny and smooth? a combination of either, or of something else?
I don't really have body type preferences that way. I find all kinds of bodies sexy. Attractiveness to me has more to do with attitude, stance, and expression than it does with cookie-cutter looks—and I'm always puzzled by those who are aroused by one specific combination of adjectives.

One of the reasons I find the bear community confusing, for example, is its insistence that it is more open to different body types than the rest of the gay community. In reality, it seems to be open to one specific body type (bearded, hairy, and large) to the exclusion of all others. I'm aware this is a massive generalization, but it's generally a shame when men are interested only in a specific look that is often close to their own.

I'm always impressed with your ability to focus on the individuals you have sex with, finding what is attractive in them rather than focusing on generic standards of beauty. Have you ever met someone you had to reject based entirely on their looks?
Thanks for that. It's true that I'm unlikely to reject guys on the basis of statistics alone--that is, I'm not going to pretend they're invisible because they're over two hundred pounds, or because they're above or below the age of 35, or because they've got a shade of skin that's not my own.

But yes, I reject guys on the basis of looks. There are certain triggers that will elicit a polite no-thank-you from me, including photographs that indicate the guy is living in squalor, bad smells if he's approaching me in person, or signs of excessive drug abuse. I don't ask that everyone I meet have invested in an orthodontist, but really bad teeth I usually associate with really bad breath, which is something else that turns me off in a hurry.

What will cause me to run in the opposite direction the fastest, however, is an aura or attitude of pathetic neediness. There's a big difference between hunger and desperation. The first is fed by both parties. The second is unreciprocated.

How are you in spontaneous sexual situations if the bottom doesn't have a chance to clean out? Indifferent? Turned off?
Some guys are naturally clean, whether as a result of their diet, genetics, or overall good health. If they haven't hosed out and I get a fleck or two on my dick, it can be washed off.

If I find a bottom hasn't cleaned out (or cleaned out well) and he's leaving actual streaks on me, or painting my dick brown, or if there's a noticeable smell, I'm likely to be turned off to the point that I'll either wash off and leave, or ask the guy to go.

Shit happens, and I'm philosophical when it does. There are limits, however.

Friday, October 29, 2010


Steam rises from the waters outside. He’s turned on the spa’s lights, tinted to the blue side of white, so that the vapor escapes into the chilly night air. From inside, where I’m lying on the sofa, I watch from the darkness, pretending to kill a little time with my computer while he takes a quick dip.

He plunges beneath the surface, disappearing suddenly, as if some unimaginable undersea horror had seized him by the ankle. Then he’s up again, sputtering and shaking the warm water from his hair. Droplets spray in every direction, splashing onto the deck flooring and leaving dark pools shining among the curled and drying maple leaves. He’s laughing to himself. He’s enjoying the sheer sensuality of the water lapping against his skin, his face, his naked body. Once again he disappears beneath the hot tub’s surface, plunging into the heated depths.

He’s smooth, and lean of hip. I can’t help but admire how fleetly he escapes the water when he’s done, slipping from it with barely a splash. He plants his sure feet on the deck’s planks, facing away from me. The towel I’ve given him he’s left on the railing. While he gropes for it, I admire his body—the even shoulders, the narrow waist, the surprisingly round and pert butt. He’s not at all self-conscious, this one. With steam still escaping every pore of his skin after the hot plunge, he stands in the chilly breezes and towels his hair, then his back. He doubles it up and runs it between his legs, letting the soft tissues between them dangle and swing with his exertions.

I envy that towel.

Finally he rests it on his shoulders and pads back into the house. When he pauses to wipe his damp feet on the mat inside the door, he looks to where I’ve been sitting and watching. He knew I was there, but perhaps the warm waters had erased all thoughts of me from his mind.

That’s when he smiles at me.

All the lesser attractions I’ve been witnessing vanish. The curves of his flesh, the flat lines of his abdomen, the planes and globes and perfect geometries over which I’ve been lusting—they all evaporate like the delicate steams of the tub into the night.

That smile is true beauty. It’s the one thing I want to remember, and always to see upon his face.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

You Knew He Was a No-Good Kid

I’ve been iffy on the show Glee since the very beginning. I find the pacing wildly uneven, the characters flimsy, and the plot lines absurd. Every time I watch it, I find myself asking why. But then Tuesday rolls around, and I find myself wondering what my favorite character Brittany is up to, and I tune in again. This week, the kids were putting on a novelty version of The Rocky Horror Show . . . with changes in the lyrics I thought were fairly sacrilegious.

The exercise was homogenized good fun enough to make me think about my own Rocky Horror experiences.

My first exposure to The Rocky Horror Picture Show came in 1982, when I was eighteen and a sophomore in college and living in special-interest housing on campus. One of my best friends lived with a young woman, Barb, whose claim to fame in a dorm full of second-year students forbidden to have a car on campus was that she was a junior with her own vehicle. Everyone wanted her as a friend, but because of my friendship with her roommate, I was on the first tier calling shotgun.

One of the odd hobbies that Barb had was going out on Saturday nights to see Rocky Horror. It had only been running as a midnight movie for a handful of years at that point, but if it had gotten as far as the boonies of Tidewater, Virginia, it was already well on the way to becoming the mainstream Saturday-night activity for freaks everywhere. I’d vaguely heard of it, the first time I agreed to go; I knew it was the film where people shouted stuff and threw things and talked back to the movie screen.

The only place that showed the movie was in Newport News, which was a good forty-five minutes from campus; the venue was a mall cineplex with narrow theaters and a perpetual odor of rancid popcorn topping. At midnight, there were only about a dozen of us sitting in the seats for the show. Then the lights went down.

LIIIIIPS! LET THERE BE LIPS! shouted the audience. And then the show began, and I saw for the first time a movie that also suffers from absurd plot lines, flimsy characters, and wildly uneven pacing.

The point of Rocky Horror was never the film itself, occasionally engaging and tuneful though it can be. It’s all about the audience floor show. The first time I saw a man dressed up as Frank N. Furter, it was something of a revelation; it was the closest I’d ever seen to a drag queen in my young life. When I saw the Magenta and Brad and Janet lookalikes prancing around up in front of the screen, miming and dancing as the action unfolded up above, I completely understood the charm. There were more kids in the show than in the audience, but it was a community ritual that kept me coming back for more all through my sophomore and junior years.

I wasn’t so regular that I ever entertained notions of joining the floor show. I went often enough, however, to appreciate the people who put in so much time and effort in maintaining their costumes and makeup for the event every week, and would clap loudly for their clumsy and endearing performances. After a certain point, though, I went for the guy who played Eddie.

I always found the middle section of Rocky Horror a little bit on the slow side—particularly after midnight. One showing when I had to pee, I snuck out after the dinner scene and went to the men’s room, where I was standing at the urinal when floor-show Eddie walked in. The singer Meatloaf plays Eddie in the movie, of course; he has one brief scene and then is carved up and spends the rest of the film in a coffin. That gave floor-show Eddie remarkably little to do for most of the evening. “Hey,” he said to me, when he swaggered in wearing his leather jacked and slicked-back pompadour. The restroom of the mall theater was as grungy and decrepit as the rest of the joint. There were only two urinals, so he stood at the one next to mine, and unzipped.

“Hey,” I said back, nodding at him. I tend to be pee-shy when people are talking to me. His proximity wasn’t helping. His jacket had that sharp, musty scent of vintage clothing; his hair stunk of whatever it was he’d put in to keep it under control. Floor-show Eddie wasn’t a slice cut from the Meatloaf pan. Instead, he was even taller than I and about as lean. And, I couldn’t help but notice when his dick flopped out, he was bigger than me down there, too. I averted my eyes.

He didn’t seem to notice any discomfort on my part, as I stood there and attempted to pee while he chatted away. “I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You come here a lot. With that girl.”

He meant Barb. “Yeah.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“Nope. Just a friend. A friend with a car.”

“Got it.” He seemed to understand. “I don’t got a girlfriend either. Well, I got this girl I’m seeing, but . . . you know.”

He was looking directly at me. I recognized the evaluative stare. Since peeing wasn’t an option, I let my dick harden in my hand.

He inched back from the urinal a tiny bit. His own meaty dick was stiffening rapidly from between the dark denim opening of his jeans. When I didn’t flinch, or run away, he stepped back a little more. His cock had to be a good nine inches, and very thick. I angled my body so that I faced him, showing off my dick as well. He looked it over and nodded. “You want some of this?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

I nodded.

I ended up sitting down in the stall on the toilet. He came in and fed me his dick, sliding it back and forth between my hungry lips. He was so girthy that I didn’t think I’d be able to swallow it for long; my jaw ached from the effort of accommodating him. Luckily he didn’t last long. His hands grasped the tops of the metal door frame as he thrust in and out, fucking my mouth with a lust-driven vengeance. Spurts of semen clogged my throat. His hands grasped at the back of my neck, holding me on his dick as if he thought I might try to escape. A little longer he held me there, until I swallowed.

And then he was done. He buckled and zipped, then nodded at me. “All right. Thanks man.” I waited a couple of minutes after he’d exited before I slipped back into my seat, just in time for “Rose Tint My World.”

That night started a little ritual that seemed as inevitable as the squirt guns or the toast. Every time I’d hit the theater, I’d leave my seat after the dinner scene and blow floor show Eddie, then return from my assignation and finish out the rest of the movie. We never discussed getting together for more. I never learned the guy’s name. Thinking of him as Eddie suited me fine. In the floor show, he was a low-down cheap little punk—with a tasty dick.

It wasn’t until years and years later, when I bought the DVD of the movie and watched it again that I got to the “Planet Schmanet” sequence and had absolutely no memory of it. “Was this in the original movie?” I asked people who’d know. They all assured me it was.

Then I realized I’d probably never seen it because while Brad and Janet are accusing Frank of being a hot dog, I was chowing down every week at my own personal restroom concession stand.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

A Patient Man

“I’m not going to shoot again,” I told the man, admitting defeat. We lay in the dark, long after midnight, Sunday morning. Both of us lay on our sides, where we’d more or less collapsed after my fourth orgasm. I was still inside him, connected dick to hole.

Anyone looking at us from above would have thought we were complicated puzzle pieces. I was in more or less a fetal position, with most of my weight on my left hip; he lay curled into a ball on his right side, his ankles using the curve of my neck as stirrups. His head lay off the bed’s side. The hall lamp had long ago been turned off by its timer. The neighbors had snuffed out their lights and gone to bed. All that was left to illuminate our faces was the faint glow of my clock radio, and the moon.

“Don’t pull out.” His words were a mere whisper, more command than plea. I was fine with it. All the fucking we’d done had stretched out his hole so that it was a wet, juicy cocoon. I never wanted to have to emerge. We lay there, quiet and tranquil, worn out from our exertions. “So what’s the most loads you’ve left in a guy?”

“In a single guy?” I thought back to my affair with Nurse David, a decade ago, and the long, lazy, rainy afternoon we’d spent just like this one, curled up in the dark on his air mattress. “Seven.” He responded with the gentlest motion of his hips, rocking them back and forth over my quiescent but still-stiff meat. “Why, are you thinking of breaking that record?”

“I might be.”

“I really don’t think I’m going to shoot again,” I said, chuckling a little.

His response was sincere and understanding, both. “I’m a patient man.”

I’d met Martin that night out of a sense of obligation. He’s one of those men connected with one of the big local industries around town. For years, once a week he flies in town for three days out of the week, before returning home to his family in another midwestern metropolis. He’s hit me up many times for sex, but we’d never before connected. Our schedules didn’t mesh, for one thing—he’d be hunting at night when I couldn’t get away, or I’d be looking in the mornings right before he’d be heading off to his meetings for the day.

For another thing, I was slightly prejudiced against the guy. Another top in town to whom I no longer speak had recommended him to me as a good fuck; the fact that Martin had given himself to someone I didn’t like or trust made me irrationally think of him as damaged goods somehow. I intended to get around to him sooner or later, but for a few months, later had been fine with me.

Saturday night, though, I was horny and looking for someone to take me. Martin was online and offered to come to my place. Our schedules were meshing, and extreme horniness has a tendency to erode light ill-will. So I told him to come on over.

None of his photos had shown a face, instead choosing to display his body from the neck down. It was a fine body, lean and muscular and covered with fur that had never seen a pair of clippers. In my head I’d envisioned the kind of face that would sit on top of that body—weathered, salt-and-pepper-haired, a natural complexion from years of no moisturizers. A little homely, maybe. That’s why I was not prepared for what emerged from the dark street as Martin stepped into the pool of light shrining from my porch lamp.

I wrote not so long ago about guys who are ugly-sexy—so unhandsome in traditional ways that they somehow manage to be irresistible. Martin, when he climbed up onto my porch and stood there in his loose sweatpants and white T-shirt, was the opposite of that. He was so incredibly handsome that the force of it struck me like a hideous apparition. I wanted to hold my hand up in front of my face to block out the sight, so intense it was. He was in his forties, like me, but he could easily have been a male model still for some upscale chain of men’s stores who specialize in expensive, rugged wear. His hair was the sort of dark metallic blond that could have been spun into gold thread. His eyes were the paints the Old Masters used for their achingly blue skies. I couldn’t look at him all at once, it was so painful. I could only snatch bits, here and there, and hope the sight didn’t burn my retinas.

Which is why I liked the darkness, where his looks couldn’t blind me. “And what’s the longest you’ve been inside a guy?” he asked, softly rocking back and forth.

I thought back to Nurse David again, that same day I gave him seven loads. “About four hours.”

“Without pulling out?”

“We swapped positions a few times. But except for that, I was inside him the entire time.”

“I was wondering,” he ventured, sounding as if he were being careful, “whether you were like this always, or whether the stiffness was . . . assisted.”

I laughed a little. I like talking in the dark, after sex. It’s one of those times that men open up and speak about anything. The inhibitions are down, the stakes are low. Most of the time, if the guys haven’t fucked it up somehow, they’re feeling kindly and open with each other. He could’ve asked me almost anything after four loads and I wouldn’t have taken it the wrong way. “I took Viagra exactly once. It gave me a killer headache and made my face feel like I was leaning too close to a campfire. My dick didn’t really notice a difference.”


He was doing something different with his hole, now. He had to have been contracting and releasing his muscles, squeezing and relaxing against my dick. To me it felt as if I was in a hot tub, with my cock being pulled at gently by some kind of whirlpool. “What’s the longest someone has been in you?”

“How long have we been at it?”

“Two and a half hours.”

I could see his dimpled chin nod. “About that, then.”

I felt oddly complimented. “Do you need me to pull out?”

“No. Hell no.” It seemed almost unfair that, gifted in face and body as the man was, his voice was so deep and melodic, and matter-of-fact. “I like a guy who knows what my hole’s made for.”

“What you’re made for,” I corrected.

“What I’m made for,” he agreed.

For a long time we lay there, talking in the darkness. My hands stroked his hairy legs as we talked about the local cruising spots we both enjoyed visiting. He asked if I’d ever fucked in the sling at the local bathhouse; I told him we should visit the place together sometime when he was in town, share a room, and see how many other guys we could get to join us. He told me about his exploits at the local adult bookstore. I told him about mine at the rest stop on the interstate south of the city. We compared notes on the campus libraries of the colleges we knew in the area.

And all the time he kept up the motion with his hips, rocking, rocking, or relaxing and tensing to keep me hard. It wasn’t until he shifted his weight and started to climb back on top of me that I realized what he was doing. “I honestly don’t think. . . .”

“Ssshh,” he said, almost as quiet as the night. “Just let me.”

I wasn’t going to argue with pleasure. Without letting me loose, he pulled his legs into a kneeling position on either side of my rib cage, and began riding me. He’d twined his fingers in mine at first to balance himself, but once he was stable, he pushed them down into the mattress and held them there, so that I couldn’t move. I put up a pretense of fighting back, but he was firm. I was going to lie there, and he was going to ride, in total control.

I was stiff again, but almost couldn’t feel anything. I hadn’t peed in all that time, and fretted about disappointing the guy by not giving him a fifth load. Martin didn’t care, though. He simply wanted my dick in him. His eyes closed. His head tilted to the side, as if he listened to music inaudible to anyone save himself. He was lost in the moment, in becoming a sexual gyroscope that twisted and pulled in every direction. Gradually, I relaxed too. I forgot about my bladder, and about my worries, and just let him grind, and clench, and release.

I was surprised when a few minutes later I felt the familiar sensation of my balls rising, and my scrotum becoming tighter. When I swallowed, my throat was dry. “Fuck,” I managed to rasp out. His eyes opened, then. When he looked at me, those soft blue eyes became hard. Glittering. He pushed down my hands harder, transferred his pressure to the wrists. Then he began to drive harder. Anyone looking at our tangled bodies, might have confusedly thought for a moment that he was fucking me. “You’re stealing it,” I gasped out. “You’re fucking stealing this load from me. Whether I want to give it to you or not.”

The look in his hard eyes was the only confirmation I needed. “I told you I was a patient man.”

When I came moments later, it wasn’t with the violent contractions of earlier in the evening. It wasn’t with obscenities, or frenzied thrusting. It felt like a sweet release, a blossoming, the inevitable unfolding of something delicate and even frail. I breathed, and gasped, and sighed, and almost laughed. My sperm leaked into him, softly and inevitably. He nodded, as if he knew he’d get it from me all along.

And then he leaned down to kiss me. “Good boy,” he whispered, before finally he let me go.

Funny thing, those words. They’re ones I usually use, once I’ve had my way.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Darren: Virgin

His legs, hairless and pale, seem almost blue in the darkness of my bedroom. They match the color of my shoulders, upon which they rest softly. The light of the full moon, as it reflects from the roof beyond, shifted every hue into something softer and unearthly. The two of us were the faintest of wisps in some world beyond our own, revenants merging in the darkness.

“Are you ready?” I whisper.

Our faces are mere inches apart. The young man lies on his back in the most vulnerable position he’s ever assumed in his life, I suspect. He looks me in the eyes and nods. “Do it, dude.”

He smells of soap and the traces of some scent applied probably that morning and long forgotten. I help him tilt his hips so that they rise in the air to meet the angle of my slick, lubed cock. Then I press the head against his hole. I feel burning, where flesh meets flesh.

On The Amazing Race, one of my favorite shows for years now, the producers always come up with some pithy means of explaining the relationship between the pairs competing for the grand prize. They’ll be listed as Brothers or Married Couple, or Firemen or Home Shopping Hosts. When things are on the skids, they’ll be identified as Estranged Couple. A few years back there was one team of young Christian things who, notoriously, whenever they appeared on screen every show, would have the legend Millie & Chuck: Virgins prominently displayed below their faces.

And every time it happened I thought to myself, Ouch. If they wanted to remain virgins, that’s none of my concern (although they were a little snappy and on edge the entire race). But it seemed such an embarrassing thing to hang one’s reputation on for an entire TV season.

When this boy had walked through my front door that night, however, and I’d first seen his sweet, narrow face with its sprinkling of baby fuzz on his chin, his freckles, and his slender body hiding beneath falling layers of athletic clothing, all I could think was one thing. That boy should’ve arrived with a subtitle that read Darren: Virgin.

I’d asked him, of course. When we’d chatted online over the weekend, I’d asked if he had any experience. He was barely of age, after all. He assured me that oh yeah, he’d taken lots of dick before. Sure thing, dude. He loved having his hole used. In person, though, there was something that told me he was lying. He didn’t flinch when I came at him, or tremble at the touch of my hand. He wore the blank, determined face of someone doing something they wanted to get done with, though—like a doctor’s appointment or a root canal.

He’d twisted and moaned and even attempted to squirm away from my mouth as I’d rimmed him a few moments before, so intense were the sensations I produced in him, but my hands held him firm as I’d licked and sucked and dragged the prickles of my beard over that most sensitive and unopened of spots. He’d gasped when I’d worked some cold lube inside, but his moist hole had been relaxed enough to open for my index and middle finger. Now his eyes are still half-closed, but as I nudge my dick against him, his jaw juts out. He’s worried about what’s coming. “Do you want me to go slow?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He takes too long to consider the question, as if he’s trying to think, so what would a non-virgin say? Finally he nods. “Sure,” he whispers. “Whatever you want.”

I smile to myself. Fine. We’ll play it like that, as if it’s me who needs to take it easy, because his ass might rip up my cock. Before he can tense up, I slip in the first two joints of my index finger, keeping his hole moist and open. Then I pull out, and replace it with the first two inches of my dick.

I’ve slipped in those and a third when suddenly he realizes what’s happening. His body had been reacting with pleasure, but his brain clamps down and stops me from going any further. “Sssh,” I tell him, whispering into his ear. His eyes are closed all the way, now. His jaw hangs all the way down. He’s gargling little animal noises at the back of his throat, guttural and barely audible. “It’s not going to hurt. Push out a little. Not hard. Just a little. Go on.” I apply a very little pressure with my dick that makes him yelp. His breathing is shallow and quick. “You can do this,” I tell him, barely breathing the words in his ear. “A couple more inches and it’s all yours.”

“I . . . want it,” Darren manages to grunt out. He’s biting his lower lip now. I can tell that he’s determined to live through it, even if he doesn’t enjoy it.

I’m a mean taskmaster, though. I’m going to insist he enjoy it, rather than limp away licking his wounds and know he’s endured.

Slowly, gradually, I go in inch by thick inch. I’m in no rush; I’m not getting softer. And in his position, he’s not going anywhere quickly. “You look so good,” I tell him. “You look so beautiful with my big dick inside you. You know that?”

His eyes open. In the dark, they’re hard and black, tiny domes of obsidian glinting in the reflected moonlight. “Really?” he asks.

I nod slowly so that he can see it. Not only see it, know that I mean it. “Oh yes, son,” I say. “You do indeed.”

It’s that word, son, that unlocks him. He relaxes completely, and in one go I slide the rest of the way in.

Before he can clench again, I grab his hand and pull it around, beneath where my balls hang. I make his fingers feel where my sac is resting against his butt cheeks. “You feel it?” I ask. “You’ve got it all. The rest is easy.” His mouth is already open, but it becomes even more slack. His breathing evens out and becomes deeper. He’s in awe, as his fingers travel around the circumference of my meat. “You’ve got it, son.”

“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs. His head lolls to the side. He’s overwhelmed by the enormity of it. Not just my dick, but what he’s doing with it. “I can’t believe. . . .”

Darren's voice trails off in the night. Instinct takes over, and he begins to roll his hips, enjoying it. Now that I’m in, and now that he’s hooked, I begin repositioning myself, turning both my body and his until we’re spooning. All the time I maintain the connection of rigid flesh between us. His legs instinctively fold, and I let mine curve behind them. My arms go around his narrow chest. My hands rub up and down his hairless skin as slowly, so very slowly, I start to grind against him.

Several minutes later, it’s over. A load leaks from his hole and onto the blanket. The night is quiet, with only the noise of the occasional car driving by down the road. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask into his ear.

“Tell you . . . ?”

“That you were a virgin.” He chuckles to himself a little at my question. “I asked you several times.” He seems almost ashamed at my chiding, mild as it is. “That was your first time getting fucked, wasn’t it?”

“I. . . .” He grapples with his words, trying to pull them out of the night. I hold him the entire time, pulling him against my warmth. “I didn’t want you not to like me,” he says at last, very quietly.

The words make him seem more naked than before.

I pull him even closer, and rest my face in the crook of his neck. “No chance of that, kiddo,” I tell him, making the words sound firmly in the night. It’s as if I hope the words rumbling in my chest will penetrate into his deepest core. “No chance of that.”

Monday, October 25, 2010

The Woods and the Rain

The woods I occasionally cruise are in a light industrial section of town, where warehouses and tiny manufactories occupy streets down which most residents never venture. There’s a large retail center on one side of the little forest, so that occasionally cars travel down the street in its direction. Only rarely will one stop. When it does, the lone occupant will scurry from his vehicle and into the canopy of trees, where he’ll quickly vanish from sight. The woods are a quiet, overlooked corner of my hometown where the only people likely to be walking the trails are men looking for sex. If there are cars parked on its outskirts, there’s pretty much a guarantee to be action among the trees.

I’d been to the woods earlier last week, the same day I’d visited Cunt in the morning—that afternoon I found myself in the neighborhood and had dropped by, parked, and unzipped my pants to feed my dick to an older cocksucker I’d encountered near the rearmost trail. His mouth hadn’t proved that great, however, so when I spotted a dog walker in the distance, I used the intruder as an excuse to zip up and get away.

Friday, though, I had a date. SexInPublic, the guy I met last month for my ‘Restroom Lunch’ entry, had written asking me to fuck and load his hole. He offered me a choice of places to play: the woods, which were close to both of us, an office building with a public restroom in a downtown building, or the dressing room of Macy’s at a local mall. I picked the woods, and named a time to meet.

When I pulled down the street where the trails begin, I recognized the guy’s BMW immediately, from the last time. I pulled next to it, parked, locked my domestic car, and began walking through the trees. Friday happened to be one of those wild autumn Michigan days in which the weather was so changeable and abrupt that it was impossible to dress for. When I’d left the house ten minutes before, it had been warmish and sunny; when I walked into the woods, it was chilly, dark, overcast, and a light rain was starting to fall.

Precipitation didn’t drive away the cruisers, however. I could spy the silhouettes of two of them among the trees as I passed beneath the gate. One looked like the short, lightly athletic figure of my married dad buddy. Another was a taller man, broad-shouldered, bearish. He had ginger-colored hair and a goatee, wore dark, round Harry Potter wire glasses, and had a face that seemed flat, as if someone had arranged its features on the single plane of wall and breathed life into it. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy by any means—quite the contrary. But I had no measure of him yet.

I walked along the trails casually, hands stuck deep in my pockets. My dick was hard and hanging down the right leg of my pants. The goateed guy paused by a bench, and tapped away at the screen of his cell phone. “How’s it going?” I said in a low voice, as I passed. We exchanged nods. When I turned my head to look back at him, he had let his hand drop to his crotch. His fingertips lightly toyed with the bulge there.

Oh yeah. He was cruising, all right.

Deeper into the trees I plunged. The light drizzle had turned into a heavier rain by now. The trees blocked much of it, but my face and hair were definitely getting moist. I followed the trails to the point where they split, at the back of the woods where few people ventured. My cocksucking friend had taken the trail to the right, then stepped down into a hollow protected by several broad-trunked oaks. I followed.

Once down in the little cavity, I spied two other men among the trees. One was an older guy in his sixties, expensively-dressed and fit for his age; the other was a kid one-third his age and a little more, who wore dark, oversized jeans and a black hoodie like mine. The kid was getting up from his knees when I nodded at them. He immediately ambled over, his eyes locked with mine. The red-headed bear ducked beneath the low-hanging branches to join the four of us.

I was confident enough about all these guys that I didn’t hesitate for any preliminaries. Even in the quietest of public spots, opportunity is sometimes fleeting. I wasn’t there to linger. I unzipped my pants and pulled out my hard dick. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear or a belt—easy access is best in these situations. My public sex friend immediately dropped to his knees and began to suck me, while the other three men watched, mesmerized. The older man was still unzipped. He pulled out his soft penis and started trying to stroke it to hardness. My bear buddy rubbed his groin with the heel of his hand, as he kept an eye on the trail in both directions. The young guy, however, couldn’t take his eyes off my dick. His hands were plunged deep in the pockets of his hoodie as his eyes bulged.

SexInPublic made a show of slobbering over my meat and groaning as he deep-throated it. I let my eyes close to slits as my head tilted back with pleasure. Raindrops splatted on my forehead and stung my eyes, but I didn’t really care. I let myself get wetted, above and below.

The bear pulled out his dick. It was average-sized, but glistening at the tip. I maneuvered SexInPublic’s head off my meat and onto the bear’s. My buddy accepted the change without question, but rose to his feet and dropped his pants at the switch. Like me, he wore no underwear. From his jacked he pulled a tube of lube that he squeezed onto his fingertips. Both his hands parted his cheeks as his fingers dug at his hole. When he’d finished lubing himself, he pointed his ass at me.

I didn’t need a second invitation. I rubbed some spit on my dick to help with the lubrication, and pushed inside. My cocksucking buddy grunted hard as I went in. I didn’t meet with much resistance, though, so I assumed his gargled cries of agony were mostly for show. The bear pulled his dick out of SexInPublic’s mouth and yanked down his pants, exposing his pale, hairy butt cheeks for me. He bent over to give me full access.

I could have pulled out and fucked him right there, and it was obvious he wanted me to. I’d promised my load to my married dad buddy, though. I had to content myself with fingering the hole and wetting it with spit while both men bent over before me. The older guy was hard now—but not large, I could tell.

The young guy seemed amazed at the two bottoms lining up in front of me. He took a tentative step forward, then drew nearer still, until he was so close that I could smell the scent of some cheap aftershave rising from his neck. His left hand reached out and gripped the base of my cock. His right reached under and rubbed my balls.

It was that gesture that pushed me over. Without warning I began unloading in my married friend’s hole. My breath sounded ragged and harsh as it erupted from my lungs. I wasn’t buried very deeply in my buddy’s ass; almost immediately half the sperm gushed out of his hole and dropped onto the leaves between his legs. The young man squeezing my dick pulled it out and used his thumb on the underside of the shaft to milk out the last remaining string of sticky stuff.

Then I was done. I wanted more, but the group was too large to risk lingering. I stuffed my still-slick dick into my jeans, buttoned up, nodded at the crew, and bounced up to the trail and continued walking the long route around. The wind had picked up, making my wet face sting a little. From time to time I felt like I was being pelted by minuscule pellets of sleet. I pulled up my hood, plunged my hands into my pockets, and continued tramping through the mud and leaves.

When I circled around and reached the entrance where I’d come in, SexInPublic had managed to rearrange himself and and return by the shorter route we’d taken in. Our eyes locked as he crossed my path. He grinned. I grinned back. I thought he might say something, but no. We exited the woods without a word, walked to our cars, and waved at each other as we drove back to our respective homes and families.

It wasn’t until I started the car’s ignition and let the heat run that I realized how wet and cold I really was. My hair and face were soaked; my hoodie could’ve been wrung for a cup of water. I hadn’t noticed, during the fuck, exactly how drenched I’d gotten.

A little rain was worth it.

The site where SexInPublic and I originally met allows cruisers to leave remarks on ‘report cards’ on each other’s profiles after they’ve hooked up. When I got home, my married buddy had remarked on mine:

You r so fucking hot Mr Steed--anytime you want to fuck--feed and breed me again--just say the word. Nice big cock and a big load--I can still feel you pumping it deep inside me--well actually its slowing leaking out--damn hot. Loved our audience. Another time I hope--and soon….

There’ll be another time. I can guarantee that.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Asshole Edition

It seemed rather ironic to me that Thursday morning I posted a mild rant about schoolmarms looking to chastise others on online hookup sites, and Thursday night I had two run-ins with people looking to chew me out about imagined slights.

The first was a guy I'd ceased talking to on one site. He annoyed me. When we'd originally spoken, he asked if I ever visited a certain small city in Canada. I informed him that although I'd been through the city on the way to Toronto or other destinations, I've never visited his home town. He asked if I had plans to visit. I said no. He asked if I wanted to come visit that weekend. I said no. Somehow in his head, he managed to turn this exchange into a promise to visit that I never made. And he'd badger me about it, time after time, until finally I stopped responding altogether.

Well, Thursday he sent me a note that read, We used to talk and you promised you'd visit me and then you stopped talking to me, I guess I can forgive you for being an asshole if you give me a good fuck LOL. Well, not being in a particularly LOLly mood, I snapped back, You've got your passive-aggressive patter down to a science. Nice work! I waited for him to read it. Then I blocked him.

Maybe I am an asshole, at that.

The other guy was a little more mystifying. I was working on my laptop downstairs when I'd exchanged a couple of messages with the guy on Manhunt. Then I logged out, shut down my applications, went upstairs, and got into bed with my iPad and logged back into Manhunt again. I'd only been gone two minutes, but in my absence this fellow had written me a long rant about how he hated when he talked to guys and then they LOG OUT and DISAPPEAR and if I wasn't INTERESTED why didn't I just TELL HIM SO instead of being such A FUCKING ASSHOLE.

I wrote him back with a mild, I was merely switching computers. I was logged off for two minutes. I'm sorry you feel that way.

You'd think I might get an 'oops!' or an apology, but the guy instead told me he was drunk and probably shouldn't have said what he said, but it sure did feel like I was being an asshole to him and in the future, I should tell him exactly how long I was going to be on and that I was switching computers because otherwise he was going to keep thinking I was A FUCKING ASSHOLE.

And you know, an apology like that isn't really an apology. So I blocked that guy too--and it's a shame, because if he hadn't been drunk and abusive, he might've been a nice guy.

There are lessons here. One is that I have a relatively long breaking point, but a longer ignore list. The other is that we could all stand to be a little more civil with each other. Unless, of course, you don't care what the other person thinks of you any longer.

As with every Sunday, today I'll be recapping most questions my readers have asked me on If you've got questions for me, you can always use the anonymous posting service to shoot them my way. Or, of course, you can email me and I'll get back to you. Eventually. But I will get back to you.

Do you smoke? Or have you smoked? Would you mind your sex partners to smoke? How about tasting the smoke breath on them when you kiss them? Have you ever noticed that heavy smokers have a certain smoke smell on there body all the time, even their sweat!?!
Calm down there, partner!

I don't smoke, nor have I ever smoked. I'm sensitive to smells, so I prefer non-smokers.

You've been sexually active 34 years? Damn, you're a professional. At what age was your first fuck?
I'm 46. You can do the math!

Have you ever paid someone to have sex with? Would you?
I have never paid for sex, though I've been paid.

Would I? I don't get a thrill from the transaction and I haven't reached a stage of decrepitude in which it'd be a necessity, so it's unlikely—though I can think of a couple of exceptions in which I'd fork over some dough for a chance to be with someone I really had the hots for.

If I make a road trip up to Connecticut when I return from deployment next year, would you breed me?

If you're sleeping alone, what do you wear?
I sleep in the nude.

Who's the most famous person you've met?
I've known several prominent office-holding politicians, but that's not usually what people mean when they say 'famous people.'

Probably the most famous person I've met is the famous, highly-regarded deadpan host of a late-night satire show. And by 'met', I mean 'sat next to him for two semesters in class while he quietly snoozed' during college. I've also met a Pulitzer-prize-winning playwright, an Oscar-nominated singer/songwriter, and a television host. In the last case, I don't mean 'met' so much as 'fucked.'

What does you voice sound like?
I talk baritone. I sing tenor. I used to have a pronounced Southern accent, but years in the midwest have erased it. Many people have commented on how they like the sound of my voice, but I can't stand hearing it, except when I sing. Even then I'm hypercritical of it.

Spit or swallow?

How many and what kind of sex toys do you own?
I own approximately 10-15 different cock rings, two butt plugs of different sizes, a 12-inch double-headed dildo, a riding crop, tit clamps, suction cups for the nipples, and a Fleshjack that a kind reader and friend gave me.

What is the shortest time from first contact with a guy to cumming in his ass? What's average? How about longest?
By 'first contact' I'm assuming you mean meeting in the flesh and stripping down with the purpose to screw. And by 'cumming in his ass,' I am assuming you mean for the first time, since usually I like to go more than once. I'm measuring from the time the pants hit the floor, here.

1. The shortest: About five minutes.
2. Average: About a half hour to forty-five minutes.
3. The longest: Three and a half hours, more or less.

how many guys a week do you usually fuck?
It depends on the week, and the amount of time I'm putting into work or on my house. Sometimes four or five . . . if I do the baths or go to a group party, it can be many more than that.

Sometimes I'll have a slow week and only fuck one or two.

Would you top a guy who wanted it wrapped?
I wouldn't top him wrapped, no.

Would you do a MMF threeway?
I often have!

How apprehensive were you about your first sexual experience? What made you finally go for it?
By the time I had my first sexual experience, I'd already witnessed guys having sex for about a year, so I knew what the mechanics of it were--that gave me a boost of confidence and allowed me to fake my way through most of what was happening.

At the same time, though, I was scared shitless when it began to happen. I ended up going through with it and enjoying it because it was with someone I hero-worshipped and trusted. I'm glad it happened that way.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

The State I'm In

Those of you who studied the title of today's post might have automatically assumed that I've finally accomplished my short-term goal of moving to the northeast U.S. But no, I'm still here in the midwest, trying to sell my house so that I can join the rest of my family in New England.

What I really should've titled today's post was 'The State of my Mailbox,' since that's what I'll be addressing. I'm taking an administrative stance here today, fellows. No smut follows. Sorry to disappoint you.

One of the reasons I enjoy blogging is the interaction with my readers. I like the dialogues started in my comments, or the memories I'll sometimes trigger with you guys that you'll take the time to post. I like the emails you send me, and the questions you ask. My line of everyday work tends to be fairly isolated, so the online contact means a lot to me.

I get a lot of fan mail from the blog. I actually get a lot more fan mail from the blog than I do for my everyday line of creative work, in which I have actual fans. (Okay, one fan. She's like Mel, in Flight of the Conchords.) Unless the email is aggressively unpleasant or spam or obviously doesn't require an answer, I like to answer every single one of my emails.

There are times when I am very industrious and set aside several hours to work my way through my inbox  until every letter is answered. Then, with a great feeling of accomplishment, I take my carpal tunneled wrists and go relax for a bit. When I return to my computer an hour later, the inbox is full again, and the flood's rising.

The minor drawback is that I do a lot of typing. The major thing to remember, though, is that I love you guys and love that you write me.

What I'd like to say today is simple: gosh, don't stop writing me. And rest assured that I will write you back. However, please don't panic, or assume I dislike you, or sever all bonds of friendship because my reply is not immediate.

My blog is about my sex life, and it's been a substantial part of my life for many months. It isn't my entire life, however. I don't get paid to keep it up. (The more it feels like an unpaid job, the less I'm likely to enjoy it.) I am a man who is trying to keep his shit together during a period of my life that's been—to say the very least—more hectic and stressful than anything this side of a death in the family.

So if I am a little tardy in responding to your emails, please forgive me. I honestly will get around to them.

Don't let the message you take away today be, Well fine! I just won't write you then! That's not what I'm asking. Simply let me not have to type, at the beginning of every one of my overdue missives, I'm so sorry to be late in replying to you, but my life has been hectic lately! 

Just take that part as a given.

Carry on with your weekends—and have a good one. I'm already two fucks behind in my entries, and we'll have more to catch up on, next week.

Thursday, October 21, 2010


Cruising sites are the wild west of the internet. Anything goes in them there parts. They’re dusty and sometimes seemingly deserted; the arbitrary rules on some totally disappear on others, making the whole thing seem lawless. The stage coach pulls into town daily, disgorging a whole new gaggle of passengers who immediately put up profiles proclaiming that they’re not there for hookups, really, don’t ask them, and that they are ONLY there to look at photos and NOTHING ELSE. (Until they’re horny five minutes later from looking at photos, and hitting me up.) It’s every man for himself, in those wild regions of cyberspace.

Every sheep for itself, on some of them.

And they’re pretty uncivil, by and large. It seems as if a lot of the Manhunts and Gay.coms are populated by guys who make rudeness almost into an art form, transforming it in new and always creative ways to get the maximum impact out of an unkind word or obscene gesture. Behind the anonymity of a faceless profile, or a profile sporting a face that belongs to someone else, it’s easy to strike out at someone—it’s easier to think of other cruisers and chatters as abstracts, rather than living and breathing people whose feelings might be hurt. Those moments when a sarcastic remark, a put-down, or a jab at someone’s appearance might elevate a bastard’s ego are totally worth any theoretical pain on the parts of their intended victims.

I get that. I get that guys are tired of putting themselves out there and being shot down, or being treated rudely, or getting the short end of contentious arguments with numbskulls. We all want—and even more importantly, deserve—a little respect.

But gentlemen. Let us not. in our horrified reactions to the incivility we witness, swerve too far in the opposite direction.

I mentally call them ‘Schoolmarm Profiles.’ What they all have in common is the desire to instruct, chastise, and whap the palms of their readers with a sharp-edged ruler in punishment for all the mischief they may or may not have caused. And as rude as I find the if u r old enuf 2 be my dad then dont msg 2 get with me unless you are super hot LOL idiot profiles out there, I find the schoolmarms even more off-putting.

The schoolmarms usually have a litany of musts and must-nots that they’ll gladly list in exquisite detail in their profiles for you. Usually with an abundance of capitalization. I’m excerpting from one:

It is a shame that on sights like these we cannot be polite to each other. Polite means REPLYING to EVERY EMAIL YOU GET no matter if you want to meet the guy or not. For example I answer EVERY EMAIL I GET and I expect you to do the same. Is it so hard to answer your mail guys? All you have to do is say NO THANK YOU if you are not interested, be a MAN not a PUNKASS, it isn’t so tough.

Or, and I’m quoting again,

It is 2010 not 1800 so dam fools, GET YOURSELFS A PIC. You got NO CAUSE to be on here without one and I WILL NOT TALK TO YOU if you don’t got one. Also NO SMILES NO WINKS NO BLANK MESSAGES where you just unlock and say nothing. If you disobey any of these rules I will delete your ass!!!

Sometimes the schoomarms will take up long, long stretches of screen real estate in their lectures on internet etiquette and propriety. Running through it all is a barely-concealed anger that, boiled down to its essence, sounds like it would be the refrain to a country song: someone done me wrong.

Now, I have some sympathies with what the schoolmarms are often saying. The basics of their messages aren’t wrong. I think it is polite to reply to all the notes I get on these websites. I think a polite ‘no thanks’ is much better than rudeness. And I don’t think that asking for a photos is really too much.

However. I completely support the rights of guys on websites to behave how they want, if they’re not being outright tools. If someone doesn’t want to have a photograph—fine. Don’t have a photograph. I personally won’t be meeting you until I see one, but I can understand that some guys are shy about it, or afraid to show themselves, or worried that a constituent in the congressional district they represent might recognize them from their campaign literature. That’s peachy. Be prepared to get a lot of rejections and to have to explain that you’re worried your grandmother who doesn’t have internet access might run across your account, but it’s totally your life and your right to do what you want with it.

Likewise, though I think it’s polite to reply to every email I get on a cruising site, I don’t always do it. Though typically I’ll reply to just about anyone who’s not unpleasant with a thank-you or a nice remark, guys who are dicks I’ll simply ignore. And if someone’s aggressively obnoxious, I’ll either decline to engage with them. If it’s a guy writing to tell me I’m not following the rules he’s decided to enforce in this particular little corner of the internet, well, I’ll probably block him from communicating with me altogether.

As much as I’d like everyone to be nice and pleasant with each other, I have this basic resistance to anyone else controlling my reactions and attempting to dictate how I live my life, even on something as trivial as a hookup site. If you’re not paying my fifteen dollars a month to belong to Manhunt, you have no right to tell me how to use it or what I can do there. If you were paying it, probably still not even then would I let you.

It seems to me that, as with so many other things, setting a good example is the best way to avoid the spiky officiousness of even the best-intentioned schoolmarmery. Say something like, I answer all messages! and leave it at that. No one needs to know that anyone who doesn’t behave like you is a fool who deserves to be shunned. Be polite. Let your personal philosophy shine through your actions, not be codified in an impenetrable wall of text.

The internet is wilderness enough. We don’t need the schoolmarms dashing about with their canes and rulers, meting out justice.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


I’ve said before that there are things the guy I think of as Cunt won’t do. He doesn’t suck. He doesn’t kiss. He won’t jack me off.

What he does do—and does very well—is stick his ass up in the air and wait for me to plow it. On the whole, that’s all I really need from the guy.

He’s had a proposal in mind lately that he keeps running by me. He did so again on Monday morning, messaging me with, You know what I think about? Me giving you like, a week of my life. I’ll be ready for you at a specific time every day, like seven o’clock in the evening, or right at noon. You pick. Whatever time it is I’ll be ass up on my bed or just shoving my cunt up at the front door from the stairs. If you care to take advantage, fine, I get your loads. If you don’t, I just wait for twenty minutes or so and then call it a day. What do you think?

What did I think? I thought I’d overthink it, is what I thought. On the one hand, the exercise sounded like it could be fun. Guaranteed sex for a week isn’t something I’d sniff at, and it’d be fun to blog about. (I’m always thinking of you guys—I’m a giver.) On the other, I usually like a little more variety in my sexual diet. There’s also the fact that I know Cunt is a scrupulous cleaner who starts to douche himself out two hours before every fuck. If I knew he was investing that kind of time in keeping his chute sparkling for me over the course of a week, I’d feel more or less guilted into showing up for at least half the time. And I don’t like having guilt sex. It’s not good for either party, in the end.

Plus I could already predict I’d be overanalyzing what days to show up. If we went from a Monday to a Sunday, I’d show up on the first day, of course, to start things off with a bang. But would I then have a hiatus of two days and show up Thursday, just to make sure he was still waiting for me? Or would I go Monday/Tuesday, then take a one-day break to interrupt the rhythm, then maybe bang him on Thursday/Friday/Sunday?

Anyway. It was too much to contemplate on a Monday morning. I wrote him back with a compromise. How about I just nail you now?

Yessir, he wrote. Cunt will be ready at 10.

I showed up at the Cunt’s door at ten on the dot, and let myself in. Dried oak leaves lay on the floor just inside the mat; they’d blown in during the few minutes the door had been cracked open, waiting for my arrival. I kicked them outside with my sneaker and let the door shut behind me. Up the stairs I went, making certain he could hear my every step.

I’ve seen Cunt’s face before. I know what it looks like; I could pick him out with only moderate effort from a group photo. It’s his ass I could recognize immediately in a photo of a thousand men bent over, though. I’ve fucked that ass so often over the last dozen years that I know exactly how it’s going to look, lifted up and over the bed’s edge as he kneels in position for me when I enter. His head rested on the pillows; Cunt’s long arms reached to the sides and clutched the mattress’ edges with curved, rigid knuckles. I didn’t say a thing. I shucked my jacket and let it fall on the floor, and then I kicked off my shoes. My pants slipped down to my ankles. I kicked them off. When I was left wearing only a T-shirt and my socks, I stepped up behind him and knelt down.

And then I rimmed. Cunt has such a clean ass that he’s a pleasure to eat. I like to carry the smell of him, pink and sweet, on my beard for the rest of the day, after we’ve fucked. He has a tendency to grunt, rather than moan and groan; he sounds like a pig at the trough, feeding, when I’m the one eating away. “You know I love that cunt of yours,” I said, standing up and slapping his butt.

That word has so much power for him. I can tell it sends him to a headspace in which, unlike me, he can’t overthink anything. He can’t even think. He’s transported, transformed into a receptacle, a vessel for an other’s man’s pleasure. Other men abhor the word. They can’t stand the thought of any portion of them feminized. This man doesn’t give a shit. He wants to be made something he isn’t. When he’s having sex, he’s not considering what’s masculine or feminine. He’s just craving dick. He wants to be the object of use and derision. I recognize the impulse from my own, distant bottoming days. Just when one thinks one can’t be taken any lower, degraded any more, there’ll be a touch, or a hair-pull, or a slap, that’ll do the job. Or a word. One single word.

“Cunt,” I repeat, driving in.

The bed shakes and begins to shudder across the wooden bedroom floor, pushing at the little table beyond with its nightstand boasting a copy of The Economist spread open upon it. It slid onto the floor. I don’t bother to fuck the Cunt sweetly—it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to woo it to get in. I don’t have to sweet-talk it or put it at ease. I can just fuck like an animal, banging away. I just pound, and fuck, and thrust, and do what my hips tell me to do, listening to nothing but the sounds of Cunt’s grunting and the slap of my pelvis against his expansive ass, until the first orgasm strikes.

“Feed the cunt,” he growls, greedily pushing back against me. He repeats the words over and over in a steady decrescendo as I shoot. Then, after a moment, he demand, “More. More!”

He’s insatiable, the Audrey II of the Little Shop of Whores.

I gave him more. I fucked him slowly for a while, letting the stiffness return to my road. The additional slipperiness of my cum usually does the trick for a second round; I love the slickness and the sticky sounds as I pivot in and out. The second orgasm took a good ten minutes to arrive. When it did, it was the product of sheer friction, of a fast, jackrabbit thrusting. No one would have been able to hold out long under that kind of stimulation. I had no choice but to juice him deeply. He was too insistent at getting me in deep to unload anywhere else. “More!” he growled, almost immediately.

I had already withdrawn, and fallen down on my knees to press my lips against his hole. I could taste the sweetness of the lube I’d used on the first round, mingled with the salty, slightly chlorinated taste of my semen leaking out of his hole. I sucked at his ass lips, enjoying the warm moisture of them, while he clenched and shook and tried fruitlessly to buck me off. He wanted every drop for himself.

“More?” he asked, this time as a plea.

I had one more. I fucked him slowly the last time. The first and second time were to get my nut. The third time was sheerly for the pleasure of it—to feel the warmth of his hole around my meat, to listen to the sounds with my eyes closed, and to smell the sweat and sperm. I fucked like that for long minutes. He didn’t complain—he was still getting dick, after all. Once I’d recuperated from the shock of the first two loads, the third began to build. When I let loose with it, though, it was far from explosive. It gushed, and it made me shake with the intensity of it, but it seemed to spill from me rather than blast, smooth and on schedule, and completely welcome.

“More?” he wanted to know, after a long moment in which I had to rest my chest on his back until I got my wind again.

“I’m spent.” I pushed off, flopped out, and wiped my dick on one of the towels he keeps on the bed. “You got three loads, dude.” I yanked back on my jeans, then sat down on the floor to pull on my sneakers. Cunt remained on the bed, head turned away from me. His feet were on the floor now, resting there, while his body remained splayed over the bed.

Once I was in my jacket, I did the customary phone-keys-wallet check, and slapped him on the ass again. “You got what you wanted, cunt,” I told him, and headed for the hallway.

I’d reached the top of the stairs when I heard his faint reply. “But I want more.”

Tuesday, October 19, 2010


I’d never been to the Dearborn Inn before. It sits across the street from Greenfield Village, the local attraction that, with its kitschy collection of candlemakers and stables and glass blowers and ramshackle period houses, is the poor man’s version of Colonial Williamsburg. (Don’t argue with me, son. I lived in Williamsburg for four years. I know the difference.) It seemed to have been modeled after Colonial Williamsburg’s larger and fancier hotels, too—a huge complex built of pinkish-orange brick, its wood trim painted in muted and historically-approved colors. The landscaping around the winding pavements leading to the front door were surrounded by emerald green grass, trimmed low, and by neat beds of brightly-colored perennials.

The doorman nodded at me as I approached. “Good evening sir,” he said. With the push of a button, the twin front doors began to swing open.

My fuck had told me the elevators were on the left when I entered. I tried to look as if I knew where I’d been going as I passed through the formal lobby, with its knobby colonial furniture and important-looking historical displays of Dearborn’s allegedly rich history. A bellhop pushing a cart with shining brass columns forming a dome nodded at me. The staff at the front desk, all of whom were freshly-bathed, smiling, and groomed immaculately, called out greetings.

Since I’d wanted to remain inconspicuous, it wasn’t the most auspicious of starts to the evening.

My fuck had contacted me the week before and begged me to meet him Sunday night, after he flew into town for work. Can we make this totally anonymous? he wanted to know, when I agreed. I mean, I don’t see your face at all? Just you raping my hole on the bed in the dark?

Well, that’s one of my favorite scenes with the out-of-town guys, so hell yes, I was fine with that. I didn’t even unlock my photos for him on the website. Usually the guys who want the anonymous fucks tend to stay in the cheaper hotels, though—not the fancy-schmancy Dearborn Inn, with its plush carpeting, its gilded crown molding, and its carved wood grilles of pineapples and elaborate scrollwork.

And at the Red Roof Inn, I reflected to myself once I’d reached the third floor, I could usually park my car outside the room ten feet away from where my tricks were parking their asses on the bed. I certainly did not have to walk down a long corridor until I reached an area with a locked door, over which a sign in fancy script proclaimed it to be the ‘Concierge Area.’ I pulled out my phone. I’d already pre-typed a text message to the number the guy gave me. I’m outside the concierge door, it said. I hit the send button.

He’d not discovered that he’d been given a room in this closed-off, locked area of the hotel until after he’d arrived. Just message me and I’ll come open the door, he said. I’ll push it open. You just grab it and come in, give me a minute to get back to my room. You don’t even have to see me.

I heard the tread of footsteps on the carpet beyond the door. The flooring squeaked just beyond, then the door clicked open. The man on the other side pushed it only an inch forward, and waited until I grabbed the handle. Then I heard him scampering away.

He was wrong that I wouldn’t see him. I didn’t count on how long the hallway actually was when I finally stepped through. The man hadn’t made it to the end, yet, or turned the corner. I caught a glimpse of a short, athletic figure with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed with a level into a super-short businessman’s cut. His meaty ass bounced up and down as he jogged on bare feet to the hall’s end. I watched him turn the corner. I followed, slowly, pretending to check my mail on my phone so that he’d have time to strip down and get ready for me on his bed. It took me a full minute to reach the doorway of his room. It was cracked, waiting for me to enter. I paused for another thirty seconds, then stuck my phone into my pocket, pushed, and stepped into darkness.

And I do mean darkness—total and complete, once the door closed behind me. The Red Roof Inn never gets so dark. The hotel had blackout shades that worked so well that I couldn’t see a thing in front of me; I had the same giddy and uncertain sensation of someone walking into a blackened theater from the most dazzling of summer afternoons. Only the brief glimpse I’d gotten of the room’s layout when I’d stepped in kept me from running into the wall.

My knees nudged against the edge of a mattress. This was the bed, then. I automatically realized I wasn’t going to be taking off any clothing—I wouldn’t be able to find it after if I did. Good thing I hadn’t worn much, then. I reached out, trying to find my fuck on the bed. My hand connected with flesh. I let my palm travel over it, trying to seem as if I knew what I was doing, instead of feeling around like a blind man. I felt the curve and the bumps of a spine, of hips, the roundness of a beefy and well-formed butt. These were body parts I knew well. I could take it from there.

I removed my light jacket and draped it on the mattress’ corner where I could find it again, then positioned myself behind the guy. I could tell by touch he was lightly furry. When I knelt behind him, my mouth connected with his hairy hole. He gasped, not expecting me to rim him. But he tasted good, so I dug in with my tongue. My dick hardened instantly—rimming always does it for me.

I didn’t rim for long. With my jeans around my ankles, I hiked the front of my shirt up and over the back of my neck, so that it formed a yoke there around my shoulders. Then I spat on my fingers and jammed them in. His hole opened immediately. He was warm, wet, and ready.

More spit went on my dick. I nudged the head against his hole, and waited. He pushed back, trying to urge me in. When I entered, it was with one long, hard thrust. I heard him hiss, then try to pull off of me, but I kept hold of his hips and stood still, letting him accustom himself to being stretched out by my meat. It took a moment for the intensity of his feelings to subside; I could tell when he moaned slightly that it was time to begin. I let more spit dribble on his dick as I started to slide in and out. His hole grew wetter and slicker. The sound of cock traveling the length of his chute began to fill the room.

I spoke for the first time, leaning down to growl the words in his ear. “Is that what you wanted?” I asked.

“Yes,” he whimpered. The muffled syllable told me his face had to be buried in the mattress.

“Some stranger’s fucking cock buried in your pussy?”

“Yes,” he said. “Fuck yes.”

The second assent was much more clear. He must have turned his head. “That’s what you’ve got,” I told him. “Some unknown married fucker’s dick inside you.” I fucked him harder, throwing him the occasional thrust at an unexpected angle so that he didn’t get too used to the pleasurable strokes. “And soon you’re gonna get my fucking load, too.”

He didn’t say anything. Just let out a deep moan from his chest that lasted and lasted as I continued to bang him. I still kept hold of his hips, clutching so hard that I imagined him walking around all the next day with my handprints on the front of his pelvis. There wasn’t much I could do, position-wise, with my pants still on, but I managed to get my knees on the mattress between his, so that I could jackhammer his hole. My thrusts were short, now, and rapid. I hauled off and slapped his meaty cheeks as I fucked, causing him to yelp. He never knew when those peppery stings were coming, in the complete darkness.

“You ready?” I asked him at last. “‘Cause I’m gonna blow in you.”

Even if he hadn’t been ready, it was too late. By the time he croaked out, “Do it. Please, do it,” I’d already shot the first blast of seed in his hole. A second and a third quickly followed; I slid in to the nuts for what remained. He thrashed and quivered on the bed beneath me. Whether or not he shot, himself, I didn’t know.

And I didn’t much care, to tell the truth. Getting the anonymous guys off isn’t what they want, so I don’t make it my concern. “Good boy,” I whispered, once my dick had finished pulsing. Then, after a moment, I added, “You fucking stay there, face down. I’m gonna clean up in your bathroom before I go.”

“Yes sir,” he whispered.

I put on my jacket, did a quick wallet-phone-keys check, then slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I used a little soap and water on my dick, then dried it off with a washcloth. Then I was out of the room and into the obscene chandeliered brightness of the Dearborn Inn’s hallways again, making my way down to the lobby while trying to conceal the fact that my dick was still hard, snaking down the right leg of my jeans without underwear, and creating a tent.

Luckily, plunging my hands in my pants pockets concealed it until I reached my car.

Great ass was all I wrote to the guy, Monday morning.

Amazing dick was all he wrote back.

It was enough.

Monday, October 18, 2010

In Five Words or Less

“Five words or less.” Steely-soft are his words. Twilight shrouds us. In the shadows he stands. I shift to one side.”Tell me. Five words or less. Why you want my ass.”

I say nothing. No need. Cocky bastard. Smells good, though. Like vanilla, and citrus. Soap, and a good scrub. My head tilts. My mouth meets his neck. Stubble rakes his skin. He gasps, resistance breaking.

I liked his face. Online, he’d seemed fresh. Unbroken. Maybe even naive. Corruptible, a little. Broad shoulders, muscular chest. Blond—the natural kind. Smooth and shaven. Tall. Lean. Blue-eyed. Definitely young. A surfer boy. A suburban skater rat, maybe. In person, he was nervous. Trembling, a little. Determined not to show it. I tell by his eyes. How wide they were. His lips, tight, part again. “So tell me. In five words or less.”

So cute. He thinks he’s in control.

I’m way ahead of him. My fingers nip his buttons. They part, then give way. His shirt escapes his shoulders. It brushes the floor. Fingers on skin, stroking, slowly. His back. His neck. His sensitive sides. Gooseflesh bursts beneath them. Like flowers, those bumps swell. They bloom in long trails. My fingertips travel further. Pause. His pants, unbuttoned, fall. He’s helpless to protest.

Right hand cups his ass. I pull him forward. He wants this. Needs to be commanded. Left hand pulls his head. Our lips meet. We kiss. Slowly. His lips are full. Wet. They taste sweet, like candy. Perhaps mints in the car. The flavor lingers between us. He’s hungry. He wants more. I can tell. My tongue enters him. His muscles relax. Slowly. Bit by bit. He gives in. Takes what he wants.

I tweak his nipples. He gasps. He’s not used to that. Once again I twist them. Firm, but not vicious. He keeps kissing me. Whimpers, a little. Like a puppy.

Hell, he is a puppy.

I still haven’t spoken. He hasn’t asked more. Over the bed he goes. On his knees. Butt up. It’s a beauty. Astonishing, even. An exercise in perfect geometry. “Oh god,” he whispers. Is it prayer? Or a more earthly plea? Or is it my mouth? It still laps away. Long, languorous licks. My tongue teases him. Relaxes him. Opens him. He still smells fresh. Still soapy. Still corruptible.

I take my time. There’s no rush. No place to go. No where to be. Only here, and now. Licking at him, cheeks parted. Those smooth, round globes. All mine. I know it now. I think he does, too. I could plunder him. Or keep it sweet. My choice.

I choose plunder. I slap his ass, hard. The sound slices the night.

His back arches. His handsome head flies back. That pretty mouth gapes. It’s involuntary now. He’s all reaction. Reduced to instinct, and heat. Nothing else is left. Not for him, anyway. He shudders. I’ve bitten his cheeks. Over and over I nibble. I might leave marks. He won’t see them. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He wants it. He wants more, too. That’s what his breathing means. It’s shallow, and quick. The pants of an animal.

My dick is hard. Cement solid. No give to it. A steel rod, for fucking. I spit. Wrap my palm and stroke. Now it’s wet. And ready—so ready.

I give him his words. Five of them. No more, no less. Right into his ear, whispered. “Because you want it, fucker.”

His head drops. Hangs low. That’s what he gets. Cocky bastard.

And then I enter.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Gentle Reminder Edition

I am lucky to have such an awesome—and more importantly, intelligent—group of readers and followers that I don't usually have to make these kind of pronouncements, but this week has left me a little testier than most.

So before we get into our regular Sunday routine of rounding up answer to questions I've been getting on, let me remind you of a couple of things. And please keep in mind I am not pointing fingers at anyone in particular. Maybe we were all having bad weeks.

I don't get paid to keep this blog. Unfortunate, but true. It's a labor of love. Though I get a couple of rare gifts from my readers every once in a while, for the most part the only things that keeps me going are the fact I love to gab about myself, the supportive comments I get from you guys on occasion, and the new friendships I'm always making.

Still, real life might sometimes interfere with my blogging, as it did for a couple of days this week. When that happens, it's nice to know I'm missed—but sometimes the reactions I receive to my absence strike me as rather aggressive. Or entitled, even.

All I ask is that you keep in mind that I am merely an everyday guy who writes about his sex life and shares his dim insights about it. I am not a porn machine.

On that note, let me also say that since I'm writing about my life, I can't really tailor my material to suit. The stuff I write about is already in the past by the time I put pen to paper. The stuff that's happened in my distant past especially, I cannot change. I can't take back my actions, or the things I said. I cannot alter what has happened to me, no matter how icky some of you might find it, or how some of you wish I might have taken something further. I'm just writing about my life, and my memories, here, because I think these kind of human experiences are valuable, and interesting, and don't get enough thoughtful attention or examination.

To recap: it's my life. Not a porn machine. Labor of love. Be gentle. I have a big dick.

(Well, I thought I'd throw that last one in there for good measure.)

Do you own an iPhone? What kind of (mobile)phones have you used before in your life? (if you remember of course)
I have an iPhone now. I was a Treo user before the iPhone era, and before that I had a tiny Sony Ericksson candybar phone that I thought was the hottest thing ever.

Do you use any applications for online sex cruising on your phone?
I don't use Grindr or any of those other cruising apps. I do use my phone's web browser for cruising line when I'm on the go, though.

Do you ever travel to Europe? And if so, have you ever travelled to Europe before? And if not, would you like to travel to Europe? Which cities? (potential host here! ;-) )
I would like to travel to Europe. I've never been. In which city will you be hosting me and giving me guided tours?

What's the best sex you have ever had and where?
This is such a tough question, because I've had a lot of very, very good sex.

I could answer it by saying that a lot of my best sex was in my youth, when I was doing it without fear of consequence and with a lot of abandon. Or I could answer it by saying that some of the best sex I've had has been in some wildly kinky or perverted circumstances that made me shoot very hard.

However, I think the most honest answer is that whenever I'm having sex, I'm trying to make that the best sex I've ever had—even better than everything that's come before. That's what I shoot for.

Your "Sex Quotient" is off the charts. But in what percentile is your IQ? (Sorry -- after a while, sleaze gets boring.)
The only time I had my IQ measured was as a kid, and at that time it was 160. However, I'm fundamentally too lazy to put most of those brain cells to work.

If an acquaintance of yours happened upon A Breeder's Journal, what is the likelihood that they would recognize you and have a eureka! moment?
Probably the minute they saw my photo or Blogspot avatar.

Do you believe the 90:10 bottom:top ratio, or do you think it's mostly men being lazy / performance anxiety?
The ratio in which I believe is more like 98:2 bottom:top. Yes, really.

I don't think it has anything to do with laziness, because a good bottom doesn't just lie there, or performance anxiety, because bottoming involves performance anxiety too (which is what trips me up 100% of the time when I attempt to bottom). I think that bottom is just something that a lot of men enjoy a lot—whether it's proudly and with abandon, or secretly and with embarrassment. It should be proudly. There's no shame in the desire.

Hi :) I'm 16 and the length of my cock is 5.5 inches, and the girth is exactly 5 inches. What do you think about my size, and how much more do you think I'll grow?
I wouldn't worry about your size too much. Many guys don't reach their full size until their late teens, so you've probably some growing left to do.

Dick length is one of those things it's not worth fretting over, in the long run; after all, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, either way. Learning to give the maximum amount of pleasure with the equipment you're given--now, that's the challenge.

Do you have any relatives (that you know of) that are also gay/bi?
My older brother is gay, but he's the only one I know about.

Have you ever fucked a Buddhist priest?
I think 'Buddhist monk' is the more proper term. In the U.S., as well as in other areas of the world, many Buddhist monks have relationships, full-time jobs, homes in the cities and suburbs, and aren't saffron-robe-wearing monastics, you know. The answer to this one is yes, I have.

Have you ever had a date where the guy only wanted to be fucked by toys?
Indeed I have, and we both knew in advance that's exactly what we'd be doing. The guy had a large toy bag, and he used as many of the toys on me as I did on him—it was actually a pretty damned erotic session.

You are definitely a very sexy and highly desired man - especially with all your blog and x-tube fans. How do you stay down-to-earth and not let the attention go to your head? (No! Not that head. LOL)
Thanks for the compliment, most sincerely.

I think it would go to my head more readily if the attention from my blog translated into more actual hookups. Sadly, it hasn't.

At any rate, I have my share of sexual disappointments, rejections, and embarrassments like anyone else. Keeping everything in perspective, enjoying the good times when I get them, and laughing about the bad times keeps me humble. (Usually.)

you've hit the quadruple digits in your list of fucks? how is that even possible?!
It's not that tough. I've been sexually active for 34 years. To hit 1000 different guys in 34 years only requires having sex with 30 different guys a year. That's about one new guy every week and a half.

Inconceivable to some, sure. I could manage that without breaking much of a sweat.

Sorry if you've answered this before, but how long is your cock? girth? :)
I'm a solid eight inches by five and a half around.

See? I told you it was big.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

A Sexual Education: The Embrace, Part Two

The seminary rec complex was deserted on the following Saturday morning. Later in the day the roller rink would open its doors for all-age skating, the music for which could be heard for blocks around on a quiet day. At that time of day, though, no one was practicing in the music rooms, or occupying the meeting rooms we used for our rehearsals. The rink was dark and empty. And Marc stood at the bottom of the basement steps, waiting while I locked my bike.

His hands were on his hips. I remember he wore jeans shorts that he’d probably made himself with scissors and a pair of old 501s. Their hems were ragged and trailing with threads. His plaid shirt was open a few buttons to show off his pale, hairy chest. His beard was barely kempt—but such was the style of the time. His hair was long and puffy. On his feet he wore a pair of Jesus sandals. Standing with his hands on his hips, he actually looked like a pretty cool cat, by the standards of the time. “Fantastic,” he said. “Just fantastic. Are you ready to get into your character today?” I mumbled that I was. “Fantastic,” he repeated.

He used his keys to let me into the rec complex. Across the empty skating rink we walked in the direction of the rooms the theater company was using to rehearse. All the way through that spooky, cavernous chamber he kept up a constant chatter about how’d we’d be rehearsing the pivotal scene of the play that morning, because it was an emotionally nuanced scene that required a great deal of concentration in order to appear real. Had I ever cried on stage before? he wanted to know.

Well, not only had I never cried on stage before, but I’d never actually been on a stage before. “Really?” he said, not seeming to remember I’d told him that salient bit of information at the auditions. “It’s just that you can’t tell you’re inexperienced. You’re a natural,” he said smoothly. “Way better than Topher. I wish—” He shook his head, and left that thought unsaid.

We’d reached the other end of the rink, and pushed through the doors leading to the music practice rooms. I’d taken guitar lessons in one of these little cubbyholes once. While he tucked his scripts beneath his arm and fumbled with his keys, I tried to wrestles with my bred Southern reticence and the little flicker of pride he’d aroused within me. “Topher seems pretty good to me,” I finally said at last, in a last concession to be gracious about my triumph.

“Oh, he’s fine,” said Marc, opening one of the doors and holding it for me to enter. I remember it smelled of old paper and chalk. “He’s just not . . . you know. Shut the door, would you?”

I didn’t know. I was burning to inquire, but I was too polite and had been lectured against pridefulness too many times to muster the nerve. Marc’s keys and notebooks clattered down on the table. He studied the room for a moment, then set to rearranging it. With my help, he pushed the table in the middle up against the wall, and then pulled out one of the bean bag chairs in the corner so that it was closer to the middle of the room.

“This is where we’ll be for the scene in which King David reconciles with you,” he said. With his hands and words he painted the set for me—a lonely corner of ancient Israel, in the shadow of the temple. My mouth filled with dirt and despair and repugnance at the thievery that the head of the ruffians had asked me to do. And then King David, still disguised as a common soldier, promises the boy that he’ll be there to look after him.”It’s got to be a quiet, pure moment,” he emphasized. “It’s the moment when a bond is formed between them, a bond on which the rest of the play hangs. If that bond isn’t there. . . .” He shrugged. “Well, that’s why I worry about Topher.”

Well. I wasn’t going to let ol’ Topher outdo me in the bond department. “I can do it,” I promised, eager to prove I could.

“Yeah?” He seemed delighted, and put his hands on his hips again. “Okay, let’s try this then,” he said, sounding as if he’d just thought of it. He plopped his narrow ass down onto the bean bag chair, at its very edge. “Let me sit here, like I’ll be doing in the script. And you sit here.” He patted the space between his legs.

I knew that the script called for the crippled urchin to hug King David, but I didn’t see how sitting between Marc’s legs was going to help us accomplish it. I didn’t want to be a Topher, though, so with my script in my hand, I turned away from Marc and lowered myself until I was between his ankles. I felt his hands reach out from behind and remove the rolled-up sheaf of paper I was carrying. “This is an exercise,” he said softly, into my ear. “You don’t need a script now. Scooch back.” I obeyed.

I’d never been so close to any other man save my father before, and he’d never really held me in this exact position, his legs spread, my little back to his chest. On either side of my arms Marc’s seemingly endless legs surrounded me, so hairy that they tickled my smooth skin. I could smell him. I recognized the scent as Old Spice, which I secretly applied to my own neck from time to time from a bottle in our medicine cabinet, when my father was out of the house. The sharp, alcohol-laden aroma tickled at my nostrils. “You’re helpless,” said Marc in my ear. His voice rumbled his chest, startling me; I was close enough to feel every vibration throughout my frame. I realized that he was talking not about me, but my character. “You’re lonely, and tired, and hungry. You haven’t eaten in a day or more. It’s hot in the city of Israel, and the noise is endless. You haven’t slept. How do you feel?” I opened my mouth to reply, but he shushed me. “Sssshh. Acting isn’t about verbalizing your response. You want to make it a part of you. You want to be your response. So. How do you feel?”

We’d done similar acting exercises in warmups earlier on in the rehearsal process, in which we’d had to be sizzling bacon in a pan, or worms, or in which we’d paired off and pretended to follow our own reflections in the mirror. I assumed this was just another of those. I thought about how I’d feel, and I attempted to make myself very small. I drew up my legs, and clutched my elbows to my side, and curled forward in almost a fetal position. I got a grunt of approval from Marc. “Very good,” he said. “Now, I’m the soldier who’s been kind to you, offering you a moment away from all your cares.”

He drew his legs in around me, until they were wrapped around my little body. I felt his arms surround me in a tight, firm embrace. His hips moved forward until they nudged against the base of my spine. “That’s right,” he whispered. His beard was against the side of my face. He almost sang the words, so soft and lyrical they were. “That’s right,” he said. “Just relax. Feel it. Feel it.”

I closed my eyes and tried to feel it. I wanted the exercise to succeed. On one level, however, it all seemed odd. Very odd. The script called for the crippled boy and the soldier to have a brief embrace, and then when King David revealed his true identity, for the crippled boy to repudiate the King and throw a crutch at him before limping off-stage in a rage.They certainly didn’t sit wrapped up in each other’s arms like this for any length of time.

And yet Marc didn’t seem in a hurry to let go of me. “Just feel it,” he kept saying in my ear, as he rubbed his jaw up and down my skull. From time to time he would loosen one of his hands and let it run through my hair, or rub my shoulders. "Do you feel it?" He would massage my neck, and hum to himself as he did it, whispering at me to keep my eyes closed and to feel the moment. His legs held me tightly, and his breathing was slow and even, but heavy. I could feel a particular hardness to his hips, behind me. The warmth of the room, and the warmth of his body and his groin in particular, made me drowsy. I gave in to the moment and kept my eyes closed, and let him continue to embrace and to rock me back and forth, slowly, gently, like a man with a baby.

I don’t know how long we remained in that position. It seemed an eternity, but more likely it was a half-hour. At the end of it, he seemed reluctant to let me go. But he did, with some remonstrances to remember that moment when we played the scene. I went home, thinking nothing about it.

But then I saw Topher again within a couple of days, for rehearsal. He looked at me from under his bangs and asked, blandly, without trying to sound curious, “So did you have a rehearsal with Marc?”

“Yeah,” I said automatically.

“How’d it go?”

Hours and a couple of days had passed between those moments on the floor and Topher’s innocent-sounding question. But when he asked in that impassive tone, I realized something: Marc had done the same thing with him, too.

And none of it made sense to me.

I'd known there was something odd about that rehearsal. It seemed like an awful lot of time to devote to a few fleeting seconds in the script. Little sensualist that I was, though, I hadn’t minded those moments of closeness. I'd liked the touching and the massage, which had been innocent enough. I actually kind of relished being in the hairy arms and legs of a cool older guy, or of hearing his laughter rumble through my body or his beard against my neck and ears. It hadn’t been anything I’d experienced until that day, but neither had any of the stuff I’d been doing for the play.

But still. There was something odd about it, and I didn’t have the words to express why. “Fine,” I said, equally blandly. “It went fine.”

“Cool,” he said.

And that’s the only time we talked about it. Or didn’t talk about it, I should say.

I’ve written before that I consider my first overt sexual experience, when a man touched me in a sexual way in a People’s Drug Store, to be the moment that my adult self was born. That afternoon was the moment I developed my first real secret, the first time I started keeping a narrative in my head that differed from the ones my parents and teachers were telling me.

But the People’s Drug Store encounter threw into sharp perspective what had happened that Saturday morning in the rec center. When I looked back on it and thought about the closeness of our bodies, the hardness and the heat at my back, the breath on my nape, I realized we hadn’t been rehearsing. I’d been naive. I’d been young, and blind. Marc hadn't dont anything overtly sexual with me, but I knew with the reasoning of someone years older than myself that he'd been, to say the least, inappropriate.

And Topher probably knew what had been happening even more clearly than I ever had. It made me wish I could've talked to him again, just to compare notes, and to see if he had handled it any differently. But by then, the play was over. Topher had gone back to his own school, and all the people of the cast were memories already slipping away.

I didn’t see Topher again after the play until we were both fifteen. It’s ironic—or perhaps just inevitable—that when we met again, he stood out as the only guy my age I ever had sex with until my early twenties.