Tuesday, November 30, 2010


Samir had been born in Mumbai, though he’d spent half his life in the U.S. His parents had arranged for him to live with an uncle in a small Michigan city by the time he was nine, so he could get a good education. He attended college at the institution where I was teaching at the time, and worked in my department as a student assistant. I got to know Samir first in the copy room, where the department secretaries seemed to have sent him to live on a more or less permanent basis; the kid was in there from nine in the morning until he left for his classes in the mid-afternoon. He was always super-friendly and never failed to be polite. No matter how much copying of course packs and grad school applications he had, he’d greet me with a smile and ask how I was, or inquire about my classes.

A good kid, like so many that passed through our offices. He was more than eighteen or nineteen when first I met him, and gifted with broad, masculine features and skin the color of dried tobacco leaves.

I got to know Samir a little better a semester after he started working for us, when I ran across him in the cruisy university library men’s room. I’d entered after lunch one day, hoping to find some teacher-on-student action. The door creaked enough to give anyone playing within plenty of notice to compose themselves; by the time I appeared around the bend into the restroom proper, the two guys who’d been playing with each other had separated and stood at the urinals, with a innocent space between them.

One of them was another staff member I recognized as a regular haunt of the place. He zipped up, nodded, and scampered out without washing his hands. The other was Samir. He stammered at the sight of me. That smile, which he’d always offered so freely at the copier, faltered for the first time since I’d known him. I was a little shocked myself. I’d run across students I knew and other faculty with whom I’d interact at the restrooms before, but I’d never thought I’d be running into the department’s student assistant. Briefly I considered pretending to pee and simply leaving, sparing us both any potential embarrassment.

But you know me. I don’t do that.

I stepped up to the spot the other guy had vacated, unzipped, and hauled out both my dick and my nuts. While I maintained eye contact with Samir and kept him talking, I got myself hard. Then I stepped back slightly and displayed my hard dick.

He stopped talking at the sight of it. His eyes traveled from my meat to my face. When I nodded, giving him permission, he knelt right there on the tile and sucked me. I enjoyed his mouth for a couple of minutes, but when we separated at the sound of footsteps in the stairwell outside, I suggested we take it back to my office.

And that’s where we had sex for three years after. Lunchtimes, two or three times a week, Samir would timidly knock at my office door. Always he had some kind of excuse to be there—he was bringing me the copies I’d (never) asked him to make, or he was bringing me my departmental mail, or handing me some blank slips of pink paper and pretending they were phone messages. I’d invite him in. He’d shut the door, and without saying a word, he’d pull off his shirt and drop his pants around his ankles. While I admired his lean, hard brown body, I’d let my pants drop and groan when he’d drop to the carpet to suck me.

Samir liked to be fucked best of all. I found that out from day one. He’d suck my dick until it was sloppy with his spit while he greased up his hole with the bottle of lube I kept in my desk’s top drawer. Once he knew where it was, he’d fetch it himself, so that by the time he was ready for me to enter him, he’d be slick and open. He always let as little time pass as possible, from the moment my dick left his mouth and before it pushed against the pink-rimmed edges of his brown little pucker.

It was the entry that Samir liked best. His dick would be at its hardest, as I pushed my way in. While he leaned over my desk and let his torso rest on its flat expanse, his tiny uncut dick would hang over the desktop’s edge. Pre-cum would drip from his foreskin and down the desk’s side, where it would dry into visible tracks if I didn’t remember to wipe it clean after. Once I’d shoved my inches all the way into him, his dick would soften slightly, but still remain turgid. His face would contort so that his eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes shut. The entire time I fucked, he always looked as if he were trying to sort out a problem while he slept, or was caught on that knife’s edge between extreme pain and pleasure. I loved that face on him.

He must have gotten some pleasure from it. Every time I fucked him, he’d wait until I’d filled his ass with cum before he’d touch himself. Then he’d give his dick a few quick little strokes, and he’d shoot an enormous load on my desk. He’d use Kleenex to wipe off himself, my dick, and the office furniture, and then he’d slip out with a smile and a slightly embarrassed look.

It was an ideal situation. We never discussed the arrangement, or never talked about anything weighty or serious. If I’d encounter him in the copier room or the departmental office, he never betrayed that we shared anything beyond a mild interest in movies or whatever was on TV the night before.

Until he graduated, that was. A week before he was due to receive his diploma, Samir appeared in my office. After shutting the door as usual, he stood in place for a long time. He didn’t remove his clothing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, finally catching on that all was not right with him.

He burst into tears. The kid was inconsolable. I sat him down in one of the chairs I used for visitors and wept with his face in his hands. Piece by piece, little by little, I got the story out of him. Samir had intended to attend grad school at the university and live in the U.S. after graduation—he’d even already been accepted and made plans to keep his room in the little apartment that he shared with four other Indian students. His parents, however, had other ideas. They’d picked out a bride for Samir, a girl he’d never seen or heard of. He was expected to return home to marry the girl, live with her in his family’s home, and start a family of his own.

“You have choices,” I told him, over and over again. But no, he insisted he didn’t. His family had footed the bill for his foreign education, and now they were calling in the debt. I sat there and let him lean against me while I kept my arms around him as he cried and cried. By the time he was finally done, I was late to leave, and he had been missing from his office duties for a couple of hours. I wiped off his face with a damp cloth, straightened out his rumpled clothing, and told him everything would be all right.

Even though I knew it probably wouldn’t, for a long time.

I never fucked Samir again. During that last week before his graduation, he’d regard me with a stricken expression whenever I’d encounter him on the department floor. I didn’t push it—it seemed cruel, to me, that prospect of giving up for a lifetime what he clearly craved. Then a day after the graduation, he was gone. Off the department’s employment roster. I’d hoped he’d at least stop by for a farewell before he left, but I never got that closure.

I wonder about Samir now. He’d be in his early thirties, married to some plump, pretty girl who was probably terrified as much by his parents as he clearly had been. They would have had time to produce babies with skin the shade of dried tobacco, exactly as his own parents had expected. I mourn a little to think he assumed he never had choices. He did. He might not have wanted to face those choices or their consequences, but they were always there.

Most of all, I hope he’s found something approximating happiness. That’s what I wish for him.

Monday, November 29, 2010

The Fuck-Up

I fucked it up.

Plain and simple, that’s what I did with Spencer.

It was that second night we spent together, toward the end of our time. I’d promised I would send him home at a reasonable hour so that he could get some sleep; he had a rehearsal the next day for which he needed to be nimble. We lay there, exhausted and pleasantly sweaty, our limbs knotted around each other. He played with the band of metal encircling my ring finger. “So tell me about this,” he said.

“What do you want to know?” I asked. I hadn’t hid my ring. I hadn’t stuck it in my pocket when we’d met, or left it on the bedside table so that there wouldn’t be any questions. When I’d taken him out to dinner earlier that night, I hadn’t kept my left hand beneath the table, or concealed it with my napkin.

“Where is she? Or is it a he? Out of town for the weekend?”

“Halfway across the country,” I said. “Indefinitely.” My heart was beating fast as I painted my situation in brief strokes.

“And you’re planning to move?” I nodded. “When?”

I explained that it could be two months from now, or six, or a year. I simply don’t know.

He continued to toy with my ring as we lay there in the silence. I felt I should say something to fix things. I didn’t know what, though. I’m usually good with words. On this night, they failed me utterly. I wanted to say, “But we can still have fun!”, but that sounded callow. I wanted to say that it didn’t matter, but it would have been a lie, and it would have denied his own feelings. It mattered.

“I’d better go,” he said at last. Together we dressed in silence, sorting out our belongings from the pile of clothing at the bed’s foot. It was worse than awkward. It felt as if I’d wounded him.

Downstairs, I sat next to him on the sofa as he pulled on his shoes, feeling like a knock-kneed, clumsy teenager desperate for approval. “I’d like to see you again, if you want to come back,” I said at last.

He sat with his hands between his legs, his limbs limp and askew. “Against my better judgment, I probably will,” was all he said. Then he sighed, gave me a quick hug, and left. I watched him drive off from the front window.

It felt like I’d been slapped. And worse, that I’d deserved it.

I screwed it up, I wrote to one of my better friends. I feel like such a damned fool.

There have been many times in my life when I’ve met someone for whom I have feelings. There’s always a sensation of inevitability when I run into these people. I know them right away. They make my heart race and grow soft. They are men for whom I’ll do anything to get to know. They’re men I’ve loved deeply. Over the years I’ve managed relationships with a few—they became lovers that still live in my heart, though our paths followed side-by-side for only a short time.

And when I think of these individuals now, sometimes it’s with a sense of sadness. There was the last man I loved, a poet with whom I exchanged verses and fluids, until he grew frightened and closed himself away. There was the man to whom I gave up my ass without effort, a decade ago, because he’d never before fucked and knew the right words to whisper into my ear to get me to show him—and I loved the nights we shared until he chose a vocation that involved a vow of celibacy. There was the timid boy I loved years ago who feared his family more than he loved himself, and who allowed himself to be trapped in a traditional marriage that drove him to an early death.

Then there are men I think of with nothing but fondness and a grin, like the clown from Australia who treated me like some kid of sidekick, or the everyday hero who celebrated my kinks as much as I appreciated his. There’s Scruffy, whom I love unabashedly.

Because this is my philosophy in life. We don’t get everything we want. We pick and choose the paths we trod. Sometimes we can choose the people with whom we travel. It’s up to us to relish the journey, any way we can. As sorrowful as parting from someone can be, especially when they’ve been close, the good times with someone for whom you care are too few and too beautiful to pass up. They’re the fruits plucked from orchards along the road, wonderful and full of zest and sweetness. I believe it’s far better to have those times together, those experiences, than it is to pass them by merely because of the potential for hurt later.

That’s what I feel, anyway. I know others aren’t the same. My friend wrote me back, saying, Your relationship and your move are pre-existing conditions, so technically you’re off the hook. He made sense. But I went to bed that night with a heavy head, and guilt in my heart.

Spencer agreed to come over the next night. It was his suggestion, actually. I was reluctant to put it forth, after I’d plainly let him down. While he was in the shower, I lay on my bed with my fingers intertwined, trying to think of what to say—because it was plain I needed to say something. Eventually he wandered in, completely dressed, damp, and padding for my side on bare feet. “Can we talk?” I asked.

He bit his lip and nodded. I could tell he was still thinking about the night before.

Once he’d finally laid his wet head on the pillow, I opened my mouth, and decided to be as plain and simple as possible. “First of all, I want to say I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t make friends easily. Not real friends. I find those very rarely. When I do, I want to see more of them. I like you. I like you a lot. I’ve been very selfish about wanting to see more of you, and for that I apologize.”

“I think I’ve been selfish too, then,” he said in a subdued voice.

So far, so good. “Second, I’m sorry for the awkwardness last night. It’s a little tough for me to realize we’ve only known each other a couple of days. I do know this, though: I like you a lot. I feel highly protective of you. I would never, ever do anything to hurt you, or cause you distress. Believe me on that.” He nodded. “I really want to your friend, if nothing else.” It hurt to say those words, because I wanted to be so much more than a friend. But I forced them out. “I’ll be here for you however you can stand it, if you’ll have me.”

That was it. I’d laid my heart out on the table with the bare essentials. He took a moment to consider what I’d said. “I think I was weird last night because it hit me that this won’t be going anywhere.”

“Don’t say that,” I said, a little stung, but recognizing the truth of it. “Don’t ever say that. Does your art go anywhere?” He shook his head a little, not understanding. “You practice the most ephemeral of art forms. Your life goes into a performance that’s beautiful while it lasts, and then. . . .” I gestured with my fingers to indicate the thin air into which the performance vanished.

“You can notate the moves,” he said, moving his head up and down. “You can record the performance. But it’s not the same,” he agreed.

“But you can’t say it doesn’t go anywhere, just because it has a finite life.” I looked into his eyes. “It’s worthwhile. It’s worthwhile because it exists, even if for a short time.”

His lips parted, as if to say something. Our eyes lingered on each other for a long, silent moment. Then, he decided to remain quiet. His head raised, though, and his hand sought the back of my neck. We kissed softly at first. Unsurely. Then, he grew hungry. After a long moment I leaned over to switch off the light, and then I lay atop him, our bodies buckling and moving in soundless rhythm.

Our lips remained locked while we ripped the clothes from each others’ bodies. When I entered him a very few minutes later, we were still kissing. He cried out, not from pain, but from the shock of having me force myself in him so violently and without much lubrication. Then he clung to me as if he hoped we’d never part.

I fucked it up. And then I patched it, by being as simple and honest as I could.

I’m lucky to have him walking alongside me, even if for a brief while.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Guilty Edition

I wish all my readers a happy post-Thanksgiving recovery. And yes, it's true, I did take a couple of days off, this week. It was the first time all my family's been home in over a month, and I was determined to make it count. Because that's what it's all about, right? Making it count?

At any rate, I hope to heck you guys had a great holiday. I confess to having braved the shopping madness on that retail hell known as Black Friday—though I did it safely in the late afternoon, when the fervor of it had died down a little bit, if not the crowds. What can I say? I'm a fan of that elusive beast known as The Good Bargain.

For those of you doing a little Cyber Monday shopping tomorrow, don't forget your favorite bloggers! (Subtle, right?)

As always on Sundays, today I'll be rounding up a few responses from formspring.me for your enjoyment. If you have any questions you'd like to ask, always feel free to address me anonymously there, or via my email. As long as it's not abrasively obnoxious or horribly repetitive, I'll answer. One way or another.

you are fucking someone, pull out and realize he is not clean, what do you do?
This is one of those circumstantial questions. If it's a one-on-one at my place, I might keep fucking until we're done if he's only giving off flecks of stuff. If he's runny or producing a strong smell, I'm likely to suggest he shower up or simply leave.

It's the smell that gets to me, really. The stronger the smell, the more likely I am to terminate the proceedings.

Do you ever think what your (fucking) life will be like 10 ... 20 ... 30 years from now?
I do. I keep hoping that all the sex I performed on older guys in my youth will be paid forward and that I'll continue to have a lot of fucking to do as a senior.

On the other hand, worrying too much can distract from an enjoyment of fucking in the present day. Present enjoyment should always be the first priority.

How long does it take for something new & hot to get old & stale?
I firmly believe that if you approach something with wonder and awe every time, and let that inner kid in you revel in it, it'll never get stale.

On the other hand, letting your inner cynic triumph with a "Oh, not THIS again" will make you sick of something even before you've started.

I am an avid reader of your blog and am really curious about your encounters with women. I was wondering if you would ever write about them in your blog. Sorry if this question has already come up. Thanks for sharing a part of your life with your readers.
I would if there were an interest, yes.

I used to enjoy a lot of sex with married couples, but after a weird and somewhat upsetting series of events with a particular local married couple a couple of years back, I took a step away from that particular scene. It's a shame, because I enjoyed those scenes quite a lot.

enjoy your blog.... just thought i recognized your chin.... on the piano player in the glee skits in the music room!! do you look like him!?
Not in the least.

I'm newly out -- a masculine, formerly married man in my 50s. I get a fair amount o of attention at certain bars, and guys often want me to be a top. Not sure I am, in this kid-in-candystore period. Any thoughts?
Because there are so many bottoms out there craving a good fucking, a lot of them are going to want you to be the top guy. Maybe you're not sure if that's for you--but since you're relatively new to the scene, give it a try with some of the guys you find attractive. You may find you like it.

At the same time, if you want to be topped yourself, let guys know it fairly early on in the negotiation phase. Tell men you're versatile, and looking for a totally versatile experience with them. Or let it be known that you'd like to bottom that evening.

At this stage--hell, at any stage--you should be simply enjoying yourself instead of tying yourself to one particular role and not deviating from it. Explore your options. Don't let others manipulate you into topping if you don't care to; decide for yourself what works best for you.

I never see you on Yahoo messenger anymore - it makes me sad. What gives?
I get on Yahoo all the time and nobody talks to me. That doesn't really encourage me to stick around.

I haven't been on messenger on such a regular schedule lately because I've been busy, but I've definitely been on it.

In "Fulcrum," your florist talks about "a top cock." Is dick size really destiny, in that regard?
I dont believe so. I think a lot of bottoms look at a big dick, however, and think to themselves, "That should be in me." The extrapolation, naturally, being "That guy should be a top."

I am intensely word-sensitive man, whose EARS are hardwired to my dick. "Verbal" makes me insanely hot, and you seem to be quite good at it. Any advice?
Are you trying to become verbal yourself? Or encourage your partners to become more verbal? I'm not sure which.

If the former, keep in mind that the things you say during sex should be about as much a turn-on for you as they are for the guy you're with; be sensitive to the way he's responding to your words, and mentally note what's working and what's not. The stuff that's working can be repeated, or uttered with variations, to keep up his interest.

If the latter, the direct approach might be best. Tell your partners you like a guy who talks. If it's someone you're seeing often, show him porn that typifies the kind of thing you like.

You like to rim. Do you like the scent and taste of a guy's pits, his crotch, etc. as well?
I do, very much. I like a natural scent on a guy. All I ask is that his ass is clean.

How many countries have you had sex in?
Five so far. I'm aiming for more.

Would you ever be willing to tweet a heads-up before you get on cam4? It would help me cross something off my bucket list...
Sure. I should've thought of it this morning. Or last night.

A lot of the recaps of your adventures seem to involve bottoms that like to be debased or spoken to in a derogatory manner. Rough guess at the percentage of guys that get into that?
The number of guys who don't like to be talked to during sex is pretty low. I know some men who prefer a nice, gentle quiet, or silent lovemaking, but they're in the minority. (Or sometimes we're just having sex while their wives are sleeping upstairs.)

Of the guys who enjoy being talked to during sex, there are a lot of them who enjoy being made to feel more submissive through the use of dirty language. Sometimes it can be mildly demeaning. I'd say the percentage of men who enjoy being told that they're a hot little bitch who like to give it up for daddy's big cock is pretty high--in the 80%-90% range.

Those who like their abuse more vivid and even more demeaning--sexually derogatory terms like 'faggot' or 'queer' or racial insults--are a smaller percentage of the overall pie, but it's not uncommon at all. I'd guess in the 20% range out of the total population of men I meet.

However, of the racial minorities, a larger percentage ask for and relish the abusive language than do your standard-issue white guys. I'd estimate about 40% hint at an interest in it.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Happy Turkey!

Thanksgiving is one of those U.S. holidays that I've always taken for granted. It's usually one of those days I simply endure—the endless food preparation, the clunkiness of the parades, the chilly and damp weather, the football, the overstuffed feelings afterward. It's all been crap I have to get through in order to return to a more normal life after.

This year, though, I've been through a lot I hadn't expected. Separation from family, losses, the stress of preparing to change households and scenery. All of the anxiety has thrown into sharp relief those things that are important to me. I've been grateful for every single blessing. Not just today, but every day.

And among those unexpected delights are the friendships and interactions I've had with the readers of my blog. For all of you I'm thankful—from the frequent commenters to those who peek in every once in a while, and those who read silently and keep coming back. To all of you I wish the best on this holiday.

If you're celebrating today, Happy Thanksgiving! If you're outside the country or if this is an ordinary Thursday for you, still know I'm grateful to have you around.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010


It’s the second night that Spencer has come to stay the evening. “Did you dress up pretty just for me?” I ask him in the bedroom, casting an appraising eye over his trim vest, his shirt printed with flowers, his pressed but still-rumpled khakis.

Immediately he lets loose with one of those grins that stretch his chin and cheeks into an impossible triangle. “I’m wearing clothes,” he said. I could tell by his sheepish reaction that he had indeed dressed to make an effect. Those were date clothes. Not the kind of clothes meant to land on someone’s bedroom floor. “I wear clothes when I leave the house!”

“Not for long, you won’t,” I murmur into his ear. I turn off the bedside lamp then, and push him into the bed.

We kiss for a long while. From time to time he pulls back and looks at me. In the light of the nearly-full moon in which we bathe atop the mattress, his dark eyes glitter. My hand is beneath his shirt, running over the valleys and crests of his rib cage, enjoying the warmth of his skin, before we speak again. “Why are you a conundrum?”

He blinks several times before realizing why I’d asked. Our first night I’d noticed the tattoo running down his right leg, beneath the knee—that single word, conundrum, traced out into block letters that wouldn’t have been out of place on a Sesame Street sketch. “I’ve always been out of step with everyone,” he says at last. His forehead pushed against my shoulder. “My best friend growing up was my grandmother. Not the kids at school, not anyone I knew from church or anything, but my freakin’ grandmother. Later on, in school, I would hang out with the teachers instead of going to recess with everyone else. I was a little adult from the time I was a kid. No one could ever figure me out. So that’s me. Out of step. A puzzle to everyone. A conundrum.”

By his hushed tone, I guess I’ve hit on something important to him. I sit him up and remove his sweater vest, drawing his hands up over his head as I might undress a sleepy child. “That’s sweet.”

He butts his head against me. “Most people my age have to ask me the definition.”

His flowered shirt is next. I snap open the buttons and expose his chest, his shoulders. He shivers a little at the sudden breath of cold air on his back from the cracked window. I fold the garment and place it atop his sweater on my dresser. Then I help him out of his pants, and add them to the neatly-stacked pile. He wears nothing beneath the khakis. His thick hard-on flops against his abdomen, already twitching. Spencer plops back against the pillows with his arms hugging his chest, conserving his warmth. He seems shy to be looked at.

“You truly have a beautiful body,” I tell him in a whisper.

“Thank you for thinking so,” is his automatic response back. I’m going to have to break him of that. Before I can say anything, though, he sits up with a rush and begins to remove my shirt.

What follows is a long and passionate exchange of pleasure. We kiss and neck like teenagers in the back seat of our father’s jalopy. I gently suck his nipples, and he chews on mine. He straddles my chest and lets me suck on his dick while he lodges mine deep into his throat. And then I rim him for a long, wordless time that’s punctuated only by his appreciative sighs and my own animal grunts as I try to wedge my tongue in more and more deeply. When he’s slick and wet from my mouth, I rise and enter him—but only for a few moments.

He whimpers when I withdraw. “Lie down,” I tell him, turning him onto his side. “Relax.”

I think Spencer knows what’s coming. We’d discussed it the night before, as a part of his sexual diet. “What are you doing?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

I don’t answer. He already knows what I intend. From the nightstand I withdraw a tub of lube I’d set inside earlier. I unscrew the top and take a dollop of the creamy gel and apply it to his hole, teasing it in with my middle finger.

Spencer’s left leg extends into a straight line with a dancer’s pointed toe; his right curls up to his chest, stretching his ass cheeks wide. He groans. In the meantime I’ve taken another glob of goo and pushed it into his hole with my middle and index finger together, enjoying the slick wetness within.

“What’s it like?” he asks, as a third finger joins the other two, then a fourth. I ease them around, slowly, deliberately teasing him.

“Like dipping my hand into warm water.”

There’s a note of teasing in his voice. “Or an apple pie?”

“I’ve never put my hand into an apple pie.” Before he can say anything smart—and I can tell he’s about to—I add, “Or fucked one.”

Any rejoinder he might have had is silenced when my thumb joins the others. He inhales sharply; his head raises into the air. Then it’s down in the pillows as he buries his face in the cool sheets.

I’m at the point at which I can feel his body speaking to me, rather than his mouth. His spine is a perfect concavity. Those beautiful cheeks of his are open. His hole pulses and throbs around the forefront of my hand. Hungrily it backs up and onto me, trying to take the rest in.

After I apply more of the lube around the perimeter of where my hand meets his hole, I let him have it. The thickest portion of my right hand, south of the thumb’s joint, slips in. His open hole closes around my wrist. The moan he lets out is long and slow, a perfect wave of pure vibration that seems endless. When he begins to move again after the shock of taking something so wide in his ass, I know it’s all right to twist. I keep my fist in a ball as slowly I rotate it in his ass. My thumb moves from the noon position to nine o’clock, and then to three, before slowly moving backward again.

“Oh,” he finally says. “You’re . . . amazing.”

“I absolutely am,” I tell him. I’m sitting upright beside him, wrist-deep in the boy’s hole. My left hand rests on his abdomen, judging the rise and fall as he breathes. Whenever he speaks or groans, my palm tingles. I feel him chuckle slightly, but in his sensation-dazed state, it’s almost too much effort.

“I have goosebumps,” he whispers.

Gently I pat him to let him know it’s all right to enjoy the feelings without feeling obligated to tell me. The forest of raised follicles springing from his body already told me what I needed to know.

“I like knowing . . . you're inside me,” he breathes out. Then he follows it up with, “I like . . . knowing it’s you inside me like this.”

It seems almost a shame to spoil this quiet and sacred moment with words, but I’m touched by his. “That’s what I like the most about fisting,” I tell him. “The intimacy. You and me. Connected. Reach down and touch,” I tell him.

Immediately his hand searches for where my hand is disappearing inside him. I feel his fingers around my forearm. “Oh, fuck,” he says.

“Connected,” I repeat. “You and me.”

My fist remains inside him only for a few more moments. He’s reached the end of his tolerance; his legs are shaking. After I give my lube-covered hand a rinse in the bathroom and he hops into the shower to get the remainder from his hole, we join each other in bed once more. “You’re incredible,” he repeated, happily content.

“Thank you,” I said this time, meaning it most sincerely. “It’s an honor.”

I’m playing with his flaccid dick. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It short-circuits after I’m fisted like that.”

I don’t want to hear apologies. Side by side, we rest our heads on the pillow and kiss, softly and sweetly. After a mere moment of making out, his dick begins to swell in my grasp. A bead of pre-cum oozes into my palm. He barely protests when I push him onto his other side and, after moistening the head and first three inches with a glob of spit, shove into him. The moment I hit bottom, his dick blossoms into full hardness. I spit into my right hand and apply the slippery liquid to his meat, then wrap my hand around it and begin to beat. Just as it had for my fist inside him, his body reacts to both my cock grinding at his hole and my hand around his inches. “I just want to bring you as much pleasure as you can stand,” I whisper into his ear. “That’s all I want.”

“Oh god, you do,” he rasps out. My words have pushed him over the edge. Spencer’s body buckles and jerks. I feel a warm jet of semen cross the sides of my fingers and spray onto the blankets. Over and over he thrashes and shoots, until at last I clutch his cock still and tight and hold him to me.

It’s a very long time before he can say anything. When he does, it’s with a voice made weak from exertion. “I’ve never had a man—not a single man—who could, A), make me shoot by sucking me, or B), make me shoot by jerking me off. You’re the first. The very first. . . .” His words trail off, as if he’s drifting to sleep in my arms.

“So what you’re basically telling me is that I have work to do on part A,” I say in a normal voice.

He laughs. “You’re amazing,” he says once again.

“Mmm,” I concede.

But what I’m really thinking is that one of these days, I’m going to have to knock that other item off his list.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Dancer

Spencer’s face looks sculpted from clay, as if by deft and expert hands. His brow, smooth and at a gentle slant, seems smoothed by an invisible palm. His chin is broad and flat and square, as if formed by the gentle butt of a fist from beneath. His eyes, close-set—the wells from two thumbs pressed deeply into the soft molding material. His nose, made pointed and straight between two fingers running down its length. And finally his cheekbones, high and sharp, stretched by the artist grasping and pulling his medium to almost comical proportions.

He’s beautiful.

When I tell him so, he chuckles. It rumbled in his broad chest. “I’m glad you think so.” It’s a reply he’s given before. It tells me that he’s not yet come to terms with his generous good looks or even the proportions of his body. It’s a dancer’s body—broad shoulders atop a muscular torso that narrows to a trim waist. His butt is ample, even large, but those muscles are there for a purpose; years of running and leaping and lifting partners has filled it out. It’s a butt that fills out his jeans or slacks, and catches the attention. It’s a hairy butt that I’ve spent the evening rimming, off and on. Every time my mouth has met his hole, I delight in his soft, contented sighs, in the sounds of his fists clenching the bed sheets, in the shifts of his body as he thrusts back his hips to open himself to me.

Yes, he’s beautiful all over, from the thick dark hair thatching his head, the dark brown eyes, the broad sideburns that threaten to take over his face, the cascade of fur running down the center of his chest. I’m infatuated by the thick bush of his pubes from which his erect penis juts, angry red. I love his thick and muscular thighs, his rounded calves, the triangular wedges that are his feet. When my hands finish trailing over his body, he pushes himself up on his thick forearms. Over the curves of his shoulders he looks at me, mouth parted. My lips meet his in a kiss that’s soft and slow; the tips of our tongues meet, then glance away to explore other areas. I nuzzle his ear, and nip at his lobe. The bristles on my chin scrape his neck.

“You smell so good,” I say, inhaling some kind of scent from the back of his neck. It’s citrus, and spice, and the clean tones of vanilla and mint, all at once. “What are you wearing?”

For a moment he can’t speak. He’s enjoying the sensations too much. Finally, when I give him some relief, his lids open lazily. “The blood of innocents,” he tells me.

“Mmm,” I reply, just as deadpan as he. “Tasty.”

There’s nothing innocent about Spencer. His hole has been well fucked in the few years he’s been sexually active. It’s both the loosest and tightest hole I’ve had of late. When I enter, I scarcely need lube, or pressure. He opens to me without labor, taking my full length without stress or strain. When I’m in, though, he clamps down with a vengeance, surrounding me with heat and his own moisture mingling with the loads I’ve already left inside. His legs are in the air, his knees by his ears, effortlessly flexible. The flats of his feet rest upon my shoulders.

My own hair hangs around my face and eyes as I fuck into him. Softly. Slowly. I want to savor every thrust with him, my new infatuation. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m more of a lover than a pounder tonight,” I tell him, aware of how lame the apology must sound. “It’s just. . . .”

I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I’ve only met him for the first time that night; we’ve only been sharing each other for a couple of hours. To say what I want to say would frighten the boy away. It’s just that for some reason, this particular encounter matters to me, maybe. Or, It’s just that I really like you, and I want you to keep coming back.

“I like you,” I told him, getting the courage to say the words. “I want you to come back again.” I add a third thought. “I just want to keep making you feel very, very good.”

My cock has been rigid to the bursting point the entire time I’ve been with him. Now, face to face with the boy, close and wrapped in his legs, I feel as if it’s doubled in size. I’m not usually fond of fucking men on their backs on the bed like this; too many seem to be trying to push me backwards and off-balance, or backing off of me from the intensity of my size in their folded position. Spencer, with his dancer’s balance and his incredible flexibility, however, is managing to make this the most intimate of positions. With him, it’s suddenly the only position I crave.

My thrusts are catching him at an unexpected angle. Every time I hit bottom, he grunts and contracts. For a long minute he lets out a drawn-out sigh that’s half groan, half prayer. I don’t really care about whether or not I shoot. I just want to give him pleasure.

I use spit to lube his dick, and wrap my palm around it. His response is almost metallic, hollow. Instinct makes his hips buck forward to thrust it through the tube my hand makes. Soon he’s moving back and forth, drawing my own dick in and out of him as he thrusts into my hand. His eyes are closed. His nipples, when my left hand draws across them, are hard, pointed nubs.

“You can’t . . . I don’t. . . .” I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me, but I can feel his pre-cum leaking onto the back of my hand.

Whatever I can’t or he won’t do, I never find out. His hips clench; his ass tightens to the point of nearly expelling me. Semen gushes from the tip of his dick, spraying my chest, the underside of my chin, his own body. After a moment, I’m surprised to find that he remains just as hard after he’s shot. There’s a certain lessening of rigidity, but he’s still up and stiff between my cum-slick fingers.

“Fuck me,” he commands, the soft-voiced little dictator. “Shoot in me.”

I don’t need any more permission than that. I’m already close to another orgasm. Knowing he wants it brings me all the closer. My thrusts are like a rabbit’s, swift and shallow, focused on bringing as much stimulation to my cock head and the inch below it.

I release my load inside him with a gasp. It’s astonishing, how hard he makes me come. The dazzle hasn’t even faded from my eyes when his fingers trail up and through my hair, pushing it away. “You're perfect," he sighs. His hands travel across my face like the sculptor's would, feeling its curves and planes and irregularities. "You don’t have to be what you’re not, you know,” he whispers to me in the darkness. “Be what you want to be. Be what you are.”

I’ve never received that permission before. It’s honestly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me during sex.

Monday, November 22, 2010

A Dick in the Hand Is Worth Two in the Bush

I grew up under the steely influences of two grandmothers who were sticklers for propriety. Though both lived far away, I could feel their iron reach hundreds of miles away. Gifts from them came with enough attached strings to fuel an entire theater of marionettes. My thank-you notes had to be sent within a week of any birthday or Christmas present I might receive from them, or else my parents would start getting dunning phone calls, wanting to know when they might expect their receipt. I know a few collection agencies who apparently took tips from the pair of them.

There were rules for speaking in their presence. For eating at the table. There were rules about what rooms I could and couldn’t enter in their houses, and what I could do while I was there. Now, I was normally a mannerly kid—I was raised a little southern gentleman, after all—but all these extra restrictions and deadlines and mini-reports I had to write on books they recommended really rubbed me the wrong way. I found the strings so onerous that eventually I went all passive-aggressive on them in my mid-to-late teens and made the conscious decision simply to stop responding to any of their gifts. The resulting ruckus was such an ice storm of cold language that my parents warned me that if I kept it up, both grandmothers were threatening never to give me presents ever again.

I told them I was totally fine with that. My mom and dad, who not-so-secretly were kind of on my side in the issue, went back to their mothers and told them.

I never did get any more gifts from the old women. Every fiber of my being rebels when I’m offered something with so many restrictions and caveats attached; I find it even ruder than anything I could’ve done by not writing a thank-you note within five working days.

And then there are times, sadly, when I find myself wanting to follow in my grandmothers’ footsteps.

Last week there was some strange conjunction of the stars, or perhaps a change in the weather for the colder, that made it nearly impossible for me to get laid. Weirdness abounded. A black guy I used to see fairly frequently told me that he no longer dated outside his own race, though he preferred his partners to pretend to be white dominants when they fucked him. A guy I knew as a pretty slutty bottom had changed his position to ‘Top’ in his Manhunt profile, and when I asked him about it, he sent back a curt note saying that yes, he’d decided that he would be happier as a total top in the future and that his bottoming days were over. I also had two tops send me messages from out of the blue asking if I had picture of my hole for them.

I was polite enough to everyone. I told my black friend that I hoped he and his new white masters with the dark skin had a good time, and wished my newly-top buddy all the luck in the world. (Though secretly I was remembering the bookstore lunches he used to take four times a week with his ass backed up to the gloryholes and thinking, Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts.) And I declined to send the tops photos of my hole that I don’t really have.

A few bottoms drove me to distraction that one night, however. Suddenly for one and all, my dick wasn’t enough for them. One bottom who’d made the pages of this blog not too very long ago messaged me and asked if I was free that night. Surely I was, I replied to him. When did he want to come over? I was hoping the answer would be, soon.

But no. He replied back, It would really make it worth my while if you rounded up at least two other tops.

Oh, I thought to myself. It was going to be one of those nights. None of the tops I know are online, I told the guy.

Then maybe you could take me to the baths and whore out my ass, he wrote.

Now, at the same time I got a note from another bottom I knew, asking what I was doing. Oh, dealing with another bottom who’s being a butt, I tapped out. Want to come over?

Yeah I’d love to see you, he said. But I was kind of wondering if you knew any other tops tonight? Or if you want I can pick up a couple of them and bring them to your place.

It really was that kind of night. I was burning with anger. I knew that in the end, both of these bottoms were going to be spending the night in front of their laptops, fruitlessly searching for the top that could guide them from the barren desert to an oasis of multiple dicks. It seemed to me that a single good top would be better than what they were going to be getting, which was going to be nothing.

Furthermore, what was with the ‘worth my while’ shit about? Was this guy, who a couple of weeks before had told me he hadn’t been fucked so well in over a year, now telling me I wasn’t worth his fucking while? And as for the other bottom, did he seriously think I wanted him to pick up total strangers and bring them to my home? Really? It’d been quite a while since I’d encountered what seemed, in my blue-balled stated, like such utter rudeness. I wanted to blast them both with carefully-chosen words that would first freeze them into bottomsicles and then shatter them into tiny shards.

Just like my grandmothers had often felt about my perceived transgressions, I realized.

Instead of giving in to those frosty impulses, though, I took a deep breath and told myself it was time to step away. I very warmly told both guys good luck and great fun with their search for multiple tops, then logged out and spent the evening in less carnal pursuits. I was a happier person that way.

The next night I logged back on. Within five minutes, both the bottoms of the previous night had sent me notes. Their evenings hadn’t panned out the way they’d hoped, they both said. Neither got fucked. Was I available? I took bids from both of them and went with the one who could stay the longest. It wasn’t until he was in my bed and on his knees with his ass in the air that I said anything about the night before. “You sure this one dick is going to be enough for you?” I asked, as the tip of my head paused right outside his hole.

“Yes,” he hissed head hung low. “Please. Please.” When I continued to tease the lips of his ass, he finally whispered, “Sorry about last night.”

“Forget about it,” I told him, as I drove into his hairy hole and plunged on home.

Then we never said another word about it.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Turkey Week Edition

It's been a quiet week for comments, readers. Almost too quiet. Are you all on vacation? Wishing you were on vacation? Stockpiling cranberries for the upcoming holiday? No matter. I'll be here all this week, hopefully fucking the out-of-towners and reporting back for your approbation.

As usual, I'll be rounding up answers to a few of the questions I've gotten this week via formspring.me, a site that you to ask questions of me in an anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) manner. Feel free to use it. I'll answer just about anything that's not creepy, abusive, or super-repetitive. Of course, you can always simply email me your questions as well.

That's right. I'm the Ms. Manners of bareback bloggers.

As a bottom I naturally LOVE dick. I love it in my ass, I love it in my mouth....I like it in both holes simultaneously. I'm a greedy fucker, what can I say?

As a top, do you find that you get the same "quality" fuck when a bottom is servicing multiple tops simultaneously as opposed to when he's solely focused on servicing your cock? Have you noticed if there is there any difference if the bottom's blindfolded? Do their other senses become more acute when they can't see? My gut tells me that I would be more focused while blindfolded and that I'd be a better lay if I'm focusing everything on the single cock that I'm servicing. I'm curious to hear from an experienced top though.
That's really an interesting question.

I'm going to answer it with a caveat--it all depends on the bottom in question of course.

But with a standard-issue enthusiastic bottom, no, I don't get as much good attention on my dick when the bottom is splitting it between me and another top. It's tough to establish a good rhythm unless I'm really in tune with the other top. I don't have quite as much control. And of course, there isn't as much of the bottom's attention focused on me.

However, the visual turn-on of watching the bottom sucking the other guys' dick (or whatever's going on) while I'm fucking makes up for that. So it's still fun!

I totally think that the other senses become more acute when sight is taken away from the equation—whether through a blindfold or a dark room or whatever. That's why I love dark room and anonymous fucks. They can be amazing.

Is there really good Mexican food in the Detroit area?
There's a large Mexican population here, so yes, there's a lot of good Mexican food. There's even a section of the city named Mexicantown in which there are several very good restaurants, a couple of Mexican bakeries, and a tamaleria that's my favorite.

When you first penetrate - do you drive all the way in to assert your control over the bottom, or take it slow?
I've done both, but generally I'll take it slow--especially if I don't know the guy and his capabilities.

If it's someone I've been with before and I know how much his ass can handle, I'll drive it on in.

What sight, sound or smell will instantly make your dick hard as a rock?
A guy assuming a submissive position in front of me--pants off, knees spread, head down, face concealed, ass up. Does it every time.

The wet sound of sex also gets me going quickly. If I hear a guy fucking a wet hole, the little squelching noises make me erect almost instantly.

Does spit really work as a lubricant or is there something symbolic about you spitting into your hand and rubbing your dick before plunging in? Or am I reading too much into it?
Spit's a good enough lubricant for fucking. Plus it's free and always close at hand.

If the ratio of bottoms to tops is as high as you think, does that mean there are a lot of guys stuck in relationships doing more topping than they'd like?
Yes, it absolutely means that. And it also means they're often cheating on their partners with me in order to get their asses fucked.

If someone reads one of your posts in their RSS reader without visiting your blog, do your stats show that? Or to give you a better picture of your visitors, should we click through to your blog?
My understanding is that RSS feeds (to which I'm addicted) have to suck down the information in order to present it to you. So yes, the stats reflect that. What they don't reflect would be the time spent on a particular page, but I don't really give a hoot about that.

How do you overcome the cock sensitivity after you've just cum in his ass, to just keep pounding away for the second and third?
Usually I slow down my thrusting to a gentle grinding motion, so that I'm not overstimulated. For me, the worst point of sensitivity is the top of my cockhead, and it lasts for about five to ten seconds after I've shot; if I switch the angle to avoid that spot for a little bit, I'm good to stay in for a while.

On your Stockroom.com sex toy wish list you have a number of anal toys. Are those for use on someone else, or would you like to use those on yourself?
I wish I had the nerve to use them on myself. I would be more likely to use them on a playmate.

To Mr. Steed, this is another random question, but I was wondering if there was a scent that is left on the bed after you have sex on it with another person other than your significant other. If there is, how do you hide it from your significant other.
I change the sheets, pretty simply. Or I lay something down on top of the bed that's easily removed once the fucking's done—like a blanket, or some towels.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Spunked Saturday

A loyal reader made an arrangement with me this week to send a pair of his underwear for me to decorate with several of my loads.

I thought it would be kind of rude not to let him know the underwear arrived yesterday, safe and sound. As for my part of the bargain—well, you can see for yourself.

There'll be more to come. (So to speak.)

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Two Dicks, One Hole

Playing with my former gloryhole boy last Friday put me in a certain mood. I knew my own local friend with the home gloryhole tends to hang around on weekend afternoons, so every couple of hours after lunch Sunday I would pop onto Manhunt to see if he was hanging around. I got lucky around four-thirty when I saw his nickname, Urlipsmypole, listed in my friends list.

Need a mouth? I messaged him.

lol glad you asked...if you're feeling extra hungry I may be able to get a bud to join me :-), he wrote back.

I can handle two of you, I said.

He told me to hang on for a couple of minutes while he waited to see if his friend was available. I agreed, and mentally noted that the very next person to look at my profile on Manhunt would be his buddy. Surely enough, about three minutes later, I got a trackback on a profile local to the both of us. The guy was in his mid-thirties, had a decent dick and a thick thatch of hair surrounding it. None of his photos showed his face. I was fine with that.

A minute after that, the little green button next to his name had gone blank, indicating he was offline. He’s on the way over, said Urlipsmypole.

I’ll be there in ten, I told him.

It was four-fifty-five when I pulled around to the back of the guy’s house. His yard was neatly raked (more neatly than mine by a mile), and his steps decorated with pumpkins and gourds. I unlatched his back gate, tromped up the stairs, and let myself into the little mudroom. I was grateful for the space heater in the back corner. Cold as it was that afternoon, I’d put the car’s heat on high so that I wouldn’t arrive to his place with icy fingers. I undid my pants, reversed my baseball cap, and knelt down on the pillows tossed down before the gloryhole.

I’m not a hundred percent certain about this detail, but the hole seemed bigger this week. I remembered it as round and just big enough to admit the owner’s dick and balls. Sunday, though, it was a long, squared oval of approximately six inches by three—large enough to see all kinds of things through, for a change. As I put my mouth to the hole, I could see almost all of the guy’s kitchen, which was as immaculate and neat as his yard. I could also see all of the man himself from the neck down. He was naked. His dick was soft, but as he closed the distance between us and maneuvered it through the hole, it twitched. It twitched again when I reached out and pulled it into my mouth. Then it began to swell.

I sucked him to hardness quickly as my hands tickled at the sides of his nuts. He wasn’t yet pressed so tightly against the plywood partition that I couldn’t see behind him. The other man stood behind and slightly to the side, as if he was looking over Urlipsmypole’s shoulder. I recognized the dark pubes and the lower half of his body from the photos on Manhunt—so that was no surprised. The guest kept his wife-beater on as he stroked.

I’d gotten the gloryhole owner’s dick completely hard and dripping at the tip when he pulled out of my mouth and stepped to the side. The guest stepped forward to take his turn. His bush smelled of mingled soap and poppers. He was already rock-hard by the time he slid through, and his pre-cum tasted saltier than any I’ve had recently. When I wrapped my thumb and forefinger around his meat and let it follow the path of my lips, squeezing tightly, I could hear him gasp and moan on the other side of the partition.

He pulled out quickly, as if he was close; my buddy took his place. Urlipsmypole likes more of a buildup to his blow jobs. He likes them to start soft and sweet and then end up rough. While I played with my own dick, I sucked the owner with my mouth only, letting him set the pace and the depth. Without removing my mouth from his dick, I wet the fingers of my one free hand and let them brush behind his nuts with every thrust in and out. It drove him crazy. He pressed in closer against the wood, battering it with his hips as he ground further down my throat.

Then he pulled out, leaving my mouth empty and almost aching. The guest replaced him, shoving his thicker and shorter cock into my mouth. His fingers snaked through the hole and felt the scruff of my beard, the shape of my jaw, rubbed the underside of my chin. I wrapped my hand around his dick and swiveled it as I moved back and forth. It only took a few strokes before I heard him grunt, animal-like, from the other side. A moment later, he flooded my mouth with his load. I slowed down, then held still, so I could collect every drop. Only when he withdrew did I swallow the salty payload.

He said something to Urlipsmypole after he withdrew, but I couldn’t understand it. I think he was making an excuse to zip up and leave. My host didn’t really seem to care. He was too anxious to have his own dick sucked again. I went back to sucking with my mouth only, adding in a finger or two after a little of that. My fingers kept stroking the sides and back of his shaved scrotum, causing him to gasp loudly.

It wasn’t very long after that my host fed me his load. He always shoots very deeply in my throat, but I managed not to choke on the stuff. Once his dick throbbed a last time, I kept it in my mouth as I swallowed, then moved my hands down to my own stiff dick to give it some relief. My gloryhole buddy is always very good about letting me continue to suck on his dick as I get myself off. I held it there and savored the taste and the feel of it in my mouth as I jacked. Moments later, I grunted and bucked as I unloaded onto the floor.

“Good job,” I heard him say, as he withdrew.

“Thank you,” I managed to croak out. My hands fumbled for my zipper. I fastened myself up, revolved my baseball cap again, and headed out the door to my car.

I looked at my watch. It was five after five; I’d been there for all of ten minutes. For a moment I considered a breath mint, but in the end I drove home with the taste of two men’s sperm fresh in my mouth.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Foot Service

Many years ago when I was in graduate school, I became involved with a Roman Catholic priest with a foot fetish.

I’ll pause for a moment to let that one sink in. Yes, I know, it sounds like the start of one of the jokes printed on the reverse side of the Playboy centerfold. Larry the foot-sucking priest, I called him in my head.

I met Father Larry in the university library restrooms one day. He was a not-unattractive guy with a fat uncut dick with whom I had a good preliminary time under the toilet stall. When he asked if I knew of someplace to go so he could show me what he really liked, I invited him back to my student apartment. He wasn’t in his robes and collar, by any means. I didn’t know he was a priest until he told me behind my closed apartment door. Mostly I think he told me so that if I planned to be disturbed or to freak out because of his revelation, I’d get it over with fairly quickly.

I found out Larry’s fetish almost the moment we were alone. He knelt down on the ground and removed my shoes for me with reverence. Then he drew my stockinged feet up ot his face, one by one, and rubbed his face over them. He bowed so low over each one that I couldn’t help but be reminded of Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’s feet with her hair, thought I thought bringing it up in a priest’s presence might border on sacrilege.

I’d just been through some fairly traumatic stuff in my life when I met Larry. My meetings with him were something of a relief, because not only was I excused from the usual anal and oral proceedings, but all I really had to do was relax and put myself into his hands. Put my feet into his hands, that is. Larry would use oils and lotions, or plain old soap and water, and lather up my skin until it was wet and slick. He’d run his fingers through every crevice, along every ridge, and massage my feet until I sank back into the pillows and mattress with my eyes closed. For long periods he’d rub muscles down there I never knew I had, and which I certainly had no idea were so pleasurable.

And then he’d start to suck. He’d run the broad flat of his tongue along my sole, letting his teeth chew both at the ball and the heel. He’d suck my toes, one by one, letting his soft lips envelop them completely. His tongue would tickle at places ordinarily never touched.

Larry would perform his service literally for hours at a time. I’d strip down after lunch and enjoy bathing in long and uninterrupted periods of pleasure, and not surface again until nearly dinner. Larry, too, was lost in his own private world when he’d kneel down at the end of my bed and begin working on my size elevens. He didn’t need music, nor talking, nor any kind of encouragement. He had his personal enjoyment as his own agenda, and nothing would deter him from it.

At the end of our sessions, Larry liked to get off. He’d rub his lotions or the soap into my skin. Then he’d draw my soles together so that the arches formed a long, narrow oval. In that he would slide his thick dick. It would have been stiff and dripping for most of our session, and ready to explode, but usually he’d treat my combined feet like a deep, wet pussy that he intended to pound into submission. Once he had blasted his load all over my feet and ankles, he’d withdraw, open his eyes, laugh, and then begin fumbling for his clothes.

Occasionally Larry would take me out to the restrooms again. We’d sit side by side in stalls. Once he was certain no one was around, he’d kneel down on the ground, untie and remove the shoe closest to him, and rub his dick over the naked skin. Usually in a restroom setting he’d shoot quickly, covering the top of my foot with an enormous, sticky load in the better part of two minutes. But it was our time in my apartment I loved the most—those long, languorous hours in which all I had to do was relax, let go, and enter that sweet, slumber-like drowsy state that accompanied the sweet service he’d give me.

I’d met a couple of guys since Larry who would pop a toe or two in their mouths, but I’d never encountered anyone who could service feet like he used to—until Friday night, anyway. I had my house to myself for the weekend and nothing better to do at midnight than invite over a guy to work my dick with his ass and mouth. But damn, what a mouth. I knew it was going to be a great session when he took exquisite care of my cock with his mouth, licking and sucking and squeezing at it in a way that continued to make me feel harder and harder without actually propelling me to orgasm. He was a great kisser, and knew how to chew my nipples like a pro. He chewed at my thighs with his mouth and licked my balls and ass, and then extended my leg in his hand and let his fur-surrounded lips work their way down, and down, until finally they were brushing against my feet.

I gasped, and then his mouth opened. He applied suction with his lips and tongue to the underside, occasionally letting his teeth spark a moan. I writhed as he used his thumbs to manipulate the muscles, and let out a cry when he started taking my toes into his mouth, one by one.

Unlike Father Larry, this new guy wasn’t solely into my feet; he wanted my cock most of all, and did things with his ass to keep me hard all night. But from time to time, usually after I’d shot, he would return to my size elevens. And there I’d be again, slipping back into that warm pool of pleasure and basking in it with no regrets.

When my new friend left Saturday morning, it was six a.m. I’d not been up that late deliberately in years. My legs were shaky. My feet were so slick and oily that they slipped on the hardwood floors when I let him out.

But damn. They surely did feel good.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

The Hole, Part 2

Since they’d moved closer to the middle of the state, I’d kept in touch with Jake and David in kind of a half-assed way. Jake was usually the one who’d contact me on one of the online hookup sites. Remember when you used to come over and stick that huge dick of yours through the hole? he would say. The question would lead to an exchange of good memories for a few emails. I’d say he should give me a call if he got down this way. He’d say that yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Then I’d hear nothing more from him until a few months later when we’d do it all over again.

David still worked in the area. A couple of years ago when he’d looked over my profile a few times , I’d sent him a note saying that I missed unloading in his holes. He’d taken my phone number then, and agreed that he should give me a call and stop off at my place on the way home from work some evening. Nothing ever came of it.

I was surprised to see him again on Thursday of last week, sneaking another peek at my profile. Fully expecting absolutely nothing to come of it, I sent him a greeting and reminded him that my offer for him to stop by after work sometime was open-ended and that he should take it up sometime. I gave him my phone number once again, fairly certain nothing would come of it. That’s why I was pleasantly surprised the very next day, Friday afternoon, to get a text from him that read, I’m leaving work early and hoping that you’ll let me stop by and visit.

You’re more than welcome, I told him. It’s been way too long since I fucked your ass. About eight years too long, in fact.

I hope I can measure up, he said. It’s been a while.

When I opened the front door to him a half-hour later, he stepped in, kicked off his shoes, and immediately grabbed the back of my head to pull my lips to his. We kissed long and hard. “I didn’t think I’d do that again!” he finally said with a big grin, once we separated.

“Again?” I asked. He looked blank. “We’ve never done it before. We’ve never kissed. We’ve never seen each other except in photographs.” I watched realization cross his face as that information sunk in. “I know your holes, but I’ve never seen you like this before.”

David wasn’t a kid anymore. He was thirty and rumpled from work. But he was boyishly cute and so attractive that I didn’t care he wasn’t the same slim-waisted twink I’d only known from the other side of the hole. “Weird,” he said, as I gestured he should follow me to the bedroom. “‘Cause it feels like I’ve known you for-fuckin’-ever.”

He had a point. David didn’t feel like a stranger. We didn’t interact like strangers, but as friends who hadn’t seen each other for a good long while. Like old casual lovers, in fact. A few square inches of my skin had known two parts his body; he’d seen and tasted and touched only eight erect inches of mine. Strange that with such mathematical limitations, we could have made such a strong connection through a small hole in the back of a coat closet.

I rested on the bed while he showered. He came into the bedroom a few minutes later, moisture clinging to his smooth, pale skin. He parted my legs and crawled between them until his mouth rested on the mound of flesh bulging through my jeans. I could feel the heat of his breath through the layers of denim and jersey. “Get undressed,” he said.

I didn’t object.

It felt as if I recognized his mouth the moment he engulfed my inches between his lips. My dick certainly responded to it, growing thick and hard and dripping precum into the back of his throat. Whenever I’d spurt another thick load of the stuff, he’d pause to pull me out of his mouth and suck the nectar from the tip, then go right back to what he was doing.

I had to stop him before he pushed me over the edge of pleasure and into the abyss of the too-sensitive tip, which is often the problem I have with blow jobs. While we made out, I moved him up to the head of the bed and pulled apart his legs so that his ass was open and exposed. My beard made crazy circles down his back, around the base of his spine, across and over his ample ass. Then I dug the tip of my tongue into his hole.

He cried out. He didn’t whimper or moan. He let out a sharp, animal cry, as if he was in pain. When I buried my face in more deeply, he tried to struggle to an upright position on his knees. I pushed him back down, and forced him to remain open to me. I ate and chewed his hole like a hungry animal, pushing him down and keeping him from trying to escape. From time to time he would protest, or put his hand to my head to try to push me away, but after several minutes the protests grew weaker and his hands would only rest atop my head and remain there, helpless and weak. He’d surrendered himself to the pleasure I’d given him.

When I finally raised myself up, he had tears in his eyes. In fact, he looked as if he might start to cry outright. “Baby!” I whispered to him. “How long has it been since anyone was good to you like that?”

He shook his head and bit his lip. I had been thrusting the underside of my dick against his hole. I spat on my fingers and lubed up the tip and began to tickle his hole with it. “Too long!” he finally admitted.

“How long?”

“Since I was rimmed or fucked?”

“Rimmed,” I wanted to know. My cock head pulsed at the entrance to his ass. I moved back and forth very gently, simulating intercourse. “I can tell you are a man who hasn’t been rimmed for a very long time.”

He found it difficult to enjoy the sensations of me pushing against his hole and to talk at the same time. “Maybe about two years?”

“Damn,” I said. I continued to glide back and forth while I ran my hands over his butt and his back. “And how long has it been since you were fucked?”

“About the same,” he admitted in a small voice. “I don’t know—”

I knew what he was going to tell me. I’d known from the moment he’d sent me that text message, confessing to worry about measuring up. It had only been confirmed when he had been too grateful for the attention to his hole. He was going to spill that he feared he wouldn’t be able to take me, that he was having performance anxiety. He wanted assurance. He wanted to know I wouldn’t hurt him. “Ssshh,” I said in my softest voice. I was supporting myself my fists, which were positioned on either side of his rib cage. I rested atop him, but wasn’t putting much weight on his torso. Mostly I continued to grind at his hole. “We’ll go slow,” I whispered. “It doesn’t matter how deep I get in, today. It doesn’t matter if I get in. What matter is that you feel good. Okay?”

He let out a rush of air that was half laugh, half sigh of relief. “Okay,” he said.

“Yeah?” I wanted more confirmation.

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes then and looked back over his shoulder at me. They were full of trust. “You can start if you want.”

I looked down at where his ass and my cock connected. While we’d been talking, I’d used his increasing relaxation and the pressure of my hips to open and enter him. He hadn’t even noticed. “Baby, I’m already half-way in.”

Almost immediately he clamped down. I’ve always maintained that three-quarters of a fuck is mental. David hadn’t even noticed how deeply I’d gotten into him while we’d talked. It was only when he realized what I’d done that he’d begun to panic.

“Ssshh,” I told him. “It’s all right. You were enjoying it, weren’t you?” He jerked his head up and down. I could hear a small cry of fear at the back of his throat. “Then relax. Let me in the rest of the way. Relax.”

Bit by bit, little by little, the rest of my cock slid deep into him. I held it there, not moving, while he clenched his fingers around mine. “Just stay still,” he begged. “Stay . . . still?” My lips and beard nuzzled at his ear while he struggled to accommodate me. Within a moment, though his lips were grinding experimentally, seeing if they could stand the motion. I felt his ass part and grab at my meat. Then he began to breath more normally and deeply, and I knew it was safe to continue.

Our fuck didn’t last long. I pulled back his head and kissed David deeply as I fucked. It was the first time I’d ever held him in my arms as I screwed him—the first time I’d ever seen more than a flat expanse of white drywall while I plundered his hole. We graduated from barely moving to grinding and sliding to outright slamming. By the time I started to clench my butt cheeks and pound my load into him, he was on his knees and clutching the top of the headboard as if afraid to let go. “Breed me,” he said. “I’ve missed your cum. I want your cum. I want you to seed me, daddy.”

I’d scarcely unloaded in him when he bucked me back onto my haunches, so that I squatted on the bed on my knees. He straddled me in an impossible yoga-like position, facing away as he continued to ride my dick. Squirts of my semen dripped from his hole onto my balls and blanket. “Oh god,” he said. “Oh god. Oh god.” Then he came, shooting his load over my bed in thick, painterly squirts that glazed the pillow.

I held him as he shot, and after he subsided into heavy breathing and laughter. When he raised himself up and off my dick, I knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I don’t think I can go another round. It’s been way too long.”

“It’s okay, baby,” I told him with a kiss. “I know.”

Besides, I thought to myself. Maybe there’d be more practice for the kid in the future.

Monday, November 15, 2010

The Hole, Part 1

There used to be a guy I knew a dozen years ago. I didn’t like him. He was one of those men who made the mistaken assumption that our situations were identical because we both were in long-term relationships, tops, and enjoyed sex with others. And not only identical, but that our parallels somehow entitled him to have sex with me whenever he wanted, regardless of how I felt about such a thing. Frankly, one encounter with the guy shortly after I met him was enough. He smelled. He grossly overestimated his own attractiveness. And worst of all, he gave off a creepy vibe that many people commented about when he wasn’t around. He seemed like one of those men whose photo, some years down the road, would interrupt a regularly-scheduled television show with the legend BARRICADED GUNMAN SITUATION UPDATE beneath it and a worried live reporter to the side.

He would phone me at seven in the morning, or during dinner, or at ten o’clock on a Saturday evening, whichever was most inconvenient, to see if I wanted to have sex in his van—the only place he could entertain, with his wife and kids at home—on the streets of the city where we both lived. And he wouldn’t only call once, and then drop it when I didn’t pick up. When I wouldn’t answer, he’d call back again, immediately, two or three times in a row, as if prolonging the amount of time my phone made an insane racket would predispose me to think of his sexual guarantee with more enthusiasm. Eventually I cut off all contact with him by telling him he couldn’t call me any more. “This week?” he asked.

“Ever,” I said. And that was that.

For a half-dozen years too many after that icky time we had sex, though, I kept on tolerant terms with the guy simply because he was a good source of information. The fact that he was a top landed him in a lot of mens’ beds. (Though it rarely resulted in a return invitation.) And bottoms, you may or may not know this, but top men do tend to talk about their fucks with each other. It’s a bit like the the boys’ high school locker room. Get a bunch of cocky idiots together and they’ll compare notes on who has the best ass, sexiest body. There are whoops and hollers and cries of, “Oh yeah, I tapped that.”

Now, some top guys are worse offenders than others. I personally am wary about talking about my fucks with other local tops unless the bottoms have specifically indicated that it’s okay. (Yes, I’m quite aware that I write about every single one of them on my blog, thank you, but I don’t give out screen names and phone numbers.) Others, like this guy, are extremely chatty about their conquests. And about eleven years ago this particular married top man told me of a couple he’d met out in the remote suburbs who enjoyed servicing strange guys through a gloryhole in their apartment. “They’ve got hot mouths,” he told me. “We should go do them together.”

“There’s an idea,” I said, evasively. Later that week I talked online to my buddy Daddy Tim, with whom I was on good terms at the time. “Listen,” I told him. “There’s a couple I heard about that we should try.” I gave him the particulars. He was on it immediately. Within a few days we had a date.

We drove out to the remote apartment complex and met in the parking lot. Then, as instructed, we walked into the apartment. The gloryhole was set in the wall immediately opposite the front door, which happened to be in the coat closet. The guys had removed the closet’s doors, left it empty, and themselves had carved the four-inch round hole in the drywall. Later on I discovered that it opened out into the kitchen, where the guys had put pillows beneath it. I unzipped, dropped my pants, and shoved my hard cock through to the other side. Immediately a mouth latched onto it. While Daddy Tim and I made out and I held onto the coat bar as if I were doing pull-ups, I let the guy suck me. When I felt myself getting close, I’d pull out and let Tim take his turn. Back and forth we swapped our dicks for the better part of an hour, until we’d both fed our loads to the mouth on the other side.

Now, the guy manning the gloryhole that night was only half the couple—Jake, the older of the two. Jake was a total bottom in his mid-thirties of modest looks who somehow had managed to land a hot nineteen-year-old boyfriend. He considered the first visit a vetting process to see if we were worthy of returning to share both their mouths.

I was the one who got to keep coming back. On my first solo trip I walked into the dark apartment, with its makeshift curtain hanging over the entrance to the living room, and let my jeans fall to my ankles. Though the closet was almost totally dark, I could see a warm light on the hole’s other side, in the kitchen, and the shadows that crossed its lip. I was hard when I stuck my cock through. At first I felt the mouth from before, licking and sucking at my dick. At some point shortly thereafter, though, the sensations changed. The mouth on my meat was different. The lips were softer. The mouth itself was wetter and warmer, It seemed to savor the taste of me, the length and the girth, rather than hurry to get me off. I always associated that mouth with David, the younger of the two. It was that mouth that was more likely to get me off. The moment it clamped down on my inches and began to suck, I recognized it immediately and would always become more excited.

I could distinguished between their asses, too. With me the guys didn’t use the gloryhole simply for sucking. There was usually point at which I’d feel a cold glob of lube suddenly surround me, followed by the grip of a hand spreading it around. Then I’d feel pressure against my cock head and the unmistakable sensations of an ass spreading itself around me. Jake had a bony ass that opened readily and didn’t provide much in the way of friction. It was, as one of my friends has a tendency to say, like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.

David, the nineteen-year-old, on the other hand, was tight and had a full ass. It took a lot of effort to get into him the first time, but once he loosened up, he’d shiver and shake on the wall’s other side. I couldn’t see either of them, but the eight inches of me that projected through to the kitchen could feel perfectly what was going on. Jake would back his ass up to the hole and slam against it like I was some kind of suction-cup dildo. Then his boy toy would take both his turn and his time, just as he would with his mouth. The result was that David would more often be the one to get my load—or loads, more usually. I could also hear his groans and grunts and judged that he came pretty often while I was fucking him, too. I liked that.

The guys were a little far out for me to visit every week, but I hit their hole for at least once a month for the better part of three years, until the elder half had some issues with keeping his job and the pair had to move out of the apartment to another that was even further out. (I always wondered how they explained that hole in the wall to the apartment managers.) They made another move even further away shortly after that—and then about four years ago they landed way the hell out in the middle of nowhere with one of their parents, over an hour away from the city. I figured I’d never hear from them again.

Then suddenly I did, Thursday.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Idyllic Autumn Edition

Greetings, readers. It's a chilly gray autumn morning here where I live. The entire world outside my window seems to be covered in a spiky yellow fur, thanks to the ancient maple that dropped all its leaves at once, overnight. I have a sneaking suspicion that raking it all up is going to be my Sunday occupation.

My other Sunday occupation, of course, is recapping some of the questions you've been asking me on formspring.me of late. If you've got a question you'd like to ask using their interface, trek on over and feel free. You don't have to register, and it can be done completely anonymously. I'll answer just about anything that's not unduly invasive, or abusive, or repetitive. I know I've answered a lot of questions and you don't want to have to search through them all to see if I've answered them before, but trust me, I've talked about my dick size a few times already!

Of course, if you'd rather email me directly and ask your questions, use the address in the sidebar to do so. I try to respond to all my email. I still have a bit of a backlog, but I'm working my way through it!

And enjoy these autumn Sundays. We have too few of them left before the really cold stuff hits us.

How long has it been since you most recently bottomed?
Successfully? Eight long years.

What share of your total lifetime sexual encounters are you leaving behind when you sell the house?
I've lived in this house for over a decade. It's fairly safe to say it has seen hundreds of one-on-one encounters, several three-ways, and one pretty piggy six-way in the hot tub and on the deck.

If the walls of your house in Michigan could talk, what one story would you want them to tell the buyers? What one story would you NOT want them to tell?
I'd want the buyers to know that this house had seen a lot of very good times over the last decade and more—a lot of laughter, a lot of stories told, a lot of triumphs and happiness.

What I would like them to keep silent are some of the stories that men have confided to me about things they've done that no one else ever knew.

What do you do to stay fit and hot?
I appreciate your perception of my body and wish I shared it.

Basically I watch what I eat. I plan healthy meals carefully and shop for them in advance, plan my portions, and give myself some flexibility for a meal out a week where I can be a little more (carefully) indulgent.

Would you like to have a boyfriend, if you found a nice guy who could accommodate you living with your family?
In the past I've had a handful of emotionally-close lovers--and I mean that in every sense of the word--who accepted or even welcomed my home situation, and with whom I would enjoy months or even years of closeness. I entirely welcome that influence in my life.

On the other hand, finding someone who accepts me for the horndawg I am isn't easy.

You seem to have an affinity for bikini underwear (I am not complaining), but I wonder with all that you have, have you ever noticed women checking out your crotch?
Let me correct you, first. The last two pairs of underwear I gave away to guys were bikini briefs. I don't have an affinity for it. Of all the underwear I have--and I have a lot of it, so I don't have to do laundry too often (I'm lazy that way, shoot me)--it forms less than 5% of the total. Most of my shorts are either boxer briefs or, more likely, square-cut trunks.

That said, yes, I get a lot of men and women checking out my crotch, particularly when I'm showing more than usual. I'm good with that.

What objects other than willy and sex toys have you stuck in your He-pussy?
In my mid-teens, I had a number of vegetables inserted in my hole, as well as a broomstick, a nightstick, a glass Coke bottle, and a rake handle.

On a couple of those items I now wince and wonder what I was thinking.

What's the secret to hooking with you?
Being in the same general vicinity should do it, usually.

If someone you knew was dying and they were not your type (Overweight) but their dying wish was sex with you. would you do it.
I'll overlook the generalization that I don't have sex with overweight guys (I do) or the unlikelihood of anyone having a dying wish of wanting sex with me (flattering though it may be).

I honestly can't decide whether it'd be a turn-on to be Disneyworld for a dying man's plea to the Make-A-Sexual-Wish Foundation. Mostly I think the person in question might find it insulting for someone to have sex with him only as pity sex; I would hate to have someone feeling bad about an experience after it happened.

Nice sex toy wish list on stockroom. Do you currently have a favorite sex toy?
I'm kind of enjoying the Fleshjack that a friend and reader gave me, but in general my favorite sex toys are cock rings. I like the sensations of compression they produce when I'm at my hardest.

Were you a graphic artist VS a writer, what would you depict? Would you prefer any one medium or few media?
If I were to specialize in an area outside my everyday creative endeavors, I'd be doing glass work. That's where I have most of my expertise and training.

What advice do you have for an enthusiastic novice bottom about cleaning out my hole? The shit issue...
Basically, give yourself plenty of time before an encounter to get clean. Don't expect to be sparkling, inside and out, if you've got a guy coming over in ten minutes.

If you're a serious dedicated bottom, you might want to invest in a shower nozzle to douche yourself out--it'll save you some time over the rubber bulbs or bags. Use plenty of warm water and douche out your hole at least three times, pausing between rinses to evacuate your bowels. Make sure all the water's out of there, every time. When you're convinced you're clean, use soap and hot water to clean your butt and legs.

Other bottoms might have better tips for you. Cleaning out can be a time-consuming process, but your top will thank you in the end.

He holds U down by your throat & rides your cock like a whore until he takes your load from U. Or, a bttm you can hold/force face down into a bed while you pound ruthlessly until you breed him. Which scenario are you in the mood for right now?
Number two. I want to brutalize a hole tonight.

What are your favorite snacks? Beverages? (just want to be prepared if you ever come over!)
Popcorn and water will do me nicely.

In your entry "The Bump" you say "I knew at that point that I was more attracted to guys than girls." I was wondering if that was still the case, if that's been a constant thing. That might be too personal a question, just ignore it if it is. Cheers, J
I tend to be pretty wide-ranging in my attractions. I also tend to joke and say I screw around with more men and women because men are sluttier (and they are), but it's probably because there's more attraction on that end of the spectrum as well.

However, I still enjoy both genders.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

A Carrel Story (For Trey)

My reader Trey was so impressed with my use of the word ‘carrel’ last time (and to be fair, it’s not a word one sees much) that I thought I’d share another library-related tale from my college days.

My librarian friends will cringe at the following admission, but shortly after I checked out the library’s facilities, my freshman year, I found a easy way to bypass the circulation policy, for those books that I needed to keep for the two weeks the standard check-out would allow. I didn’t do it often, I hasten to say. Just occasionally—such as when a textbook that the library carried on its shelves was too costly for my already-lean pocketbook.

The library had a glass wall at its rear that was surrounded by a narrow balcony that wrapped around the entire window. If I needed an ‘extended loan’ of a book, I’d take a place at one of the study carrels at the very back of the library’s first floor, casually open one of the half-dozen louvered windows that admitted fresh air into the building. Then I’d let the book fall out of the window and onto the balcony, where I’d pick it up a few minutes later. When I was done with the book, of course, I could just bring it back and slip it into the return slot, and no one would be the wiser.

I was a poor college kid working my way through school on loans and money I made scooping ice cream for tourists. Don’t judge.

One day during my junior year, I’d taken a spot at one of the back-library carrels with the intention of ‘borrowing’ a book I needed for a six-week project for one of my classes. Two of my female friends—I was always surrounded with female friends during my college days—sat at behind me, studying at the double carrels that met back to back. The desk facing mine was occupied by an older guy surrounded by a stack of books. By older guy, I mean that he was at least all of twenty-four or twenty-five; he certainly wasn’t a septuagenarian.

I’d noticed the guy several times during the course of the previous hour. It was difficult not to; he took frequent breaks to the water fountain not very far away. Every time he’d stand up and shuffle over and take a few sips, he’d occupy his trip back by giving me the once-, the twice-, and the thrice-over. He had thinning hair on top of his head, and what was left of it was wild and untamed on the sides. His eyes were the most unfortunate feature of his face. They were wide and round and hadn’t much in the way of lid. In a word, they bulged. Or at least they gave the impression of bulging, much like that pop-eyed lady whose video was making the YouTube rounds a couple of years ago.

Okay. He looked crazy.

But he wasn’t bad-looking, despite the intensity of his eyes. His hair was a pleasant golden-brown color, and he had a mustache that was thick and bristly—an attractive thing to me in 1983. His arms and legs were covered with a thatch of fur that, when it reached his chest, was so thick it pushed out the fabric of his shirt to an extent that it never touched his skin. I thought he was fucking hot, and I knew—I just knew—every time he shuffled back to his seat, rubbing his stubby-fingered palm over the bristles on his chin and his thick mustache, that he wanted me badly. I was never more confident of anything in my life.

So strong was my confidence, and so persistent my hard-on about it, that I did something unimaginably bold and probably pretty stupid. I wrote him a note on a scrap of notebook paper. I want your dick, was all it said. I folded it up in quarters, stood up, and threw it over the top of the carrel so that it landed on his desk.

I had a few moments of terror to regret my decision when I sat down again immediately after. I’d just written down my need for dick on a scrap of paper while sitting next to two of my best friends, neither of whom knew of my sexuality. If the guy stood up and started ranting at me, I’d be exposed for everyone to see. And when the guy did stand up to look at me with those bulging eyes, I began to sweat for a moment.

But then he walked away, looked back over his shoulder, and jerked his head for me to follow. I scampered after, telling my friends I was going out for a breath of air.

We ended up going down in the basement, where there was a secluded men’s room that no one used but the staff. The guy pushed me down to my knees without a word, and undid the impossibly large buckle on the belt that held up his corduroys. His dick was a thumb-sized pink mushroom growing from a nest of dense coppery pubic hair. It was ugly, but he was rock-hard and pulled me down onto it. All the while I sucked, he growled and mumbled obscenities that I couldn’t quite make out. I understood what he wanted when he backed me off his dick and bent me over the toilet seat, though.

I went back to my carrel with a thick load dripping from my ass. He came back a few minutes later, staring at me with those unsettling pop eyes. And because I hadn’t been bold enough before, I did something unthinkable. I slumped down in my chair, kicked off my deck shoe, and extended my leg beneath the back-to-back desks so I could bury my foot in the guy’s crotch. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never done anything quite like it since. For the better part of a half-hour I kneaded the guy’s hard dick with the ball of my foot while I pretended to study and even occasionally carried on whispered conversations with my girlfriends.

I can’t imagine what that guy thought of me, that afternoon. Besides that I was a nymphomaniac, I mean. Oh, and that I was pretty fuckable.

The guy turned out to be a law student. We had a fairly steady fuckbuddy relationship throughout the rest of my junior and senior years. He lived a block off campus in a little house divided into student apartments, and I spent many a night there with my legs in the air while he covered me like a very furry blanket and and pounded my pink little hole into submission with his stubby dick. He was a terrible kisser and not much of a talker, but man, he liked to fuck.

I didn’t find out any of that except the last that first afternoon, though. After I’d driven the guy half-crazy with my foot action, he took me down to the restroom once again, yanked my pants to my ankles, and fucked me brutally. His dick might have been tiny, but I remember after the second time, I was limping back to that study carrel with a very sore behind, carrying a scrap of paper on which he’d written his phone number and address, for later that night.

It was a good day. But I never did get the extended loan of that library book.

Thursday, November 11, 2010


Through that magical clearinghouse of old acquaintances known as Facebook, my old college boyfriend got in touch with me a couple of weeks ago. And I freely admit my first thought, like it is with so many old classmates who reach out to me from time to time, was, Gosh, I look so much better than he does.

I met Brandon between my sophomore and junior years, during a summer I'd remained behind on campus to take care of a statistics course. Mathematics has never been my strong suit—my basic problem is one of disinterest and a general unwillingness to apply myself, rather than any actual stupidity, so I reasoned that if I took it as a summer course, in a concentrated sort of way without any other classes to distract me, I might have a better chance of success. It was kind of smart, on my part. Without anything else to do save work at my part-time job scooping ice cream for tourists, and having prodigious quantities of sex after dark in the restrooms and parks of Colonial Williamsburg, I didn't have anything else to do but statistics.

I loved my college campus during the summer. Tropical heat would bake the sleepy town by day, and remain over it like a blanket at night. Williamsburg itself could be hectic and loud when the tourists were out, but after dinner, it was a populated mostly by seniors having their evening walks, young lovers hand in hand as they strolled through the romantic byways, and lovers of solitude like myself. The college's summer school population was quite small; the campus closed down all but the one air-conditioned dormitory among its many housing buildings. And even that wasn't full.

I noticed Brandon the first week I moved into the summer dorm. It was difficult not to; he lived next door to me. He was a tall, toothy kid with a pronounced overbite. When he walked, it was with hunched shoulders and his neck jutted forward. He wasn't handsome, exactly, or ugly-sexy, or sexy in any usual sense of the term. But he dressed well. It was the era of the preppy, and Brandon's loud, ironed shorts and his pressed white polo shirts were spotless. The tassels on his loafers had seemingly been trimmed with a hair level, and the leather was shiny enough to fix one's face in. His hair had a precision part down one side, and his hair lay flat and still. For a Virginia white boy, he was actually doing pretty well for himself as far as looks go.

I was doing a lot of cruising of the college library that summer. The second and third floors both had men's rooms that attracted students, faculty, staff, and tourists alike. At night during the school year it was possible to hook up with four or five guys in a row without so much as breath-mint break. During the summer, though, the cruising was a little slower. Rather than numb my ass by sitting on the toilet and cruising all night, I adopted the habit of positioning myself strategically at a carrel along the wall opposite, where I could watch who came and went as I occupied myself doing other things. I'd discovered that the library had complete bound editions of The New Yorker going back to the first issue, and it was those that I'd browse through, once I'd finished my statistics assignments for the night. I'd become fascinated by the editions surrounding the 1939 World's Fair, in particular, and it was one of those I was looking at when I saw a familiar face drift by the stacks and into the restroom.

It was a chubby older cocksucker who haunted the same spots as I. We played occasionally, but that night I wasn't in the mood to let him suck me, or to lick at his undersized penis. So I remained in place. A few moments later, however, I saw the guy who was in the room next door to mine, back at the dorm, walk by and into the restroom.

Oh really, now, I thought to myself.

He didn't see me in my carrel. With interest I kept an eye on the door. A lot of time passed—much more than an ordinary guy takes to pee, or even squeeze one out. It was a good fifteen minutes later when finally the door opened again and Brandon shot out like a cannonball. I watched as he smoothed down the front of his chinos, adjusted his madras shirt, and got the hell out of there. Then my cocksucker friend emerged. He winked at me, made an exaggerated pantomime of pretending to wipe the corner of his mouth, and left.

Well. That seemed pretty clear to me. Now I was interested in Brandon, the guy next door. For a couple of days I tried saying hello to him in the hallways, but he would either be with friends and wouldn't notice me, or just didn't seem responsive. Over that following weekend, though, I made a batch of brownies down in the dorm kitchen. I'd noticed that Brandon had a tendency to leave his room door open when he was there. I timed it so that my brownies were done when he was in his room, studying. On my walk back to my own room, I casually stopped in the door of his. "Oh hey," I drawled, as if it was an afterthought. "Want a brownie? I just made a bunch."

It's funny that in his letter to me on Facebook, Brandon said to me, If only I'd known what you were up to, that first time I noticed you, standing in my door and tempting me with brownies. He couldn't very well just take my brownie and send me off. No, he had to invite me in, and eat a few with me, and talk. By the end of the evening we were good acquaintances. I knew he was going to be a senior the following year, and learned about his major, his ambitions, and his family.

Now all I had to do was hook him.

Which I did only a couple of days later. I knew he'd return to the library restrooms. It was one of the few things to do in Williamsburg, on a summer night. I was in my carrel reading magazines the following Monday when I saw him rush toward the men's room with that angular, awkward walk of his. For some reason, though, he turned his head as he neared the door. When he saw me, he halted altogether. He'd obviously intended to go in, but my presence stopped him.

I was having none of that. I stood up, collected my backpack, and approached. "Hey," I said.

"Hey," he said. We often had those kinds of deep, intellectual conversations.

"Go in." I pushed open the men's room door. He hesitated, as if expecting a trap. "Go in," I repeated, jerking my head.

Once we were behind the closed door, I opened my jeans at the urinal and turned to show him. "It's okay," I told him. I was rock hard; I had been the moment he'd appeared. "Let me see yours."

I think I basically had to undo his pants for him, he was so astounded. I remember I gave him that first blow job right there in the middle of the restroom floor. However modest his other attributes, Brandon was gifted where it counted. His dick was even bigger than mine. He shot quickly, probably more from shock than any of my mad oral skills. When I was done, I jerked out a load into the toilet while he watched, and then zipped up.

He was following me back to the dorm when finally he spoke again. "Fuck," he said, several times in a row. Then, "I didn't clock you."

"Clock me?" I didn't understand the term.

"Clock you." I shook my head, and he said it again. "Clock you. For one of those. A homosexual."

I was confused for a moment. He said the last word as if he wasn't one of them himself. And yet I'd just given him a quick and sloppy blow job on a bathroom floor. "Oh," I finally said. "Okay."

"You're not, right?" he asked. He sounded genuinely anxious to hear a negative answer. "It was just a thing, right?"

"Sure," I said, knowing I was lying to him. "Just a thing."

And that's how it was with me and Brandon, for the year and a half we saw each other. At night, behind closed doors, we were lovers. We'd kiss and suck and he'd fuck the living daylights out of me with his enormous dick, and he'd hold me in his arms afterward and be quite sweet. Then, when he was back in his preppy armor and I was in my sneakers and T-shirts and jeans, he'd lecture me about how our physical relationship was 'just a thing' that we'd both get over. We'd both find pretty girls, he'd told me—he had the sorority all picked out from which we'd make our choice—and we'd always be the best of friends. And maybe we could work it out so that we lived in the same neighborhood. Maybe even next door. And we could do our 'thing' from time to time. But we needed to learn to be normal, he'd tell me. We couldn't let anyone clock us.

I wasn't a hopeless romantic about Brandon. I didn't harbor the same fantasies of assimilation. I had no intention of letting my sexuality be a footnote to a life of sales and work with the Republican party. So our time together was stormy. I resented that he wouldn't speak to me in public, or even acknowledge me as a friend in front of his so-called real friends. Brandon was frightened that if anyone saw the two of us together, even walking to the cafeteria or hanging out at one of the stromboli joints in town, they might assume things. We never did anything in public together. No one knew I knew him. We'd meet up after dark and fuck outside, or find one of the abandoned classrooms on campus with a locking door and turn out the lights and go at it. Once we were clothed and zipped up, though, we'd return to our dorms, taking separate routes so that no one could associate us.

And let's face it. As a boyfriend I was shit. I was only eighteen when we met—I was a stupid kid. I'd get so mad at Brandon that I'd tell him we were over, and then I'd whore around with anyone and everyone I could, just to get back at him. Even when we were on good terms, I was still fucking around on him constantly. Why shouldn't I, my reasoning ran, when we weren't officially boyfriends, and when he wouldn't even use that word to describe us? He wanted a dream life he could never have. I wanted more than he was willing to give me.

When he graduated a year before me, I heaved a sigh of relief that he couldn't have a full-time claim on me any more, when he was in the mood for it. He would call me or visit from out of the blue from time to time, though, and reiterate his wish to have me in his life as some kind of sexual annex, never fully acknowledged, never appreciated. He wanted me to be the Puerto Rico to his United States. I wouldn't have any of it. When I moved out of Virginia for good, I stopped hearing from him. I didn't miss it.

I confess that when he wrote me on Facebook, I was a little nervous about opening the note. Oh fuck, here we go again, I worried. But no. Brandon's partnered now, and seems happy. He wasn't at all attempting to strike up something that cooled twenty-five (and change) years ago. However, he still has a life in sales and working for the Republican party.

Some things simply don't change.