Monday, May 31, 2010

Memorial Day Questions: Scruffy vs. Mikey Smackdown Edition

Happy lazy day off, to those of you who have it! And my sympathies, to those of you who don't. I'll be back to some more normal posts tomorrow. For today, I'll try to catch up with more formspring.me questions you guys have been asking over the past couple of weeks. As always, keep asking your questions. If I haven't addressed them before, I'll answer!


I enjoy your blog. What are your BBRT and adam4adam profile names please?

Thanks! My BBRT and A4A handles are both the same: top48067.


When was the last time you got someone as young as the guy in the woods?

About two months, maybe? Perhaps slightly more.



Are you attracted to feminine bottoms?

I absolutely can be, yes.


What is your definition of "feminine bottoms"? I define it as a guy with child-bearing ergo feminine hips. Does your definition agree with mine?

I suppose that's one definition, but I think it could apply to number of other characteristics as well--effeminate mannerisms, long hair, a girlish appearance. Some men are offended by these things. I think masculinity has a spectrum of expression.


What made you into a top?

When I was in my early twenties, I met a man who lay on his back and pulled me into him. It was the first time I'd really topped a hole on my own, and I liked it so much I've been doing it ever since.


Would you ever set up, or have someone set up, a gang bang for a visitor (like me) so that a fantasy can be fulfilled? I'd love to see how many loads I can take and hold. 

I don't set up gangbangs for guys I haven't met. The simple reason is that until I've played with a guy I really have no way to judge how much fucking he can take--and I've run across a lot of guys who talk an infinitely bigger game than they can actually play.

If I invite two or three or four guys over to fuck a bottom, I want to be reasonably sure he's going to be able to take four or five or six or more fucks, and that he's going to be reasonably pleasant to get along with, and that he's going to look like his photos. I can't judge any of that until I meet a guy in the flesh.


Have you ever had sex with someone that was so intense it made you re-think your personal life?

Yes. Indeed I have.


How do you adjust to being so devilishly charming in q&a here besides gorgeous?

Oh, I don't know about devilishly charming. I'm pretty down to earth, and I know myself well. I admit to my faults and tend to downplay my strengths. I suspect I just seem pretty approachable by some. Thank you though.


Do you ever go naked in your own backyard? Do you ever make lcve in your own backyard?

I have been naked on my back deck, with the hot tub. I've had sex there, too. Does that count?


Do you only answer sex related questions?

Nope. I've answered a lot of different kinds of questions. Heck, I answered one on secular humanism.

I'm prone to deleting a few questions that have been mass-posted and not of any relevance to me, and those that touch on my relationship, or which I feel are inappropriate in any forum. Otherwise I'll answer what's asked.


How did you come to love sex so much in your youth? Did you ever feel attracted to the men you met or did you just like the feeling of oral and anal sex?

Very often I was attracted to the men that I was doing in my youth--older men with handsome faces would always get my full attention, and I also had a thing for the scruffy rednecks.

Some of the guys I'd do, especially under restroom stalls or through gloryholes, I never really saw.

And there were guys that I didn't find attractive, but allowed to do me anyway. It made me feel dirtier to let them in me.


Who are the most important influences on your prose style?

Interesting question. I get my long-windedness from the Victorian authors I studied in grad school. My dry humor is straight out of Patrick Dennis. And as for my sex writing . . . I might cite John Rechy as an early inflence, since I read his "The Sexual Outlaw" at the tender age of 13 or 14.


How am I going to meet a guy with some really tricked out playroom?

I suggest advertising, either on Craigslist or a specialty site like asspig.com or bnskin.com. Then be very nice to the guy so you can maintain the friendship and get invited over again.

It's all about the networking.


Have you ever let Scruffy top you?

Nope. Nor has he asked.


Would you let Scruffy top you if he requested permission to do so?

It's not a permission thing. He'd have to make me genuinely want it from him. We seem to enjoy our relationship as it is, so far.


How did you & Scruffy meet?

He messaged me on Manhunt. I thought he was cute as hell, told him so, and thirty minutes later he was naked and in my bed.


Does doing a guy in a sling make it easier to really pump a guy than on a bed?

Not necessarily, particularly if the sling isn't adjusted well. However, a sling can give a top easy access to a hole, and if you like fucking while standing up, it's a great experience.


You made mention in face down that Mikey has tried to fuck you with apparently little success. Given how close and trusting you must be with one another .... any thoughts?

Yes, I have a difficult time taking Mikey. He has a sideways curve to his dick that I find difficult to negotiate these days. Added to a general resistance to getting fucked, it's not pleasant for me, and I'm sure it's not what he wants, either.


Have you ever had sex with Mikey's partner?

No.


Will you be sharing how you and Mikey came about knowing one another? Who approached whom?

I've never written about it. I am uncertain whether I could or should.

It was pretty much a mutual thing. I was acting out and started a silly sex dare. He simply carried it through to its natural conclusion.


Is Mikey's dick as big as yours?

I say no, but you decide. I'm on the bottom of this shot, from earlier this year:

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Your Sunday Morning Consolation Prize

It's a holiday weekend, and no one's around. Additionally, my internet connection has been up and down all morning like a stripper working a pole, and I haven't had an opportunity to work up a post.

So you'll just have to make do with these photos of me playing with myself from a few minutes ago, won't you?

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

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

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

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






Yes, I'm fully aware my bookshelves are a mess. Thanks for reminding me. Have a happy holiday!

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Mark: Part Two

(Continued from yesterday.)

My mind was racing. I was pretty sure I knew what I’d seen in the showers just moments before, but I couldn’t believe it of Mark. Innocent, sweet-looking Mark. Of course, I knew I appeared innocent, myself. I'd traded on my guileless veneer many times to entice men to pull down their pants.

Perhaps I’d been wrong. Maybe I’d been projecting my own sex secrets onto him. I shut my mouth, dressed, and left the YMCA with Mark trailing behind. I distinctly remember that it was warm that day. Warm enough that I’d pulled back the city bus's window, once we'd paid our fare. Mark and I sat apart, not speaking.

When the vehicle turned onto the long avenue leading to our homes, my hair was still half-wet. I'd spent most of the trip letting the breeze dry it and staring out the window. My mind was still in shock from what had happened a few minutes earlier, but I came out of my absorption to realize the bus was approaching my stop. I pulled the cord.

That's when I turned and noticed the man opposite me, sitting in one of the sideways-facing seats like my own. He was handsome and in his thirties. Curly, curly brown hair. He wore a mustache with its tips pointed down, seventies-style. His blue eyes stared at the back of the bus with an intensity that caught me off-guard. He sat rigid, every motion arrested. His eyes were hungry. It was a look of sheer lust. I followed his gaze to see who had captured every particle of his attention.

It was Mark. When I saw him, he was just lifting his eyelid from a slow wink. His tongue flicked out to taste the corner of his lip. His hand was stroking the inside of his thigh—not obscenely. Almost unconsciously. Mark was flirting with a man on a public bus, a mere half-hour after I’d caught him emerging from the shadows with a naked older man at the Y.

Mark was like me, I realized.

Just as the bus pulled to a stop, Mark’s eyes brushed sidelong in my direction, as if he expected me still to be drying my hair in the window. He saw me staring at him, and then back at the man who wanted him. He must have known what conclusion I’d drawn.

I bolted through the opened back doors without a word. Mark propelled himself after me. When I looked back, the man had crossed the bus to stare at us through the window. He never took his eyes off Mark. Then the bus wheezed out a cloud of exhaust and eased away.

“It’s not what you think,” Mark said instantly. I crossed to the children's hospital at the end of my street and began walking in the direction of my house.

“I don't think anything."

“I’m not a fag. I’m not!”

“I didn't say you were.” I remember clearly the emotions that ran through my muddled head. Anger at Mark for keeping his desires from me. Relief that I wasn’t alone—that I wasn't the only one like myself. And most of all, rage that he used that ugly word to describe us both.

And oddly, I felt longing. Not for Mark. Not on a sexual level. I felt longing for a friend to share with. A real friend with whom I could do something as simple as talk, and share my secret. It’s okay, I wanted to tell him. I’m that way too.

"That guy was looking at me. I could tell he was one of them. I was just teasing with him to see if he was a pansy." Mark almost whined with desperation as he spun the story. "And he was. That's all there is to it. You've got to believe me. You better believe me."

But I didn't believe what I was hearing, and I definitely didn't want to listen to more. I started walking down my street at a fast pace, red-faced and speechless.

“Stop!” His face was flushed, too. He kept yanking at my arm, savagely. “I’m not a faggot! You can ask anyone! You can ask Rhonda. I made out with her by the Coke machine in Lingle Hall!”

I shook my head and wrenched out of his grasp. More than anyone, I knew that kissing a girl didn’t make a gay boy straight. He misunderstood my silence, though. Mark assumed I didn't answer because I thought he was a liar—and he was right. I did. I hadn’t witnessed flirting for the hell of it. That was advanced cruising. I knew the signs. I took the rest of the short journey home at a run.

He chased me into my back yard and shoved me up against the bricks of my house. “You better not tell anyone,” he growled, spitting the words in my face. I'd never before seen anyone so angry, or so desperate. “I’ll fucking kill you if you tell people lies about me!”

“I’m not going to tell anyone!” My longing disappeared. I’d wished I could have confided in him the things I’d done and the way I felt. I’d wanted to say something to let him know he wasn’t by himself. A sadder, wiser part of me knew, however, that if I admitted how much alike we were, he’d tell everyone I was the gay one. I would have said so, right to his face, and in his frantic state of mind, he wouldn’t hesitate to use my words against me. In the time it took for a look, a glance, a motion, we’d become enemies. “I don’t care, all right? I’m not going to tell anyone anything.”

"You'd better not." He let go of me. "You'd better not." We parted without another word, our expressions hurt and hostile. Nothing would ever be the same.

We’d based our friendship on books and music and play. Neither of us was equipped to talk about sexual feelings in a rational and adult way. We couldn't negotiate the tricky, mine-laden field of discussing gay desire. Even had we managed to stop feeling shame and anger at each other, we still would have searched fruitlessly for the words to say what we needed. We’d simply never been given the vocabulary. The concepts were supposed to be beyond us for years and years.

Yet we surely could have used the vocabulary, that afternoon.

I saw very little of Mark after that day. We stopped meeting on weekends and after school. At the YMCA he’d make certain to rush out after class and take an earlier bus, so we wouldn’t have to ride together. I’d always linger until I was certain he was gone. He immediately found himself a girlfriend who let him paw and kiss her whenever I was around. Every time his lips would meet her cheek he would look at me in sullen, challenging defiance. I’m definitely not one of those fags! See?

I would turn my head and pretend not to see.

His parents moved in tenth grade and he attended a different school. It wasn’t until I was in college that I saw him again. I was working at King’s Dominion theme park between my freshman and sophomore year, unfurling tissue paper flowers at a funereal pace while I waited for people to buy them. He passed, stopped, then called out my name.

We talked for a while. He told me where he was attending school and caught up on each other’s families. There was no mention of girlfriends. He was very pleasant in his conversation—I hadn’t expected it from him after we'd sent each other into exile and left scorched earth behind. I certainly didn't expect anyone to admit knowing me, in my polyester work costume with the enormous floppy collar, selling oversized tissue paper flowers to ten-year-old girls in an amusement park. “We should get together,” he said to me. “We should talk sometime. Catch up?”

I agreed. It would have been good to talk.

Tim Sweeney, his younger brother, called me the following autumn. He and his family were going through a list of all Mark’s old friends, he told me. He thought they ought to know.

“Know what?” I asked.

Mark had been killed in a car accident on his way back to school in Tennessee a few weeks before, Tim told me. A truck had smashed into his little car head-on; the driver was drunk. There had been no way he could have survived.

Sometimes when I try to make sense of my life and the lives around me, I reach a point when all I can do is extend my arms by my side in a gesture of futility. So many wasted opportunities. Wasted lives. Posturing that needn’t have been made. Arguments that never should have happened. Fears that all seem so pointless in the end.

Such a lot of waste.

These losses throw into sharp relief the things we have, don’t they? The relationships we should be celebrating. The little joys that come to us, day by day. They’re a reminder of all the words we’re leaving unsaid, but shouldn’t, or the things we say too easy, but ought not. Life’s short. We don’t always get a second chance to make amends. We don’t always get to practice hard-won crafts like forgiveness, or understanding. We just don’t.

And yet . . . we ought. We almost always know it too, don't we?

Friday, May 28, 2010

Mark: Part One

Mark Sweeney lived just beyond the campus of a theological institution near the house where I grew up. His father was a minister who’d come to Richmond to teach at the seminary down the street. When Mark joined my class in the eighth grade, he was teased for the hair that his mother insisted upon cutting with a bowl to keep the ends even. I remember that hair more vividly than any other feature—it was a light brown cap that hung around his ears and brow with perfect symmetry. He had tiny eyes that would disappear into lines when he smiled. He was small and slight. A good looking boy.

It was difficult for him to join us in the middle of the year. Our class was dominated by a group of pretty boys and girls whose popularity I craved and whose attention I always sought to avoid. They razzed him at first for the bowl cut and for having a minister for a father. He was teased for being a good student and for enjoying earth science. We shared most of our classes together and sat next to each other in band—he played trumpet and I played the French horn. The eighth-grade thugs, kings and queens of the school, would try to kick our instrument cases out of our hands as we slunk down the hallways. Both of us recognized the tortured look in each other’s eyes. We became friends.

The trumpet was Mark’s passion. At home and in his room, he would with reverence withdraw from its plastic sleeve his favorite Chuck Mangione album. He'd place it on the turntable and gently slip the needle into the groove, sighing with satisfaction when "Feels So Good" began to play. We’d performed “Feels So Good” in band that year so many times that I disliked it intensely. Mark loved the song, though. He wanted a trumpet just like Mangione's, he'd tell me as we listened to it over and over again, so that he could try to learn bits on his own instrument.

We read The Sword of Shannara together (I hated it, he adored it). When neither of us understood what was happening in Algebra II, our parents hired a tutor for us. Together we went roller skating. We belonged to the same clogging group. On weekends we were always doing something together.

The thugs went to a different school when we all started ninth grade. We didn’t have to dodge them in the halls anymore. Although we were on the low end of the high school food chain, we found the year much more relaxed.

Mark and I opted to take a swimming and lifesaving class at the YMCA in lieu of regular gym. We’d hop on the bus after school three days a week and travel downtown. I’d been having sex with men for three years, by that point, and the locker room of the YMCA was both a source of illicit thrills and mortification. Everywhere I’d look there would be full-grown men, naked, not seeming to care that their furry chests and private parts were on display. Naked, they’d talk to each other about the stocks and the Braves. They showered in the public area without turning their backs. I was skinny, ashamed of my body, and mortified to take off my clothes in front of anyone.

It’s funny. Sexually-active as I was at that point, I wasn’t at all worried at the prospect of becoming visibly excited at the sight of other naked guys. I simply didn’t want to be looked at. Not in the nude. Not in the gym. The context was all wrong. I feared I was too skinny and pale and smooth and that my ribs showed too much. It didn’t help that the boys’ swimming classes were all held in the nude. There was no escape.

Mark and I lived only one bus stop apart from each other. It was the spring of 1979 when I lost him as a friend. And it all started in the showers of the Y, after swimming.

After our lifesaving lesson, I’d left the locker room to visit one of the sinks on the other side of the showers. One of my articles of clothing—a sock, I think—had gotten soaking wet and I’d fruitlessly attempted to wring it out and get it dry with the hand blower. After giving up, I crossed through the showers again, and found Mark coming out from an alcove. The recess was on the showers’ far side and was something halfway between a closet and a forgotten nook; the janitor usually used it to stow his mop. The wheeled bucket and mop were already pushed out of the nook, though, when Mark stepped out of it. He seemed surprised to see me. “What’re you doing?” I asked him. I thought he was already done with his shower and was getting dressed.

He held his towel in a casual way that obscured his naked parts, and didn’t let it budge. “Just seeing what’s back there,” he shrugged. Then he hustled me away—but not so quickly I didn’t get a glimpse of a man emerging from the nook as we left the room. He was tall and lean, and much older than either of us. And he was hard, or had at least had been hard moments before.

Mark’s fingers were on my elbow. It felt as if bolts of electricity were flying across my skin, as I realized that Mark had been engaged in something with that older man in the privacy of that little enclosure. “What were you doing in there?” I asked again.

His reply had an edge I hadn’t heard before. “Jesus, nothing. Would you shut up?” he snapped. “Get dressed. We’re going to miss the bus.”

(To be concluded tomorrow.)

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Good sex

I don’t like to badmouth guys I hook up with. It’s not fair, for one thing. I’ve created a forum for my own self-expression, and it’s entirely one-sided. There’s space for comments, of course, but those don’t exactly provide a chance for equal rebuttal.

For another thing, trash-talking someone isn’t nice. It may be enjoyable for some. Recently I discontinued reading and following an online journal that took a turn for the worse when the author began picking on people just to ‘put them in their place,’ which apparently was anywhere below where he felt he stood. It’s not enjoyable for me either to write or read. There’s already so much negativity to be had in the world, particularly on the internet. I don’t care to contribute to its sodden weight.

This sorry little prelude is not leading up to a great big But. Or a leery However, I’ll have you know. It’s simply the mental reaction I had when I sat down to write up my encounter yesterday.

In the afternoon, Wednesday, I had a guy over I’ve met before. He’s appeared in the pages of this very blog. And the sex was . . . well, good. No, really. It was good. I came. How could it not be good?

The guy showed up when he said he would. We kissed for thirty seconds. He sucked me for almost precisely one minute. He dropped his pants and climbed up on the bed and buried his face in the mattress like a good boy, and I entered him from behind and fucked him. He groaned a lot. I told him how good his ass felt and what a good fuck he was, and meant every word. Then he shot all over the bed, and asked me to come quickly. I obliged, we cleaned up, and we went on his merry way to work. The total time elapsed was maybe fifteen minutes. A little perfunctory, but nothing to complain about.

Both of us left the encounter with cleared heads and drained ball sacs. Nothing to complain about there, right?

It’s just that when I sat down this morning to think of how to frame the encounter, none of the ways I wanted to describe it came out right. If I tried to make it sound as if it had been the best sex of my year so far, I’d be a liar. It wasn’t. I couldn’t frame it as a passionate moment between us, because passion simply wasn’t a part of it. I couldn’t make it more erotic than it was, or more meaningful than it had been. I couldn’t even go into a lot of juicy detail about the hydraulics of it, because it had been so simple: kiss, suck, insert tab A into slot B.

It just seemed that every way I thought of writing it up sounded in my head like I was damning it with the faintest of praise, and the thought of that sent me into paroxysms of guilt. Even now I feel vaguely foolish. Oh god, we only had good sex. I’m sooooo sorry it wasn’t better!

I suppose if anything, the encounter reminded me how much truly great sex I have. I’m lucky to meet some amazing people and enjoy some truly remarkable encounters. I’m fortunate to be receptive to connecting, on a certain emotional level, with a lot of people who appeal to me. I’m glad I have the capacity to appreciate the tenderness that men often show me, and to return it (I hope) in kind.

Yesterday was good sex. I’d do it again.

But it wasn’t amazing, and you know what? That’s perfectly fine.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

An Open Letter To My Neighbor

Dear Michael, My Back Yard Neighbor,

It’s me. You know, the tall, lanky, bearded bisexual guy from the house behind yours. Yes, the one to whom you flashed your naked body, late that one night not so long ago. The one who’ll appear like magic in his glass back doors, mornings, with his bowl of cereal when you pace up and down your back yard walk and pretend to stretch for the morning runs that you never take. But that’s okay. I like the way you bend over and point your ass in my direction as you stretch your hamstrings.

It’s really a beautiful ass, by the way. Just like the rest of you is beautiful. I’ve always been a fan of your long, shoulder-length curly hair, though I’ve heard your wife suggest at least twice that you should cut it. I really am turned on by that huge Slavic nose of yours, believe it or not. I love your stocky, jock-ish body, even when you’ve been eating a few too many pierogies over the winter. For a guy in your mid-thirties carrying three kids, a mortgage, and a full-time teaching job (at least, that’s my best guess from your schedule), you’re doing really well.

I still think of the first day we met, a few years back, when you’d just moved in and were cutting down that crabapple tree between us that blocked my view of your house. (Thank you for that favor, by the way. Best thing you ever did for our relationship.) The majority of the tree was gone by the time I saw what you were doing. When I stepped out onto my back porch, hands on my hips, I saw for the first time that part of one of the tree’s upper branches had grown between the power lines in a way that was suspending it in mid-air. So there you were, on a ladder, trying to snip away at a branch belonging to a tree that no longer existed, like some conundrum from an absurdist painting.

“Hey,” I said, and told you my name.

“Hey. I’m Michael,” you told me.

I watched you cut away most of the branch. “Do you need some help there?” I asked. “Or do you want to bring your ladder over here?”

You refused, amiably enough. Maybe you rightly suspected that my subtext was something along the lines of, Do you want to bring your sexy daddy body into my bed? Because since that moment there’s been a sexual tension that I know isn’t my own imagination. When you sit in the back yard, you do it when I’m relaxing or working on my deck, and you always point your body directly at me. When you’re stretching, you always look over your shoulder to see if I’m there with my cereal bowl. There’s always an awareness of each other, between us.

Then there was yesterday.

I was out on my deck in the afternoon warmth, reading my book, while you puttered around on your porch. I watched you for a while, yes. But then I’m afraid that Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger got the better of me, because I became so absorbed in it that I kind of stopped paying attention to you at all.

That is, until you yelled out, at top volume, “Feast your eyes! FEAST YOUR EYES!” Whereupon I looked up to find you standing on the top porch step clad in only a tight pair of shorts, bare-chested for the world to see. And by ‘world,’ I mean, ‘me.’

May I just say at this juncture, Michael, on the extremely off-chance that you’re reading my blog, that you have a beautiful chest? You’ve been working out, and it shows. Your proportions are great. Your chest fuzz is inspiring. The trail that leads down to what I remember as your substantial, dark pubic hair makes me want to drop to my knees. My eyes feasted, Michael. Oh, they feasted.

The alleged intended recipient of your manly cry was supposed to be your mouse of a wife. However, Michael, I know that it was meant for me. Why? Because for one thing, you were facing my direction. Your wife was behind you. The only person who could feast was me. For another, you shouted out the directive so loudly that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. And that wife of yours? Only two feet away. I know she’s not deaf.

I’m reasonably sure, and I think a jury of my peers would back me up here, that you stripped down especially for me, to celebrate the first day it was warm enough for the both of us to be in our back yards. Furthermore, I know by the looks you kept shooting me, as I watched you tinker around on your porch shirtless and always facing my direction, that you enjoy it when I stare at you.

So let’s cut to the chase. We haven’t talked since the incident with the crabapple branch. But I’m game. Do you want my dick? It’s yours. My ass? It’s yours. Are you one of those straight guys whose vanity preens itself a little when I gawk at you from not-so-afar? It’ll be torture, but I’ll keep doing it, if your ego needs the strokes.

Michael, you’re a fine, fine man, and feasting upon you is exactly what I’d like to do.

Hoping you read this letter,
Your back yard neighbor.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

The Best Friend's Daddy

Last week someone asked me, via formspring.me, whether I’d ever hooked up with a father of any of my son’s friends. My answer, short and sweet, was yes, I have.

And of course I immediately began to get barraged with mails and comments begging me to talk about it .

In the little suburban city where I live are a number of public parks. The reason I bought a house in this town, actually, is because of its park system; no matter in what direction I walk from my home, sooner or later I’m going to run into one either one of the little parks set up for neighborhood kids to play, or one of the large, beautiful stretches of land where the trees cluster in abundance and the grass is lush, thick, and overgrown. There’s one park at the city’s northern edge, though, that I’ll drive to, to pay visits in good weather. So will other like-minded men.

It’s a park tucked away and surrounded by industrial buildings, and it’s been allowed to run wild. It’s more a stretch of untamed forest than an actual park. There aren’t any tennis courts, or picnic tables, or water fountains or swings. There are trees, and vines, puddles of mud. There are squirrels, and raccoons, and snakes that will slither fearlessly across the dirt paths, inches away from your toes. And there are mosquitos—boy, are there ever mosquitos, particularly after July. I’ve had the misfortune of going in there and coming out with bites in places I never imagined mosquitos could invade.

The park has a reputation of being cruisy. It’s possible to go there any time of day and find a guy or two rambling around the poorly-defined dirt walking path, hands thrust deep in his pockets as he toys with himself. Lunchtimes and after dinner have been typically the best times for me to find action, on the occasions I’ve ventured up there. Two summers ago, at the forest’s deepest center, I found a group of four guys stripped down and sucking each other among the tree trunks, barely visible in the dusk.

But this story takes place about seven or eight years ago, when my son was maybe eight. It was the early autumn, a time in my part of the midwest when the days can be wanly mild, though the nights are crisp and chilly. I’d gone to the park on one of my days off from the academic job I used to hold full-time, and was rambling around the woods when I happened upon another man. He was in his early thirties and was walking a black lab whose tail wagged and tongue lolled out at the sight of me. I love dogs, and allowed the lab to jump up on me with his dirty paws. The owner laughed, and pulled him back, and we started making small talk.

The other man had jet-black hair, and thick dark eyebrows that were slightly unkempt. His face was covered with stubble. When he laughed or spoke, his eyes diminished to dark, friendly slits. For a couple of minutes we chatted about the dog and the weather. Then, though our words dried up, neither of us moved. The dog stood there and wagged its tail still, looking from one of us to the other, as the guy and I sized each other up. “Funny meeting like this out in the middle of nowhere,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Usually I come here when I want some quiet.”

“Lot of quiet here,” he replied. We looked each other over for a little while more. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled his left hand from the pocket of his jeans, hooked the thumb in a belt loop, and let his fingers drape down and touch the bulge beneath his zipper. I noticed that like me, he wore a ring.

I understood the gesture. I pulled my own hand out of the pocket of my shorts, and let the tips tickle just beneath the flap of my fly. “Want to walk deeper in?” I asked, once we both were running our fingers over the outlines of our dicks. He nodded.

In a little clearing deep in the woods, he looped the leash over a branch and began unbuttoning his shirt. The guy was gorgeous beneath his loose-fitting clothing—fit and furry and muscular in the way that former college jocks gone only slightly to seed can be. He wasn’t hung, though. The guy had maybe four inches, though it was still a good-looking dick. At the sight of my cock his jaw dropped, quite literally. I took advantage of it by shoving my meat into his mouth.

For several long uninterrupted minutes in the woods we played around, swapping sucks while our clothes flapped half-opened. We had enough fun that afterward I asked him if he came to the park very often. He did, he told me, but it was unusual for him to go at that time; he usually worked days. I told him I usually did, too. After some quick negotiation, we agreed to meet again the following Monday night.

I remember it worked out well for me, because I was taking the kid to some kind of class on Monday nights—gymnastics, I think it was. I’d drop him off at the local high school where the class was held, drive to the park, meet my dog-walking married friend, and then get back to the high school by the class’s end. Every time we met, we’d get further and further in our sexual progress. Though he’d never done anything anal before, by Halloween I’d gotten to the point that I was banging the guy hard and he was loving it. I remember him being a really good kisser, too, which surprised me; sometimes it seems as if the really handsome married guys never like to kiss.

Then November arrived, and with it the cold weather. The trips to the park stopped.

It was in January, I think, that my son received an invitation to a friend’s birthday party. The kid’s mother was out of town that weekend, so I had the duty of wrapping the present and making sure he got to the party on time. It wasn’t his best friend having the party, my son explained on the way over. It was maybe his second-best friend, or maybe his third-best friend, but they were all friends together in a group so it really didn’t matter. My ears were still ringing with chatter when I got him to the front door, where I intended to deposit him and pick him up at the appropriate time. “Hey,” said the birthday boy’s daddy when he opened the door. A black labrador clattered up beside him, tail wagging furiously. The dog was followed by the birthday boy himself, red-faced with the pleasure of so many friends and gifts. “Thanks for coming—”

The man stopped, and stared me in the face. Because of course the birthday boy’s dad, the father of my son’s second-best friend, was my buddy from the park. The kids didn’t notice that the two adults were gawking at each other. They ran on in to the back. The other guy, though, leaned in the front door and looked me over. I hoped it was with fond nostalgia. “Well, at least now you know where I live,” he said, suddenly quiet and shy.

“And now I have your phone number,” I said, twiddling the party invitation between my fingers.

He was barefooted, and wearing nothing but an untucked white shirt and a pair of faded jeans. I was bundled up in layers. When I breathed, a trail of white vapor would be swept away by the January winds, but he didn’t make a move to close the front door. “You should use it,” he said at last. “Like, Thursday evenings before nine. This Thursday, even.”

“That’s a good time for me,” I agreed. We shook hands, like any two dads at a birthday party might, and parted. I saw him briefly again when I picked the kid up, and got another wave and a friendly smile.

Thursday nights were the night we fucked at his place, throughout the winter and spring. I’d arrive after seven, nail him on the bed he shared with his wife, and leave before his wife and son would arrive back after nine. We switched to another night for the summer, and sometimes met in the park when neither of us could host. I seem to remember fucking him all the way up until the following Christmas, actually—and then he was transferred to Ohio for his job, and the family moved away.

I remember asking my son, after they’d left, if he missed his friend. “A little,” he admitted. “But he wasn’t my best friend.”

I surely missed the kid’s daddy, though.

Monday, May 24, 2010

The Whizometer Olympics

“Did you just pee?”

I can honestly say that I’ve never shown such excited interest in the urinary habits of perfect strangers before Saturday evening. That’s when I walked into the gay bar where we were singing karaoke and discovered that the night before, the owners had installed a Whizometer in the men’s room.

The Whizometer is a device that, when installed onto the back of a urinal, uses a rotor set spinning by—well, you can visualize it yourself, I suppose—to measure in miles per hour the velocity of one’s flow. It then displays the result in glowing LED numbers atop the device. I noticed it first when I was washing my hands after dinner, attracted by the laminated sign over the flush handle explaining its use. Then I rushed out to tell everyone in my party exactly what I’d discovered.

“You’re lying,” they all told me. Luckily, I’d anticipated this Negative Nancy response and had snapped some photos with my phone. My best friend immediately went in to investigate. A few minutes later he came out, his mouth pulled into an amazed expression. “It works,” he said.

“What’d you get?” I asked.

“Sixty,” he said. I was suitably impressed. Actually, I thought it would be more, considering that my best friend is the king of the Austin Powers pee. You might remember the scene from that movie, in which it sounds as if Austin is done with his business, but then keeps on going for a ridiculously long period of time, over and over again.

“Hey, go pee,” I ordered one of the bar’s patrons that I knew, kind of. He looked at me strangely. “I want to see what your Whizometer score is. I could take a picture of it if you want. Oh hey! I can do video!” I said, brandishing my phone. When he recoiled and gave me the look one might give a sunglasses-wearing stranger standing at the edge of a school playground sporting a pair of naked, hairy legs protruding from the bottom of a grimy trenchcoat, I realized that although I’d meant to say I’d take a photo of his Whizometer score, he might have thought I implied something else entirely.

So for the rest of the night as informal scorekeeper of the Whizometer Olympics, whenever I noticed someone walking back in the direction of the men’s room and then returning a suitable time later, I would call out to the guy and ask, “Did you just pee?” If they had, I didn’t have to explain myself. I’d get a surprised, sheepish grin, followed by an answer like, Yeah, forty! Is that good?, or Well, I didn't really have to go, so it was only ten. . . .

My best friend had to go again later in the evening, so I figured if there was anyone who wouldn’t mind me watching the Whizometer in use, it was him. “See?” he said, crowing with pleasure as he deftly managed to set the rotor churning. “Fifty-six . . . fifty-eight. You try it.”

“I haven't had much to drink,” I said. But I was game. I unzipped and gave it a go. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the accuracy necessary to pinpoint my flow into the exact spot necessary to make the thing light up. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was making the wheel travel backwards.

My friend doubled over in silent laughter, and then on tippy-toes ran out of the restroom and back to the table, so he could giggle about my failure to everyone I knew. In fact, I was still adjusting my fly when I dashed out after him with the goal of trying to contain the damage he might do. “. . . Four!” I heard him crowing as I caught up, at our table.

With all the dignity I could muster, I cut into his lying liar’s lies. “It was a six,” I said coldly. “Not a four. And anyway,” I continued, cutting short anything anyone could said. “When some of us have so many handfuls that we have to haul out and arrange before proceeding, it’s difficult to aim with the simple precision of a peashooter.”

“Wait,” said another friend. “Which one of you is the peashooter?”

“It takes several able-bodied and trained professionals to manage a firehose,” I finished, inspired by metaphor. Sadly, no one was buying it. They all smirked behind their hands. I decided to change the subject. “I wonder how they’d make something that measured number twos.”

“Or what they’d call it,” said one friend. “A Poopometer.”

“Scatometer,” said another. A moment later, he added, “I don’t think you’d want to hit the velocity records on that one.”

The five of us standing around the table simultaneously clenched, winced, and made similar pained expressions. “Nuh-uh,” we all said as one.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: The 46-Year-Old Popper Virgin Edition

In what's becoming a regular feature here, I'm devoting today's space to catching up on anthologizing some of the questions asked on formspring.me, in the last couple of weeks. As always, if you've got questions, feel free to use the handy entry box to ask whatever you'd like. If the question hasn't been addressed before, I'll try to get back to you in a timely fashion.


Does it matter to you if a bottom moans or is pretty much silent?


I prefer a responsive bottom--one who is honest at cuing me in on what he's experiencing. Whether that's through body language or dirty talk, I don't care.


Getting an honest answer to this is probably impossible but hear it goes. How much of the stuff is real?

I change names and very minor details. It's easy to get an honest answer on this issue, though: I don't make ip the sex, the people involved, or the encounters. I have another career in making shit up. My journal is for real.


Do you ever use recreational drugs, specifically hallucinogens ?

The only drug I've ever used recreationally was a single Viagra. It gave me a headache. I am completely a virgin to any other recreational drug, and rather prudish about them in my presence. Yes, I'm aware of the irony about me having the right to be prudish about anything.


Do you enjoy poppers?

I will confess quite shyly that I've never used poppers before. I'm virginal.

Shut up.


Do you have any regrets in life as far as sex and men?

Interesting question. Of the six worst days in my life, four had to do with sex, so there's an argument to be made that had I avoided sex or squelched my sex life, I might have avoided those four very bad days.

Those were four low days in 46 years, however. I've had many more good times than bad, and learned ablot about other people in the process.

So no. I might regret having had those bad days, but I wouldn't do anything to take them back if I had to give back the rest as well.


If you have a half a degree, is there anything of which you have a quarter? What about an eight? A sixteenth?

I am one-sixteenth German, one-eighth of an inch shy of grazing my head on the ceiling of my car, and hung like a quarter horse.


When you masturbate, do you ever cum in a glass & drink your cum to the last drop?

No. Getting a glass requires too much pre-planning. I just eat it from my hand.


Are you afraid of aging? or rather, what's your view on aging in the gay community? everyone seems to want to stay young forever nowadays...

I'm not immune to a desire to stay youthful. Though I don't bake a fake tan on myself, dye my tips, and cover my body with A&F logos and hope I pass for twenty-six, I do take time finding clothes that flatter me. I groom. I moisturize. I don't fib about my age. The only way to stop growing older is to die, and frankly, I'm not ready to do that yet.

Many men assume that their sex lives are pretty much kaput after forty, however, and I've found the reverse to be true. I've had more younger guys after me at my current age than I ever did in my twenties and thirties. Like youth itself, I'll try to enjoy it while I can.

But god forbid I should ever turn into one of those leather-skinned Hollister-wearing clones who is eternally thirty-nine on his online profiles. (Says the hoodie- and Converse-wearing guy in the jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap.)


After reading your blog, I'm honestly intimidated by you. I can honestly say this is the first time a top has made me feel this way, and I'm afraid I may not meet your standards. Is there anything you can say to comfort me?

I would say that if you read my blog, you'd have noticed I have a sense of humor, a good perspective, and that I can be very tender with the right person. That in itself should put you at ease.


What's the one thing that you've thought about for a long time, but never tried, sexually?

The list is vanishingly small. I've tried a lot of things. I have a fantasy of being restrained by a bottom, though, and being helplessly forced to fuck his holes against my will. Or a group of bottoms. Kind of like a reverse gang-bang.


Have you ever permitted a third guy (naked, non-participating, voyeur only) to witness your having sex with the second guy?

Oh sure. I'm all for it. I enjoy putting on a show.


Has anyone ever mentioned you have a down-to-earth quality about you that makes guys want to do things for you?

My friend, that is what the experts call 'playing to your strengths.' I am no model. My body is not gym sculpted. I am not hung like an elephant. Nor am I 24 years old.

I am, however, friendly, down-to-earth, knowledgeable, and have a great sense of humor. And I'm a top. Combined with my experience, letting people see those qualities keeps getting me laid.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

The Decorator

The Decorator lives in an unassuming two-story house on a street close to mine. One might even call it part of my neighborhood. It’s a typical suburban avenue where the houses are neatly kept and the lawns clipped close. But oh, whenever I open that unlocked front door, I can’t help but blink in wonder at the extravagance within.

I’ve known the Decorator for a year and have never been able to elicit from him what he does for a living. It was only when I commented in an email about how much like a spread in Architectural Digest was the inside of his house that he admitted he did something creative. Something creative that pays a hell of a lot more than my creative efforts, I’m guessing, because the least of his furniture is nicer and more expensive than the best of mine. Upon entering the house, I step upon hardwood floors, stained and waxed in a deep shade of mahogany. A vast dining table surrounded by eight richly-upholstered chairs sits just within. In its center is planted a tall ceramic art vase, from which project cut iris. Down the hallway I can spy the living room, with its expensive sofas of dark wood and rich upholstery. I lock the door behind me, and walk further inside.

A massive slab of ancient stone hangs on the wall at the foot of the stairwell, its surface raised by the imprint of a fossilized fern. I know the way to the Decorator’s bedroom from long practice. Up the stairs I pad until I reach the door of his bedroom. His oversized, sumptuously decorated bedroom. One of the walls is decorated with framed, stark, black-and-white photography. Opposite hangs a large oil painting. Another original canvas executed in oils sits atop the expansive dresser next to a series of nesting carved Japanese wooden boxes, leaning against the wall. A tasteful charcoal sketch of a half-nude male body hangs next to the door leading to the master bathroom.

In a massive bed dressed with sheets having a thread count double anything I own, face down among the dozen pillows, lies the Decorator. He’s naked, his legs spread, with his head resting on his arms and turned away. And he’s all alone.

“Oh, yes,” I hiss in the quiet. My fingers reach for the fabric of my belt. The buckle clinks as I undo it, and then rattle again as my shorts drop to the floor. I kick off my sandals and stalk over to the bed, where I kneel on the mattress’s edge. “I have missed this.”

The Decorator and I used to see each other regularly. Last summer through the fall we were meeting on almost a weekly basis. Then around the holidays, our schedules seemed not to synch. He was out of town for long periods of time. Or I was unavailable. Or he was up north at his cottage. Or I was on a deadline. After a few frustrating months, we both stopped trying. When he wrote me this week and asked if I was available at all, I told him he could have any evening at all and that I’d find some way to be with him.

Thursday night, I'm in no hurry. I have plenty of time. I hook my arms under and around his pelvis to draw his hole to my mouth. The Decorator always tastes sweet. He’s recently shaved his butt, so that when I lick his beautiful, round ass cheeks, my tongue rakes against the sharp tingle of stubble. He squirms in my grasp, and I dig deeper with my tongue until I’m rewarded with the sharp, almost metallic taste of the innermost regions of his hole.

For several long minutes I eat away at him, licking and sucking and biting and rubbing my beard over the little hole he’s so willingly exposing. In return, all I get are the tiniest of whimpers. The Decorator rarely speaks when we make love. He’s responsive, but it’s in the smallest of cues. When I eat him out, he whimpers, and breathes heavily. He’s clutching a pillow now, his little hands balled up into fists as he buries his face in it. His body shudders and twitches when I blow onto the wetness, cooling it down before I bury my face once again between his cheeks.

The Decorator is a small man—almost a full foot shorter than I. He’s lightly muscular in all the right places and has a trim, narrow waist. Though he’s in his late thirties and his hair is almost all gray with a mix of blond, he still has the face and appearance of a boy. I’ve not seen his face at all, this night. Not until I stand up and walk around to the other side of the bed. I lower the elastic band of my black trunks with my thumb, just slightly, to expose a sliver of my furry stomach. He raises his head and scoots forward, hungry. His eyes have been closed until now. Even open, they’re still small horizontal slits through which his small blue eyes peer at the bulge before him. His hands reach out and tug down my shorts; he pulls me forward so that his mouth can accept my inches.

For a long time I stand there and let his mouth and fingertips dance over my shaft and balls. After a few moments I kick off my shorts and ease myself down onto the mattress. We adjust ourselves so that I’m sitting upright, supported by the pyramid of pillows like some luxuriating pharaoh. He’s pharaoh’s servant, worshipping at the wellspring of all creation. “That’s it,” I whisper to him, running my hands through his short, thick hair. It’s still damp from the shower he took before I arrived. “Suck it. Slobber on that dick. Make me feel good.” The words spur him to do better, to suck deeper, to lick and swirl his tongue in ways he hadn’t before. “Let me know how much you love that dick.”

Spit’s dripping down my shaft now and tickling my balls as it falls. He’s grunting and whimpering a little whenever he impales his throat with my cock head. Eventually he comes up for air, gasping, and looks at me to see if I’m pleased. There are crinkles of distress at the corners of his eyes, and his brow is furrowed as if he’s genuinely worried.

“Good boy,” I whisper. I put one hand under his chin and draw him up, all one hundred and thirty-five pounds of him, until he’s draped across my chest. Our mouths meet for the first time. His lips are soft and slight, like a woman’s. When I kiss him, his muscles relax. He melts into me, becoming limp. When I drive my tongue deep, his bones seem to disintegrate. He slackens, and becomes heavy.

But I’m not finished with his ass yet. For a few more long minutes I slurp and lick at it, getting it ready. Nothing gets me harder and more prepared to fuck than eating a beautiful hole. We’re forty-five minutes into our session, and by this point I’ve left dark wet spots of precum all over the sheets. My dick is raging hard, red, and almost angry. It’s time.

I maneuver him onto the towel he’s set down, and spit on my dick. When my head presses against his hole, he murmurs wordless noises. My entry is slow and deliberate, and meets with no resistance, but his arms tense and claw at the sheets. He cries out and clutches. When I’m all the way in, he whines like an injured dog. “Are you good?” I ask him. I’m pretty sure he is, but I don’t want him in pain. I’ve pulled out slightly, with my question, but he nods furiously and grabs behind himself at my hips, pulling me deep inside once more.

Slowly I work myself in and out, in and out. With every new sensation he mewls and shivers. I’m hugging him around his shoulders, and he’s clutching at my hands with his, entwining our fingers so that we can be as interwoven together as humanly possible. Even his toes are trying to grasp mine. Still I keep up the thrusting and the grinding, moving from a slow and steady pace to one that’s more deliberate and even anxious, or eager. His butt quivers with every thrust. I’m driving in faster now. My strokes are longer, and fiercer. We’ve been making love, but now he’s getting fucked—he’s getting banged, and he’s loving it. The tiny whines have become a steady bleat. He sounds as if he’s in pain, but he’s not; he’s merely frightened of it stopping.

“I’m coming,” I whisper in his ear. The flood begins. For seconds I’m nothing but cock, pulsing and red and spewing out my two-day load. The bleat has become a moan, loud and unending, lasting the entire time I’m breeding him. The red tide recedes, and I’m regaining my senses. His neck cranes, and I find his lips on mine, pulling at mine hungrily.

I roll onto my side, remaining inside him. His shoulders and back rest on the pillows as if he’s lying down, but the lower half of his body twists so that I can still keep fucking. My right arm is beneath him, crushed, holding onto his other shoulder; my left elbow crooks his left leg to keep it hoisted in the air, while my left fingers play with his nipples. Both his hands are over his head. He’s grabbed onto the ornate carved headboard and is clutching onto it for dear life, as if afraid he might fall into some unknown abyss below. Slowly and deliberately I withdraw my penis, then immediately thrust it back inside. His hole pops open with every invasion, well-used and gaping. “You’re wet,” I tell him. It’s an unnecessary observation. We both can hear the squelching sound, each time I slide in and out. We both can smell the heady scent of my sperm as it leaks out.

Whenever I squeeze his nipples, he responds with groans and flailing. He’s crying out loud, now, yelling and howling to the dark ceiling. My fingers travel from nipple to nipple, pinching them brutally as I continue to stab him. He lets out a shout mightier than any other, and then jerks and shudders when I give him another savage tweak. I’ve gone too far, I think to myself; I’ve hurt him at last. Yet when my hand moves across his belly to soothe and reassure him, I find my palm meeting a wet and sticky puddle. I haven’t hurt him. He’s shot without me realizing it, and without touching himself. I’ve merely tweaked him in a moment of post-orgasm sensitivity.

My thrusting gradually diminishes. I relax slightly, and use an edge of the towel to mop him up. Then I withdraw, and he whimpers again.

I’m not done. My dick is still hard. It’s still demanding attention.

At some point during the fuck I’d pulled the front of my T-shirt up and over my head so that it remained on my shoulders, yoke-like, but now I remove it. I flip the Decorator over and position him on a clean portion of the towel, separate his legs with my knees, and drive back in. For a moment his back arches as he tries to accommodate my inches once again. Then he sinks into the sensation and relaxes, as he grabs a pillow for his head.

For the second fuck I don’t play the love-maker. I pull his ass apart and drive in repeatedly, getting as deep as possible. I grab his head by the hair and twist it so that I can force him to kiss me, and then drive his face back into the cushion and hold it there as I pound. I bring his legs together to make the hole even tighter, and I adjust my angle. Instead of thrusting up and in, now I’m thrusting straight down to the mattress. It makes him howl. Upward I move further still, so that my dick is angled more to the base of his pelvis. This makes him groan loudest of all, particularly when I shove all the way in and down, stop, and swell my dick as hard and thick as it can get.

“Tell me what you want,” I growl into his ear. He lets out a long, stuttering moan. “You’ve got to say it,” I warn him. His response remains inchoate. “You’ve got to say the words, or by god, I swear I’ll pull out of your cunt right now and walk out of this house. I don’t give a shit how good you feel right now. I will pull out and walk out. You’ve got to say the words. On the count of three”

His mouth works, but his throat won’t cooperate. I yank back on his hair. “Say the words. Three. Two. . . .”

“Seed me.” It’s only a whisper, but the syllables that follow were louder, and full of need. “Please seed me.”

They’ll be the only words he says all evening.

I shoot again, hard and deep. For long moments I see nothing but waves of red and black circles, like those of a pulsing target. My breathing is raspy and labored when my consciousness returns again. I shudder, and wait for the aftershocks. When the last of them fade, I roll with him onto my side once more.

I discover he’s come again as I’ve fucked him, into a puddle on the towel. I fold the fabric so that it wouldn’t cool against his skin.

I’m still in him as we lie there in the twilight. Then the Decorator does what he does every time I’m over there, after I’ve worn him out: he falls asleep. It’s not instantaneous, or unexpected. I think it’s a part he almost likes even better than the lovemaking. He lies there in my arms as I hold him firmly, his hands locked onto my wrists as if he’s a little boy in his father’s embrace. My dick is still hard and inside him, though, glued there by the two loads I’d loosed.

His legs droop and curl first, and then his fingers slacken and relax. I can tell he’s sleeping from the rise and fall of his chest, and by the unguarded way in which he curls himself into a fetal position. He’s not snoring, but the resonance of his breathing is as close to it as he gets.

So I let him sleep. I’ve nowhere to be at the moment. I let him sleep, and breathe, and feel his fingers working at some invisible task in his dreams. They press against my skin as if he’s typing, or playing the piano. For a half hour I lie there with him, relaxing and daydreaming.

When I pull out after all that time, I’m still half hard. I do it so gradually that though he stirs, he doesn’t seem to notice. And when I separate myself, I replace the warmth of my body with that of the blanket, which I pull up and over him from the bed’s bottom. He shifts, and pulls himself into a ball, but otherwise remains slumbering.

It only takes me a minute to pull on my shorts, my T-shirt, and my sandals. My footsteps are soft and quiet as I tiptoe out of that bedroom, and down the stairs, through that well-appointed dining area, and out. The copper dragonfly knocker rattles slightly on the front door as I pull it tight behind me. Upstairs in that house of expensive tables and chairs, and of paintings and photographs and works of art, of custom tiles and tasteful lighting, I know a man lies curled in the smallest possible space in the middle of a large and empty bed, all alone.

At least he fell asleep knowing someone had held him for a while.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Spreading the Love

I've had a couple of sites be generous to me over the last week and send some new readers my way—thank you again, The Sword and Roids And Rants! So while I'm working on an erotic entry about an encounter last night with an old favorite, I'd like to spread the love and recommend a few other blogs deserving of more readers.

Edgy Husband: A Gay Man's Quest for Sex Within and Outside of His Long-Term Relationship 
Mark Mann has been with his partner for two decades, but is finding that the sex has all but vanished from their once very-physical relationship. In his entries, he writes quite movingly of wishing to recapture what once was, while grappling with the alternatives he may find himself taking. I like Mark's smooth and literate style, and his ability to invoke melancholy without fearing it, or apologizing for it. It's his ability to hold himself and his own motives under a spotlight, however, and unflinchingly examine himself that makes his blog a must-read whenever I see it updated.

High Contrast Cock
I know, half of you saw the word cock and already clicked the link. To those of you remaining, let me describe this blog in a sentence: its artist, Craig Lapras, snaps photos of his dick and foreskin. The thing is, the photos aren't the standard 'Here's my stiffie!' affair. They're well-composed, beautiful, and often witty. Acting as his own model, Craig puts his cock through more torturous shoots than all previous seasons of Top Model, and the results are often stunning. I've suggested he write a proposal for a coffee-table photography book based on the site. And I expect a dedication.

Gruntraq: Rantings, Writings, and Tales of a Twisted Gay Construction Stud
New on the horizon this week, Gruntraq's blog is a nicely-written mix of true life recollections and erotic stories, for those of you who need a good daily dose of smut. The guy spent a lot of time this week backloading some old stories of his to round out his blog—give them a read-through. They'll probably appeal to you.

Hot Guys Reading Books
It's pretty much the same site as Guys with iPhones, yes. Except instead of (mostly) hot guys wielding that ubiquitous chunk of techno-geekery, this site collects and displays photos of some (mostly) comely men holding big, hefty, thick . . . books. Come on. I know some of you guys want to submit your photos to this site. I'd enjoy it more than your iPhone.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Happy Fifth Birthday

“Do you like me?” I asked Mikey yesterday, when I was lying on his bed.

It was not the question I expected to hear coming out of my mouth. I regretted it even as the words floated between the steep inclines of his bungalow ceilings. It was a child’s question, a plaintive bleat of need and want that should never have been voiced. Mikey was straddling me when I asked it. Though we both were still in T-shirts and shorts, I could feel the warmth of his groin against mine, and the hardness through the cotton. “Now why the fuck would you be asking that?” he demanded.

Because basically sometimes, no matter how well two people know each other, or how close they might be, the stupid little everyday detritus of everyday life clogs up the works. Mikey has been quitting smoking. The last month and a half has been a living hell for him. He’d been taking some kind of drug—Chantix, I think?—to help him back off what’s been a forty-five year habit. It gave him nightmares and made him so depressed that he first cut down the dosage and eventually stopped taking it altogether. It took two weeks to get out of his system, though, and Wednesday was the first day he told me he felt human again. As for why I asked the question . . . let's tactfully say that it was a long and trying six weeks.

“What do you need?” asked Mikey. His hands rested on the mattress on either side of my shoulders. I looked up into his face. “What do you need today?” he wanted to know.

“I’d like to be held,” I told him. “I’d like someone to be nice to me.”

Very simple things, those. Childish things, even. And truthfully, it’s what I wanted most.

Though the second floor bedroom was warm from the sun shining through the skylight, I didn’t mind in the least when Mikey pressed his body against mine. His arms scooped under my back; his hands curved up to my shoulders and held them from behind as his mouth fitted against mine. His embrace was firm, and strong. My own long arms wrapped around his skinny chest. We made out, grinding and squeezing and thrusting against each other, trying to close every minute gap that separated us. “I’ll be nice to you,” he said at last, when he separated his mouth from mine. He pulled my legs apart and ran his hands over their length, watching as my blond fur sprang from flat to erect as his fingers passed over it. “I’ll be real nice to you.”

He hoisted my hips and began to pull down my underwear. I’d been wearing a plain pair of gray trunks. Once they were off, he held them to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Don’t do that,” I laughed. “They’re not fresh.”

“They don’t gotta be fresh,” said Mikey. “They smell like you.”

“Oh, stop.”

“I’m gonna steal ‘em,” said Mikey. “I’m gonna steal ‘em, kid, and wear them the rest of the day.” Before I could protest his silliness any further, he grabbed my legs and lifted them in the air, exposing my ass. He’d done the same thing the first time we’d been naked together, a long time ago. As he stared at me, he spread my cheeks and buried his face in my hole. I gasped. My breath came in sharp halts and stutters as he licked and bit my hole.

For a long time that’s all he did. One of his hands supported the small of his back while the other held my legs aloft. Months of shoulder stands during yoga helped me maintain the position with no effort. As always, I began to feel guilty after a few minutes of pleasure down there. “Is it okay?” I found myself asking. Yesterday was my day for stupid questions.

“Is what okay?”

“Is it okay if I enjoy this?” I improvised, lamely.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently lay me back down. He was out of his clothes by now. His penis, flaming red and choked off by a tight cock ring, pointed in my direction. A bead of precum had stuck to my thigh and left a glistening thread between us. He sucked on his thumb and lowered it. I felt the tip push against my hole, followed by pressure. Mikey watched me steadily while he slowly moved the digit inward. I, in the meantime, panicked. My hands clutched at his, pushing him away, trying to move him out. “Am I hurting you?” he asked. I couldn’t answer. “Am I hurting you?” he persisted. “Or scaring you?”

“Scaring me,” I admitted.

“Even after all this time? How long has it been? Twenty-five years?”

Upset with myself, I growled, “Yes. I’m sorry.” Because even after all that time, I still am somewhat affected by the memory of a single night in which a man used violence to have his way with me. It’s silly, and stupid, and in my conscious mind I know I shouldn’t let one very cruel bastard have such a long reach. But the experience is a part of me, and sometimes I can’t help my reactions.

He nodded, and pulled out his thumb. Without hesitation, he rolled me over onto my front. I felt his breath along the cleft of my butt cheeks, and the flick of his tongue between them. “Have you seen that television commercial? I think it’s AT&T. The happy birthday one?” I gasped a little. “No? The boy on it looks just like you. Just like you, with hair that's only a touch longer. You haven’t seen it?”

“You know I usually—” I drew in my breath sharply as his hands and mouth traveled up my back and left trails of lovely sensations in their wake. “—I usually flip through the ads.”

“I think it’s AT&T,” he repeated. “And it’s got this bearded man on a park bench, only it’s on a rooftop, I think, and he’s looking mighty sad. And he looks just like you. I think that every time I see it, and watch, and peek around, and think, how the hell come nobody else is seeing how much like you he looks? So he’s sitting there, and the guy on the voiceover says something like, ‘Remember when you were five and everything was possible? Well happy fifth birthday.’ And then the man on the bench lights up like a Christmas tree, just like you do when you let loose with one of those smiles. He’s so pretty. That's like you, too.” His mouth was near my ear by then. “Oh, my. You turned out to be such a handsome man.”

“Let me fuck you,” I said. Much as I was enjoying the attention, and the huzz of his voice in my ear, I wanted to get back into control, back to a scenario I knew and in which I felt comfortable. “Please.”

He pulled out a towel and laid it on the bed, and then knelt down on it. Mikey spat in his hand and rubbed it on his hole. I added some more saliva to his and entered him, easily and smoothly, as I always did. “Fuck me,” he moaned, as I reached the bottom. “I want your seed. I want your seed inside me.”

The fuck didn’t last long. I hadn’t unloaded in a couple of days, and Mikey’s hole always feels good. I’m accustomed to it; I know how to use it for my pleasure. I had pulled him down to his side and was thrusting hard inside him when I came a few minutes later, hugging him tight around the waist.

Only when I was spent, and panting, did Mikey plant a kiss on my cheek. “Happy fifth birthday." He brushed some hair from my face. “Try not to be sad.”

“I’ll try,” I promised. But I had my head turned when I said the words, so that he wouldn’t see my own disappointment with myself. I doubt I fooled him for a minute.

Before I left, Mikey made off with my underwear. “Oh, jeez,” I said, laughing. “Are you really going to keep it? You haven’t done something like that in years.”

“I told you I was!” he said, seeming surprised I’d even question him. “Here. How’s it look?” He pulled on the trunks, and I had to admit they looked better on him than on me—probably because his dick was still thick and hard, and hung to one side, filling it out.

“Great!” I said. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo, then showed it to him.

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

“Let me give you a pair of mine.”

“You’re so silly,” I laughed, but he went through his underwear drawer and picked out a pair of white trunks still in their wrapper, soft and silky-feeling. “They’re kind of big.”

“Are you calling me fat?” he demanded.

“You’re skinnier than I am. I’m saying you buy underwear that’s too big,” I explained. After that, my mood lifted. We walked around his garden so I could see what he’d done, and played with his cats until it was time for me to leave.

The first thing I did when I got home was to look for that AT&T ad. And damn. I really do look like that sad guy.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

I've Never Been Touched . . . Down There

(An entry inspired by one of the lies I used to tell, in yesterday's post.)

In the South, cruising is an art. It wasn’t until I moved to the midwest, twenty-five years ago, that I understood how much for granted I took the glances two men, strangers, can exchange at the beginning of sexual courtship. The bold stares, the slow appraisals, the drop of the hand to one’s own jeans pocket so that the fingers can dance casually across the denim enclosing the cock . . . there’s a certain excitement to such raw expressions of desire.

Here and where I live now, however, men barely cruise. They scarcely look at each other. When they do, their eyes flick nervously over the object of their interest and dance away. I had a friend from the area who never believed my stories of growing up with easy sexual pickings. Until, that is, he accompanied me on a drive down to Virginia. On I-95, a studly fellow with whom I’d flirted at the welcome center candy machine caught up in his car with our own. He stared and stroked himself through his pants, then passed so we could catch up. When we did, he’d repeat the performance again. For ninety miles we passed each other over and over and smiled and stared and flirted, until finally we waved goodbye to him and got off our exit. My buddy was absolutely astounded, the entire time, at how blatant it had been. And that encounter turned out to be only the first of several similar.

Cruising served me well when I was a teen. I had a yen for men older than myself—I would particularly welcome men over thirty-five. I would exchange hot, meaningful glances with men on the city busses, with school teachers, with guys at the YMCA, with men I’d pass on the street, with guys browsing at the Waldenbooks downtown. I learned where to sit on the campus of my parents’ college, so that I could be displayed to best advantage. When I'd cruise the local parks, I'd recline against a tree with a book and the men would drive by, looking at me. There were times I’d simply walk the dog and find cars following, their drivers staring out and licking their lips in invitation.

Because I was easy and willing and horny and—from my current viewpoint—somewhat stupid, I’d accept just about any offer. I was at that point a total bottom. I liked older guys. I’d do it anywhere.

Believe me, I wasn’t wanting for action.

When I look back on my sexual history, I often can’t decide whether I was an odious little game-player or a thoughtful kid who just liked to enhance his partner’s pleasure. Maybe a little of both. My favorite game for the first couple of years of my sexual activity was to pretend that I was a virgin. Guys loved a teen virgin, I found out within a week after my first experience, when a man groping me reached between my legs and fingered my butt. “Have you ever been touched down there?” he whispered.

I had. I’d been touched down there so thoroughly and deeply for the very first time just a few days before that I’d barely been able to sit, since. But I shook my head, and saw his irises widen with excitement just as I'd felt his dick expand in my hands. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered as he eased me down and spread my legs, spurred to the challenge.

No one can accuse me of being a slow learner. After that I knew exactly what to do. During the groping phase, I’d maneuver the man’s hand between my legs, encouraging him to explore me. The moment he’d make contact with my hole, I’d gasp a little and pull back—not enough to lose contact with him, but enough to stop the proceedings. With a vulnerable look on my face that I’d perfected during more extracurricular creative dramatics classes than were probably good for me, I’d say, “I’ve never been touched . . . down there!”

Eight times out of ten I was rewarded by an instant hiss of satisfaction and a look of lust, followed by being flipped over on my belly. Sometimes, however, with the men who were already a little nervous about seducing someone my age, I’d have to take it a little further. “Will it, you know, hurt?” Usually I’d receive an assurance that it didn’t (or from some honest souls, the truth that it would hurt the first time, but that if I relaxed, it would be more tolerable). Rarely did I have to take the third step, which involved puppy dog eyes and a writhing of the hips, while shyly asking, “Would you . . . show me?”

Maybe I was an odious little game-player. It’s difficult for me to outline the techniques I used to keep up the illusion I was being deflowered without sounding calculating. I had my little palette of groans and cries of “It’s so big!” and “Oh wow, oh wow, is it all in?” down pat, followed by the genuine winces and groans of pleasure. I really enjoyed the look of desire and pleasure in the men’s eyes when they were inside me. I got off on when they’d tell me I was doing a good job, or when they’d just lose themselves completely in the moment and pound away, eyes closed. I just loved that.

By the time I was into my second year of sexual activity, I’d lost my virginity several dozen times.

It all came to an end one afternoon when I lay there after one performance, sweat dripping from my pores and other fluids dripping from other cavities. A handsome man in his forties pulled out of me and hugged me close. “God, that was great!” he murmured at me.

“Was I okay?” I asked him. It was my standard post-virginity-loss line, a blatant hook in the water for compliments.

“Oh yeah! Fuck yeah! That was great!” I glowed in the praise until he added, “It was even better than the first time I got your cherry!”

He was chuckling at that point. I turned and peered at his face and recognized him, finally, as someone I’d been with a few months before. After I realized he wasn’t mad, I couldn’t help but join in the laughter with him, knowing that the minute I got onto my wobbly legs, my career as a professional virgin had come to an abrupt end.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Forty Lies

Gentlemen. You know how it is. You're aroused. You're a little moist. You're rarin' to go. And those little white lies start to pop out of your mouth, so you can get down to business—or enhance the business that's already happening.

These days I try to keep the untruths to a zero-level base line. They're tough to keep track of, and I'm at a point in my life in which I no longer care to maintain the energy necessary to keep them going. In the past, though . . . I wasn't as scrupulous.

So below are forty lies I've told at some point in my thirty-four year sexual career, of none of which I am especially proud.
1. Of course I'm single.
2. I've only done this like, once or twice before, with a college buddy. You?
3. Underwear is for sissies. I usually go commando.
4. Sure, I live by myself.
5. It hurts a little the first time, but after a while you'll get into it.
6. No, I'm really good with phone numbers. I'll remember yours.
7. Yeah, I'm over eighteen! [Note: Sadly, I don't have to use this one any longer.]
8. I've never been touched down there.
9. Nobody ever comes in this restroom. Don't worry.
10. Sorry, I don't have a place we can go, so it's either here and now or nothing.
11. Gosh, I don't know, nobody's ever paid me before.
12. God, I haven't been with another guy in . . . five years? Six?
13. I've only been topped a couple of times. . . I'm pretty tight, okay? [Note: This was long, long ago.]
14. Wow, I've never seen gay porn before!
15. Just another inch and that's it, I swear.
16. I've never done it in a restroom/park/car before . . . is it safe?
17. Yeah it kinda looks big but I've never met a guy who couldn't handle it.
18. Yeah, I'm a divorced guy, too.
19. Oh yeah, I always eat my own!
20. No, you're not dirty at all.
21. Sorry, I don't do any of that fag stuff, but I guess it's okay if you keep sucking.
22. Weird, I'm just getting out of a long-term relationship myself. It's hard to find nice guys, isn't it?
23. Seriously, I can't take one that big!
24. Just the tip, honest.
25. Yeah, I'm totally hard and naked right now. Want to come over?
26. No, this is my first time here. What kind of stuff goes on?
27. No, that doesn't turn me off at all!
28. You have a great mouth.
29. I've never seen a prettier ass.
30. Sure, I've done that before. You interested?
31. Man, you must be the best fuck in town.
32. Fuck yeah, I'd love to see you again.
33. I only want to look at it. I won't do anything else, I swear.
34. God, no, I don't think anyone would ever guess you like guys!
35. Just make it fast, okay? My kid's napping upstairs.
36. It's just weird, I've never felt this way about a guy before.
37. No, you're not heavy at all.
38. Your breath is fine, honest.
39. No, I didn't come in you.
40. Damn, you're hot.
Your turn. What lies have you told either to have sex with a guy, or to keep them coming back for more? Post anonymously if you'd rather keep them confidential.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Flattered

The spouse was out at a function in Ann Arbor, so I decided to enjoy some social time at the bar with a few friends, Saturday night. Now, I’ve never claimed to be a stunningly attractive man. But I have my well-put-together days, and then the days in which I look as if I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge. Yesterday was apparently one in which I had it going on. My beard was neatly trimmed and leveled, my hair was behaving, my clothes were neat and unfussy.

And of course, it never hurts that the bar’s lights were turned down low.

Three youngish men had entered a few minutes before and sat down at the bar. One was bearded, buff, and wore a pink Powerpuff Girls T-shirt. I was guessing the other two were lovers, from the way they touched each other’s wrists as they whispered between themselves. One was angular, thin, and wore both mascara and eyeliner; his boyfriend had long hair gathered into a ponytail-bun, hipster glasses, and a day’s growth of stubble. And after one drink, I realized that they all three were checking me out.

The bearded guy was unabashed about it. He’d catch my eye and smile, then hold the glance for what felt an uncomfortable length of time. The two boyfriends were more surreptitious about surveying me. The one with the bun would sip his drink from one corner of his mouth, crane his neck, look over his shoulder at me, and then glance nervously at his boyfriend in case he was overlooked. The mascara guy would swivel around so that his back was to the bar and rest his arms behind them, then disdainfully look at the motley collection of gay guys around him before letting his gaze run up and down my length.

There wasn’t much I could do about it, of course. I was with friends. They were all friends. I didn’t really find any of them hugely attractive. So I just sat back and enjoyed the stares and returned them when I could.

Until, that is, a guy walked up and blocked the view. He was in his early fifties—a burly, muscular guy with a pornstache wearing dark Levis, a crisp white T-shirt, and a leather vest. He was an acquaintance of one of my acquaintances. And he shared my first name. It was with the utmost high-larity that we were introduced: “ [Name], meet [Same Name].”

“Evenin’, handsome,” he said, with a bit of a drawl. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a manly squeeze. Almost immediately I thought to myself, oh, my.

Never mind that he and my friend hadn’t seen each other in a dog’s age. My name twin was all about me from the moment we shook hands. “So,” he said, moving in close. “Do you like guys into leather?”

I nearly spit out my Diet Coke. “That’s a hell of an opening line.”

“You’ve got a ring on,” he observed, nodding at my left hand.

“And you’ve got an armband on.” I pointed at his right bicep, which sported a leather strap drawn tight to accentuate his muscle.

“I wear it to let the boys I’m interested in know that I’m into rough stuff. Grabbin’ ass. Stretchin’ it wide.” The arm with his band rested on the table. He extended his other arm so that it lay on the back of my tall barstool. With him in front of me, blocking the way, there wasn’t anywhere I was going anytime soon. “Gettin’ in there deep.”

“Wow,” I said, blinking. “With your fist? Does the band mark how far you go or something? Because ouch. I’ve been to the elbow, but the shoulder is pretty hardcore.”

My name twin laughed and laughed, so loudly that all three of the boys at the bar turned around to see what was so funny. “I’m not really into fistin’. Just rimmin’ like a crazed dog and then fuckin’ the livin’ daylights out of a hot boy. How old are you, son? Thirty? Thirty-two?”

Exactly as he intended, I laughed and got shy. “Forty-six.”

“Get out!” he let out a wolf whistle “Well, you’d sure look purty with that sweet boy ass up in the air for me!’

My name twin seemed to have forgotten that my friends were all still at the table, listening to every word. “Well!” said one of them, rising. “I think I’m going to go have a smoke!”

“I’m joining you!” said another.

The third seemed to be unable to speak. He just grabbed his drink and went to talk to someone far, far away.

Once we were relatively alone, I noticed that my name twin not only had kind of pinned me to my seat with his wide-armed stance, but that he’d maneuvered his position so that his legs were between mine. He’d managed to overtake my own personal space in a truly sexual way. That’s my move with someone sitting on a barstool. “Are you coming on to me?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

“I was having difficulty telling. You might want to amp it up, some. You’re coming off as pretty subtle.”

“Oh, you think?” he leaned forward, so that his face was only inches from mine. Between my blondish hair and his bristly mustache, we must have looked like the homoerotic cover to Hall and Oates’ H2O album.

“I’m very discreet,” he said, with the utmost sincerity. “None of those guys will ever know.”

“I’m pretty sure they already know.”

“You’ll get great sex and a great fuckin’,” he promised.

“Oh, I’m sure. It’s just that I’m a top, too.”

“I know.” His admission surprised me. “I know who you are on Manhunt.” He said my profile name. That surprised me even more. “I’ve looked at those pretty pictures a hundred times. I recognized you when I walked into the bar. I know you’re a top. I also know that you’d look real pretty suckin’ my dick while you sat your boycunt down on my face and let me take care of it for you. You’d get a pussy full of sperm, I guarantee. That’s something every top needs. So how ‘bout it sometime?”

My eyebrows couldn’t have raised any higher. At that moment, the young guy with the ponytail bun stepped down from his bar stool, locked eyes with me, and gave me a meaningful glance as he began wandering back to the restroom. I didn’t really intend to follow up on it, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of hormones I was giving off that night. I don’t wear cologne, or anything more complex than a scent of soap and deodorant. But the bar was relatively uncrowded, the lights were low, and maybe I was just the best of slim pickings. “Well, I'm flattered . . . to be honest, I am not real sure I’d be any good for you, and. . . .”

Before I could naysay him, my name twin leaned even closer. “You are going to think about it,” he said. “And your hole is going to start twitchin’ for me. And pretty soon you’re going to give it up. I’m patient.” He leaned back, then in again. “I’m real patient.”

He walked away after that, leaving me grinning and shaking my head. The ponytail guy eventually wandered back from the men’s room and shot me a look of hate. My friends returned, one by one, when they thought the coast was clear. No one said anything about my name twin, and he didn’t approach me again until I was on my way out. Then he only broke off his conversation to slap my ass, point a finger at me, and winked.

Sunday morning I logged onto Manhunt and saw a note from the guy. “You think about what I said,” is all it read. I looked at his profile. My name twin’s photos were pretty hot. His dick was short, but very thick. If he was half the top guy he talked himself up to be, there were probably a lot of happy bottoms in his wake. Good for him.

And yes, I’m sorry to admit it, but my ass twitched.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Hot Butter Edition

My weekend is pretty full. Since I'm probably going to be enlisted into gardening and other household duties, here are a few more responses to your endlessly interesting questions at formspring.me.

Do you have questions? Feel free to ask them!


Re hetero couples and play - have you gotten into the cuckold scene at all? As a top & a breeder you'd make an ideal "bull."

When I get to play with married couples or couples that live together, it's usually in one of two scenarios. In the more common one, I'm brought in by the wife to fuck and and humiliate the husband while she watches. In the other, I'm brought in to fuck the wife and show the husband how a real big-dicked man gets the job done. There's usually an element of humiliation in the latter scenario as well, as the cuckolded husband is supposedly being shamed in his lack of proper love-making skills.


I've got this bottom who's turning into a regular and he wants me to be more verbal. Do you think he means more poetical or more demeaning?

It'd be awesome if he meant more poetical. That would be a challenge for anyone, pumping out a properly-scanning Petrarchan sonnet while maintaining a steady fuck rhythm. Very Shakespeare-in-Love-y.

He means more demeaning. Toss in some shit about how good his ass feels and what a good boy he is for taking you. Ask at regular intervals whether he thinks he deserves your dick inside him.Throw in some nasty observations about what a hot li'l fuckin' slut he is, and you've got it made.


With the variety of creative experiences that you've had, have you ever had a "massage scene" type experience?

I would almost rather be touched and massaged than have sex.

Almost.

One of the best nights of my life was when a man undressed me, offered me a choice of massage oils, and then proceeded to give me a two-hour, thorough rubdown, from head to foot. The evening ended not with me getting a happy ending, but with him fucking my mouth and feeding me one of the largest spermloads it has been my pleasure to get.

The tactile pleasures of man-to-man contact are the best parts, for me.


Someone may have already asked, but how "big" are you?

I am six feet and three inches tall, one hundred and sixty-ish pounds, and have size eleven feet.

My dick is eight inches long by five and a half inches around. That would be eight real inches, not internet inches. Damn you, internet liars who use 'eight inches' as a default to describe your five-and-a-half-inch-stubby-dick! You make those of us with eight inches have to reassure people we're not fibbing, all the time!


what's ur stats?

I'm 46, six feet and three inches tall, 160 pounds, size eleven shoe, size thirty waist, a size 14 neck, and I wear a 40R coat. Maybe a 38. It depends on how it's cut.

I have 2 1/2 degrees and a mortgage. Oh, and my dick is eight inches by five and a half around, cut.


What does it take to really piss you off?

Someone being condescending to me is usually the one thing that will fire my jets. I'm not much of a confrontational person who blows up and yells, however. I do the deep-freeze, you're-dead-to-me thing quite well.


Do you prefer to have an orgy or a smaller group or even one on one?

I enjoy all sizes of groups, but I think my most enjoyable and intense experiences are those that are one on one.


If a guy begs you to fuck him, but then asks you to wear a condom, how do you respond?

With selective deafness.

I'm pretty upfront about how I fuck. I do so because when the clothes come off, I'm not looking for lectures or resistance or because I want to try to wear a guy down. I don't want to have to resort to stealth tactics. I throw out my preferences and expectations and let my pool of bottoms select itself.

There's a certain breed of guy, though, who has a lot of mental energy invested in thinking of himself as 'the good boy.' That is, the kind of guy who might be attracted to the grittier and darker side of sex, but who would never go through with anything really dirrrrty. He might sleep around, but he recoils at the idea he might be a slut. Being a slut is what bad boys do. He might solicit sex from an upfront bareback top, but he still feels it's the good boy's duty, at the very last moment, even when he knows what he's signed up for, to say something like, "Maybe we should be doing this with a condom."

That's when I smile, develop selective deafness, kiss the guy, sweet-talk him, make him feel comfortable, and proceed to slide in raw.

The good boy is relieved of responsibility. In his head, he can still think of himself as a good boy; he asked for a condom the way good boys are supposed to. The top gets to bareback. The bottom gets raw dick the way he craved and agreed to before he showed up, but can't bring himself to ask for aloud. Both parties get what they want.

None of them protest or resist. And I've never not been thanked after.


Your selective deafness answer REALLY described me. Does that annoy you when you have to put in that extra effort?

I'm glad to see someone recognized what I'm talking about. No, I'm not annoyed by the extra effort. I very much enjoy helping someone overcome their internal resistances to meet their true desires.

Besides, I'm a great sweet-talker.


On average, what's the time from door-closes-behind-him to your-cock-is-in-him?

If it's a one-on-one in which I intend to enjoy foreplay, the average is probably about forty minutes. If it's a simple fuck or if a guy is waiting for me in the dark with his ass in the air, less than five minutes.


If you had all the time in the world... Bath or Shower?

Bath. That's why I like my hot tub. Scratch that. Let's just make the answer 'hot tub.'


What's the most unusual lube you've ever been required to use?

Hot butter. It did nothing for me.