Sunday, December 26, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Boxing Day Edition

Christmas of 2010 has passed. Did everyone get what they wanted? I'd love to know what your best gifts were--let me know in the comments!

My own holiday was spent in a pleasurable manner. I picked up the visiting family members from the airport in the afternoon, made dinner for everyone, ate happily, and spent the evening watching Doctor Who like the big geek that I am. I did receive a couple of really nice gifts from readers that I'll be sure to showcase, once I have the privacy to take some photos again.

But as I ever do on Sundays, I'll be recapping some of the questions I've been asked on formspring.me, that free service that allows one's friends (and strangers) to make inquiries, and neatly collects the results onto a single page. Feel free to use the service to ask me whatever you'd like--or simply email me with your questions and I'll get around to them. Eventually. Honest, I swear. (My goal is to have a clean mailbox by year's end!)


Is there anything sexier than confidence?
A cocky grin and a scruffy face go a long way.


Do you know who Beverly Strassmann is?
Only by Googling the name. Why?


Should your followers start a fund to relocate Scruffy to Connecticut? An apartment and maybe a job at a place like Eastern Mountain Sports. What do you think?
I think it would be the greatest charitable act ever known to mankind. Will there be a telethon?


"Move Scruffy!" Fund: For your sake and Scruffy's, within what sort of radius (in miles) should Scruffy's still-to-be-found-and-furnished-apartment be from your new home, in Connecticut? It's time to get granular, right?
I think I need to sell the old home, first. Then find a new one.

Before Scruffy moved back in with his folks, he only lived a mile from me.


It's KARAOKE night! What's your Grammy winning performance song?
"Private Dancer." Tell me, do you wanna see me do the shimmy again?


Would you rather eat a load or wear it?
Loads are for inside a hole. They're not accessories.


If I met you right now, what do you think my first impression of you would be?
That I need to put on some damned clothes.


Do you believe in fate?
When a pebble drops into water, it sets off ripples in every direction. I believe that's what we do with every decision we make and every action we take.

If you watch the way ripples interact, though, you'll see that they don't simply vanish into the horizon. Sometimes they rebound—whether from the edges of a container, or from the ripples that other people have set off. Sometimes they collide, and become larger, less predictable waves.

I believe that sometimes in our lives, the ripples we've set off might bring back to us little souvenirs we can cherish, just as the sea waves bring in shells and stones and other keepsakes. Or they can bring trash upon their swells—or even bear disaster. If that's fate, then yes, I believe in it. However, to me it all starts with the pebbles we drop into the waters ourselves.


Have you ever been in a relationship with someone & now looking back saying to yourself "What the f*ck was I thinking?"
I've fallen for certain guys whom, years later, I'll look at and think, "Good god, what was that all about?"

I think we tell ourselves certain stories about people in order to incorporate them into our lives, and sometimes we overemphasize certain attributes. We tell ourselves the guy's more handsome than he is, or smarter than he ever could be, or has winning personality traits that he obviously doesn't have. We overlook the obvious faults.

It's only later on, when there's more perspective, that we can see the truth we ignored earlier.


I'm a natural bottom, love taking it in both holes, cum the easiest when I'm stuffed. But I'm an ok top, not great. Plus, while I love both rough & gentle tops, my inner top waiting to be set free is a nasty boy. Any hints on improving my topping skills?
I'd suggest topping more often. There's no shortage of guys out there who are looking for tops. Any tops. Even okay-but-not-great tops. You could easily have your pick.

I suspect that your self-assessment of being merely adequate is fairly modest. If you want to get better, fuck a lot. Pay attention to your partners and how they respond to certain things you do; make sure to do the things they enjoy more often, and perhaps even more intensely.

And if your inner top is a nasty boy, let him loose. The wilder you fuck, the more you'll enjoy yourself. And the more you enjoy yourself, the more your partner will have a good time.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

A Happy Yule

Not all my readers celebrate the holiday, of course, but I think we all need a day in the year like Christmas, when we reunite with loved ones, reflect on the good times past, and hope for better years in the future.

I wish all my readers a most happy holiday.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

A Quick Note

My posting may become sporadic over the next few days as the holiday hits. Hits like a giant meteor with a collision course for earth, like some mid-nineties disaster flick.

I'm hoping to be back to a more regular schedule next week!

Monday, December 20, 2010

Trust

“Do you trust me?”

I often heard those words from Earl’s mouth, in the years I saw him. They were always spoken without doubt, without reproach. When he’d ask, he’d look me square in the eye and hold my glance. He already knew that I trusted him without question. I never met anyone who didn’t trust him. He had a plain-spoken bluffness to which people responded. It was the first time I’d met anyone who overflowed with charisma. He had a job that required it—and they were lucky to have him. He knew. He simply wanted to hear me assert it.

Every time I nodded in response to that question, his blue eyes would crinkle at the corners. I’d glow inside, knowing I’d made him happy. Earl could make any man feel glad to run in the pack of which he was clearly top dog; around him I felt like a little puppy, anxious to please.

“If you trust me, close your eyes,” he said, the second time I went to his house. I was naked on his bedspread. My clothes lay in a heap on the floor, across the room. After a beat, I followed his instructions. I heard him move behind me, heard him open a drawer in his bedroom bureau. A moment later, I felt the tickle of fabric on the bridge of my nose. Cloth wrapped around my head, then tightened as he fastened a tight knot at the back of my head. His fingers deftly tucked a trailing corner of the bandana or the handkerchief or whatever it was that dangled on my cheek. I could open my eyes if I wanted—just barely—and see vague shadows at the very bottom of my vision, but it was more comfortable to let them remain shut.

“Now put your wrists together.” I hesitated on that one, prompting him to utter my name and ask the question again. “Do you trust me?” I did. I held out my fists, palms up, side by side in front of me. “Not like that,” he said, his voice patient.

He showed me how he wanted me to position myself—on my back, with my hands above my head. I felt something smooth and cool fasten around my left wrist. He jerked back my arms, and then I felt a similar sensation around my right arm. I found out later he’d used some leather restraints on me, and looped them around one of the metal poles in his headboard.

It was really one of the mildest forms of bondage. I could turn over on my own volition. If I’d tried, I could’ve removed the blindfold obscuring my vision. I wasn’t uncomfortable, or in pain, or losing my circulation. However, it was the first time I’d been blindfolded by anyone, and the first time I’d been put into bondage, and it frightened me more than a little. I squirmed and tested the restraints against the pole.

“Don’t struggle,” Earl said. I felt him shift on the bed; I heard the sound of him coming closer. “Open your mouth.” I obeyed, and he shoved his dick in it.

Earl was larger than most men; even if he’d had the personality of a wet potato he’d have been pack leader by virtue of his dick alone. He probably wasn’t any longer than I am now, but he was definitely thicker. His dick was a pink-capped weapon that didn’t make love to holes so much as fuck them until they gaped, as I’d found out on our first encounter. And I liked that about him.

Earl know how to shape an encounter, though. He got his enjoyment from ramping up the action quickly and escalating it to a level at which it was nearly unbearable. That second time he met, he’d barely gotten me fastened to the headboard when he was sodomizing my mouth, ramming his dick in so hard and furiously that it felt as if my mouth was bleeding. I knew better than to let my teeth interfere with his pleasure; I wrapped my lips around them so that he could enjoy me unimpeded by bashing his tender meat on a molar.

My stinging lips felt close to bursting when, several minutes later, he ripped his cock from between them. My breathing was ragged; I gasped for air. I’d barely gotten time to inhale a lungful when he replaced his dick with something else—something vaguely cold and clammy and rubbery-tasting. It was rubber . . . or latex, at least. “That’s a dildo,” he said in my ear as he pistoned it in and out. “Have you seen a dildo before?” I shook my head. I’d read about them. Dr. David Reuben had discussed them in my parents’ sex manual, Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask). But I’d never seen one, and at that point with the blindfold on, I still hadn’t.

I felt his fingers apply some kind of cold goo to my ass. He jammed them in for a moment, and made me choke around the dildo when he ripped them back out again. “I’ve got one for your other hole, too,” he growled in my ear. Almost immediately I felt an unbearable pressure against my ass as he started to push the other dildo inside. It wasn’t as warm as dick, or as flexible, or anywhere near as comfortable or desirable. To this day I still have never thought of a dildo as an adequate replacement for the real thing.

I’d had dicks in both my holes simultaneously before, during my misspent teen years. That experience had been different. If it got too much for me, I could remove my mouth from the guy fucking my face and give myself a little breathing room. In this matter I had no choice. Earl’s fists clutched the dildos and moved them in and out of my holes relentlessly. I couldn’t move my hands more than a few inches apart. I couldn’t see. And I couldn’t get away. “You can trust me,” he crooned as he made me squirm and gasp around the obstruction plugging my mouth. “But you shouldn’t trust just anyone. Not everyone is going to be this good to you.”

It didn’t feel like he was being good to me at that moment. I felt as if I were being tortured. It was tougher than I liked to breath. I was drooling uncontrollably. My ass and mouth ached. And yet my dick betrayed me by staying rock hard.

My eyes were wet. I was near tears when I felt him yank out the dildo from my ass, push back my legs, and mount me. He didn’t enter slowly. He didn’t have to. “I want you to feel it,” he said, shoving in deep. It’s a phrase I use myself, more than I care to admit. I want you to feel it. It’s Earl, echoing through me, over the miles and years.

At the time, I felt it. If I’d protested at his rough use of the dildos before, I responded instantly to the change from cold latex to burning-hot flesh. My body seemed to catch alight with fire as he slammed me. Without my sight I had to rely on my other senses to tell what made him feel best, and to bring him closer and closer. I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s exactly what he wanted me to do. Earl was an expert at training guys to work dick, and in me he had a perfect subject.

If Earl enjoyed escalating the action to a point beyond enjoyment and slightly into the realm of discomfort and pain, he was equally good about bringing me back down to earth again. He shot his load in me violently, banging my head against the poles of his headboard. And then he knelt there, grinding, grinding slowly. I felt his hand around my dick. It took scarcely more than a squeeze and a stroke to bring me off, my sounds of orgasm choked and muffled by the dildo still plugging my mouth.

Then he turned into the lovemaker. He slid out of me and went down on my hole, gently lapping his own sperm from it. The application of his warm tongue against my abused orifice made me shiver; I let him move me to my side as he ate me for long, long minutes. Then he took me in his arms from behind and held me, his dick softening against my skinny butt, as he slid the dildo from my mouth. I’d barely noticed it was there, after my orgasm; I’d nursed at it while he’d licked at me. My jaw ached once it was removed, though. I worked it up and down to remove the pain.

“Good boy,” he’d say then, right into my ear. And I’d lie there with him, listening to him tell me how I’d done exactly what he wanted. He’d tell me how special I was. How beautiful I was to him. He’d hold me. And eventually he’d unfasten the restraints and let me go, feeling changed somehow. Stronger. Able to endure a little more than I’d thought I could.

Yes, I trusted him. I would’ve done anything he wanted, simply for his approval and for those moments after the fucking, when I was all the world to him. It was no surprise I had a major crush on Earl, after two or three of these encounters.

Unfortunately, his boyfriend didn’t much approve of that.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Last-Minute Shopping Edition

By today's title, I don't mean you guys shopping for me. (Though if you want to, by all means, go ahead.) I mean to confess that I am a last-minute present shopper. A very bad one, too.

I'm usually good at looking at a person and seeing some of the things that make them tick. I'm really good at observing personality quirks and seeing how they rise and connect to the person beneath; I'm especially skilled at listening to the stories that people tell, and understanding why they picked out that story and why they tell it in the manner they choose. I'm good at getting to know the people who are close to me.

But how all that translates into whether to buy someone a scarf or a sweater absolutely mystifies me. I wander into a store and don't have a clue of how to pick out an appropriate gift. I blunder around aimlessly, in an increasing panic, until it's Christmas Eve and there I am in the local drug store that's the only place open for last-minute presents, frantically purchasing Chia Pets for everyone on my list.

Well, it's not that bad. But almost.

Take Spencer, for example. I'd like to get him a small token of a present—nothing too elaborate, nothing too grand. But I don't have a clue of what to get the boy. I don't really want anything consumable. Or a shirt of which he'll dispose in a year or two. Just something small by which he could remember me in the future, that's not overly showy or expensive. Any suggestions from the crowd? (No, no studded cock rings.)

It's my Sunday tradition to round up some of the questions I've tackled on formspring.me. Feel free to use the service to ask your own questions of me—I have a bit of a backlog of questions at the moment so don't be offended if I don't get to yours immediately, but I'll eventually answer anything that's not overly invasive, super-repetitive (I know I've answered hundreds of questions at this point, but rest assured that 'How big is your dick?' is indeed among them), or just batshit crazy.


Do you have random anonymous sex/hook ups with strangers? like using craigslist, restareas, cruising spots, public restrooms etc..
Yes. Where do you want to meet?


Is it the case that bottoms in general are desperate for tops or just that there are few who are hitting up every top they encounter for more?
Some bottoms are a little more strident than others. There's kind of a fine line between 'aggressive' and 'desperate' for me. While I appreciate a good 'Hey buddy, I'm horned up and looking for some good dick in my hole. Interested?' as a come-on, I'm turned off immediately when it gets that needy, whiny, accusatory edge, like 'Are we EVER going to fuck or are you just jerking me around?'

If a bottom wants a guy's dick, that's one thing. If he acts as if he's entitled to it and the top is merely standing between the bottom and his intended goal, it's a distinct turn-off.


You said you like to look for how well the bottom performs for the top. What are the ingredients of good performance?
The short list is: attentiveness, hunger, enthusiasm, being in the moment instead of letting other cares overwhelm the encounter, and the ability to finish what one starts.

For me, being a good kisser doesn't hurt, either.


Do you follow back every person who follows you on Twitter? And if you do, do you block all the bots and obvious fakes or do you follow back any way (or just leave them as a follower)?
I follow back people on Twitter if they seem interesting, don't have a timeline filled with nothing but YouTube video links, aren't commercial enterprises, and look like they chat with others.

I tend not to follow people who have set their tweets to private, or speak in a language I don't understand, or who're overly cynical and proud of it, or mistake bitterness for wit. The only people I block are those who are obvious spam bots.

Sometimes I miss following people I'd probably like. I hope they speak up and let me know.


Do you unfollow people on Twitter if they do not follow you back? If you do, why does this matter to you? (I follow people I found interesting, and mostly I don't worry if they follow back, unless I have several @replies back and forth, thats different.)
If I follow someone on Twitter before they follow me, it's because I find them interesting, not because I expect them to follow me back. I don't worry about it.

However, if someone follows me on Twitter and then unfollows me, I unfollow them the moment I find out. I get offended that way.


What's your most effective "pickup" line when testing the waters with a possible closeted candidate. For example, if you meet a cute, married guy, what's a "hook" phrase that has high yield for you?
I am not usually in the habit of trying to get closeted married guys to try to have sex with me. The ones that want to, usually contact me first. I'm also not fond of pickup lines. I usually find that "Hey. You're really attractive, you know?" works just fine.

However, I've been on the hook end of many a fishing expedition. The most common way that guys have attempted to see if I play on their team is to ask where I hang out, followed by the casual mention of a gay or gay-friendly bar or restaurant or two.

If you attempt this method, you might not want to mention the most notorious gay hotspot you know. Saying, "Say, ever hung out at the Manhole?" might scare off your potential interest.


Okay you have a Friend who is dying and they are not your type, but you find out that their dying wish is to make love with you before you die would you do it? and why or why not?
This sounds suspiciously like the question I had asking whether I'd sleep with a reader whose dying wish was to sleep with me, and my answer is pretty much the same: I don't think that anyone appreciates or enjoys pity sex, particularly when the pity arises from that particular situation.

Besides, I think that someone with only a little time to live would have a priority shift of a major kind, and I suspect sex with me wouldn't be on the list.


So Im A Huge Fan With Your Blog How Do I Get To Be A Man In One Of Your Stories?
Thanks very much. I'm willing to meet new guys if there's mutual attraction, but you'd have to be visiting my area, and I'd have to see what you look like, in advance.


Do you find many of the young guys who approach you are hustlers looking for a generous older man with either cash or drugs?
While I have had younger guys hit me up for money, it's happened only a couple of times. Most them just want the dick.

I've had more young guys offer to pay me, than I have had young guys demand I pay them.


Do you ever approach younger guys? Do you often get rude replies?
The younger guys tend to approach me.

Online, at least, usually the younger guys who are predisposed to rudeness are rude in their profile, and almost always have messages stating "NO ONE OVER 35!!!!" or something similar. I wouldn't consider getting with these guys even if they asked me--and they very often do.


i want you to video tape me breeding you and post it on xtube.
You'd really have to be pretty persuasive for that one to happen. I haven't been topped successfully in about eight years.


Can you recomend a blog to follow? i like pics and stuff but i love reading about someones sexual experiences.
My blog's not enough for you? Dang, that's cold! (I'm kidding.)

I've recommended some other sites in my blog in the past--it should be easy enough to find the tags for them. I also recommend looking at the 'blogs I follow' links in my sidebar.

Unfortunately, a couple of the ones I've recommended on the blog haven't had any new material added to them lately, which makes me wonder how real the stories behind them were to begin with. There's one I wouldn't recommend any longer simply because I find the blogger hostile. The rest, however, should be interesting to you.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Earl

When I read over the last entry I wrote introducing Earl, I get a sense that I utterly failed to describe him well. I got the basic features wedged into my narrative—his insanely blue eyes, his blond hair, his rugged features, his chin with the Huey Lewis dimple. What I didn’t really convey is how different Earl looked from other men.

When I was growing up in the South in the seventies, the men fucking me came roughly in a few distinct types. There were the good ol’ boys, or the bad-complexioned rednecks, who drove pickup trucks into the parks with the Confederate flag proudly displayed in their back windows, and who had sex with their plaid shirts and cowboy boots completely on and their 501s unbuttoned and yanked down no further than the bottoms of their butts. There were the creepy, vaguely effeminate older men who would meet my eyes for silent confirmation with every move they made, as if afraid I might startle and bolt like a scared fawn if they made a sudden noise. And then there were the vast majority, the pale, doughy middle-aged WASPs with their round faces and thin hair, and pale lines on their ring fingers from where they’d removed their wedding bands before entering the parks or restrooms.

Then there was Earl. With his handsome features and good looks on a completely different scale than the low curve presented by my Virginian playmates, he was like a breath of fresh air in an arid room. Seeing Earl leaning against that tree, the day That Sprinkler Guy fucked me in front of him, had a bit of the unreality of being observed by a Hollywood star. When That Sprinkler Guy had finished with me, zipped up his fat dick, and given me a punch on the shoulder in farewell, I had to stumble out of the sunny clearing in the man’s direction. I was naked. My eyes were sun-bleached and dry. I had to blink several times in the shade before I realized that the man was holding out my top to me.

“You like what he did to you?” he asked.

Though his tone was grave, I knew he wasn’t judging me. For one thing, his deep voice was gravely with lust. His dick was showing quite clearly in his shorts, tenting them out near the hem. “Yeah,” I said, pulling on my shirt.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around, then bent me over and fingered my hole. I was still wet with That Sprinkler Guy’s load. I thought he might take me right there, but he didn’t. Instead, he whirled me around again and handed me my shorts and underwear. “How long have you been doing this, kid?” I told him. His eyebrows shot up. “Are you looking for more?”

I knew this game. I thrived on men coming on to me, back then. I’d already stepped into my shorts, but I let them drop instead. “How big are you?” I asked.

“Not here. My place.” He seemed annoyed that I’d come onto him so clumsily, but his dick didn’t show any sign of deflating. He named a street and asked if I knew where it was. I happened to know it very well. One of the things I liked to do after dinner in the summer, when I wasn’t biking out to the park for even more sex, was to ride through the back streets of my neighborhood to Willey’s Drug Store, a good mile away. Outside that old establishment from the nineteen-twenties was a soda machine where one could purchase grape Nehis or milky-sweet Brownies in heavy glass bottles, for the bargain price of a quarter. Or else one could get a ten-cent vanilla ice cream cone from the drug store. The man’s house was on the very same street. He told the address, made me repeat it to make certain I had it right, and instructed me to meet him there in ten minutes.

“You’re going to show,” he told me. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Sure I am.” There was really no doubt of my keeping the appointment. I hadn’t been so flattered by a handsome guy’s desire in some time. “Ten minutes,” I said, over my shoulder as I walked to the tree where I’d parked my bike after unloading it from That Sprinkler Guy’s truck.

“I’m Earl,” he said, before he disappeared into the trees. “See you in ten.”

I parked my bike in Earl’s garage, as instructed, when I reached his place. I got to know his house quite well over the next three years, but not much of it made an impression on me, that first visit. I didn’t see the hidden rooms then, or the dark cellar with its equipment concealed in the shadows. What I really remember was the air conditioning, which blasted from the window units with a volume unmatched by my parents’ trickly old unit at home. “Strip,” he told me, the moment I stepped into his living room.

I removed my clothes while he watched, maneuvering myself into the stream of cold air so that it could play over my body. That Sprinkler Guy had fucked me for a long time in the sun that afternoon, and I could feel my sun-baked skin tightening as it began to redden. I had very long hair then, and glasses. The former began to block the latter as the fan-driven breeze hit the back of my head.

Earl unbuttoned his shorts and stepped out of them. He had no underwear on beneath. Off came his polo shirt, exposing a muscular and slightly hairy chest underneath. Save for a strip in his middle where he must have sunbathed in Speedos, his body was a dark tan from head to foot. His dick was long and fat, a cut of prime meat that was impressive as the rest of him. Its enormous mushroom head pointed directly at me. “Suck,” he told me, his hands on his hips.

I knelt down on the braided circular rug and took it into my mouth, aware that it stunk of precum and a half-day’s disuse. I sucked it anyway, loving how it opened the very back of my throat. Soon—too soon—he ripped it from between my lips and left them stinging with want. “Kneel on the sofa,” he said.

I was still wet from the fuck I’d taken earlier. Earl’s thick fingers made me gasp when he shoved them in. His dick followed, lubed by little more than his own spit and the residue of what another man had left before.

I yelled at the top of my voice. I couldn’t help it. I was mostly used to men who were too timid to do anything than take the slowest and gentlest approach with me, who treated me like a piece from a glass menagerie, liable to break with rough treatment. It wasn’t an approach I necessarily liked, but I was used to it. I didn’t often meet men who used me like fuck meat, right off the bat.

I looked over my shoulder, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. The man called Earl had a single-minded look of satisfaction on his face as he stared down at his dick—at the connection between us. His eyes glittered, hard and happy.

As I would learn in the future, Earl liked it best when he made it hurt.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Not Enough

“How many loads have I given you?” I ask into the dark.

Spencer lies beneath me, on his back. His flexible dancer’s body is doubled over onto itself; his legs aren’t simply helplessly dangling in the air, but are pointed in a direction toward and past the top of his head. Like a monkey’s, his prehensile toes are hooked onto the underside of the bed’s headboard. He’s opening his ass to me, trying to get me in as deeply as humanly possible.

My question’s mostly rhetorical. He’s in no condition to answer, anyway. He’s almost crying. I know he’s long past the capacity for rational thought, with my eight inches hammering away at his hole. I’m not sure I could answer the question myself, even if I sat down with a spreadsheet and calendar to cipher it. Three loads one night, five another, a single one the night I took him to the bar to meet my friends. Two the night before . . . and the one I gave him in the living room. They start to add up, over the weeks we’ve been fucking.

All I really know is that it’s not going to be long before I give him another.

It’s late on Sunday. It’s also the first night that Spencer has agreed to spend the night with me. I’d floated the idea long before, our first week. He had demurred, indicating a certain self-consciousness about spending an entire night sleeping in the same bed with someone. I can get that. He’s young. He hasn’t done it for over two decades, like I have. That’s why I was surprised a little earlier in the evening, when in a very small and shy voice he asked if he might sleep over. Of course I said yes.

He’d dove between the sheets like a little boy, bouncing on his back and flipping over and pronouncing my mattress the most comfortable ever. Beneath the fleece sheets and blanket he snuggled up next to me, grabbing me around my midsection and pulling me to him, relentlessly fingering my dick until I’d stiffened. Once he’d put me into the mood, his lips had locked on mine, spurring on my passions until my fingers had first tickled at, then invaded and plugged his hole.

And now I was in him, making him mine once more. The headboard gives a sharp crack as he pushes back on it. The sheets have fallen from my back and onto my ankles, exposing our skin to the cool nighttime temperatures. Spencer’s big dick is rock hard and drizzling pre-cum onto his furry belly. Mine’s merely slopping up his hole. Every time I thrust in, it squelches with a wet noise that I make certain he can hear. It’s the most erotic of music to his ears. Every sweet note makes him groan all the louder.

We shoot almost simultaneously—he first, with a yell that seems to flake paint from the ceiling. Then me, quietly shuddering as squirt after squirt of my juice leaves me and paints his hole. Time seems frozen for a moment after. We’re both fixed in place, unwilling to move, unwilling to let the moment end. But he shifts, and my dick slides out in a rush. He pulls up the covers again, gently tucking them around me before hoisting them over his own shoulder. Spencer and I spoon, with my arms around him.

Will I be able to sleep with him close by? Part of me worries that I might snore, or that I’ll drool, or that he’ll wake before I in the morning and see my morning hair and flee, yelling. I wonder if he’s thinking about the same things. But he’s not. Already his breathing has deepened and grown more steady. His chest is rising and falling in a regular rhythm. He’s falling asleep. Knowing it makes my own eyes heavy. My head begins to buzz as I come close to unconsciousness myself.

“Not enough,” I hear him murmur, just before sleep takes hold completely.

His words are so soft that they’re barely audible. In the quiet dark, though, they’re enough to rouse me. My eyes open slightly. In the blue-black night I can see the outline of his short, coarse hair and the long sideburns hugging his jaw. “Hmmm?”

“You wanted to know how many loads you’ve given me,” he says, reaching for my hand. His fingers curl around mine, as he hugs it to his chest. There’s another pause, as he falls back into sleep. He repeats the answer again, even more softly than before. “Not . . . enough.”

I love that answer. A smile crosses my lips as together we slip into the depths, not to emerge again until morning.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Spunked Undies Wednesday

As I mentioned a couple of weeks back, one of Breeder's Readers sent me a pair of underwear he wanted decorated with Breeder Seeders. Naturally, I said I'd oblige. And here are the results, which I'll be sending off a little later today:



You can see that, as per reader instruction, I put some on the inside as well as the outside. I'm thorough, that way.

I'm thinking that when I get up to 400 followers, we'll do another random drawing of a similar pair of dirty underwear from my own drawer. That's only eighteen more followers to go, then--so get cracking, guys.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Anal Magazine

A few months back I received an email from an editor who was interested in including some of my erotic prose in an issue of his magazine. Fame and fortune at last!, I thought to myself.

Well, no fortune. And the fame is more like infamy, and it's pretty much limited to Mexico. But hey. It's a country I love, ever since I whored my way through it in my late teens.


Anal Magazine is an upscale, artistic publication celebrating gay erotic culture and expression through photography and the printed word. They have a classy blog and a Facebook page on which they announce their issue launches and their many parties. The magazine is produced in Mexico and is therefore written primarily en espaƱol (though all the articles have English-language translations in the back, I'm assured).

If you're a speaker of the language or happen to live south of my country's border, you're going to find issue number two of the magazine a bit more accessible and easy to find. However, the editor assures me that they're trying to set up a Paypal option for people outside of Mexico to purchase copies. They'd run for approximately seven U.S. dollars plus shipping. Which doesn't seem very much for a lot of commentary and glossy photography by a bunch of stellar individuals.

And then a little bit of low-brow smut by me.

If you're among those interested in getting your hot little hands on this hot issue, contact the editorial staff and let them know you'd like to make some arrangements to purchase their second issue. No, I'm not making any money from promoting them. I'm just digging the satisfaction of a whole new audience of sexy Latin men, reading my work.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Piggy Needs to Be Fed

“Piggy needs to be fed,” Spencer said yesterday, around seven in the evening. His hands slapped his stomach. And by ‘stomach,’ I mean that flat section of his body between muscular chest and thin waist where he tucks enormous quantities of food without displaying so much as a ripple.

I gaped at him in amazement. “You’re kidding me, right?”

We’d spent most of the snowy day together. He’d come over shortly after noon and we’d slowly driven through unplowed side streets to an Indian restaurant he’d recommended that had a large lunch buffet. We were the only non-Indian diners there; the entire time of our visit, the staff and cooks kept stopping by our table and treating Spencer as if he were some sort of local celebrity. Apparently he’s a regular there. They asked about his performances, and his health, and inquired after his parents and friends, remembering them by name. The owner was particularly solicitous. Though he quite capably shoveled two big plates of rice and curries into his mouth on his own, she kept bringing over special little tidbits she thought he’d particularly enjoy—a mango/yogurt drink to cool the spices, little fried honey cakes to counter the chickpea stew, seasoned naans they’d made in the kitchens just for him. The food was fantastic, but I was quite full by the time we finished off with lumps of milky, sweet dessert cheese, and knew I wouldn’t be eating again for the rest of the day.

We went to the movies, where we held hands in a crowded theater and where I cringed behind him whenever something gruesome happened involving ballerinas slamming their mothers’ hands in doors or ripping off bloody toenails. And then we went back to my place, where we promptly hopped between the sheets, naked and erect, and went at each other’s bodies like horny teen boys desperate for release. He came before me, his hole clutching and gripping my dick, then relaxing for me to finish pounding him.

We’d watched an hour of an old X-Files episode when he patted his belly. “You can’t be hungry,” I protested.

“It was five hours ago that we ate!” he countered.

“Five hours ago that we ate a fucking enormous meal.”

“I’ll go out and get myself something. You don’t have to go.” It was a gallant offer, considering that a dense, icy snow had been falling all day.

“No,” I told him. “We’ll go out. I’ll just watch you eat. That’s all.”

We ended up at a Chinese restaurant up the street, where I watched him consume a bowl of stir-fry while I toyed with a single scant spring roll. Then it was back to my house again, where we watched another couple of hours of television together, cuddled on the sofa with his legs draped across my lap and his hands warming on the skin beneath my shirt.

At ten, he stood up. “I guess I should get going.”

“You need your sleep,” I agreed.

We stood close. Spencer is nearly as tall as I. I don’t have to bend over in order to meet his mouth. We kissed, sweetly, gently. Our lips connected and intertwined, then softly pulled away from each other, over and over again. His hands pulled my hips against his. I could feel his dick hardening down the right leg of his pants. Spencer never wears underwear. It’s perfectly possible at any given time to spy the outline of his cock head through the khakis he favors. When he’s hard, his big dick fills them out. My nails scratched the ridge through the fabric, making him catch his breath.

My lips traveled over his brow, his cheeks, his neck, the lobe of his ear. He rested his head on my shoulder, still holding me tight. It was obvious he didn’t want to go. I was hard myself—it’s difficult not to be hard around Spencer. We stood there in my brightly-lit den off the back of the house, windows open and the sliding double-doors open to the (admittedly empty) house behind mine, grinding and leaving soft pecks on each other’s faces.

Then I stuck my hand down the back of his pants.

His hips began to grind even harder. My hand probed his crack, questing for the hole I now know so well. The hole was surprisingly slick. My index finger slipped right inside, up to the second knuckle. “You’re still so wet,” I marveled.

He lifted his head then. His eyebrows were raised. His eyes were full of need, and a single question.

I answered it by unbuckling his belt, and turning him away from me.

His pants and then mine hit the floor with soft thuds. Spencer knelt down into the den sofa. He turned his head so that it could rest atop the sofa’s pillowy back. I spit on the head of my dick and went back inside. It had been several hours since I’d loaded him up, but he was still so wet and full of my juice that I didn’t even need the little bit of lube I’d added. I could smell myself mingled with him as I slid inside.

“Oh god,” he said into the cushions. “Oh, god.”

“Your hole is made for my dick,” I said softly, as I slid back and forth in long, deep strokes.

“Yes,” he replied in a deep groan that rattled his rib cage. “I was made for you. Made for you to use. Your dick is perfect for me.”

“And you are so hungry for it,” I commented. He jerked and twitched. “Piggy needs to be fed.”

He let out a short huff of delight at that, but it was quickly consumed by the fire raging through his body. His legs spread as far as his trousers would allow them, and he pushed his ass high into the air. My hands traveled the length of his arched spine, and lingered over the round globes of his butt. It seemed so wrong, fucking like dogs in a bright room when someone from the street behind mine could have walked or driven by and seen it, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. The only thing on my mind was the rhythm of my thrusting, the squelchy wetness of his hole, and the increasing tension in my dick. I hiked his shirt and sweater up so that I could grab underneath him at his nipples, then his stomach, and his dick and bouncing balls. Every tweak and pinch made him groan and clamp down on me.

I shot noisily, pounding so hard that the throw pillows fell onto the floor and the afghan on the sofa’s back slid off as he grasped and buckled and tried to resist me banging his head against the wall. His hole clamped down, trying to get every last drop of sperm. Then I slopped out, and he stood up with a sheepish look.

I sat down on the easy chair opposite, legs spread, hands dangling between them. Then I nodded that he should come over.

I slipped his dick into my mouth. His hands ran through my long hair as he fucked my mouth. I suspect that Spencer would make a wicked top, if his tastes ever ran that way. He likes to control the mouth he’s in when he gets sucked. He held the back of my skull and eased all the way in, penetrating my throat and making me see stars. I gasped for air when he pulled back out again, then prepared myself for the assault I knew would follow.

He fucked my mouth hard as I kept my jaw open and my lips wrapped around my upper teeth. My right hand gently stroked his hairy balls as he pistoned in and out. It didn’t take him long; finally he ripped his meat from my lips and jacked furiously to a conclusion. Semen sprayed from the tip, baptizing my face, my head, and the shoulder of my sweater.

He backed off, seeming shocked at what he’d done. Then, seeing me covered with his load, he laughed a little. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be,” I told him.

I’d liked it. It had been the perfect conclusion to a long and full day.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Christmas Card Edition

One of the reasons I have enjoyed living here is that there's always been a likelihood of a white Christmas. Though Michigan falls can be spectacularly beautiful, there's a point after Thanksgiving in which autumn simply shrugs, packs its bags, and lets winter move in a few weeks early. The snow starts falling almost immediately after that, giving the world outside my window an old, Victorian Christmas-card appearance. Tree branches lie heavy with with the stuff. Every barren patch of ground, every harsh edge, gets smoothed over and erased by a blanket of white. It can be beautiful.

And of course, one of the reasons I dislike living here so much is the likelihood of a white Christmas. And a white January. And a white February, March, and part of April. The stuff never goes away. Eight inches of snow (the worst eight inches any guy could ever get) will fall, and just as I've cleared it away from the walks and driveway, another eight will descend. There's a point in late winter or what's technically early spring in which there's simply no place left to throw the stuff I'm shoveling.

And today seems to be the day it's all starting, here. At least it's pretty—for a while.

As ever on Sundays, I field questions I've gotten through formspring.me, the service that allows you to send me anonymous queries about my life and opinions. You guys know how I like to talk about myself—feel free to ask your questions at their website. I'll answer just about anything that's not bat-shit crazy, super-repetitive, or overly abusive. Unfortunately, lately I've been getting a lot of numbers one and three from those choices.


How old were you when you had your first kiss?
A sexual/romantic kiss? Making out? With tongue 'n' stuff? Eleven.


I think it's time for another crusty underwear give-away! Can you make that happen soon??
You do, do you? Maybe for the next big milestone on my blog . . . perhaps when I reach 400 followers, we'll do it. I have sold a couple of pairs, in the meantime.


Do you honestly believe everything a gay guy tells you (more specifically about HIV status)?
I don't and cannot have a mindset in which I distrust everyone from the get-go. Would anyone honestly want to live that kind of life? People do, but I'm not one of them.

If the question behind your question is intended to be, "Are you aware that some men lie about their HIV status?", the answer is yes, I do. People are dishonest about all kinds of things, including that.


Have you ever received pitysex from someone? why did you do it? why did they pity you? Did it make you feel better?
One of the worst depressions of my life occurred when I discovered that someone had been about to bestow pity sex upon me. He assumed I couldn't get laid because of my age, but at the last minute couldn't go through with it because the age difference was too great between us.

Mind you, at the time he was 25 and I was 32. He was a fucking idiot.


Is every interior decorator a bottom?
I will have to have a larger sample size in order to answer the question with authority. However, given that the general population consists mostly of bottoms, all indicators point to 'yes'.


So: after many months of alternating reading you and MrGloryHoleJunkie in the same session, I'll let the questions flow. Just two this time! 1) Given the excitement you get whenever anyone happens to moan "Dad" when you're up their ass--did you ever ge
Your question flowed right out of the text box there, sport. You might want to try again.


Have you ever sent a sexy email or emailed sexy photos of yourself to someone?
No, never. I am too shy and private a soul ever to take disgusting X-rated photos of myself and post them in public spots on the internet or send them via email with the intention of luring innocents into my bed! Gloriosky!


Is twink a euphemism for bottom?
'Twink' usually refers to a very young gay guy, ideally between the ages of 18-22. Often it's used to refer to hairless thin young men. Although a lot of this particular population tends to be bottom, the word 'twink' does not specifically connote a preference in position, only an age and body type.


If I gave you my name/contact info, would *we* be Facebook friends?
In theory it could, but in practice I tend to keep my blogging/tweeting identity separate from my personal and professional profiles.


Regarding your "twitter/formspring" self compared to your "real world" self, are there differeces between them? Can you put your finger on one or two differences and why you express yourself differently?
There is very little difference between how I express myself online—whether in my blog or on Twitter or elsewhere—and how I express myself in real life. It's a point of pride, actually.


Your most recent blog entries are beautifully written (and I am a commercial writer, so I know). Does your sex life feed your creative life?
Thank you for the compliments. I'd enjoy seeing your work sometime.

Absolutely my sex life feeds my creative life. Not only does it give me material to blog and journal, but meeting people and hearing their stories and observing them gives me all kinds of inspiration for my creative work.


Spit or swallow.???
Swallow. Every time.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

The Now of It

I’m nuts-deep inside him, pounding away at his hole, sloppy hole. He’s a loud fuck. By now I’m so intimate with Spencer that I know the angle that make him yell the loudest. I like hearing him bellow, long and heartfelt and from the depths of his diaphragm. It almost sounds like I’m hurting him, though I’m not. The more volume he generates, the harder and more girthy becomes my meat.

We’ll never fuck outdoors, or with the windows open. I can guarantee that.

Then he lets out a roar of which I’ve never heard the like. It seems unending. The pitch climbs up the sexual scale in quarter-tones, half tones, whole steps, then fourths, until both it and he reach their climax at the same time. Finally the noise ebbs away, subsiding into nothing but ragged breathing and trails of tears on his face. I brace my hands on the back of his knees, pressing the caps against his shoulders as I fuck savagely into him. He doesn’t make me stop. His hole is softer and more relaxed, now that he’s come. His eyes glitter in the dark as he stares into my face.

It doesn’t take long for me to finish. His own intensity brought me close to the edge. It only takes a little friction to push me over. My eyes close. All my feelings focus on two sensations—contract and release. Contract and release. I almost feel as if I’m pumping him full of lava, so intense is the heat. My own breathing returns to normal, slowly, as I hold my dick deep inside, letting the last of my seed trickle out.

At last he reaches for my hands and links his fingers to mine. My dick slops out, followed by my sperm. He pulls me down to him and holds me tight, gluing our chests together with the pools of his cooling cum. “Oh my god,” I whisper in his ear. The words could be an exclamation of surprise. But after I utter them, instead I suspect they’re a prayer of thanksgiving.

“I haven’t taken any other dick than yours,” he says after a while. “It’s been all you. I haven’t even used my toys.” Spencer has a lot of toys, he tells me. Monster-sized dildos that some thing are for comic relief, or to gawk at in the adult novelty store. “I’m not saying it because I’m expecting to go out and pick out china patterns with you. You’ve just been . . . giving me all I need.”

“I wouldn’t think any less of you if you were taking other dicks,” I whisper in his ear. “I really wouldn’t. But damn, I am so flattered.” Even in the dark, I can tell by the catch in his chest he’s pleased that I’m pleased. I make a confession as well. “I haven’t seen anyone else since the night I met you, either. I’ve masturbated once—that week you were gone, over Thanksgiving. I’ve been saving up all my sperm for you. For your hole.”

He stares at me, trying to think of some way to respond. Finally, his lips dart for mine. Words just seem inadequate. The intimacy of that moment, and of our twin confessions, begins to make me hard again.

It’s surprising, but true. Ever since I met Spencer three and a half weeks ago, I haven’t had the urge to hunt for sex elsewhere. Part of it is the frequency with which we’ve been meeting—for the last week, he’s been over here every night. We fuck. Sometimes we go out for dinner. We watch old X-Files episodes curled up on the sofa. He’s gone out to the bar with me and my friends, once. We make out like teens and fuck some more, before he drives home at the end of the evening. “I like being your pretend boyfriend,” he’s said to me, more than once.

I haven’t been serial fucking because I haven’t needed to. The sex is mind-blowing. It’s better than I’m likely to get from some random lay. I get great pleasure saving up my loads for him. I enjoy toying with the notion in my head that resisting a quick masturbatory session now will result in a great deal of loud and sweaty sex in a not-too-distant point in the future. I think we both feel as if we’re spinning a plate on the tip of a stick, here. For how long how can we keep it rotating madly? How many days or weeks can it last?

We both know that one day it’ll fall to the floor with a clatter. I know myself well enough to be aware I’m no monogamist—physically or intellectually it’s not in my nature. Nor in his, I know. We’re both realists. Fake boyfriends or not, we don’t develop false expectations. Not for a relationship that has a built-in expiration date.

If I fuck around elsewhere, as someday I will, or if he grabs a toy or another man’s dick and shoves it up his hungry ass, the world won’t come to an end. Neither of us will think less of the other. We’ll just pick up that plate, give it a good whirl, and see how long it stays spinning a second time.

For now, though, we’re both enjoying the pleasure of each other. For him, that involves letting me dictate what his hole needs. For me, it’s about letting him exert control on where my seed goes.

And the now of it is what matters.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

The Bank Book

“That’s a lot of money you’ve got there, sonny,” said the teller behind the counter of Southern Bank. In typical preppy Richmond fashion, he wore a blue button-down shirt and a bright yellow silk tie under his navy blazer—a style they still affect there. He riffled through the two heaps of bills and began to count through them, sorting the tens and twenties into their own piles. He plucked out the sole fifty-dollar bill and used it as a foundation for the others, totaling it all one more time while he assembled it into a single stack. “Five hundred and thirty dollars,” he announced. “Saving up for a car?” The teller winked at me in a chummy way.

I was a month shy of my birthday, and struck shy by the small talk of strangers. I wasn’t saving for a car. I wasn’t saving for anything. I’d just opened my first savings account, and barely comprehended why. For years I’d collected allowance from my parents for doing my chores and practicing the piano, but I regularly frittered it away on bottles of Grape Nehi and board games from Woolco. Five hundred and thirty dollars was money. Real money, and because I had no idea how to manage it, it had been decided I would put it in a savings account.

“The boy mowed a lot of lawns last summer,” said the older man beside me. He ruffled my hair paternally and winked back. “It adds up, right? Every little bit counts.”

The teller smiled, made some notations and filled out a card, and then took the little blue booklet and thrust it into a mechanical stamping machine. When he handed it to me, under my name and new bank account number was the date, a legend, and a figure: DEPOSIT $530.00.

“Would you like me to show you how to fill out the deposit slip?” the teller asked me.

“I’ll get him up to speed,” said my guardian. “Thanks for your time.”

Together we stood by the glass counter in the middle of the room while he explained how to fill out the slip for future deposits. The scene was like a Norman Rockwell painting, Day at the Bank, in which side by side stood a blond man and a very blond boy, father and son, as the older taught the younger the importance of saving his lawn-mowing nickels.

Only the man wasn’t my father at all. His name was Earl, and he was the man around whom a lot of my teen years revolved. I hadn’t earned a cent behind a Toro. I’d accumulated it trading sex for money in Earl’s home, weekends.

Earl was often able to pass me off as his son because of our physical resemblance. He was rugged and handsome where I was skinny and finer-featured, but our hair color, height, and general ranginess were similar enough that we could travel together and not attract attention. In fact, I’d been mistaken for his son the first time we’d met.

I was in the public park clearing with That Sprinkler Guy. It was a late summer afternoon shortly after lunch, and I’d met the sprinkler installer by my reading tree at the lake’s edge. At his approach I’d already put away my book and pulled my bike to the road’s side; by the time he pulled to a stop beside me, I was hauling my bike up and into his truck’s bed so that we could drive off to a quieter spot. I’m pretty sure he’d hosed me down with his piss that afternoon. I was totally naked, with my clothes hanging over a branch nearby, and my shoes parked on a ledge of moss beneath a tree. And he was fucking me. I remember the teeth of That Sprinkler Guy’s jeans would nip at my ass cheeks with every thrust. If I’d had hairs back there, at that age, they would have been picked clean, one by one.

My ass was sore from That Sprinkler Guy’s extra-thick dick, and the constant hammering at my prostate was making me whimper. I can’t say I was enjoying the sensations from his fucking, but I did like that sense of being used. I liked feeling I’d gone so low as to submit to the guy’s piss. Knowing I was a very bad boy with a host of secrets gave me a thrill inside, and every new adventure or degradation made everything all the more exciting.

I was in so much of a haze that I didn’t notice the other man approaching to intrude on our private scene. That Sprinkler Guy must have, however, because when in a panic I looked from the tall blond stranger with the deep blue eyes and the dimpled chin who was leaning against the tree from which my clothes hung, to the man assaulting my hole, I saw That Sprinkler Guy was merely pounding harder with an audience. The newcomer wore shorts and a polo shirt, despite the warm temperatures. A wedding band decorated his ring finger. He looked like some kind of daddy accidentally wandered in from the tennis courts or from coaching his daughter’s field hockey game.

That Sprinkler Guy must have thought so too. He fucked me hard for several minutes, then finally relented and let loose a blast of cum in my hole, shooting so violently that I lost my grip on my knees and had to thrust my palms onto the ground to keep from falling. He yanked out of me without ceremony, seeming to leave me gaping. “He’s not yours, is he?” he asked the stranger.

The guy I later knew as Earl raised his eyebrows. “My what?”

“Your kid,” said the sprinkler guy. “He looks like you.”

Earl didn’t take his eyes off me as he shook his head. Blue and friendly as they were, at that moment they held a dangerous edge. He wanted me. He meant to have me. And he didn’t intend to stop with a single fuck. “No,” he said. “He’s not mine.”

Though soon enough I would be.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

In the Wings

Under the spotlight, he draws the eye. It’s impossible not to look at him, even with a stage full of people. His posture is erect—shoulders back, chest puffed out and thrust forward, arms drawn back in an arc that points to the floor. One pointed foot delineates an invisible line before him. The other is thrust sideways, toward the audience. I don’t know enough about dance to know how good Spencer is, but he commands attention. He has stage presence. When he flies across the boards on nimble, quick feet and propels himself into the air, every head turns to follow him.

It’s an impossible leap that seems to crawl to slow motion. His costume cape flies out behind, a geometric curve of velvet and embroidery, scarlet and glinting gold. When he lands, it’s with a light foot. Time moves normally again as he spins and turns to raise his arms menacingly to the hero. The cloak spirals with him, wrapping around his waist and exposing his lower half. I’ve never seen his parts so tightly bound before. The dance belt makes him seem almost sexless, a Ken doll of a figure with broad shoulders and a deep chest, a narrower waist, a perfectly round butt, and a genderless mound where his genitals should be.

I know better, though. I’ve seen the man naked, on his knees, with his generous helping of dick erect and swinging between his legs. I’ve been inside that boy more times that I can easily count, at this point. Over and over I’ve shot seed into him. I’ve told Spencer that every load makes him more and more mine, and he’s agreed with me in cries and grunts and whispered pleas.

An object flies from the heroine’s hands; it strikes my dancer in the head. The hero’s weapon finishes him off. Spencer falls onto the ground gracefully, his body a curlicue of anguish and death. To great applause, the company carries him into the wings.

I’m curiously proud of him for the performance. The pleasure it gives me to see the smiles on the faces nearby is like a furnace in my chest, glowing and bright. I haven’t had any part in the production, or in Spencer’s training, but somehow I still take personally the approbation, the applause, the murmured whispers of praise. You’ve picked really well, they seem to tell me, maybe.

His part is done, but I can still see him. Beyond the first tormentor that hides the wings from the audience, he’s struggling to remove the bulkier parts of his costume. The last-minute seat for the performance I purchased ended being close to the stage, but to the extreme left of the house. I have a straight view into the left stage wing that others in the audience don’t. He hands his sword to a waiting hand nearby. Two others help him struggle out of the tunic he’s been wearing.

For a moment, he’s shirtless. That muscled body I’ve been getting to know is exposed and naked beneath the wing lighting. I’m close enough to spot the trail of hair that leads down his abdomen and past his waistband. When he turns and bends for something on the floor, I get a glimpse of the very tops of his buttocks squeezing out of his tights. There’s almost too much bounty there to be accommodated. I can even see the corresponding line of light fur that leads to the hole I’ve spent so much time and effort making mine.

He’s beautiful. So beautiful. My lips part. I almost gasp.

Then he stands, turns, and pulls on a tight-fitting black T-shirt that hugs every curve and bulge. Arms crossed, he stands with legs stretching to either side, and a hand rubbing his mouth. He’s lost in thought as he watches the other dancers on the stage.

I’d forgotten there was any other performance than his.

Monday, December 6, 2010

That Sprinkler Guy

In a couple of spectacularly unsuccessful entries a few weeks back I attempted to track the genesis of my acquaintance with Topher, who became my partner in crime at some point later in my adolescence. Talking about Topher was going to be my gateway to addressing my complex and involved relationship with a man named Earl, whose attentions and mentoring shaped pretty much my entire sexual career.

I’d still like to talk about Earl. It’ll take several entries to do it. However, because whenever I write entries about the sex I had thirty or more years ago I have a vocal minority of readers who feel obliged to express their displeasure about the concept of a teen having sex with adult men, I’d like to stress an important point. I’m writing about things that happened a very long time ago. I can’t change my past. Admittedly, I could pretend it didn’t happen, or not write about it and leave it shrouded in silence, to avoid offending tender sensibilities.

I choose not to do that, however. I think some experiences are worth recording and exploring in an honest manner. If you’re going to be one of those people who don’t appreciate that, I advise you to skip these particular entries.

To get to Earl, I need to first to talk about That Sprinkler Guy, who introduced us.

It would have been in 1979 that I met That Sprinkler Guy. It was not very long after the events of my A Very Bad Day entry, when I’d been caught screwing around in the park restroom by the police and taken home in shame to my father. It was still summer, but at least a month after that incident. I remember being so frightened by it all that I’d sworn off whoring around altogether—a resolution that I kept for perhaps all of two weeks. After that, my summer hornies reasserted themselves, and I accommodated them by fooling around first only in my usual restroom haunts in the Richmond public library and on the campus where my parents both taught. The next week I added the park near the carillon into my cruising. Then a couple of weeks after that, I was back to Bryan Park, the scene of my shame, and the closest cruising spot to home.

I was reluctant ever to let myself get cornered again in the restrooms there, though. I might have used them to meet guys, but rarely would I do much in there, where I couldn’t see who might be approaching. I’d ask guys to take me into the woods. Or if it was evening, we’d play in the picnic shelters that hosted all manner of couplings and group sex.

It was a lazy and slow summer morning when I met That Sprinkler Guy. I remember it being one of those gorgeous, sun-drenched Virginia summer days on which the rolling park baked in the glare and haze. It was one of those mornings when the cicadas had already started their unending huzz before breakfast was over, giving warning that by the late afternoon you’d probably hear nothing in most of the quiet Richmond neighborhoods save for the hum of air conditioning condensers and the soft rhythm of sprinklers showering thirsty lawns. I loved the heat, and the sun, though usually it discouraged all but the most hard-core sex seekers from hitting the parks.

I’d been sitting beneath a tree near the road that led to the shelters and restrooms for some time, bike propped against the trunk, as I read a paperback I’d stuck in my pocket. Then I saw a white pick-up truck turn from the neighborhood street flanking the park onto its drive, kicking up clouds of dust with its big wheels as it turned. As the trunk neared, it slowed down. That Sprinkler Guy, commercial lettering announced on its side. Commercial/Residential Sprinkler Installation. A phone number graced the bottom of the ad. I saw the curly-headed driver lean over as he approached and passed to check me out.

I knew I was in business. I let the truck continue up the road, waiting a moment before I stuck my paperback into my pocket, stood, and kicked up the stand of my bike so that I could follow. He was waiting inside, standing at the solitary urinal, a cap somehow pulled atop that head of thick, bristling black curls. That Sprinkler Guy was a stocky bulldog of a man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. The T-shirt he wore with his business’s logo bulged from his beefy arms and shoulders. With his thick lips and pug nose he wasn’t handsome, but he sure as hell was sexy. His dirty jeans hung low beneath a slight belly, unzipped to display a long, thick, slab of hard dick. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was peeing; when I pushed inside the door and looked him over from in front of the sink, he took a step back to display his meat. With a grin on his lips, he showed off how his angled foreskin slipped back and forth over the greasy knob.

I stepped up to feel its warm length in my hand. “Well damn,” he said, his mouth lop-sided and pleased. When I was close, he reached up and ran his fingers through my long blond hair. “You are a cute one, son!”

I was going to suggest we take our activity elsewhere, but he already had the same idea. He stuffed his enormous dick down his pants leg, pulled up the frayed waistband of his white briefs, fastened his pants, and caught my neck in the crook of his arm. Out of the restroom we strolled, instant buddies. My bike was already locked up, so I accepted an invitation to hop in the guy’s truck and take a little ride with him.

In those days Bryan Park was divided roughly into two sections. The back half, accessible through a separate road in the nearby neighborhood, was where cruisers lurked. Rednecks in trucks hung with Confederate flags in their back windows would take the main arched entry into the larger, front half of the park. The two groups rarely mixed. (Though I loved when they did.) That Sprinkler Guy drove from the park’s cruisy side to redneck territory, where even in the morning there were good ol’ boys and their girlfriends listening to Creedence on their radios and drinking from cans of beer wrapped in brown paper. We drove past them to an area deep within the park, closer to where we’d met in the restroom, but inaccessible through the back road. I let him walk me from the truck into the woods, which grew thick and dense upon the rolling hills. After a few minutes on a barely-distinguishable trail, we ended up in a clearing where the sun shone brightly. The park ran alongside I-95, so there was a constant whoosh of traffic as it swept by, but that faint noise was all we could hear, so isolated we were.

“Now’s the part where you strip,” he said, and crossed his arms.

I didn’t know the guy and was aware I was throwing caution to the winds, but I didn’t care. I wanted that dick. I crossed my arms and skimmed off my T-shirt, and dropped my OP shorts to the ground and stepped out of them.

“Kneel,” he said.

I obeyed, planting my knees onto the ground. There I was, nude and exposed, barely able to keep my eyes open from the bright intensity of the sunshine.

“You ever taken a shower before?” he wanted to know, as the logs that were his fingers deftly undid his jeans.

Of course I’d taken a shower before. I took a shower every day. Sometimes two, if I came home from the parks especially cum-covered and stinky. “Sure,” I said.

“Nice. Someone trained you right.” His dick was exposed now. Even soft it was a monster that spilled from the split in his jeans at an impressive angle. Once again he pulled back the foreskin to expose that shiny, thick head. “You ready for it, then?”

Barely had I a chance to nod before a fat stream of urine shot in my direction. I was naive enough not to know what he’d been talking about, when he’d asked if I’d taken a shower. The spray hit me squarely on my closed mouth; I barely had enough time to shut my eyes. I felt the warmth of it cascade down my chin and onto my chest, then drip down my skinny body until it tickled around the base of my dick and balls. He raised his meat so that the arc of liquid baptized the top of my head and trickled down my spine. I was so surprised that I didn’t move.

After a moment, I realized that I didn’t mind that I didn’t mind. Part of me recoiled at the notion he was pissing on me like I was some kind of urinal, true. But at the same time, it felt just like warm water, and the actual physical sensations were pretty pleasant. A twisted part of me deep inside kicked in and liked the degradation of it. This is what I deserved, it felt like; this was what I was made for. I bowed my head and submitted.

The stream of piss seemed endless. That Sprinkler Guy had a bladder like the city reservoir. When he was finally done and the last few drops of pee were dribbling from his dick onto the ground, I knelt in a puddle. Dirt was sticking to my knees and shins; my hair hung in wet strands around my head. Already the heat and the sun was drying the fluid, though, making me skin feel crusted and tight. “And now’s the part where you stand up and bend over, son,” said the man in a gruff voice.

I yelled when he entered me. He lubed, but only just. I would’ve been hard-pressed to take him under normal circumstances, large as he was. I couldn’t even contemplate it these days. The foreskin helped some—I always preferred getting fucked raw by uncut guys in my bottoming days. But it was a fuck I took with my bottom lip firmly between my clenched teeth, as I attempted not to cry and let him know how very close he was to making me cry uncle. Which was a pretty rare thing in those days.

Though honestly, I think he would’ve loved to hear me cry. That Sprinkler Guy was a pounder. When we met for the three years that followed it was always the same routine—the same place, the same procedure, followed by a very long and brutal assault on my hole that would end with him pushing me against the ground or into a tree trunk as he forced an enormous cum load into me.

Every single time I would stumble back down that path in the woods and to his truck, where he would give me a solicitous boost back into the passenger seat so he could drop me back to wherever I’d chained my bike. I’d wash up as best I could either in the park’s restroom or from one of the spigots in the picnic shelter, and let the breezes dry me on my ride home. My dick would always spring to attention when I’d see that battered pickup truck driving into the park, because I knew I was guaranteed to be put into my place.

The clearing, the sun, the piss, and the slamming. I loved them all.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Sunday Morning Questions: Way Behind Edition

Oh jeez. How'd it get to be December already? I haven't even managed to clean up from Thanksgiving!

Now that my head cold has settled to my chest, leaving me sounding like a bronchial Harvey Fierstein, I'm feeling a little less strung-out on the drugs I'd been taking. Hopefully that means getting back to a more disciplined writing schedule instead of staring at the keyboard and admiring the decongestant-inspired pretty purple dots lulling me to sleep.

But for Sunday, as is my custom, I'll be fielding some of the questions you guys have been leaving me on formspring.me, that service that allows you anonymously to query others of all the things you've been dying to know. I'll answer just about anything on there that's not abusive, outrageously repetitive, or mean in spirit. Sadly, ever since the beginning of the month I've had a lot of the latter.

And of course, if you have questions you'd rather email, feel free. I'll take care of you that way.


If you bottomed frequently, how selective/careful would you be re: your partners? I read that you'd only BB - would you take an openly poz guy's load?
It's kind of a moot point, because I don't bottom frequently. However, if I were a frequent bottom, negative, and concerned about staying that way, I would be extremely selective about my partners.

On the whole, in that situation, I'd rather play with a guys with an undetectable viral load than a guy who assumes he's neg but doesn't keep on top of his status.


Are you planning any more trips to toronto before moving to Maine? If so, how about a hint where you plan your sexcapades !I'm a regular reader and you have called me "my friend" after my anonymous #3 comment !!!
I don't have any trips to Toronto planned at the moment. However, that doesn't mean I couldn't take one, given the proper invitation. And a host.

(And it's not Maine to which I'm moving!)



Married guy, looking to get bottomed. What advice do you have to do this discreetly, yet have a fun, unrushed experience? And yes, I'd like to make this repeatable!!
Well, for starters, I suggest finding a guy with his own place.

If you're cruising online for a buddy, pick someone that you not only find attractive, but who's looking for the same things you are. Picking someone simply because they're available at the same time as you won't lead to a compatible experience, most likely. If you state up front that you would like it to be relaxed and exploratory, hopefully you'll find a considerate partner who'll give you those things.

As for repeatable, you'll be more likely to get it if you're pleasant to the guy, communicate well, and are considerate about his needs too. I wish you the best of luck!


You've spoken about loving to be massaged. Could you please describe an ideal massage? Where would it start, what parts of the body would it cover (any particular order?), how much pressure do you like, would it have a "happy ending," and so on?
I really just like to be touched. That can range from a simple trailing of fingers over my skin, or a flat-out professional massage. For which I've only paid twice, because I'm a poor artist.

When I've had a real massage, either from a professional or an enthusiastic amateur, it's usually been all over. Hands, fingers, toes, feet, legs, back, shoulders, even the temples. I've had a considerable amount of pressure applied, and painful though it might have been a couple of times, I appreciated it after. I let the person giving the massage set the tempo and the order.

A happy ending isn't necessary. I'm not usually likely to get off from a simple hand job, for the most part.


Do you recommend anything other than clear water as an effective douche for bottoms?
I'm not the expert on douching, since as a top I rarely have to do it. (Although I do, from time to time.)

I've always used clear warm water. I believe most of my best-cleaned bottoms do as well. I would suggest avoiding any substance with a laxative in it, like a standard Fleet enema bag. It'll give you the runs.


have you been bullied? was it in school? as an adult? would you share what happened here in this answer?
I was occasionally threatened verbally in school when I was growing up, but it was because of my race and not my sexuality. I never had a hand laid on me.


How could I make you cum
Easy. Meet me. Bend over for me. Let me fuck your holes.


what's your manhunt handle?
It's the same as my Adam4Adam or BBRT handles, which you can find in a link on the sidebar of my blog.


What do you think is more important to bottoms: the cum, the sense of being done, the sensation, or what?
I am curious about the answer to this one myself. In my bottoming days I enjoyed the sense of being used more than I did the sensation of it. However, I think that was an indication of the fact that perhaps bottoming was not my true calling, though I did it for an entire decade of my early life.

Many of my bottoms do enjoy the sensations of it, and even ejaculate or enjoy ass-orgasms from the stimulation. I have always been curious about how that might feel to them.

Bottoms, what say you to the question?


What does your ass smell like when cleaned? I guess the better question is what kind of soap do you use?
I think you should assay it yourself to be certain. I use a Dove Body bar, I think. It's green.


When do you get out the riding crop and tit clamps?
Sadly, I don't have any tit clamps. Perhaps you'd like to share some with me. I do have a riding crop--I discovered it in the back of a shelf of the first apartment I moved into.


Given your wonderful "feel" for the texture of language, your appreciation for the "telling details" that make stories/memories come alive on the page, I'm wondering: Who are your favorite writers? Among the classics? Among contemporary writers?
Thank you for the compliment. I would love to give you some high-brow response that would justify the many expensive years I spent on my education, and leave you with the impression that my bookshelves at home look like they've been populated with recommended selections of the New York Review of Books, but the fact is that I read a lot of pretty cheesy stuff.

I would say that from the classics, I'm heavily influenced by Dickens--but also by Romantic authors, particularly those novelists who wrote of protagonists venturing out into the world on their own and making a place for themselves. Satirists play an important role in both my reading and output. Both the social satirists of Great Britain in the early twentieth century, and their descendants in the U.S. of the fifties and sixties are fairly important to me.

Although I'm devoted to contemporary writers like Atwood and A.S. Byatt and Anne Tyler, a lot of what I read is science fiction and fantasy. I like adventure in my recreational reading.


Do you find any cultural/sexual difference between bottoms from different parts of the country? Any region where they're more slutty, uptight, etc.
It has always seemed to me as if guys from the southern U.S. are generally the most likely to indulge themselves when it comes to sex. There may be religious hangups in their backgrounds, but in the end, a lot of those boys just want to get down and dirty.

Midwestern guys tend to be very secretive about their urges, in my experience. They want their sexual experiences, but they also want to distance themselves from them as far as possible. For example, they have a tendency to call other men sluts while pretending not to do the exact same things in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Or they'll post their faces on an online profile, but not pictures of their body parts, or vice versa. When it comes to wholesome exteriors and sexual urges, midwestern boys are reluctant to let the twain meet.

And my experience with west coast guys is that they would very much like to have sex. Maybe even with you. But they'd like to put you off for a half hour in case someone better comes along. And at the end of that half-hour, add a half-hour more, just in case.

I don't have much experience with New Englanders. I guess that's coming.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Without Words

When Spencer pads into the bedroom, his body is still steaming from the shower. With the hall light behind him, throwing his body into silhouette, I can see trails of vapor rising from his skin. He stands there for a moment, a faceless shadow with its weight shifted to its right hip, as he waits for instruction.

I say nothing.

After a moment he takes a step forward, and then another. He lifts his right knee to rest it on the mattress, next to where I lie. Then his hands press down on the bed, next to my shoulders. He leans in, and brings his mouth to mine. “Hi,” he says.

I haven’t seen him in a week. I’d driven him to the airport before the Thanksgiving holiday; he’d only arrived back home this afternoon. It’s been a long week of saving up my juice for him, all for this reunion. When he kisses me, softly and sweetly, my dick begins to harden. I lift my neck to reach him all the more easily, and use my hands to pull him in for a kiss that’s deeper and harder. “I missed you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, and say nothing.

He notices this time. “What’s the matter?” When I don’t reply, he brings his other leg onto the bed and straddles my body. “Did I do something wrong?”

I’ve already decided not to use words for the fuck. They seem too easy for this evening. He’s susceptible to what I say to him. I show him instead, by pushing him around, down onto his back. Simultaneously I roll so that I’m on top. Across the bed we tumble. His legs rise into the air and wrap themselves below my shoulder blades. I can feel him hook his heels over my spine. My prick is stiff and swollen now. The head nudges against the boy’s hole. His own dick leaps and spasms against my sternum as now I kiss him. My tongue drives into his mouth; my hands hold down his thick biceps. Helplessly he squirms beneath me, trying to press his dick harder against me, to give it the relief it craves.

“Say something,” he begs, when I lift my weight from him.

I don’t obey him, though. Instead, I push his legs up and rest his knees on his shoulders. My middle finger probes his lips, then forces its way into his mouth. He sucks on it instinctively, like a baby. When I remove it, slick and cool with his spit, immediately I use it to toy with his ass lips. His hole is hot and moist from the shower he’s just taken. The tip and first two joints slip in easily, causing him to gasp. I could fuck him so easily, right now.

But not quite yet. I kneel down beside the bed and let my mouth dive in to that sweet gap between his legs. From bottom to top I lick the hole, letting the scruff of my beard rasp against the exposed tenderness with every lap. To punctuate the pleasure, I alternately nip his cheeks with my incisors, or blow a column of cool air onto the wet skin. Every time, they bring him hushed little thrills.

I’ve been denied the ass too long for much foreplay. He’s not sucked me; I’ve barely eaten him out at all. My dick demands, though, and my dick gets. I rub some moisture on it with my fingers, and thrust forward. Instinctively the head finds the hole. He opens up, craving me. I don’t hesitate to sink all the way in.

He’s warm, and wet, and his hole is as smooth as I remember. His hips grind at the depth of me, and then he sighs, content. “This is what I wanted,” he says. “Didn’t you?” I still don’t answer. Instead, I pull out. He protests. Even in the twilight darkness of the dimly-lit room I can see his eyebrows furrow, concerned that he’d perhaps said or done the wrong thing. “What?” he asks. “What do you want?”

I show him what I want. I yank him to his feet and I shove him against the wall. His hands reach high and press hard against the plaster, as if he’s holding up the entire second story. In this position, his dancer’s ass pushes out, full and heavy, two meaty handfuls that I separate as I push back into him. He slumps forward; his head and body hit the wall with a heavy thump. “Fuck,” he moans. Then, “Fuck me.”

That’s one command I’ll obey. I was going to do it anyway. I thrust deep into him and pull out again, over and over, relentlessly assaulting his hole. I’ve been in need the entire time he’s been gone. I’m not pausing for niceties now. I don’t even think the boy has a sense of time, or place as I pound his ass. He’s lost in some private ecstasy. The side of his face presses against the wall. His eyes are closed. Though he lets out little animal moans, he seems barely conscious. If I turned on the lights, I wouldn’t be surprised to see drool running from the corner of his mouth.

When I reach around for Spencer’s dick, it’s a stiff wet stub jammed against the plaster at an uncomfortable angle. I wrap my hand around it, and the thick inches respond. I spit into my hand once more and spread it along his dick’s length, jacking him as hard as I’m fucking. It only takes him thirty seconds before he’s rasping like every breath hurts. His back aches. I feel his dick throb in my palm as he shoots. He leaves his load on the wall, where it begins to drip onto the floor in multiple wet tracks.

I rip out of him, making him yelp. Then I shove the boy onto the bed so that his hips hang over the edge, and push his legs into the air before I shove in again. He loves to be fucked after he shoots; if anything, he’s more open and relaxed after the tension in his dick is dispensed with. The angle at which I’m fucking him makes him tighter than I’ve ever felt before. It feels as if I’m entering in a way that pounds the very root of his dick and keeps him hard even after he’s blown. His jaw drops. He roars. The sound he makes is long and unending and seemingly without breath or pause. It’s the sound of a tornado at full volume, or of a train’s horn as it approaches down the tracks at top speed. He yells. And yells. I’m glad the windows are tightly shut.

Whatever spot I’m hitting does it for him. Although he’s still leaking stray semen from the load he blew onto the wall, he’s hard again. I use his dick as a handle as I continue to pound that internal pleasure button. I’m getting close myself, just listening to his pleasure.

When I shoot, it’s with a mighty grunt. I drive into him and hold it there, silently spasming. He knows me, though. He knows when I’m coming, and holds me in him, his hands clutching at my hips. He wants it deeper, and then deeper still. “Please breed me,” he begs. “Please. I’ve wanted it so much. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Please give it to me.”

The load’s large. I haven’t shot since the last time I saw him. I can feel it oozing out around my meat and dribbling down both his crack and my nuts, shortly after I’ve finished jerking and shaking. He sighs, and whimpers, and sounds for a moment as if he might cry. Then we both negotiate our way onto the mattress and rest there, still connected, dick-to-ass. “Amazing,” he whispers, running his fingertips through my beard. “God, that’s amazing.”

I still say nothing. I pull his fingers onto my lips, however, so that beneath he can feel the smile I’m wearing.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Wednesday Thanks

I've been a little under the weather since the weekend, and spent most of yesterday in bed (not in the good way). From there I didn't really have the energy to get much accomplished, I'm sad to say.

However, today I wanted to thank the kind reader who sent me the gift of underwear. You know who you are. I'll be thinking about you every time I pull these on. Many thanks!