Saturday, December 31, 2011

Under the Wire: Last-Minute Gripes of 2011

I like to start each year on a positive, uplifting note. That’s why I thought I’d devote today, the final day of 2011 to a bunch of minor crabbiness that doesn’t deserve more than an oblique mention. And thus we have

The Breeder’s Last-Minute Online Gripes of 2011

1. Hey, 18-year-old kid. Believe it or not, I have a lot of teens hitting me up. A whole lot. More than any other demographic, in fact. So when I log onto a cruising site like Adam4Adam and a boy like you looks at my profile not once, not twice, but four or five times within a ten-minute period, every time I come online, I’m going to assume there’s some interest there.

So when I sent you a smile after the fourth or fifth night you’ve pinged on my track list, it was only because I wanted to say, Hey there, kiddo. I acknowledge that I have noticed you looking at my profile over and over, and if you’d like to talk to me, I’m breaking the ice here.

You could’ve said, Thanks for the smile dude! or, if you didn’t want to take it any further, you could’ve just said nothing.

It was not necessary, however, to write back with Sorry you are WAY TOO OLD! LOL!!!!

Because honestly? I might be old, but you ain’t that cute, you’re definitely a dumbass, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that had been the only smile you’d gotten in 2011.

2. Look here, top men. I’m the last guy on earth to sneer at a little bit of topman bravado. I admit I indulge in it. I also confess that, due to experience, I also have a tendency to assume I can flip just about any guy advertising himself as a top.

My approach, however, really never has included emailing a guy out of the blue and asking, So when do I get to pump my load in your butt? I’ll give you points for the direct approach, and I have to confess that the novelty of it makes me a little bit weak at the knees, but you’d be much more likely to drop the swagger and ask, Hey, guy, any chance that you ever give up your butt?

Unless you’ve really got something to back up that entitlement, I’m unlikely to be swayed.

3. Dear friend (I thought) of mine. Social media is supposed to be fun. Let me repeat. Social media is supposed to be fun. Not an obligation, not a chore, not something that makes you upset and angry.
So when I say to you, in the middle of a conversation about Facebook, Hey, why are we not friends on Facebook?, you are not obligated to add me as a Facebook friend.

I certainly didn’t ask the question to make you feel badly about not having friended me before, so you don’t need to email me and say, Man, I can’t believe I let you guilt me into adding you as a Facebook friend!

Nor, five minutes later, did you have to post on my Facebook wall, I guess you’ve noticed I added you as a Facebook friend—I can’t believe you managed to make me feel bad enough to do it!

And you certainly didn’t have to post on my blog, in less than an hour after that, I’m still shocked that I let you guilt me into adding you as a Facebook friend!

Because you know, frankly, after that triple-whammy, I’m kind of getting a certain impression of how you feel about adding me on Facebook, and it’s not all warm fuzzies. Am I right?

So god damn, if clicking Add Friend on my profile is too much of a fucking imposition on your time and good will and takes away from your several hundred other Facebook friends you’ve never met but whom you added as friends because they have round faces covered with fur, do me a fucking favor and unfriend me already, would you?

4. Ahoy there, guys on Skype! Nice to have your on my friends list. However, could you guys do me a favor and not badger me to do a cam show for you? It’s okay to message me and ask if I can get on cam. I don’t mind it—the first time. But when I say something polite (and I’m always polite . . . the first time) like, I’m sorry, I can’t cam right now, take me at face value, would you?

I don’t like the follow-ups you guys throw at me, which always run like:

Are you sure?
Not even for a quick minute?
Come on, just turn on the camera.
I just want to see you. Are you sure you can’t cam?
Why not?
I’ll turn on my cam if you turn on yours, okay?

Dude. If I can’t cam, I can’t cam. Wheedling doesn't change my circumstances at home. And if you keep nagging me, I’m not going to cam for you. Not ever, after I block your ass.

5. Gentle readers. I understand that a handful of you experience infatuations with me. I mean, can anyone blame you? I’m awesome.

No, seriously. I know that reading a person’s journal entries is an incredibly intimate thing. I know that some of you, upon discovering my blog, sit down and gulp down dozens of entries at a stretch. Being inside someone’s head for that length of time, and at the intensity level that usually accompanies sex, can sometimes create a connection that seems . . . I don’t know. Confidential. Romantic, even.
Crushes have been formed on a lot less.

You have to keep in mind, though, that while you know a lot about me, or at least about one aspect of my life, I don’t know as much about you. Chances are that you don’t have a sex journal you update on a regular basis, or any kind of journal at all. That’s fine.

Here’s the thing I’ve noticed in the past year, though. When a man catches up on my entries and is past all that information overload and only has a few entries a week to keep up with, that infatuation vanishes pretty quickly. I wish it weren’t true, but over and over again, experience proves that it is.

So yeah, I’ve had guys hot to meet me while they’re plowing through past entries, who, as soon as they’re done, vanish before I’ve had a chance to return the plowing. I’ve had guys write and announce their massive crushes on me at the conclusion of their extensive catch-up, who never reply when I write back and ask to know more about them. It’s a little disconcerting, receiving these little notes of passion and devotion and never getting to a point of actual conversation with a guy.

So be patient. Pace yourselves. The best way to get to know me is certainly through my blog entries. But let me enjoy the process of learning about you, too, before you abandon me for the next big thing. Otherwise, in the wake of your rush by, I’m just the fool standing by the roadside, murmuring “Huh? Whuh?” as you yell out your speeding car’s window at me.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Bless us, every one!

I'd like to wish all my readers who celebrate the holiday, a very Merry Christmas. May the day be filled with the stuff of happy memories.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Courage Edition

It has been brought to my attention that I neglected to include a link to Beardos, Indies, and Baddies last week. Whoops. Sorry, Seph.

I had a conversation this week with an older gentleman—older than I, anyway, as he's in his fifties—on the eve of his first sexual experience with a guy. He'd built his life according to the blueprints he thought was supposed to follow Married young, to a high school sweetheart. Respectable job. Two children. A position in his church. He'd been starving for a man-on-man encounter all his life. Watched gay porn like crazy. Masturbated with dildos.

Finally he'd decided to take the step of meeting up with a total stranger to whom he'd been chatting on the internet, rent a hotel room together, and take care of business. He was writing me to ask questions about how he should prepare, and what to expect.

I know that some of my readers are impatient with this guy already. I understand that. When one lives with a certain degree of honesty, or has taken the risks and suffered the consequences and the fallout, it's easy to brand others as cowards. It's simple to point a finger and insist that others tread the same path you have, or risk your censure.

And as I spoke to this gentleman—I use the word in its most complimentary sense, as he was a true gentleman—I realized how extremely fortunate a life I've had. I've always had a clear view of my sexuality and the determination to do with it what I wanted. I've always set my own metaphorical destinations, and felt free to jump track when I wasn't heading where I wanted.

Talking to someone for whom making his own choice was new made me much more grateful for what I've had, all along. This was a guy who was giddy with happiness because his wife had been away the night before and he was able to experience the novelty of sleeping in the nude. Except for a period in college in which I donned briefs at night to spare my roommates, I've slept in the nude since I was out of diapers. But I went to bed that night appreciating the freedom I've enjoyed all those years, a little more.

For the record, I think anyone making a stand about his or her sexuality and choosing to explore it is a brave individual indeed—no matter what time of life.

Enough of that. I wanted to warn you guys that for the next couple of weeks I'm not going to hold myself to the same schedule as usual. I'm sure there will be entries, but as I am going to be busy with family stuff and the holidays (don't forget you have a week left of Christmas shopping), I'm not going to try to make near-daily entries again until probably after the new year. I won't be abandoning Breeder's Readers altogether, though, don't worry.

Let's get to some questions from

How many sexual partners have you had?

I would be unable to count, at this point.

However, when I go to a mainstream movie and a number (usually it's 30, for some reason) is thrown out to show that the romantic lead has been quite a hardcord Lothario, all I want to do is stroke the poor little Hollywood star's hair, make a pained face, and say in that pitying way that we Southerners have, "Oh, honey."

How many loads have you given or taken in one day?

The most I've taken in a single day was about 17, when I was in my teens. The most I've given was 8.

Do you (or did you at some point) know someone like Edina or Patsy on Absolutely Fabulous? Who is it and what sort of relationship/friendship do you have with them? What aspect of him/her do you relate to Eddy or Pats?

As much as I would like to be a Patsy, I'm afraid I'll always see myself as an Edina. I've known a few Patsys in my life--they didn't resemble her because of the style, or the boozing, or the drugs, but they did seem to be the essence of cool compared to how I perceive my relative oafishness.

Secretly, though, I dread I'm a sweater-wearing Saffie.

Your best fag hag girl says she has a friend who needs to be "broken in" as a bottom or top (the natural opposite of you) and suggests that you would be perfect. When you finally meet him, it turns out to be her 18-year-old nephew. Do you fuck?

Why wouldn't I?

Are you a member of the jihadists for peace movement?

No. Do they serve good refreshments at meetings? That's usually the criterion by which I decide to join groups.

Just to expand on a question posted today: Do you ever fear being outed to your wife? Sounds like friends and colleagues know.

Among the couple of assumptions here is one that I'm closeted. Though I don't intend either to confirm or deny it in this forum, I would say remind you that it is an assumption.

I don't fear being outed. I'm not ashamed of my sexuality.

What would you do if your kids found your blog?

No child is going to stumble over a blog like mine. Not by accident. He'd have to be looking for it.

Sexuality is nothing to be frightened of. Not at any age. I'm not ashamed of the fact that I have a sex life. Anyone who wants to picture me reforming my ways and vowing to sin no more, because of the wide-eyed reproach of a sinless child, has been reading too many fucking cheap Victorian novels--or hasn't moved past that sentimental level of thinking.

I would hope that any child of mine who read my blog would come away with the message that sex is fun, erotic, and meant to be enjoyed, even while it's strange, messy, and sometimes uncomfortable. Most of all, I'd want him to know that it's a part of life that can and should be examined and celebrated.

In other words, the same things I say without the blog.

It's about to hit the fan. Who's at your back? Keel, King, Gale, Smith, King(2), Purdey, or Gambit?

Oh my god. I don't get to take Mrs. Peel? Then it's got to be Purdey. She might be a clotheshorse, but she can karate chop like no one's business.

Friday, December 16, 2011

My Love

His photos seem designed to make me drool. He’s a Puerto Rican guy in his mid-thirties, and in all his clothed shots he’s wearing baggy shorts that cut off in the middle of his thick calves, showing only a few inches of flesh before it’s taken over by black ankle socks and a fuckin’ huge pair of beat-up sneakers. He’s muscular in that natural way that manual laborers can be. In some of the pictures he’s got a beard, or a goatee. In others, it’s a sculpted soul patch, or a landing strip on his chin.

He’s hot, and he’s horny, and he’s available. He’s also less than a mile from where I live. That’s all I need to know. I tell him I’ll meet him in ten minutes.

There’s a buffer zone between my neighborhood and his—a grid of storage warehouses, landscaping companies (including my own landscaper’s company), and other light industrial facilities. My dick’s still hard from the conversation we had online as I dodge flatbeds carrying small bulldozers and pickup trucks loaded with leaf-blowing equipment. Once I cross under the freeway, I’m into the area where he lives, where wooden houses perch precariously on steep hills. It’s not a poor neighborhood by any means, but it’s by no means as ritzy and pretentious as the one that’s temporarily adopted me. In fact, I always think of it as the Taco Truck Neighborhood, since only two blocks to the north sits a noisy white truck that dispenses in equal enormous quantities both gas fumes and delicious cheap lunches on foam plates.

He meets me at the door of the apartment building, set back from the street. He’s as sexy as his photos, and wearing a floppy pair of sweatpants, a tank top. His bare feet slap on the linoleum as he leads me to the elevator. He’s staying with his sister and her two nieces, he explains as we ride up, but they’re out for the afternoon and he has the place to himself. “Damn, pa,” he says, when he looks me up and down after the elevator door closes. “You so tall.”

All the younger latin guys around here call me pa. I’ve learned to like it. His eyes devour me in the elevator, but we don’t touch. There’s a camera prominently displayed above head level. “Come on, pa,” he whispers, when the elevator doors open onto a hallways that’s pungent with the scent of cumin and sweet onions. “I got things I want to do to you.”

He’s sexy, this one. When he walks down the hall to his sister’s apartment, his butt cheeks twitch up and down with every step. His hair is tousled, as if he’s just gotten out of bed. He strides down the hall as if he’s unobserved, unaccompanied, even pausing to scratch his beautiful round butt as he unlocks the door. Once it’s shut, though, he’s all over me. He’s standing on tiptoes to thrust his mouth against mine. It tastes of coffee and mint candy. “Oh baby,” he moans. “I want you so bad.” His dick is tenting the fabric of his sweats.

I shuck myself out of my leather jacket. It falls to the floor with the thump. “I want you,” I murmur back. I’ve got his face between my hands. His beard rasps against my palms. It’s cropped close, and is mostly dark, but there are a few gray hairs already popping up on that sexy face.

He says something to me in rapid-fire Spanish that I don’t comprehend, but I get his meaning when he tugs at my hand and pulls me in the direction of the bedroom. The moment that door is shut and locked—against the possible intrusion of the sister and the nieces, I’m guessing—he’s stripping off his clothes.

Off come the sweats, and out pops his little dick. It’s tiny, and narrow; even erect, it can’t measure any longer than four and a half inches. It’s a hot little pinga, though, and a good inch of overhanging foreskin droops from the tip. His tank top flies in the air, and he’s down to skin that’s the color of caramel sauce. “You like what you see, baby?” he wants to know. His stubby fingers are plucking his nipples.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I tell him. I kick off my sneakers and shimmy out of my sweatshirt. “I love your muscles.”

The compliment makes him shy. “I don’t work out or nothing. It’s just from my job, baby.” He tells me the name of the local furniture store where he works as a mover in the warehouse. He’s running the flats of his palms over his biceps and forearms the entire time. I’ve got my pants off now, and he’s staring at my dick. “Now that’s what’s beautiful, pa,” he breathes.

He’s on his knees, mouth on my dick, pushing me back onto his mattress. The bed is covered with pillows and there’s a half-consumed Pop Tart on a paper plate at the far edge. It’s clean, though, and still carries a scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener. He’s actually using suction on my dick, inhaling as hard as possible as if he’s trying to nurse it. It feels good, though. I hold his head as he makes me feel better and better.

For a long time we alternate between his sucking and him mounting me. He rubs his little dick against mine as we make out. He grunts and groans as we connect and hump. He’s so frantic and desperate that he can’t decide what he wants—my dick down his mouth, his mouth on mine, or my cock up his ass. Sometimes he’ll straddle me and rub my shaft across his hairy crack. When I reach around behind him to grab those meaty cheeks, his eyes roll up and back into his head, and his neck drops back, as if I’ve slid out a toy spine.

I roll him over, and climb on top of him. Now it’s my turn to hump him. My dick’s prodding at his hole, bluntly stabbing at his butt as I make out with him. His own dick is dripping heavily with precum that glistens on my chest, where his foreskin paints it. “Oh, my love,” he says. The words startle me. They sound like dialogue from a telenovella, but he’s just responding to the heat of the moment. “I want you inside me, lover,” he says, in his accented English. “I want your big dick inside me, pa.”

I flip him over. When I spit on my hand, my middle and index fingers slide right in. I add more saliva to my dick, kneel on the mattress, and position myself behind him.

His hands clutch at the mattress and come up with fistfuls of sheet when I start pushing in. “Aieeee!” he moans, as if he’s in pain. “So big!” But then I’m not pushing at all. I’m just holding still while he impales himself with it. He doesn’t seem to care about the pain. He just wants it inside him, desperately. There’s a moment when he reaches the base of the shaft that he seems to think he’s taken too much at once; he tenses, and goes silent, his mouth open and his lips still pursed. Then he pants, and breathes deeply, and begins gyrating his hips.

He feels good. He feels great, in fact. He’s reaching over his head, blindly trying to grasp the back of my head to pull my lips down to his. I make out with him over his shoulder. He awkwardly tries to drive his tongue into my mouth as I begin pistoning in and out of his ass. “Ohhh,” he moans, over and over again. Then he bites his lower lip and shakes his head. He’s really getting into it now. Our rhythm locks. He’s thrusting back while I’m thrusting forward, and his hole is slipping around my meat like a tight-fitting glove.

When I pull him to his knees and begin fucking more vigorously, he starts swearing in Spanish again. His eyes open for the first time since I’ve entered him, and he stares at me over his shoulder with something in his eyes I can’t quite identify. There’s respect, certainly—respect for the meat that’s pummeling him from behind. There’s challenge, as if he wants me to push him further. But mostly I see animal lust.

Maybe he sees the same thing from me, because when our eyes lock, the temperature we’re generating seems to rise exponentially. I throw my dick all the way in, in one swift push that makes him wince. Then he’s looking straight at me again, nodding, telling me without words how much he fucking loves it.

His legs are spread wide. He’s pulling wide his ass cheeks, trying to admit as much of me as he can. He wants it all. Every millimeter. When he gets it, he still wants more. He slams down on it as if he’s trying to keep it for himself, as if he expects to walk away with it touching the deepest places inside him. Then I start to come. He’s listened to my breathing and knows when it’s arriving. “I want your babies,” he says.
His hand flies back and he twists around, trying to kiss me while I shoot. At the same time, he arches his back and sits back on my dick as it throbs and squirts into him. He’s shuddering himself. It takes me a while before the haze before my eyes clears, and I realize he’s shot his own load onto the mattress. His foreskin is dripping with sperm. There’s a trail of it across the bed, up to the pillow, where he’s shot.

And yet he hasn’t touched himself. He’s been on his hands and knees the entire time.

My dick slops out of him noisily when we untie from each other. “No, no, no,” he says. He’s been aggressive since the door shut, but now he’s soft and tender. With gentle hands he pushes me down onto the mattress, helping me avoid the spots he’s covered with his load. “I will be right back, my lover.”

The apartment’s overheated, I realize. I’m sweating up a storm. Through the open door I hear sounds of running water from the bathroom, and then he’s back with a washcloth. It’s discolored, but wet and warm, and he’s down between my legs, softly wiping off my dick. He runs the rough cloth under my balls, down my thighs, on the soles of my feet. Then he kisses the tip of my cock, still semi-hard, still dripping sperm.

“I love your cock, pa,” he says. “It makes me feel amazing. My love.”

When he calls me by that phrase again, I feel my dick stir.

He notices it. “My love,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my thigh. “My love,” he says, when I begin to harden again. Then, he’s covering my meat with kisses, whispering, “My love, my love. My love.”

And that that moment, right before we begin again, they’re the sweetest two words in the world.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Good Buddies

He’s showing me a video on his iPhone. It’s tough to tell what’s going on. It’s as if he’s walking with the video recording. I catch glimpses of a carpet, of a frilly bed skirt, of a lamp on a bedside table. The sudden light causes the screen to flare and bleach, before it adjusts again. Then I can see a pair of feminine legs, lying on pretty floral sheets.

Then there’s a dick, red and engorged. It’s one of those fat, almost flat dicks, wider than it is thick. The head is enormous. As the camera focuses, I can see it flare. I wince, and pull my expression into one of disturbed disgust. “Why are you showing me cock?” I ask.

The Landscaper is watching my expression intently, I notice. We’re in the front seat of his van, parked in the usual lot of the local strip mall. From the Starbucks he’s brought two cardboard cups of coffee, one black and one what he calls ‘regular,’ which means with cream and sugar. (“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of each,” he told me, proffering both, like a shy boy with an apple for the teacher.) I’ve got the regular between my legs, warming my thighs. The roll of bills he’s given me makes a lump in my jeans pocket, to the right. My dick is bulging to the left.

“It’s mine,” he says, unnecessarily. I look away from the screen to his groin. His faded designer jeans are tight in the crotch. He’s managed to sidle over the gap in the seats and insinuate himself close to me. His shoulder’s only a hair away from my own, but we’re not touching.

I curl my lip. The Landscaper likes thinking I’m the straightest of straight men, the married guy he’s managed to talk into showing off his dick for cash when we meet. “So why are you showing me your cock?” I ask, like he’s some kind of sick bastard.

He gets off on my tone. “Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see something you like better.”

I can feel his breath on my cheek as he watches me watching. I get the impression he’s actually trying to smell me. I hold my attention on the jittering screen in front of me. Through the little speakers pressing against his palm I hear voices, his own and a woman’s. I’m assuming his wife’s. I can’t tell what they’re saying, though. The woman’s legs appear again. Then I see the Landscaper’s big, meaty hands lifting up the hem of some kind of oversized T-shirt or night shirt. Her hands swat him away for a minute, but then he’s thrusting two of his fingers in her slit, none too gently.

“You like her pussy?” he asks, over her mild and somewhat amused protests. “Sweet one, huh?”

I have to clear my throat. “Yeah,” I murmur. On the phone, he’s moving the camera back and forth between his own dick, which is throbbing and pulsing, to his wife’s pussy.

His shoulder touches mine. I can feel him freeze. He desperately wants to be there, touching me, and he’s hoping I don’t notice. It’s an intimacy I shouldn’t allow. A real straight guy would pull back from it. I pretend to be too absorbed in the video to care much. He’s using his left hand to pull apart her pussy lips, to show her off to me. She’s laughing and trying to swat him away, the entire time. “You like that, huh? I did it for you, buddy. I figured you’d want to see her.” I grunt, deeply, sexually. I’m turned on that he made this video with me in mind. “You should see her when she shaves,” he says. “Like a fucking teen. You want me to make her shave? I’ll tell her to do it. Make another video. For you, dude. I’ll do it for you.”

I’m not one of those guys who really gives a crap whether a few square inches of skin are shaved or not. But I’m turned on at the idea of him shaving his wife at my say-so. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I want her shaved.”

“Dude, I’ll do it!” he says, thrilled beyond measure that we’re conspiring together. “Fuck, I’ll do it tonight.” His dick appears again at the bottom of the screen. He’s having issues getting both it and his wife’s pussy in the camera at the same time. In a moment, the camera tilts, confusing the view. Then it shuts off. He pockets the camera. “You turned on?” he asks. I nod. “Maybe you should get in the back and let me take care of that for you,” he whispers.

“What do you mean, take care of it,” I ask, wary.

He licks his lips unconsciously. “I’ll suck it.” He’s aware instantly he’s asked too much. I’m opening my mouth to warn him I don’t do that fag shit, when he overrides me. “Let me stroke it off for you, buddy. Just two guys. Kids do it for each other. Nothing wrong with it.”

I puff my cheeks and blow out air. He’s overstepped the line, and he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how much I enjoy putting him through the wringer, every time he tries to inch his way a little further into full-on man sex. I get off on knowing he wants it so desperately, that he wants me. Obsesses about me. Makes videos for me. I could just feed him my dick and get it over with, but I like prolonging his agony. I’m a cruel bastard that way.

I’m really considering how far I’ll let him go this time, but he seems to think I might just step out of the truck. “Sorry, sorry man,” he says. “I know you’re not gay. I’m not either, honest. Just something about you, you know. Makes me get a little crazy.” In a husky voice, he asks, very politely, “Please let me taste it.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. I look toward the back of the van, where we’ve played before. I shake my head.
“Let me lick your nuts,” he pleads. “You’ve let me do that before. You liked that, right?” I shrug, like I’m trying not to remember it happening, or like I was just doing him a favor and it hadn’t really done a thing for me. “Get in the back,” he suggests. “Just get in the back and let me watch you. Okay buddy?”

There’s such a note of yearning in his voice that I’m aroused even more than before. It hurts, that need. I can tell by the catch in his tone, the raspy grating at the back of his throat. His breathing is heavy. He wants me badly. Without a word, I climb into the back of the van and take off my leather jacket. He’s ramped up the heat over the last few minutes. The floor is cold when I settle on it, though.

He follows and takes his place between my sneakers. He pulls down my jeans. We wrestle for a moment with exactly how far I’ll let them descend. He wants them above my knees; I want to keep them just below the nuts. I let him win. He’s a handsome man, this married daddy, this well-off professional, this boss of a dozens. He’s an eye-catcher, a prize. And he looks fucking ridiculous, prone on the floor of his work van, thrall to my erection. He rests the side of his head on my leg above the knee, gazing at my hard dick like he’s in love with it. I allow it.

“Let me suck it,” he pleads. I make a show of thinking about it, like I’m a straight guy who could use a mouth, any mouth, even a dude’s mouth, no matter how dirty I’d feel afterward. I give it a moment before I curl my lip and shake my head. “Let me lick those nuts then,” he begs. “Please. Please.”

I wait another moment while I stroke. I seem totally absorbed in my own meat. My fist grips it tightly, making the head red and shiny. Precum starts oozing out. After a while, I grudgingly nod.

Then he’s up there, right between my legs. His breath is hot on my sac for a moment, and then I feel the warmth of his tongue, the pressure of his chin. His eyes stare up at my meat, then into my eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, as if he’s half-asleep, or having the best dream in the world.

His hands hold my thighs as I jerk. They’re strong, and the grip is relentless. From time to him his mouth starts to travel up; his tongue licks out at the base of my shaft, as he tries to get a taste. I let my face wrinkle with disgust whenever he does, and then get him back on my nuts by adjusting the angle of my hips. I don’t touch his head. Touching is something he does, not me.

“You want her pussy, don’t you?” he asks after a while. “You want that shaved pussy?”

“You want to see me fuck her?” I grunt. My own eyes are shut now. I’m getting closer, and he can tell.

“I want to see you bang the shit out of that bitch!” He’s turned on at my excitement. It’s okay for a straight guy to shoot at the thought of fucking a buddy’s wife. Normal, even. “You wouldn’t tell her our arrangement, would you?”

I’m assuming he means the money, or maybe the nut-licking, or perhaps both. “Fuck no!” I spit, as if I’d never tell anyone about that perverted shit.

“Fuck her,” he says, urging me on. “Fuck that cunt! Would you watch a movie of me fucking her if I take it?”

I’m real close now. My fist pounds over my shaft rapidly. “Yeah,” I grunt.

I’m shooting. It’s a thick load that slides out of my slit like lava from a volcano, just as hot, burning a trail down the back of my knuckles. He’s mesmerized at the sight. My dick lets loose glob after glob as he watches. For a minute I think he wants to lick it off my hand, but he’s not got the courage to ask.

Instead, he pulls a canister of baby wipes from a bag lying against the van’s wall. Softly, almost tenderly, he swaps away the goo. In a couple of moments my hand is clean and smelling of shea butter. “You are so fucking hot,” he whispers with reverence. Then, with a note of longing, he asks, “Do you like my lips on there?”

It’s time to throw him a bone. The pup’s worked hard enough for it. “Yeah,” I say in my normal voice. “Yeah. It’s not too bad.”

The light that shines from his face is worth all the acting I’ve had to do. He’s so fucking happy at the back-handed praise. The pride is palpable. I can still feel it emanating from the van as I gather my jacket and get back into my own car.

I’m pulling into my own parking space at home when I get his text a few minutes later. think we got a good thing going here, right buddy? It says.

Yeah, I text back. It’s cool to have a good buddy like you.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Lost Boys

(This entry is a continuation of the Earl soap opera about my relationship with an older man in my teens, and of the complications caused by a peer named Topher. It's a direct sequel to Earl's Discovery, from a couple of weeks ago. I'm afraid there's little actual sex in this one, guys. Thanks for bearing with me.)

I’d done a lot for Earl, from the time I’d met him at fourteen through my senior year of high school. I’d worked his parties without question. I’d let him truss me up in his sling, restrained and blindfolded, as he introduced me to the world of sensory deprivation and overload. I’d perfected the art of lying to my parents for his sake. I’d endured the scratchings and pawings of any big-dicked beast he chose for me, had learned to fuck pussy, just so I could see the light of approval in his eyes. I’d been his lover and his confidante in ways that his boyfriend Jim no longer was.

For Earl, I was truly submissive, in the word’s purest sense. I did whatever he asked, for his pleasure. I came to his house when he told me to. I fabricated excuses to my family on those periodic occasions he wanted me to stay over. I didn’t balk at any of the outrageous situations he threw my way. He didn’t have to request compliance— everything he wanted, I did, with no questions asked. I didn’t need to ask questions, or know the whys and the wherefores. I trusted him to watch over me, and knew that the things he made me do were not only for his pleasure, but for my own education.

I was his partner. We worked together as a duo, satisfying each other and the whims of other men, no matter what they were. We were a sexual tag-team, expertly sliding our palms against the other’s and passing off control of the erotic arena to the other, until we’d knocked out the men with whom we were engaged. I loved every moment of it.

Until the afternoon Earl discovered he’d been robbed, that is. When he told me I would be going over to Topher’s house and finding out what was going on with him, I agreed out of instinct. But as I pedaled my bike to the Northside neighborhood where Earl’s other boy lived, I found myself growing more and more resentful. And for perhaps the first time ever, I started to wonder why I was involving myself in the middle of this mess. Worse, I started to wonder if Earl was worth hanging around any longer.

It was true that Earl couldn’t very well head over to Topher’s house, introduce himself to his parents as one of the kid’s fuck buddies, and ask if he could talk to Topher about his missing watches, cash, and other valuables. Admittedly, intergenerational sex wasn’t as stigmatized thirty years ago as it is now, believe it or not; even a few years later, in the mid-nineteen-eighties my college ex-boyfriend (aged twenty-five) dated a high school boy (aged fifteen) with the kid’s parents’ grudging consent. Today he’d be so demonized that they’d attempt to castrate him on sight.

Topher and I were both sixteen at this point, and thanks to skipping a year, I was starting my final year of high school. What would’ve given us some ‘splaining to do to our parents would’ve been the gay thing, not so much the fact that Earl was so much older than ourselves.

What I resented, though, was that this mess had nothing to do with me. Topher wasn’t my stray; he wasn’t my little fuckbuddy. I wasn’t the one who’d grown tired of him, but kept having him over to my house as a playmate for my loser of a lover. That honor belonged to Earl, who always made his contempt for Jim plain, but indulged him by giving him just enough cash to maintain a constant buzz and a stoned little fuck toy of his own. I was the good boy. The boy who didn’t cause a commotion. The boy who did as he was told. The boy who attracted attention in the bedroom, and deflected it everywhere else.

It didn’t really take Encyclopedia Brown to put together the pieces in front of me. I hadn’t told Earl about my previous encounter with Topher outside the skating rink. It was obvious that Topher had decided to do something, whether get out of town, or end his relationship with Earl in the most dramatic and trouble-causing way possible. And it was very obvious to me that Jim had helped him do it. He’d pointed out to Topher exactly the most valuable objects in the house to take. He’d clued him in to the location of the ready cash they kept. And just to twist the knife, he’d gotten Topher to ransack Earl’s watches, his most prized collection. Those watches would have been a real stab to the heart to lose.

It had been obvious to Earl, too. So I thought. Hadn’t he said, Funny how he knew where everything of value was? Surely he’d figured it out.

The whole thing weighed very heavily on me as I biked through the quiet streets of Richmond. Topher didn’t live very far from Earl, but I made the ride last as long as possible. Earl wanted me to convey the message that he wasn’t angry, but that he wanted his stuff back. I knew enough about being the bearer of bad tidings to know that no matter how I phrased it, Topher wasn’t going to like what I was planning to say. He’d blame not himself, or Jim for egging him on, or even Earl for sending me, but would level his guns against the messenger. I just knew it.

Confrontation has never been easy for me. I keep it calm, I keep it on point. But my stomach gets in knots now at the thought of it. Back then, it felt like I’d swallowed a colony of live snakes. I turned down the treeless little avenue on which Topher lived. The houses there were smaller. The exteriors weren’t brick and stone, like my neighborhood, or even wood and shingles like the little Bellevue homes where Earl lived. Here they were covered with cheap aluminum siding, already pitted with small holes and discolorations. The front lawns were a bit scrubby and infested with chickweed. The sidewalks were uneven and cracked. The neighborhood hadn’t yet slipped into the complete shabbiness and disrepair it reached a good decade later, but it was on that slow slide down, even back then.

Then I had one of the best strokes of luck in my then-short life. Outside of Topher’s home was parked a police car. I squeezed my brakes and shuddered to a stop. I had no intentions of going further.
I’d had an unfortunate encounter with the police two summers before that left me with an aversion to uniformed officers. I knew immediately that with that squad car parked outside, I wouldn’t be waltzing up to the front door and asking if Topher could come out to play. Astride my bike I sat at the corner, by the stop sign, wondering exactly what was going on, and what I should do.

I hadn’t been there for more than a minute when a woman came scurrying out of the corner house. She wore a floral housecoat and a pair of once-fuzzy slippers worn to a nub. Excitedly, she asked me if I was a friend of the missing kid. That told me everything I needed to know, basically, but I was wary enough of being drawn into the mess that I pretended I knew nothing about it. Some people enjoy playing the role of informant; this desperate housewife was one of them. She babbled on for a minute or two about how her neighbor’s kid had run away from home the day before, and how the family had been forced to wait twenty-four hours before being able to report it, and bunch of other stuff about Topher’s family and how the kids had all turned out to be disappointments, and now the youngest was gone, and wasn’t it a shame?

I don’t remember the half of it now, and didn’t really absorb much of it at the time, to be honest. I just knew that I’d had a close call, and had been spared the discomfort by a hair. That was enough for me. I abruptly got back onto my bike and sped back to Earl’s place. I’d felt disloyal to him on that slow drive over. Remembering it made me feel guilty. If I returned with this information, I reasoned, he’d forgive me without ever having to know that for a little while, I’d thought badly of him.

Earl’s back door was locked when I returned. I walked around to the front of his house and tried that door, but it was also locked. I returned to the kitchen and rang the doorbell there. From inside the house, I heard shouting. It continued for far longer than was really comfortable. Even with the windows shut I could hear the resonance of the two male voices raised in anger.

When Earl finally answered the door, he didn’t let me in. He stood there with his hand on the screen handle, keeping it closed. “What?” he asked, brusquely.

I told him what the woman had told me on Topher’s street, and told him about the cop car. If I’d been expecting to be thanked for doing his dirty work, I was to go unrewarded. “Figures,” is all he said. Then, “That’s all I needed to know. Go home.”

He didn’t want me there. He was pissed. I’d never been on the short side of Earl’s temper. I didn’t like being there now. Again, I was the good boy here, the messenger. His curtness was a slap in the face.
“That’s right,” I heard Jim say, from the recesses of the kitchen. “Send your boy home now, so he can’t see what you’ve done.”

Earl sounded deeply annoyed. “Jim,” he said, with warning.

But Jim was in a mood, and wouldn’t be denied. He came up behind Earl, who continued to block the door. Jim was smaller, and slighter, and though he tried to look around his partner, it was obvious Earl would rather he didn’t speak or be seen at all. “Show him what you did to me!” he shrilled. “Show him this!” He was pressing something to his left cheekbone—an ice pack, or compress or some sort. I couldn’t see what this he meant, but the intent of his words was pretty obvious. “This is what your boyfriend does when he’s tired of someone!”

“Shut the fuck up, Jim,” Earl growled. Then to me, he said, “Go home.”

“He’ll get tired of you too. Wait until you get too old for him. See how nice he treats you then.

Earl closed the kitchen door to a crack. “Go home,” he said through it. He looked deep into my eyes. “And don’t come back for a few days. I’ll call you.”

Then he shut the door in my face. I heard the lock turn.

When he did that, deep inside me, some tiny door shut with it, for good.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: In and Out Edition

Just a quickie this morning, my friends. I've got a busy week up ahead.

I wanted to mention that one of my buddies and frequent commenters, our very own Seph, has started his own Tumblr blog. If you're a fan of scruffy guys, bearded guys, or guys with tattoos, you'll probably enjoy the parade of men he assembles there. So check out Beardos, Indies, & Baddies, and give him a bit of support.

My only complaint about the blog is that it should've really been titled The Big Blog of Men The Breeder Wants to Fuck (And Maybe One He Already Has). That'd be more accurate.

Let's get to some questions from, where you can discreetly and anonymously ask me questions about my life. Some of the questions I've gotten from you guys this week were great—keep them coming!

Have you ever had cum up your ass?

Oh yes.

If you were still working in academia, would you include face pics in any of your online profiles? Would the site make a difference? Would it make a difference if you worked a staff (e.g. administrative or support) or faculty type position?

If I were working at an institution like a Catholic university, I probably would not.

If I were still working at a public university or a liberal private institution, sure. Why not? I had my face pics up during my teaching and administrative days. Let me tell you, if having a profile on a sex site were today declared a crime in academia, there'd be a hell of a lot of students arriving to empty classrooms tomorrow morning.

Would you rather never use the internet again or never watch TV again?

Hey, I could give up my TV and still watch all my favorite shows off the internet. So I'd go that route.

Have you ever had an orgy of 4 or more guys?

The biggest organized orgy I've been in had about three dozen guys in a hotel room.

What was or is you favorite Crayon Color?

I was always fond of Olive Green and Copper.

Hated Mahogany and especially white. I never understood the white crayon,

when dating, at a bar, online, at the baths, or otherwise on the prowl - are you the hunter or the hunted?

I choose my prey, but I don't chase it. It comes to me.

If you receive a call by someone who isn't aware of calling you because he or she paced that call mistakenly: Do you discreetly hang up or do you continue to listen in?

If you mean do I hang up when someone has dialed me on his mobile phone with his butt cheek . . . I hang up after saying the guy's name a few times. Especially if I hear a car motor and him singing along to some random song on the radio.

Once in college I was summoned to the shared hall telephone in my dormitory by one of the other residents. I started talking to the person on the phone and had a difficult time identifying the speaker, but I didn't ask who it might be because I was waking up and confused and embarrassed to admit I didn't know. However, after about two minutes of casual chit-chat that suddenly turned to topics about which I knew nothing, I suddenly realized that the reason I couldn't place the person is because I didn't KNOW him. The person who'd summoned me to the phone must have misheard my name, or mistaken me for someone else.

Of course, by that point saying, "Hey, I'm sorry, I think you've got the wrong number" would've been really mortifying for us both, so I continued the conversation with vague responses and finally a plea that I needed to get to dinner.

That was the very last time I answered a phone without making very certain I knew who was on the other end.

I am in a curious mood today. As usual actually :) Do you ever ask others a question (on Formspring)? If yes, what was your most intrusive question (one you considered the most intrusive)? If no, why?

I used to ask quite a lot of questions of other people on Formspring, but I had a couple of people who would ask for questions and after I'd obliged, would ask for even more questions with a proviso such as, "Make sure they aren't stupid."

After a couple of times of that, you can imagine I was a little burned out by it.

The one question I used to ask that would get people into a tizzy would be, "What is the one question you hope that someone asks you here?" or, more tellingly, "What is the one question you hope that no one asks you here?"

And no, you don't get to ask it of me.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Open Forum Friday: Da Bears

I’ve gotten to the point whenever I start working on one of my open forum pieces that I start off by saying that I don’t like massive generalizations . . . and then I apologize for making one. I’m not even going to go through that pretense this time. I’ll just come out and say what’s on my mind. I like the bears. The bears, however, don’t seem to like me.

We all know what I’m talking about when I talk about bears, right? In the gay world, it refers to men of a certain size (large) and hirsuteness (furry, especially on the face). I’m not ashamed to say that as a broad type, I like me some bear. I like big guys. I like the feeling of all that weight on top of me. I like them round and cuddly. I like them furry and bearded. I know there are a lot of prissy queens out there who see a bear with a size forty waist who will roll their eyes and shudder dramatically. Screw them. I look at men like that and my mind very well may wander in the direction of what I’d have to do to get their pants down around their ankles.

(As a point of clarification, my mind’s usually heading off in that direction sooner or later, anyway.)

Now, before some of my readers pout in pique, I’d like to point out that bears aren’t the only men I like. Far from it. I like the skinny twinks, too, and the little Latin boys who call me ‘pa,’ and the sexy older gentlemen who call me ‘son.’ I like the average guys, and the preppies, and every other type you can think of, chances are. But I’ve always had a special fondness for bears—and it’s long been unrequited.

My understanding, from every bear site and every bear I’ve ever known, is that the bears like to think of themselves as open-minded individuals who have rejected the typical standards of gay beauty. That is, they see the most typical object of gay desire as a smooth, shaved, gym-sculpted twenty-three-year-old with perfect hair, like some figure of fantasy from an early nineteen-nineties Falcon video. Therefore the bears tend to shun shaving and the gym (unless they’re striving to be classified in the sub-category of muscle bears), or diets, or clothes fancier than the regular old shirts and 501s hanging from a nail in their closets.

They’re just being who they are, they say. They’re bucking the conformist gay stereotype. Except—and this is admittedly where I get into trouble with most of the bears I know—that they’re all so determined to have the same close-cropped haircuts or shaved heads, the same beards, the same bellies, the same wardrobe of flannel, and the same externally gruff appearance, that they look even more clone-like than the gay archetype they’ve rejected. And in my experience, woe betide the interested guy who doesn’t look exactly like them.

I’m not a bear. I’m too long and way too lean. I’ve had a beard for years now, but it’s cropped short and my hair’s long. If there were a gay subgroup called 'Homeless Chic' or ‘Vagrants Nouveau’ or ‘Scooby’s buddy Shaggy Lookalikes,’ I’d totally be on the A-list of those, but when it comes to the bears, I’m practically invisible. At the bars, where groups of chubby guys with beards congregate in groups and talk to each other while they stab at their smartphones with their thumbs with machine-gun rapidity, I’ll introduce myself and try to engage in some light conversation with the bears and find myself gradually shut out of their circle quite literally as they close ranks and flannel-shirted shoulders and leave me standing on the outside. I’ve been to bear events where despite my best efforts to be friendly, I’ll find myself sitting alone and ignored, because I don’t fit the standard body and hair specification.

It’s not as if I walk into a group of bears with the attitude of Here I am, furry men! The skinniest among you, your manna from heaven! Fight for the scraps, boys! Not in the least. Nor am I the kind of guy who sits and waits on the sidelines, not approaching anyone, then getting miffy about how stuck-up everyone is after an evening of being unapproachable. I get in there and meet people. But you know, you’d think that if I can make friends in a public situation with everyone from muscle-boy porn stars, young students, and funny old men who just want someone to listen to them, that it wouldn’t be that difficult to have a conversation with the bears. Despite all their talk about their heightened tolerance for men outside the gay stereotype, though, my experience is often that if you aren’t of a certain rotundity and don’t have a minimum amount of fur on your face, you might as well be invisible.

Even online I run into difficulties. The biggest bear social website rejected my profile a few years back because I wasn't 'bear enough.' I was on another, but more or less dropped it because people kept asking me, Why are you here?

Here’s the part where I apologize: not all bears are exclusionist, of course. I’ve had sex and relationships with many bear-type men who have been happy to bounce around on top of me, and who appreciate the attention I pay them. I’ve had bear friends who’ve included me in their circles and never mentioned a word about how different I looked physically from the rest of them.

On the other hand, I’ve also had bear friends who have rubbed me on the stomach and told me I’d be a lot cuter if I gained fifty pounds (which is oddly reminiscent, and just as condescending, as the men who used to tell me when I was heavier that I’d be almost cute if I lost some weight). And I’ve been in group situations in which guys made plans to go to bear events with each other to which the only person not invited was me.

I’ve always suspected—and a couple of guys have told me—that sometimes some bears will stick together in packs and not look outside them because they’re so used to rejection from the non-bears. I can understand that. Makes total sense. Except when, that is, the chasers (I dislike the word, but it’s a means to an end) are being ignored and even a little bit ostracized from the bear groups.

When that happens, I also suspect that the same kind of peer pressure comes into play that a lot of men experience when they start to date or fuck outside their own demographic. Young guys who are into older men frequently tell me that upon confessing their attractions, or showing them in public, their peers will make icky-poo-poo faces, or chastise them for not having so-called standards. I can believe that in bear packs, the same kind of pressure keeps some of the men from showing any preference for, or attraction to, the non-bears.

I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.

I’m opening up the comments today to get some feedback from other readers with their experiences not only with bears, but with all kinds of sub-groups of gay men. I’d kind of prefer that we keep our comments away from simplistic I like bears too! or Bears, yuck!, since I don’t want to have to moderate a bunch of comments bashing a group with which I personally enjoy hanging.

However, I would like you guys to discuss this issue: do other subgroups of gay men—whether bears, or young hipsters, or leather men, or whatever packs in which you roam or have observed in the wild—close ranks against outsiders? What do you think causes the divisions? And where, if anyplace, have you seen those artificial distinctions between physical types break down and become irrelevant?

Will we ever move to a ‘post-bear’ kind of world, where the big and the skinny mingle? Or are the groups originally formed to expand stereotypes and expectations now as hidebound as the groups they rejected?
Have at it, friends. I’m interested in your responses. And bears, remember: I love you guys! (Call me!)

Thursday, December 8, 2011


Yesterday was my 500th post, here. I've decided what I'd like to do, in order to celebrate. It won't be a contest, or a video, or me flying to a reader's house for a special in-person appearance (though if you've got the dough and want to make that happen, I'm all ears!).

I've decided I want to record myself reading one of my entries and to post it here. You guys get to pick which one.

If you've got a favorite entry that you'd like to hear read aloud by the author, post its name or the general gist of it (Do that one where that guys shampooed you while you blew him! That was hot!) in the comments here—or, for the many of you who are comment-shy or comment-averse, send me a quick email and let me know which essay would be your choice.

I'm not going to base my selection on a random drawing, or on reader favoritism. I'll just pick the entry that seems to have the most potential. The reader who suggested the one I pick will get some special thanks.

Nothing fancy. Nothing elaborate. And then we'll all keep moving along.

I'll take suggestions until next Friday. Thanks, guys.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

The Top's Lounge

I’ve joked before about the Top’s Lounge, that mythical place bottoms seem to imagine top men retreat between those times they magically appear on demand in the bottom’s bedroom. It’s always seemed to me, in a joking kind of way, as if many men honestly believe that top guys have some kind of club in which we kick back with our boots on the coffee table, smoke cigars, and dish (in a manly way) about the local holes—comparing notes, making recommendations, telling each other from whom to stay away, and making play dates for sharing our favorites.

It’s not true. There aren’t any cigars.

As for the rest . . . well, there isn’t an actual place called the Top's Lounge. It’s not a physical space, or a room in someone’s home appointed in mid-century decor. But when guys network, the tops among them notice each other. Sometimes they make friendships. They swap tips. If a bottom is pretty exceptional, or if he satisfies some whim of another guy, we tell each other. If I have a buddy who’s into redheads, and I fuck a redhead like my boy Scruffy, I might very well point out to my buddy with the redhead fetish Scruffy’s profile on Manhunt and tell him he should get in touch. If a guy isn’t for me but I know someone whose type he’d surely be, I’ll connect the two.

Not every top guy does this. The decent ones do, from time to time, if they have a good network of buddies and a spirit of sharing.

When I lived in Michigan I had a few guys with whom I’d exchange names and information. One of them was a fellow I’ve referred to before as Daddy Tim. Tim and I got to know each other in 1999, when we started chatting online regularly. We met within a couple of months, played with each other, and then started sharing Top’s Lounge information with the other. I took Daddy Tim to the home gloryhole of a young gay couple on his side of town, where several times we’d meet in the parking lot outside their condo, then enter the front door and stick our dicks through the hole they’d carved at the back of their coat closet, into the kitchen wall. Both their unseen mouths would suck on our dicks while the two of us egged each other on to shoot our loads down their throats.

Daddy Tim, in turn, invited me to a party where I met one of his college boy fucks, a pothead acting student who didn’t understand a line of the Shakespeare he could memorize by the yard, but who sure like to blaze up out behind the garage, then come into the house and straddle and ride each of us in turn, for long hours. Then I introduced him to the black college student who’d do anything for a white guy over fifty (that would’ve been Tim—not me). He arranged for me to be at his place to fuck a married bodybuilder who wanted loads for his birthday; I gave him the phone number for the Mexican businessman I used to fuck in my university office and in every university restroom and local casino restroom available.

It was an amicable arrangement for many years, kept afloat by a couple of simple principles: our rate of exchange was pretty even, and we didn’t poach each other’s property. It’s probably the latter of the two things that’s most important. The guys to whom I introduced Tim were mine—the Mexican kid, the kid into race place, the gloryhole boys. The bodybuilder and the would-be actor and the others we shared over the years were his. If he felt especially protective of one, like the bodybuilder for example, I wouldn’t go after him in my spare time. I’d join Daddy Tim when he invited me, but I didn’t ask for the bodybuilder’s phone number or email, or sneak around behind Daddy Tim’s back to fuck the bodybuilder on the side. If I’d shared someone special with Daddy Tim, like Spencer or Scruffy, Tim wouldn’t have attempted to see either outside of our arranged three-way time.

There were, of course, whores like the Mexican businessman that I didn’t feel any particular ownership for, that either of us could bang when we felt like it. Public domain, those guys were. The special ones bore our copyright.

Like I said, it was an arrangement that worked well for over a decade. Then it all went very wrong. I guess it was the last year of my residence in Michigan that it started to go bad, and it was all because Daddy Tim started to piss me off, if not by violating the actual rules, but by also pissing on the spirit of them.

The last time I saw Daddy Tim in the flesh was for an event I wrote about in an entry called ‘Daddy Tim’s Gangbang.’ Tim had invited me and three other tops to fuck another in his obsessive series of muscle studs, a personal trainer who was built like a porn star. We had a good time that day. About two weeks later, though, Tim started calling and emailing me in a panic to tell me that the trainer had a high fever and chills, and headaches, and nausea. In not so many words, he accused me of passing an HIV infection on to the guy. Because, he told me, I was the skinniest.

I was a little offended by the accusation (and the butt-ignorant way he’d reached it) and pointed out that there’d been three other tops at that party, himself included, and it was kind of dickish of him to leap to the conclusion that I’d infected the guy . . . if indeed his serostatus had changed at all. His harassment went on for a week and a half until it turned out that the gangbang recipient was still HIV- and had a case of bacterial meningitis. What kind of pissed me off, however, was that Tim delivered all this information as a kind of afterthought, an Oh, by the way that didn’t really soothe the feathers he’d ruffled by constantly accusing me of doing something I hadn’t done. No apology, no I guess I shouldn’t have leapt to conclusions, nothing.

A month after the gangbang, I had a little bit of a group activity of my own in which I gave two boyfriends three loads in thirty-five minutes. In the Top’s Lounge I’d given Daddy Tim a brief outline of the events and showed him the photos I’d taken. He immediately wanted the phone number, email, and screen name of the one he thought was the hotter of the two. He nagged. And nagged. For days, he nagged. I wasn’t all that forthcoming with the information at first because I went back and looked at my record of sexual encounters that involved him, and discovered that the balance between us hadn’t really been all that equitable for quite some time.

Sure, he’d invited me to the trainer’s gangbang. But in the previous year, I’d sent him a grand total of about seven bottoms and had only been invited to one event of his. The fact that he was nagging me for this kid’s information grated, particularly so soon after he’d insulted me and not apologized. He hit me up online one afternoon for a final time and begged for the information again. Just to shut him up, I let him have it. But, I told him, the balance in our arrangement was pretty out of whack.

Maybe, he told me, maybe he would invite me to another gangbang with the trainer. The tentative way in which he responded irritated me, but I was trying to be nice, for some reason. I asked where this trainer was from, anyway. Well, Daddy Tim flipped. He chewed me out and told me I was trying to poach his bottom and that he wasn’t there to expose the guy to strangers so they could all hit on him whenever they pleased. Mind you, this was a mere minute and a half after he’d begged and pleaded for the phone number, email address, and online identities of the blindfolded kid he’d been after for a week. All I’d done was ask where his discovery lived. Not for a street address. Just a general vicinity. Sheesh.

I thought about it for a moment while he chewed me out, and then gave him a call. It’d been fun, I told him, but the arrangement between us obviously wasn’t working any more. I asked him to take my name off his email forwarding and not to invite me to any more parties. Then, very politely, I wished him good luck with his trainer and said a farewell.

We didn’t speak after that. Or rather, I didn’t speak to him. He realized his error within a few days, when he tried to reach the blindfolded kid and the kid told him to fuck off, pretty basically. And then when a few other top guys around the city stopped including him in their communications, he realized that I’d been serious about that farewell.

Because the Top’s Lounge works in all sorts of directions. We don’t share information in the Top’s Lounge just about the bottoms we meet. If one of the other tops in the area breaks the Top’s Lounge code of ethics, we talk about that too.

I don’t know whether Daddy Tim’s still being shunned from the lounge—I haven’t really cared enough to ask. I know from time to time he writes me emails that begin, I know you hate me but. . . . as he tries to worm his way back into my good graces by inviting me to some group thing at which he needs another top. He doesn’t really realize I don’t live in the state any more, it seems.

But here’s the lesson I think it’s important to take away. Obey the informal rules of the Top’s Lounge, which are to put in about as much as you take out, and to tread lightly on another top’s good will. We might not have cigars or put our boots on the coffee table—okay, we might not have the cigars—but do we ever dish.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Sexual Cylons

This last weekend was pretty frustrating from a hooking-up standpoint. It was the kind of weekend in which I had a nice wide few hours of sexual availability open for most of Saturday, only to get the flakiest responses known to online mankind.

Case in point: I stepped away for the computer to pee, wash my hands, and grab a snack at one point and came back to find no less than six emails from one sole gentleman on Adam4Adam. At 4:12 he messaged to tell me I was hot. Then I got a message informing me he’d unlocked his private photos, at 4:13; at the same time he added me to his friends list. Then he sent an email asking what I was into. At 4:15 he sent me a guess I’m not your type message, and then at 4:16 he told me he was removing me from his friends list.

I got back, read it all, and noticed that he’d also relocked his photos. Wow, I wrote to him drily. From first interest to rejection in less than four minutes, without me being able to say a damned word. Thanks for that wide-open window of opportunity, there.


I was cruising BBRT yesterday when a guy hit me up. I noticed his location first, which was within about a hundred and twenty miles of me—close enough to meet sometimes, but a little out of the question for a spur-of-the-moment impulse drive. Then I noticed his profile name, which was an unusual first name. In fact, it was the first name of a guy I’d fucked and fisted almost a decade ago.

It was unusual enough a name that I’ve remembered it and the guy ever since. I remember the whole party, actually. It was the first time I met my long-term buddy Chris, who introduced me to the whole online hooking-up thing. Chris used to live in one of Detroit’s skeezier suburbs—one of those neighborhoods in which I was always nervous (more so than in most parts of the city of Detroit itself) to leave my car parked and unattended. He’d converted his basement to a sexual playroom; a sling hung from the rafters, and there was an area to hose down, and several old sofas and chairs covered with blankets that guys could fuck on.

I got invited to a party at Chris’s house by a fellow known as Bowzer. Yes, like the guy from Sha Na Na. (I’m well aware I’m dating myself.) Bowzer was a man of definite sexual appeal. He had a shaved head, a muscular little body, and the look of a rough fuck. In photos he looks a little bit like a porn star. In person, however, he smelled a little bit like soiled diapers and cigarettes. His teeth were rotten. And the first (and only) time I went to his house to bang him, he stopped the proceedings mid-fuck when the bell rang to conduct a drug deal. Naked. Standing in the front door of his home.

I don’t know why I agreed to go with him to Chris’s party, but I was wary enough of Bowzer at least to contact Chris online and make sure I was both expected and welcome. As it turned out, it was the start of a very good relationship between us. I arrived at his place and met the guys who were there for his party that day. There was Chris himself, who was lean and furry and sweet and rather shy. There was Bowzer, who spent the entire party wandering around in a pot-induced haze, muttering to himself and swatting imaginary insects, like one of those homeless guys pushing a shopping cart in a forgotten part of any downtown area. There were a couple from downriver Detroit who were both heavily into leather.

And then there was Neo, the guy with the unusual name. He was from the east coast, visiting down especially for this party. Chris had been fucking and fisting him since his arrival the day before. He and Chris and the couple and Bowser were all present and dressed up in leather when I arrived. I didn’t own any leather, but the downriver couple were more than happen to dress me up, Barbie-style, in a pair of chaps, a harness, a leather vest, and a shiny black cap covered with studs. They even had a pair of size eleven knee-high boots for me to wear.

I looked fucking ridiculous. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Save for Bowzer, whom everyone hated (and whom I never saw again, when I later found out that he’d told them all I was his boyfriend), the rest of us had a great time. Chris was all top as well, and the two of us fucked and fisted the downriver couple in the sling, taking turns on their hot holes. The more aggressively piggy of the guy wanted to prove what a hole he was by greasing up my right foot with Crisco. He then sat right down on it and took it up to the ankle. It was the first and only time I’ve effectively footed a guy. Word of advice: the heel is tricky.

It was with Neo, though, that I really connected. He had eyes that would bore into me as I played with his hole. He kissed like a sloppy maniac, and sucked like his mouth was wider, wetter, and deeper than anything human. For a lot of the party, while Chris was fucking with the couple and Bowzer was wandering around like a lunatic, Neo and I spent having an intense session on the sofa. We’d squeeze and torture each other’s tits, and make out, and then I’d fuck and load him. I remember at one point the guy I’d footed was eating a couple of loads out of Neo’s hole while his boyfriend was rimming my ass and cleaning Neo off my dick with his mouth, while Neo and I made out and held each other. It was a good time.

The kind you think you’d remember, right?

But it wasn’t even memory that was an issue, yesterday. When I saw that this guy who looked like Neo, had the name of Neo, was a fisting bottom like Neo,and came from the same part of the country from which Neo had flown in from had dropped me a note saying that he thought I was hot and he wanted to fuck, I thought it would be okay to remind him that we’d actually connected before and had a good time. We met about ten years ago when you were visiting my buddy Chris in Detroit, I told him. Remember me?
No, he wrote back. I’ve never been to Detroit in my life.

And I was all, But . . . but . . . but . . . !

But no. He wouldn’t be shaken from his story. He’d never been to Detroit. He’d never been to Michigan. He didn’t know anyone named Chris. He didn’t attend a sling party a decade before with a druggie, a couple, a lean top, and a guy who looked comical in leather. None of it.

I mean, he was perfectly polite about it all, and not trying to be rude or anything. But I was a little weirded out.

So I went onto my computer drive and sure enough, quickly found the folder of photos from Valentine’s Day, 2002, the night of the party. Somehow someone had managed to capture Bowzer in action during the three minutes of the night he was actually having sex. There was I, looking pathetic in my costume. And there was Neo, sucking dick and getting fucked in several shots. Same guy. Same face, though ten years younger. Same facial hair. Same build. Same exact armband on his right bicep. Same fucking leather in the then and now photos.

I mean, it’s the same guy. Has to be. And for the life of me I can’t figure out why he’s saying we never fucked.

It’s not a mean thing—it’s not like he said, Ew, you’re nasty, of course we never hooked up. It’s not as if his interests have changed to the less vanilla, or that he’s undergone a religious conversion and it’s more convenient for him to pretend we never connected. Nor is it as if he’d said, You know, 2002 was a fucking long time ago and I can’t remember my tricks that far back. I could’ve understood a simple memory lapse. I can’t remember what day of the week it is, most times.

The whole Nope, I’ve never been to Detroit thing threw me, though. You remember when you’ve been to Detroit. Maybe you don’t want to admit you’ve been there. But you remember it.

The only other explanations with which I’m left are that he’s either a clone or a Cylon. A sexual Cylon who doesn’t yet know that he’s little more than a replication, programmed to seek human cock and fist, better to learn human weaknesses and vulnerability before the final plan that reduces us to a race of sexual slaves.

It sounds a little like a porn movie that ought to be made. Come to think, I wouldn’t mind that kind of planetary dominance at all.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Another Milestone Edition

I have another milestone coming up this week—at some point I'll be posting my 500th blog post here. I know! It kind of snuck up on me, too.

Usually for these events I like to have some kind of contest, or do something fun. However, short of another underwear giveaway, I'm fresh out of ideas. So in the comments today, if you've got a suggestion for how we can all celebrate the 500th post, I'd be more than happy to hear it.

In the meantime, I'll let you get back to your holiday preparations. (Don't forget to thank your favorite bloggers while you're doing your online holiday shopping. I've got a link to my Amazon wishlist in the sidebar, if you're feeling particularly generous!)

This week's set of questions is brought to you, as always, by Stop on by and ask me something personal.

Are you actually affected by crap left by anonymous posters?

I pity them, more. I have a couple whose synapses are firing at such dangerous levels that it must be like the storm in 'King Lear' in there, 24/7.

Whatever the reasons they have that have led them to such a empty life where all they can do is get jabs in anonymously, it's still all empty sound and fury, and sadly signifying nothing.

That said, when all it takes to get a couple of the regular ones frothing at the mouth is bring out a few trigger phrases and set them off deliberately, they’re dancing to my hurdy-gurdy and not the other way around, the cute little performing monkeys.

Do you have an image in your mind of when you will be retired?

I tell people I'm retired now. It sounds so much better than admitting I'm a ne'er-do-well.

You described yourself as a power bottom in your youth. Yet now you are an (almost?) exclusive top. When, why and how did this change occur? Was there an in between phase where you were versatile? Would you say is this a typical development for gay men?

While nothing is universal—and I say this because whenever we make generalizations about sex, dozens of people pop up to say they're the exception—there is a general tendency for young guys to bottom for older. Then the young guys grow up and there's a new crop waiting to bottom for them. Circle of life, and all that.

However. I've known many guys who started out primarily as tops and switched to bottoms. And I've known bottoms who turned top only because their cute little asses weren't quite as much in demand after they hit 30. I've known true versatiles. (Or at least, they both said they were true versatiles.) And I've known guys who never evinced interest in anal sex at all.

The answer is that everyone has his own path through life, and it's tough to say what's typical. I've gotten into trouble before when I joke (it's not a joke!) that most gay men are big ol' bottoms. (They are!) So I'm trying not to make those massive generalizations here. (Though they are!)

I wrote about an incident in my blog that opened my eyes to the possibilities of topping, and started turning me in that direction. It's at the address: .

I will say that my own experience with sexual assault kind of put the nails in the coffin of my versatility. For many years after that incident it was difficult for me to want to bottom, or even to express an urge to bottom; by the time I was recovered enough to admit to the desire, I was out of practice enough that bottoming didn't come easily for me. It hasn't since, so I avoid it.

Are you into younger guys?

Indeed, I can be. A lot of them are into me.

What advice do you have (if any) for a guy in his late teens who is finally wanting to explore his interest in other guys for the first time? Specifically, as a bottom who is extremely interested in getting bred.

First up, if you're thinking of fucking unprotected, educate yourself. Know the risks and the consequences--the real consequences--so that you can't say you didn't know what could happen. Go into that with your eyes wide open, kiddo.

Second, if you're still a virgin, make your first time with someone you like. Not someone who's super-hot and who you want badly. Not someone who's nothing more than available. Take control and choose someone you actually like and won't look back on with regret. He doesn't have to be the man you spend your life with. Just pick someone you'll remember fondly, and won't be calling a jerk thirty years from now.

Finally, make sure that person knows your inexperience and is willing to help you explore. Don't pick a horny pervert with a thing for virgins who'll count you as a notch on his bedroom post. Pick a guy who will be patient, and kind, and who'll help you enjoy your first time.

Sex is supposed to be fun. So have fun. Just be smart about it.

What's the best compliment you've ever gotten?

When someone takes the time to read what I've written—and when it comes to my sex blog I mean really read it, not just for the good stuff but for what I'm trying to say through it—I find that their investment of time, thought, and consideration is the highest compliment of all.

Would you want to be famous? For what?

I'll stick to being infamous. The side benefits are a lot more fun.

Friday, December 2, 2011

A Teaser

I’m not sure if what we’re watching is rugby or soccer, to be honest. There’s a field, and there’s a ball, and there’s a bunch of guys running around in shorts. It’s a cold Saturday morning; whenever I breathe, tendrils of vapor curl from my nostrils. My toes are frozen inside my boots, and I’m chilly in my jeans and thick sweater and scarf.

The players don’t seem at all chilly, though. They run around like it’s a May afternoon, chasing after the ball and filling the borrowed high school field with their laughter and high-pitched shouts. Beyond them, the sun catches the shapes of cars as they speed by on the freeway. I’ve driven into Westchester to meet the guy on the bench beside me. He’s a hulking shape because of the puffy vest he’s wearing. Bright orange, the color of danger and hazards. A Yankees cap hangs low on his forehead, just above a thick black pair of eyebrows flecked with gray. He’s got his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. We've talked online before, a few times. Cammed once. But this is our first meeting in the flesh, to check each other out. “So,” he says. “You like what you see?”

He’s not talking about himself—though if he had been, my answer would’ve been in the affirmative. He’s got the stocky, masculine build that a lot of the Latin men in the area have. I’d definitely be interested in him. But it’s his younger boyfriend he means. One of the players on the field, a latte-skinned youth, lean, who stops from time to time to lift up his striped shirt to mop off his face and short, spiky hair. He’s got lanky legs with a light coat of fur, and a grin that rarely flags, even when he’s concentrating. He’s made for this game.

He’s hardly ever not been in motion, since I’ve arrived. Those legs fly in the air every time he sprints after the other players, and seem to flex to impossible angles whenever he suddenly changes direction. His hips are narrow, his stomach flat. He’s got dark eyebrows like his older boyfriend, though they point upward in the middle, giving him a look of perpetual astonishment. I haven’t spoken to him, haven’t seen him close up. Still, over the previous few silent minutes, I’ve seen enough of him to know that I found him attractive. “Yeah,” I say. “I like a lot.”

The man seems satisfied at that. “Practice’ll be over soon. Thought I’d go inside and piss,” he said. “Want to come? Check stuff out?”

“You know it.”

We walk across the bleachers together, just two guys taking a break from watching a long morning’s practice (soccer or rugby, I still didn’t know which). He descends to the ground with an ungainly hop; I follow, a little more gracefully. I don’t realize exactly how chilly it is outside until I’m indoors and my nose is running. He seems to know where we’re going, along the back corridor of the high school. There’s a boy’s room not too far from the door. No one’s inside.

We stand close to each other at the urinals. He doesn’t have to piss. He pulls down the elastic band of his sweatpants beneath a pair of heavy balls. His dick is fat and uncut, and rock hard. He’s been hard a while, it seems. Precum oozes from the tip in a glistening bead. Dried trails of its predecessor frost the top of his head and foreskin.

When I pull mine out, he instantly reaches for it. “Damn, it’s big,” he tells me. “As advertised, huh?” He’s making a joke, but I’m not laughing. I reach for his meat; it throbs when I get it in my hand. “You want to fuck him?”

He means his boyfriend. That’s why he wants to meet me. He’s been looking for his first three-way with the younger guy, and he’s thinking I might suit them both. “Yeah,” I said. My voice was husky and congested. “I really want to fuck him. You want to see me in him?”

He’s staring at my dick. “Fuck yeah. Fuck.” For a second he drops to a knee and takes me in his mouth. It’s unexpected. I hadn’t known he was going to attempt it. “Can barely get my own mouth around it,” he says, pulling off. Then he opens and belies his words by taking it almost to the root. He’s up on his feet again, and pulling up his sweatpants before anyone comes in. “That’ll look good in him.”

“He likes getting fucked?”

He looks me dead in the eye. “Oh yeah. Fuck yeah! Loves his hole played with. That thing though.” He shakes his head as I put it away. “That’ll do some damage.”

I don’t tell him the thought that image brought to mind. Namely, that I certainly hoped so.

At his invitation we go outside again. The practice is nearly over. A couple of the players are already straggling off the field. Men and women spectating from the bleachers join them one by one. “Wait here,” the man instructs, pointing vaguely at the area between field and parking lot. I take a seat on the bleachers as he heads toward his car. I stay there as the players jog off the field in pairs and singles, scratching their heads and collecting their bags from the ground. I sit there in the sun and the chill and watch the boyfriend say goodbye to his buddies and sally out into the lot, looking for his car.

Just about everyone’s gone when, near the gate, an older-model SUV pulls up and stops. The window rolls down. “Get in the back,” says the man, nodding me over.

I don’t wait for another invitation.

The boyfriend’s in the back, knees spread wide, his lean legs seeming to go on forever. He nods at me as I join him in the back seat. I start to pull on my seatbelt, but the man says, “You don’t need that, buddy.” He drives us to a spot at the back, close to the freeway, where no other cars are lurking. Then he shuts off the ignition.

There’s the briefest of introductions. First names only. “This is the man who’s gonna fuck you,” says the older of the two.

The boyfriend looks me up and down. He’s cute. Damned cute. His hair is wet from sweat and exercise, but other than that, he looks like he’s barely broken stride that morning. His legs scissor in and out. Then he cracks a grin, and those eyebrows go up. “Cool,” he says.

From the front seat, the man says, “Why don’t you show him what you’ve got, hon?”

The younger guy doesn’t need another invitation, either. He thrusts his hips in the air and shucks down his shorts. His legs spread as he shows me his dick. It’s and long, and narrow, and uncut, and grows from soft to rock hard before my eyes. He grabs it in his right hand and plays with it, a little self-consciously. He’s staring at me the entire time.

“Just a little taste,” says the man in the front seat. “A teaser. Just to show you what he’s got.”

“I can see what he’s got,” I say, drily.

“Make out with him a little,” says the man to his boyfriend.

The younger guy’s got gum in his mouth, but he considerately removes it before he slides forward on the back seat. My mouth covers his; he thrusts his mint-flavored tongue forward, and mumbles a little bit when I replace my hand on his dick with my own. He’s a hungry kisser, one of the kind who’s almost too eager for it to be good. There’s a lot of pressure from his upper teeth against my own, through our lips. When my fingers travel from his dick down between his legs, into the warm, moist area between them, the man in the front seat grunts out his approval. I let my thumb press against the younger guy’s butthole. He exhales heavily and sweetly, and obediently spread his legs farther apart.

I’ve got my thumb in there, with almost no more lube than a quick lick. He’s tight. Real tight. A little twist, and he’s moaning. A turn in the other direction, a crook of my thumb joint, and he’s acting like he’s getting close. His dick is like fire against my forearm.

“Just a teaser,” says the man again. “Not too much.”

I take the warning for what it is. We’re in a parking lot on a bright morning. Even with a lookout like the older guy, it’s a risky proposition to take to the next level. The younger guy looks at me with heavy, lidded eyes when I remove my digit from his hole. He doesn’t want it to stop. “Pack it away,” the man tells him. The younger guy takes a moment to collect his thoughts before slowly reaching down to the car floor to pull his shorts back onto his legs, and then up the length of them to cover that rock-hard dick and those narrow hips and thighs.

“I think this can work,” I tell the man.

“Might be difficult to connect before Christmas at this point,” he says. “We don’t do this real often, but I want to see you fuck him real good.”

The younger guy and I are staring at each other now. He’s grinning at me. He doesn’t have to say much. I can tell he wants it too. “I will,” I promise.

Then I’m out the door, and walking back across the lot to my own car, legs wobbly and my thumb smelling like the younger guy’s hole. He waves at me from the back seat as they drive from the school lot, and over the dust of their passing the two of us study each other for a last time before that day comes when I meet him naked, and prepped, and ready to be drilled.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

An open letter to local online cruisers

Dear gay and/or bisexual men of the tri-state area with online profiles,

I am a visually-oriented person.

Now, I know what you think that means. You’re assuming I’m telling you I need porn to get off. A hot movie playing on the TV, or a magazine with sticky pages sitting on the side of the bed. Maybe some good old-fashioned homemade nasty photos waiting to be flicked through on your iPhone. Yeah, that. Well, no. Not that at all.

What it really means is that my memory is shot. If you want me to keep track of who you are, I kind of need to know what you look like. That’s it.

I know you’ve got a really memorable profile name fashioned from letters and numbers that may seem random to me—like cbtg432—but make perfect sense to you. Or maybe you’ve chosen a name like nybottom123 to distinguish yourself from the hundred and twenty-two New York bottoms who boldly tread before. You’ve made a lot of effort to keep your profile cryptic, with all your Ask Mes and Not Answereds. I get it. You like that veil of mystery that lures the guys in. You really, really want them to ask you. It’s not just that you overlooked the questions. I understand.

But you know, there’s something about those profiles in which they all start really to run together, somehow. It’s not that after a while all the names start to look like a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of Campbell’s Pornographic Alphabet Soup. It’s not simply that all the Ask Mes begin to mesmerize me into a hypnotic trance. It’s the fact that you’ve left your photos blank—or that you have uploaded them, but locked them all and never offer to unlock them—that drives me around the bend.

I'm old. I'm really old. I'm practically senile. I need a little help here, and you're not giving it to me.

Case in point: the guy with the minimal profile who, by way of seductive technique, unlocks his photos for him in lieu of saying hello. It might be true that I viewed your photos and said, Hey, thanks for unlocking. You’re a handsome dude. And it might be true that I replied in the affirmative when you suggested we get together some time in the future. But when you immediately relock those photos and email me two weeks later to ask if we are ever going to get together, I’m sorry. I’m not going to remember you by your profile name of ctbottom001. I’m not going to clue in on what words we might’ve exchanged from your minimal profile. If you showed me your photos again—ah, yes. Then I would remember. If you left them displayed all the time, certainly I would. I am a visually-oriented person. I need that photo of your face to associate all your Ask Mes with a real person.

Hell, even that blurry photo of your hip that you flashed me might trigger some kind of recall. Because your sorry profile isn’t doing the trick.

Case number two: Mr. BBRT profile without an unlocked photo or description, thanks for informing me that you and I talked on Manhunt. Helpful! Except it’s not, because apparently your cryptic name on BBRT is different from whatever name you chose on Manhunt. If you’d told me the other site’s profile name, or unlocked your photo so I’d recognize it, or given me some kind of clue as to whom you might be, maybe I’d have more patience and actually reply to your emails after you didn’t seem to pick up on the hint I gave you when I responded, I have no idea what you look like. Why would I meet?

Of course, after I ignore you for a solid three weeks, when you finally unlock your photos and I discover you’re the asshole from Manhunt who stood me up not once, but twice, making me wait over an hour each time before I found out you were going to be a no-show, I can kind of understand why you were reluctant to identify yourself.

So gentlemen. Let’s recap. Want me to remember you? Have some kind of photo in your profile—something visible. Don’t make me ask you to unlock, every time. Even a picture of your fucking kneecap is going to be more memorable than a standard icon of a lock. I’m not going to meet you because of that kneecap alone, but at least instead of thinking Huh? Who dat? I’ll think, Well hey, it’s that weirdo who doesn’t show anything more than a kneecap. Howdy, stranger.

And also, if you stand me up twice, don’t be surprised I’m not all that anxious to give you a shot at doing it a third time.

But that’s ancillary to my point. Which is: I am a visually-oriented person.

Yours truly.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Earl's Discovery

(This entry is a continuation of the Earl series about my relationship with an older man in my teens, and of the complications caused by a peer named Topher. It's a direct sequel to The Last Time I Saw Topher, from a couple of weeks ago.)

No alarm rings, the morning of an especially bad day. No easy portents signal its coming. No cracked mirrors, or ravens on the lawn, no black clouds on the horizon. No spooky organ music plays in the background, or moody atmospheric synths create sounds of unease.

This particular bad day, which happened shortly before my senior year of high school, when I was sixteen, I remember as sunny and warm. Richmond had a sultry and humid haze draped over it, like mosquito netting on a still afternoon. My summer school classes were over, and I had a short period before my final two semesters commenced. What had I done that day? I don’t remember much. I’d laid around the house, and played with the cats. I’d helped my mom in the garden in the morning, because I recall smelling the indelible scent of crushed tomato leaves on my fingertips when bad things started happening, later in the day. I’d steered my bike along back streets and quiet, dozy neighborhoods to Willey Drugs, where I’d purchased a grape Nehi from the vending machine purring outside its door. And then I’d ridden down Bellevue and turned a corner and let my Raleigh touring bike clatter down onto the sidewalk in Earl’s back yard.

We’d fucked, up in his bedroom. I can remember that fuck, even—how wet my hair was from the heat, relieved only by a tiny box fan perched at an angle in his back window. Earl had taken me silently and roughly on his bed, thrusting into me with quiet, urgent grunts. It was so hot that he seemed loath to let our skin touch in any more places than necessary. His cock filled my ass, and occasionally the tops of his thighs would meet the back of mine; the flat of his hands rested on the soles of my feet. His fingers curled around my toes. Otherwise, it was too hot and we were both too clammy to touch. Even when he came, he seemed in a hurry to disengage and let our mutual temperatures mingle. His sperm spilled from my hole, onto the sheets. I lay there with my legs sprawled to either side, my hands above my head.

He tumbled beside me. On a clock, my feet would have pointed at four, and his at seven. Our heads met in the middle, intimate and familiar, next to each other in the mattress’ center. His hands stroked my hair lightly. Then we dozed a while.

I don’t remember any particular signs of doom in that afternoon, no auguries, no ill tidings. Merely a hot bath of an afternoon in which we both soaked, while we listened to Q-94 softly playing on the clock radio by Earl’s bed.

I must have fallen asleep at some point. I nap badly; I wake up confused and crabby and dazed. I always have, and on this stifling afternoon it was no different. Only this time I had been startled by Earl slamming something down on the dresser. “God damn it,” he muttered. I tried to blink the nap from my eyes and come to, but it was like surfacing from dozens of feet beneath the ocean’s surface. It takes time, no matter how urgently one has to breathe. “God damn it,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” I mumbled.

“Did you see a clip with some money under the mirror?” he asked. On his dresser, Earl kept one of his mother’s old mirrors. The frame was antique, and white, and quite ugly to my eyes. He used it as a kind of catch-all for the contents of his pockets at day’s end, for his combs and change and the horehound drops he occasionally carried. I told him I hadn’t. “God damn it,” he said a third time. “Jim!”

The sheets beneath me seemed drenched with sweat and cum, but I didn’t want to move, because the area around me might have been worse. I also dreaded that moment when the fan would inevitably blow on my moist flesh and cause me to shiver. I watched as Earl stomped out of the room and across the upstairs hallway, over to the little stair that led to the attic room that Jim claimed as his own. His voice was angry as he barked his boyfriend’s name up the stair. “Did you take my god-damned money out from under the mirror on my dresser?”

I couldn’t hear Jim’s reply, but I could tell they were starting to argue. I’d heard their arguments before—they were loud and impossible to miss, really. “No, I’m sure I didn’t lose it,” Earl was snapping. “I’m the one who actually keeps track of his money, remember?” A pause. “About two hundred dollars. I don’t know. Maybe more.” Another pause, while Jim said something. “Thanks for being so helpful. Asshole,” he muttered, as he stomped back into the room.

I didn’t say anything as Jim began rooting around his dresser like a madman. Pennies clattered to the ground as he lifted up the mirror, checked the underside, and then laid it on the bed. He lifted up the lids on the old tea set sitting to one side, and let his fingers dig through his mother’s old Wedgewood box. Through the drawers he rooted, letting stuff fly and hit the floor. Not a word did he say to me. I was so uncomfortable that I began to brave the fan and rise so I could find my clothes and sneak out before the fight got out of hand.

Then. “Shit.” He stood stock-still for a moment. “Shit.” He called Jim’s name at the top of his voice. I heard his boyfriend yell back. Then, after a moment, I heard the thud of his heels on the floor above us, and the insolent shuffle as finally he headed toward the stairs.

I had on my shorts and shirt by the time Jim appeared in the room, naked except for a leather cock ring and a subsiding hard-on from his masturbation. He had a cigarette in hand. He looked at the room’s disarray. “What the fuck did you lose now?”

“Where’s my watch?” Earl snapped. When Jim started to point to a wristwatch on the dresser, Earl almost shouted, “Where is my father’s god-damned pocket watch?” I looked over at the dress, now. Earl usually kept his favorite pocket watch on the mirror he used as a tray. It wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The two of them stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Then without warning, Earl broke free of the deadlock and bolted for the closet.

Jim started to say things. I don’t remember what they were. They were protestations of innocence, I’m certain, weak disclaimers of ignorance. All I remember is looking at him as his mouth moved and those little mewling noises came out and thinking to myself, This man is lying. I am watching a man lie to his lover.

And them Jim looked at me, and seemed to know what I was thinking. His expression relaxed as he realized I was staring at him with dislike, and contempt. For a microsecond, his shoulders sagged. If we’d been in a silent movie, there would’ve been a subtitle after his close-up: Aw, c’mon, kid. Give me a break. I never meant any of that crap I gave you. I was just kidding around.

Then another close-up on me, the self-righteous ice queen, frosty and unmoving: Fuck you.

Earl kept the rest of his precious pocket watch collection in another of his mother’s antiques, an old silverware case that he kept in the back of his closet. While Jim and I had been glaring at each other, he’d managed to pull it out from under the shoeboxes and detritus lying atop it. He opened the lid, then the drawers.

They were empty.

This is how bad things arrive—in a rush of words and fear, in a whirlwind of activity and with the prickle of adrenaline in every limb and up and down the spinal cord. My head started to pound in time with my speeding heart as Earl stood up, kicked the old wooden case so that it went spinning across the floor, and then grabbed one of his shoes. A shiny penny loafer, I remember. “What the fuck did you do?” he growled at Jim, as he brandished the shoe so that its wooden heel was a club.

“Nothing!” Jim squeaked. I could tell he was still lying. And if I could tell, Earl surely could.

“Get out. Go downstairs,” Earl barked at me.

I didn’t have to be told twice. I ran the hell out and down the stairs, and through the dining room and kitchen and out the back door, where I sat on their wooden porch and buried my face in my hands. That’s when I smelled that sharp, unmistakable scent of tomato on my fingers and remembered helping my mom in the garden that morning. I wished that I was still there, boring as the work was. Anywhere but here, listening to the raised voices inside, the sounds of books and valuables hitting the floor, of shouting and recriminations and the unending litany of ills, imagined and real both. The sounds of a bad thing arriving and parking itself squarely in my life, unannounced and unheralded, unwanted.

It seemed like forever before Earl came storming out of the back door. He had managed to put on a pair of shorts and wore a T-shirt with a UVA logo on it. “Well,” he said as he sat down beside me. “It seems like Jim’s little friend went through the house last night and took anything that’s portable and valuable. Topher,” he said, when he saw me opening my mouth to ask. “Funny how he knew exactly where everything of real value was.”

I think I apologized, and then caught myself halfway through. Earl disliked when I apologized for something that wasn’t my fault, and I was trying back then to correct myself of the bad habit. (I still do it.) “If you want to be helpful,” Earl said, “you could go over to Topher’s house and take him a message.”
I think Earl expected my immediate reply to be What? instead of what I said, which was, “Why me?”

He stared at me for a moment. He was still angry from the discovery of his missing stuff. His answer came out condescending and snide. “You don’t really think I could go over there, do you? Or god knows, Jim?”

I got it. I didn’t need more explanation. Not in that tone of voice. “You want me to go now?” I was supposed to be home for dinner soon.

He did. “You tell him. . . .” He paused while he thought about it. “You tell him that I’m not mad.” Which was plainly not true. “And tell him that if he brings back everything—everything—I’ll forget about it. Don’t tell him he won’t ever be bringing his sorry little ass back here after that, because he won’t. Just tell him to bring back my god-damned stuff.” Then he rose, and without a thank-you, stalked back into the house.

I had my orders. I collected my bike, and went to carry them out, like the dutiful soldier I was.