Thursday, June 30, 2011

He Likes It

The roadside waitress didn’t know any better. She was like an archetype from a distant era even in the nineteen-seventies, with her pink uniform trimmed with checkered pockets, her hair piled atop her head in hard, impenetrable curls, the lipstick that was slowly fading from the corners of her mouth. She set our plates of food in front of us and smiled. “You and your daddy heading to the beach today?”

Earl gave the woman one of his slow, lazy, and charming smiles. He could melt any feminine heart he wished with those smiles. “Yes ma’am,” he drawled, reaching around me. I thought he was reaching for the hot sauce, but instead his arm rested around my shoulders in an intimate, familiar kind of way that caused me to stir inside my pants. His other hand ruffled my hair. It was easily the kind of thing a dad might do to his son, but I was willing to wager none of the patrons of that sleepy little barbecue joint ever mulled in their heads the improbable truth of the alternative. “The kid and I are heading for a day at Virginia Beach. Laying in the sun. Swimming. He likes that. Don’tcha, kid?” With his arm still around my shoulder, he thumped me on the chest and let his hand trail down its length.

“Good day for it,” she remarked, fanning herself with the tray. “I could use a dip myself. Hah!” She flashed a toothy grin, pleased with her own repartee, then flipped her apron and stumbled back into the tiny restaurant.

We’d stopped at this little wayside place somewhere close to Williamsburg, on our way to Lightfoot, because it was one of Earl’s favorites. Like him, it was an unassuming place—cheerfully painted, without air conditioning, inexpensive, with a menu carved out on a wooden board nailed onto the restaurant’s side. We sat at the picnic tables among truckers and tourists, chewing on our pulled pork sandwiches on fluffy white hamburger buns, the meat studded with pickles and cole slaw. His arm remained behind me the whole time. He knew that everyone now viewed us as a suburban father and his sixteen-year-old son. Two innocent, masculine wayfarers on their way for an afternoon of fun in the sun. No one would think a thing of it.

“Eat up,” Earl said to me with a paternal wink. “You’re going to need your energy. Son.”

We finished our lunch mostly without talking, then got back into his car. The road back to the state route to Lightfoot from the restaurant was long and dusty. On that summer day, it was largely deserted. He pulled off close to where dirt met asphalt, beneath a tree. Without a word, he opened the front door of his car, shut it again, and climbed into the back seat. Without a word of my own, I followed suit.

“Take off your jeans,” he ordered. I obeyed, removing my sneakers and leaving the denim in a heap on the floor. He looked me in the eyes, then cupped my cheek in his big hand. “You know why I have to do this,” he said. I nodded. After studying me a moment, he pulled out his bag from beneath the driver’s seat. I knew what it contained. From inside he pulled out a short nylon cord. With protest, I crossed my wrists behind my back and allowed him to fasten them—tightly, but not too tight. I turned on my side, lifted up my legs to the leatherette seat, and allowed him to wrap another length of cord around the ankles. He wrestled my sneakers back on my feet, leaving the laces untied.

He used a bandana as a blindfold, then forced my mouth open. His gag was an improvised affair of a small wiffle ball through which had been threaded another length of cloth. I started to drool immediately, once the plastic forced my teeth apart.

At least he’d cleaned it.

Something went over my head. A hood, or a sack. I couldn’t see what it was. Then, finally after he’d very gently tipped me over the edge and lowered me to the floor between the front and back seats, he threw over me an old and dusty blanket, the kind of thing dog owners might keep in their trunks to prevent pawprints. “Make it convincing,” I heard him say. He exited the back seat, assumed his position at the wheel, and started up the car again. My body lurched and banged against the hard plastic and metal of the seat machinery, with every turn.

It was already a sweltering day, and I was covered in a blanket, on the floor of a hot car. My wrists and ankles hurt. My jaw ached from the gag. The bump down the car’s center, over the drive shaft, dug uncomfortably into my rib cage, causing me to cry out with pain every time we hit a patch of rough road.

I didn’t know exactly where our destination was—but Lightfoot wasn’t too far from the lunch stop. By the time we got there, though, my face was red and overheated, the cords at my wrists and ankles had notched deep, and I’d drooled so much through the holes of the wiffle ball that my face was wet and streaked. I knew how disheveled and desperate I must have looked.

Earl did too.

He honked the horn outside our destination. I hear the mechanical whirr of a garage door rising. When Earl drove inside, his windows were rolled up and the radio was blasting Creedence at top volume. Only when the second clanking of the door lowering back into place was complete did he turn off the ignition and open the door.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I heard a voice say outside. “Your music loud enough?”

“You’d rather everyone heard it yelling? Real smart.” I heard Earl say, and then his front door slammed. For several moments, I could only hear them speaking, muffled and low, through the doors. Then the back door opened.

“. . . So where’d you get it?” I heard the other man asking. His voice was nasal, but deep. He wasn’t from Tidewater, that was for certain. There was a Baltimorian twang to his vowels, maybe.

“Don’t ask me that shit,” said Earl, obviously annoyed.

He yanked the blanket off me. I raised my head into the air. The disorientation I felt wasn’t faked. I was dizzy. I ached, though not as badly as if this entire scenario had been real.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I heard the other man say. He let out a low whistle. I felt a rough, thick hand dive into my briefs. It squeezed hard at my dick and balls, and then rubbed a thumb against my hole. I squirmed and protested. “Nice.”

Two pairs of hands hauled me out of the back of the car, scraping my ribs and shoulders over the floor and doorframe as they hauled me out into the garage. At least the air there was cool. My head lolled back. I felt Earl supporting me up as presumably the other man undid the cord around my ankles. My legs were half-asleep, though, and I couldn’t support myself fully. I started to fall down almost immediately.

“Christ,” repeated the guy. “He’s a mess. What’d you do to him?”

“Never you mind.” Earl let out an contemptuous chuckle that would’ve chilled the bones of any of the patrons of the barbecue joint at which we’d eaten, not a half-hour before. “Where do you want him?”

I couldn’t see where I was going. My rubbery legs moved aimlessly as two sets of hands wrestled with me into the house, and down some stairs. At one point I found myself suddenly being shoved against a wall; my jaw made such impact against it that I feared it might bruise. “Don’t do that,” Earl said, seriously annoyed. “You leave that shit to me.”

“Okay, okay, Christ,” said the other man, backing off.

At last they shoved me down onto what felt—and smelled—like a musty old basement mattress. I yelled as they tore down my briefs. My arms went back and pulled against the sockets as one of them yanked my shirt up under my chin.

I yelled when the man entered me. That was genuine, too. He didn’t use much spit, didn’t go slow. He thrust into me with a dick that felt thick and long, splitting my hole in a way that told me he didn’t much care who I was or where Earl had presumably found me. “Little faggot,” he growled, as he stabbed into me. “Fuckin’ little faggot gettin’ what he deserves.” Any reply I would have made was garbled by the whiffle ball. He grabbed my hair, yanked back my head. “He likes it,” he crowed. “Look at the li’l shit. He likes it!”

The man was right about one thing. I did like it. I liked being handled rough. I liked the feeling of that dick in me. The guy was a shit, but his excitement was palpable. He ran his hands over my body as if he couldn’t believe his luck. His sweat rubbed off on me. I smelled like him, like musk and precum and Old Spice.

I liked being taken on that nasty old mattress with no sheets, choking on the mold and my own spit. I liked the guy’s excitement at getting what he thought was something live and off the streets, while Earl sat back and watched him use me. Later, I knew, back at his own place in Richmond, I knew Earl would wash off my body in his tub, gently, with a warm cloth. He’d rub at the chafed spots, and give me aspirin for the aches. He’d hold me, and cover my mouth with his own, and kiss me deep as he drove into my still-cummy hole.

That would be later, though. Now, I was being mounted and used by a desperate man who huffed and puffed his way to orgasm. When he came, it was like a freight train roaring by, beginning with a distant whistle in his chest that grew louder and louder until he drove into me and remained. My hole throbbed, red and hurting, as he held in there. His dick swelled and ebbed inside me, spilling its load.
Then it was over. He pulled out, dick slopping onto my ass and the cum dripping down my leg. Someone—Earl—yanked me up by the wrists, causing me to yell in genuine pain. I stumbled, and blundered into another wall. Hands yanked me up the stairs, out into the garage. I heard the laces of my sneakers clattering across linoleum, stone, concrete. Someone attached the cords to my ankles again. And then I found myself pushed into the car, muffled and gagged, face-down, the blanket thrown over me like some kind of sleepy canary. Earl started up the car, cranked up the tunes, and drove the hell out of there.

He stopped only a few blocks away, briefly, by the side of the road, long enough to undo the cord around my wrist. He started up again, driving the route home. Something flew from his hands over the top of the seat and landed on my chest. A roll of twenties, it was. I knew there’d be twenty of them in that rubber-banded wad. My fingers and hands, though, were too sore to reach for it. I rubbed them as I waited for them to come back to life, so I could loosen my other restraints.

And as I lay there, breathing normally once again, staring at the bills on my chest, I thought, How is this deception any different from what Jim told me to do?

Earl’s lover, Jim, had wanted me to dick around with a guilt-conflicted religious man sheerly for the sake of making him suffer, and I had. Earl had disapproved of the scheme in no uncertain terms. And yet, he was playing some poor shit with a rape fantasy with no qualms whatsoever. For cash, no less—cash that was going into my bank account, but all the same.

I had a realization then. Crystal clear in my mind, it was, a new thought I’d never before considered. Every man lies during sex. And every man believe his lies to be justified.

We tell ourselves such fabrications to get ourselves through and past our fantasies. Such elaborate deceptions we create to allow ourselves to keep operating, despite our religious restrictions. We tell fibs to get laid, sweet nothings to get a partner’s pants off. We lie, and we do it well. So well, we don’t always realize it.

Or in Earl’s case, it’s done without remorse, and with the cool knowledge of deception—of giving someone exactly what he wanted, without giving it to him at all. Legerdemain. Sleight of hand.

By the time I’d dressed, and put the restraints back in Earl’s bag, and pulled myself up into a ball in the back seat—legs drawn up, my arms hugging them, no seat belt, as no one wore them back in those days—I was looking at Earl in an entirely new light. He was my mentor, yes. But for the first time, I began to wonder if I wanted to be mentored in what he seemed to be teaching me.

Then he looked at me in the rear view mirror. Those friendly, warm eyes crinkled as they met mine. I melted, thinking of the after yet to come, and for a moment, forgot my doubts.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Reader Asses: #14

Oh, I've been liking this series of entries. Anything that gets me a steady supply of pretty asses (in my in-box, anyway) gets my enthusiastic support.

But a question for you guys—do you want to continue to see the asses? Or should I be asking guys to send in photos of their junk as well? Let me know what you think.

In the meantime, we have. . . .


I'm telling you guys something. All that exercise this guy is doing is really working out. Jesus. Look at that perfectly round, furry crack. I want to mount and fuck the hell out of it.


Nathan's been not only good enough to include some photos of his hot butt, but of a guy deep-dicking it as well. For a moment, by the pubes alone, I thought that was me topping him.

I only WISH. That is a hot, hot ass, Nathan. It looks even better with a dick stuffed in it. Thanks for sharing the photos!


You know, every now and then I get a set of photos that tells a story. And what I really admire about SeattleBottom's series, here, is the pacing of them. They start off small and modest, with a small photo of him gulping down a dildo, rectally. Then he picks up the pace by bending over and assuming the position. By the end, though, he's on his back, legs lifted to heaven, hole exposed for everyone to admire . . . and use.

Gawd, Mr. SeattleBottom. You really know how to tease a horny guy, don'tcha? I love it.


Oh, Mike. I love your meaty, round ass. I would write a poem to it if I had enough synonyms to describe how perfect and round it is. And it would be a dirty poem, too.

I also love the way you steady your phone on your hip to keep it steady for the shot. That is the sign of a truly dedicated Ansel Adams of ass self-photography.

Let's give these guys a nice round of applause for sharing today, readers—and as always, if you'd like to participate, read the original entry for details on what to do.


Tuesday, June 28, 2011


It was his eyes that I recognized. Small, black, and glinting like sun-struck obsidian. And I thought to myself then, My god, that's Joe.

It was the last time I ever saw him.

I was talking yesterday about the importance of taking chances, and of reaching out and talking to people when we'd like to know them. I learned that lesson well with Joe, the object of my biggest unrequited crush of my twenties. He worked at the library periodicals desk when I was in graduate school, twenty-five years ago. The texts I worked with all happened to be on microfilm—which, for you youngsters, was a method of delivering old books and documents on spools of film that had to be fed into large, noisy, lighted machines. I started noticing him on those long afternoons I spent across from his desk sitting at the massive microfilm screens, looking at eighteen-century texts about which no one gave a damn.

Joe was older than I by perhaps ten years. His build was slender—so thin than the sleeves of his shapeless sweaters hung in loose folds whenever he raised his arms. His face was narrow; his chin was sharp, yet round. His hair was a sometimes unwashed mass of dark curls.

It seemed as if he noticed me, too. He’d smile in my direction from time to time. His eyes, though, were so dark they seemed all pupil. It was sometimes difficult to tell where he was looking. I loved those obsidian eyes; my heart would leap every time they'd turn my way.

We spent a lot of time flirting without actually flirting, that summer. For three hours most afternoons I’d sit there in front of the whirring machine and jot down the occasional notes as I looked through two hundred year-old periodicals. Behind his desk he would position himself just in the spot where I could see him between my microfilm reader and the reader hulking beside me. I’d lean into that space, so he could see me.

Then we’d spend hours pretending we weren’t watching each other.

I grew to know how he smiled—first how his eyes would flatten and narrow, and then how one side of his mouth would rise higher than the other in a lopsided way. I grew accustomed to hearing his shy laugh when a coworker talked to him, and how he would lower his face as if trying to disown his amusement. And how I loved it when he would look in my direction to see if I was watching him.

I always was.

In all the long months of my research—research that probably wouldn’t have taken quite so long if I’d been able to pay attention to what I was doing—we never spoke. We exchanged smiles and lingering glances, but I never worked up enough nerve to approach him. I was stupid, and shy. I could slut around with anyone in the bathrooms at the top of the staircase nearby, but I couldn't bring himself to walk up to Joe and introduce myself to him. I couldn't initiate a casual conversation even about library business with him. I thought we'd have all the time in the world for that, at some unspecified point.

But I stopped seeing him on campus the following year. He was transferred to a different library building that I never visited. I always associated the thought of him with those long, idyllic afternoons in the periodicals section, where I enjoyed the air conditioning and his occasional smile, as I read through The Ladies Monthly Museum.

Then one evening, fifteen years later, I was eating dinner at a Red Robin when I recognized those eyes at a table parallel to mine. I know those eyes, I thought to myself. But I don’t recognize the man. No. Wait. I do. My god. That's Joe.

His hair was wild and still wavy—more salt than pepper. A long Jerry Garcia beard grew from his chin. I could still see the sharp bones on his forearms as he talked and gestured with his hands. He wasn’t unattractive. Just older. Different. And oh, my heart thumped with the old crush once again.

I didn’t stare, once I’d identified him. I just stored away the image so I could remember it later.

I wish there were an easy way to tell people I’ve never met that they made a difference in my life. I wish there were a way to tell total strangers that they've mattered. If I could have done it, I would have walked up to Joe in that restaurant and knelt down and said to him, “You don't know me, but I remember you when you were fifteen years younger. Nothing more than smiles and glances passed between us, but oh, how you impressed me then. . . .”

Yet I didn't.

A year and a half later—yes, this is one of those stories—Joe had passed away. He was young, not even in his early forties. In one of those strange life coincidences, the spouse had sung in a choir with Joe's younger brother, and had run across the obituary in the paper and commented on it.

I sat as if riveted to my chair that morning, at the breakfast table, remembering how I'd seen him at the Red Robin and wished I'd told him, though a total stranger, how much he'd mattered to me.

I wish I’d said those words aloud, even if it had cost me embarrassment.

I wish I’d had the nerve.

Too often I feel as if when it comes to life, we're all spendthrifts. We always assume there will be more of it at our ready disposal. We squander opportunities. I had let huge chunks slip between my fingers, even as I knew there weren't always second chances. I made a decision that morning to be mindful of how fast it all slips away, and how much life there is to live before we go.

I've tried to stick to that mindfulness, ever since.

I loved Joe for the way he looked at me across the library floor, and for how his crinkled eyes mingled intrigue with amusement. I loved Joe for the way he smiled at me. He made me feel good. It was a pleasure to the mind and senses to be in his presence.

I still wish I could tell him this simple message: Nothing more than smiles and glances passed between us. But oh, how he impressed me.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Looky-Loos and Disappearing Acts

They started coming last Thursday and Friday, all in a rush, without any warning. Letters from home.

My old home, that is. Not Virginia or Georgia, the homes of my youth, where I scarcely know anyone and from which all my family and friends have fled or expired. From Michigan, my chosen home for two and a half decades.

It was odd timing, too, because the day before, I’d just commented on how homesick I was. I drove out of Michigan sleepy and tired and sweating and in a car with an unhappy pet, so I didn’t really have a chance to get sentimental about saying my mental goodbyes to the area. I was basically just trying to keep the pet quiet and my eyes on the road and the air conditioner blasted on high. After that I had the issues of moving an entire house’s worth of stuff into our temporary apartment, and the challenges of getting settled in a new state.

Not until a few days ago have I had the actual leisure to reflect on what I’ve left behind. It saddens me to think of the Craftsman house I loved and left behind. Little things trigger it, like the sight of a Japanese maple that will remind me of the baby I planted in my own front yard and watched grow into a monster. The smell of a neighbor’s cut grass makes me think back to how pungent the same smell was from my own back yard, when the sun hit the yard in the late afternoon. Wednesday night I found myself staring at the cupboards in my new place, baffled at them, my hands reaching instinctively for all the spots I stored things in my old home. My hands remembered well where they wanted to go, though I tried to tell them otherwise. They were like dogs trying to find their way to an old home, out of habit and the pull of some unspeakable force.

Then these emails started coming and I thought to myself, Man, I am well out of that shit.

The first batch of emails came, you see, from a broad class of men I think of under the classification of “looky-loos.” Every time I would log onto a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam, they’d check out my profile. I’d see it on the tracking page. A few minutes later, they’d check me out again. Then, like clockwork, every twenty minutes or so they’d peek back again. They never said anything; they never made a move or gave me any indication that they’d be interested in getting together. They just looked, and looked, and kept silent.

I don’t think there wasn’t a one of them at which I didn’t look back (at first), or winked or smiled. To most I’d send the occasional message of Hey, how’s it going? or Looking around tonight? Some of these guys were quite hot—muscular physiques, smooth young bodies or beefy bear chests. A few were, to put it gently, physically challenged. I eventually figured out that I wasn’t ever going to get any kind of response, so I just stopped trying with most.

That’s what made the emails from the looky-loos so puzzling at first. I got three of them in a row, Thursday, and then a handful more that night and the following day. You moved and I never got that hot dick, read one. Another said, I guess now we’re never going to be able to get together. They were all pretty much the same—mournful and vaguely laden with reproach.

I wanted to reply with my own initial response: what the fuck? Instead, I was kind of annoyed. You’ve been looking at my profile for the last ten years, I wrote one guy, since I joined Never did you ever make a move to get together, and I even offered at a couple of points! To another guy whose message was roughly the same I asked, And how does moving make your failure ever to talk to me my fault?

At about the same time I started getting emails from another group of guys I call the Disappearing Acts. I think we’ve all encountered these guys. They come on strong in a very, very short period of time online, telling you all the hot and nasty things they want to do with you and promising all kinds of forbidden pleasures. Or they’ll meet you in a bar, and monopolize you quite pleasantly in a hot and sexy way for the night. Or you might even hook up with them and, at the end of a good sex session, they’ll tell you all the hot things they really want to do with you, next time.

Then, just as you’re hooked, they vanish. You don’t hear from them, they don’t return your calls, they don’t show up online. Just as you’ve either decided they’re dead or forgotten about them entirely, months or even years later, they’ll show up and expect you to be just as hot for them again as you were that one afternoon in July of 2005.

It’s a little crazy-making, because usually these guys talk a really good and convincing game—but as far as follow-through, they might as well be like the Looky-Loos. I had two of my Disappearing Acts contact me at the end of last week, both surprised to see that I had a new location listed in my profile, and both contacting me with outraged emails of, Wha’ happen?

I advertised in my profiles for two months before I left that I was moving out of Michigan, I told them both. One of them protested he’d been busy for two months. You’ve been busy for two years, I pointed out to him, after a quick review of our emails. That’s the last time I heard from you.

He wrote back that he’d been in rehab for several months, and that he’d sold his house, and moved to a different city, and then moved back, and then broke up with his boyfriend, then got back together, and now they were both living with his boyfriend’s mom and he was finally ready to get together and do all those great things we’d talked about, only I’d had the effrontery to up and leave.

There’s not really much to say to that, is there?

I think the lesson to be learned here is that we never really know how much time we have left to accomplish what we want. We don’t know what’s going to happen to that hot guy we’ve had our eye on, or that pretty boy in the apartment below ours, or that sexy bartender with whom we’ve always longed just to exchange a few words. You don’t know when that guy you’ve wanted online is going to move. If you really want someone, whether for sex or for conversation or something more, nothing’s going to happen unless you act. And act today.

I can get as tongue-tied over beauty as the next guy. There are men I see who make my jaw drop and cause every insecurity to come roaring into life like tornado sirens during a severe weather situation. There are men I see whom I know, just know, that if I approach them, they’ll cut me with a word and a look.

But you know, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes that beautiful guy who makes me feel like a gawky thirteen-year-old with braces turns out to be friendly, and we’ve had a good talk and become friendly acquaintances. Sometimes they’ve turned out to be just as horny for what I have to offer as I am for what they can give me, and we’ve fucked. You won’t know unless you say something—and even if the guy cuts you down (or more likely, gently sends you on your way, because only assholes behave badly in those situations), what’ve you lost, really? Not dignity. Going after what you want never makes you lose that. Not pride, or anything important. A simple no is not going to end your life.

And I’m willing to bet you’ll be surprised how many answers of yes you’ll actually get.

Not all of my mail from home was annoying. I did receive from The Decorator a note that read: I miss you more than I thought possible. I’ve never had better sex with anyone, compared to you. I’d seriously pay to fly you back here to spend a few nights with me, if it’s possible.

That, my friends, is the kind of email a man likes to receive.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Mailbox Edition

I am a little behind on my email correspondence. I know this to be a fact because the night before last I looked in my Pending Mail folder on yahoo and saw that it had over 200 messages in it, beginning back before my move and continuing all the way through it up until the present day.

Even after I went through and deleted the notifications to comments on this blog that I needed to answer (and I might just pretty much call those a wash, I'm thinking), I still have over a hundred more personal notes to address.

Blog-related email has been kind of low on my priority list lately, and for that I apologize. It's just that I've had a ton of little moving-related things to do—driver's licenses and new plates, insurance, banking arrangements, cleaning, catching up on dental and eye appointments and what-have-you, and by the time I get home, that email just seems less like fun and more like work.

I'll get to them—I swear. It might not be in the timeliest of manners, but I will get to them. In the meantime, though, just know that no, I'm not offended with many of you. A couple, yes, but probably not you. I'm not ignoring you. Well, I kind of am, but I plead extenuating circumstances. And lastly, I honestly promise you'll be hearing from me eventually.

In the meantime, let's recap some of the questions I've been getting at

I'm about to go on a 350 mile road trip. Looking to get my cock in some guys mouths or asses on the way. Your advice on how to succeed?

I occasionally have some luck placing ads in the places I know I'm planning to stop along my longer road trips. Once in a while I'll get a good Craigslist hit. Typically, though, I have better luck simply showing up and getting online and finding someone once I'm there. Apparently pre-planning is too much for a lot of people.

What TV show makes you laugh the loudest?

The Inbetweeners, of relatively recent shows. I Love Lucy, from the classics.

Do you think love conquers all?

Romantic love can be a powerful motivator. At the same time, people do a lot of stupid shit in its name that they regret later. So no, I don't think that romantic love should conquer good sense or studied decision-making.

Are you going to make it to IML this year? I know you are moving in June, but hope that won't keep you from making it to Chicago. I know a couple of ppl who'd like to meet you...

I'm moving the weekend after IML, so I won't be there. I wish I could meet those friends of yours, though.

How many days can you go w/o beating off?

if I'm having regular sex on a daily basis (or close to it), I can go without beating off for weeks. I think three months was about my longest period, recently.

If I'm not having daily sex, about five days is about all I can stand.

What would be harder for you, to tell someone you love them or that you do not love them back?

I rarely have a problem telling someone I love them, though very often I fear the word 'love' scares people away, despite its many possible connotations.

Telling someone I don't love them back, however, or even telling them that I'm not attracted to them in that way, is difficult territory. Abrupt as I can be sometimes, I don't get a lot of pleasure out of hurting people's feelings.

Have you ever ended a friendship? I mean actually making a choice and ending it, not just drifting apart and losing touch.

I did it quite recently, in fact, when I asked a friend to apologize for some hurtful remarks he'd made to others about me. When he refused, I ended the friendship.

The time since has been remarkably awkward, as it's put many mutual friends in the unenviable position of having to be stuck in the middle of the argument. In addition, it's meant I've been excluded from their activities and get-togethers.

However, if my friendship isn't worth the price of one apology, then I'm not going to continue giving it away.

May I ask, why do you inquire about a person's HIV status, if you don't use it as a factor when hooking up?

If a person would like to choose to discount a person as a friend, partner, or one-night-stand because of his HIV status, he are free to do so. Never mind that for every one of those relationships there are many, many activities in which they could engage, including sex, that wouldn't result in the transmission of the HIV virus--if that was indeed what he most feared.

So if a person want to discriminate that way, he may feel free. I will think he's narrow-minded and ignorant, but it's his choice.

I inquire about my sexual partners' HIV status because I like to be informed. I do not make my selections based solely on status, however. There are many variables and shadings that are more important to me.

My choices are not your choices. And you're free to think about my choices what you will.

What's your favorite position for breeding?

Doggie. Hands down. Pun intended.

Where's the line where a guy becomes a troll?

For me, it's when his attentions begin to demand some kind of response from me that I don't want to give.

A guy who hits me up for sex once whom I decline, and then who politely nudges me from time to time to see if I might have changed my mind, might be a minor annoyance. The same guy who hits me up the moment he sees me, every single time, refusing to take no for an answer, or who follows me around even when I've made it clear that I'm not interested, is a troll.

I don't fault a guy for trying. I do get upset when his persistence implies an entitlement.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Flood Watch in Mianus

This sign marks the exit to my new home. For real, y'all.

I know. Putnam Cottage? Disgusting.

The Mianus is actually a river that cuts through the city to the west of me, with a little neighborhood named after it. It’s pronounced mayanus, with a nice schwa sound on the second syllable. But of course, I like to pronounce it in the most vulgar way possible, drawling out the syllables in an obnoxious fashion that gives my voice the same diamond cutting edge of the character Janice from Friends, years back. And when I’m out driving with family, I like to use it in sentences like:

“If you want to visit, you know you’re close when you can see Mianus!


“I’m glad they’ve built a really big on-ramp to Mianus!

Or, at night,

“It’s kind of hard to see around Mianus, it’s so dark and gloomy.”

Because it’s a river, there are magnificent opportunities for gems like,

“Man, Mianus is wet tonight.”


“I think there’s some kind of fungus blooming on Mianus. It really STINKS.

In the last couple of days, I’ve hit on another motherlode of potty humor. Whenever someone (not me) farts (never me), I’ll look around innocently, “Must be ducks from Mianus.”

Um, did I say that I looked around innocently? I must’ve meant someone else. Because I don’t fart.

(Note: I haven’t actually done this in front of any native people from the state. I have heard they tend to be touchy about it. The Mianus jokes, I mean. Not the farting.)

Oh, Connecticut. How you appeal to my inner third-grader.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Cry of the Preacher Man

(This post is a continuation of Blame It on the Preacher Man, and is the last in the Preacher Man series--though only a chapter in the story I'm trying to parse together, gradually, about my teenaged experiences with Earl.)

“Fuck me.” I lay on my back in the preacher man’s bed, which was a hard, uncomfortable mattress more akin to a sheet-covered bookshelf than anything comfortable. The man’s pillow lay beneath my straw-blond hair, rustling like a pillowcase of sawdust. “Tell me you want to fuck me.”

“It’s a sin,” said the preacher man. He stood at the bed’s foot, his triangular penis protruding from between the flaps of his dress shirt. He was obscenely hard. I’d already sucked him close to orgasm twice, though I’d backed off at the last possible moment in order to prolong both his pleasure and his agony. “Son, it’s a sin for a man to lie with man as he lies with a woman.”

He didn’t sound convinced in his own words. My legs were already spread and lifted. I hoisted them up to my chest and exposed my pink, sixteen-year-old hole to him. I was being fucked almost daily back then. All I had to do was lick two of my fingers and press them against the entrance. They disappeared to the third knuckles almost immediately. I finger-fucked myself while he watched, and finally repeated my demand. “Fuck me.”

When I saw his dick twitch, and harden even further, I knew I had him. And I despised him for his lust.
I’d come this far with the preacher man with the advice of Jim, who was my mentor Earl’s younger lover. It had been Jim who’d originally made the suggestion that I fuck around with this overly religious man’s head—that I force him to admit to and do things he might not ordinarily allow himself, all while making him feel badly about it.

I’d never been one of those kids who got off on taunting others. I hadn’t been a bully of any sort in school, though I had been picked on whenever I failed at blending in. My experiences with the preacher man had brought out a sadistic side of me that I found surprising. Surprising, in that I liked it. A part of me reveled in the way my mouth, my hands, and my young body were what the older and more corpulent man truly desired, even as he attempted to mouth the platitudes of his religion to convince me I was doing the devil’s work.

So far I’d been successful in getting him to admit aloud that he needed the constant blow jobs I’d been giving him, sinful or not. And I’d gotten him to let me blow him in the bedroom he shared with his unseen wife, whom I gathered worked as a secretary for some sort of charitable organization. I hadn’t seen a picture of her, but I could imagine her from the false eyelashes lying on her dresser, and from the costume jewelry that lay in bunches there, and even from the smell of her perfume still lingering in the air, accumulated over time like the tobacco stains on the preacher man’s own fingers. Those fingers played with his dick now, skimming the skin back and forth with tiny jerks.

“Stop it,” I told him. He obeyed. Inside me, a demon-headed being opened its mouth and roared with laughter. “Come here.” He stepped forward. “Give me your hand.”

An expression passed over his face. Confusion, perhaps. Shame. He presented his hand palm up, like a student expecting it to be struck with a ruler. I grabbed the warm flesh, which felt like so much chicken sliding off the bone, and guided it to my hole. His fingers made contact with my anus. I rubbed the tips over the irregular opening. “It’s soft, like pussy,” I told him. He opened his mouth, I knew either to protest, or to beg me not to use such words with him. “Fuck it.”

“I can’t,” he said, trying to willing himself to back away. He couldn’t, quite. I continued moving his hand over the hole, while passively he let me. “I can’t.”

Every little triumph with the preacher man I’d scuttled back to share with Jim. Little conspirators, we were. At the time, I didn’t know exactly why I was doing it, though now it’s plain enough. I wanted Jim to like me. I was young enough to be thoroughly uncomfortable with Jim’s dislike of me. His obvious jealousy of my relationship with Earl, who’d begun their relationship when Jim was not much older than I at that time, was not something with which I could easily live. This secret we shared about the preacher man wasn’t ever going to make us buddies, but it gave me the illusion that someday I might curry Jim’s approval.

So I’d tell him that I’d gotten the preacher man to say aloud that he liked my mouth on his dick—no, that he needed my mouth on his dick—and Jim would smirk and tell me I was giving that nasty piece of shit exactly what he needed and deserved. Jim would still roll his eyes at the sight of me, and treat me as if I were the turd that a dog dropped on the living room carpet that he certainly wasn’t going to clean up. But it was something. I was desperate for something from him.

Though I shouldn’t have been.

Through some gymnastics I’d managed to maneuver my hips so that they pressed close to the preacher man’s dick. “Put it in,” I told him. “Just a little. Just the tip. Put it in.” I kept up a stream of orders, all like that, all simple, all orders he’d want to follow, as I grabbed onto his dick and tried to get him to fuck his first hole. “Come on,” I urged. “It feels good. It’s okay. I won’t tell. Only God will see. He doesn’t mind. He wants you to be happy. Put it in. Come on. Please, I need it. You need it too.”

He whimpered, helpless. His yearning was so great, and writ so plain on his face. I was wearing him down, slowly, inexorably.

“Fuck me,” I begged. “Slide it in. Put it in me. It feels great. I love it. Fuck me, just like you fuck your wife. Fuck me. Fuck—ah!”

I wasn’t prepared for the savage stab that put an end to my exhortations. Unlubed, unprepared, he thrust into me. I was glad I’d used my own wet fingers on my hole a minute or two earlier, so at least there was something. Once the stars in front of my eyes had passed, I looked up at him. He was just standing there, his short dick buried inside me as deep as it could go, not moving.

“Go in and out,” I told him. “You need to go. . . .”

He didn’t need to do anything. Without any thrusting, I felt his dick swell and ebb, swell and ebb. He was shooting inside me already, put over the edge by having his dick inside a teenager for the very first time. His face turned beet red; his eyes closed and his hips clenched. His nails dug deep into my thighs until it was over.

Something startling happened. At first I thought it was the sound of a train engine, approaching outside from far away. We weren’t near any railway lines, however. It sounded like the whine of a distant siren getting louder, or something whizzing from space and breaking orbit as it plunged to earth. It took me a few moments to realize it was coming from the preacher man’s chest, and that the sound he made was some kind of uncanny keening.

I still had his thick, yellow-tinged semen dripping from my hole when I tried to sit up. “Hey,” I said, trying to find out if he was okay.

He shoved me back, so hard that my head rebounded against the sawdust pillow and up again. Then he fell to his knees at the foot of the bed. His hands covered his face, and tore at his fine, sparse hair. His face had been deep red at the peak of his sexual arousal. Now it was streaked with purple and white. His fingers rubbed at his face as if he were trying to erase it, to render it unrecognizable.

He was crying. Tears flowed from his ducts. Fluid dripped from his nose. That high-pitched, uncanny noise kept coming from his chest, on and on. He didn’t seem to pause even to breathe. If ever was the time to exult in what I’d made the preacher man do, it would have been then.

But I wasn’t.

I didn’t feel any kind of triumph at all. Instead, I felt horror. Horror at what I’d done. Shame at not how low I’d laid him, but how low I’d gone to do it. I felt utterly and completely like the little shit I really was, at that moment. I sat there in that stuffy and acrid bedroom utterly horrified, and unable to move for what seemed like a year, while I watched the man have a nervous breakdown at the end of his bed.
Then I slipped off the mattress, gathered my clothes, and slunk home on my bike, never to return.

Here’s the thing: the preacher man was a dreadful hypocrite. Sure, he convinced himself that others were sinners and that he was one of the righteous, all while getting blow jobs from a sixteen-year-old in a public park. Yeah, he was trying to make me feel miserable about my sins by quoting the Bible at me while he ignored his own shortcomings. For all I know, he went on to make the lives of many a man a misery, after. Yet it really wasn’t for me to shame him, like that. I did it, and I’d wanted to do it.

I wasn’t the kind of person, ultimately, who rejoiced in the misfortunes of others. I didn’t get off on seeing a man in his late middle age breaking down in tears as he confronted his real self for the first time in his life. What's more, I really didn't understand who would. Who could.

Facing the truth isn’t a bad thing in and of itself. It never is. But I knew then that for me, that wasn’t the way to go about it. I didn’t want to make that call again. That night, alone in my room at home silent save for the whirring of the giant house fan we kept at the top of the stairs, summers, I still heard that terrible noise, deep from within the man’s chest. Physical pain is one thing. This wail was something else. It was the sound of a soul in torment. I never, ever wanted to hear it again.

I didn’t speak of those uncomfortable moments at the side of that bed to anyone. Not until now, anyway. I never told Earl. It was one of those things I witnessed that was too primal, too raw, to share.
Jim asked me how it was going with the preacher man the next time I saw him. “Oh,” I lied. “I got tired of him.” I didn’t share the man’s breakdown with Jim. I didn’t elaborate, I didn’t invent. I shut him down, even as I knew that any respect I might have won from him with my exploits in cruelty might evaporate for good.

It did. Any giddiness we might briefly have shared in our collaboration dissipated like a soap bubble. It always made me wonder if what was to come later was my fault, in some way—as if perhaps, if I’d kept Jim occupied, he wouldn’t have meddled in Topher’s life the way he later did.

But that’s another chapter in another story.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011


One of the questions a reader asked me, my last month or so in Michigan, was how I expected to fare in Connecticut sexually once I made the move here. I’m afraid that at the time I read it as a bit of a snide question, too, since the guy asking it specifically said he wanted to compare my answer with the reality, down the road. (Though perhaps I was misreading.)

My reply at the time was that I honestly expected to have very little action in my first weeks in my new locale—that I was moving into an area where I knew no one, wasn’t familiar with the area, and didn’t know the local cruising customs (and oh yes, the local cruising customs vary, wherever you go). Whatever my status as ‘new meat’ might be when I got there, I said, I really didn’t anticipate getting laid much . . . at first.

My readers were very supportive at the time, I remember, telling me I’d have asses lined up to greet me, and a Busby Berkley musical number’s worth of legs opening in circle formation at my approach.

Well, bitches, and for the first time in my life I’m sorry to have to say these words: I was right.

I confess that I’m a little frustrated, right now. I haven’t had sex in three weeks. That’s an eternity for me. I kind of knew that the last week before I moved was going to be a bust, and quite frankly the week after my move I was too busy trying to clear out boxes and to find my collection of kitchen knives buried somewhere in the mess, because honestly, trying to cut up vegetables and chicken for a Thai red curry stir-fry with a plastic picnic knife is not an experience I ever, ever want to have again. Now that I’ve cleared out a little living space, though, and have found the kitchen utensils and settled into a little bit more of a routine, I’m ready to start playing around again.

And the world’s not cooperating.

Part of it, of course, is that I’m out of step here still. Everyone online knows where all these little cities and communities are, while my knowledge extends to what’s up and down Route 1 in either direction for about, oh, five miles. They know what dropping the name of an exit means, while I have just about figured how to get to Trader Joe’s and back without getting lost more than once or twice. And then there’s New York and its little communities, just over the border . . . I haven’t assimilated all the information yet. It makes me feel a little bit out of the running.

My first online encounter with a guy didn’t go so well, either. This is an actual transcription of the emails we exchanged:

HIM: Hey, you look hot. I am up the road in Oxford. You should come up here and fuck me deep man.

ME: Thanks for the compliment. I like your profile. I just moved here a week ago yesterday. Where is Oxford and when are you free?

I never got a reply back, until about four hours later, when he sent: TOO MUCH TALK AND NOT ENOUGH ACTION DUDE. YOU ARE BLOCKED!

Which left me thinking, Seriously? What the fuck? Because if I want to deal with crazy people, I could just answer the remarks left by the scat-obsessed commenter on my blog during those weeks he's off his schizophrenia meds.

The weirdness continued Sunday, when I had the entire afternoon to myself and ample time and opportunity to hook up. I got online, changed my status to ‘Available now,’ and was relieved when a guy who’d hit me up earlier in the week asked if I was looking. Yes, I told him. I was.

Could I host? he wanted to know.

Yes, I said, I could, for another three hours.

Okay, he said. That sounded great.

Did he want to come over, then? I asked him. Because, you know, he hadn’t actually said he would.
About a half hour after that he finally wrote back. I’d pretty much given up on him at this point, to be honest. Did I have poppers for him? he wanted to know.

No, I didn’t, I said. But my place was free for another two and a half hours.

I waited, and waited, and finally he wrote back after another half-hour. Did I know so-and-so? He gave me the name of another profile. He’d wanted to get with him forever and he was free that afternoon, too.

At that point I was frustrated from wasting an hour of my time on this guy, and wanted to pound out on the keyboard, WELL FINE GET WITH HIM THEN ASSHOLE AND STOP BOTHERING ME. But instead I typed out a much more polite version of the same message, logged off, and went about my business. Because every guy was pretty much the same, Sunday—I’d say I was available and could host, and then I’d get no response whatsoever, or else they’d stall and demand more X-rated photos, or ask for more G-rated photos, or ask about my pharmaceutical access, or do anything save ask for an address and say they’d be on their way.

This is what I’ve noticed about guys in the area: they stall. Instead of saying, “I’m not available right now. How about tonight or later this week?”, they’ll keep you on the hook, and dribble out communications bit by bit to make you think that there’s the slightest opportunity of getting together.

But in reality, what they’re giving me is the impression that they’re too frightened to take a couple of hours to meet someone face to face on the slight off-chance that they might miss out on a chance to meet someone better-looking than I, or better-hung, or someone just, well, better.

I’ve been in other cities where this kind of behavior is the norm. Los Angeles is kind of notorious for it—guys will sit for hours and hours looking for hookups that they’ll never have because they’re frightened to miss out on something hotter than you . . . no matter how smoking hot you may be. And maybe I’m close enough to New York City that a similar kind of behavior has spread out here to the nutmeg state.

Whatever it is, it’s frustrating.

Like I said, perhaps I’m just still out of step. I’ll figure things out, and make some connections, and get back my mojo.

In the meantime, though—and these are words I’ve again never before said—I hate being right.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Park and Ride

I knew the place lay nearby when I saw the exit sign loom overhead, poking through the archway of greenery covering the parkway. I nudged my car into the right lane, pulled off, and into the southernmost of the two lots.

Park and Ride, read the sign. It was a place where commuters met to carpool into New York City, thirty miles away. In the twilight, many cars were still parked along the several rows, empty of occupants. Expensive cars. I nudged my domestic model among the BMWs and Mercedes and the sporty little Italian coupes, looking for signs of life.

I found some at the lot’s far end. One man in his fifties stood near a tiny wooded area—little more than scrub and a few tree trunks, really. He wore a collared business shirt still crisp after a day’s work, its powder-blue sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His maroon tie hung loose from his neck, his top button was unbuttoned. He took a long drag on the remnants of a cigarette, let the smoke billow casually from between his lips, then dropped the butt onto a parking bumper. He ground it into dust with his leather soles. The guy wasn’t hideous, by any means, but he wasn’t attractive, either. His lips pursed out too much, and age had left layers of wrinkles around his eyes, making them look like the deep knots on some ancient, mythical tree. Natty as he was, he looked as if he smelled of old tobacco. I turned my head from him and parked my car a little down the way, between a Volvo two spaces away on the left, and a BMW three slots further on the right.

The web site hadn’t specified any particular protocol for cruising here, though it had recommended against going into the woods to carry out my business. I figured the cruising here would work like the rest stop parking area back in Michigan, during the dark hours. I turned off the car, let the radio play at a low volume, and began rubbing at my crotch in order to get a bulge rising down there.
In the BMW to my right sat a surprisingly young guy, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. He had the large, broad features and the wide-brushed eyebrows of a middle eastern man; the skin on his jaw, though smooth, seemed as if it might sprout into ten o’clock shadow at any moment. He looked my way in a not-looking kind of way; his eyes danced over and past mine, only locking into my gaze on the return trip. He nodded slightly.

I nodded back, as the bulge in my shorts grew from forced to genuine.

The Volvo had someone sitting in it as well, a handsome guy in his forties sporting a precision haircut and a wedding ring. He, too, wore a crisp business shirt and a tie. I could see his jacket slung over the passenger seat. He pretended to be looking at his phone, but his glance was fixed on the man in the woods. Only occasionally did he divert his attention my way, and then only to see if I was remaining in my car, or what my intentions might be.

The businessman in the woods wasn’t very patient—or subtle. Another cigarette already smoldering between his fingers, he used one hand to cup his generous package, squeezing it for anyone who could see. His neck craned over the parking lot. Like him, I turned my head to discern which other cars might have men in them. There were several, all parked in our general vicinity. I could make out shadows of other heads turning, silhouettes of figures waiting in the twilight for something to happen.

I didn’t do anything that night; I didn’t get out of my car and insinuate myself into someone else’s vehicle with a smile and a false excuse of needing directions. I didn’t wander into the woods, or take a stroll to see what eyes followed me. I sat in the car, and watched for twenty minutes, getting the lay of the land. And then I drove away, leaving behind the expensive vehicles and the desperate businessman still patrolling, Cerebus-like, the entrance to the woods.

Park and Ride. I parked. Maybe soon I’ll take a ride.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Father's Day Edition

I know for a fact there are a lot of parents who read my blog—dads and some moms alike. In our culture, we tend to dislike the messy overlaps that happen when people don't fall into easily-defined, narrow classifications. That is, when someone who's an otherwise great parent also happens to have a healthy interest in sex, whether within his or her relationship, or outside of it, or with someone of the same gender.

But it happens, and more often than many people think or suppose. A lot of parents are perfectly happy to keep their sexuality behind closed doors and never to speak of it in front of their children, as they pretend to be chaste. That's fine. At the same time, being open about sexuality and all its weird wonderfulness is a valid parenting choice as well. My semi-hippie parents chose that route to follow, and it left me a lot better-educated and prepared for the real world than many of my peers. The choices I started to make about sex were mine to make, and not someone else's. It's equally as fine an approach to parenting as the other, when the decision is made with thought, deliberation, and philosophy.

So my message to you guys on this Father's Day is, I suppose, to respect your parents for the choices they've made in your upbringing, so long as they were made with good intentions. They really were doing the best for you. Love your folks, if you're able—and more importantly, if you've still got them around to love. And give your dad a phone call. He'll appreciate it.

Some question from is our usual Sunday routine—and who am I to break routine? I could use some fresh questions from readers, so drop on by and scribble a couple.

What was on your 'before I move" bucket list?

I had a few places I wanted to visit, and a few people I wanted to see, but mostly (I'm ashamed to admit) my bucket list consisted of restaurants I wanted to patronize before I left the area for good.

Hey, what can I say? I like to eat.

Might I inquire as to the cost of purchasing 10ml of your semen by mail? I plan to test it for HIV. Your thoughts?

My thoughts are that your request to do such a thing seems intent on shaming me for some obscure reason that has more to do with your inadequacies than it has anything to do with me.

Furthermore, my thoughts are that to stigmatize or ostracize anyone based on their HIV status betrays not only your small-mindedness and intolerance, but a huge degree of ignorance as well. In my eyes, it makes you vile. And that's a pity.

To me the worst thing would be losing my hearing... my partner says going blind... what do you think is the most terrible sense to loose?

I think both hearing and sight would be terrible to lose, but I would probably adapt to them. I think not having any sense of touch, however, would be the worst. Not to be able to feel another person's touch, or to reciprocate, would be torture.

I want to try writing about my experiences, but when I read what I wrote, its flat and dull. How do I improve?

Write more. The more you write, the better you get. Write more, and read more. Read the authors you aspire to be, and study what makes them good storytellers. Apply what you learn to your own writing. Discard what doesn't work and keep what does. But mostly, write more. It's a long and slow process, but it truly works.

A couple more things, though. The goal of writing shouldn't necessarily be making every story exciting and a ripping read. It's great when it happens, but if you're doing personal writing, basically what you're trying to do is to preserve the moments and the experiences that are important to you. Do that with as much detail as you can, in as clear a style as you can manage, and don't worry about whether it's dull. It's you. That's what's important.

Also I'd suggest that you not trust your own instincts about your writing, to a certain extent. Just because you find it flat and dull doesn't mean it's not going to resonate with others. Share your work with people whose opinions you trust, and get reactions. Learn what you can, and apply it to your writing.

But mostly, write more.

What is your guilty pleasure?

I would like to reply with the answer of cheesy, cheesy pop music, but I'll narrow it down for you: the output of the British production team of Stock-Aitken-Waterman.

It's a very, very, very guilty pleasure.

Does having sex with a condom on feel much different than without one? How much sensation is lost when you wear one?

For a top, yes. The amount of sensation lost is enormous, even when wearing extra-thin condoms or condoms with ridges or nubs or what-have-you. Additionally, the sensations of wetness and warmth are considerably negated, as the latex transmits neither.

Bottoms have given me varying answers to the same question. Some seem to be able to tell the difference. Some do not. My own experience with being on the receiving end of a condomed fuck is that the latex pulls and distends the membrane in a really unpleasant way. Others don't notice that, though.

Perhaps some bottoms could chime in with their opinions.

Just wondering if you would rather have a small stable group of men to breed or are you a wild beast like a lion or bear and would rather roam your territory and breed as many men as possible and spread your seed around?

I have been happiest when I've achieved a combination of both those things. I like to have a small collection of men I see regularly and can count on for some mutual pleasure—it's convenient to have buddies who know what I like and how I like to do it. And I also like to have the novelty and excitement of new encounters.

If I have to be a wild animal, though, can I be a panther? Thanks.

What actor would you have play you in a film about your life and what actors would you like to see in supporing roles, maybe as some of the friends you have made over the years?

Aaron Eckhart would play me, of course, because we look so much alike. Then Dave Annable would play Scruffy, Jake Gyllenhaal would be Spencer, and in the flashback scenes, Daniel Craig would be Earl and Steve Buscemi would be his partner, Jim.

Oh, and the kid who plays Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies would be my teen stand-in. There you go!

Why did you move to Michigan?

When I was choosing grad schools to attend, I found I could move either to Kentucky, to Tennessee, or to Michigan. I decided to choose the location with the biggest metropolitan area. Perhaps not so coincidentally, it also happened to be the place that was furthest from my parents' home, and offered the best financial aid package.

I dropped out of grad school a couple of years later, but I stayed in the area and continued teaching for several years.

Do you shave anywhere below the neck? How often? Front and/or back?

I shave my nuts fairly regularly, and trim my pubes. I also pluck the one weird hair on my chest that somehow regrows to a three-inch length in what seems like overnight. Coincidentally, it also happens to be the only hair on my chest.

Can you just sit in the sunshine, and enjoy a nice breeze, or do you always have to have a goal or task?

It's pretty tough for me to relax without doing something constructive. Even my most restful activities, like reading or gaming, have to do with either educating myself somehow or performing little tasks and chores in the name of fun. But simply to sit around and enjoy the sights or the weather can be very, very difficult.

I've managed to relax into it over the course of a few days on vacations in which I'm isolated from much of the world, like on an island or a cruise ship. But it takes a while (and I still feel guilty).

I just can't get enough of you. Whenever you post a pic, I find myself studying your hands or a glimpse of leg or abdomen. You're more than just a beautiful cock. Let's see more of that beautiful lanky body. -J

That's very flattering, J. Thank you. I've had more compliments about my hands, since I started my blog, than I've ever had my entire life.

It's a shame my nails are so fucked up, after my move.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Reader Asses: #13

I haven't had a chance to show off some reader asses in a good long while—at least since before my big relocation. And you guys know there's little I like better than some hot reader asses. Want to participate?Check the end of this entry to find out how.


I know nothing about Joseph beyond his name and the fact that he has one hell of a sexy body going on there. He's also got an eye for a camera angle—and one of those perky butts that looks good from any side.

Joseph, I'm putting you on official warning that if we're ever in the same city together, your hole is in danger, buddy.


Mark's a Twitter buddy of mine, and a very hot one, too. I like seeing him from this angle.

I haven't yet had the pleasure of seeing him live on cam like this, but Mark, if you'd like to show off for me sometime, I could take an entire session of watching you finger that hole like you are in the second photo. I'd give your nuts reason to swell a deep red.


So Rich from Chicago has given me a couple of photos here—one with a big black dick splitting wide open his hole, and another with an enormous pink dildo filling him. But you know, Rich? I still am not sure how much I like that ass. I'm pretty sure I like it a lot. Just about 99% certain, in fact. But maybe you'd better send me a whole lot more photos, just so I can be totally sure.

Another set with you getting fucked by poles of all colors would work just fine for me.


Jake describes himself as a Montana man—bi, married, and closeted. Jake's wife is one lucky woman, from what I can tell here. Not only has he chosen to share his juicy backside with us today, but he's sent us a shot of his sexy front as well.

Jake, I have a feeling these photos will make a lot of men (and women) very, very happy. I envy your spouse.

That's it for today. If you liked the photos, be sure to thank the contributors. After all, they get nothing more than the thrill of sharing their stuff with you. And of course, if you'd like to see your good featured here, send them in to me! My original guidelines can be found on this page.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Blame It on the Preacher Man

(This post is a continuation of a piece from a few weeks ago, Missionary Man Part II—and it will be continued in another installment.)

“Does Jesus love me?”

The man fidgeted restlessly in his chair. From where my sixteen-year-old self knelt between his legs, naked on his kitchen floor, I could watch the struggle on his face. It played out like a medieval morality drama—the hope, the anxiety, the mortal fear of damnation.

His legs were as white as eggshells, save for the stretches on his inner thighs where the summer heat and moisture had caused a rash of tiny red pimples to break out. They looked all the more naked in contrast to the short-sleeved collared shirt he still wore. His knees parted as I tugged at the massive folds of sack holding his nuts. “Does Jesus love me?” I repeated, before filling my mouth with his dick.

It wasn’t a pretty dick at all, measuring five inches at the most, with a head that was smaller than the base and ended almost in a point. It was also the most desperately and furiously purple dick I’d ever seen. Its engorgement looked almost painful.

“Son, the Lord loves us all,” gasped out the man. His hands held the back of my head, pulling me down onto his inches. I couldn’t have struggled away at that point had I wanted. “He loves the homosexual, even as he despises his deeds.” Homosexshul, he always pronounced it.

I felt his dick spurt out more and more precum as I pulled back. The salty fluid covered my lips when I separated from him. I licked them in a way I meant to be provocative, and stared him at the eye. “You mean, he hates when I suck dick?”

“Don’t say it like that, son,” begged the man.

“Why not? It’s what I’m doing.” I wiped the moisture from around my mouth onto the back of my hand. “I’m sucking your dick. You’re putting your dick in my mouth.”

Despite the fact that he’d been doing so for a good ten minutes, my companion seemed utterly unwilling to admit to it. In fact, he seemed exasperated with me. “Don’t talk about it, son,” he begged.

“You want me to stop?” I settled back on my haunches. My clothes lay in a pile on the floor, in front of an old and rusted dishwasher—the type that rolled across a kitchen floor and hooked into its faucet via a hose. Nothing in his kitchen was new. Not the appliances, which had been perhaps new at roughly the time Lucy was moving in next to the Mertzes. Not the floral wallpaper, which was peeling from the wall. Definitely not the linoleum, which was cracked and yellow as old teeth. I grabbed for my T-shirt as if I was planning to leave.

I knew he wouldn’t let me. “Don’t,” he said, in a voice made husky from desire. “Just . . . don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop what?”

Again, I watched the morality drama play out on his face. He was struggling to say the words. Some part of me, deep inside, got off on that. “Don’t stop . . . sucking . . . my . . . dick,” he finally said. He had to force out the last three words. After a moment, I nodded, dropped my T-shirt on the dirty floor, and went back to what I’d been doing.

Make him say the words, is what Jim had told me. I hadn’t understood. These assholes get away with everything because they don’t admit to any of it. Not even to themselves. If you want to fuck with his head, make him say the words. Don’t get into the trap of doing things to speed things along. Make him say what he wants. Make him say the fucking words. They have to face up to it, once they say the words.

Jim had worn a cruel sneer on his face when he’d given me the advice. His face was full of contempt for the man who’d had sex with me in his boat of a Cadillac and then lectured me about my relationship to the Lord, after. He knew that culture, it was pretty plain. It wasn’t unusual, though. Virginia in the nineteen-seventies was very much a staunch bastion of mainstream Protestant religion—the types of good, genteel folk who dressed up for church on Sunday but upon whom the sermon made as little impression as the butter they spread upon their biscuits during their hot Sunday dinners, after. But there was growing at the time an increasingly evangelical grassroots Christianity as well, that demanded total adherence to its increasingly conservative mindset. Everyone knew someone who’d survived that sort of religion.

Earl, my sexual mentor of sorts, had argued with him that evening. “The kid’s not like that,” he kept telling Jim. “He doesn’t have that capacity.” A few minutes earlier, he’d said I wasn’t capable of adult insights. Those words had still smarted. Finally, he stood up. His soft dick swung between his legs as he walked in the direction of the stairs. “I’m going to the bedroom,” he announced. To me, he added, “If you want to come up when you’re done listening to bad advice, I’ll be around.”

I knew an order when I heard it. I rose to follow, but Jim stopped me before I did. “Fuck with him,” he advised. “Meet up with that preacher man again and fuck with his head. It’ll be fun. I promise.”

I should’ve known better than to trust him. Jim was a man who’d gone out of his way to sabotage me at every opportunity. He’d cut me down verbally. He’d pinched me too hard during sex, and let the tip of his lit cigarettes accidentally rest against my naked skin, from time to time. I had no reason to trust him, but when he’d caught sight of my momentary resentment of Earl, somehow he’d managed to insinuate a notion into my head. Maybe it would be fun to fuck around with the preacher man. More than that: maybe it would be right to fuck with him. Maybe it was what he deserved.

So I laid in wait for the guy. I knew what day of the week he was likely to cruise the park from the first time we met, and wasn’t surprised when he showed up at the same time, a week later. I sucked him in his car again that day, just as I did the week after. The third week he showed up, I made up some story about seeing the cops drive through a few minutes before and how I was worried about doing it there. Maybe, I didn’t know, if his wife wasn’t home, he could maybe take me there? When he’d hesitated, I’d shrugged and turned as if to climb on my bike and head home. But he’d invited me, and there I was, dirtying my knees and shins on the filthy linoleum of his Lakeside kitchen.

“So Jesus doesn’t like it when I do this?” I asked, going all the way down on his dick until it plugged my throat. He was so hard, it was like wrapping my lips around a concrete shaft.

“Jesus weeps for the homosexshul sin,” gasped out the preacher man. “Truly, you must repent of doing such things—“ It was an effort to get out the words, with my determined sucking. “If you wish to reach the kingdom of heaven.”

I shut up then. I’d decided to bring him off. My lips pursed out to take his length, and my throat opened to accommodate him. All I needed to do was pull at his nuts, and globs of creamy sperm were coating my tonsils. I swallowed every drop of the foul-tasting stuff, then backed off. He stared at me. His legs were still trembling.

It was then that I realized he feared whatever I might have to say. “Then what does he think of you?” I asked, calm, cool, and cruel. Tight with Jesus he might have been, but I was flushed with the glory of the righteous, and I knew I had the upper hand.

Then, like the little prick I was being at that moment, I picked up my clothes, put them on without hurry, and exited.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The Dismount

This isn’t an X-rated event, but I’d like to remember it.

The night before I drove to my new home, after the movers had cartoned up everything in the house and loaded it on their truck and driven away, some of my friends gave me a going-away party. I didn’t really want anything of the sort. In fact, I’d specifically asked they not do any such thing. For one thing, they’d already thrown us a huge farewell party back in September of last year—a huge event with way too much food, a rented space, music, the works. After the spouse departed and I lingered on for nine months while I waited for my house to sell, though, I kind of felt increasingly awkward about having been to my own going-away party and never, you know, actually going.

Still, when I got to the bar and saw the balloons and the cake and a handful of my friends smiling at me, any reluctance I had more or less vanished. A good cake goes a long way toward mollifying my doubts, usually. I ate, I chatted, I grinned a lot . . . everyone had a good time.

About an hour into the evening, one of the friends who’d done the most to organize the party slid into a vacated chair next to mine. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with Spencer,” he told me. “I was hoping I could get him to come out, too.”

He’d met Spencer on one of the nights we’d come out together. “You know, I told him where I’d be tonight,” I said. “I was kind of hoping he’d show up, too.”

Spencer and I had been faithful, almost-nightly companions up until almost the end. I’d cooked for us the entire week before my last, and made him some of the gluten-free almond meal brownies he liked so much; we’d spent our evenings cuddling on the sofa and talking and watching television or videos on YouTube. The week of my move, he’d given me my space so that I could finish up around the house and spend time with my loved ones, but I’d really been hoping to see him one last time.

It was only a few minutes after that conversation that I looked up toward the bar’s back door and saw a tall young man striding in. His lips pulled apart into a wide, goofy grin punctuated by the dark, clear periods of his eyes and the two sideways parentheses of his eyebrows. My heart caught for a second. I know my face lit up. He’d come, after all.

We made room for him at the table, where he met the people to whom he hadn’t yet been introduced, and where he greeted the folks he already knew. He was popular with everyone—outgoing and talkative, he spent the evening making small talk like a pro, and joining in the singing and the toasts.

And you know, on some level I knew it was an act—or at least an effort. Spencer hates the bars with a passion. He dislikes making small talk with strangers. Sweet as he can be, he’s much more a person who thrives on one-on-one intimacy, whether in friendship or in bed, than he does on the group dynamic. But he’d come because I’d asked, and because he wouldn’t have another chance. He was determined to make me happy he had. The one thing I’d always hoped for with Spencer was a graceful dismount for us both from our relationship: a sense that we concluded our time together in a mutually satisfactory way, with no regrets for our behavior or apologies left to make. I wanted us to part sweetly, and as friends.

That was the present he gave me, the night before we left. He charmed my acquaintances and family and left the people who talked to him with smiles on their faces. He was relaxed, and natural, and funny. He was himself, at his most unfettered. And that’s exactly how I’ll be able to remember him in the future—smiling, confident, handsome, and utterly capable.

After a couple of hours, he told me he had to go. “Hey,” I said, holding him by the leg. “I want to tell you. You are the most remarkable young man I know, and I see a future filled with great things for you. Please know how much you’ve meant to me over these last months. I don’t make many close friendships. I’m grateful for having yours.”

“We will always be friends,” he told me. Then we hugged, and kissed, and I walked him to his car.

A graceful dismount is all I hoped for. He gave us that, with Olympic style.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Relocated Edition

Hey guys. It's me, I've landed, and finally have internet service again, and am happy to report that the move went well.

Mind you, I'm still mostly living out of cardboard boxes, and my movers were a little bit liberal and fanciful with their descriptions of what was inside—when I went hunting for some pots and pans in a very large box marked Pots/Pans, I found a collection of Christmas cookie cutters, frosting bags and decorator tips, all my bottles and jars of spices, each wrapped individually in about a yard of paper, the racks from a microwave over I haven't owned since 2007, several novelty coffee cups, a lot of assorted good china that I've never once used in my history of owning good china, more gravy boats than I thought it was possible to own, and then down at the very bottom of the box, one teeny-tiny square flat pan intended for the making of individual grilled-cheese sandwiches.

The actual pots and pans I was seeking I found in a box labeled 'kitchen/lamps.'

Oh, I admit that my own approach to packing was just as haphazard. Some of the boxes I made have labels like 'gloves/cat food/stock records', or 'sheet music/binoculars/computer software', but at least I have a vague memory of what went into them. With the stuff the movers stuffed into boxes, though? It's like Christmas with every new rip of the packing tape, as I discover all kinds of crap I didn't remember having.

At any rate, I hope to get back to a more regular posting schedule this week—though if I have to take a day or two off to switch over my driver's license or take care of business here, I trust you'll forgive me.

I'd like to thank everyone for the supportive comments and the countless great emails you sent during the week of my move and the week after. I haven't answered a single one of them, I've been so swamped, but I've been very, very grateful for them all. You guys are some good people.

Let's get to some questions to start the week off.

If you do not have a tattoo, would you consider getting one? If you do, would you consider getting another?

I would consider getting a tattoo if I could decide on the right design and placement. However, I've never thought of anything I've really wanted inked on my skin, nor have I really discovered a place on my body I'd like that something marked. I'm open, though.

do u use any cosmetic product 2 keep ur skin firm or 2 look great?

I moisturize. A lot.

can you tell whether someone is a top or bottom just by looking at him

Yes. Absolutely. I look at every gay guy and think to myself, "Bottom."

How often do you go online?

Jeez, I think it's easier to tell you when I am not online. I'm usually wired in some way, whether it's working at my computer during the day, or with my tablet reading at night. When I'm away from my desk, I have my phone with me for instant internet access at any moment.

That said, however, I'm very careful about my net access when I'm with others. I won't interrupt a conversation or meal or movie or night out to surf the web or catch up on Twitter. Occasionally, if it's the kind of casual get-together that allows it, I'll dip in. But if it's the sort of time with friends in which we're supposed to be enjoying each others' company, I would prefer to do that than post about it on Facebook.

Besides your blog, in what kind of outlets does your writing, erotic and otherwise, appear?

I did have that short thing in that place, and then those other things, and then the thing in that other place, too. So it's out there.

Is the first ice-breaking question you ask on a date, “What kind of music do you like?” Do you lose your erection if they readily respond with Lady Gaga, or do your pants fly off at the mention of Explosions in the Sky?

No, I really don't judge other people by their musical tastes, because my glass house built from Bananarama remixes is too fragile for me to throw stones.

library blowjob or truckstop buttfuck?

I like both. But I'd pick the buttfuck every time.

What words would you use, to describe an orgasm, to someone that's never had one before, so they would be able to form a mental picture of one?

I'd say it was like holding a bundle of fireworks in your belly, then releasing the pyrotechnics from every pore of your skin, all at once.

What are the words you would use, to describe what you look like, to someone who's blind?

"You know how it sounds when the gals go all giggly over Bradley Cooper? Well, I look just like him."

Friday, June 10, 2011


While I've been settling into my new home this week without much in the way of internet access, I've been re-running some old journal entries for your entertainment. This piece never appeared in my blog, but it is a journal entry from 2009 or 2010. It appeared last year in issue 3 of Anal Magazine.

Here’s my address, I typed in my email to him, following it with my street number. I’m gonna be sitting in my living room. House lights out. Front door unlocked. Pants down. Just stroking. Come on in and stroke with me. Or whatever, buddy.

HOT, BUDDY. I’ll be there in five, he wrote back, barely seconds after I’d hit the ‘send’ button.

The guy had contacted me a couple of times before, stressing each time that he was just looking to jerk off with a dude, if I was cool than that. He just liked to show off what he had, he’d said, and my meat looked really good to him. The guy had always nurtured a fantasy about walking up to a buddy’s house at night and finding him stroking on his back porch, then helping him out.

When he’d written, he’d used that calculatedly casual, frat-boy speak that some gay guys use as a shorthand to convey their masculinity. I replied in kind.

All the photos he’d sent were of him wearing baseball caps, muscle shirts, sunglasses, showing off his lean and muscled body. The one photo that displayed him at his best had been taken from below, his dick inches away from the camera lens, his meaty fist wrapped around it, his forearms bulging like Popeye’s, as his upper lip curled in a sneer that practically seemed to touch the carefully tattered brim of his cap. It was a hot sight—there was no denying that. But he was the kind of 29-year-old muscle man I try to keep away from, out of the simple fear that I won’t measure up. I look trim, though, and he lived less than a quarter of a mile away, so I figured, what the fuck?

He was at the house in two minutes. I watched from the sofa as he parked his car across the street and stumbled across the snow and ice up the front steps. He hesitated a moment before pulling open the screen door and turning the front door knob, but then he was into the house, stamping the cold from his feet and looking around for me. As promised, I sat on the sofa wearing a tight gray T-shirt. My jeans were around my ankles, my cock hard. He stood there for a moment, transfixed, his glance darting between what I stroked with a backhand motion, and my eyes, trying to make out my features in the near-perfect dark.

“God damn. Yeah, bud,” he whispered. Then, without hesitation, he took off his jacket, kicked off his athletic shoes, and let his sweatpants fall. Beneath he only wore a pair of gray briefs and a white, square-cut tank that clung to his pecs and his narrow waist as if it had been spun around him. He lifted the tank top slightly and ran his enormous hand over the flat planes of his stomach, then plunged it down into his shorts. When he hooked both thumbs into the waistband and let them fall, I could see that he was hard already; his meat curved outward, jerking in the air for attention. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered.

I just sat there, stroking.

Without moving, after a moment he joined in, spitting in his hand first, then cupping it around his cock and covering it with the moistness. Twice, three times he spit, until his dick glistened in the blue-gray gloom. Like me, he held his fist backwards, thumb down against the hipbone, as he slid his hand back and forth over his inches. After a moment, I spat into my own hand, then began echoing the slick sound he was already making.

Neither of us beat ourselves quickly. The moment was all about showing off for each other, and making as much noise as possible with our sticky hands and penises. He leaned back on his haunches, thrusting up into the air and drawing his fist back and forth slowly, slowly, watching my reaction the entire time. I let my eyes narrow to hard-looking slits as I kicked off my jeans and spread my legs and feet as wide as they would go, leaning back on the sofa and rubbing my left nipple as I continued to flaunt myself.

His whisper cut through the silence. “Hey. You hear how quiet it is?” he asked. “Listen.” We both stopped moving our hands. Over the steady, accelerated thump of my pulsing blood, there was nothing but stillness and the sounds of our labored breathing. “So damn quiet.” I nodded, agreeing with him. Then, after enjoying the hush for a moment, his hand moved again. He spat in it, then curved his fingers around his dick once more, masturbating nosily. After the silence, the sound of sex and self-pleasure sounded twice as nasty as before. He paused only to pull up his tank and flip the material around the back of his neck, so that I could admire his muscular, slightly hairy chest and ripped abdomen.

I stood up, spread my legs, and towered over him, continuing to stroke. He stared at me. “Big dick,” he finally said. I simply nodded, pointing it at him. After a hesitation he reached up and stroked it with the back of his wrist—because a real bud doesn’t go for a buddy’s dick with an open hand, apparently. I made my cock jump, and then put pressure with it onto the back of his hand. Finally I just grabbed his arm, uncurled his hand, and wrapped it around my meat. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he hissed with pleasure, sucking in breath as he began working both of our cocks in unison. I was dripping by now; the extra moisture just added to the spit-slickness.

He kept bringing his face closer and closer, examining me close up. After a few moments, I spoke my first words. “Help me out, buddy,” I told him. He looked up at me, pretending uncertainty. “C’mon,” I repeated. “Help a buddy out.”

He didn’t need any further encouragement. His mouth opened, lip reaching out hungrily to take me in. He wasn’t clumsy at all; instead, he sucked me gently, deliberately, working first the head and then moving in to take as much of me as he could without choking. “Damn, buddy,” I said, genuinely aroused. “You are good.” He must have liked the praise, because he doubled his efforts. I grunted with every downstroke until at least I feared shooting too soon. I backed him off. “Stand up and let me get a taste of yours,” I commanded.

I perched my ass on the sofa’s edge and leaned forward, while he stood and delivered his cock to my face. It was just as big and well-proportioned as in his photographs. When I wrapped my hand around it, he shuddered, then threw back his head and clasped his hands behind it. His baseball cap fell off to the floor, revealing his shaved head. He didn’t bother to pick it up. “Oh god,” he moaned, as I opened my mouth and huffed warm air on him. Then, once I’d gotten my lips to the bottom of the shaft, I closed my mouth again and let him feel the warm, wet interior all at once. His knees began to buckle; he grabbed onto my shoulders for support. “Not so fast,” he begged, before I’d barely made my way up and down the length of it.

We stood or knelt for each other for long minutes until one of us would get too close. Then we’d back off and swap. After the fourth or fifth time, when I stood up, he didn’t get to his knees. Instead, his hands on my hips, he looked me in the eyes, and then rested his forehead on my shoulder. He smelled of soap. I let my cheek rub against the sharp stubble of his head, then brushed my lips against his brow. His neck moved back, pliant, his face turned upright. I could see him look at me, waiting for what I’d do next.

I leaned down and let my lips touch his. Just a little bit. His own lips parted slightly in response. I kissed him again. He resisted, like a masculine buddy apparently does, but when I grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into me, his mouth opened and engulfed mine, sucking in the lips and tongue as if hungry. Onto the sofa we fell, making out ravenously, our cocks pulsing and grinding into each other. He was moaning as I kissed him, and let out a cry as I rubbed and pinched his nipples. When I tore my mouth away from his and began chewing on the nipple that seemed more sensitive, he gasped, and then panted out, “I never do this, bud!”

I was too aroused to pay attention to his weak protests, though. I’d already spit in my hand again and slapped my fingers on his ass. His hole was tight, I could tell—tighter than the professional bottoms-in-denial that I’m accustomed to. I wondered if he might not be the real thing. As we returned to our furious kissing, however, I slipped the tip, and then the entire first joint of my middle finger inside him. He yelped inside my mouth. Once he was used to it, I slid the rest of my finger home, until all of it was inside his hole. “Fuck, buddy,” he groaned, digging his forehead into my chest. His cock had never been harder. As I twisted my finger back and forth inside, I continued to slide my hand back and forth over the length of him. “It’s too much,” he said. “It feels too fucking good.”

I’d put some supplies on the coffee table, just in case. With my finger still inside him, I covered my cock with a handful of cold, slick lube. He didn’t protest at all when I pulled up his legs and parted them further, hooking one underneath my arm and pinning the other to the sofa’s back. When I started to slide into him, his hands and elbows flew over his head; his head banged against the sofa’s wooden arm. As with a lot of guys who claim they’re only into jerking off with a buddy, this is what he’d really come for. He simply didn’t want to compromise his masculinity by having to ask for it.

I didn’t go in too quickly. He was very, very tight. But I did go all the way in. The moment I hit bottom, he started to convulse. His hole spasmed, clenching and relaxing and then clamping down so hard onto me that in a fuck-panicked moment, I thought he might be trying to squeeze it off. But no, he was only coming. He cried out loudly, then thrust and upward, shooting an enormous stream of seed into the air. It arced over his head and landed, I later discovered, onto the base of the floor lamp behind him. A second shot landed on his face, and a third a little lower down, below his collar bone. “What the fuck are you doing to me!” he cried. Then again, in a whimper: “What are you doing to me?”

Somehow I understood he wasn’t protesting the act itself, but marveling at the intensity of his climax. He shuddered for a few moments more after he’d finished shooting, then lay there limply. After what seemed like an appropriate period, I began to slide out again. “Don’t,” he said. Then his arms shot up around my neck, pulling me down to him. I once more put my mouth against his. This time, our kisses were long and languorous; he rubbed his face against my beard, and then brushed his sharp stubble over my forehead. For ten minutes more we kissed, until at long last he leaned back, stretched like a cat as I slid out, sighed, and then laughed slightly. “Damn, buddy,” he said. “Day-umn!”

I nodded. My head was still spinning from the intensity of it. “Yeah,” I said, laughing.

“That was the best orgasm I ever had in my life. My entire fucking life, man.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment, but not really believing it.

“You didn’t come, though.” I told him it was all right. “You sure?” he asked. I nodded.

We both relaxed for a minute more, clearing our heads. “We’re doing this again, right?” he finally said. He pulled his tank up and over his head, then down the concavity of his body. “Don’t tell me this is a one-time thing, buddy.”

“Oh, we’ll definitely do it again,” I promised him.

After he dressed, he leaned into me again and put his arms around me. We made out for a minute more. “Thanks,” he whispered. Then in a normal voice, he said, “I left my wallet and keys in the car in case you turned out to be some kind of freak. Then all I’d have to do was run the hell out.” I hesitated in my response, uncertain whether I should be a little embarrassed that I’d potentially sounded like an axe murderer, or touched at his candor. “But I didn’t run out,” he finally murmured in my ear, tipping my decision to the latter. He rubbed his face against my neck. “You know?”

“No,” I said, giving him one long, last kiss. “You didn’t run out.”