Friday, September 30, 2011

Open Forum Friday: The Race Thing

To say that my sexual history has tended to be a bit checkered is something of an understatement. It’s seedier than a Burpee’s catalog, and I’m generally fine with that. Case in point: when before my move I was in the city of Toronto, browsing through one of the multiple sex toy stores there, when one of our party happened upon a glass display case showcasing a lovely set of gleaming narrow surgical-steel implements, with a box of tuning forks in a velvet-lined box to the side. “What could these strange implements be?” asked the party as one. The Greek Chorus of Mutual Naiveté crouched and peered at the glittering objects like a Stone Age tribe encountering their first iPhone. “Are they for the musically inclined?”

“Oh, those,” I said, rolling my eyes slightly. “Sounds.” I gave a brief description of how they’re used, accompanied by a mime show that I'm happy is never going to hit YouTube. Then I explained that once the sound has been inserted into the urethra, the tuning fork could be struck and applied to it in order to produce vibrations at different frequencies. It was an entirely accurate description in my been-there-done-that voice, which I quickly followed up with a hasty, “Not that I know anything about it at all whatsoever,” once I saw the round little Os of their mouths.

No one believed me, of course. They thought I was making it up. So they asked the clerk, a cute Little Nell clone, to clear up the matter of the mysterious implements. She told them exactly the same thing I had. After that, I got a little more respect. Even if it was the kind of respect that meant I had to endure people approaching me and asking me, “What’s this, exactly?” while they carried an atypically-shaped dildo known as “The Clifford.”

Every once in a while, however, I run across something that gives me pause. I'm reminded of another incident I encountered on that same trip.

Now, I have to confess that in my now thirty-five years of sexual activity, I’ve run across quite a few men into verbal abuse. Quite a lot of men, actually. A certain, non-insignificant subset of these have been black guys who crave, shall we say, racial verbal abuse and roleplay. I get it from educated, well-off men; I get it from guys without much in the way of advantages. It’s certainly not universal, but it’s really not uncommon, either.

Dirty talk isn’t usually a problem for me. Telling a guy I’m going to fuck that hungry little bitch ass of his is not a problem. Informing a guy that his black ass is going to get plugged by my big white cock isn’t too much of a stretch. I’m just using color adjectives. The vocabulary some men want, I've incorporated into my playtime vocabulary. I’ve used the rationale that it’s just an aspect of play, always consensual, and that it’s not something that’s going to linger any longer than one of us has an erection. So if, in these cases, I’ve sprinkled my foul-mouthedness with an extremely judicious and sparing use of the n-word, I and my partners desiring that kind of verbal abuse have made our peace with it.

During that Toronto trip, though, I chatted online to a guy who was desperate to meet. He was cute, younger, a bottom, and fairly straightforward about the fact that he wanted me to dirty-talk him when we met. “You can call me anything,” he typed. “The nastier the better.”

Mentally I was beginning to dust off some of my least-used phrases culled from raunchy old porn when he added, “You know what really turns me on? When you call me a piece-of-shit Jew. Just put your boots in my face and tell me I’m a nasty kike that needs to be put down. That’s what I like.” It was at that moment that I made the mental connection between what he was saying and his screen name, which was something along the should've-seen-it-coming lines of ‘filthy_juden1980’.

The whole thing felt like stumbling onto something I wasn’t supposed to see, like my parents having full-out sex next to the Thanksgiving turkey or something. I took a couple of minutes, though, to parse out my reaction. Because what’s the difference, really, between the kind of racial domination guys have asked for in the past, and a Jewish guy begging me to work his hymie-hole? (His phrase, not mine.)

I’m not at all convinced there is one.

I agreed to meet the guy, but for one reason or another, he never followed through. The fantasy might've been one of those things that seemed hot online for him, but which he couldn't do in person, or he might have found more enthusiastic takers.

When I've written before of racially-charged sex, I've had readers make comments about how psychologically twisted the men must be who crave it, or how low-class or even sick anyone must become to indulge. Yet it's not that uncommon a form of play, trust me, and really no more serious than any of the things we do in bed. Because we've been trained from childhood that the words involved are taboo, we have an instinctive tendency to flinch from it—it's not the kind of thing that we refer to, in polite society.

I'm curious. How many of you have either indulged in such play, or been asked to do it? Did you do so willingly and with a clean conscience, or did you feel dirty after? I'd prefer that we treat each other with respect in the comments, because I know it's a divisive issue. But I'm interested in finding out our thoughts on this form of sexual fetish, and how it's worked for you in the past—or in your present.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011


There are certain trade-offs I've made in living here. For example, it used to be in Michigan that the cruisy rest area I'd visit was thirty-five miles away and in the middle of nowhere, as I noted yesterday, while the new cruisy rest stop is only three short miles from my doorstep. The exchange I seem to have made for that particular convenience is that Trader Joe's is now a good four miles away, when it used to be four short blocks. And anyone who knows me can tell you, as much as I like my anonymous sex, I like Trader Joe's even more. (If you want me to prove it, start naming your favorite products there and see how many exclamation points I start using in my replies.)

Of course, the good thing is that the rest stop is on the way home from Trader Joe's. So Sunday night, the day after my encounter with Timmy, I decided to stop back through. It was dusk, and I still hadn't gotten off for several days—Timmy hadn't done it for me, poor guy—and I had some time to kill. So I pulled off the exit, parked in the last row of the car lot, and turned off the ignition.

It was a little earlier than it had been the night before. The only other car at the lot's rear was an older-model Saab several spots away, but it looked to me as if the guy inside were eating a dinner from McDonald's. I got out of my car, locked it with the remote, and walked toward the rest stop itself. A handsome bald man stared me down from his car as I passed. I thought he was following me for a moment, but when I looked over my shoulder as I hit the pavement, he'd only ventured as far as the wastebasket and already was on the way back.

The cruising site I'd read said that the men's room of the rest stop was quite active late at night. That might have been the case. When I walked in, there were three men at the urinals and it was pretty plain that one of them was cruising everyone. He wasn't subtle about it, either. He stood at a center urinal and stared at me as I entered, his eyes bulging and hungry. I didn't find him attractive in the least. When I stood at the urinal closest to the door, and furthest away from him, he turned his head to stare at a young Asian kid who'd followed me in. The boy didn't seem all that pleased by the attention, either. He hunkered as close to the urinal as he could without actually cleaning it with his basketball shorts, then gave up. We both met at the sinks at the same time.

I wasn't going to stick around. Bright lights, a busy restroom, and a cruiser who didn't know how to keep it discreet are always a bad combination.

The bald guy was pulling out of the lot when I passed his truck on the way out. His head turned as I passed, and we nodded at each other. I memorized his face for future reference.

A new car had joined mine at the back of the lot. Back in Detroit my friends used to play a game at the bar on the interactive HDTVs there, in which the screen would display one scant corner of a car, current or classic, and bargoers were supposed to punch in from multiple-choice answers which car it happened to be. I was, let's be honest, rotten at that particular game. The people who'd grown up in the city could see nothing more than the curve of a front grille and instantly say, "1964 Chevrolet Malibu SS!" or "2009 Aston Martin Vantage!' without even taking much of a pause in their conversation.

The closest my answer would've been was, "Red car!"

But even I could spot and identify a Mustang GT in a dark parking lot. It was a new model, too—either this year's or the last. It was shiny. The interior was decked out; the console looked like that of a spaceship. I could smell the new car scent. The top was down, and the owner was staring at me over his shoulder as I returned to my own vehicle. Once I'd closed the door behind me and rolled down the window, he stepped out and pretended to be stretching, his eyes on me the entire time.

Over the top of my cell phone I checked him out. He was droopy-eyed and paunchy, and though he looked old I knew he probably didn't have that many years on me, if any. His clothes were that L.L. Bean-brand aging preppy style that so many men have adopted in this state—pastel polo shirt, white pants, a worn cloth belt with yellow duckies on it weighed down by his beer belly. I didn't find him wildly attractive. But he didn't repel me, as had the guy in the restroom. He was just obviously one of those guys from the area who was flush with money, like so many, but needed a dick to suck.

I nodded at him twice, when he nodded at me, and finally set the cell phone down. He walked over.

"What's up?" he asked. I shrugged. "Just hanging around, huh?" he asked.

"Something like that." I let my hand casually rest on my crotch, where my thumb ran up and down the fabric over my dick.

He nodded with appreciation. "Saw you walking across the parking lot. I liked your look."

"Thanks," I said. My dick was hardening.

"I mean, I really liked your look."


"You're really looking good. Handsome guy." There were only so many times I was going to thank him, so I just smiled. "What you got in your pants?"

"Eight inches," I told him.

"You like to get that sucked?" I told him that oh yeah, I did. He licked his lips. "You like to fuck with it? I love to get fucked. A whole lot. I need it bad." I told him that I did. "Eight inches, huh?"

To prove it, I unzipped. I pulled down the elastic of my trunks, and hooked them under my balls. My dick was fat in my right fist. He watched as I stroked it, slowly and lasciviously, in the half-light of the McDonald's across the lot.

"Fuck," he said at last. "I want it."

"Here?" I asked. "Or you know someplace to go?"

"There's a hotel off the next exit," he said. "We could go there, get naked, and you could fuck the living shit out of me with that thing. I want it up my hole."

"I like the sound of that," I started to say.

But he was still talking. "I don't know how much the rooms are, but it should only run you sixty bucks."

That sentence stopped me dead in my tracks. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, don't know. I've never been there. But how much could it be?"

"You expect me to pay?" I don't know why the notion was so alien to me, but it struck me as horribly rude somehow. I mean, if he'd suggested splitting it, I would've considered it. But after all, the hotel had been his suggestion. And he was the one telling me what he wanted from me. Who suggests going to a hotel and then says, Oh yeah, by the way, your treat? Especially when he's driving a freakin' late model decked out Mustang GT Convertible?

"Well I can't be paying," he said, as if it were obvious. "I can't have that shit showing up on my credit card."

I stared at him for a moment. "Well okay then," I said, pulling up the elastic of my shorts and buttoning my pants again. "Let me just think about that."

"You know where to find me, slugger," said the charmer, with a smile.

Mmm. Well.

I went back to checking my email on my phone, then when it was plain that no one else was going to come along in the next few short minutes, I started the car and left for home, balls still full.

Another night, maybe.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011


In Michigan, the old rest stop I used to visit was on a distant stretch of freeway, some thirty-five miles away from my home. It was a tiny hut with restrooms and a vending machine. At night or before dawn when it was cruisiest, it was a tiny oasis of light in a vast dome of darkness, far enough from the safety of home to be something reached for only on occasion, or when opportunity drew me to that area of the city.

The cruisy rest stop here is maybe three miles from home, on a noisy stretch of I-95. It has its own McDonald's, an ice cream store, a gift shop, and a pizza counter. It's bright, colorful, and brazen. Sometimes at night, dozens upon dozens of trucks park there to sleep overnight. When I drive back from the bar, sometimes the big tractor-trailers will be lined up on the highway's shoulder for hundreds of feet before and after the exit, their generators lighting up the cabs. The rear parking lot will be clogged, the McDonald's bright and glaring. But the car lot is usually quiet, and empty.

I'd known about this particular rest stop for months, but I'd never visited; it seemed too easy, too accessible. I'd read about it on one of the cruising sites and heard about it from a reader who'd visited it on his trips through the area. Saturday night, though, I had nothing better to do, and had to visit the supermarket anyway. So I stopped.

The truck half of the parking lot wasn't full when I pulled off the exit at seven-thirty. The car lot was even more empty. As suggested by the cruising site, I pulled to the last line of parking spaces for cars, the furthest away from the McDonald's, the closest to the exit. At the Michigan rest stop, the men cruising for sex tended to stay in their cars and park in the spots far away from the facilities themselves—this place sounded as if it operated on a similar policy.

I didn't have to wait long. Within two minutes of turning off my ignition, a truck pulled up to the right of me. An older guy sat in the driver's seat. He was bearded, and gray; his face was lean and handsome. He nodded at me, as if greeting a fellow wayfarer in passing. I slowly nodded back. My hand drifted to my crotch, where my cock hardened.

His neck craned as he looked over and into my car. Through my shorts I outlined the long, long bulge stretching up from between my legs in the direction of my left hipbone. His eyes flicked to mine, and then back down to my crotch. He licked his lips, but I could tell it was more subconscious reaction than a come-on. Finally he looked in my eyes again, and let loose with a genuine grin. He had to have been at least sixty, but as I said, he was a handsome man—a leaner Sean Connery, back in his Indiana Jones days, perhaps. I worry that mentioning he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye would make him sound too much like Santa Claus, but there it is.

I got out of the car, locked it, and stretched my legs. And by stretched my legs, I mean I walked around the car and peeked in his window. "How’s it going?" I asked.

"Great," he said, smiling back. He looked as if he wanted to ruffle my head. "What do you need tonight?"

"A little fun," I replied.

"You like to get sucked?" he asked. I nodded. "You like to fuck?" he asked, hopeful. I nodded again. "Look, I live right off the next exit," he told me. "Quiet place. Just you and me. Want to go?"

Of course I did.

His home was one of those older houses in the area built shortly after the last world war, a rambling old Cape Cod with creaky floors and the original kitchen. It smelled like an old schoolhouse—of dry rot and years and years of dust. The kitchen table was crowded with old radios from the nineteen-fifties and sixties; one whole wall had been ripped of its plaster and exposed, as if under renovation. "Let's go upstairs," he suggested, nervously, once I'd pulled the back door shut behind me.

He led me through the living room, where on the coffee table, chairs, and sofa were piled high boxes and boxes. Most of them, I noticed, were of old Barbies. Oh great, I thought to myself. I've picked up a Barbie queen. Because I have known many gay men who are avid and unapologetic collectors of the dolls and every iteration of their clothing and special releases. These boxes were as old as my childhood, though. I could tell by the lettering. There were other dolls as well, out of their boxes and stacked haphazardly on top of each other.

We'd reached the top of the stairs and the bedroom door when suddenly my host turned around. "Hang on," he said, sidling past. "Go on in and get comfortable."

I went into the bedroom and removed my shoes and my shorts, and hopped up onto the bed. The bedroom was in similar disarray. One of the closets lay open, its contents of clothing and old suitcases vomited all over one side of the room. I didn't really pay them much attention, though, as I listened to the man turn on his stereo downstairs. From below came the dulcet tones of Richard Marx. From Richard Marx's first album, in fact, which I easily recognized from too many repetitions at one of my fuckbuddies' apartments when I was working on a masters degree, lo these many years ago. A moment later, my host reappeared in the doorway. He leaned against it, looking sexy. "I thought it might enhance the mood," he stated, and then he began a slow strip-tease, beginning with his shirt.

I haven't made love to Richard Marx since about 1988, and the mood his voice created was really one more of wanting to pop the collar of my polo shirt and going all Miami Vice with a sleazy sports coat with the sleeves hoisted up to my elbows, but I didn't crack a grin. "Looked like you were a big boy when you were showing off in the parking lot," he said. I nodded, and fondled the bulge that was growing again in my shorts. "You go to that rest stop often?"

"My first time," I said. I was suddenly aware of how lame that sounded. "Really. My first time. I just moved here a couple of months ago."

"Definitely not your first time doing this though," he said, leaning down as he switched off the light. His beard raked against the inside of my legs. I gasped to feel his mouth on my meat, through the fabric of my shorts. "Oh yeah. Definitely not."

I let him pull off my underwear and push up my T-shirt. His lips and tongue nudged against my nuts, making me sigh. Slowly he sucked my cock—the way I like it, too, as if he was there for the sucking, not in order to make me nut as quickly as possible. His head moved up and down the shaft slowly, sensuously. Occasionally he hummed and grunted to himself, or he would take a break to breath. During these times he would lift my legs and rub his hands over them, letting their fur riffle across his skin as his fingers moved. Then he would return to my dick again, and my balls, and the insides of my legs, pleasuring himself even as he pleasured me.

"I never took a dick as big as yours," he said, finally, looking up at me through the light spilling in from the hallway. "I swear it. But I'd like to try. Would that be okay with you?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "That'd be fine."

I don't know if he was lying or not about his experience, but entering him was fairly easy. His hole glided open with a great deal of pressure and a moderate amount of lube. I paused twice to let him accommodate my size, and then on the third attempt managed to drive the rest home. He knew automatically when I'd reached bottom, and panted and gasped with the effort of it. "Drop it in Timmy," he panted out. The words sounded strained, as if they came from someplace deep inside where they'd not been aired for a long time. "Come on, sailor," he growled, beginning to slam back on my meat when I fucked him a little harder. "Knock up Timmy's cunt. Drop them seeds in Timmy. Knock him up!"

I admit I blinked a few times. I assumed he was Timmy.

"Knock it up!" he barked. "Timmy needs that seed!" His riding became more aggressive; he almost knocked me backwards. I had to push his entire body forward and kneel on the bed in order to keep up with his bucking. "Drop that load in Timmy. Give it to me! Give it!"

I hadn't been fucking more than two or three minutes when, amidst these cries and demands, Timmy's body started to buckle and shake. My dick popped out when he came, squeezed out when he clamped down hard with his ass muscles. I saw his hand clutch for his dick, though I was pretty sure he hadn't been stroking it while I was in there. A single shot of semen flew out of the tip and onto the bedspread as he yelled and shook with a violent orgasm.

I stood there for a moment while he buried his head in the sheets, still groaning. Then once he was silent, I asked quietly, "Where's your bathroom?"

He came into the bathroom and sat on the tub to watch me wash up in his sink. "Did you come?" I told him I hadn't. "Sorry . . . did you want to come?"

"I'm good," I told him, with a smile.

"I meant it when I said I haven't had a dick your size ever," he said. I was washing the dick off at the time, using soap and a lot of hot water. He stared at it. "I haven't even had anyone back here in a long time. Four years." When I turned in search of a hand towel, I realized he wasn't looking at my dick so much, as into space. There was a vacant expression on his face. Abstracted. Very far away. "Four years ago was when my wife died," he said. "She was a very sick woman. I nursed her for a long time, but in the end, there really wasn't anything to be done. You know?"

I stood there with the towel in my hand, naked from the waist down, leaning against the cold porcelain of the sink, while Richard Marx still played downstairs. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Yeah. Well." His lips disappeared as he sucked them in to moisten them up. "It's taken me this long to start to get over it. You don't ever want to lose anyone that close to you. Not after years and years. It's like losing his huge . . . chunk of yourself." His hand reached up and clutched each other, shaking. "I hope it never happens to you."

"Me too," I said. I folded the towel and left it on the sink, then walked back into the bedroom, hoping it didn't seem as if I was trying to avoid his talking.

"All this was hers," he said, gesturing to the piles of clothing and suitcases on the room's far side. I saw now that there indeed women's things. "And the dolls downstairs. She collected. Hoarded," he said, with an unexpected flash of humor. "Same thing, for her. I finally got a professional organizer in this month to help me get rid of all this stuff on eBay, see if it's worth anything. See?" He showed me the open closet, in which hung a neat row of men's pants and shirts. "I'm carving out a space for myself here, little by little. Getting my life back. Carving out a space for myself. In my own home."

At that moment, it seemed like the saddest image in the entire world. I said so.

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "It's not so bad. Today a closet. Tomorrow a corner, then another corner. Pretty soon an entire room." The man swallowed so deeply I could see his Adam's apple bob. "It'll come," he said. There was hope in his voice that hardened into resolution. "It'll come."

I believed him.

This is what I've learned after enjoying sex with strangers for the better part of my life, now: every man has a story to tell about himself. He might utter it in those quiet moments when the heaving and panting has ceased. He might speak it wordlessly, through the way his eyes keep resolutely shut and through the language of his body, or it may come through in his dirty talk, or the shy reserve that keeps him from removing his clothes. Listening to those stories honors them. Those stories are what connect us; they're the words we whisper in the dark when we think no one's whispering, but when we hope we're being heard.

But it takes getting out from behind the computer, or from behind the desk or the cash register or the gloryhole or from in front of the television to hear them. It takes a resolve to stop looking at the world from behind the blinds, getting out there, opening up, and listening.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Lightning Bolt

My Dear X.,

When I think about you this week, and I think about you often, I think about lightning bolts.

I know you might not read this today—you're off on the other side of the country, traveling and enjoying yourself—but I wanted to write about you on your special day. It's one of the few gifts I can offer.

We chatted for nearly two weeks online, you know. You discovered my blog at the height of Hurricane Irene, and sped through it as if you were racing. I enjoyed your brief notes along your journey: the quick shout-outs for the entries you enjoyed, the questions, the observations. You made me go back and read some of my own stuff, just to keep up. It was an experience that rekindled an enjoyment and appreciation for the last year and a half of writing. Thank you.

When you sent me photographs of you, they literally took my breath away. That first image is branded on my brain. You, sitting on the very edge of your mattress, naked, legs spread apart, your fat dick hanging down between them as if it were too heavy to stand. Your waist is so narrow that it appears to be an optical illusion; your shoulders are broad and muscular. Your skin is dark and as shining as the accidentals on a grand piano.

And above it all, peeking out above the phone camera you're aiming at a mirror, was that smile of yours. That inviting, sweet-faced smile. More than the dick, the waist, the chest, the long legs or the lanky arms, that smile did it for me. I had to know you. That's why last Wednesday, on a day I had to venture into Manhattan anyway to see a friend's play, I arranged with you to have my hair cut.

The train from Connecticut was crowded. The subways from Grand Central to the West Village, more so. I had a few minutes leisure to collect my thoughts at a noisy Starbucks on Eighth Avenue, and then I made my way to your salon. It was what I expected, a large and industrial place with modern fittings. Beautiful views of lower Manhattan from windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling that, on a sun-soaked autumn day, showed off the city like a jewel.

Then you walked in, all loping legs and angular arms, skinny and long-limbed as a fashion designer's fantasy sketches, your T-shirt hanging off a shoulder. Your smile at the sight of me lit up the room. I don't even remember how I got to your chair, on the floor below.

But I do remember the lightning bolt on your right arm, the creation of ink and skin that ran from your elbow to nearly the wrist. You played with my hair, washed it, massaged the scalp, and trimmed away too many months' worth of overgrowth. All the time, that blue-black jagged bolt, looking as if it should be the logo of some superhero from a child's comic book, danced around my head. I watched in the mirror with my long, wet hair coiled on top of my head as you began to cut. Lightning—the symbol of raw power, sure, but also of a precisely-focused energy. Just like your hands as you removed the straight razor from its leather case, folded it open, and began to trim.

I loved watching you work. Carefully you'd partition my overabundant tresses. Then, after stretching them sideways between your fingers into a thin layer, the razor would do its work. Skritch, skritch, skritch. The sharp edge would dance through the wet locks with a precision I couldn't measure, though I could see it reflected in your eyes. Your lips moved silently as you cut, as if you kept going some internal monologue about what you were seeing as you cut. This wasn't the typical haircut I was used to, in which in a flat fifteen minutes I was shorn and done. This was the work of an artist. A sculptor. A man at the top of his craft, who knew what he wanted, and wanted it done well.

I'd already known I could trust you with my hair. But when I saw that look of intense concentration and focus in your eyes, I trusted that I could relax completely. I let the lightning bolt do its work.

Then afterward, when I'd admired myself over and over again in the mirror, and you'd collected your bag, we stepped into the tiny elevator together. The door closed. You turned. Your arms surrounded me as your palms pressed flat against the back wall. You brought your face close, so that I could smell the hair-product scent of you. As I'd hoped, your lips closed over mine.

For eight stories we kissed as we descended. I knew that your lips would be as soft and sensual as I'd imagined. I knew that you'd leave me breathless after. What I didn't know is that you'd taste so damned good. Like vanilla, and honey, and the promise of something more to come.

We separated only when the door slid open, what felt like an hour later. You loped out with your arms and legs working confidently. I stumbled behind, dizzy and short of oxygen, feeling like a schoolboy, and blinking as if it might clear the fog in front of my eyes. It didn't.

We jostled together on the uptown train, pressed body to body by the crowds. I could smell you that entire time. I kept thinking, I've just made out with that man. I tried very hard to get Aerosmith's "Love in an Elevator" out of my mind. It didn't quite work.

That particular earworm vanished, though, once we hit the streets and began walking to an eatery in Hell's Kitchen. Talking to you face to face was a luxury. I haven't made many friends since I've moved to the east coast. I felt as if I'd known you for years. Being able to ask questions without having to type them, without having to wait for an indefinite internet reply . . . well, I wallowed in it. I probably asked you too much, went too deep, nosed around more than I should. But you didn't mind, and gamely replied to everything I asked.

"Let's walk," you said, after I'd gotten the tab. I tried to match my step to yours as we navigated northward, weaving past tourists and shopkeepers and open cellar doors, uneven sidewalks, and local residents with puppies on leashes.

"Not that I'm inviting myself," I said carefully, "but how far is your apartment from here?'

You turned to look at me then, eyebrows raised. "Where else do you think we're going?", you asked.

The answer made me happy.

X., you were so worried that I'd find your apartment messy. It might have been. I don't know. I didn't have eyes to notice. At some other time I might investigate your wall of CDs, your movie collections, the books you had stacked on your desk. Maybe then I'll check out your midtown closet space, your bathroom, and evaluate your real estate deal. Maybe I'll give the shelves the white glove test then.

All I know is that afternoon, in the couple of hours before my friend's play, all I had eyes for was you.

You lay me down on the bed, soft, your eyes boring into mine. Then you straddled me. I remember sighing and raising my lips to meet yours. My back arched as you slipped your hand beneath me to draw me close. My cock strained in my trousers. We kissed, deeply and without inhibition. You grunted with arousal whenever my tongue entered your mouth; I sighed and stirred whenever you would press your lips to my neck. Wide awake though I was, that long make-out session made me feel sleepy, as if I were immersed in the best dream ever. I never wanted to wake up from it.

We kissed like teenagers at a basement party, desperate and hungry, as if that was all we knew how to do. Sometimes you lay atop me. Sometimes I weighed you down. Most of the time, though, we lay side by side on your bed, the sounds of the city just outside your sunny window, our limps tangled as we pressed our bodies tightly together. Your hands slipped beneath my shirt, touching my back, my sides. I stroked you softly, my fingertips eliciting sighs with every pass.

But we didn't undress. I was afraid to unleash your cock, honestly. I knew if I did, I wouldn't be leaving your apartment until late, late at night—and I'd promised to see that play. I teased you, though. I moved down your body to the place where your pants leg bulged, and felt the enormous, hard meat underneath the frayed denim of your jeans. I worked it with my mouth, feeling the thick width, the incredible length. I saw your jaw tighten and clench as you pushed hard against my face, trying to get relief.

Then you flipped me over, and put your mouth to my butt, through my pants. Through the layer of gray cotton and the trunks underneath, I could feel your breath, hot and moist, on my hole. Again my back arched as you grabbed me and pulled my hips to yours, so that you could grind against my ass with the hard length in your jeans. You pushed me down so that my face was in the pillow, and rotated your hips so that they nailed me to the bed.

I wanted you inside me, then. It's tough for me to admit. But it's all I could think about, through the haze of my waking dream. I wanted you to be part of me. I wanted to surround you with warmth, and wetness, and to make you feel a fraction as good as you were making me feel at that moment.

But we kept our clothes on, and our dicks in our pants. I think we both knew there'd be no turning back, if they were unleashed.

Leaving your apartment was one of the hardest things I've done. But you were sweet to walk the eleven blocks with me to the theater where my friend's play was taking place—and it afforded me a few more precious minutes to get to know you better. And then, when we parted, you did the unexpected. Right there in the middle of 42nd Street, a block from Times Square, in the last of the daylight, as tourists and theatergoers milled around in search of their destinations, you took my shoulders in your hands, looked me in the eyes, and kissed me. Slowly. Softly. Deeply.

I felt an electrical charge passing between us when our lips met for a final time. A lightning bolt. Everyone could have been watching, or no one. I didn't notice, either way. All I knew was that as good as you'd made me look, earlier that afternoon, nothing could compare to the way you'd made me feel.

You were gone when the daze finally faded from my eyes, and I made my way inside to the play. But that smile, X, the smile you left on my face? That didn't disappear for hours. And whenever I want it, all I have to do is reach down deep inside, think of your handsome face, your gentle touch, and the sweet taste of your kisses, and bring it back up again.

I hope when you read this, you smile, too. Happy birthday, my dear X. Having met you makes me happy.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Drama Desk Edition

Let's have a day free of crazy today, shall we?

My slow slide into the bucket of other people's insanity started last Thursday evening, when I visited a local gay bar and learned a few quality lessons that I'd like to share.

My state has one gay bar an hour away, on the half where I live. In order to be around my brethren I have to take a trip across the state line into New York and travel through some scenic little rocky byways until I arrive at a tiny hamlet with a Wagnerian name. And there, nestled on the little town's main street, across from the picturesque train-station-slash-hamburger-joint, is the teeny-tiniest little gay bar that anyone's ever seen.

It's cute, I'll give you that. The bartenders there are friendly, the snacks come in a cone of tissue paper, the TVs are large, the drinks are cheap-ish, and I've never had a bad time since I've started going there every couple of weeks.

If you sense a big but coming, you're definitely on the scent.

I was actually recognized by one of my readers after I'd sat down and ordered a drink—apparently my chin and grin from my various avatars are that recognizable (I know it wasn't my dick, since I wasn't sitting there with my pants off. For a change. And hey there, Vince, if you're reading!) So that was kind of fun. And I was actually making a new friend who was sitting next to me at the bar. He was a dweeby guy who was obviously a little smitten with me. How could I tell? Because he looked as if he wanted to melt into the floor whenever I spoke to him—and when we weren't talking, he kept staring at me as if he wished I would.

So I was talking to the fellow. His name was Mark. Mark wasn't really my type—he was kind of nebbishy, and soft-shouldered, and big-assed, and wore a narrow-wale dark brown corduroy blazer the likes of which I haven't seen since bad movies set at Columbia University in the nineteen-seventies, but he was sweet and shy and kind of adorkable, so I was making polite conversation and getting to know him. I learned that he fancied himself a singer, and was waiting for a friend named James.

I'd assumed, since I talked to Mark for close to an hour and a half without his friend showing up, that James was an imaginary excuse he'd invented at the beginning of our conversation in case I turned out to be a clumsy masher, or a total freak, so that he could extricate himself easily. But no—close to midnight, in through the front door burst his buddy, surrounded by a cloud of drama. You know the type. Big chubby guy with platinum hair and a stink of look-at-me. He stood there talking to one of the employees, his voice rising and falling in pitch, audible even over the group of drunk girls at the other end of the bar screeching along to the chorus of The Cranberries' "Zombie."

Mark explained to me, right before James came over, that the week before James had gotten into some kind of fight with a woman who lived above the bar, or something, and that the cops had to be called. There was light pushing, and name calling, and the threat of pepper spray. From the way Mark described it, it sounded like quite the night for the sleepy little hamlet.

So, because I'm an instigator, when James sat down and gets introduced to me, I came out and as a humorous icebreaker said, in a totally-kidding voice, "So, I heard you started a bar brawl last week! Complete with broken bottles, some tobacco-spittin' cowboys, and both gangs from West Side Story!"

Anyone else would've, you know, laughed it off and said, "Yeah, I'm crazy that way"—or realized that I was obviously kidding—but this big old queen started to gasp and rapidly flutter his hands to cool his cheeks, like he was my ancient maiden Aunt Fanny from Savannah and I'd gone and done interrupted Sunday supper by stompin' up the verandah with mud all over my feet, and started talking about how he would NEVER start a brawl and the IDEA of such and he was a VICTIM and . . . well, if you've ever watched The A-List: New York  or even seen a cluster of urban homosexuals, you can probably imagine the torrent of drama.

So I said, seriously, leaning in, "Mark told me what happened. I'm sorry if I offended you. I was kidding around."

That's when he went, "Uh, Bob? Slob? What was your name again?", with his index finger waving all up in my face. (He fucking knew what my fucking name was, the fucker.) "I don't know who you are, or what you do, or where you came from, but this entire affair affected me very deeply and I do not intend to talk about it with anyone this evening! I am not going to say a single word. I have talked about it with the people I need to talk about it with, and those are the only people to whom I am going to talk about it. In fact, I am closing my mouth and not speaking to you again."

He closed his mouth for two seconds and looked at the karaoke book.

"In fact," he immediately said, taking a deep breath to support the stream of words about to come, "I am not going to say a word about this incident ever again. And fuck you, you hear? Fuck. You!" I raised my eyebrows and pressed my lips together, a little taken aback. Listen. I know everyone doesn't have the same sense of humor, but I didn't say anything offensive enough to merit that kind of response.

James closed his mouth for one second, and then immediately started in again, "Because I am the victim here and my good name was trampled on and this is not a topic for discussion, and I will not talk about it! . . . "

And readers, I swear to god, he flipped through the karaoke book and kept going on and on about how he wasn't going to talk about it any more, for an endless amount of time, without taking a breath. Not a single breath. Remember those FedEx commercials with the fast-talking guy? James made him look like a rookie in the minor leagues.

Finally he wound down, his maiden-Aunt-Fanny indignation running out of steam. Once his mouth shut, I, in my iciest tones, replied coldly, "And yet here it is, five minutes later, and you're still fucking talking about it. Hmm. How 'bout that." Then I went back to an investigation of the gay rag in front of me, and put on my frostiest Ice Princess robes, and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the evening.

After he calmed down, that bitch spent the rest of the night trying to get back into my good graces by sidling up to me to remark how thin and young I looked and how he wished he had my hair, but I was having none of it. I don't take a fuck-you lightly. Even poor Mark tried to apologize for James by informing me he was 'excitable,' but I couldn't whip up even a thin facade of tolerance.

There's a broad line, gentlemen and ladies, between someone joking around, and someone deliberately trying to be offensive.  I understand that not all silly jibes land as intended—which is why I apologized when I realized how offended he was by mine. I believe it's right, when your nose is out of joint about the way someone treats you, to say why and ask them not to do it again. My joke might have been badly timed, or just plain bad. But it was framed as, and intended to be, a joke. When I made the apology and he went ahead and deliberately messed up my name and give me a big hearty Cee Lo Green fuck you, he was deliberately offensive.

The lessons I learned:

1) New York queens are waaaay bitchier than the midwestern variety;
2) I need to honor my instincts about those with an air of drama about them;
3) James cannot sing Anita Baker's "Sweet Love,"; and
3) I should not be permitted to talk to strangers in gay bars.

Let's get to some questions, shall we? Because of Friday's incident in which another blogger decided to bombard both this site and my account with over three dozen abusive messages, I've had to disable anonymous questions at Formspring until he's on his medications. If you have an account there, though, you can certainly ask me questions—or just send them to my email account in the meantime. I'd be glad to answer them in this weekly forum.

Do you believe in an afterlife? A deity independent of the human mind?

It's a nice notion to which I have a sentimental attachment, as I was raised believing so. If pressed, however, I'd have to say that no, I don't have that kind of faith.

What is your favorite site for finding fuck buddies?

I get hit up most often on BBRT and on Manhunt. I find Adam4Adam a good service in certain parts of the country, and pretty cruddy in others.

Ever been in a 3-way or group? What was the total number of guys involved in the action? If this occurred more than once than what was the largest group of guys?

The largest group in which I've been involved was about thirty-six men. It seems in the large groups, there's a lot of pairing and tripling-off, so it never really feels like a massive free-for-all.

I'm really interested to hear about what happened with the bi couple, more for the fact of if they were fighting over your dick more than anything ;)

The following question will probably confirm me as a sexual libertine who can't keep his partners straight, so to speak, but here goes: Which bi couple?

I was reading you questions and you mentioned one that ended as it getting complicated but which ever you wish to share

Ah, that bi couple. It was complicated.

For about six or seven months I was seeing a childless married couple near me—both in their late twenties, both professionals, both very good looking. No one would have suspected that he was basically impotent unless he was taking a big cock up the ass, and she was turned on in a major way by watching him get fucked, and then climbing on me for a ride herself.

I thought it was a good relationship. They were inviting me over a couple of times a week. The sex was great. Then it just stopped. No explanations, no reasons given. They didn't respond to my emails or phone calls, so I just let it drop, though I was worried I'd done something wrong.

Six months after they stopped seeing me, I ran across them in a local market. She happened to be exactly six months pregnant. The entire conversation was so awkward, especially when I brought up her pregnancy, that i was convinced the two events were probably connected.

They got what they wanted, I suppose, and what the husband couldn't provide. But I felt a little bit cheap and used after.

(More cheap and used than normal, anyway.)

I'm a bit slow ... you mean you fathered the bi couple's child?

I believe that there came a point at which they started viewing me not as a playmate, but as an opportunity, and that is what came to pass, yes. I have no solid evidence for it.

your Bi which is awesome so what are your attractions are they equal to both sexes

I'm about as likely to look at a sexy woman or a man and think, "Hot."

I'm more likely to fantasize about men than I am about women when I'm indulging in that kind of thing.

I'm much more likely to hit up a guy than I am to go out looking for a woman to play with, because men, basically, are sluts. Although in the last five years I've limited most of my play with women to married couples or boyfriend/girlfriend couples, and although in the last two I haven't even had the heart for much of that, I'm totally open to having female playmates.

Do you get the sense that men are more repressed in CT than MI?

It may be the county in which I live, which is both populous and wealthy.

I find it interesting that the moment I leave the county and travel either to Westchester or New York City, or head east to New Haven, I get bombarded with offers for sex on services like Grindr or Scruff. The moment I step back into my home area, nothing. There seems to be a big blanket muffling the sexuality of these 625 square miles.

If you could own the entire series of any 5 tv shows, past or present, which would they be?
Doctor Who, Absolutely Fabulous, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Avengers, and Blackadder.

Where does Mr. Steed come from?

When you are craving a cookie what flavor is it? Is it fresh baked or store bought?

I'd go for a spicy molasses cookie, anytime.

When you were younger did you ever experiment with fruits or vegetables in your hole?

I did not, because there was not a fruit or vegetable available that my parents couldn't look at and say to themselves, "Hmm, that would be so much tastier if we bought it in a can."

I did have a broom handle that was my intimate friend in my pre- and early teen years.

When you blog about getting money for sex do you get some readers emailing/commenting badly towards your for that? Like you've burst their image of you they have or something.

No. Usually I get more offers from guys to pay me for sex.

Although I did often swap sex with the expectation of payment when I was in my teens, I don't make a business or even a habit of it these days. Some men, however, like to mix their sex with money, and I'm not going to turn them down. At the age of 47, and without a porn star's body, I'm highly flattered that I get as many offers as I do.

I don't worry about bursting my image with my readers, because I am not invested in maintaining a particular image with the men and women who read me. I live a life I very much like, and leave it to others to worry about who gives a damn.

Friday, September 23, 2011

An Administrative Note

Earlier this week, I composed an entry on blogging that was inspired by some of the anger and (I thought) misplaced blame that I was seeing from blog writers who were leaving the scene. My intent was not to single out any one blogger; indeed, I had four primary blogs in mind as I wrote the post, and made an effort to indicate when I was speaking about different sites.

I didn't name names, because pointing fingers wasn't the point. I didn't call names, because I wasn't trying to insult anyone. I even discouraged commenters from attempting to treat the entry as if it were some huge blind item. Again, that wasn't the point.

One blogger, however, read the entry—or parts of it—and decided it was a massive attack on him alone. Very late last night, within the space of a little over an hour, he bombarded several of my latest entries with close to two dozen vicious comments attacking my blog, my writing, my family, and my credibility.

I've deleted the comments because I don't tolerate that kind of behavior on my own site.

Because of this little tantrum, I'm moderating all comments until further notice. It's a pain for you, and a bigger pain for me, but I'd rather not let one person's hissy fit spoil the comments section, where there's  generally a civil and interesting sharing of experiences and thoughts.

My policy for the last year and a half has been to accept all comments—unmoderated—and to clean up what tiny bits of ugliness there've been, as needed. The fact that I stated in the post in question that I've only had to delete less than fifty of over seven thousand comments over the journal's life (though as of last night, it's closer to sixty-five) tells me that most of my readers are indeed reasonable, rational people.

So it's a shame when a couple of bad apples try to make spoilage. I'm more than a bit sorry to have to come down like this, but I appreciate you guys understanding the reasons why.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Reader Assets: #19

Just a quick intro this week before we get to the good stuff, as I've been rather busy here. I've got a great selection of men who are bearing their all for you guys (and gals!) this week—and of course, I'd be happy to include you in one of the next editions.

Just send me your goods using the email address in the sidebar. Back side, front side, with face, anonymous—we take them all, here. Make sure you put the words 'MY ASSETS' in the subject line, and make sure the photos are of you and that you're of age to share them. If all that's good, you'll be seeing yourself up here in no time.

Well, some time. But you'll see yourself up here.

Let's get started, shall we?


Aw, come on. I don't have to introduce this guy. Y'all know BikeGuy from his journal, which is one of the best-written blogs out there. Not only is he an all-around great guy and total pig bottom, he's also hot as hell. And a good writer, which is a rare combo.

If you don't read him, you ought. If you haven't fucked him . . . well, get in line.

About time you submitted to be in here, Bike!


My new best friend Davey is twenty and from Colombia. Having spent an evening with a Colombian just this week, let me say that between what my encounter and Davey's pics, Colombia's my new favorite country.

I mean, jeez. Look at that beautiful chest and waist—and that isn't even mentioning the beautiful dick and that big ol' puddle of cum. Beautiful, Davey.

If you guys want to get in touch with this hot boy, he's asked me to tell you that his email is . Get him while he's hot! (Which should be a real long while.)


Okay, you guys might go a little crazy over this one, because Josh—a young British follower of mine—has a bit of a secret.

He's still a virgin.

He's had a dildo in his ass, he tells me, but never a real dick. He's offered me the chance to take his virginity—which I would love to do, trust me, because that furry ass is fuckin' beautiful. But the distance and the matter of the Atlantic Ocean is a bit of a problem.

So, if any of you guys a little closer to him want to slip your dick into a virgin hole, Josh has asked me to tell you to contact him at .

Now, on this one you might want to hurry. A guy can only lose his virginity once.


Rounding out this week's assets (get it? rounding out?) is Will, who'd love us to see his butt. And what a butt it is, gentlemen. I think we can all agree? I love that face-down position and the white briefs yanked down just below the cheeks.

The butt is perfection—round, slappable, and definitely a nice home for my dick. I'd love to get to know it better.

Hear that, Will? You know where to visit. Soon.

Let's hear it for all of this week's exhibitionists. It takes a lot of guts to get up and show off in front of thousands and thousands of strangers!

I'd really like to see more of you guys up here next! Send me your photos!

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Blogging Way

One might think it's been a rough time for blogs, lately.

Over the past few months I've seen some old favorite blogs disappear, and some continue a long decline into neglect and irrelevance. Some get abandoned entirely; others get a promising update, and then nothing but silence.

But you know, that's always the way blogs have been, and that's the way they always shall be. Because journals—or blogs, their online equivalent—are always in flux. It's an extension of the human lives they represent.

However, I was a little taken aback last month when one of my favorite long-term bloggers decided to quit the scene. He did so with a little hissy fit, essentially, in which he declared all his time spent blogging over the months and years a big old waste of time. Then he proceeded to blame his readers for not commenting enough to keep him happy, and being interested only in the photos he posted.

And then, because apparently he just wanted to pound every nail into the coffin that he could, he declared blogging dead and other bloggers to be idiots for continuing to do it.

Here's my thing. If you're done with blogging for a while, that's fine. Say so. Take a break. Stop altogether. Sex bloggers—those of us who don't do it for the advertising revenue, anyway—aren't making postings because we're getting a paycheck from it. We're not doing it as a public service. We do it because we enjoy it. If you're a blogger who's not enjoying it any longer, take a break. Life's too short for voluntary onerous tasks.

But you know, don't try to make the vast majority of your readers feel badly about having read you all along.

I'd like to make a few tips for would-be sex bloggers. I've been blogging publicly in one form or another for a good decade, now. I've got that right. Most of these comments apply to the men and women out there who are keeping largely text-based blogs . . . not those that post photos daily. They're a different beast entirely.

1. If you're a blogger, you're writer. So write.

I get a lot of people asking me to make links to their blogs. Generally I won't, if they've just started blogging. I've seen too many bloggers make a single entry, or two, and then just stop. If a person has been writing for a few weeks, or a month, and seems to be keeping the steam going, I'll consider it. A one-shot wonder with an interesting premise disappoints me. Someone who can keep presenting me with his or her world view—that's going to keep me interested.

I know that everyone has fertile writing periods, and then periods in which the muse doesn't strike as often. God, do I know that. But sometimes you have to have the discipline to keep writing, to sit down and let the words come. Your readers will drift away, otherwise.

They don't like reading that old entry from your very shallow archive for the fourth or fifth time. Sorry, but they don't. Apologizing about not making entries is fine when you've something for which to apologize, but when your blog has become nothing but excuses about not writing, it's time to do a reality check.

You might not be published. You might not care ever to be published. You might make punctuation errors, and grammatical mistakes, and have a sixth-grade education. But when you're committing to stories to paper, you're a writer. So write.

2. Be honest about what kind of blog you have, and why you're keeping it.

One of the things that bugged me about a long-favorite blog of mine—which purported to have aspirations to being lit-ra-chah, don't you know—was that although it was well-written and provocative, its owner was never very forthright about his intentions. Over and over again he'd disparage the photo-blogs—that is, the blogs in which pornographic photos were the main attraction—and say over and over again that his blog was about ideas, not pictures.

Then every single of his posts would have multiple photos, all pornographic, of men sucking and fucking. When his readers would respond to those, and not his essays, he'd be outraged.

I find that behavior kind of disingenuous. If you don't want to be a photo blog, simply don't post photos. Don't find the largest and most salacious photographs and amateur fuck flicks possible, post them, and expect men to ignore their presence. That's like bringing a case of Scotch to an AA meeting and drinking straight from one of the bottles, then wondering why you're get the hairy eyeball from everyone.

I'm also disturbed when I see blog writers with dollar signs in their eyes who have wild, impossible dreams about monetizing their blogs and becoming a wealthy internet entrepreneur in the process. If that's really want you want, sure. Go for it, I guess. But when readers get confused by your maze of advertising, self-promotion, and your endless ways of trying to turn yourself into a porn mogul, don't be surprised when those comments and visits start to dry up. Especially if you're not producing any actual content for them.

If you're a writer, write. Everything else, including visions of riches and vainglory, is just distraction.

3. For christsakes, nice to your readers.

I ran some statistics on my reader comments, over the weekend. I've had over seven thousand comments during the last year and a half. (That doesn't even count the thousands of private emails I've received.) Out of those comments, only about fifty have I found truly objectionable to the point that I've been curt to the poster, deleted the comment altogether, or never removed them from the spam folder into which they bounced.

Less than fifty, out of over seven thousand. That's less than half of a percent, overall. The other ninety-nine-point-five percent are great people who approach my journal in the spirit in which it's intended, and I'm grateful to interact with them.

Most sex blog readers are similarly enthusiastic. They're reading because they want to, entry after entry. I've seen some bloggers, however, who are pretty much one hundred percent rude and snarky to pretty much one hundred percent of their readers. I've seen one who asks for questions and complains when he doesn't get them, yet doesn't hesitate to call the questions 'stupid' when they arrive.

The blogger I mentioned at the beginning of this entry used to bitch and complain constantly about the lack of comments he'd get, even to the point of threatening not to blog any more if he didn't get them, stat. When his readers would hasten to provide comments, though, he'd rarely respond to them, or thank the readers for their contributions. Eventually I burned out on trying to keep him happy and stopped commenting altogether.

Occasionally there are going to be readers who are dicks, or who are deliberately confrontational. It makes little sense to pretend they're anything other than the pests they are. But if you have readers who are going out of their way to read you, to enjoy what you've written, and to add something interesting to the conversation, acknowledge them. Honor them, even. Don't call them stupid. Don't call them fatties. Don't treat them like they owe you anything more than standard decent courtesy and respect.

Or if you do, fine. Just don't be surprised when they stop commenting and when the visits dry up.

4. Be true to yourself.

If you think your strength is writing short little fictional stories to accompany some photos, awesome. If you like collecting news from around the web and commenting on it, I'm there with you, if you've got a sharp point of view. If you like writing about saving your marriage, or cheating on your mate, or finding love, or whoring around . . . I'll keep reading.

There's room for all kinds of stories to be told about our lives, and our imaginary lives. I enjoy absorbing all kinds of narratives. And if a blogger has his or her idiosyncrasies and inconsistencies, or even fears and faults, hey, that's great. I think it's brave when people show us their soft underbellies, and expose themselves as vulnerable. When people do that, it's a gift. Treat it as such.

What I don't like, though, are the bloggers who have an agenda to sell, or a persona to which they cling so desperately that you can hear their nails scraping. There are the bloggers who think that if they're controversial and peddle a brash sort of outrageous viewpoint, it'll be a shortcut to fame. If I see anyone choosing to describe himself as notorious, I tend to keep away. Usually he'll be trying to pander to a lowest common denominator, just for the hits.

Then there are the plaster saints, who do no wrong. I stumbled onto one of these blogs a few weeks ago and after seeing the same thing again and again, I had to stop reading the damned thing. I'm trying not to go into much detail here, but the blog is a mixture of photographs and prose in which the blogger shows himself indulging in his hobby—for the sake of obfuscation, let's say it's 'stamp collecting.' So the photos are all tastefully-shot, moodily-lit studies of him looking pensive and slightly mysterious as he indulges in nude philately. Oh, he'll wear an apron to protect himself from paper cuts. But the photos are an odd mix of 'stamp collecting' with naked butt thrown in.

And sometimes another young 'stamp collector' will come join him, and there'll be tasteful, moody photos of the two of them stamp-hounding together. Interspersed throughout the photos of the two of them side by side, flashing ass and stamps and mysterious smiles at each other, will be this text in which the two of them have conversations—about Life, and Love, and the blogger always ends up dispensing wisdom like he's Grandpa Walton sittin' on the front porch telling John-Boy the ways of the world. He's always wise, and right, and his companion is always young and naive (and usually Asian) and so grateful for the sapience of the (white) stamp collector. The whole thing occasionally gets so mawkish that I want to grind my teeth and yell, Dude, you're only TWENTY-TWO.

One doesn't have to perfect in one's blog. Nobody's perfect. We all mess up. We aspire for greatness and come out as ordinary. We all hurt others in misguided ways, sometimes. Sometimes we lie to our loved ones, or at least fail to the tell the truth. We have pasts that are spotty. Sometimes we're bad-tempered, or do indeed have an outrageous opinion or experience we'd like to share, and it's not a popular one.

But the journal, or the blog if we keep one, is where we come to settle the scores and lay down the truth.

In the blog, one only has to be oneself. That's why readers keep coming back.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Thinking of Spencer

He wrote me two weeks ago, asking how I was. I wrote back and told him about the rash I'd been having. Yeah, he wrote. About that? The rash is your body telling you how much you miss me. It will never go away.

I wrote back that I was pretty sure he was right.

I really miss you too, he replied.

Spencer and I have kept in touch since I moved. I comment on his Facebook status changes. He pipes up on my page, on occasion. We've swapped text messages. But the contact has always been brief.

After this short exchange, though, I had to sit down. It took me back to last winter, when Spencer and I were everything to each other, for a time. It reminded me so strongly of how good it felt, and how lucky I was to have that remarkable young man in my life.

It was nice to be missed.

I see Spencer everywhere I turn, some days. I see him in the pages of Time Out, when I look at the dance section. I think of him when I hear Tchaikovsky, or one of the tunes to which he introduced me plays on my computer. I think of him in the evenings, when I arrange the pillows on the bed and remember how he had to have four of them to get through the night.

I think of him sometimes when I run across a bottle of his face wash that somehow came with us. It sits in the cupboard beneath the sink, and every now and then I'll unscrew the cap and inhale, just to smell the phantom of him.

You don't forget someone overnight, simply because they no longer live close. Spencer was a very good man, and a very bright spot during a lonely time of my life.

Over the weekend I was thinking of the nights we spent on my sofa, limbs intertwined, his head on my thigh, my fingers stroking his hair, as we would watch television together. In Manhattan I'd seen an action figure from one of the animes we'd watched together. A couple of jumps in Amazon, and I'd selected an adorable chibi-style stuffed toy based on the same anime, which I shipped to his home.

Because I think he wants to be missed, too.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Celebrity Edition

I found myself debating a point of etiquette the other night.

We'd had a long day in our household, Friday. We'd run errands, we'd been exploring, we'd done a little shopping, and gotten back home and no one felt like making dinner. Okay. I didn't feel like making dinner, since I'm the dinner-maker around here.

So we walked down to the little pizza joint on the other side of the railroad tracks—a family-owned spot where they sell enormous New York slices with all kinds. Now, I've been in the pizza joint several times before and always found it welcoming and tasty, but I've never seen it busy like it was on Friday night. The restaurant's twenty tiny tables, crammed together in a little annex where the Weather Channel seems to be on all the time, were all occupied by noisy families gobbling down their pies. Another half-dozen people crowded the counter. The fresh-faced delivery boy elbowed me as he attempted to slide a large pizza into his insulated container. And that's when a table opened up.

I entrusted my pizza order (one sausage slice, one water) and went to grab it. I had to wend my way through the crowd to the very front of the annex, to a small table wedged between a family of four on my left, and a family of six on the right. When I finally assembled enough chairs and slid, rattled and a little exhausted, onto the vinyl-covered bench, I leaned back and exhaled with relief. Then I looked at the man sitting across from me on the left, and thought to myself, Hey, I know you.

I had a few alien seconds of trying to associate a context with the face, because I'd never seen this guy dressed up before, or with a pretty wife and two adorable munchkins, but then I realized I'd watched him for over seven seasons on the prison drama, Oz. It was the actor who played Cyril, whose real-life brother was also on the show and now makes quite a career getting beat up on television commercials. Cyril was a mentally-challenged character who spent most of his time performing crimes for his brother and never really understanding what he was doing; he was fundamentally sweet, in that way the mentally challenged always are on television. And I had a vague memory of him getting the electric chair or something in the final season.

I recognized him because he hadn't changed at all since the show went off the air. Same stringy blond hair, same ponytail. So I did what anyone would do in those circumstances, which was to play it cool and text OMG we r sitting next to that guy from Oz.

I didn't say anything through dinner. I really wanted to, but I didn't want to be obnoxious. Besides, I was a little afraid that it would come out like, You weren't the one that Christopher Meloni raped with a spoon, were you?

Because I'm sure his little girls hear that all the time.

On to some questions from If you've got some burning issues, you should really see a doctor about that. Or else jot them down in question format and I'll answer as best I can.

I don't recognize one of the words you've used. Will you please explain what "serostatus" means? (I hope you don't mind my vocabulary-related curiosity)

You can find a definition at

WTF? Why are people sending you offensive questions?

Because they feel that although they're obsessed with a sex blog themselves, anyone who engages in an active sex life, and has no particular shame about having one, is automatically an easy target. It's a form of self-loathing on their part.

Have you checked out the bathhouses in ny yet?

I have not. When I've inquired about them among people in the know, opinions seem to be divided. About half say that they've enjoyed one of the two, and the other half make it sound as if when I step into the place I'll automatically break out into a scorching case of scabies. I'm not really sure which camp to believe.

Your thoughts on Samuel Beckett?

I've seen some productions of Beckett plays--Godot and Endgame especially--that have been both moving and thought-provoking. I've also seen some productions that were merely frantic and gimmicky. The material's there, and it's really good material. I think a company's approach to it is what makes or breaks it, though.

If I was a porn studio and I was going to ask you to star in an upcoming film which studio would it be?

I hope you'd be Treasure Island.

Have you ever been outside naked? If so, when?

Oh, many times, starting when I was a kid. My folks were casual nudists, and the first time I remember going to a nudist gathering was when I was 3 or 4. Being outside in the nude makes one feel more alive, I think.

What have you learned about the bars in your new locale?

Gay bars? I've learned that there are none.

What sport best describes you physique; American football, soccer, track, rugby, hockey, wrestling, swimmer, midget wrestling, baseball, basketball or a coach?

I don't see the option for 98-pound weakling.

Don't know where in CT you are, but you may want to check out the bathhouses in Providence instead of NY - much more welcoming and people actullay hook up!

I've had several people recommend the Providence baths, and the city is on my to-do list. Unfortunately, I like at the far end from the Rhode Island state line. But it's not that big a state.

What have you done so far for cultchuh in CT?

I've visited New York city, where I've been to museums, saw the Alexander McQueen exhibit, and seen some theater. Oh, and I attended one frantic and poorly-acted production of Shakespeare in some Fairfield County park.

When you are home alone do you generally stay nude?

During the summer I have a tendency to sprawl nude all over the place, or if I'm getting chilly in the air conditioning, a T-shirt at most.

Friday, September 16, 2011

A Sexual Education: VD Day

In Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex But Were Afraid to Ask, Dr. Reuben thoughtfully included an entire chapter on venereal diseases—they were the kind of thing one caught, after all, when indulging in prostitution, homosexuality, and S&M. After they'd given me ample time to read and absorb the information within, my parents quizzed me so thoroughly, and so often, that it got to the point I could identify a corkscrew-shaped bacterium from twenty paces.

“With sexual freedom comes sexual responsibility. Your penis is not a toy,” my father intoned while I turned red and tried to pretend I wasn’t in the room, but somewhere else, a quiet, safe place lacking well-intentioned parents who wouldn’t mention the P-word so casually. “Now. Tell me again the symptoms of gonorrhea.”

One of my mother's contributions to my sex manual stash was a late-1950s volume for women. It was called, if I remember correctly, What the Modern Bride To Be Needs to Know About the Facts of Marriage. The preface burbled on about the joy of eternal wedlock and of everlasting love and the beauty of babies in their cradles in spring. It was a bit sick-making. In the introduction's last paragraph, though, the prose took a turn: But do you, the modern bride-to-be, really know how babies come about? You mother might have hinted at it. Your grandmother might have blushed to tell. The authors of this book will guide you through the process, its pleasures and its dangers, so that on your wedding night there will be NO SURPRISES!At last we were getting to the good stuff.

Or so you’d think. The well-meaning, crew-cutted and bespectacled physicians on the back cover were so circumspect about the entire act that they never referred to it in any but the most vague of terms. Ladies, do not fear penetration by the male member. Under many circumstances, the sex act can bring pleasure to both parties! was about as explicit as it got, before launching into a scientific discussion of fertilization and zygotes that could be fished out of any biology textbook.

But again, there was a chapter devoted to venereal diseases, as I remember—or rather, ‘social diseases.’ If your husband has served in any branch of the military, read the text, be sure to inspect his member on the wedding night for sores, abrasions, or other curious features, and refrain from sexual congress until a physician has appraised his manhood as well. He may have contracted a social disease during ‘shore leave.’

Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex But Were Afraid to Ask might have had the definite advantage in clinical explicitness, but What the Modern Bride To Be Needs to Know About the Facts of Marriage, with its half-told tales of lustful sailors on shore leave and of newlywed husbands importuning their new wives to stop assessing their members’ curious features and come the hell to bed already, certainly knew how to capture the imagination.

When I was in eighth grade, my middle school suddenly decided that it was vital to inform thirteen and fourteen year olds about venereal disease. We’d never had any kind of sex education classes before, though we boys were used to being dismissed for an extra-long recess while the girls being taken into the auditorium once a year for a mysterious movie. I still have no definite confirmation of what the cinematic mystery actually might have been, but I think the playground consensus among the boys was that it had to do with tampons ‘n’ girl stuff.

On the day of our venereal disease seminar, our home room was separated by gender and funneled into conference rooms. The room with the boys was crowded. I remember the chicken-soup smell of our testosterone. I was sitting against the wall in the corner, on a stool, utterly bored. Although the educator had arrived from a local VD clinic with all kinds of visual aids, including a three-dimensional cross section of the male anatomy, his entire talk used the coy phraseology of my mother’s twenty year old Modern Bride book. VD was something that would affect ‘our parts,’ if we used ‘our parts’ with ‘woman parts’ to have ‘relations.’ ‘Our parts’ shouldn’t be used until marriage, of course, but if we used ‘our parts’ for ‘relations’ before then, we ran dire risks of contracting VD.

If there was any doubt about what he meant by ‘our parts,’ it was dispelled when he detached the half-penis from the cutaway model and brandished it like a dog’s chew toy.

The man proceeded to launch into a description of the two venereal diseases we could get, in phrases that never actually used any biological terms for body parts. What I mostly remember about the session is the heat of the conference room and the dullness of the man's droning, and of thinking, My mother is going to shit a gut when she hears about how bad this lecture was.

“You!” said the man, singling me out with a stubby, pointing finger. “You’re not paying attention.”

He was absolutely right, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. I flushed red and denied the charge.

“Okay then, smart guy,” he sneered, glad to have someone to pick on. “What are the symptoms of syphilis?”

I hated anyone condescending to me like that, when I was a kid. (I still do.) I especially hated the phrase smart guy. “Syphilis is caused by corkscrew-shaped bacteria that produce visible sores on the penis, vagina, lips, mouth, or rectum,” I droned. This was easy stuff. I’d been tested by my dad, a tougher inquisitor than this guy. “The sore or sores are at the point of sexual contact and may disappear shortly after they appear. Secondary symptoms, which may surface months after the primary sore has healed, include a rash on the palms or soles of the feet, a fever. . . .”

“All right, all right,” he snapped. "Don't be such a show-off." His face was redder than mine, from being outsmarted. “What about gonorrhea?”

With unnerving accuracy and more than a little anger, I rattled off the symptoms, making sure to emphasize certain words as I said that it began with a burning discharge from the penis or vagina and that while symptoms were more common for men’s penises it could often go undetected in the vagina. All the other boys were giggling uncontrollably at the words we’d been avoiding for over an hour. The instructor whipped his head at them, disgusted that he couldn’t find anything wrong with my answers. “This is a serious matter. It could be life or death! You should all be paying attention to what I say!” he said, making it plain with his glance that meant me, specifically.

I had the embers of righteous suffering burning in my eyes throughout the rest of the lecture, but it did me no good. At the end we were given slips of paper and directed to write down questions that might be easier to ask anonymously than aloud. I didn’t have any questions, but just for the sake of form and because it hadn’t been covered by the man’s talk, I wrote down, How long does it take for symptoms of VD to occur after infection?

The man started pulling out the slips of paper once we’d deposited them into a jelly jar. “How do you catch VD?” he read. “Jesus Christ, guys, we went over that already.” He reached in again. “How do you catch VD?” More dips into the jar, more of the same question. The man was getting more and more frustrated when finally he found a different slip of paper. “What is VD?” he read. “Okay. Who the h . . . who put in that one? Was it you?”

He was accusing me again. Several of the other boys were laughing, saying yeah, it was Rob, he hadn’t been paying attention, remember? I just shook my head, knowing that the slip of paper had been written by Orlando, the kid in our class with spina bifida. Seriously, did he think my handwriting could have been that bad?

“Well, I don’t like smart-asses,” he growled, glaring at me.

I don’t even remember the rest of the session, save that eventually we were let out into the cool air and allowed to go back to our classes.

All I remember is that I spent the rest of the day with my jaw tight, glowering at my classmates, wishing oozing sores and dripping urethras on them all.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

A Sexual Education: Everything I Ever Wanted to Know About Sex

I learned about the birds and the bees in third grade, the day that my best friend Teresa walked up to me at recess and announced, "Wanna know how babies are made?"

Well, of course I did.

A gleam in her eye, Teresa took me behind the scrubby forsythias that grew along the fence at the edge of the tiny playground. In their shade, our little sneakers kicking up whirlwinds of dirt, she made me lean forward and listen to the details through cupped fingers. "A mommy and a daddy go into the little boy's room, then they drop down their pants and show each other their hineys." That was the word she used. Hiney. I'd never heard it before. It sounded exotic, some undiscovered land just off the coast of me. My ignorance scandalized her even further. She explained the term, and then proceeded. "Then they rub their hineys together! And a baby comes out."

I blinked, dubious. She swore up and down that she was telling me the truth, and then before I could ask any questions, ran off to spread her information to the next victim. I remember pondering the scenario all that afternoon during fractions. If anything, Teresa's news made me more curious. Why, I remember thinking, did the mommy and the daddy have to go to the little boy's room? Why not a girl's room? Why did it have to be a public restroom at all? What if they lived in the country, where public facilities were few and far between? What if someone walked in? It sounded awful.

About the hineys, however, I didn't doubt Teresa. She was the sister of a future famous rock star, and until then her credentials had been impeccable.

"So," I told my mother when I got home that day, as I pulled some chocolate chip cookies from a Tupperware container. "I learned how babies were made, today."

When my mother wasn't teaching, she had three favorite pastimes: college basketball, murder mysteries, and crossword puzzles. That afternoon she was sitting at the rickety kitchen table with a cigarette in her left hand and a Ngaio Marsh in her right. She maintained a level expression while smoke curlicued from the corners of her mouth. "How?"

I gave her the nitty-gritty. She listened with a stone face that would have rivaled anything erected by the Easter Islanders, a long and brittle ash drooping from the end of her cigarette. "Good god," she said at last. Then she stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and rapidly went to shut the doors between the kitchen and the living and dining rooms. Once satisfied that she'd created a cone of silence, she cleared her throat and said, "Pull up a chair, kid."

When I went to school the next day, it was with a much deeper, accurate, and scientific understanding of the human reproductive process than Teresa's parents apparently taught her. The problem was that my gospel arrived so late in the game that it was apocrypha; Teresa's had been such a stunning development in the third grade mentality that anything I had to say sounded like the knockoff philosophy of a jealous rival—I was the Treet to her Spam, the Hydrox to her Oreo.

But the upshot of the Teresa incident was that my parents decided it was time for me to get more than just the most basic of outlines of the ins and outs, as it were, of sexual intercourse. That's how I ended up, as I've mentioned before, with a collection of sex manuals at the tender age of nine or ten.

The first, and the most informative, was Dr. David Reuben's Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask). The book held an important place in popular culture for most of the nineteen-seventies. Legions of married couples clung to it, before The Joy of Sex made its way into their bedrooms instead. Woody Allen gently spoofed it in a film of the same title. The reason for its popularity is that EYWTKAS was pretty much a Sex for Dummies manual. It started with the very basics—the reproductive organs, what they looked like, and how they worked, and how they fit together.

Apparently I was quite the little dummy back then, because these opening chapters were a mystery to me. Part of the problem was that although I knew the proper terms for the male and female anatomy (we were not a family that used words like 'pee-pee' or 'cookie'), I had absolutely no conception of how they were supposed to be spelled. I assumed that penis was supposed to have a double-E in there, somewhere. And the female organ? My childlike mind thought it had a J or at least a nice ZH in its middle. Something soft and sweet, like the organ itself. Not the hard G that appears in the the actual word.

So for several days I read and re-read the anatomy chapters, mystified what this odd-sounding pen-is (the word I kept reading in the book I was thinking rhymed with tennis) and the harsh-sounding vagina (which I mentally rhymed with beginnah) might be. When I made the connection between the printed words and the terms with which I grew up, it was a real Helen Keller moment. In the movie of my life, some ten-year-old is going to win an Oscar stumbling around with his hands open, excitedly shouting "VAGINA! VAGINA!" instead of wah-wah!

Subsequent chapters moved on through pregnancy and childbirth. Once the very basics had been laid out, the book started to go into frills. Impotency. S&M. Homosexuality. Prostitution. The book's structure was something like a FAQ, with the doctor authoritatively responding to what he seemed to assume were common questions that the average person would have about sexuality.

Only wow, some of the misconceptions I picked up from the book. Since the other sex manuals my parents assigned me to read were quaint and euphemism-filled marriage manuals from the nineteen-fifties (the only good sex tip I got from them was that the husband loves it when a wife licks the palm of her hand and rubs it hard over the tip of the glans . . . to which the only thing I can say is ouch, motherfucker!), I had to assume that EYWTKAS was the most up-to-date and accurate source of information.

It wasn't.

Some of the things I learned as gospel from that august book:

All male homosexuals are sexual deviants who meet each other in bowling alley restrooms. It was like the Teresa story all over again. I somehow recognized part of myself in the chapter on homosexuality, though the doctor's assertion that all homosexuals were either super-butches or cross-dressing queens didn't ring true. I assumed with some despair that I'd never meet another homosexual, ever, because the only bowling alley in Richmond was way the hell on the other side of town.

All prostitutes are lesbians and all lesbians are prostitutes. I'm not really sure of the doctor's logic on this one, but apparently it was an impeccable product of its era. Which, I would like to remind everyone, was also era when people invented the Pet Rock and sat in bean bag chairs.

All kink and any fetish falls under sado-masochism. It doesn't matter how mild a fetish it is. If a man starts having a hankering for lacy women's underwear, sooner or later he's going to end trussed up with a leather-clad dominatrix whipping the fuck out of him. Oh, and every shoe store is stocked with perverted clerks who took the job so they could fondle their female customers' feet and then masturbate in the stock room.

Vaginas are dangerous, evil, penis-trapping devices. No lie. The book contained a horrifying chapter on frigidity that basically stated that sexually unresponsive women are pretty much bitches, and that if you try to fuck them, their vaginas will clamp down upon your hapless penis and refuse to let it go. Want to know why so many boys came out as gay in the years EYWTKAS came out? It's because we all read the chapter about the man whose limp penis was strangled in a woman's vagina with such force that the fucking fire department had to come out and separate them.

Dr. Reuben, on the whole, was a very strange man.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Nasty Boys

My watch read 10:35. I was five minutes early, but hoped it wouldn’t matter. I can be there at about 10:40, I’d written earlier.

don’t care when you get here, he’d written back. just get the fuck over here now and do me rough, big guy.

The man’s house was expensive—a mid-century ranch in one of the area’s most exclusive neighborhoods. It had enough unique lines and personality to look as if it had been designed by a Name, or at least carefully copied from some distinguished architect’s style. The lawn was more elaborately manicured than the typical golf course; the arrangements of fall flowers surrounding the leaded glass front door could have appeared in a Martha Stewart feature. I didn’t get a chance to admire, however, because the glass rectangles of the door flashed in the sun as the door opened. “Get in here,” a deep voice growled.

My eyes were still sun-blind as I stepped over the threshold. I felt a thick hand cup the back of my head and pull my face to his. A pair of lips surrounded mine, kissing me ferociously. He was a good kisser; his mouth tasted of coffee. “Nice,” I said, when I could breathe again.

The nude man looked exactly like the photos he’d sent me: shaved head, bearded, muscular thighs and arms, and a deep chest covered with a carpet of dark brown fur. As my eyes traveled down the length and bulk of his body, his hands suddenly covered his private parts. “I’m shy,” he whispered, coy and insincere. “Shy about being naked in front of the man who’s going to turn me into his fucking bitch.”

I grinned at that, and kicked off my sneakers. “Oh yeah? That's what I'm gonna do, huh?”

Fuck yeah,” he said, “I can tell you’re a nasty boy. Just like me. FUCK yeah. Two NASTY BOYS. Doing NASTY SHIT together!” His voice was rising in volume with every syllable, until at last he was yelling the words. They reverberated across the cavernous living room, bounced off the glass coffee table and echoed in the elegant kitchen. “NASTY SHIT, MAN! NASTY BOYS DOING WHAT NASTY BOYS DO!”

“Nice,” I said, pulling off my cotton sweater. He had begun to lead me to the bedroom in the house’s back, so I let it drop to the ground. The floor looked cleaner than the sweater itself, honestly. “I like the way you think.”

“You ain’t seen NOTHIN’ YET, FUCKER!” he thundered, hopping onto the bed. “Get those fuckin' pants fuckin' OFF!”

I obliged, unzipping and letting my jeans drop. “This what you wanted?” I asked, brandishing my erection. "Huh? This what you wanted?"

“GOD DAMN! THAT THING IS SO FUCKIN’ BIG!” he yelled, as if I were actually skewering him with it. “GOD DAMN, THE NASTY SHIT YOU ARE GONNA DO TO ME WITH THAT JIZZ-LOADED HOG!” I approached the bed, and he began pulling at his own penis in a frenzy. His tool was not, I noted, very large. In fact, I might even be generous in saying that it was tiny—perhaps all of three and a half inches, erect. But I’m not all that concerned with size, generally, so I didn’t care. I just knew I was turned on. “That’s a FUCKING MONSTER!” he yelled, lunging forward to suck it. Barely did he take the head between his lips than he started to gag. “FUCK! I CAN’T BARELY GET THAT MONSTER MEAT IN MY LITTLE BOY-MOUTH!”

Okay, I thought to myself. It's not quite that big. But I was willing to play along. “Oh, yes you can,” I said, shoving it in. Almost immediately he gagged again, but I kept a firm hold on the back of his head and eased myself in. “Yeah,” I growled. “That’s what you wanted.”

“FUCK!” I released the back of his head and he caromed back, landing on the mattress with a bounce. “You are gonna RIP ME UP when you SHOVE THAT MONSTER FUCKSTICK up my HUNGRY FUCKIN' MANFUCKHOLE!”

“Damn right I am,” I grinned, kicking off my jeans. I only had on a T-shirt and a smile at that point, and pretty soon, only the smile was left. Scarcely had I put a knee on the bed than he flipped over and thrust his ass into the air, grinding his hips to invite me. “Nice,” I hissed. My hands reached for his cheeks. I pulled them apart and let the tip of my tongue tease the hole.

“GOD DAMN!” he yelled, groping in a drawer beside the bed. “I AM SO READY FOR THAT MONSTER COCK! MAKE ME YOUR FUCKIN’ BITCH! NASTY BOYS DOING WHAT NASTY BOYS DO, FUCKERMAN!” He grabbed a bottle of poppers from its depth, then unscrewed it. I whiffed the acrid scent of the liquid within, from several feet away. With my thumb working itself in and out of his butt, I got to my knees again.

It was then, as I positioned myself behind him, that I noticed the painting over the bed. It was of my nasty boy himself—four Warhol-ized portraits in a grid of bright, psychedelic colors of the man posing at work. And when I say work, it was perfectly obvious what he did professionally, and it was one of the most typically stereotypical gay careers there is. Which was fine. I didn’t care what he did for a living. But I was kind of slightly taken aback at the notion that someone would hang a four foot by four foot monster painting of themselves right over their own bed. I had to drag my attention away from it back to his ass, which he still was waggling in the air. “You ready?” I asked.

“FUCK YEAH!” he barked.

I nodded to myself, and then positioned the tip of my cock at the slick hole, and began to slide forward.

“Oh, I don’t get fucked,” he said, in his normal voice. “Sorry.”

It felt like my head was spinning. “What?”

“I don’t get fucked,” he said, quite conversationally, as if we'd been talking about the weather ever since I'd stepped through the door.

I didn’t quite understand. Hadn’t he moments before begged me to make him my bitch? Didn’t he want me to shove my monster fuckstick up his manfuckhole? Which part, exactly, had I misunderstood?

“Yeah, I’d have to have a couple of drinks and know you pretty well to do that. I mean, you can rub it on the outside, or fuck between my legs, or jerk off and cum on my butt, but I don’t take it in the hole.” I was still blinking when he suddenly flipped onto his back and furiously began jerking off again.

His hand flew up and down over his tiny penis as he banged his head repeatedly onto the expensive sheets with the high thread count. “God DAMN you got A BIG DICK, FUCKER! SO! FUCKIN’! BIG! MAKIN’ ME DO NASTY SHIT WITH YOU, I'M A FUCKING NASTY BOY! YEAH! YEAH!” A pillow fell off the bed as his body clenched. The tiniest dribble of semen pulsed from the slit of his dick onto his furry belly, dripping down with all the urgency of name-brand ketchup. “FUCK YEAH!”

I had been motionless and slack-jawed for several moments. I knew my cue, though. “Okee-dokee, then!” I announced. Then I climbed from the bed, turned my back on the large portrait, collected my T-shirt, my jeans, and my sweater, and dressed.

I looked at my watch when I let myself out. It was 10:42.