Thursday, March 31, 2011

Reader Asses: #8

You know what? I really love Reader Ass Day. Mostly because I get an actual excuse to sit at my computer and look at photographs of naked butts. Why, it's almost like drawing an income for doing what I do best!

I've still got reader asses trickling in, so to speak, and would love to feature yours along with the many other readers who've already participated. To find out how, follow the link and read my original plea for exhibitionists!

Ken






First up today, Ken—a fine, round, furry ass posed against an idyllic display of summer foliage. It's almost like a still life, this photograph: the perfect globes reflecting the slanted slats of light shining in from the blinds behind him. The pendulous balls hanging between his thighs. The trees and sunlight beyond.

However, I think if I were in the room with Ken, the last thing I'd want to be doing would be painting him. Unless we're talking about painting his face and butt with my load. That I could manage.


JebN21







I've got to confess: I love JebN's photos. Jeb is a young lad of 20 from Newcastle, England. (Please. Insert your puns about bringing coals to him, in the comments.) It's such a beautiful, muscular young butt—but what makes it irresistible to me is the second photo, in which he's squeezing his cheek with his hand and hairy forearm.

Or at least, I assume that's his own forearm. I suppose it could be someone else's.

Either way. JebN, I sigh whenever I look at these pictures. They really are just that attractive. I hope the men of Newcastle tell you how desirable you are.

J.








I don't know much about our Mr. J. He wanted to remain anonymous, and didn't tell me anything about himself. I'm guessing, however, that he's fairly young, a bit of an exhibitionist, and a bottom.

All of those things are good for me. So is that ass, J. Thank you for letting me see that beautiful hole!


HotSwedeNYC








In contrast to mysterious J., we have HotSwedeNYC, who would like everyone to know that he uses that particular moniker on Adam4Adam, if you'd like to get in touch with him. And shit, why wouldn't you? That ass is fucking beautiful. As always, I appreciate the jock shot, but that last photo, kneeling on the floor, is also a beauty!

Our Swede friend also runs a blog of his own, at sexualsvenofthegaycity.blogspot.com . Give him a follow and encourage him to update more often!

Sigh. I need to visit NYC more often.

Jim







Finally today we have Jim from upstate New York, showing off his wares with enthusiasm. I love the way he's pulling those great ass cheeks apart with his hands and showing off the prize spot between them.

The guy's got a great pair of nuts there, too. And is that a wedding ring I spy, Jim? You're certainly making someone a lucky mate.


Let's have a big round of applause for all of today's exhibitionists—great asses, one and all!

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Pinned

Three times I’ve been to The Decorator’s house since I wrote about him last. The first and second times were both about a month ago, when online he caught me and invited me over late at night. I ended up arriving at eleven and stumbling out of his front door again at one-thirty in the morning, drained and warm and barely able to walk.

He texted me two nights later to thank me, and to let me know he’d been thinking about me. It ended (as I’d hoped) with him inviting me over again. Since his king-sized sheets were in the washer, we fucked like dogs in his spare bedroom, ruining the sheets in there with our mixed cum and sweat. I was a happy man, to see one of my most sensual and favorite fucks twice in a week.

Both times I was over there last month, I’d noticed on his bedside table, next to the lube and a bottle of poppers, a pair of wooden clothespins. The first time I saw them, they registered in my head with surprise. I knew The Decorator liked his nipple play, but he’d asked for anything other than my fingers, mouth, and teeth on them. I’d forgotten about the clothespins on my subsequent visit, until I was pulling on my shoes afterward and noticed them lying there on the spare bedroom nightstand.

This week, I didn’t forget.

I was sitting at home last week, feeling somewhat neglected and out of sorts, when The Decorator sent me a text message asking if I happened to be available that night. Hell. For him, I jump at the opportunities. I shut down my computer, jumped in the shower, and was there within fifteen minutes.

The scene started as usual. I entered the dark, unlocked house and tiptoed up the stairs. The Decorator lay face-down upon his soft-sheeted bed, between the shadows of the dim indirect lighting that shone upon his artwork. I pulled his legs apart and lapped at his butt hole, my tongue savoring the tangy, almost metallic taste of the membrane inside. Neither of us said a word, not even when I pulled him up, like a limp rag doll, into a sitting position and pressed my lips against his.

In silence he undressed me, removing my thick sweater and my V-necked T-shirt, then my pants, socks, and shorts. He knelt on the ground and with his mouth engulfed my dick, sucking it in a way that made me shift and sigh on the sheets. His eyes closed in worship, he licked and sucked at my balls, and then pushed me down into the pillows, so that he could kiss and lick my shoulders and neck. He discovered this sweet spot of mine a few visits ago, that erogenous zone that makes me lose all sense of time and place.

And he’s good to me, when he plays there. It’s not a simple sweep of the lips against my shoulders, or a flick of his tongue against my nape. He works the area for a long, long time, using his mouth and chin and nose to stroke and brush against the skin, his fingers to scrape and knead and push and pull the muscles. The more loudly I gasp, the more broadly my lips part to catch my breath, the more vigorously and passionately he chews, and licks, and sucks, and abrades ever nerve ending in the vicinity, setting them all afire.

At last I couldn’t stand any more. I pushed him to the bed and shoved inside, enjoying the helpless sounds he made as my cock parted his tight hole. Small grunts and groans were the sentences we spoke as I fucked. The sounds of our lips connecting and the sloppy sound of my wet dick plunging in and out of his hole were our punctuation. For a long time, our dialogue was only that soft exchange of the mildest and sweetest of sex noises.

Then, when his eyes were closed and his body at its most accepting, I produced the clothespins.

I’d actually palmed them when he’d been working on my neck and shoulders. During one of my flailings, I’d let my hand land upon the night table. Then, when I was sure he hadn’t been looking, I’d taken the pair of wooden pegs and concealed one in each hand. Now, still fucking him with long, deep, slow strokes, I reached around and twisted his left nipple with my fingers, pulling out. He gasped at the sensation. When I clamped the clothespin around his distended flesh, however, his eyes popped open and he made a sound that surprised me in its ferocity. It was bass, and base—it was the sound of sheer sexual pleasure. Around my dick, his hole first contracted, then expanded, opening wider and with more depth than I’d ever before heard.

His groaning was almost uncontrollable. I’d positioned the pin so that it hung from his nipple and swung there; every time he moved, it would tug and twist at his sensitive nubs. I flicked the end of the clothespin with my finger, sending it flying. He responded with an arched back, a dropped jaw. His eyes rolled back into his head, leaving only the whites. When I pinched the wooden jaws even more tightly, I thought he’d melt into a pile of twitching and quivering nerves.

He didn’t expect when I applied the other clothespin. I tugged his right nipple out and pulled until I could fasten the second peg to its tip. The extra sensation shut up his groans immediately. Instead, he began to shake, and then to whimper. It wasn’t a human noise, that whimpering. It sounded like an animal wounded so badly that it knew the end was near. The Decorator pulled his ass from my cock so quickly that I was fearful I’d damaged him. For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far.

I needn’t have. The moment my dick hit the air, my partner pushed me onto my back, then straddled my hips and impaled himself back onto my still-slick meat. Up and down he raised and lowered himself. His hands clutched for mine and pinned them above my head. His lips connected with my own, and I found myself kissing him passionately. Between us, the clothespins swung and caught at and grazed my skin. Every time they pulled at his nipples, he’d gasp, and slam down on me even harder.

Two tears were on his cheeks, one from the corner of each eye that had escaped and run alongside his nose. When I reached up and brushed one away, his eyes opened. We stared at each other for long moments while his hips rose and lowered, and mine gyrated to match his motions. Then he turned my head to the side, and ran his mouth along my jaw. His chin dug into my neck as he licked and sucked. I tried to pull my hands down, to regain control, but he was determined. And in heat. It felt as if his insides had risen ten degrees in temperature.

He came on me, solely from the pressure of his stiff dick on the underside of my rib cage. The load squirted between us and our torsos crazily mashing together spread it thin. I wanted to roll him over and finish off, but he was insistent. His hips buckled and writhed, and churned. He was determined to take the load from me in that position. Pinned down and willing to be helpless, I let him. In five long, sweeping gushes, I let him. Then, when his grasp lessened, I reached up and removed the clothespins, one at a time. I held my palms over his nipples, to help them return to their normal levels of sensation.

I could feel my semen seeping out of his hole and around my nuts as I lay there, panting. He took a moment to enjoy the sensations, then unmounted. Without asking, or being told, he knelt between my knees and cleaned off my dick, my nuts, and my thighs. Then he rolled me over, lay on my back, and applied gentle kisses to my neck once more.

We stared at each other again when he was done. Then I spoke my only words of the evening. “Why are you so nice to me?” I whispered.

His reply was soft and sincere. I could still see the tracks of moisture from the insides of his eyes, as he stared into mine. “Because you make me feel better than anyone ever has,” he said.

And then we started again.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Brown Socks

Ok they are waiting for you, read the text message. Tell me when you get them.

When I arrived home, mid-afternoon, after a lunch with a former student, they’re waiting for me—an inconspicuous lump in the bottom of my mailbox, hiding among the circulars and the bills. They’re simply a pair of socks, rolled up into each other, into a ball of fabric. When I unfurl the brown nylon, I’m immediately reminded of women’s stockings, sheer and shiny. But the garments aren’t as long as a pair of stockings, and it’s printed with what I suppose is intended to be a masculine pattern around the hem. They’re the kind of socks I imagine an old Mexican man wearing to church, or to a wedding.

Maybe that image is stuck in my head because the kid who drove across town to stuff the socks into my mail box happens to be Latin. Darrio, he told me his name was—a kid in his mid-twenties. His profile photos showed him as almost impossibly narrow-waisted and full-bottomed; his lone face photo was thugged out, tough and mean-looking.

But all he really wanted, he told me, was to serve what he called ‘white man dick.’ I had plenty of that.

I’ve got them, I texted back. I pulled the sleazy fabric over my toes and past my ankles. I didn’t like the look of them. I’d never have chosen the things on my own, much less worn them. But they were his choice, what he wanted me in. They’re on my feet.

how long will u wear them, he asked.

All day, I promised. I’ll wear them tonight when I sleep, and all tomorrow, too.

o fuck, hot!!! he texted back. i want u in ur shoes when we meet, k?

I kept my promise, too. But so no one would see, I pulled a pair of my usual cotton socks atop them.

I saw him in person for the first time the next night, when he emerged from an ancient Oldsmobile convertible and loped his way up my front walk. He wore an oversized hoodie printed with enormous letters, and a pair of baggy sweatpants that could’ve contained not only MC Hammer, but his entire posse of musicians and backup singers. “‘Sup,” he said once he was over the threshold. His dark, glittering eyes flicked over me. His lids were heavy and hooded.

I was wearing a pressed shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a pair of clean jeans, and a dress belt. On my feet were my best leather Oxfords. I could see I’d chosen the appropriate outfit. His eyes devoured me in one long, long look in which he seemed to take in every detail, from the rounded tie of my laces to the polished buckle at my waist, from the ring on my finger to the spectacles on my nose. “You got something for me?” he asked at last, after a visible gulp. I saw his knees bend, as if he intended to lower himself down.

“Upstairs,” I told him. He shed the puffy overcoat he’d been wearing and left it on the floor, then sprinted up to the second floor with me following.

The light in the bedroom was deliberately low. There was just enough illumination for me to see him I sat down, legs and feet spread wide, hips poised at the mattress edge. “Strip,” I commanded, as his hands instinctively jerked toward my feet.

Again he obeyed. He pulled off the hoodie and shucked the sweatpants in a matter of seconds, then shimmied out of a pair of tight designer briefs. His body was as good as the photos—better, even. He was tall and lean, with skin several shades darker than mine. His nipples were dark smears of brown. Curly hair covered his legs and pubic area, and skirted around to his ass. That beautiful ass. The ass that was as perfect and round as his photos had made it seem. He was fortunate to possess one of those perfectly flat stomachs that slanted down to a large, curved, uncut piece of meat. He squeezed it self-consciously to show it off to me, then stared in my eyes.

I nodded, giving him the signal.

In a flash he was back on his knees, bending over my dress shoes and untying them with a delicacy that belied his thuggish exterior. He gasped as he removed the first shoe; his hands lingered over my feet for a moment, then tugged off the second. He lifted my right foot to his face. Then, as I watched, impassive and stone-faced, his eyes closed. His forehead leaned into the flesh on the ball of my foot. He sighed. As his face softened with contentment and need, his dick rose, rock hard.

“Lay back, papi,” he whispered, eyes still shut. I leaned back on my elbows, still wanting to watch him at work. Lovingly, tenderly, he rubbed his face all over my foot. His pillowy lips pressed against the arch; his chin dug into my heel. While he sniffed and rubbed the day-old socks, his hands massaged the sides and tops. His dick bobbed in the open air, stimulated by whatever was passing through his head.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked him in a low voice.

He nodded. Very gently he returned my foot to the floor, not releasing it until it made contact with the wood. Then he picked up the left foot, moved it to his face, inhaled deeply, and began to go to work.

With the second foot, he licked and sucked the nylon-covered flesh once he’d finished sniffing and massaging it. He took his time, lost in private sexual reverie. After long minutes, he lifted both feet to his face, so that his eyes were covered, and his nose surrounded. I heard him take one deep, lingering breath, as he inhaled the essence of my smell.

I pulled him onto the mattress. His soft lips met mine. He was a decent kisser, though I could tell that wasn’t where his passion lay. I pushed his head down my torso until his tongue flicked out for the head of my dick. “Wet it up,” I told him.

Like a good boy, he obeyed. There were two halves to this bargain. He’d get as long as he wanted with my feet, and his socks. And I’d get his hole.

As I said, it was a beautiful ass. He gasped and trashed slightly as I tongued it, as if instinctively trying to buck me off. Then he gave in, and relaxed. The muscles protecting his most highly-guarded area relaxed, and gradually open as I ate at him with increasing vigor.

By the time I was ready to enter, he was moaning. His hips rolled, back and forth, up and down. I squirted some lube on my dick, then applied the remainder to his ass. My knees straddling his thighs, I pushed in.

He yelled like a boy. I’d barely gotten two inches in when his hole clamped down around my meat, barring further entry. “Take it out, take it out, fuck!” he cried.

My mouth was close to his ear. I let out a long ssshhh. “Hold still,” I told him, to keep him from trying to squeeze me. “Hold still. Get used to it.”

A tear was rolling down his face. At my command, though, Darrio stopped his thrashing. He dug his forehead into my pillow, but he also bit down on his lips. I could hear him whimpering still, like a kicked puppy, but at least he wasn’t making my ears ring.

Guys praise me sometimes for my sensitivity, for being attuned to what my lovers need. That’s all very well, but there are some times, and some guys, when none of that matters. When the only needs to which I’m attuned are my dick’s. This was one of those times. I could tell he didn’t want to be fucked, that he was only doing it for foot time—that he was only doing it because he felt obligated, after I’d worn his sleazy nylon socks. And you know, that was fine with me. He’d given me permission in advance to take his hole. I could’ve let him off the hook.

But I didn’t.

Inch by inch I worked my dick into his hole. He clearly had never had anything that size in there, before. The guy’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched at the pillow and sheets as if they were his life preservers, but he endured. Every new inch brought him more pain, and opened him wider—but he endured.

Then, when I rolled him onto his side with myself buried in him to the hilt, I reached between his legs and encountered his full bulls and an uncut dick that was not only rock-hard, but slick and slimy from the precum flowing liberally from its tip.

He was fucking enjoying it.

He continued to whimper and whine as I fucked, but didn’t protest at first. Then, after a few moments, he said, as if apologizing, “I can’t take this very long, papi. I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept pounding away. “I can’t . . . not for much longer.”

It didn’t matter. The combination of his round, fleshy butt and and his vise-like hole were working magic on my dick. It twitched, and began to demand to burrow deeper, deeper inside. I let it have its way.

He let out a sob half of relief, half of unexpected arousal, when I came. I held him tightly while it happened, letting loose my seed deeper into him than he’d ever taken before. Then he brought himself off with a few quick strokes, shooting his seed all over my pillow. Every crush of his muscles as he shot squeezed me farther out of his hole, until at the very last I’d withdrawn in a messy pool of my own semen, puddling onto the blanket.

Then I let him have my feet again. For a long time—a very long time—we both lay on our backs with our heads pointing in opposite directions, balls to balls. My feet lay atop his face, as he licked and sucked and sniffed and gobbled at their soles, through the nylon fabric. It was relaxing, and arousing in his own way, but I knew he couldn’t handle another fuck. Not for days, at least. The kid had an advanced-studies appetite, but mine is not a survey-level dick. Beginners might admire it, but rarely can they handle it.

Not that it keeps me from trying, when I’ve got permission.

At last I suggested it was time for him to go. Without a word he hopped up from the bed, pulled on his loose-fitting clothing and shoes, and tripped down the stairs. “You want to do this again sometime?” I asked.

“You way too big for me,” he mumbled, not looking me in the eye.

“I’ll wear the socks again.”

He considered that. I knew he would. “Keep ‘em,” he said, with a look of mingled shame and desire fleetingly crossing his handsome, guarded face. “I’ll be back.”

Somehow I knew he’d say that.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Late Breaking Edition

I'm running a little behind this morning, and for that I thoroughly apologize. The reason would be that I got a little behind, this morning. As in, a behind wrapped around my dick. And it was so pleasurable and intense (apparently for him, too, as he's been texting me every fifteen minutes thanking me, since he left) that it lasted a great deal longer than I anticipated.

So. Let's get to it. Formspring. Questions. Round-up. You know the drill.


Based on your description, not only do you hook up with guys, but you cruise in public. I read about you cruising for sex in the woods, but do you still look in public restrooms? If so, do you play there as well?
I do look in public restrooms. I've written about several restroom encounters that have happened over the previous months, and have even written about one restroom encounter that took place with a reader of my blog.


When did you start sleeping naked?
I remember sleeping naked when I was about 10 and found pajamas too confining. I have done so pretty much ever since. In college I tended to wear a T-shirt to bed (but no shorts) because nudity in the dorm rooms wasn't that common, but otherwise I prefer to sleep nude.


How long does it take you to reload?
Usually not very long. Often I don't deflate between fucks. Quite often I can shoot as quickly as five or ten minutes after I first unload.


Do m/any of your meetthebreeder followers know your actual identity? I ask with full respect of your privacy; I'm just curious to know if there's much crossover. Do you see much variance between this circle of compatriots, & others in your daily life?
You make me feel like Clark Kent.

My blog and Twitter followers tend not to overlap with my everyday, local friends. They are two distinct groups. I prefer to keep them that way.

That said, I have met and screwed several people from the first group. I've become genuine friends with several in the first group. Some of my long-term online friends also have discovered my blog and have made the not-so-tough leap to realize my authorship.

Of these people, many know who I actually am. Usually it's led to us being closer friends than before, so that's a good thing.

I don't consider my blog shameful, nor am I ashamed of the acts I detail within. While I prefer a certain amount of distance between those who know about it and those who don't, I never live in fear of ruin and exposure when the two collide.


Thx for your reply to my question re "meethebreeder" cf the rest of your life. These considerations really interest me. I hope you didn't perceive any assumptions around shame or fear in my asking, because that wasn't where I was coming from. Cheers!
No, I didn't get that at all from your question, but I volunteered the information to show you the perspective from which I approach my life.


In one post you said that sometimes you visit friends or family in central VA. If a fan lives in the area would you be up for meeting? (In case, you can't tell, that fan is me.)
I've gone out of my way to meet a couple of fans in the past, on road trips. It would depend on the fan and how I felt about him.


Do you ever wish to be again with the first guy you had sex with?
I get to have that option fairly regularly.


Do you prefer to shoot inside someone or do you ever pull out, cum, then shove the cum inside a man?
I prefer to shoot inside. I don't pull out, even to shove it back in again.

This is one of many reasons I'd be lousy in porn.


I recently received a friend suggestion on facebook from you, aren't you concerned that you have a face pic up under your breeder name?
No.


Are you doing anything remotely close to what you thought you'd be doing when you 'grew up'?
I really had very little concept of what I wanted to do as an adult, when I was younger. At one point I wanted to be an archaeologist. At another, I wanted to be a concert pianist. I am neither. I did harbor hopes of being in the profession in which I work now, but seriously doubted I ever could make it happen.

So basically, I guess I proved myself wrong.


Is it truly greater to have loved and lost, than never to have loved before?
Loss is inevitable. Everything we love, changes, or dies.

It's better to honor the loss by loving as hard and as deeply as possible, knowing that the loss will come, than it is to shun life's rich bounty in an effort to stave off the prospect of change.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Reader Asses: #7

The Breeder prayed unto the heavens that they might bestow upon him the choicest of reader asses. And lo, from the heavens rained an abundance of ass, upon which the children of earth might feast!

Let's see what we have in the Reader Ass mailbox for this week.

M.B.



Regular readers might recognize M.B.'s initials as a frequent commenter—he's also a regular correspondent and a long-time personal friend as well, predating this blog by a considerable amount. It's kind of interesting for me to see him in an entirely new light.

By which I mean a light from above, illuminating his shapely cheeks. I suspect he wore this style of jock because he knows how much I enjoy it. And damn, do I ever enjoy it. Thank you, M.B.


A.J.







There's something particularly arousing about a guy so anxious to show off his ass and hole that he's willing to drop down to the bedroom floor in order to do it. A.J. doesn't need a bed; he doesn't need a comfy sofa. He's willing to drop and spread right there on the cold, hard wood.

Speaking of hard wood, that's what these photos give me. And I suspect a good many of you as well.


Holdon 




For those of you who doubt that older gentlemen can have fantastic asses, I present to you Holdon, a sixty-one-year-old reader with a rockin' ass. Holdon's in a long-term relationship and hails from the northeastern U.S.

All I can say, Holdon, is that you've got one lucky partner there. And one fantastic rear end!


Pakistani Pussyboi  




I'm going to let these photos speak for themselves, pretty much. Pakistani Pussyboi (that's what he assures he me likes to be called) certainly knows how to live up to the title. That round ass sports so much fur that I'd be afraid my face would get carpet burn from rimming it.

Of course, I'd be rimming it pretty vigorously. Thank you, P.P.!

Wildsailor 




There's something about this picture that really tickles me. It's obviously taken in an office. You've got the papers. The computer. The phone. The businessman's glasses. The bulletin board. And then, in the middle of it all, those dropped trousers and that round, firm ass.

You know, Wildsailor? I'd venture to say that you are a pretty wild man, after all—and definitely the kind of guy I'd love to meet.


Let's hear a round of applause for all our sexy-assed men of this week. It takes a lot of courage to put one's photographs up on a site like mine—and I want these guys to know exactly how much I (and you!) appreciate them.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Scruffyfuck Thursday

For your Thursday enjoyment, I've uploaded to XTube some footage of me fucking Scruffy. That would be him you hear there, moaning and groaning.

I'm mystified, by the way, why XTube somehow rotates my movies whenever I upload them, in some random fashion. This video was shot horizontally on my phone, appeared horizontally on my computer, and yet on XTube . . . vertical.

Enjoy!

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Perigee Moon

When he steps through my front door, he avoids looking at me. Instead, he turns away and removes his thin wool hoodie, barely enough to keep his narrow frame warm on a cold night like this. Though the room is dark and the shades are drawn, the perigee moon has risen just above the rooftops across the street. Its brilliant, blue-white light reflects from his pale skin, giving it the iridescence of pearl.

Down drop his ragged khakis, puddling around his ankles, followed by his shorts. When finally he turns, I can barely make out the familiar tattoos covering his young skin. The insides of his forearms arms are trellises for vines of roses, thickly flowering and studded with thorns. There’s a crest in the center of his chest, just above the sternum, elaborate, heraldic, and covered with scrollwork. His biceps are decorated with curlicues and intricate designs. On his shoulder is a dark splotch of a design—a Celtic cross, it would seem. And on the outside of a thigh, a woman’s face, surrounded by hair.

There was no question we’d do it any way other than in the dark. This twenty-year-old boy, Jason, and I have still never seen each other’s faces directly. The many times we’ve played have been in restrooms around the county, where I’ve only seen the extended shape of his lips around my dick, beneath a metal partition. Once I had him over to my house. As on this night, I invited him over late, after dark. I’ve turned off all the house’s lights, save for the porch light over the address plate. I’ve drawn all the shades and curtains. The house is already on a silent street with very little light. Tonight, it’s as dark as it gets.

I’m sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, my inches hard and ready in my right hand. He shuffles across the oriental rug in his socks and kneels down before me. After a deep, deep breath, he impales his mouth on his dick. There’s not timid preparation, no licking or kissing or slow entry. He throws himself down on it like a disgraced samurai upon his own sword, taking it to the hilt and letting out a deep, groan from his diaphragm when it can go no farther. My head lolls back on the sofa’s cushions, resting there. I feel his saliva dripping down my nuts, and then trickling beneath my sac.

Though his skin is almost luminescent in the moonlight, I can’t really see anything of his face. I’m fine with that. All I need to know is that the boy wants me, and is doing his best to make me feel good. He’s not trying to get me off, here. He’s wetting me up, getting me slick for his ass. To accentuate the point, when I reach down between his legs to grab his stiff cock, which already has a tip that’s wet and getting slicker, he grabs my wrist and yanks it down, down between his legs. His fingers press mine against his hole, which opens and closes around the tips.

He’s already lubed down there, but I want to taste him, first. I shove the boy onto the sofa and take his place on the floor, where I spread those perfectly round twenty-year-old cheeks and bury my face between them. He gasps at the roughness of my beard against his tender skin. I can hear him muffling his cries in the cushions before at last he lets his forehead rest on their back. “Fuck me,” he begs in a soft voice. “Stick that big daddy dick in me and ram the fuck out of me. Please.”

His boyhole is tight. Very tight. I’ve had the forethought to put a small bottle of lube on the coffee table. I squirt a glob of it onto his hole and work it in roughly, making him cry out and squirm, as I spread more on my meat. When I go in, it’s with a savage push. I know he likes it to hurt.

His head flies up. His jaw opens wide. The cry he lets out is at first soundless, a phantom scream that makes no noise, though its presence cannot be missed. He twitches, and shudders, and finally relaxes. When he lets out a noise, it’s only the word yes, sibilant and long, deep and in the chest.

I hold it there until he completely relaxes, then begin pumping. “Let me sit on it,” he begs after a moment. “I need to sit on that daddy dick.”

He’s used to sitting on me that way. In every restroom where we’ve fucked, he’s had me push my knees and legs beneath the stall so he can straddle my dick and ride. That’s what he does now—lowers his tiny frame on my outsized dick until it reaches the bottom. Then he begins to ride. He bounces, and thrashes, and squeezes that super-tight hole around me as our lips meet. We’re making out when he shoots, spraying semen all over his chest and mine. The spasms of his hole drag me kicking and screaming over the edge; my release is sweet, and deep, and silent.

When he at last stands up, my load slides from his hole and lands on my shin. I grab my T-shirt and wipe it up, then mop him down. He takes the T-shirt from me and catches the spots I’ve missed, then hands it back. I sniff the soaked garment, then shrug and pull it on.

He dresses facing away from me, not wanting me to see his face, or for himself to see mine. His legs are still shaking like a newborn calf, attempting to walk for the first time, but he manages to step back into his khakis and pull on his shirt. “All right, dad,” he mumbles at the last. “Thank you, sir.”

“Be careful,” I tell him, and then let him out the door.

I can only see his back, through the blinds, as I watch him stumble to his car. He’s walking almost bow-legged—a slip of a boy sneaking back home, by the light of the perigee moon.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Friday at the Baths: Steam Room Four-Way

After the steam room bear packed up his bag and got back on the freeway to Ohio, I decided to stick around the bathhouse a little longer. I didn’t have to be anywhere that afternoon, and I’d not fooled around with very many people. So after a quick pee break (during which some determined guy kept trying to rattle open the door to my stall) and a shower, I sauntered back to the steam room.

I didn’t have to wait long for the action to start. A very sexy older gentleman had followed me into the tiled room’s foggy depths. His extremely thick dick was rock hard when he pulled away his towel. His hand touched my meat at the same time I wrapped my long fingers around his. My fingertips barely touched the base of my palm, as they encircled the rock-hard flesh.

We kissed. He was even better at it than the bear had been—and the bear had been an ideal make-out partner. While we made out, surrounded by warm blankets of steam, the room’s door opened several times, admitting people that I didn’t bother to check out. I was too happy in the moment, being in a handsome stranger’s arms with his lips atop mine. He groaned when my fingers toyed with his nipples. His own hands began to play with my balls, and then stroked the area behind them over and over again.

When he stood up on the lower shelf so that his head nearly scraped the ceiling, I went down on his dick immediately. By this time there were five or six men watching us go at each other. Their hands were on their dicks, stroking them to hardness, but none of them yet moved to join the action. I engulfed the stranger’s thick meat with my lips, enjoying the almost-painful sensation of my jaw dropping wide to accommodate his girth. I could taste the pre-cum at his dick’s tip, when it slid down my throat. I gagged slightly when he pulled out the first time, aware of how very far he was stretching me, but didn’t protest when he slid back all the way in.

A young boy was among the men who’d invaded our tryst. He couldn’t have been any more than twenty or twenty-one; his pale skin glistened with steam and a red blush of excitement. When he sat down on the lower shelf so that his shoulder was next to my right leg, I reached out and ran my hand through his sloppy, curly dark hair. Still sucking, I brushed my thumb over his thick eyebrows, down his slightly snubbed nose. He looked a lot like Darren Criss, when the singer isn’t slicked back and brilliantined down for Glee.

I could tell he wanted my dick. I lifted my right leg, and on cue, he ducked beneath and took up a position between my thighs. His pretty eyes closed as he took my dick into his mouth and sucked. The sensations of one cock in my mouth and a mouth on my own meat was incredible. I felt not merely a tickle of pleasure at the base of my spine, but a buzzsaw of sensation.

The man I was sucking pulled out of my mouth. He obviously wanted the boy’s attention as well, but the curly-headed youngster was focused on me alone. I pulled my dick from between his slick lips and planted my mouth on him. He responded to the kiss with hunger. His back arched. His neck curved back, helpless with need. Our faces were upside down from each other as we made out, but he received my kisses sloppily and with a vigor that was matched when I let him return to sucking me once more.

The older gentleman knelt between the boy’s legs and spread them roughly, then took the kid’s dick in his mouth. Another man took his place next to me—a guy my age with a perfectly sculpted hairy chest and a smooth bald head that shone in the steamroom’s lights. His dick was curved like a bow, and shot to the back of my throat just as swiftly. I looked up at the man as I sucked—he had an incredibly handsome face as well. The four of us formed a daisy-chain of sex for a few moments. The older guy sucked on the Darren Criss look-alike, the boy sucked on me, and I slurped on the curved dick of the hairy-chested muscle man. Perfect.

Then all the focus shifted to me. After begging me to make out with him again, the boy responded by pushing me down onto the upper ledge, spreading my legs, and licking at first my balls, and then my butthole. I gasped, and attempted to help him out by sliding my hips down to the shelf’s edge. My muscle man responded by sitting directly behind me, and holding my head against his chest while his strong arms surrounded me. I looked up at him; he smiled, and stared into my eyes as the boy sent waves of pleasure coursing through my body as his mouth greedily connected with my hole. The muscle man reached for my dick and firmly, slowly stroked it, as he kissed me.

The older gentleman, in the meanwhile, stopped sucking the boy’s dick and joined the kid between my legs. While the boy ate my butt, the older man licked and nipped at my nuts. It felt as if there wasn’t a single square inch of my body that wasn’t tingling or throbbing with excitement, and I knew that although I’d already shot a couple of loads into the bear, I was going to produce another very soon.

All three men could tell by my muffled groans and by the reaction of my body that I was getting closer. The boy dug his face in as deep as he could, biting and licking the sensitive flesh in the most protected spot of my body. The muscle man’s hand grew tighter around my dick as he edged me closer and closer. When I came, it was convulsive. I remember crying out, though whether for mercy or from relief I could not have said. I remember the boy standing to catch the cum as it shot from my dick, and then to slap it on his own dick and bring himself to a very quick climax. And I remember the hairy-chested man holding me the entire time, his mouth firmly planted on mine with long, deep kisses, as the boy dropped what felt like a cup of sperm all over my body.

When at last the muscle man released me with a slap on my ass, I was quivering and shaken. The boy grinned guiltily and ran his hand down my chest. His fingers trailed away at my pubes. Then he disappeared. The group that had accumulated to watch the four-way action dissipated; I was the last to leave the steam room. My face, chest, and stomach were covered with juice, not all of it my own.

I headed back to my cubicle and decided to call it a day. There was no way that I could’ve topped that experience, that afternoon. I toweled off as best as I could and dressed, then surveyed the damage in the mirror in the shower room. My hair is pretty fine, and the steam and water had turned it into—well, let’s say that a dandelion after a windstorm looked more put-together. There wasn’t much I could do about it with my fingers, though, so I shrugged philosophically, collected my flip-flops, and returned my sheets to the front window.

The handsome goateed clerk growled at me when I handed over my key. “Well, well!” I knew he was looking at the bedraggled state of my hair. “Shame you have to go so soon.”

I’d been there about four and a half hours. “Yeah, well,” I said.

He growled, in a low and lustful tone, “I was hoping to find you after my shift ended, push you into a dark corner, and have my fucking way with you.”

I was glad that it was dark in the hallway outside the window, because his words made me blush furiously. I do that very easily, when flattered. “Anytime,” I laughed, as I signed my admission slip a second time. “Seriously, anytime.”

“You are a handsome fucker,” he said, pushing back my membership card. “A good looking man. Mmmm!” he grunted, gutturally.

Somehow he made me want to stay. But I thanked him and made promises to stay around longer the next time. Then I pushed open the door that would lead to the parking lot, and managed to get to my car on wobbly legs to deal with the hundred voicemails and texts that had accumulated during my time in the darkness.

But dang. Between being mistaken for a thirty-one year old, being called a handsome fucker, and getting four and a half hours of constant attention for my dick, Friday was really good for my ego.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Friday at the Baths: Steam Room Bear

I usually judge the prospective activity of the local bathhouse by the number of cars I see parked in its two lots. It's not unusual for the back lot to be more empty. There’s a bit of a trek to the door from around the back of the building, in that industrial neighborhood. If the lot closest to the front door is abandoned, however, I'll usually make the U-turn that would take me around to the bathhouse's fenced enclosure, and continue on back to the highway.

Friday, the lot was packed. I pulled in, parked my car, grabbed my flip-flops and the bottle of lube I keep in the glove compartment, and headed inside.

I don't hit the baths all that often. When was the last time? Eight months ago? But the guy who works the daytime shift at the counter recognized me. From behind his glasses he stared at me, then nodded. "Hey," I grinned at him, and then slipped my twenty beneath the glass for a regular room. He handed me a paper to sign, took my membership card, and buzzed me in. Only once I was inside the darkness, waiting at the counter for him to pass me my room key and towel, did he open his thickly-goateed mouth. "Enjoy yourself, now," he growled in a deep bass. Then he chuckled. "I know they'll enjoy you."

He's a flirt, that desk clerk. But he always gives me a choice room—this time, at the intersection of three heavily-trafficked hallways.

The baths are a hit-or-miss affair. So much depends on the crowd, and the mixture of the crowd is always a matter of timing, chance, and the whims of the locals. If it's a miserable day of rain or snow or ice, it could swing either way—people might be looking for a refuge from the weather and come for a day of sex with strangers, or they might equally be tempted to stay at home, warm and dry and alone. Fine weather might draw people out of their homes, but they could be inclined to head to the mall or the riverfront, as to the bathhouse. National holidays tend to be good—even Thanksgiving. Guys are off work, and guys get bored and mischievous, then. I was hoping that Friday, right around lunchtime, might attract a certain mature crowd looking to play before the start of the weekend. Or at least some hot unemployed men.

But still, it's always tough to tell what you'll get on any particular day at the bathhouse. You could have the time of your life. Or you could sit around for hours, diddling yourself and wondering why you came, when it's PERFECTLY OBVIOUS that everyone finds you OUTRAGEOUSLY UGLY and GROSSLY OBESE and RUNS at the sight of you.

Luckily, Friday was one of the former.

After laying out the sheet on my mattress in my room, then disrobing and slipping on my rubber cock rings and wrapping my threadbare towel around my midsection, I slipped out of the door and clopped down the hall in my flip-flops to the steam room. The steam room at this particular bath is large, and tiled from floor to ceiling, and divided into two roughly enclosures. I moved into the room's foggy far side, and climbed onto the upper shelf to wait. An older gentleman sat nearby; he didn't look at me when I took my place upon the tiles, removed my towel, and settled into a position with my legs spread and my forearms balanced upon the knees. I'd passed several guys in the hallway who'd given me the eyeball when I'd walked by. Several of them trailed in after me.

One was an older guy in his sixties with an enviably athletic build and a shaved head. Without asking, and without any resistance from me, he removed his towel and set it on the lower shelf, then knelt upon it and began to suck my dick. I hardened between his lips, then let him move his mouth up and down the shaft as he got it wetter and more rigid. The two men who had trailed in after him watched from nearby. One was another senior whose features I couldn't make out through the dense fog that was ramping up as the steamer pumped out clouds of vapor. He was tall, though, and definitely as old, or older than the man working on my dick. The other was a big, burly bear. Five-foot-nine and two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of very furry, masculine, bearded bear.

I found the bear instantly attractive in a god I want that one! kind of way. However much I find many of them attractive, though, bears don't tend to go for me. Or if they do, they certainly don't act upon it in person. As a matter of fact, when in my presence they manage to hide any interest pretty damned well. I kept trying to give this one the eye, and to invite him to come over and join in, but he sat down at a fair distance and watched, just like everyone else.

The older gent who'd been present in the room when I'd entered gathered his towel and left. My cocksucker rose, gave me a deep kiss, then grabbed his towel and did the same. By way of apology, he comically mimed wiping sweat off his forehead. It was getting warm in there; the boiler was at its peak, and I couldn't see more than two or three feet in front of me. Still rock hard and wanting a mouth on my meat, I pulled myself to the edge of the upper ledge and positioned myself so that I was sitting directly above the bear. He watched as I played with my nipples and masturbated myself lasciviously for him.

Finally, when I spread my legs invitingly as wide as they could possibly go, he stood up and positioned himself between them. Now that I could see him more clearly, I could tell how fucking cute the guy really was. He had to me about my age, but he had the impish eyes and cherry cheeks of a little boy. His beard was bushy, full, and dark. His chest was furry, though his round belly was perfectly smooth. From the bush of his pubes rose a stubby penis, fat, full, hard, and short.

I grabbed him by the dick and pulled him in. His mouth landed on mine; I found my lips surrounded by his mouth. His beard scratched my face, pleasantly. I inhaled his sweet scent of mouthwash and coffee traces as the breath from our lungs mingled. He groaned when I pinched and pulled at his nipples. Then I ran my right hand through his curly hair and pushed him down so that his face was at his dick. He opened his mouth, and engulfed it.

The older gentleman had done a really good job of sucking me. He was nothing, however, compared to the bear. My hips buckled at the feel of his mouth as he took me to the root. His mouth was so wide open that I thought he'd slurp in my balls, as well. When finally he backed off, the combination of the heat and the blow job left my head spinning. "You wanna fuck me?" he wanted to know.

Did I! "Yeah," I grunted. "Want to go back to my room?"

I didn't have to ask twice. I was streaming water when we left the steam room. I didn't even bother to wait to get back; I removed my town and walked, hard-on bouncing painfully, down the hallway as I dried off my shoulders and back. Several men watched as we disappeared into the darkness of the little cubicle with the number 50 on its door.

"Gawd," said the bear. "You’ve got the perfect dick, fucker." He sat heavily on the bed and grabbed it, pulling me to him. "The perfect dick. It's fucking big, too. How long is it?" I told him, and he shook his head. "I want it in me."

I leaned down for another of his kisses. I loved the feel of his beard against mine. "I was hoping I would get with you," I told him, quite honestly. "I saw you walk in that room, and I thought to myself, I've gotta get some of that."

"No shit? I'm just a furry fat dude." He seemed incredulous, despite my assertion that he was far more than a furry fat dude. "You clean?" I told him I was. ""Because I'm thinking I want you to sperm me up."

"You want it bareback?" I asked.

"Only done it that way with one other buddy," he said. "But yeah. I don't wanna pass up this shot. You wanna bareback me?"

Again, he didn't have to ask twice. I had been turning him onto his knees as he spoke. He lay face down on the bed, clutched the pauper's pillow between his arms to prop up his chin, and groaned as I fingered some lube into his butt. When I pushed between those big, furry cheeks, he grabbed for his bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply. I could feel his muscles relax to admit me as I slid deeper. "Oh fuck," he said, over and over again. "Oh fuck. I've never had one this big. Fucking amazing."

I was all the way in. As he told me how rarely he'd been fucked—apparently the last time had been eight months prior—I was a little surprised how elastic and smooth he was. He didn't clench down, or resist my thrusts, or betray any discomfort when I increased the depth with which I'd pull out and shove back in. He didn't seem to feel pain when I would hold myself in him at the deepest point, and swell my dick by clamping down on the floor of my pelvis. All he did was hold one of my hands like a lifeline, breath heavily, and moan with pleasure.

"You like it, don't you, stud?" I growled in his ear.

"Yes," he cried. "You don't know how long I've needed this, buddy. You don't know how bad. Where are you from?" he asked, suddenly. I told him, still keeping up the rhythm of my thrusting, and asked where he lived. He was from Ohio, he told me. An hour and a half away. "But if you could ever host, or meet me here, I would totally drive up for more of this—anytime. An-y-time," he repeated, drawing out each syllable. He sounded, quite honestly, so happy at the way my dick was making him feel that he was close to tears.

"Then I'll have to give you my number," I told him. "Because I find you so fucking attractive that I'd love to see more of you."

The news pleased him. It pleased him so much that he clamped down on my meat like a pair of hands and began to milk it. I wasn't going to last much longer. "Let me sit on it," he suggested.

Anything to extend the pleasure. I got on my back. He mounted me, putting his considerable weight on my midsection as his hole grabbed onto my dick. I like a guy's weight on me. I particularly love a bear's weight on me—it makes me feel tiny, and compact, which is something that an ungainly, long-limbed fellow like me rarely gets to experience. His fat dick rubbed against my stomach as he rode me. I could tell that the feelings for him were even more intense in this position than they had been when I'd been ramming into him. "I'm going to shoot," he warned me.

"Do it," I commanded.

He continued to ride back and forth and up and down, more and more vigorously. His excitement tickled mine. I found myself very much on the edge as he rode closer and closer to orgasm. When he came, it was without having touched himself once; he shot a blast of cum squarely into my face. That alone pushed me over. I began to unload into him, loudly, as he continued to groan and squirm on top of me. Finally, wary of opening my eyes while his copious sperm was still dripping down my face, I let him wipe me off before I looked at him. "Holy fuck," he said.

"Holy fuck," I agreed. "Shit!"

He didn't stay on me long. When he stood up, I lay on my stomach on the mattress and took his still-hard cock in my mouth, cleaning off the rest of the sperm that was lingering there. His back slammed against the cubicle door. He rested there for long minutes while I nursed at his dick, enjoying the way it filled my mouth. Like most big men, he was actually much bigger than he appeared. I felt guilty for thinking of him as stubby and short, when it was obvious that he had a good seven inches on him.

When I pulled off his dick, finally, he pushed me back and ran his hand through my steam-wet, long hair. “I didn’t expect to come here and rob the cradle today,” he said, pulling my face against his extended, rotund belly in a way that made my dick sit up and take notice. “You don’t mind being with an older guy? How old are you, son? Thirty-one? Thirty-two?”

I might’ve thought he was teasing, or attempting to flatter me, but his tone was completely serious. I was flattered, though. Very flattered. Still, I snorted. “I’m forty-seven.”

He seemed genuinely stunned. Once again he rattled the door in its frame as he leaned back against it. “Holy shit. Are you serious? I’m forty-eight. You look like, twenty years younger than me. Are you really that old?”

I admitted I was, but that I certainly didn’t mind him calling me son. Blushing prettily, I opened the door for him and we stepped outside. The half-dozen men who’d been hanging around, listening to the fucking and waiting to see who eventually emerged, scattered into the darkness like rats.

Usually at the baths I'm there for variety; I don't like to be pinned down to one guy, or feel as if I'm being monopolized. Likewise, I'm wary about taking up any guy's afternoon by keeping him in my company when he might want to be out and about, sampling other meat. With the bear, though, we formed a companionable partnership that afternoon. After we toweled off the sperm that seemed to be everywhere, we stuck together for a couple of more hours. While he showered, I filled out a slip of paper with my name and my email and phone number.

We then made out and sucked each other in the shower room while guys drifted in and out. I let him piss on my head there, in front of a crowd of a half-dozen, and then let him soap me up and lather me clean under the running shower head. He invited me back to his larger room, where we talked for a while, and made out, and fucked again. He placed me on my stomach and gave me an amazing and skilled deep-tissue massage that left me (literally, and embarrassingly) drooling.

And more importantly, we made some tentative plans to connect again when he gets back from a business trip.

Ah, the bears. Usually they tend to ignore me, like I said. But when I trap one, I'm a very happy man.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Super Moon Edition

Has anyone else noticed a little more crazy in their life, this week? Ordinarily I'm not a superstitious man. When an acquaintance blames an abundance of weird behavior on the full moon, I'm the first to give a bland smile and privately roll my eyes—mostly because half the time people say those kinds of things, it's not a full moon. It's a week to the full moon, or a couple of weeks past the full moon. And people, that really doesn't count.

The lunacy at home late this week seemed to wax as the super perigee moon approached its height, Saturday. Most the clients viewing my house veered way off their appointments and arrived either an hour late or early. I started getting a lot of bill collection calls . . . for someone named Shawna. My friends have been acting erratic. I was offered a chance to be on reality TV—and no, I didn't take it.

Then Saturday night, when I was trying to rustle up some action, I had all kinds of weird refusals and flakiness. I was told no less than five times that I was 'too big' to take—words I hadn't heard in a dog's age. I had a half dozen guys vaporize into the electronic ether the moment I suggested they come over for some fun. In the end, I did enjoy myself (in the moonlight, no less), but man. It was a struggle.

How about you guys? Any ill effects from the moon's monthly roundness?

As usual, I'll be taking today to round up some questions from formspring.me. If you have questions you'd like to ask, either use the mini-form down in my sidebar, or bop on over to the website and query away. I'll answer just about anything that doesn't push my boundaries, or isn't overtly rude.


Do you like the taste and texture of semen?
Absolutely. The vast majority of the time, the stuff is amazing to swallow. I eat my own, too.

Sometimes, however, particular guys will have a quality to their loads that is almost corrosive in my mouth; it'll feel as if it's slowly eating away at my tongue and cheeks. Usually it's pretty pungent, too. That is stuff of which I'm not at all fond, and which I tend either to choke on or spit out. Luckily, I don't run across them very often.


is der a difference in sensation between vaginal sex vs anal sex?
There is, and a lot of it has to do with the external pressure within the channel. They're both pleasurable in their own way, however.


Are you in CT yet?
Nope. Don't rub it in.


Do you sext? If so, what's the dirtiest text you ever sent someone?
No, I don't sext as a rule. Guys will text me for hookups, but I don't engage in sexual foreplay talk on my cell phone, any more than I'll cybersex with someone. (Which is something else I don't do.)


I love bottoming. But I also enjoy topping. However I have trouble cumming without jacking off when I top. Thus making it impossible to finish inside my bottoms. I don't know if its performance anxiety or what. Any suggestions?
First off, there's no rule stating that you have to finish inside your bottom, when you're topping.

I know, that might seem pretty obvious, but in this porn-saturated world, it may not be. You've probably seen a lot of porn flicks with hard-bodied tops and bottoms who fuck and fuck and always manage to shoot on cue, simultaneously, with the top giving the bottom a hefty load.

You don't have to do that.

If you're having difficulty getting off simply by fucking, it's okay to pull out and jack off to a proper finish. If you're worried about your partner thinking less of you (if he's a good guy, he should just be happy that you're getting off!), make it a show for him. Or when you shoot, position your dick next to his hole and shove the cum inside, after. Your partner will like that just as much.

If you've got a partner willing to experiment and you still want to try to shoot while fucking, switch positions. I tend to find it easier to shoot when the guy is on his knees or standing up, doggie style. Because of the vagaries of human anatomy, though, what might be a good general rule has its exceptions. I don't usually find it easy to shoot when a guy is on his back with his legs in the air, for example, though with Spencer, there's something about the way his hole works that I find it the easiest position in which to shoot in him.

You shouldn't be anxious about how you shoot. There's no need. Just have fun with it.


Did Earl ever let you tie him up and rape loads from him, such as in your own fantasy (8/14/10)? Because if he did you have to write about it for us pleeeease!!!
No, he never submitted to bondage. He taught me how to take bondage and how to appreciate it as a bottom, but I've never known anyone who shared my fantasy. Damn it.


Not a question, Mr. Steed. I have not forgotten your fantasy, and when you have relocated I vow to make it happen for you. There is nothing about it that does not appeal to me.
Thanks, anonymous person. I'd really enjoy that. More than you can suspect.


What is the first video game you remember playing?
Pong. On an arcade console, in a Howard Johnson's. For realz. I'm old, y'all.


As a writer, are you tempted to go on a book raid at one of the Detroit's abandoned libraries?
No, but I have been tempted to salvage the beautiful bronze doors of the shuttered and closed public library in Highland Park. They are truly beautiful and amazing, and it's a shame they're now nailed under layers of plywood and obscured by grime and graffiti.


face-to-face or doggy-style? feel free to list your favorite position to get you off
I enjoy all the positions, even the weird ones. But when it comes to pounding away, I prefer a guy on his knees or stomach, taking it from behind.


Some one made it sound like you had XTube vidoes. Do you? If so what's you id. If I might be so privileged to see them.
My Xtube nickname is mrsteed64. Enjoy!


Do you breed every man that you fuck? If so, how often do you get tested?
I'm not really sure how these two questions are connected, to be honest. There really shouldn't be an 'if so' between them.

The actual breeding—that is, the shooting of sperm into the hole—isn't what causes a top man to catch a sexually-transmitted disease. It's certainly one of the factors in what can cause the recipient to catch something, but not the other way around. The raw fucking itself is what would expose the top to an STD.

If you'd asked if I barebacked every man I fuck, I would've answered yes. And the follow-up question would've been that I test every three months or so.

Friday, March 18, 2011

From Bad, Good: Part 2

My first session with Mel happened on a dark night, when he managed to get away from his family at home to come to my house. I can't say I remember it as particularly exciting. I can't say, in fact, that I really remember it at all; I don't seem to have written about it anywhere. It wasn't bad, however. We made promises to do it again—promises that fell through. He was free mostly in the evenings. Back then, my availability was primarily in the daytime.

Last week, though, he messaged me on BBRT when I was prowling around. He'd cleaned out hihs hole for another man who hadn't shown. Did I by any chance happen to be free? It was one of the evenings of the week on which I wasn't expecting Spencer to come by, so I urged Mel to hop in his car and come over.

When he showed up, he was carrying a huge backpack. "Are you going mountain-climbing?" I asked with a single raised eyebrow.

He laughed. "I never know what supplies the other guy might or might not have," he explained. "So I bring toys, lube, towels, leather gear, boots...." He paused to think. "Cock rings, wet wipes. Crisco."

"I bet you were a Boy Scout," I said, at the exact same time he concluded, "What can I say? I was a Boy Scout."

"The only thing I wanna climb tonight is that cock of yours," he said in a low voice, as he dropped the bag onto the floor. My arm slipped around his back, and our lips grazed. He kissed well. Not deeply, or with much pressure, but his kisses seemed sweet, as he leaned forward with closed eyes and applied each one with considered care. Then, without warning, his hand reached around my neck and pulled my head down to his, so we could indulge in the taste of each other more passionately.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested, after a minute or two.

We took a few moments to remove our clothing in the dark bedroom. He had flung his backpack onto the floor when we entered; he took a moment to pull out a weathered white jockstrap and pull the elastic band over his meaty butt before he joined me on the bed. “Now, if memory serves me right,” he said as we kissed again, “I recall you really like to be ridden.”

“Well yeah,” I said. There aren’t any positions I really don’t like, so long as they’re not throwing out my back or causing me to lose sensation in my legs or something along those lines. “Sure.”

“All right then,” he chuckled to himself. He leaned over the side of the bed and produced a monster tub of a cream-based lubricant, which he liberally slathered over both my hard dick and his hole. “Let’s do it.”

He positioned his hips over mine, where I lay on my back on the mattress. Facing away from me, he lowered himself down, one hand pulling an ass cheek to the side, the other gripping my shaft. I felt the head pop through the first ring of resistance, to be rewarded by a wet, warm channel that felt almost as if it were on fire; groaning, he lowered himself down onto the shaft.

Mel was right. I like it when a guy rides me. The talented ones make me shoot that way. Most guys, however, simply let themselves rest on my pelvis and bounce up and down a little bit. It’s pleasurable, sure, but I walk away feeling as if I’m going to be sporting a giant, ass-shaped bruise with my dick at the very center. Once he got started, though, Mel took a very different approach. He leaned forward, lifted up his lips, and concentrated the very tightest portion of his hole on my dick’s top half. Whether he was on his knees or squatting on his feet I can’t remember, because I was overcome by such an intense pleasure that all I could really do was ball up the sheets in a tight grip and hang on for dear life.

“Yeah,” he grunted, his voice sounding more like a pig at the trough than anything civilized. “That’s the dick I remember. Fuck, yeah.”

“What the fuck are you . . . doing?” I managed to gasp out. I swear, in my thirty-five year sexual career, I’d never felt the like. It felt as if almost every other hole I’d had before had come at my dick clumsily and with brute force, while his had been the only one to approach it with a sexual precision that could be measured in microns. Over and over he drew his hole over the most sensitive portion of my dick, right below the flare of my mushroom head. It was crazy, how that attention made me feel. It was as if a much worthier opponent had thrown me flat onto my back with a single, long, pleasurable blow.

After what felt like forever, in which electrical sparks danced through my body like out of the climax of some science fiction feature, I managed to lift my head and croak out, “Are you good down there?” I’d never known a guy who didn’t begin to give out after riding me for that length of time.

“I can go as long as you need it,” Mel grunted. His own dick was hard and encaged in the jockstrap, but from his voice I could tell he was enjoying the fuck almost as much as I.

I needed it. So I let him go.

The fuck went on for a half hour or more, in which all I had to do was lie there, clutch the bedsheets or the bedposts, and let him do his work. After he’d made me twitch and gasp and cry out for long, long minutes, he at last began to offer me release. His motions grew broader. He engulfed more of my dick in his hole and took longer and deeper strokes; his hips moved with more vigor and purpose. I let out a terrible cry, and banged my head back so hard it cracked against the headboard. Whether the stars that I saw were from the blow or from my climax, I couldn’t tell. The orgasm overtook me with such force that I felt swept away, breathless and helpless to resist. I let the waves crest over my head, and the cold shock of it dragged me down and under. I drowned in it, breathless from bliss.

My dick was tingling from the treatment all that night, and for a couple of days after. I’ve never had anything quite like it before.

Three times we fucked that night—once in a more standard, doggy-style coupling, and once again with him gratefully riding me. When we were done, he turned me over onto my front, sat on my thighs with his jock-strapped bulge pressing against my butt, and gave me an hour-long gentle back massage while we talked.

Athletic fucking and a back rub? Yes, please, and thank you. Like I said, bliss.

For as much talking as we did until he finally gathered his backpack and left, it was surprising that the topic of our mutual acquaintance didn’t come up until he was heading out the door. Before he was gone completely, I said, “You know, considering on what rocky ground we were when I first talked to you. . . .”

“Well,” he replied, nodding. He stroked his beard. “Sometimes it takes a lot of shit to grow a nice flower bed.”

And that really about summed it up.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

From Bad, Good: Part 1

Sometimes, out of a barren patch of ground, life springs. Small at first, and scrubby blades of glass. Given enough time, though, even little flowers will eventually bloom. This time of year, with spring around the corner, it’s nice have a little hope.

Which is my way of getting around to saying: I blocked a guy on a website and it led to one of the worst few months of my online life. But it also ended up with me getting some really good sex last week. Funny how that works, sometimes.

I admit freely to being trigger-happy with my block buttons, sometimes. If a guy is rude me on Manhunt or Adam4Adam or somewhere, I’ll hit the button that hides him from view, permanently. If a guy dicks me around or is a no-show, he’s blocked. If he’s too persistent after I’ve gently turned him down, or if he shows any signs of insanity, I hit the button. I block because life is too short to have to put up with incivility and weirdness on the internet; I block because even when I say no, some guys don’t know when to stop wheedling. At any given moment, my list of blocked men is three times the length of my list of friends.

A couple of months before I originally started this journal, a guy from Adam4Adam contacted me. He thought I was hot and wanted to get together. What did I think? I checked his photos, which were of a furry older guy—decent shape, for a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Sure, I told him. If we could work out a time, I’d be happy to hook up with him at some point.

What followed was about two weeks of constant harassment. I’d log onto the site to check my mail and within seconds I’d have three or four letters from him. Are you looking for NOW?, they’d say. I am looking for NOW. Are you MAN enough to meet???

At first I’d reply to say, no thanks, I’m not available now. Then, after a week of the importuning every damn time I logged on, I explained patiently that usually I preferred to set a date in advance, and that only very rarely was I looking for an instant hookup. When the Can you do it NOW?! letters kept coming, however, I began to ignore them completely. The problem was that if I ignored him on Adam4Adam, I’d get emails from him on Manhunt. Maybe you didn’t see my message on A4A but are you looking for NOW? Or BBRT. I messaged you on A4A and Manhunt but I am looking for NOW or are you playing games with me?!

So I blocked him. On every site.

That should’ve been an end to it, but instead he created a second profile on Adam4Adam so he could ask me why I had blocked him. I blocked that profile. He created a third profile to shriek at me that I was a game player and he was going to make sure the world knew what a vile human being I was. I wrote back a final message saying, quite calmly, that I’d asked him not to nag me for ‘now’ every time I logged on, and since he had proved incapable of it, I didn’t intend to talk to him any more. And I never did.

However, what followed made for a miserable few months. I started receiving messages online from people I didn’t know asking things like, Dude, what did you do to ______? When I checked the harasser’s profile, I saw that he’d posted a little rant using my screen name saying that I was a game player and an evil son of a bitch. Well. I contacted the site’s help desk, and reported it as harassment. Apparently they sent him a letter of warning or something, because within a day his profile had been amended so that my profile name was no longer in it. Instead, there was a long rant in all capital letters about how some people on the site were evil and needed to be stopped because they were obviously crazy and out to get everyone in trouble.

For a month I had to do this shit. He’d start a profile, use it to rant about me, and then I’d report it to the site administrators. He’d get a warning, and then he’d write another screed about crazy freaks who were out to harass him. Things came to a head when I made a trip to visit my dad in Virginia. I changed my Adam4Adam profile to reflect my new location. I woke up in my old twin bed the next morning with a mail account stuffed full of messages from Richmond guys. I hear you’re a game player, they’d typically read. I’m not down with game players, so don’t contact me while you're here. Or, I heard you were bad news but you sure have a great cock. Are they even your photos? I didn’t have to wonder for long why the sudden spate of mails, because down in my box was a message from the freak himself. The message said that he was writing all the men of my dad’s hometown to inform them that a game player had come to town, and that under any circumstances they were not to meet me, because I would agree to hook up with them and then block them, just for fun. Furthermore, he had heard from a reputable source that my photos were not of me, and that I was lying about my age and my weight, which he had heard was considerably above two hundred pounds. He finished with a flourish in all capital letters that warned people to keep away from me or suffer!

Yes, in his zeal to send out the word about me to everyone with an Adam4Adam profile in Richmond, the dumb-ass sent his mass email to me, too.

The letter was written in a mixture of capitalized words and multiple exclamation points common to the crazy and the schizophrenic. I very calmly forwarded it to the Adam4Adam people and requested they do something about it once and for all. They very kindly deleted all the guy’s profiles, and banned him from the site for what turned out to be several months.

You’d think it would’ve stopped there. But no. The guy lay low for a while. He removed any references to game-players from his descriptions. He stopped viewing my profile. It was a few weeks later, though, that I started getting messages from another guy on BBRT, a southern fellow named Mel with a genial face and a beard. He said that he was a friend of my harasser and that he had heard I lie about my HIV status. I wrote back a blast of an email that informed Mel that if his friend wanted to slapped with a slander suit he should by all means feel free to keep spreading that rumor.

Mel immediately sensed he was in the middle of something bigger than himself; he had the good sense to realize, also, that he’d been used by his friend to try to get at me. Over the course of a few weeks our talks became more cordial. I stopped regarding him as an instrument of the devil. He conceded that his buddy had an issue with alcohol. It was a slow adjustment for the both of us, but once he allowed that his buddy had a bit of a problem, and once I stopped associating the hostility I had for my harasser with my much more neutral feelings for Mel, we actually started to become friends.

And then, as friends on BBRT do, we had sex.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Reader Asses: #6

Every time I post a Reader Asses feature, I get a deluge of comments and emails and tweets, all saying, Post MY ass already! Gentle readers, fear not. Your asses will be plucked out of my mailbox and slammed up on my blog wall, where they'll be spread out for everyone on the internet to see.

Pardon me while I wipe this perspiration off my brow. I got a little excited, writing that last paragraph.

The Reader Asses feature, of course, is what happens when I demand my loyal fans send me photographs of their hindquarters, and they willingly and gratefully obey. I tell you: the world would be a much simpler and pleasant place if everyone listened to me. There'd be a lot less lube available, but everyone would be happier. I am still happily collecting asses for the feature. If you'd like to contribute to the project, please read my original post and follow the guidelines as set out within.

And I swear—I'm posting the photos in the order in which I received them, more or less. If you haven't seen your butt up on my blog, don't worry. It's coming.

So are several of my readers, I suspect, after this week's batch.

E.







When I said 'more or less', about posting images in the order I received them, this is where I meant 'less.' Faithful butt spotters may remember young Master E. from the Reader Asses #4 feature, in which  he sported a vibrating dildo up his tender young hole. Master E. wanted me to know he was an underwear fetishist. When he sent in these juicy photos to prove it, well . . . I thought I owed it to my followers to share the new photos of an old favorite.

The kid is beautiful, I think you guys will agree.

NovaStorm






Regular commenter NovaStorm shared this photograph of himself posing in his favorite position. All right, posing in my favorite position. That is one fine rump he's got—and I love the shot of the balls, swinging freely below.

Great work there, NovaStorm. I am in love with that butt!

Duane





Faithful reader Duane has sent in three photos that tell a story of sorts. The oldest story of all. First we see him being fucked, then we see the load dripping out of his hole, and then we see his sexy body laying back, enjoying the fruits of good sex.

Duane's a hot one—and I know nothing about him save that he's got a sexy, furry butt and a body built for fucking. Sometimes knowing that is enough.

TomRyan 






Know what I love about TomRyan's butt? Well, quite a few things. For one thing, it's round and full; it's the kind of ass into which I could bury my face and never come up for air. I like his trim waist and big balls, swinging between his legs. I like that little flip of hair we see peeking up over his shoulder. But mostly I love that furry, inviting cleft. Your photo gives me wood, Tom.

Tom is a loyal reader who says my blog has made him laugh, cry, and get horny. I'd say we've already run the gamut together, buddy. Let's consummate the deal.


BritBoy


My reader BritBoy wrote me a nice email in which he said that he was from Merrie Olde England, and that he liked to read my blog after waking up, with his morning tea. I had a picture of a quaint British gentleman in his pajamas and dressing gown, and then he slammed me with these photos:




Holy fuck, BritBoy. You can't DO that to a guy. Now I'm going to have to make that trip to the UK, just so I can get a shot at that incredible ass. Are you a porn model? You really ought to be. That first photo alone is going to make many of my fetishist readers very, very happy pups.

Thank you to this week's asses!


Of course, all of this week's reader asses are pretty fantastic in their own ways. Let's give each and every one of them a round of applause for exposing themselves like this.

And remember: Send me your asses!

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Basement Gloryhole

On a street of crowded bungalows, his stands out. Every other address on this street is enumerated with the same cheap brass numbers from the local hardware store. The numbers by his front door are of hammered black metal in an arts and crafts style, special-ordered to match a sleek black door lamp of the same material. His deep front porch is covered with Adirondack chairs and period lanterns, his front windows illuminated by stained glass, instead of the blue-white glow of a flat-screen TV.

I park in the front, remove my coat before I lock up the car, and jog up the driveway. The entrance to his back yard lies behind a trellis in a vaguely Chinese style. I pull open the latch, slip in, and take the stairs up to his deck, and then the door that leads into his kitchen. I wipe my feet on the mat of cut pebbles within the door.

The basement stairs are to my right. I follow them down, into the depths of the cellar where the only light is coming from a window in the laundry room. My destination is across from the bottom of the stairs, however. Two ovals are cut into the door of an old fruit cellar there, both slightly below waist-high. I see a hand beckoning me forward. I step up to the larger of the two holes, unzip, pull down my shorts and push down my jeans to my knees before I ease my semi-hard meat into the darkness beyond.

He takes over from there.

I’d told him in our messaging that I find it difficult to come from a blow job. It’s sad, but it’s true. In a public sex situation like a bookstore or restroom I generally have no problem. One on one, even in a private gloryhole situation like this guy’s got, I find myself over-thinking the experience. I like it. I like the sensation of his wet mouth on my meat, of his lips pursing forward as far as they can to take it to the root. I love the light sensation of his teeth sliding across the shaft as he slurps, making me grow rigid in the dark recesses of his throat. I can’t get enough of that.

But this is where I run into problems: most cocksuckers expect me to deliver, and to deliver quickly. They want the load as fast as they can get it, and I’m not exactly wired like that. My dick responds to ass, yes. It swells and pulses inside the tightness of a wet hole in a way it never can inside a mouth, no matter how delicious the feelings. With an ass, I usually have the option of varying the angle or the position if it’s not working for me. I get to speed up if I need, and to repeat the sensations that make me tingle.

With a mouth, I’m at the cocksucker’s mercy. If he’s good, I’ll enjoy myself. If he’s not, I’ll start to feel self-conscious. I’ll worry about the guy’s jaw, and wonder how he’s holding out. I’ll fret about him thinking me a jerk for holding out on him. If he gets really impatient and starts whacking at my dick as if it’s a pound of insensate meat, that’s usually my cue to say something polite and leave.

I’ve told all this to the guy, this unseen face on the other side of the gloryhole. The reason he convinced me to come over? Because he wrote, in all sincerity, If you cum, that’s cool. If you don’t, that’s cool too. I just want to suck that hot dick.

And suck it he does, all the way down. He plays with my balls roughly, grabbing them in his hands and tugging at them as he slurps his way up and down my shaft. My hands reach down and encircle my balls as he sucks. With my fingers I can feel a fine stubble on his jaw; he has a goatee of some sort, and a narrow, pronounced chin. I can feel his fist around my inches, but he’s not bruising it, or yanking the skin off. He’s just squeezing it to nurse out the squirts of pre-cum I produce so liberally. I can hear him hungrily enjoying every drop.

At the top of the wooden wall he’s screwed in two antique door handles. I grab onto them and thrust my hips hard against the wood. I’m not going to shoot, I realize. He’s going to be disappointed, no matter how polite he was about it. But still, his mouth feels good, so I’ll let him suck for a few more minutes.

Then he reaches out through the hole. His fingers tickle the area behind my balls, then snake their way to my hole. I can feel the underside of his forearm providing a shelf of support for my balls, my taint. His finger only tickles lightly outside my asshole, but it’s a new sensation that makes me groan aloud.

I grab onto the handles at the top of the wall for dear life. I’m not going to shoot, my mind repeats, over and over. My body’s responding differently, however. It’s shaking hard, up and down, fast as a jackhammer, while the stranger’s hand still toys with my hole. Even as my brain denies it, my orgasm arrives. It’s relentless, and hard, and feels less like a flush of pleasure than a cauldron of molten lead coursing from my veins.

My body can’t stop shaking. Even after I’ve released all the sperm I’m going to produce, and he’s withdrawn to leave my dick full and hanging just outside the hole, I’m still shuddering and twitching and trying to collect myself. I fasten my jeans, and twist my baseball cap back around so the brim’s in the front.

It’s not until I’m outside, and refreshed by the cold blast of winter air that my hands stop shaking enough to allow me to zip up my sweatshirt.