Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Planet of the Joannes

There were a couple of years in the late nineteen-eighties, as my desire to finish a doctorate in grad school fizzled, in which I took a clerical job to pay the bills. It wasn't a spectacularly high-paying position, nor was it all that dignified—it primarily involved sitting in a dank windowless room off a lost corridor, and transcribing dictaphone tapes made by various faculty at the university.

The cramped office stunk of tobacco, thanks to my alcoholic, bat-shit-crazy boss, a man of little education and even less couth. When he wasn't sitting in his desk chair blatantly reading Playboy and Hustler, he was making passes at secretaries in the building and then, when they'd scatter in fear at his approach, would proclaim them "goddamn lesbians." It was a tedious existence. I needed the money, though. And in the weeks after my sexual assault, my instinct was to shut out the world as much as possible, to wall myself away. That dark, smelly room was my cloister, and the mind-numbing droning of the faculty whenever I clamped on those headphones felt like sanctuary.

For a couple of months I worked alone, but then my tiny office was rearranged one day to accommodate another desk. Soon another transcriber invaded my monastic solitude. His name was Geoffrey. He was a narrow-shouldered guy who came up to my sternum, with a head full of strawberry-blond hair. On a big, bulbous nose rested a pair of very geeky horn-rimmed glasses. Elvis Costello glasses, they were. He was skittish of me at first and I of him. I had a paranoid few days in which I imagined our boss had planted him in there in order to keep an eye on me. I began to relax, though, when I realized that Geoffrey was gay; I heard him talk to what I had to assume was a significant other on the phone, a few times a day. I understood from his guarded, non-gendered references and carefully-neutral words that he was trying not to give away that he was seeing another man.

After that realization, I opened up and Geoffrey and I rapidly became friends. We were both the same age, and both had a particular disdain for our boss. "Fucking asshole," Geoffrey would mutter under his breath, whenever that Marlboro-scented storm cloud would loom on the horizon. We bonded over the strange bureaucracy of our division, too. The vice-president of our school was guarded by two administrative assistants and an academic services officer, all three of whom were named Joanne, and all three of whom were joined at the hip. They lunched together. They gossiped together during work hours. They all chattered in high-pitched, rapid voices. "Planet of the Joannes," I nicknamed the fourth floor one day, and Geoffrey started to laugh so hard that he had to slump against the wall with tears in his eyes.

After that we were constant work friends. We lunched outdoors, munching on sandwiches even in the coldest weather, to rid ourselves of the tobacco stink. "I have something to tell you," he said one day over our meal, perhaps a month into our acquaintance. "I'm into guys."

"I am too," I replied.

He seemed relieved, and commented that he'd thought so, but that he'd really had no way of telling. "And another thing," he said. And I remember the very formal way in which he said these following words, because the defensiveness and awkwardness of them struck me in a way that made me wonder how many times he'd said them before, and how badly they'd been received. "I have unfortunately been infected with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus."

“That’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for telling me.”

Hearing him say the words was something of a shock. Yet I wasn’t surprised. Geoffrey and I sat close enough that even over the stink of cigarettes in that office I knew his smell. I’d grown up with a mother whose odor changed with every new pharmaceutical regimen. I knew how medicines change a person’s scent. Geoffrey’s pores exuded a sharp tang that I can only describe as being like the metallic overtones of a diarrhea smell, but without its organic nastiness. It wasn’t vile; it was merely sharp, and distinguishable. I knew he was taking pills for something. It didn’t surprise me that it was for HIV.

These were still the sad and early days of the AIDS crisis. Geoffrey was a novelty. Not for having HIV, but for admitting it. I’d known a couple of people by that point who’d died, but they’d gone off to New York or San Francisco and met their demises offstage, so to speak. I’d never known anyone living with it, day to day, before him.

I got to know Geoffrey’s daily routine with his pills. It seemed as if there were dozens of them that he’d take throughout the day when the timer on his watch would beep. By that point in our friendship he’d tell me what each of them was and what it was for, as he’d down them without water in our little back room. “Down you go,” he’d say, over and over again. “Do your dirty work!”

By that point we were seeing less and less of our boss. The university had instituted a no-smoking rule in its buildings, and he was spending a lot of time ‘working from home,’ which meant that Geoffrey and I were largely unsupervised. We’d do our tasks in the mornings, then sit in the back room and listen to alternative radio while we talked in the afternoons, or visit the Planet of the Joannes so that we could laugh at them later. Sometimes we’d just head out into the sunshine and wile away the hours. Our super-sneaky boss liked to throw in a phone call to the office at five minutes to five, on the days he worked at home, just to make sure we were still there; we’d creep back in the office just under the wire and pretend to have been good boys all the day long.

It was on one of our afternoon trips that Geoffrey gravely informed me that some singer we both liked—I think it might have been Annie Lennox, but I’m shaky on that point—had HIV. She’d announced it to the press and everything he told me. “Oh no,” I said. “Not her. She’s too good for that!”

He turned beet red. “So do you think that only bad people get the disease?” he snapped.

I never made that mental mistake again, ever.

Because Geoffrey was a sweet and good soul. He dearly loved his boyfriend, a man in Chicago who lacked the means to help him move there, and longed for the days they could finally be together. He had a gentle good humor and a prankster’s sense of fun that made our ventures to the Planet of the Joannes infinitely less painful than they could have been.

At the same time, he had a deep, voracious sexuality. At some point we began to compare sexual experiences and it came out that we both were fans of one of the restrooms on campus—a men’s room so notorious that researchers had installed one-way mirrors in it during the nineteen-fifties so they could study cruising behaviors (it was assumed by then that no one was watching through them, but who knew?). And gradually, on occasion, on our unsupervised afternoon tours around campus, we’d walk to the other end of the university and down into the basement together, and I’d watch him go hog wild.

The restroom was one of those places in the remote bowels of the building where very few people ventured. Anyone down there was looking for sex, plain and simple. I’d act as lookout so that Geoffrey could suck dick until he’d had his fill. Often he’d undo his shirt and kneel there on the floor with a cock in his mouth and another waiting nearby, its owner stroking and watching, while Geoffrey played with his own meat, stiffened by a cock ring. He had skin as pale as mine and the very lightest covering of blond hair on his body. When he sucked, it was with total abandon. His glasses would end up askew on his face. He’d have cum and sweat and saliva dripping down his neck and chest, and spattering his work shirt. He’d particularly go wild over black men, gargling and strangling over their tools with a gusto I haven’t seen outside of porn.

Then, when he was done, or there were no more cocks to service, he’d straighten his spectacles, wipe off his face with a damp paper towel, grin and thank me, and then catch up on whatever pills he’d missed during the session.

We never had sex. Geoffrey was more of a brother to me than anything, and though I didn’t mind being his lookout or even his pimp in the restroom, I never wanted anything more of him. I’m not sure I could have, even. I wasn’t so ignorant that I considered him off-limits or untouchable because of his medical condition, but I hadn’t yet made my peace with those risks. It was probably fortunate for us both that the attraction simply wasn’t there.

I didn’t know at the time how very badly off Geoffrey really was. Daytimes he was lucid and intelligent, creative and chatty. Nighttimes, when I didn’t see him, were apparently when things went south for him. I visited his house once and discovered that it was a maze of Post-It notes and scrawled reminders; apparently he had an advanced-enough case of dementia, combined with the effects of the drugs he was taking, that he would lose track of time, or which of his regimented tasks he was supposed to be doing. If he didn’t stick to a very strict schedule on his own, he could get stuck in a loop for hours.

“I think I’ve made dinner four times,” he would say over the phone to me, some evenings. “But I don’t remember eating at all.” Or, “I had a note to call my mother tonight, but she told me I’d already called her twice before.”

“Do you need me to come over?” I’d ask.

“No,” he’d say in a tiny voice, sometimes. Or sometimes he’d say nothing, and I’d drive up Woodward to his small home, and sit with him on the sofa watching television, until it was time for him to go to bed.

During the daytime he was funny and sweet and lucid. At night, though, with his hairy ankles sticking out of the feet of his pajamas, he looked like a little, lost boy.

We worked together for less than a year. Geoffrey’s symptoms were far enough along that they’d begun shaving away at his life. He had to give him up a beloved cat because of a toxoplasmosis scare. His good hours during the day became fewer, and out of fear of blackouts he had to leave earlier in the afternoons to drive home safely. Soon he stopped working altogether; his boyfriend in Chicago finally found the means to help him move. I got a letter from him the month after he left—a silly, bitchy breath of fresh air in which he asked me about the Planet of the Joannes and wished me sincere luck in coping with the alcoholic boss.

Then a few weeks after that, I heard he was gone. A twinkling little light in my life, extinguished, off stage.

I’m writing this memory of Geoffrey in the very small hours of the morning. I’ve been unable to sleep; the medicine the doctor prescribed for me last week doesn’t seem to be working.

All this restless night I’ve been thinking about Geoffrey, and his sweet and gentle presence, and how much I liked him as a friend. Both of us were wandering and a little alone, back there in that dim office in the building’s lost corridor. How could we have ended up there, else? And yet, for a time, I like to hope our companionship elevated us both—helping me step back into the sunshine again with tentative steps, and keeping him a few steps ahead of a darkness that at every turn threatened to swallow him whole.

I remember you, Geoffrey. It pains me to the core to think about your loss. But I remember.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Faculty Party

When I was a kid during the nineteen-seventies, would occasionally throw end-of-semester Christmas parties in our home right before the holidays started.

Days before the party they'd start making a go of cleaning the living room, though tidiness was never either of their strong points. They weren't drinkers themselves, but the colleagues and students they'd invite to these yearly shindigs would show up laden with spirits. Our basement bathroom—a mildewy, forbidding place that seemed so much like the movie set of a serial killing that I'm still reluctant to enter it when I visit my dad's home—was filled with liquor bottles that we'd begin hauling up the night before, until the dining room table was crowded with liquids of different colors (and of dubious age). My mother's ash trays got a thorough cleaning and the good ones were strewn around strategic places; my dad would pull out a bunch of LPs and eight-track tapes and have them stacked by the stereo.

My mom would spend an afternoon in the kitchen with cans and an opener and a jar of mayonnaise and emerge with space-aged canap├ęs. The cats were banished outdoors. After a cold dinner, and before the doorbell would ring, I'd be sent to my room for the evening. Faculty parties were not for the young.

They were exotic, especially when I was fairly young. From my room, with a book in my lap, I'd listen to the swinging strains of psychedelia on the stereo, often improbably mixed with Nat King Cole singing Christmas carols, or Peter, Paul, and Mary. I'd listen to the laughter and smell the cigarette smoke and the clink of the liquor bottles and the increasingly loud and inebriated conversation and think to myself, This is what being grown up is all about.

My parents' guests were usually two-thirds other faculty from the university, and the rest were upper-level undergrads or graduate students. One of the things I used to do as a ritual, after the party had started, would be to go through their coats. They all lay there on my parents' beds, taken upstairs and tossed on the mattresses upon entering. When it was quiet upstairs, I'd tiptoe out and into my parents' room and just examine what their colleagues and students were carrying in their pockets. Mostly it was boring stuff like keys, or small change, or cellophane-wrapped Kraft caramels. Once in a while I'd stumble upon cigarettes, or more frequently, tiny little unsmoked joints tucked away in breast pockets, acrid-smelling and spilling weed from their twisted ends.

I had to time my stealthy investigations right. More often than not I'd be interrupted, either by hapless students looking for the bathroom, or couples (not always married, not always of the same generation) looking for a private tryst among the coats. I wouldn't say that my parents' parties were orgies, exactly, but they had their share of fucking. In the bedroom, among the wraps. In the spare bedroom, on the rusty twin bed that had been my father's as a boy. Outside in the back yard, behind the massive brick nineteen-fifties barbecue. In the basement, or down the outside cellar steps.

And once, in my room.

I was pretty young the night that Dr. Jones came into my bedroom. It was late—late enough that I'd given up watching the little portable TV from the kitchen that my parents had lugged up to my room for me to watch that evening, and had gotten into bed, but not so late that I was asleep. I had a book in my lap, and my knees propped up, and had stripped down to a T-shirt and briefs. Then my door opened. "Anyone home?" asked a tall black man. He slipped in quietly, raised a finger to his mouth to indicate I not say anything, and then made a pantomime of tiptoeing to my bed.

I knew Dr. Jones from my dad's office. They were in the same department; I'd seen him a couple of times a year since I'd been five or six—enough to recognize the face and associate a name, but not enough that we'd ever actually spoken. I raised my eyebrows. I think I told him that the bathroom was on the other side of the upstairs hall.

"Oh, I'm not here for the bathroom," he said. The man sat down on the edge of my bed. He was in his forties or fifties, and had a grizzled beard limned with white; it looked like his halo had slipped over his head and around his neck. An oversized mole decorated his dark, dark skin on his forehead; he had a large, nineteen-seventies Afro shot with gray perched like a helmet on his head. "Just needed to get away from the party."

He reeked of alcohol. His eyes, though unwavering as he stared at me, had that liquid sheen of the thoroughly inebriated. I nodded, and waited for him to say something.

"So," he started, putting his hand on my knee. Then, finding that awkward, he removed it. "You're just . . . sitting up here, real quiet?" I told him I was. "Must be real nice to be up here, where it's . . . quiet."

Again, his hand landed on my leg. This time, it made its way up to my thigh. Dr. Jones might have been an expert in African history, but subtle he was not. "What you doing?" he asked, when he reached my hip.

"Nothing," I told him. Despite myself, my boner was raging beneath the covers.

"You must be doing something, if you're making me do this." He pulled down the sheets. "I didn't come up here thinking I was going to do this. Must be you making me do it."

Maybe that kind of talk worked on other young guys, but I saw through it. His big hands pulled apart my legs, right below the knee. I didn't resist "You are a real pretty boy," he told me. "Real, real pretty. You got that creamy skin I like so much." He talked like Barry White on a quiet storm radio station after midnight, and I have to confess that I was more aroused than anything. "You got those pretty blue eyes, looking at me like that. You're making me do this," he said. "It's ain't me, baby."

His lips were on my leg, then my groin, and then he was pulling up my T-shirt and yanking on my briefs. I heard the crackling of their elastic as he yanked them down, hard. My teen cock flopped out of the cotton and slapped audibly against my belly. "See what you gone and did?" he asked, breathing heavily on my twitching, hard flesh. "You made me do this."

Dr. Jones roughly grabbed my balls, almost making me yelp out in pain. Then his mouth engulfed my dick. I'd had sex by that point, a few times. Even in my limited experience I could tell he wasn't the best of my encounters. He used too much teeth; he created too much suction rather than let his mouth and lips travel up and down the shaft. He was simply too drunk to do much good.

But a blow job was a blow job, and I'd spent the evening waiting for the party to end so I could turn out my lights and masturbate and get to sleep. A stranger's mouth on me was even better than that. It didn't take very long before my young nuts were retracting and my dick started to pulse out a tiny load of semen. Dr. Jones swallowed it all. "Fuck," he said. "See what you did?"

He mumbled another sentence or two into my balls, as he nuzzled there. Then he was very, very still.

He was asleep, in fact.

Apparently no one from the party noticed he was missing for over an hour. Not until people were starting to drift off into the December night did my father come into my room. "Have you seen—?" he asked, and then saw himself what he was looking for. Dr. Jones, sprawled on his back, head lolling over the mattress edge, arms at his side, snoring loudly at the very bottom of the bed where I'd rolled him. "Oh, jeez," said my dad. He rolled his eyes.

I shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I were used to adults passing out on my bed every night of the week.

"Was he a pain?" My dad dipped down and grabbed his colleague beneath the arms, trying to stand him to his feet. I told him that he wasn't, not really. "Come on, Lamont," he said, shaking the older man. "Time to go home."

Dr. Jones hadn't woken up the entire time he'd slumbered, after the hasty blow job he'd given me. He opened his eyes in confusion, saw my dad, saw me, and then became very suddenly and drunkenly awake.

"It's okay," said my dad, gently escorting him from the room. "Come on. We'll get you some coffee."

And that was my one and only encounter with Dr. Jones. I got the impression he was never really sure of exactly what we'd done, if anything; his memory was probably hazy of those confused few minutes before he passed out. Whenever I'd pass him with one of my parents in the department offices, he'd blink at me and work his lips as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite decide what. I, in the meantime, would only smile in the same way I smiled at any of my parents' colleagues, without betraying what happened between us.

If he thought it was a fantasy—well, at least it was a good fantasy.

Monday, August 29, 2011

More Trade

"You want to see a picture of my wife?"

His question's timing was odd. I was in the back of his van with my pants around my ankles, dick in my left hand, a roll of his twenty-dollar bills still clutched in my right. Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his madras shorts and pulled out his iPhone. A couple of clicks and a riffs of the finger later and he was thrusting the little screen in my face.

"Pretty, huh?" The wife was attractive in that white-bread, bland, Talbots-catalog way I've come to associate with the women of this community. Her skin was pale, her hair a carefully-tinted blond, her clothes expensive, but little more than loose-fitting yoga-to-coffee-shop gear in pastels. "We've been married twelve years." He flipped past a couple of more photos to show more shots of the pretty female in front of what I assumed was their house. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. "How long have you been married?"

I'd stuffed the money into my jeans. My hand was curled around my dick. Despite the decidedly unsexy talk, I cocked my head and looked down at my own rigidity, calling attention to it by the slump of my spine against the seat back behind me, the spread of my legs, the fingers toying with my balls. A long, quiet time passed before I answered. I could hear the sound of I-95 on the other side of the road, and of the strip mall traffic around us. "Twenty-two years."

His eyes had been on my dick until I spoke. "You got kids? You've made kids with that?" I didn't say anything. This was our second meeting, here in the back of this man's van. This father of two, this owner of a landscaping company, this blond-headed model from a Land's End catalog in plaid and a tight yellow polo shirt that managed to accentuate and conform to his substantial chest muscles. His hair legs jutted out of a pair of deck shoes, the knees pointing at opposite sides of the van. His hands fidgeted uncomfortably between them. "Twenty-two years. Damn. That's a long—" His thought trailed off. "Can I touch it?"

I was playing it reluctant. He didn't want me too eager. "I don't know," I drawled, looking around. As if anyone could see us, in the artificial dusk of that van. "We didn't talk about that shit, man."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out that rounded wad of bills once more. It sprang into shape when he unclipped it and peeled off three more twenties. He didn't toss them at me with contempt, or hold them out to me as if trying to tempt me. No, he leaned forward with the money in both his hands, offering it to me in supplication. He wanted to touch me, this time. He was willing to shell out for it. I took the sixty bucks and added it to the three hundred he'd already given me, and shrugged.

He didn't need to know I let men touch it for free.

The last time we'd met I hadn't let him close to it at all. This time, though, I opened my legs wide enough to allow his body between them. My jeans were tangled around my ankles and I still had on my college T-shirt and an orange baseball cap slouched on my head. His abdomen rested on my ankles. It was flat and hard. His hand curled around my shaft, touching it gingerly, as if he were for the first time picking up something small, delicate, and breakable.

Fuck that shit. "Squeeze it," I commanded. His blue eyes flicked up at mine, then back to my meat, mesmerized. His fingers curled, hard, harder. "Yeah," I grunted, thrusting up. "Harder. C'mon. Yeah."

He touched my dick like he'd never held one before. Not even his own. His joints squeezed the skin, and dug in at the wrong angles. I pried his hand away and reconnected it in a better, superior place. His face was dead serious as he explored the length of my shaft. He played with the head, and pulled apart the tip of my urethra to make it pucker like a fish. He ran the back of his knuckles along the length, and toyed with my furry balls. I even left his fingers wander down my taint, and to brush ever-so-softly against the outside of my hole.

"Let me suck it," he suggested.

I attempted to look horrified. "Fuck, no."

"Just a taste." He was begging, but I shook my head. "Let me rub my cheek on it. That's all."

His mouth was only inches away. He could've just lunged and I wouldn't have been able to stop him, pinned against the seat as I was. "Nuh-uh," I growled, taking my dick back. I let him know with a knit brow what I thought of that dirty fag stuff.

"Let me touch it again."

I stroked for him while he played with my nuts and ran his fingertips up and down the outside of my shaft. I think he thought he was doing something both erotic and exotic as his light touch fluttered on my skin, but in reality the best I can say is that at least he managed not to distract me too much.

After a while I took one of his hands and wrapped it around my balls, silently instructing him to tug and squeeze gently. He took the instruction well; the added sensation made my dick bulge and turn a deeper shade. He learned pretty quickly to tell how I responded to a certain kind of tug over another. By the time I was leaking pre-cum, he seemed pretty pleased with himself. "Let me suck it," he said.

I looked pained.

"You can show me how."

I shook my head and looked vaguely disgusted. "Nah, I don't think so."

"If I practice, will you let me next time? Not on a dick. On a banana." When I didn't say anything, he improvised wildly on this theme. "I'll suck on a banana so I learn not to gag. Fuck. I want to learn to suck a cock. Teach me?"

"I don't know," I lied.

"I'll give you extra for it." At that, I didn't say anything. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he thought he had me, there. That little extra green incentive, he seemed to realize, was all that he needed to lure me from the near-straight-and-narrow to the dark side.

What he didn't know was that I'm the one who was having him on. I didn't need that extra cash. But I sure liked seeing him grovel.

It was the sight of those wide eyes, that certainty that he could throw money at me to make me do things I wouldn't ordinarily, that pushed me over the edge. I shot in a geyser that arrived announced only by my hastened breathing and the arch of my back. It splashed up and forward; he jerked his hand away at the last moment as if I were spewing hot lava. I came in grunts and snorts, a married man's orgasm, brusque and brutish. Then I panted for a moment.

He was studiously mopping up the puddle I'd left with a baby wipe from a tray. I lay down on my back so that I could hoist up my hips and pull up my pants. When I was fastening the button, he suddenly hovered over me. His head was directly above mine; he looked into my eyes. For an astonished moment I thought he might actually kiss me.

"Hey," he said. "Does your wife tell you you're handsome?"

I shrugged.

"Because you are. You're sexy. For a guy. You're sexy."

"Thanks, dude," I said.

His hand brushed my crazy hair from my forehead. I could feel its calluses. "You're hot," he said. "Think about the sucking."

"Yeah." I made it sound like that wouldn't be happening.

"I'll practice. You'll like it, I promise."

I didn't agree, but I didn't say no. I knew we'd get there, sooner or later.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Irene Edition

What a week of disasters it's been, for those of us here on the east coast of the U.S. First, we had the novelty of an earthquake that could be felt all the way from Virginia to Boston . . . though somehow it thrilled New York City and then mysteriously seemed to skip the suburb in which I dwell. (I suspect the Stepford Wives here of somehow paying someone off so as not to mess up their catalog-perfect living rooms.)

And then we had Irene, the class one hurricane that thrilled many a newscaster with forecasts of disaster for Manhattan itself, which was supposed to turn into a spectacular watery holocaust. Didn't really happen up here, but it was enough of a scare to shut down everything and clog up the highway as frightened locals lined up at the exits leading to Sam's Club and CostCo.

We members of Team Breeder are safe and dry, though, without even a loss of electricity about which to brag. Which is why, with only a little delay, I'm able to bring to you this morning your weekly dose of questions from formspring.me.



Which do you prefer more a tight hole or bid cock?

I don't really care how big a bottom's dick is. Tight hole, every time.


Do you have an opinion about prostate-stimulator toys, as a way for a bottom to sensitize his hole?

I do not have an opinion, as I've never tried one. I've never known anyone who's tried one, either; though I had a couple of friends who were heavily into toy play, they usually enjoyed the big dildos than the prostate-stimulators.

I'm curious about them myself, though, so if any of my readers or Twitter buddies have an opinion, I'd love to hear them.


Have you ever sounded your urethra with a clinical probe? with your finger?

I've used sounds before, yes. It's an interesting, but not for my needs essential, form of play. I've been with several men who really enjoyed the effects of them, however, and I'm more than willing to help them out.

I can usually stick my fingertip in my own urethra. I like digging out the precum that way.


Do Big Boys/Real Men cry? Do you? How often does The Breeder find male lacrimation acceptable? (Your opinion RE how many men bottom inspires these questions.)

Sure they cry. Strong men cry. Boys cry. I've made bottoms cry many a time with my dick.

The last time I cried, corny as it might sound, as a few days ago. I was sitting on a boat headed to the Statue of Liberty, watching it loom up out of the water, backed by the sunlight, and I thought to myself, "You know? As many times as I've seen it in films and photos and in Planet of the Apes, I've never see the Statue of Liberty in person before." Then I got a big old lump in my throat and teared up.

But you know, everyone else on the boat was doing it too, so I didn't feel so badly.


While a passenger in a car, do you ever give the driver a hand job? or a blow job?

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the car to come to a complete stop before I engage in any action with the driver.

Besides, it's easier to fuck him that way.


Would you say you are genuingly Bisexual?

It's easier to find sex with men because, basically, they're dawgs. Yet I would say that I've had good sex with more women than have most genuinely straight men, and than have most guys who call themselves bi because they've been with their wives and screw around on the side with hundreds of guys.

My involvement in bisexual relationships has tapered off in the last two years after an involvement with a married couple got a little too complicated, but yes. I would consider myself an equal opportunity cock wielder.


What scares you the most and why?

I tend to be extremely frightened inwardly, despite being rock-solid on the outside, when a loved one faces a health crisis, or is in jeopardy of death.


What do you take in your coffee?

I don't drink straight coffee. I was a fan of Starbucks' cocoa cappuccino last winter, though.


What papers do you read, either nationally or locally?

I read the New York Times, online. Sections of it, anyway.


Stumbled on your blog a few months ago but didn't pay much attention, then last week I saw one of your history posts and I've been hooked. I grew up across the river from Richmond in the suburbs, so it's been very interesting. Any good stories from Bon

I grew up on the northside, and never really got out to the suburbs. (I didn't have a car, for one thing). To be honest, I don't even know how to navigate around Richmond's southside. My family never, ever went there!


Morning person, or night owl?

I arouse the ire of my loved ones and the contempt of my neighbors by being a bright, perky, and supremely chipper morning person.


Do you or anyone you know have to get completely naked before you can poop? It's the only way I can be comfy enough to do it!

I cannot say I do. I can go naked or clothed. (That is, if my pants are down.) It's all the same to me.


I know you have said since your move you have not really been getting any action, but is there anything about your new location or your move that you like? Really enjoy reading your blog.

Thanks for the compliment! I'm glad you read.

There are several things I like about my new location. The easy access to New York City is probably at the top of the list—it's a six-buck train ride into Grand Central, and from there I've got all kinds of cultural opportunities and sight-seeing to do. My new location itself is quite beautiful, and I like that the state is not as spread out and far-flung as my old Michigan home, where a forty-mile trip to get to a favorite location wasn't atypical.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Open Forum Friday: Douchebags

I was listening to the radio last week and heard one of the interns on OutQ mention a web site from which he'd been getting a lot of laughs, lately—douchebagsofgrindr.com.

Okay, perhaps I should've postponed sharing the address until I'd talked about the site, some. Are we all back? Settled down? Focused once more?

Grindr, of course, is the ubiquitous smartphone application that utilizes GPS to identify other Grindr users in the vicinity, so that one can cruise hot men from the comfort and safety of the H&M men's room. It's not really a comprehensive sex profile site. The owners allow one to post a PG-rated photo and a few words about oneself. After that, it's up to the users to message each other, decide if they're close enough, and to connect.

I avoided the app like the plague back in Michigan. In that state, the popular bar sport (any bar, any night) was for cliques of gay men to stand around with their phones glowing upward in the dark, illuminating the owners like some Georges de la Tour painting, while they giggled at men's Grindr photos. Woe betide the guy on Grindr who actually happened to be in the bar at the time, because the Grindr game turned packs of what I assume were fairly nice guys and turned them into gaggles of bitchy queens who sniggered and quipped wise as they compared the inevitable naked chest cheesecake shot on their phones to the somewhat embarrassed victim standing (according to the app, anyway) twenty-seven feet away. It's like watching a live enactment of Blondie's "Rip Her to Shreds." With Freddie Kreuger on had for a demo.

No thank you.

I gave Grindr a try last month, since it's taken much more seriously in the northeast. Quickly I found out that I only draw two types of Grindr responses. The first demographic would be shy older gentlemen who, instead of an actual face photo, opt to present themselves as a verdant landscape, a lighthouse in the mist, or a brightly sunlit waterfall. The second, and more abundant, population is that of barely-legal Latin boys, who purr and growl at me as if they're horny felines and I'm a big ol' sack of catnip-spiked chorizo. You'd think that instead of the bland profile I'd constructed, I'd advertised with Re-forming Menudo. Apply within.

Then my monthly subscription expired and I couldn't be bothered to download the free version, and I haven't used it in the last three weeks.

Now, douchebagsofgrindr.com struck me as a potentially fascinating website, because Grindr certainly does have its share of irritations. Foremost among mine were the men who would write something like, Here to look at the studs. If you're not one, block me so all I see are hotties. Like I want to do all that work for you? If you don't want to look at my face, block me yourself, fucker.

The site's administrators certainly zero in on some of the other most prevalent Grindr crimes of civility, take screen shots of the offenders, and present them to the public for mockery. They capture the men who brusquely insist that they will only speak to others with face photos, yet whose profiles show a murky shadow or a fuzzy close-up of a nipple.

The site rigorously chases after the racist profiles in which cruisers state, politely or less-than-, which colors of the rainbow can 'step to the front of the line.' The administrators have a special vendetta against the men who post handsome photos of themselves and state "VGL UB2," or that they'll only speak to other 9s and 10s. And god forbid you be one of the fools who dares to insist you're straight, and just looking.

It's kind of fun to look at the site and the silly men and their stupid antics and think to myself, "Yeah, that's guy's a douche, all right." But my mistake—and I make it on a lot of internet sites, admittedly—is that I feel compelled to read the comments on the photos from other readers. It's a mistake because whenever there's an anonymous comment system in place, there are always assholes who misuse it. They see an opportunity and a weakness and leap onto it in a way they would never, ever contemplate doing in real life; they type out vile things to which they'd never commit a syllable if it actually had to cross their lips and be uttered. I don't have a high opinion of these guys; it seems pitiful to me only to feel powerful when hiding behind the safety of miles, an anonymous comment box, and a computer screen.

Basically, it's ugly. And I find the site distressing to read, after a while.

So on any typical douchebagsofgrindr post, there'll be a couple of guys pointing out the obvious ("Wow! That guy is rude!"), and a whole lot of men dogpiling on each other to say the nastiest things possible. If a guy's handsome, he's 'not all that' or 'that dude looks like a girl.' If he's muscular, he's suddenly a steroid user. If a guy doesn't like feminine men, the commenters look for any sign of femininity (Are his eyebrows too neat? Is that a purse in the background of the photo? It must be HIS!) and engage in name-calling that makes the gay community's detractors seem timid-tongued in comparison.

The commenters rip on the men's clothing, their hair styles, their appearances, their teeth, their ages—anything they can find to shred the guy to pieces until there's nothing left. It's a little bit like the old Michigan Grindr game, only even more vicious.

And, in its own way, even more repellant than the profiles being mocked. Douches of Grindr these called-out men may be, but the commenters of douchesofgrindr.com are even douchier.

I'm curious about what you guys think. Do the commenters go too far on this website? Or is it all just good fun to you, with no one getting hurt? At what point does mockery and pointing the finger at hypocrisy and bad behavior turn into worse hypocrisy and an appalling spectacle of its own?

Let's discuss it in the comments.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

One Week, One Hour a Day

I was sharing a story with a friend online this week, when it struck me I'd never mentioned it here.

Some of my longer-term readers will remember the fellow I called Cunt, from my Michigan days. We were fuck buddies for a good twelve years. When I first met him he was newly gay—or newly out, relatively late in life—and still pretending to be a top.

Now, over the years I got to see Cunt stick his dick in boys' holes, but that still never made him, in my eyes, a top. It wasn't primarily how he got his jollies. His great joy in life was thrusting his ass up in the air and taking dick without even seeing it, and by the time I started writing this blog, that's exactly what we did together. Our transactions were efficient and economical. Unzip. Unload. Zip. Leave.

There was a period, though, where I played some more complicated mind games with him.

One week, three or four years back, I was talking to Cunt on the computer via instant messenger. Own me, he begged. I want you to fucking own me.

There's nothing more arousing to me than being offered that kind of control, that most essential kind of power. On a practical level, though, owning a man full-time isn't in my best interests. Where do I fit him in my already-full house, exactly? The hall closet's already full of lacrosse racquets and winter coats. If I were going to own a hole, I told him, it'd be yours.

Own me for a week, he begged. Own me for an hour a day. I just want to be owned.

Those were the words that triggered the plan.

After thinking it out in my head, I told Cunt that I was willing to own him for a week, for an hour a day. He was to be cleaned out and ready at seven in the evening, from a particular Monday night until the Sunday following. He was to be on his knees, assuming the position, at the edge of his bed precisely at seven, and was to remain there until eight. And if I chose, I would show up and fuck him.

I can't emphasize enough the notion of my choice. I made very clear to him that I had little intention of showing up nightly, though I could take advantage of all seven nights if I wanted. The point was that regardless of whether I was there or not, he was still supposed to leave the door unlocked, assume the position, and wait for me.

The first week, I showed up on Monday. I parked outside, slipped into his quiet house, found him upstairs at precisely seven on the nose, and fucked him until eight. I skipped Tuesday and Wednesday, deliberately. Thursday I returned to find him hole up and ready. Friday I skipped. Saturday and Sunday, he got more of me.

We didn't exchange a single word the entire time I was there. It was simply one man presenting himself for the other's approval and use. At the end of the week, when it was over, he emailed me with such a paroxysm of appreciation that it seemed cruel not to give it another shot. So a few weeks later, we set it up again. One week, one appointed hour a day.

Several times we enjoyed the exercise, in fact. I enjoyed mixing it up for him. One week I kept him busy by showing up every appointment but one. Another I very deliberately didn't meet any of them at all—though I did show up on the last evening to make sure he was in position, and then without a word I walked right out again.

Once in a while I'd show up with a buddy—a couple of times it was tops I knew, sometimes some guy off the internet I'd never met before—to whom I'd present Cunt as my property, and invite to use as he wished. Once I walked in with a stranger, told Cunt to take care of him, and walked out again.

The details didn't matter to Cunt. He never begged me to bring other men, or chided me for not showing, or thanked me when I did. He just basked in that freedom of being owned, for one hour of every day in a week. He floated on that freedom of knowing he didn't have to make decisions for himself during that short time, of knowing that he would be taken care of, if I so chose.

It was a lot of work for me, calculating to a hair's breadth exactly the degree of sadism involved in skipping either two or three days in a row, or dreaming up ways to keep it fresh. For him, though, it was liberating, and fulfilling in ways that in my bottom years I once could have comprehended, but were increasingly foreign to me. He loved being of use, and loved having the structure our arrangement gave him. When he heard my footsteps entering his bedroom, I could see him respond with a thrill greater than those afforded by our regular encounters.

I miss having a Cunt. I need one here.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Big thanks

I'd like to thank you guys for the many expressions of sympathy and support you've given over the past couple of days—both in the comments on this journal, and through email and other venues as well.

However, I'd like to say that those of you who sent me nude photos via email to cheer me up totally got an edge over everyone else. Nice work, to you guys!

I'm feeling mostly better today, thanks to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. What I have isn't a summer cold, but although he assured me he was fairly certain it wasn't leprosy, the doctor wasn't exactly certain what's ailing me. However, he also said it wasn't contagious. And it's not anything sexually transmitted, either.

We'll be returning to more regular postings shortly. Thanks for your patience.

Monday, August 22, 2011

A Quickie (Not the Good Kind)


I wanted to let you guys know that I've been under the weather for a couple of days--and thus no updates.

When I can get out of bed and back in the saddle, you'll be the first to know.


Friday, August 19, 2011

Reader Assets: #17


Happy Friday, everybody!

I'm still soliciting more photos for the Reader Assets feature (which, for as few comments as it gets, certainly receives a ton of hits whenever I post it). You guys were almost unanimous in your desire to see more dick in addition to the asses I've been posting on a regular basis—and yet I'm getting almost no dick shots!

Don't be shy. We post all body types here, all ages, and all shades of skin. The only thing I ask is that the photographs you send in are of you, and not someone else (or someone you'd like to be).  If you'd like to participate—and you should—send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASSETS' or 'MY ASS' or 'MY COCK' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too.

Let's see what juicy specimens we have this week.

Joe


I can't say I know much about Joe other than the fact he's a fan of the blog  . . . and has a very hot body. Great shoulders, great arms, nice waist, and best of all, a perfect ass.

I mean, seriously. Look at that thing. It looks like two perfect melons in a sack. You can tell it gets stared at when he walks by. I certainly would. Nice work there, Joe.


Strappedguync




My buddy in North Carolina has sent a couple of photos of himself in what everyone, by now, must know as my favorite pose—bent over, ass exposed, and submissive. He's even worn one of my favorite pieces of gear, a black jockstrap, and is doing that move of drawing apart his own ass cheeks that totally drives me crazy.

It's like Strapped here has made a little checklist entitled "Things to Make The Breeder More Likely to Mount Me", and gone down it, tick mark by tick mark. 

The only thing missing from the comprehensive checklist is the little plate of bacon on the small of his back. 

That's a beautiful ass, Strapped!



Mark





At last! Some dick to show you guys!

Mark here has sent me quite a nice collection of self-shots. Not only does he sport a fine and handsome ass, with a nice light coat of fuzz, but he's also provided a couple of dick shots that pretty much show all the goods from start to finish.

I love the soft dick shot with his cock snuggled in a nest of pubic hair. And the cum shot is fantastic. You're going to have a lot of fans out there, Mark . . . if you don't already, that is.


Ethan







My buddy Ethan has sent a veritable cornucopia of beautiful ass shots. I couldn't choose between them, so I figured I'd just include them all.

Do asses get any better? It's a hot round butt, to begin with. Bent over, it's even more saliva-inducing and slobber-worthy. 

But what really makes these photos drive me crazy are those enormous nuts Ethan displays, hanging between his legs. Those are bull-nuts, my friends. Don't you want to reach out and tug 'em? Roughly? Or maybe tie them up with a rough length of hemp and . . . maybe that part's just me.

Ethan, I love your ass, my friend. Everyone else will too, now.



My contributors have been very brave this week. Show them a little appreciation in the comments!

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Alma Mater

I hadn't intended to visit my old college campus last week, when I was visiting my dad in Virginia. Considering that the temperature soared up above one hundred every day I was down there, walking around the dusty tourist town in the sun was one of the last things I wanted to do.

My father, who's also an alumnus of the college, wanted to take advantage of my chauffeur services. So I found myself on a Wednesday morning driving along I-64, past the long avenues of trees overgrown with kudzu, in the direction of the little college where we'd both spent a congenial four years of our lives.

Once we were off the tourist tracks, the campus itself was hushed and silent, its bricked walkways empty. Its picturesque buildings radiated heat, its expansive sunken garden baked in the sun. We kept to the shade, walking around the oldest part of campus, ducking into the air conditioned buildings when we could. Some of the dorms were under construction, their approaches cordoned off and inaccessible; it looked as if they were having air conditioning installed before the school year started. At the height of the day, though, there weren't any construction workers around. They were either all indoors, or they'd knocked off early because of the heat.

Toward the end of our circuit we stopped off at what used to be the old campus center, when my father and I were both students. It's an administrative building now, but it's air-conditioned, and provides a convenient cut-through on the way back to the commercial district. As my father stood with his face pressed against the glass of a former cafeteria, reminiscing about days of old, I stood with my arms crossed and enjoyed the cool. The doors from outside opened and a pair of men walked in. They were both dressed in polo shirts. The taller of the two, a goateed middle-aged guy with a former jock's build and an unflattering pair of navy pleated Dockers, caught my eye.

We looked at each other for a moment before he started talking to his colleague. And they were colleagues. I guessed from their dusty clothing and clipboards and holstered cell phones that they were some kind of contractors or construction supervisors, probably connected to the dorm renovations just down the street. My dad continued to peer and talk to me while the goateed guy and I continued to exchange glances. It was pretty obvious he was more interested in me than in the conversation he was pretending to have. At last he and the other guy parted, waving their clipboards in parting.

The colleague headed off toward the back of the building. The dark-haired goateed guy walked down the hallway towards which my father was headed, now that he was finally done telling me about the old days when he'd been a student waiter. As my father rambled on, the man looked over his shoulder several times, catching my eyes with every turn of his head. Then he diverged from his path and entered the men's room.

Now, I'd had so much sex in that men's room when I was an undergrad. I'd gone there lunchtimes to suck dick. I'd hung out there in the evenings, getting laid so I wouldn't have to go back to my dorm room. The last time I visited the college, I'd fucked an undergraduate in there. I wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. "Hey," I told my dad. "Why don't you head to the bookstore?" I gestured in the direction just across the street. "I'll meet you there. I have to hit the bathroom."

"I can wait," said my father.

"I need to poop," I amended. Because there is no information that is private or sacred in my family, you know. My dad, of an age to appreciate the merits of a good poop, nodded with understanding and ambled in the direction of the door and the campus bookstore.

I made sure he was on his way, then nudged open the men's room door with my shoulder, and headed in.

The restroom was always built for play. To get to the urinals and toilets, one has to push open the noisy door and walk a distance through the U-shaped enclosure, past the sinks and waste bins. The noise and distance gives a cruiser plenty of time to assume a less compromising position, if interrupted in the midst of the act. I walked to the urinal and unzipped, then pulled out my dick. The whiff of sexual intrigue had already made me swell. A few strokes brought me to hardness.

He occupied the first of the toilet stalls. It was the only one with a closed door. I could tell by the play of shadows inside that he was bending over to look at my feet, to see if I was the one who'd followed him in. After a moment he stood up casually, as if pulling up his pants to go. Our eyes met over the top of the marble partition. I turned to show him my hard dick.

He stared for a moment. Then he opened his stall door.

I stepped around, still stroking. Those awful Dockers were around his ankles, hanging around a pair of white athletic socks. The clipboard was balanced on the toilet paper dispenser. His dick was short, and fat, and uncut. With his left hand, he peeled back the skin to expose a purple, swollen head. I caught a glimpse of the wedding band he wore, for the first time. "Fuck," he whispered. "You are hung."

I lifted my chin in appreciation of the compliment, still stroking. Instead of saying anything, though, I merely pushed my hips forward. I wasn't there for conversation.

He took the hint and, after sitting down on the toilet seat and looking up at me for approval, he opened his mouth and took my dick in his mouth. The guy had a bushy goatee that rubbed against my balls in a pleasant way. I sighed, leaned back, and let him go down on me.

The man's phone started to go off in its holster as he sucked. His hands left my nuts and shaft to scramble for the switch that would shut it off. He didn't stop sucking, though. When he had the use of his hands back, he lifted my dick and jacked it while he nuzzled my nuts. His tongue darted out and licked beneath my balls; he ground his nose and mouth against my junk as tightly as he could before he started sucking once more.

I was keeping an ear out for the sound of the exterior door, the entire time. I knew I couldn't take long, so luckily the randomness and sudden heat of this encounter was already causing a load to simmer in my nuts. The contractor must have felt the same, because I felt a sudden spray of warm goo over my legs and onto my sandals. He'd shot on me; sperm continued to leak out of that furiously purple head as he grabbed my dick at the root, squeezed hard, and sucked me roughly.

When I came, it was with a violent buckling of my knees. He grabbed my ass to support me, spreading more of his stray seed on my skin. My sperm went into his mouth, though. His face contorted in pleasure, or effort, as he ate every drop. His face was wet with his own spit when finally he pulled off, and let my dick drop and swing between my legs. "Fuck," he said, eyes wide. "I got my stuff all over you."

Again his hands scrambled, this time for some toilet tissue. He dabbed at my legs, my ass, and at the tops of my sandals, murmuring apologies all the while. I didn't listen. I rubbed his hair affectionately after I pulled up my shorts, and went on my way.

My dad was browsing through the T-shirts at the bookstore when I joined him a couple of minutes later. "That didn't take long," he said.

"Nope," I agreed.

"Sometimes when you've got to do it," he said, "you've got to do it."

He was obviously still talking about pooping. "That's the truth," I agreed fervently.

"Feels better after, too."

We meant different things, of course. But I couldn't agree more.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Curtain Call

The man was waiting outside his townhouse the next night, sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street. His legs were spread wide, protruding from enormous, baggy basketball shorts that hung as twin caverns around them. When I stepped from my car and approached, he just nodded.

"What's up?" I asked. The cicadas overhead were infinitely louder in Virginia than Connecticut. I could barely hear myself talk over their clamor.

He'd been toying with something in his hands. "You want that li'l thug to yourself?" he asked.

My dick twitched at the notion. I'd just been with this pair—the black man and his younger lover—the night before. I'd walked away drained and, at the same time, craving more. When he'd left a message for me asking if I was free again that evening, I'd made my excuses at my dad's and driven the short mile to the man's place once more. "Is that an option?" I asked, keeping my voice steady over the quickening of my heart.

He tossed to me the little object with which he'd been toying, in an arc I could see only by the light of the streetlamp overhead. I opened my hand. It was a key, attached to a ring. "How long you need?" he said, pulling himself up.

"I've only got a couple of hours."

"Go on in there then, white boy," he said gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of the door. "Leave him the way you find him when you done." He started strolling down the street, walking slightly bow-legged, though whether from habit or the previous night's session, I didn't know.

The house was quiet when I entered. I left my shoes at the bottom of the steps, along with the multiple pairs of running and basketball shoes that cluttered the lowest treads. The bottom I found in his bedroom, lying on his full-sized bed. The night before we'd played in the older man's room, in his larger and more comfortable mattress. Though this darkened room contained all the playtoy's things, his books and video games and collectible action figures, it almost seemed more like a guest room than the older man's room, where all the action clearly took place.

The bottom lay as he had the night before, gagged and bound, face-down, on the mattress. I could tell he tried to crane his head and look at me over his shoulder at the sound of my footstep. My dick swelled hard at the sight of him there, barely visible in the dark, ankles and wrists helpless and tied. I could've used him any way I wanted, and his owner wouldn't have known. Or minded, for that matter.

I removed my shirt, and unbuckled my jeans. I took off my underwear and my socks, and sat on the bed's edge. My hand moved up to stroke the young man's head, with its covering of stubbly hair. The rest of his body was perfectly smooth. My palm moved down over his narrow shoulders, the curve of his back where it arched up to his ass, the round perfection of his butt. He stirred beneath my touch, like a sleeper in a dream.

Then I reached up with both hands and untied the gag around his head. The knot was difficult to navigate at first, but I managed at last to withdraw the ends from each other and pull the cloth gently from his mouth. I undid his wrists, setting aside the velcro restraints, and then the ankles. He rolled over onto his back, and pulled himself up to the head of the bed. His big, dark eyes regarded me with an expression somewhere between fear and desire. "Don't worry," I told him, my voice quiet in the dark. "You're still going to get my dick."

He let loose one short, sharp nod as he stared between my legs. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"Tonight we do it my way, though," I told him. The room was quiet. I could barely hear the raucous huzz of the August cicadas outside. "You cool with that?" He nodded. "Good."

He was light enough that I could pull him close to me easily. My dick slipped naturally between his legs and prodded at his hole as I held the back of his head and pulled his mouth to mine. He was a natural good kisser, but seemed out of practice, as if he didn't get to do it very often. That may have been the reason why he seemed so hungry for it. Within seconds he transformed from passive recipient to aggressive beast, matching me passion for passion. His body pressed against mine. His small dick, erect, uncut, and rigid as building stone, pressed against the bottom of my ribcage.

"Suck me," I begged, after a while. He didn't need to be ordered, or restrained. He dived between my legs and took as much of my dick in his mouth as he could—a considerable amount. The tightness of his lips around my shaft made me hiss with pleasure and grind my hips into the air. My head hung over the mattress' edge; I let the blood rush to my brain as for long minutes he licked and slurped up and down my meat, my balls, and the inside of my thighs. When his tongue lapped at my hole, I couldn't take any more.

Flipping him over was easy; I've had more problem with slices of frying bacon. "You know I love fucking you when you man lets me," I growled in his head. He nodded. My dick head, swollen like a plum, was poised at his ass. It parted the cheeks and nudged the hole. "You like it when I fuck you?"

A hesitation. Then, he nodded again. "I think you like it," I growled. "I just think you don't like admitting it so much."

Another hesitation. Then another nod.

He wasn't so silent as I drove inside him. Though I'd driven lube inside his hole with my fingers, and though I'd applied it liberally to my cock, he still let out a cry as I worked it slowly but firmly in. "Stop that," I warned him, again worried that someone would hear through the townhouse's shared walls. Then, a moment later, when I was most of the way in and giving him a break, I leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Does it hurt?" He nodded. "I can't fucking hear you."

"Yes," he whimpered. "It hurts." I could hear the tears in his voice.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I withdrew a quarter-inch, as if it were a real possibility. "No," he said at last. The syllable was even more desperate than the three that had come before it. I pulled out a little more. "No!" he protested, genuinely distressed that I might withdraw.

When I pushed in the rest of the way, he grabbed the pillow and let loose his cry of ecstatic agony into one of its corners.

I fucked him on his belly for a while until, like the night before, his ass finally stopped resisting me and relaxed completely. When I was sliding in and out without that extra resistance, I pulled us both into a kneeling position. My arms supported him upright, beneath his armpits; his hands clutched at the back of my head, holding on for dear life as I continued to rabbit in and out of his tight, smooth hole.

From time to time his head would loll back onto my shoulder. His lips would abstractedly reach out to touch mine, but he seemed lost, enraptured, caught up in a private ecstasy from which I and the rest of the world had faded. His tiny nipples hardened; the skin beneath my hands quickened into gooseflesh. Then his breath caught, his back arched, and his body began to shake and quiver on and around my hard dick. My traveling fingers grasped his pulsing dick as his body continued to wrack and shake and convulse. Then he bit his lip, laughed a little, and closed his eyes as I continued to fuck him.

I fucked for most of those two hours. Five times I brought him to orgasm. Each time, he jerked and convulsed and became lost in his own private enjoyment, and then relaxed with closed eyes as I continued to drive into him. We kissed; I growled obscenities in his ear and egged him on with every orgasm.

Then I pulled out. "Eat it," I commanded. My dick was slick with lubes and juices, and had seemed to grow by an inch or two from the long, relentless fucking. The youth got on all fours, grabbed my meat with his hand, and took it into his mouth. Almost immediately, at the sight of him on all fours hungrily gobbling me down, I began to shoot. I held the back of his head to ensure he didn't try to evade the load, and listened to him gag and choke on the enormous load spurting directly down his throat. I let him catch his breath. Without prompting, he went back down on the meat, cleaning it off, sucking out every last drop, until at last it softened and we both lay there, in the dark, in the quiet.

I was sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street when the man returned, smelling of beer. "Left him as I found him," I said, tossing back the keys.

The look on the man's face was satisfied. I could see him imagining what had transpired in his absence. "He give you any trouble?" he asked.

I shook my head. No, he hadn't been any trouble at all.

Monday, August 15, 2011

The Performance

"Damn, this booty missed you." When the man's palms hit his cheeks with a loud slap, it resounds through the small townhouse bedroom like a whipcrack. His ass is a model of perfection, round as a basketball, smooth, and shiny, even in the dim light of the low-watt bulb in the hallway. It jiggles and bounces. The performance has begun.

He's a small man who comes up only to my nipples, but he's strong enough to crack me in half. Small, but powerful. The first time I met him, four years ago, he greeted me at his door shirtless, his chest a blueprint of homebrewed muscles and barely-visible tattoos that sloped down to a flat, flat abdomen punctuated by an outie of a navel. His hips were so narrow that it didn't seem at all affected that the waist of his jeans hung around the bottom of that round, protruding ass, inches below his cheap red checkered boxers. It was as if they could have fallen off when he'd risen to answer the door.

I'd marveled at his body then, even as I marveled at it now. "You gotta visit that daddy of yours more often, baby," he half-whispers, in a seductive pose on the bed. Like girders, his arms are, his biceps sinew and steel. He grinds his hips into the mattress. "'Cause I know when you visit your daddy, this nigga get what he need."

I'm still completely clothed. I make a show of unbuckling my belt, of kicking off my shoes, of slithering out of the denim sheathing my legs. "What do you need?" I ask him, once I'm naked.

"That big hard dick." He reaches out and grabs it. His lips open, his mouth gapes to accommodate my meat. Scarcely has he ingested it than he chokes and backs off. When he looks at me, it's with affront written clearly over his face. "Can't even get that shit in my mouth," he complains.

"Try again," I suggest, nodding at him. He's putting on an act, of course. The fucker knows how to suck me. I visit my dad's home town two or three times a year, and usually see this guy once or twice each visit. By now, his mouth knows its way up and down my inches. His throat has felt the spray of my load against its backmost corners.

But he likes to put on the performance. He likes to pretend it's too big. His eyes bulge and water as he spears me into his throat once more. He sucks, and grunts to himself as he rubs his privates against the bed, humping the corner obscenely. His thrusting only makes his ass cheeks gleam in the light. They part, revealing the dark cleft within. "Yeah," I said, utterly turned on. "Just like that."

"You want this booty," he tells me after a while. He's still putting on a show. "C'mon. Take it. Take what you own."

He's already in position on the bed, his hidden rod pressing hard against the mattress' rounded corner, his ass parted and ready. It smells like a man's sweat, and of his private places. He hisses loudly when I lick it for a few moments. "Put it on in," he begs. His eyes are half-closed, heavily lidded. "Put what you got all up inside."

When I slide in, he playacts again. "Damn!" he yells, so loudly that I worry his neighbors might hear. His hands clutch the bedsheets, creasing them where he tugs and pulls. His eyes are wide open, now, unnaturally white against the dark. He's reacting as if I've shoved a red-hot poker up his fundament. "You tearing me up!" he protests, writhing in mock pain. When he rises to his knees, to lift his ass up, his massive cock swings down onto the bed. He's easily ten inches, maybe eleven. Most of the time, though, it's almost as if his dick's not there. All he really cares about is his hole. He shakes his head as if to clear it of the pain.

Then he turns to the figure lying motionless at the head of the bed. "You gonna yell when it your turn," he warns.

I, too, stare at the bottom as I fuck. It's for that sole audience member we're putting on the show, for the bound figure watching us both. The younger man's wrists and ankles have been restrained with velcro cuffs before I arrived; his mouth is split by a white cloth fastened tightly at the back of his head. The man's playtoy is always there when I arrive, sometimes bound, sometimes simply lying on the bed they've shared for years. He's not new to me—not at all. But every time I roll into town, we play out this scene as if it's new.

"You so big, baby!" cries out the man, gritting his teeth in exaggerated pain. The half-fiction to which we all subscribe is that if my dick's huge enough to make a muscular, strong man like this struggle, it's going to be sheer hell for his younger lover. "You hurt this ass so good. So good," he repeats, drawling out the last word.

I fuck him loud and hard, keeping my eyes steadily on the bound plaything. You're next, says my gaze.

I pull out of his older partner before I shoot. My dick slides out, covered with juice and spit and lube. The man lets out a long groan, as if he couldn't have stood it for another moment. Saying nothing, I stride to the head of the bed and yank at the bottom's arm. He slides across the bed like a sack of potatoes, his head lolling with every jerk. He's already been lubed—fucked, even?—when I finger him. I don't bother with preliminaries. I yank him into position, grab my dick, and aim it at the tight hole.

"You're in for it now, boy," says the man, shaking his head. He's still making a show of recovering from my fuck. He pulls himself onto his side as if he can't stand. "Better you than me. That's what I say. Better you than me!"

When I shove inside, the bottom's eyes fly open, just as his lover's had. "Yeah," says the older man, observing. "Take that big white dick."

The bottom makes a pretense of struggling, just for a moment, as I pass the halfway mark. But then it's in, sinking home, opening him wide. I yank him to his knees. The man thrusts his broad hand between his legs. His fingertips brush against my hard meat as I start to slide in and out of that impossibly tight hole. Impossible, in that his lover's dick should have stretched him sloppy long before now. "Look how hard he is," says the man, as he yanks my hand underneath his playtoy.

The dick there is rock hard. It always is. It responds to entry, to being opened wide. He can't help it. "He likes it," I shrug, as if it's no big deal.

"Oh yeah, he liking it," repeats the older man, staring.

This is the meat of the performance. While the bound bottom grunts and attempts to grapple with my fierce penetrations, his lover grinds his jaw and watches with obvious relish. "You feel that, don't you?" he asks, his face close to his partner's. "I know you feeling that. You can't help but feeling that. You want it? You want him to fuck harder?" He's growling the words in his lover's ear so insistently that the younger man can't do anything but whimper and acquiesce. Through the gag he forces some helpless words, all unintelligible. "Fuck him," says the man. "Do what you want."

What I want is what he wants, roughly. I grapple with the bottom as he tries to squirm away once more. It's for show, at this point. As badly as the older man wants the younger to fear my dick, the younger wants the older to think I'm too much for him. I'm just a bit actor in the drama between them, the strolling actor-for-hire who runs through his part, takes his bow, and leaves. I pry his ass apart, shoving my dick deeper inside. He takes all but the last inch, and I work in the last bit of flesh while the man watches in satisfaction. He clucks when I'm all the way in. His own dick, heavy and log-like, drips with pre-cum. He strokes it laciviously while he watches me.

For long minutes I nail the bottom into the mattress. His grunts are automatic, less a product of will than of physiology. His hole deepens and loosens with every thrust. Sometimes, when I go in at a certain angle, he yelps out through the gag in what sounds like genuine surprise and distress. The occasional cries only heighten the man's arousal. He's next to me, now, stroking his dick over his lover's head, planting small kisses on my neck and twisting my nipples. He's doing what it takes to get me off, and it's working.

I shoot hard. My hips buckle forward, propelling me inside the bottom to his deepest recesses. He attempts to clamber forward on his elbows and knees, but it's too late; my weight pins him down as my dick pulses and swells, over and over. I unload in the tight hole, breathing heavily, my blood rushing so hard in my head that I can barely hear the older man's obscenities as he unloads all over his younger lover.

His cum flies everywhere, covering the bottom with the thick, creamy fluid. "Damn!" he yells. "Damn! Day-um!" He pushes me off the bottom's ass so that my dick slides out with a plop, then roughly shoves his own fingers inside. When he withdraws them, they're coated with my seed. He baptizes himself with the stuff, on his nipples, chest, and then finally on his lips. "Damn!"

I stand up and nod. It’s my bow, my curtain call. But then the man says, "Let me get you some water, so you can do it again."

Then I know there's a second act to come.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: The Big Homecoming Edition

Many thanks to all you guys for being so nice while I was away, this last week. In answer to the several emails and tweets I've received, yes, my trip went well. My dad is fine. No, we didn't have any contretemps over my underwear, again. I did have to teach my elderly dad how, for the very first time in his life, to use an ATM. It was an experience that required over twenty minutes—approximately nineteen and a half minutes longer than it really needed to have—but we got it taken care of in the end.

I think. I'm still anticipating the phone call in which he plaintively calls to ask why the ATM screen is entirely in Spanish, or why it ate his card, or some such technological failure as only my dad can really pull off with style. I suspect I'll get there, sooner or later.

Let's get to some formspring.me questions, so I can go type up some of the week's encounters for you guys. Again, thanks for hanging in there. And I'm glad to be back.



Writer's block. How to fight/get past it?

Sit down at your computer--or tablet, or notebook, or whatever. Turn off your internet. Ignore your emails and significant others. Keep pounding away at the keys or stare into space until you're bored enough that writing seems like a lot better alternative.

If you're seriously blocked, you might have some false starts and head in the wrong direction with your writing several times, but you'll at least be typing, and that's what's important. Keep going until the creaky pipes are flowing smoothly again.


When you write, do you do most of your research before you start or as you go along?

It depends on what I'm writing. If it's a non-fictional piece in which research plays a major role, I'll perform it and organize it well beforehand. If I'm just writing something off-the-cuff in which I'll need to check a fact or two as I go, I'll wing it.


How long do you wait before you give up on a trick coming over? And you've said before you double or even triple book tricks when you think there is a high possibility of flaking. Has this ever backfired and they all show up?

I wait a half-hour, generally. Sometimes an hour, max. I lose self-respect if I wait longer than that.

And no. I've never had multiple tricks show up, even when I've triple-booked a block of time in advance. Other guys have told me the same. There are many more flake-outs than follow-throughs.


Do you think men out east groom/preen themselves better than in the midwest?

I think they dress better in Manhattan. I also think they wear way too much cologne. In the suburbs where I live, though, everyone looks as if they've stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog. I'm not really sure it's 'better'. Especially when the fashion involves grown men in flannel pants imprinted with mallards.

Men in the Midwest have a tendency to follow trends that are about five years gone for the east coast guys. They also tend to hang on to some old trends (goatees, for example) that are even older. Southern men are still wearing prepwear from the mid-eighties, though, so the Midwest guys should be congratulating themselves for staying ahead of that curve.


Did you get to say good bye to Scruffy before you moved?

Only via email. I know he got a new job he liked, and was happy about that, even as he was sad about me going. He's a good kid.


So what file are you on?

What?


If you weigh 165 and I weigh 220, are you able to pin me down?

It ain't all about weight, son. I can pin you down.


Have you checked out local bathhouses in your new geography yet? I find the ones in NY very attitude-y but wanted to see your opinion

No, I haven't yet been to any of the NY spots (or really know where they are). I'll be happy to share my opinion once I go, but I'd be interested to know which you recommend and why.



Does anyone out east drive an American-made car?

No! Well, I do. So yes. But no! And it drives me crazy! My parents were union supporters when I was growing up, and I lived subsequently in Detroit long enough, that buying a foreign car is out of the question for me. Apparently here, people have no such qualms.

Friday, August 12, 2011

One Encounter (Vacation Week Repost)

(While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.)




When I first started keeping A Breeder’s Journal, I wrote about the comprehensive list I kept in my youth of all the men I had sex with—no matter how briefly, or how many times. If we kissed, sucked, fucked, or so much as groped, I’d scurry home, pull my ever-growing record out of its hiding place (in the recess behind the drawer of the old dining room table that served as my desk, in my room), and scribble down the latest fucks.

Here is another encounter from that expansive list, from 1976.



Mustache and eyebrows 2nd fl Hibbs basement Hibbs metal + - @

It wasn’t the fact that the stranger was in possession of eyebrows that was so astonishing. It was the fact that his eyebrows were equally thick and uniform as his mustache. It was as if three enormous caterpillars had wandered onto his face and decided to nap there.

I was sitting in the middle stall of the men’s room on the second floor of a classroom building on the campus where my parents both taught. The doors to the student cafeteria, such as it was, were twenty feet away, but at night they were closed and this part of the building tended to be deserted. Which made it perfect for horny students to cruise each other. The gray marble walls were covered with inked graffiti advertising times to meet.

I wasn’t a student, of course. I was a horny kid who’d just been fucked for the first time a week and two days before and several times since, all by the same dick. I’d also sucked off a stranger I’d picked up in the Richmond Public Library basement restroom two days before that night. Two notches on my belt, and I thought I knew it all.

My jeans were around my ankles. I had my T-shirt hiked up my skinny little chest to my nipples. And my little dick was in my hand. I’d been watching two guys sucking through the peephole in the marble partition earlier, but I’m fairly certain I wasn’t shooting cum at this point—my dick would have been merely red and angry from all the stroking I’d done. My heart beat a little faster when I heard the outer door swing open and a pair of slow, deliberate footsteps enter the room.

The fellow who’d entered the empty restroom stopped at the urinal across from my stall. I listened to him fumble with the fabric of his fly, unzip, and then pause. No sound of urine followed.

I’d cruised enough restrooms at that young age to know the drill. My dick in my hand, I leaned to the right and peered through the crack in the door. I saw the guy at the urinal turn his head and look over his shoulder. Our eyes met.

Inch by inch, I opened up my stall door so he could see the painfully skinny blond kid beating off in the heat of a summer night. Though he was nothing more than an average-looking guy, all I could see was that enormous Fuller Brush of a mustache, matched and maybe even rivaled by the bristly eyebrows. The man couldn’t have been any older than twenty-four or twenty-five, but to me, he was a real man, seasoned and ancient. He blinked at the sight of me. Then, in the flash of an instant, he pulled up his zipper and turned. I thought he was going to leave.

Instead, he strode over to the stall and planted himself in front of the door. His arm shot out to prevent me closing it. “You’re coming with me,” he said at last. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips.

I didn’t dare disobey. I wanted to suck dick.

He took me down a back stairway into a basement bathroom at the bottom of a stairwell, next to the closed campus bookstore. It was even more deserted than the men’s room near the cafeteria. The minute we were both in the smaller enclosure, his hands were reaching for his oversized belt buckle. “You’re a mighty little cocksucker,” he said in a rush, undoing it with a clank. “I bet your mouth feels real good too. You a good cocksucker? You a real good cocksucker, boy? Take your pants off.” He kicked open the restroom’s one stall and pushed me into it as he pulled down his green slacks.

My dick had been painfully stiff from the moment I’d attempted to stuff it into my tight jeans until the second it met its release again in that dimly-lit restroom. He didn’t give a shit about my dick, though. “Turn around,” he said. Though he kept his voice quiet, he didn’t dampen it entirely to a whisper; he was loud enough to carry considerable force. “Let me see that butt. Fuck. Fuck!” I flushed. Passive as I was at that moment, I still had considerable pride about being able to recognize arousal and even to enflame it. I was a newborn Circe playing with nascent powers I barely understood. “I bet I’ve got something you never seen before,” the man said. Although his slacks were unbuckled and unbuttoned and lay open around his thighs, he hadn’t yet pulled down his white briefs. He rubbed his hand over the bulge of them then, showing me the fat dick they barely restrained. “You wanna see it? Look at this.”

His dick flopped out of his drawers. It was short, thick as a forearm, and ugly as fuck. When I saw the flash of metal at its tip, I knew I wanted it badly. “It’s called a Prince Albert,” he said, showing it off. His dick might have been as hard as mine at that point. The round piercing must have been one of the bigger gauges, heavy and wicked looking as it was. He tugged at it with his forefinger. His dick was so hard that it barely moved in response. “So. You ever seen one of these, cocksucker?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know such monstrosity was possible.

“Suck it.”

The metal ring forced open my lips and teeth before I was able to open wide enough to accept it. Instinctively I knew better than to let it chip my teeth; from the sucking I’d already done on Mikey’s dick and the bearded redhead from the library restroom, I knew to open my mouth wide, let my lips curl to the underside of my incisors, and let him do all the work. He tasted not filthy, exactly, but not clean. It was the taste of a cock that hadn’t been cleaned since the morning, on a hot day when everything got easily sticky. The metal ring battered my molars, but eventually the guy figured out where he was going the deepest. His stubby flesh battered my throat for a few moments, bringing tears to my eyes.

The shock of it was nothing compared to that of having my teeth rattled to the roots when he ripped his dick out of my mouth, however. My lower lip started to sting, as if he’d bruised it on the way out. “Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, and leaned my chest and forearms against the wall where he pushed me. His left hand reached for my hole and felt it. The tip of his thumb invaded me, making me jump.

“You been fucked yet?” he asked. I nodded, while I watched him spit on his dick. “Well, you ain’t been fucked like this.”

I thought my first time had hurt. The three minutes that followed were brutal. I was in heat, though, and stayed hard throughout. He was too overexcited to last long; it seemed that barely had he managed to get his pierced dick in me that he started shaking and pushing me so hard against the tile walls that I thought he might crack a rib.

“Not bad,” was his remark, after he pulled out and yanked up his slacks. He couldn’t stop sniffing, as if the orgasm had set off his nasal drip. His hands were trembling hard. It took him much longer to manage his belt buckle than it should have. Then as quickly as he could, he dashed for the exit and left, saying only, “Keep on truckin’.”

Which I think was out of date even in 1976.

The man with the P.A. had been the second man to fuck me. I had to clean his semen off of my jeans and underwear, where it had fallen. Then I carefully wiped my raw and sore hole, and checked my lip in the mirror. It was bleeding slightly from where he’d bruised it, but it would heal quickly enough.

Once I was reasonably clean, I closed the stall door, sat down, and beat myself to a climax. Then I did it twice again, before leaving the building and going dutifully to sit outside my father’s classroom until he’d finished his lecture.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

I've Never Been Touched . . . Down There (Vacation Week Repost)

(While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.)


In the South, cruising is an art. It wasn’t until I moved to the midwest, twenty-five years ago, that I understood how much for granted I took the glances two men, strangers, can exchange at the beginning of sexual courtship. The bold stares, the slow appraisals, the drop of the hand to one’s own jeans pocket so that the fingers can dance casually across the denim enclosing the cock . . . there’s a certain excitement to such raw expressions of desire.

Here and where I live now, however, men barely cruise. They scarcely look at each other. When they do, their eyes flick nervously over the object of their interest and dance away. I had a friend from the area who never believed my stories of growing up with easy sexual pickings. Until, that is, he accompanied me on a drive down to Virginia. On I-95, a studly fellow with whom I’d flirted at the welcome center candy machine caught up in his car with our own. He stared and stroked himself through his pants, then passed so we could catch up. When we did, he’d repeat the performance again. For ninety miles we passed each other over and over and smiled and stared and flirted, until finally we waved goodbye to him and got off our exit. My buddy was absolutely astounded, the entire time, at how blatant it had been. And that encounter turned out to be only the first of several similar.

Cruising served me well when I was a teen. I had a yen for men older than myself—I would particularly welcome men over thirty-five. I would exchange hot, meaningful glances with men on the city busses, with school teachers, with guys at the YMCA, with men I’d pass on the street, with guys browsing at the Waldenbooks downtown. I learned where to sit on the campus of my parents’ college, so that I could be displayed to best advantage. When I'd cruise the local parks, I'd recline against a tree with a book and the men would drive by, looking at me. There were times I’d simply walk the dog and find cars following, their drivers staring out and licking their lips in invitation.

Because I was easy and willing and horny and—from my current viewpoint—somewhat stupid, I’d accept just about any offer. I was at that point a total bottom. I liked older guys. I’d do it anywhere.

Believe me, I wasn’t wanting for action.

When I look back on my sexual history, I often can’t decide whether I was an odious little game-player or a thoughtful kid who just liked to enhance his partner’s pleasure. Maybe a little of both. My favorite game for the first couple of years of my sexual activity was to pretend that I was a virgin. Guys loved a teen virgin, I found out within a week after my first experience, when a man groping me reached between my legs and fingered my butt. “Have you ever been touched down there?” he whispered.

I had. I’d been touched down there so thoroughly and deeply for the very first time just a few days before that I’d barely been able to sit, since. But I shook my head, and saw his irises widen with excitement just as I'd felt his dick expand in my hands. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered as he eased me down and spread my legs, spurred to the challenge.

No one can accuse me of being a slow learner. After that I knew exactly what to do. During the groping phase, I’d maneuver the man’s hand between my legs, encouraging him to explore me. The moment he’d make contact with my hole, I’d gasp a little and pull back—not enough to lose contact with him, but enough to stop the proceedings. With a vulnerable look on my face that I’d perfected during more extracurricular creative dramatics classes than were probably good for me, I’d say, “I’ve never been touched . . . down there!”

Eight times out of ten I was rewarded by an instant hiss of satisfaction and a look of lust, followed by being flipped over on my belly. Sometimes, however, with the men who were already a little nervous about seducing someone my age, I’d have to take it a little further. “Will it, you know, hurt?” Usually I’d receive an assurance that it didn’t (or from some honest souls, the truth that it would hurt the first time, but that if I relaxed, it would be more tolerable). Rarely did I have to take the third step, which involved puppy dog eyes and a writhing of the hips, while shyly asking, “Would you . . . show me?”

Maybe I was an odious little game-player. It’s difficult for me to outline the techniques I used to keep up the illusion I was being deflowered without sounding calculating. I had my little palette of groans and cries of “It’s so big!” and “Oh wow, oh wow, is it all in?” down pat, followed by the genuine winces and groans of pleasure. I really enjoyed the look of desire and pleasure in the men’s eyes when they were inside me. I got off on when they’d tell me I was doing a good job, or when they’d just lose themselves completely in the moment and pound away, eyes closed. I just loved that.

By the time I was into my second year of sexual activity, I’d lost my virginity several dozen times.

It all came to an end one afternoon when I lay there after one performance, sweat dripping from my pores and other fluids dripping from other cavities. A handsome man in his forties pulled out of me and hugged me close. “God, that was great!” he murmured at me.

“Was I okay?” I asked him. It was my standard post-virginity-loss line, a blatant hook in the water for compliments.

“Oh yeah! Fuck yeah! That was great!” I glowed in the praise until he added, “It was even better than the first time I got your cherry!”

He was chuckling at that point. I turned and peered at his face and recognized him, finally, as someone I’d been with a few months before. After I realized he wasn’t mad, I couldn’t help but join in the laughter with him, knowing that the minute I got onto my wobbly legs, my career as a professional virgin had come to an abrupt end.