Friday, June 29, 2012

Dangerous to Know

Like so many of the couples I meet, the top guy is the older. He’s in his late twenties, vaguely scruffy, wears a pair of thick-framed glasses that lend him an air of nerdiness until he takes them off along with the rest of his clothes to reveal a pair of metal blue eyes and a dick of steel. He’s Clark god-damned Kent.

The bottom guy is younger. He’s lean, and pale, and sandy-haired. Smooth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter their studio apartment on the upper west side, wearing nothing but briefs. His leg is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer, from nervousness.

They’ve never been with a third before. I’m the guy they asked to get the job done.

Most couples, when they decide to bring in another man to join them, have a strict agenda in mind. They set up their limits; they decide with what they’re comfortable. Some have long discussions about expectations beforehand. Some of them just have a driving partner who drags the less aggressive into it. Many have a very long list of what they will and won’t do with with the third. Some of them come up with safe words, for chrissakes.

But when they pick me, they don’t do it to play safe. They approach me because they know on some deep level that I’m dangerous. That I’ll push them past their limits and into new territory. It’s an unspoken contract, and I’ve rarely been wrong.

These two, for example. They think they’ve worked it out. Sweet and playful fun is the catchphrase they’ve decided on. We just want to have sweet and playful fun with a big-dicked guy! Definitely no anal! Making out. Licking. Sucking. Smooching and giggling.

Let’s be honest . . . there are dozens and dozens of men they could’ve chosen with much more vanilla intent. Yet they’ve decided upon me, and have gone to the trouble to invite me to their place. They picked me from my profile, with its photos of my big dick shown off to best advantage, my broad list of likes, my narrow list of dislikes. They don’t look at the photo of my erect cock and think, Gosh, he must be nice.

They’ve picked me, and let’s be frank, because I play hard and I know what the fuck I’m doing. It might be sweet and playful to begin, but by the time I’m done, we’ve had my kind of fun. They know it, deep down. But they might not admit it, not even to themselves.

We exchange introductions and nervous greetings. I sit on the bed’s edge, joining them. “He’s pretty,” I tell the top, running my fingers through the bottom’s hair. He’s got blue eyes, too. Nervous as he is about a strange top in their apartment, I can tell he likes to be admired. Some bottoms thrive on that. “Very pretty,” I said. With my hand cupping his chin, I lift up his face. His lips purse slightly to reach for my own. When they meet, the kiss qualifies as sweet. He’s eager to try another man than the one he sees day in and day out. He’s anxious to taste me. I rub my hands over his scrawny body, his rib cage, the little cold pencil erasers that are his nipples. He’s hard as a rock through the cotton of his briefs. He’s not just bulging, he’s got a tentpole down there.

My eyes remain open enough to see his partner rubbing his back, letting him know he’s there, encouraging him to give in to me. While we make out, my mouth completely surrounding the bottom’s, the older guy strips down. He’s got a sexy enough body beneath the baggy clothing, and a patch of sparse hair in the middle of his chest. Like his lover, his dick is probably the stiffest it’s ever been.

I pull away from the kiss and look into the boy’s eyes. “Undress me,” I tell him.

Obediently he drops down to unbutton my jeans, remove my sneakers, and pull down the denim until it tangles around my ankles for him to tug off. He stares at my dick, breathless at the sight. I’m only three-quarters hard and it’s already much bigger than the boyfriend’s. The boyfriend is looking at me too, while he absently runs his fingers up and down the length of his shaft.

The bottom’s taking too long. I kick off my socks, pull off my shirt. “Let me see that little butt,” I tell him, as I sit back down again.

It’s perfect. Round. Smooth. The palest white I’ve ever seen. I pull down the elastic of his waistband to expose it. Where I breathe over his skin, goosepimples rise. He and his lover and looking at each other. There’s an unspoken question in the bottom’s face. The older man nods back in reply. Yes, he’s saying to his partner. Yes. This is okay.

What they really want is someone else to do the dirty work. Someone else to insist on the things they can’t ask of each other out of politeness, out of familiarity. I’m not supposed to be touching this ass so openly. It’s not sweet. It’s not fun. It wasn’t on the approved curriculum. But here I am, running the flat of my hand over it, and the bottom is responding by bending forward and letting out a low exhalation. The top isn’t even protesting. “You need to get up on my lap,” I tell the bottom boy. “Lie over it,” I correct, when he thinks he’s going to sit on my knees. “Face down.”

He obeys, reluctantly. It’s a humiliating position. He’s like a little kid about to be punished. I’ve got his briefs pulled down and his butt exposed. “Is he a good boy or a bad boy?” I ask his partner.
The man’s got a rasp in his voice when he replies. There’s the tiniest ball of precum at the tip of his dick. “Bad boy,” he grunts.

“Bad boy, huh?” Without warning, I raise my hand and smack the bottom’s right buttock. Loud. Hard. It resounds through the sex-charged silence, and it’s followed by a loud bellow of protest from the bottom. This isn’t nice. This isn’t sweet. That spank had to sting like crazy. But the bottom’s not in charge here. I raise my hand again.

The top’s eyes are locked with mine. “Yeah,” he says. It’s not the voice I’d heard over the phone, friendly and approachable. It’s not even the voice that greeted me minutes before. It’s a voice made deeper by the scarlet emotions coursing through his mind, by the hormones causing his heart to race. It’s ragged with need. His hand is clenching his meat now, so tight the head’s purple. “He’s a real bad boy.”

My hand comes down again. I’m not being playful. This hurts. The bottom’s got tears in his voice when he protests. His lover reaches down, lifts his head. “Keep it down,” he says. My hand comes down again. Another howl. “Shut the fuck up.” Another slap on the rear. The skin there is reddening painfully. This time, there’s only a whimper and a clamped-down sob.

“Yeah,” says the top, as I continue to spank. “Bad boy. You don’t know what a fuckin’ bad boy I got.”
I smile to myself. I’ve only been there what, ten minutes? Already I’ve breached the fortress. Fuck sweet.

Couples like this bring in men like me because they want someone to take charge and take from them what he wants—without either of them having to take responsibility. If an outsider goes beyond their timid prearranged limits, everything that happens is his fault. He’s the bad one, not the innocent couple.

Fault, right. The pair might both walk away with their wildest fantasies put to rest for a while. Neither of them have to speak up and confess to their partner how dirty they like it. Neither of them has to lose face in front of the other. But everyone gets what he wants.

And what I want is the hole.

It’s an hour later, and the top and I have been sitting next to each other at the head of the bed for a while. Our knees are lifted, our legs are spread. The bottom’s been moving back and forth between our dicks, sucking them, while the top and I have been talking and making out. The talk’s been pretty perfunctory. Shit like, Your boy’s got a great mouth, or You like the way he sucks, huh? Nothing deep. But then I say, “You mind if I look at his ass again?”

The bottom lifts his head, alert, almost frightened of another spanking.

I can feel the top’s dick harden and flex against my thigh. “Do it,” he says.

So I’ve got the bottom with his face in the pillow. My mouth’s all over that hole, slobbering it up, making him gasp and moan. It’s muffled by a thick layer of goose down, but it’s still loud. The top’s on his hands and knees watching up close, like I’m some kind of live porn star with a hole he wants so see used. I pay him no nevermind while I haul the bottom’s ass into the air and chew on his hole.

There’s a gasp of a different kind as I push my thumb in there. I’m looking at the top. He doesn’t protest. I’m spreading the bottom’s cheeks with my hands, exposing the hole. I don’t know whether the bottom’s really prepared for this happening, and I really don’t care. He’s clean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done some extra cleaning down there in the hope that I’d be doing exactly this to him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I say, pulling myself to my knees. I make it look like I’m just repositioning myself, but really it to get my dick up there, next to the ass.

The guy grunts.

“You’ve really got a pretty boyfriend,” I tell him. “Great ass.” I pause. “Beautiful ass.”

I pull apart the cheeks even further. Then I let my dick rest on the cheek. The top is mesmerized. I move back and forth. My dick slides up and down, flesh on flesh. It naturally glides along the crack. I pause when the head’s pointed at the little pucker.

“Whaddaya think?” I ask.

There’s a pregnant pause. The bottom looks around wildly. He's not saying now, but he doesn’t want to be the one to say yes. The top grinds his jaw. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, the words of permission and encouragement. I rub my precum around the head of my meat, add a little spit to it. I nudge it against the hole.

Then I look at the top. After a moment, he nods.

Then I push. There’s a lot of resistance, but I get in there. There’s a hell of a lot of noise, but none of it is No.

This is what they want. Both of them. It’s not sweet. It’s not playful. It’s nasty and raw and they both knew it was going to happen all along. That’s why they picked me, instead of some nice guy who’d play along with what they said they wanted. Their real desire was this, right here—the sight of big dick stretching a tight hole, of a dicking-down neither would confess to the other he wanted to happen.

They wanted someone willing to be dangerous, and that’s exactly what they got.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Smooth Balls Wednesday

One of my readers very kindly bought me a gift from my Amazon wishlist last week.

It's a Phillips Norelco Bodygroom Shaver. Or basically, an electric razor for your balls.

I had one of these for years, and it worked really well until it went kaput on me a couple of months ago. A standard beard trimmer just doesn't cut it when it comes to keeping delicate areas smooth—and I don't recommend depilatories, either. For the sweaty summer months, it's nice to feel smooth and clean down below.

Thank you, kind reader! It'll be put to good use!

Monday, June 25, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part II

This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part I.

To repeat what I said at the beginning of that essay: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. 

What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.

I might not have known the rules of football, or even how to bluff my way through a middle school NFL betting pool. Despite being the tallest in my class by a head, I might have been the most uncoordinated sixth-grader ever to attempt playing basketball.

At sports I simply lacked confidence and experience. I disappointed on every count. But I was an Olympic-level reader. The year I was in Mr. Goldberg’s homeroom class, he made me feel as if I was better-read than most of his adult peers.

Once a week or so, Mr. Goldberg would keep me in conversation so long after school that the only thing he could really do to make up for missing my bus was to drive me home. After the second or third time, I began to relax when I saw him approaching me at my locker, after the final bell had rung. Then I began to anticipate it, and hope to see him striding around the corner from his classroom, clipboard in hand, shirt white and still crisply-pressed.

We talked about books, those drives home. He was more interested in what I was reading that had been the children’s librarian at the public library branch I frequented. He was particularly impressed, for some reason, by my deep affection for murder mysteries. I’d already devoured most of my mother’s Agatha Christies by then, and was working my way through Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter novels. He leavened my affair with the British cozy murder by suggesting I investigate Sam Spade and Nero Wolfe. He’d drive slowly, but not slowly enough to suit me; those few minutes alone with him meant more to me, and I learned more from them, than all six periods of school ever did. Sometimes at my home I’d linger in his car a little longer, grateful for someone adult to talk to about something I clearly loved so much.

My middle school had a system for independent students that was pretty unique for the area. We were called Responsible Movers. Students who qualified for the Responsible Mover program through good grades and behavior signed a contract every two weeks with every single one of their teachers, specifying what work we’d get done in that two week period. So I’d carry my contract around to Mr. Hedgepert and he’d write down what lab experiments and textbook chapters I’d need to do, and Miss Christian would give me my reading assignments for English. My math teacher might give me a chunk from the pre-algebra textbook to cover, and my social studies instructor would give me some reports to complete.

Over the two-week contract, a Responsible Mover could complete the work in any order he wanted, at any time he wished, and pretty much anywhere he cared to be. If I preferred to do all my work in the media center, or in the cafeteria, I could. If I wanted to spend all day in the science lab working on my chunk of assignments one day, and the next day doing nothing but my social studies report, that was fine and dandy. The only classes I had to attend at the same times every day were those that required everyone’s presence—which for the most part meant merely band.

The system was intended to lighten the classroom burden for teachers and to heighten bright kids’ autonomy. Largely it worked, because the Responsible Movers were largely bookish and independent students who would rather have cut off a finger than lose their privileges. I, of course, was one of them. By the autumn I found myself shyly asking Mr. Goldberg if I could work in his classroom during his free mid-day period before lunch. He had one of the few classrooms in the building with a door that closed and locked; my rationalization was that with the extra isolation, his space was quieter than the hum of the larger open-school spaces.

Quite simply, though, I enjoyed being around him. I’d sit in the back of his empty room, working or reading, while he’d grade papers or look over a copy of Sports Illustrated at his desk. I liked looking at him; he brought pleasure to my eyes. Sometimes I’d watch him while he worked with one of his hands curled against the side of his face.

Once in a while I’d catch him watching me. He’d smile, and nod, and return to his work, apparently unbothered that a kid was intruding on his one quiet period of the day. At the end of the period, when the bell rang, he would open the door and walk out with me, a hand on my back to escort me into the hallway so I could join the others for my lunch period.

“You’re very lucky,” he said unexpectedly, one quiet day, as we both were sitting and working, “to be blond.”

My hair was many shades lighter then than now. I was born with almost white hair. In sixth grade it was still a shade of bright yellow. “Why?” I asked, shaking my head.

“I just always wanted blond hair,” he replied, shrugging it off as if it was no big deal. He went back to his reading, as did I. “I always liked blonds,” he said to his papers.

It was a remark that made my heart yearn for something I didn't have the vocabulary to express. That sentence, more than anything he’d ever said to me, made me want to burst into song, like someone in one of the movie musicals with which I'd grown up. I felt like he’d reached out with those words and drawn fingers across my heart, only to make it ring out with a rich, lost chord. But when I looked up at him, hoping for I don’t know what, he wasn’t paying attention to me.

It was a few days after that incident that he stopped me at my desk before I rose and left for lunch. “Hey, sport,” he said, giving me just the briefest touch on my shoulder. “Mind if I ask you a favor?” I nodded. “I’ve got to give a test later on today and need to keep an eye on the time. But I forgot to wear my watch, and there’s no clock in here. Would you let me borrow your watch? Just for a couple of hours? I can give it back to you at the end of the day.”

My watch was a Timex that my grandmother had given me the previous Christmas. I’d never particularly liked it, as it was cheap plastic and both the strap and face were an unusually ugly shade of blue plastic. Still, though, it was a timepiece in a progressive school that had some kind of philosophy against clocks in classrooms, so I didn’t see the harm. “Thanks sport,” he said, clapping me on the back. I secretly enjoyed it when he called me by that nickname. Perhaps it wasn’t so secret. I had a tendency to blush deeply around him, and I’m sure the reddening of my skin gave it away. “Come back before the final bell, and I’ll let you have it back.”

That afternoon I Responsibly Moved my way out of whatever work I’d been doing to stop by his classroom before the last bell rang. “Oh. Hey buddy. Yeah,” he said, when he saw me appear in his doorway. “Just a second, guys,” he told his classroom, as he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Although we were out in a public space, we were totally alone and unobserved. The whole school was quiet in that calm-before-the-storm way it always seemed to be, right at the end of the day.

“I really appreciate you letting me borrow your watch, man,” he told me, as he unfastened it. His wrists were so much thicker that he’d had to fasten the strap on the hole closest to the end. “It’s kind of tough in this school sometimes, without a watch, especially when I’m trying to give a timed test.” While he smoothly talked, he took my left arm with his hands, extended it, and casually began putting the Timex back on me. I felt like I was being dressed. I shivered a little when I realized it implied that at some point earlier, I’d been undressed. My wrists were so thin that he had to pull the strap snug. I felt breathless at our proximity, at the sensation of him standing so close, of his hands on my wrist, my elbow bumping so casually against his stomach.

The back of the watch was still warm from his body. “There,” he said in a low voice. His hands were still on me, for just a little too long. We stood so close to each other at that moment. His forehead was bowed low, almost next to mine. It felt so intimate that it seemed wrong—but how could it be, out in the hallway where anyone might have seen something so innocent? “Thanks again.”

It was at that moment, when his fingers were still on my arm, that I understood everything. I’m not sure what triggered my intuition, especially with the mere anthill of experience I had in the mysteries of what brings two people together. But I knew, and I knew with concrete certainty, that Mr. Goldberg was attracted to me. I knew for certain his attraction was sexual. I’d had absolutely no exposure to the art of flirtation between men at that point, though I’d received months and months of education in the act of fucking, glimpsed through a gloryhole three inches wide. Yet in the space of two eternal seconds of his fingers lingering on me, I knew exactly what he wanted, and hoped for, and what he yearned to have.

It felt like the first adult intuition of my life, and it stunned more than frightened me. Until that moment, I’d had absolutely no idea.

We were only inches apart, but when I looked at Mr. Goldberg after that moment, I felt as if I’d grown feet higher and decades older. “Sure,” I said. “You’re welcome.” And then without a word more, I darted off to my bus, French horn banging my legs, heart in my throat.

The next day, Mr. Goldberg borrowed my watch again. He kept me a few moments after homeroom so that he could undo it from my wrist himself, and fasten it on his own. He returned it to me in the same manner as the day before, that afternoon. For three days running I melted whenever he’d take my arm and fasten or unfasten that plastic blue snap. I felt as if I were being disrobed. I wished I were being disrobed. I wanted that more than anything, and hoped my trembling didn’t betray me.

It wasn’t until Friday that he varied the ritual. “Listen,” he said, keeping me back before I went to lunch. “I’ve been using your watch all week and I know it’s got to be a pain in the butt. I need to pay you back somehow. So how about it, sport?” He dug around in his briefcase and, after a moment, held out both hands. They were spread with one of every known brand of gum. There was Dentyne, and Big Red, and all five flavors of Fruit Stripe gum, as well as sticks of Wrigley’s Spearmint and Doublemint and Wintergreen, Chiclets, Bubble Yum, and several flavors of Trident. "Take your pick."

I blinked at the sight. It looked as if—and I suspect he had—he’d visited a candy store and come back with every flavor available, simply so he could guarantee there’d be one I liked. Deep inside me, a very soft but adult voice whispered to me, Look how badly he wants you. “I can’t,” I said, agog at all the sugar.

“Oh sure you can. I’ve got plenty.”

“I mean. . . .” I found it difficult to find the words, and I was certain I was blushing again. For me, a genuine, deep-down blush was (and still is, though they come pitifully rarely now) almost more powerful a sensation than orgasm. It tickles me from my jawbone and the backs of my ears down to the base of my spine, making me feel pink and tiny and tender and thoroughly alive; it licks across my skin slowly and mercilessly, making me shiver and flush from the simultaneous hot and cold. “I did it because I like you. Not because you were going to give me stuff;”

Mr. Goldberg looked at me for a moment, and then closed his hands. All the sticks of gum tumbled together like pick-up sticks before he tossed them onto his desk. “Come here,” he said, and pulled me away from the door, into the corner of the classroom that was all cinder blocks. It was the room’s blind spot. Anyone looking through the glass panel from the outside would’ve been unable to see us there. My heart was racing. I felt out of breath and as if I’d run the six-hundred-yard dash for the yearly President’s physical fitness challenge. “So if I asked to borrow your watch again today, you'd maybe let me?”

“Do you need it for a test?” I asked.

He seemed surprised at my question. He paused. The pause turned into a wait, and the wait into an eternity. When he answered, it was his honest response. “No, I don’t.” His voice had become husky and hushed.

“Did you need it for tests the other days?”

It was maybe the first time I’d ever called an adult on a fib. Neither he nor I realized, though, what a big step I’d taken. “No,” he said softly. He stared in my eyes as he spoke the next words. “If you want the truth—well, listen. I just liked . . . having something of yours . . . with me.” He waited to see my response. When none came, he said in a very small and defeated voice, “It made me feel good. I hoped that maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe you like the idea of me having it, too.”

From the way Mr. Goldberg’s shoulders slumped slightly, and from the husky way he spoke, I knew for the very first time in my twelve years that I was utterly and absolutely in control. What he'd given me could be used as live ammunition. I intuited that it could cause pain. It could destroy. Yet the sensation of total sway didn’t make me feel cruel, or manipulative. Rather, it made me feel tender toward him. It was the first time a man had opened to me his most private inner landscapes. Instead of seeing only the vulnerable points where I could strike, I saw tender spots that I felt obligated to protect, as best I could.

“Yes," I said.

“Yes?” he asked, looking at me like a doomed man.

“Yes. I—I like when you borrow it,” I said in the smallest possible whisper.

“You do?” I nodded. “Really?” I nodded again. “Maybe I . . . could give you something too? What do you think? Would you like it?”

“Yeah,” I said. "I would." My blush was furious now. Every tingle inflamed my skin further, so that it felt as if the blush was reigniting itself, circling around me over and over and over again.

“I don't have anything like a watch. But . . . I was thinking of this.” He leant down, his face coming closer to mine.

And then he gave me the most amazing kiss of my life.

At least, that’s the way I wish I remembered it. What really happened is that he leant down and seemed about to kiss me, but then at the very last moment, he balked and began to pull back, thinking better of it. Then I lurched up, hoping to encourage him, but instead decided against it when I saw him pull back. Then he made another move when he realized I'd moved in, but pulled away. Again I responded a second too late. Back and forth we bobbled, like a mechanical toy made asynchronous by a lop-toothed gear. Eventually, awkwardly, our lips grazed.

It was a tentative and delicate thing, the merest breeze from a butterfly’s wing. It wasn’t the most amazing kiss of my life. I’d had kisses from aunts that had more passion. But it was my still my first real kiss, for better or worse.

My heart thudded as I stepped away from him. I was nothing more than percussion and red skin and heat and hardness at that moment. “Can I give you a ride home today?” he asked, trying to clear his throat of the husky emotion still trapped within. “Please let me.”

“Yes,” I told him, over the timpani of my pulse. “I’d like that a lot.”

(Part III will appear next week.)

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Pride Edition

It's Pride Sunday here in this part of the country, and later today I'll be joining the hundreds of thousands in New York City to watch the parade, get a little sunburnt, and get a little giddy.

Not all my readers are gay men, here. Nor are all of you men! Some of you are bisexual, some straight. Some of you are probably most comfortable without feeling attracted to anyone at all. And you know, all those things are pretty darned good things to be.

This time of year I see so many tired whines from men embarrassed to be seen in the company of drag queens and leather men at the parades, who claim that they give the rest of the population the 'wrong idea' about what gays are. You know what I'm going to have to say about such sentiments: screw that! Playing good boys and girls in the hope of getting a pat on the head and a dab of praise here and there has never gotten anything accomplished. I'm personally proud to be part of such a diverse, widespread, and amazingly creative population. If you want to celebrate with me—welcome!

Whether or not you celebrate the event, and whether or not you're gay, straight, or somewhere in between, what's important to take away from this time of year is a sense of joy and acceptance of your own sexuality, whatever wondrous forms it takes. Sex is an amazing gift. Too many people are afraid to take out that gift and actually use it, so that it molders away like some weird wedding gift, still in its original box, tarnishing and growing dimmer and less attractive by the year. Whip it out, polish it up, and don't be afraid to get it dirty. That's my motto.

(I have a hundred mottos. You may have noticed.)

If you're not proud of your sexuality, you're ashamed of it. It's possible to waste a lot of time on shame and fear. That is time you're never going to get back. So celebrate your sexuality—not just today. Every day.

And take photos of yourself doing it and send them to me.

Let's get to some questions, courtesy of . . . and many thanks to those of you who wrote in with some especially provocative questions this last week, which will appear here in a few more installments.

what is one question that will piss you off

I believe that there's more than one question that will piss me off and set me on one of my infamous rants. It wouldn't take a lot of reading back in my archives to discover them, trust me.

Any chance you'll move back to the Midwest?

I never say never, but I have no intentions of moving again for many years to come.

(I should note that I do intend to change houses later this year, but I'm not moving to a completely different area, this time. Just down the street. That's bad enough.)

Hi Rob, Does your submissive bottom offer assertiveness training? Unfortunately, hesitancy seems to be the nature of the submissive beast. the best, Linda

Submission is very much an act of trust. It's a gift from you to the one you're allowing to dominate you.

It's not going to work, however, if you don't completely trust your partner. If you're hesitant, or holding back, or setting endless limits, or interrupting the flow of the play to modify his or her expectations, it's a little bit like giving a gift with a lot of annoying strings attached. Like saying, "Here's a hundred bucks. Spend it any way you want! As long as it's at Macy's. In the women's perfume department. At counter three. And oh, don't go without me to approve the purchase. And I want a thank you note afterward. Every three months. At least four pages long."

If you're not prepared to give wholly, and to give willingly, either you're not ready for submissive play, or you're not playing with the right partner. It's up to you to examine yourself, and your situation, and decide which. Then you need to do something about it—either modify your own need to play in this area, or find someone you do trust and to whom you will offer your submission.

I will say this: if you feel that you're holding back because of a lack of trust, don't automatically assume it's all coming from you. Your partner might not be giving you the support you need in order to surrender your last traces of hesitancy. Talk about it with him or her and see what can be done to make you feel more comfortable.

If you crave this experience, the work will be worth it for you.

have you ever gotten it wrong meaning have you ever thought a man was coming on to you only to be mistaken

Quite often.

The last time was at lunch a couple of months ago when I was checking my email and the handsome middle-eastern guy next to kept staring at me and smiling. I smiled and did my sexy-eyes thing back, and got him to smile at me with beautiful, white, perfect teeth. Just as my loins were stirring and I was about to say something provocative, he leaned over and wanted to know where I'd gotten my iPhone case.


Did you ever get off on the daddy/son fantasy that you provide for others today, when you were younger? Was being called son, and calling him dad, ever a turn-on for you?

Absolutely. One hundred percent.

I still remember the forbidden thrill I got the first time a guy referred to himself as 'dad' while I was servicing him, and I'm sure he got off on that hesitation and subsequent vigor that I gave the task at hand, because he kept on doing it, over and over again, calling himself dad and me 'son' or 'boy.'

Even though most of us don't really lust for our own biological fathers, the dad/son fantasy is very much something that resonates very deeply for a lot of gay men.

Are you jealous or turned on by hearing of your boy's hook-ups?

I don't know what boy you mean, exactly. However, I'm not really a jealous guy. Listening to accounts of someone else's hookups doesn't generally inspire me to that angry kind of possessiveness that makes me want to track down the trick and kick his sorry ass for ever having god-damned touched my god-damned keep-your-fucking-hands-off property.

That kind of thing used to be something I'd experience a long time ago, when I thought it was the appropriate reaction, but even then I couldn't invest a lot of vigor into it. I learned to follow my own instincts, which was simply to let my loved ones enjoy their fun.

Sex is supposed to be giving and joyful. I might be envious that someone else gets to experience something of which I'm not a part, but in general I think it's great when two (or more) people—neither of whom has to be me—get together and have an enjoyable time. That's what it's supposed to be about.

So when someone I like a lot hooks up and I hear about it, I'm generally happy for him. If the trick treats my buddy badly, though—that's when I'll track him down and kick his sorry ass, or at least threaten it.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012


The thirty-year-old had sent me many photos before we met, all of them so different they might as well have been of different men. There was a shot of him in fishing boots, brandishing a large and glistening catch at the end of a hook, facial hair trimmed into wild-man mutton chops. There was another in party boy attire, sparkling and spangled, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, hair cropped and slicked down, holding aloft a colorful cocktail. There was one of him staring soulfully at a grainy, light-deprived camera in some kind of classic MySpace pose, staring up at the ceiling, his hair long and cascading down to his shoulders, scruff on his face. There was one of him in business attire, almost parodying some kind of Sears Catalog action pose. There were others of him in various stages of undress, showing off his sexy, built body, his handsome face, his round ass. All of them had his hair at various lengths, his facial hair in every configuration, his locale from snowy to summery, in every kind of archetypal pose there is.

He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock.

The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip.

He had a pornstache.

I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face.

Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild.

The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012.

Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?”

Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb.

“I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?”

“Look and see,” I suggested.

I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.”

He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts.

“How bad you want it?”

The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.”

As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted.

He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again.

“Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft.

I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment.

I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him.

Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment.

It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss.

Monday, June 18, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part I

One of the several reasons I started a sex blog long ago was that I didn't really have an outlet in which I could comfortably share sexual memoirs such as the ones I regularly post. This next series of three or four posts is among those I haven't felt secure sharing widely, before.

Chronologically, my sixth-grade adventures fit in roughly after and concurrently with the events in A Sexual Education: The Gloryhole, and long after the events in A Sexual Education: The Bump. To summarize, I'd already discovered that men were interested in me, and I'd put in a lot of long afternoons watching men, mostly faculty and students, having sex in one of the cruisiest restrooms I'd ever seen (and have ever seen since). As of yet, though, I hadn't gotten up the courage to join in, or to lose my virginity.

I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of essays. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. 

What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.

The first thing I remember about Mr. Goldberg, when I think about him, is his shirts. He wore white cotton shirts—always white—so crisply pressed that when he’d pass, he would still smell of spray starch and the tang of a hot iron. Their collars were sharp and pointed, and the buttons at the cuff gleamed. A tie always accentuated the planes of his broad, deep chest, and a thin belt of faux alligator showed off his narrow waist and his round, muscular backside. His hair was dark, and parted in the middle, and swooped over his ears like a perfect advertisement for The Dry Look. Mr. Goldberg was a handsome, masculine man, and only twenty-nine when he was my sixth-grade homeroom teacher. For both of us, it was our first year at Anderson Middle School.

I only saw Mr. Goldberg in the mornings, for the most part, when we kids would stumble into school before eight, sleepy and reluctant to be there at all. He’d take attendance before we'd head off to our first class. Our school was one of those new, modern buildings; it had very few closed-in classrooms and bragged about a philosophy of open learning. Kids within the half-partitioned sixth-grade science area could look across an open space and see their peers in the social sciences area, or studying math, or practicing for a spelling test. Changing classrooms wasn’t so much a matter of spilling into the halls and running across the building as it was shuffling a few dozen feet across the large carpeted enclosures. 

But Mr. Goldberg taught remedial reading, and for that reason occupied of the few classrooms with a door and a lock, and blinds that could be drawn so that the slower learners could have their privacy.

He was a guy’s guy. When he greeted other male teachers, it was with a confident, casual high-five. On the sly, he operated a running NFL football betting pool in which almost all the boys in his homeroom participated. No money exchanged hands, of course, but there was some kind of running point tally that mystified and frightened me a little, since I didn’t understand football and disliked having to maintain any pretense that I did. He played basketball on a teacher’s league and was supposed to be very good at it, despite the fact he wasn’t any taller than five-foot-eight. On warm days, when he’d roll up the sleeves of his white shirts in neat, geometrical rectangles, they would cut into the muscles at his elbows and expose his brawny forearms, covered with a thatch of dark hair.

I really enjoyed looking at him. He was handsome, and not only was he younger than most of the other teachers, but he carried some ebullient youthfulness that made my other teachers seem positively ancient. I already knew, though, that I couldn't be caught staring at him. I didn't let my eyes linger over the planes of his chest or the roundness filling out the fronts and backs of his tight pants. They'd snatch a glance, move away, and have to be content.

One of the highlights of grade school for me was the Scholastic Book Club—a racket in which the publisher would send around fliers with a selection of books for purchase at discounted prices. The offerings ranged from the supposedly-good-for-you Newberry winners to the goofy kinds of joke books that kids love. I don’t even remember most of the titles I ordered from Scholastic, but I remember that one day in the autumn I ordered Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Mr. Goldberg asked me to stay a couple of minutes after homeroom that day, when I turned in the slip. “You know, the novel Frankenstein is really not like the monster movie,” he told me, proffering the slip. I nodded, and said that I knew. I did know that the novel was less Karloff-y and more philosophical, somehow. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed, when you got it.”

“I’ve read Dracula. The real one, by Bram Stoker,” I told him. 

“The original? The Victorian original? With all the letters, and journals? All right then.” That information seemed to impress him enough that he nodded, and filed the order slip along with the others. 

It seems right to me that the Scholastic sale must have been part of some pre-Halloween promotion, because it was still mild and summery when Mr. Goldberg showed up in my last-period science class a few weeks later. “Just stopping through,” he called out to Mr. Hedgepert, the teacher. He then pointed to me, and then at an object in his hand. “Book for you,” he said. “Pick it up on your way out.”

His classroom was already empty by the time I dropped off my non-essentials in my locker and ran to his room. The school bus pickup point was all the way at the far end of the building, so I didn’t have much time to spare. 

“Thanks,” I told him, expecting to grab the book and run.

Mr. Goldberg held the book in front of him with both hands, not relinquishing it. “Do you know the story of Frankenstein?” he asked. “I mean, how it came to be written?” I shook my head. Missing the school bus is one of my recurring bad dreams still, even although the last one I rode was thirty years ago. The walk home from school was only a half-hour on a good day, but I was anal enough that the thought of missing the bus made my stomach twitchy. “It’s really kind of interesting.”

“I need to go,” I said, or words to that effect.

Still he held onto the book, which I remember having a lurid cover straight out of a horror movie. “Oh. Sure.” He seemed disappointed, and that made me feel badly. “Or you know. I could give you a ride home if you wanted to hear about it.” I must have hesitated. Getting a ride home from a teacher seemed like a horrible imposition. “You live not too far from the seminary, right? I go jogging around that area after school most afternoons. It’s not a problem. You wanna?”

I thought it over a moment. At that point, flying across the school with my backpack and my French horn to catch a bus would have left me a sweaty, panicky mess. If the bus were still there when I arrive, which was doubtful. Part of me still felt as if accepting would be a terrible imposition. The other half was relieved not to have to make the dash. Reluctantly, I nodded, and told him I did wanna.

“Cool,” he said, as if he drove students home every day. At last he handed the novel to me. “So. The story of Frankenstein. Mary Shelley . . . the author . . . had a father who was an anarchist and a mother who was a feminist, you know, one of those ERA types. Both were totally crazy—ahead of their time, really. And their daughter married Percy Shelley, a famous poet. One summer the Shelleys were visiting another poet, Lord Byron. . . .” As he gathered up his papers and put them into the black shiny briefcase that usually occupied a space beneath his desk, he continued to talk to me, telling me the genesis of the novel. He spoke to me not like one of the kids in his homeroom who needed to be settled down for attendance, and not even like a student he was lecturing. He wasn't dry at all. He told me the birth of Frankenstein in a way that almost made it seem as if he knew the protagonists of the English Romantic movement, and was relaying their gossip. It was such a comfortable and interesting description that I don’t think it’s any coincidence that when I was in graduate school, my master’s thesis was a study of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft.

By the time we’d reached his car in the faculty parking lot, he’d finished the story and was asking me how I liked my other classes and teachers. He drove a shabby tan hatchback, I remember, and after he pulled up the rear door, he simply took my horn and my backpack and set them within. Then he put a hand on my shoulder, escorted me to the passenger side, and opened the door. It was unexpectedly gallant; I blushed at the thoroughness of his attention. 

I don’t really remember what else we talked about that afternoon. It seems to me that mostly he dropped little tidbits of information about some of the other teachers—nothing scandalous, but I remember learning that Mr. Hedgepert had a wife who was in and out of the hospital, and that Miss Christian (or, as we kids called her at a safe distance, Miss Un-Christian) was nowhere near as mean as she sometimes appeared. 

My route home was mostly a straight shot down Brook Road. I directed him down the appropriate turn-off to get to my neighborhood. “Are your folks going to be home?” he asked. “Are they going to mind me dropping you off?” I withdrew the house key hanging on a length of twine that hung around my neck, and explained that both my parents were teaching, and that as long as I got home before they did, it’d be fine. “No worries there, sport.” He reached hand over hand as he turned onto my street, and pulled to a stop in front of my house. “That handle’s tricky. Hang on.”

Before I could stop him, he leapt out of the car, dashed around, and once again opened the passenger door for me like a gentleman on his best date behavior. Then he unlocked the hatch, took out my stuff, and deposited the horn on the grass and helped me on with my backpack. “Thanks,” I said. I’d felt comfortable enough in his car, but the sense of worlds colliding with a teacher standing in front of the place I lived felt as if it should be a little weird. 

“Oh hey. No problem!” He touched me gently on the shoulder blade. “Like I said, I go jogging at the track.” He pointed in the direction of the seminary’s recreational park. “Tennis sometimes, too. You play tennis?” I had to admit I did, although I secretly hated it. (Perhaps it wasn't that much of a secret. My father has long commented to this day on how endlessly I complained about my tennis lessons.) “Nice. You can give me pointers sometime. I’m not too graceful at tennis. You teach me how to handle a racket, and I'll teach you how to shoot hoops." He mimed making a shot. "All right, sport. See you tomorrow.” He waited for the oncoming traffic to pass before walking around to the driver’s side once more. There he raised a hand, and waved goodbye like me might one of his adult friends. “And hey, buddy-boy. Enjoy the book.” 

I nodded and waved, and wandered into the house, dazed and shaking a little. Nothing untoward had happened at all, but somehow I felt like I’d transgressed some sacred code of student/teacher apartheid. I’d felt the same way when once my father and I had run across my fourth grade teacher at Thalheimers buying wool for her knitting. 

Mr. Goldberg said nothing about the lift he’d given me the next day, or indeed anything out of the ordinary at all. It was perhaps a week later that I finished Frankenstein—or at least worked up the nerve shyly to mention it to him at the end of home room. “Oh, fantastic,” he said. “What’d you think? You wanna come back at the end of the day and tell me about it? Hang around a little after school? I can give you a lift home again. It's cool.”

And I, happily knowing that I’d again riding in that beat-up little hatchback that smelled of his pressed shirts and aftershave, said yes.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Sunday Morning Question: Bingo! Edition

From time to time, my sets of blog friends and real life friends overlap and collide. There was one memorable instance after I first started blogging here, a couple of years back, when I got a fan letter from someone who said some very nice things, and then enclosed a few photos of himself.

He looked familiar. Very familiar, in fact. He was a professor at Yale with whom I'm friends. I wrote him back to say, Um, we know each other, you know.

I know to a lot of my readers that sounds like an absolute nightmare. One of the recurring phobias that a lot of readers present me is their fear that someone might recognize them here—they're afraid to post a comment because someone might recognize it as theirs. They're afraid to send in a photo for publication in case their boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/sister/grandmother/spouse might identify them by a microscopic pimple on their backside.

In my case, though, it just led to the two of us becoming even better friends. Saturday morning, my buddy stopped through town so we could catch up and have breakfast together. We'd been talking for a couple of hours when, in a gently-affronted manner, he mentioned someone we both knew who had used him as a reference on a job application, without asking.

"Well," I said. "You have to admit. It sounds impressive as a reference. Yale Professor!" I neglected to remind him that when I'd sent around some teaching resumes last autumn, I'd included him as a reference for just that reason. (I asked first!) "It just sounds good. I touched a Yale Professor." I poked him across the table, on the arm. "I'll never wash this fingertip again!" Then I coyly stuck it in my mouth and sucked it.

My friend kind of rolled his eyes at me.

But I was on a roll. "Yale Professor is like a space on the Sexual Bingo card," I riffed. "Right next to, I don't know. Astronaut, and College Quarterback. Only two more in a row to go for Sexual Bingo!"

He cocked his head and regarded like a particularly curious exhibit in a museum. "You're making a blog entry about this in your head even as you speak, aren't you?"

Guilty as charged.

But my point remains. Sexual Bingo could be a pretty damned fun game, for the sport fucker. There are all kinds of professions and archetypes to fuck one's way through. Corporate Lawyer. Computer Nerd. Hotel Desk Manager. Catholic Priest. Protestant Minister. Rabbi. Tax Preparation Guy. Student. Semi-Hot Homeless Person. Waiter. Airline Attendant. Hairdresser. Republican Congressman.

And of course, for the center space on every card, Sex Blogger. Because we're so easy to score, we might as well be the free space.

Let's get to some questions from

ok wat can we do to get your sexy arse to australia maate

I'm thinking that taking up a collection and buying me a plane ticket, then finding me a host or two while I'm there, would be a very good thing.

Have you ever fallen in love with someone who was supposed to be just a casual hook-up?

Yes. Several times, through the years.

I don't believe that people are 'supposed to be' any one role in our lives. If you want to live right, and stay aligned with the universe and its purpose, you have to take people and the many gifts they bring, for what they are. It's when we begin to ignore the reality of others, and impose our own wills and desires upon them, that we run into troubles.

you are awesome and sooo hot i masturbate to your pictures

Thanks! I might masturbate to yours if you sent me some. But you haven't. So it's kind of one-sided that way.

So, I've been thinking of starting to blog about my sexuality and my deep appreciation and adoration for the male physique. Any pointers, tips on how to do this - especially anonymously, considering that you've done is so well, and successfully.

I think writing about one's sexuality is a valuable experience. When one does it, does it regularly, and does it honestly, it's a valuable record of a subject that gets very little frank and honest attention.

Doing it publicly, or blogging about it, can be valuable for others; they get to see that someone else has the same impulses or affiliations or thoughts or fetishes. Even if they have completely different experiences and desires, it still can open up the eyes of a reader with an open mind. So if you decide to turn your writings into blogging, I advise a few things.

1) Write regularly.
2) Write honestly.
3) Make a commitment to your blog, in the same way you'd commit to a weekly choir rehearsal or play practice. Decide on a schedule that's good for you and stick to it.
4) Treat your readers well, when they're courteous and nicely-behaved.
5) Don't blog because you want the approval of your readers. Don't blog because you want my approval. Don't blog because you want to be notorious, or famous. Write about your life and your experiences because you have something interesting to say, and because you want to share it on a regular basis. 

Be aware that blogging also has its down side. If you're trying not to be discovered, know that there are people out there who will do ANYTHING to try to figure out who you are. (And they might succeed.) Be prepared for that. Know that some of your readers will be fucking crazy. Be aware that the fantasies some readers impose on you will not at all resemble anything you do in your everyday life. And know that readers and haters alike can wreck the pure and noble desire you have right now with just a few words.

If you're not afraid of adversity or, more importantly, honesty, by all means. Blog away.

do you have a tattoo

I do not! I love inked skin, but apparently I am too wishy-washy about what to choose for a tattoo design, and where to place it.

When is your birthday? Just the day, not the year

My birthday is on the sixth of February, but you can buy me presents year-round!

Do you get guys you've never met in person, writing to you and telling you their sexual fantasy of you were to meet in person?

All the time. Absolutely. And I've met more than a few of them.

One of the unexpected benefits of being a sex blogger (at least, I was naive enough not to expect it) is that the occupation gives one a little bit of swagger; guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger.

And of course, one of the unexpected drawbacks of being a sex blogger is that guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger. So there's a brand of sexual collector who will say just about anything to sweet-talk me into it, and then drop me like a hot potato after.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Open Forum Friday: Itchy Finger on the Block Button

Earlier this week I wrote one of those hippie-dippy, new-agey posts that occasionally come bursting out of me. I absolutely stand by what I said; I totally meant every word.

But opening oneself up like that is essentially a way of making oneself vulnerable. In a way, it’s like slapping a big KICK ME sign on one’s back and hoping that the universe doesn’t take notice.

It does. And that’s why I’m following up that last post with one that’s totally crabby-pants. Namely, I’m going to list:

The Top 5 Latest Reasons I’m Likely To Ignore A Guy.

The issue came up because I had a couple of people totally incensed that I would take the extreme and (in their minds) anti-social step to block them this week—one on an instant messenger, another on an online site. Both immediately logged into other accounts and proceeded to protest how very dare I do such a thing!

But the truth is, If someone is bugging me, and I’m in a tetchy mood, or if they push me just an inch to far, I’m never going to deal with that person ever again, if I can help it. Instant messenger sites, and online cruising sites, mostly offer the option to block or ignore people so that I no longer show up as visible or contactable on their lists, nor they on mine. When it comes to irritating people, my trigger finger is awfully itchy when it comes to that ignore or block function. And my reasons are:

1. Because we’ve had this conversation more than once.

Him: wassup?? 
Me: Hello. 
Him: can you cam? 
Me: No. 
Him: why not?? 
Me: I’m not in a position to cam at the moment. 
Him: why not???

Does it really matter why? Do you really want to know that I have my entire extended family playing bridge in the next room, or that I’m in a public library, or that I just got out of bed and look like Hugh Laurie had a very very rough night drinking and brawling? Or are you just going to take whatever I say and ask, oh come on just for a minute?

Basically, unless you’re a close friend, the whys of my life aren’t your business, son.

2. Because we’ve never met and you’re asking me if my ‘top buddies’ can join in.

I’ve been over this one several times before. That one line, faster than anything else a man can do, signals me that the guy isn’t very serious about meeting; he just wants the fantasy that a bunch of alpha males find him desirable.

If you want your ego bolstered, show up and have sex with me. I’ll tell you how beautiful you are (if you are), or how good you make me feel (if you make me feel it). The only other time I want to see the words top and buddy is if your sentence is Don’t you want to come over and top my buddy’s ass?

3. Because you chew me out for no good reason.

Only online sites, I’m always casting a disparaging eye over the profiles that rant against winks, nudges, pokes, and other low-investment forms of communication. Sure, I like an actual email better than anything, but a lot of these sites limit the number of actual messages a non-paying member can send; a wink is a quick and dirty way of letting someone know you’re interested, and allowing them the leeway to get back to you if they care to.

And the ‘if they care to’ is the operative point, there. I’m usually polite to the men who wink at me, but I tend simply not to reply to men who either have no photo or information in their profile, who have extremely little information and a murky photo of the top quarter of their dick, or to men I find deeply and unredeemably unattractive. It happens.

One of the guys who chewed me out this week irritated me by winking at me every four or five minutes over the course of a half-hour. I looked at his profile the first time and saw a creepy guy with a photo that looked as if he’d had it taken as a mug shot following incarceration over a sexual offense. Really, it was bad enough to make me shudder and click off immediately. I trashed the following winks without opening them, and then finally blocked the asshole when he wouldn’t stop winking.

Whereupon he logged into a second account with an even creepier photograph and chewed me out for blocking him because he was ugly and just because I was hot didn’t give me the right to have such a god-damned attitude. Of course, he was right. Not just about me being hot, but about the reason why I didn’t respond to him. But it’s awfully presumptuous to rant at me about it, since I didn’t say a word.
So I blocked his second profile, too.

Online cruising can be rough. I get rejected too. I don’t yell at guys about it. (I just whinge in my blog. So basically I guess I’m suggesting that you get a blog and complain in it, too?)

4. Because your appetite is not what you claim it is.

I’m a dirty whore, said the guy online. He was semi-local, and seemed eager to hook up. I’ll take any cock you want.

Already we were perilously close to him asking about my top buddies, but I decided to play along. Any cock? I asked.

Yes, ANY COCK. Because I’m a dirty whore.

How about cock from a four-legged animal? I typed.

Fuck no! he said. That’s sick, man.

I have a top buddy who’s sixty-three, I wrote. I think he’d like to join in.

I like older than me but they gotta be under forty, he replied, apparently ignoring the fact that I’m well over that age myself.

Okay, I could bring my black buddies with me then.

I don’t do black guys, he wrote. A minute later, he added, Or porto-ricans [sic] or chinks.

How about my poz buddies? I pecked out.

NO, he wrote. Then added, They gotta be CLEAN.

I’m pretty sure the poz guys I know shower regularly, but whatever. So basically when you say you’ll do ANY cock, you mean HIV-negative middle-class white humans over 28 and under 40.

Yeah, you know any of those?

Click! Ignore.

If you want to be a dirty whore, be a dirty whore. If you want to be a nice boy who only submits to dicks your mama might approve, fine. Do that. Just know who you are and don't let your mouth make promises the rest of you isn't prepared to carry out.

5. Because I don’t want to buy what you’re selling.

Ask my father, or my brother, or my loved ones, and they’ll tell you that the surest way not to get me to do what you want is to push hard at me to do it. I am one of the stubbornest mules around.

I get a lot of people, because of my blog, who want me to do things for them. They want me to read their porn stories, or they want me to swap blog links with them, or they want me to promote their fledgling blog in my pages. Some people want me to promote their products here. I’m not averse to any of those things in principle, certainly, and I don’t mind people asking.

But what I do mind is when someone asks, and asks, and asks, and badgers me repeatedly to get what he wants. Sending me multiple emails asking for a link exchange or a product mention, then sending me follow-ups asking if I got the emails about the link exchange or product mention, is just going to make me dig in my heels and growl in your general direction. Throw in an admonitory email expressing your exasperation that I’m not leaping at the chance to promote you? Oh, that is when I put your email address in my block filter, my friend.

No, I don’t respond well to the hard sale. (Fawning and flattery will get me, though. Every damned time.)

Your turn. What are your top reasons for blocking other guys?

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Four Little Drops

So I thought that we were having a good time. I thought it was really working out. He’d been available when he said he would, and he showed up to my place right on time. (Ten minutes early, even.) We’d checked each other out and liked what we’d saw. We’d rolled around on the bed and made out like fiends. We’d stripped in a hurry and explored each other’s bodies. He’d brought his laptop loaded with some porn he thought I’d like—not that I need porn, but the gesture was nice—and it was playing on one side of the bed while we’d grappled with each other on the other.

He’d gone down on my dick—all the way down—while I buckled and groaned. I’d rimmed his hole and stretched it wide with my dick. I’d watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he huffed and hummed with pleasure during the fuck, and then at his request I’d stayed inside while he played with himself furiously after. His ass muscles clamped down on my tool like a vise, as he shot on his belly. It was a small load. Maybe four or five dime-sized drops.

Then, as I watched, his entire personality changed. From soft and pliable, he hardened. It happened over his face first. His eyes focused, the lids droops. His smile faded into something drawn and tight. The handsome planes of his cheeks and mouth became angular, angry, twisted. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. His eyes went to the porn playing on his laptop, where some big-dicked guy was battering away at a helpless hole. “Fuck,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“Something wrong?” I asked him. I was still in that post-coital haze, glowing from that open and confident feeling I get when I’ve done everything right, and the sex has been good, and it’s been with a good guy. When I’m in that mood, I’ll talk about anything, answer any question. I’m game for any adventure, when I feel like that. But the endorphin buzz was so high that I was confused by his herky-jerky response, the way he cooled from sex demon out of hell to roughly the same temperature as that iceberg the Titanic didn’t see.

Before he slammed his laptop shut, he’d dabbed away the seed he’d shot from his hairy belly. As his other hand slammed shut the laptop, mid-movie, he thrust the Kleenex at me. “This,” he said. “I think about all the shit I do for this,” and he waved the wadded-up tissue like it was toxic, “and it makes me sick to my stomach. I mean, shit. Is this really worth it?”

I admit, I was a little stunned. I’m used to guys having those thoughts of regret, after they shoot. I used to have them myself, when I was young. I’d get that release and then think to myself, I’ll never fantasize about dick again, I swear, next time it’ll be about girls. Or, I won’t whack off any more! I promise! I recognize that regret, that let-down, what the French call tristesse. But when I had it, I was ten or eleven. This guy was four times that age.

The man who was nothing but heat and fervor when he’d walked in the door jerked on his clothing, grunted his goodbye, and then stomped out.

The thing of it is that I know how long those little post-orgasm depressions last, and I’m judging he was horny again even before he got home through rush-hour traffic. I know how men’s dicks work.

But you know, his question has rung in my ears all through the weekend. Is this really worth it?

I think about it from his perspective. The hours spent online, downloading porn he likes when he’s hard and horny. Hours spent on chat sites and hookup joints trying to find someone who’s not only available, but who’s into him, who’s into the same things he is, whom he finds equally attractive, who’s willing to meet. All the time spent juggling schedules, of driving, of finding his way through strange neighborhoods, of parking. Yeah, of course he’s going to be all worked up and horny to go when he’s waded through all that mess—and if the feeling he has after of guilt and shame is so overwhelming, so negative, that it lasts for more than a moment’s tristesse, then yeah. I’d also be looking at those four little drops and ask, Is this really worth it?.

Then there’s me. I get the old blues too, where every once in a while I ask if all the effort I put into sex is really commensurate with the outcome. And except for a few times when I’m really blue, I think it is. I remember all the amazing people I’ve met, during sex—of the men I met and fucked who became real, actual friends. I think about the fuckbuddies I’ll see from time to time who bring a grin to my face every time I think about them, and about the crazy personalities that I’d never have encountered if I hadn’t taken the chance to take off my clothes and connect.

I remember men whose names I never learned, with whom I never exchanged a spoken word, who let me in to their private worlds when we both unzipped and allowed the other to see our animal drives. I think about the wild intimacies, the whispered passion unleashed in dark barrooms and bedrooms and baths.

I think about the men who allowed their vulnerable sides to show, who asked me to give them what they couldn’t get from anyone else. I think about the men who told me their stories, both funny and sad, who shared with me their triumphs and failures and the tales they didn’t feel they could tell even their nearest and dearest.

I think about the sweetness I’ve received, and how many lifetimes of love I’ve experienced, by opening myself up to person after person during sex. I think too, about the heartbreak I’ve had, and the disappointments, and how even now, knowing how things turn out, I wouldn’t trade a single one.

Being ready to have sex on an afternoon when you’re horny and bored is one thing. Being open to sex as one of life’s many great adventures is another. It’s saying yes! to the universe and putting oneself, trustingly, into its hands. It’s being open to chance, and coincidence, and to humanity’s most mysterious, undiscovered frontiers. It’s casting oneself into the waves, and letting their warm and foamy caress wash one to places unknown.

I’m talking about it as if it’s religion. Maybe it is.

All I know is that a tiny little squirt (or not to brag, a few larger jets) are the least of what I get out of sex. And every day I am grateful for all the people, all the experiences, and all the memories it brings me.

Is all this really worth it?



A million times yes.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Success Edition

After Friday's entry—the one about the blow job in the hotel bar restroom—I got a flurry of personal email from you guys (thank you! It's always welcome!) commenting on how I was 'such a stud' for scoring like that and how I had 'an unusually high success rate' in achieving random hookups that way.

I've gotten those remarks before. I've had them from people who email or comment to say that wow! I reel 'em in every time!, and I get them from guys who snidely remark that it seems aw-fully sus-pi-cious that I always score when I go after someone in public.

But it's like I said to someone just yesterday, about a comment on the blog: it just looks like I have a hundred percent success rate in cruising someone and getting in one of their holes quickly, because I only write about the successes.

The failures (unless they're unusually tragic or funny) aren't worth writing about. No one wants to read a blog entry about (true story) how I rode on the train back from Manhattan the other night and made desperate fluttery-eyelashes bedroom eyes at the floppy-haired young businessman playing Angry Birds on his iPad opposite me. The entire entry would read:

I was riding home on the train back from Manhattan the other night and made desperate fluttery-eyelashes bedroom eyes at the floppy-haired young businessman playing Angry Birds on his iPad opposite me all the way. And he was fucking oblivious.

Nobody wants to read that.

Nobody wants to read about the fellow who kept leaning in, and leaning in, closer and closer, over the tables at Cosi when I was eating lunch, who turned out only to want to know what kind of case I had for my iPhone. Nobody wants to hear about the guy I thought was following me on my walk around the local park, who turned out to be looking for his wife and preschool daughter after he'd dropped them off and parked his car. I don't write about the failures because they're mundane and pointless, and because there are so many of them.

But here's the thing: I wouldn't have a single success story to write about if I didn't get out there and give it a shot. Without anything ventured, there wouldn't be sex to gain. For those of you who write me and bemoan the fact that nothing sexy ever happens to you, I ask a simple question: are you doing anything to make it happen? Because the more chances you take—and I understand that it can be scary—the more fun you'll end up having.

Wait for something to drop into your lap, and you'll pass a lifetime in waiting. It's a simple lesson that applies to all areas of our lives, no?

Now let's get to some questions from

Do you think it's easier to find sex in a small town or big city?

Big city. No question.

However, in some cities an oversupply of men wanting to have sex leads to their postponing a decision about with whom to have it, because the chances are good that something better might come along. So while there may be a lot of men hunting for sex in a big city, it can be frustrating to get passed over proportionately many times more.

your last response to the hiv testing and publishing comment, appalled me that some asshole would even ask such a question. so my question to you...doesn't it scare you to know morons are out there?

I was just telling someone yesterday that they would be amazed at the amount of sheer rudeness that I receive on a daily basis. Even though as a percentage, the amount of emails, questions, and comments I receive that's rude and negative is fairly small, it adds up fairly quickly when you consider that I get a lot—a lot!—of readers interacting with me.

But here's the thing. Some people are rude because they want to get a rise out of me. Some people are rude because they have the freedom of internet anonymity keeping their faces hidden.

And some people are rude merely because they're ignorant. They might be rude because they simply don't know any fucking better. They don't even know that they're crossing the boundary and overstepping it.

The people who do it deliberately are assholes. The latter just need to be pitied.

the smile we see of your pic on twitter, is that a reflection of the man behind it? meaning, are you more apt to have a smile rather than a serious look?

I have moments of both. I prefer to go through life smiling; I prefer an optimistic outlook. However, there are times in my life when the smile is social or artificial, whether because I'm buckling down on a serious project, or because I'm not as happy as I'd like to be.

On the whole, though, I think I'm a fairly positive person.

I've been told enough times I have a great smile that I tend to bring it out when I'm trying to seduce or entice someone. Work with your strengths, that's my motto.

If you were faced with the choice of only oral sex or only anal sex for the rest of your life -- which would you choose?

Anal. No question about it.

Do you wish your parents had been aware of your sexcapes when you were younger is your father aware now of your teenage life

Do I wish they'd been aware that I was slutting around? Good god, what teenager wants to be grounded the entire time between middle school graduation and the senior prom?!

My parents wouldn't have reacted badly about the fact that I was looking to have sex, and finding it. They were wise enough to realize that happens. What they would've been concerned about would have been that the time I spent getting fucked was time that could've been better used in filling out my pre-college resumé of extracurriculars.

*Serious question-If I bottom for the 1st time for anal sex, will it be painful to use the bathroom the next day?

Only the top does it right. Serious answer.

Have you had anymore interactions with "the Landscaper" since you last wrote of him? I know those stories have hit a nerve with some readers; given that, at the moment what are your thoughts on sharing these encounters with your readers in the future?

I have had interactions, yes. I haven't written about them in my blog.

I suppose it's kind of a cop-out, but there it is. It seems strange to me that of all the crap I write about, that's the one that gets a couple of nervous nelly commenters going. But frankly, I'm not all that found of the negativity the posts generate that way.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Soft Opening

I don’t know how I got invited to this thing. I think it was because of an off-handed comment I made to someone in jest, right before the last performance of the high school drama club’s production of The Secret Garden. I barely even remember it. All I know is that I was standing backstage, arms crossed, watching the proceedings and looking like one of the proud stage dads or something, trying not to get trampled as the fifty (!) high-school kids of the chorus came rushing by me in their Victoriana, smelling like sweaty horses, in a stampede to get off the stage so the two juniors playing ten-year-olds could have their duet. One of the mothers asked if I was sticking around for the party after.

And I remember saying plainly, in my smart-assed way, Oh, anywhere there’s a prospect of free food, there’ll you find me.

Well, the mother had something to do with this shebang—it’s the soft opening of a lounge bar attached to an upscale hotel in town, and the drinks are flowing freely. Wait staff circulate among us bearing cocktail glasses filled with potent concoctions that look more like the colorful results of chemistry lab experiments than they do potables; I’m not much of a drinker, so I nurse the strawberry-red vodka creation that’s coating the back of my throat like a sickly-sweet cough syrup.

There’s food, thankfully. That’s why I was invited, right? I can’t disappoint my host. I take a roasted mushroom cap from a tray and pitch it down the bottomless pit that is my stomach, where it settles in with the multiple olives, the beef carpaccio on a rye cracker, and the crab cream puffs that have been circulating through the crowded room. I don’t know anyone there. I know hardly anyone in this town, even after a year. I’m approachable, though. So far I’ve made light conversation with some kind of kitchen remodeler (who’s given me his card, despite the fact I don’t own my home and aren’t planning to have my kitchen redone), a vaguely creepy guy older than me with a comb-over who complained that there weren’t enough ‘young hotties’ around, and a hilarious older woman who’s clued me in that she brought her own whiskey sours to the party and has been drinking them in the women’s room—“when she can get past those other bitches with no bladder control to get to it.”

Then there’s this kid. He keeps looking at me from one of the oversized, uncomfortable-looking armchairs in a trendy fabric, on the other side of the bar. He’s Latin. Of course he’s Latin. All the boys who stare at me in this town are Latin. I’d guess him to be twenty-four, twenty-five. His eyebrows are perfect commas, his broad pink lips like nestled parentheses. He’s not even bothering to conceal that he’s staring at me, but it’s almost as if he’s abstracted. Lost in thought.

My stare back, over a crowd of passing thirty-somethings trying some variation of a Cosmopolitan, startles him. He blinks as he realizes our eyes have met. He blinks rapidly, clearing whatever haze of fantasy has been before his eyes. I watch him laugh to himself a little, look away, and then glance back at me.

I’m still looking.

It's been a while since I've been cruised this blatantly in public, but I know the signs. He’s young enough that he doesn’t do a very good job of concealing his self-awareness. He wants to seem cool, but he’s over thinking every movement—the way he crosses his legs, the way he sips his drink, the way he looks around the room when what he really wants is to be looking in my direction. He wants to see if I’m still observing him.

And I am. I observe enough to know he’s alone. If he’s waiting on a girlfriend—or boyfriend—he’s been ditched for the long term. No one comes to speak to him. He doesn’t make a move to socialize. So I stand there by the bar, taking the occasional canapĂ©, until the chair next to his clears. Then I stride over and sit down. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask him.

He’s taken his focus away from me long enough that to find me in the seat opposite genuinely startles him. He almost chokes on his drink. “I’m sorry,” he says.

His voice isn’t feminine, but there’s a certain softness to it. I find it appealing. He has an accent as well. “Know someone here?” I ask. He stutters, and spits, and eventually manages to stammer out that he did some of the graphic work on the promotional materials the lounge has been sending out. I take it in, and nod. “So no one would notice if you disappeared for a few minutes?”

His response is to flush. It’s a very visible flush. He has nothing to say in response.

I know there’s a men’s room at the back of the bar. There’s also one in the lobby of the chi-chi hotel; I’d passed it coming in. I leave behind my sweet drink and smile at the kid, as I adjust my sports coat and leave the bar.

The men’s room is quiet, deserted, and best of all, about ten degrees cooler than the lounge had been. It’s only about thirty seconds before the kid joins me. He’s not a tall guy—he comes up to maybe my shoulders. His hair is dark and long, and in the florescent glow of the bulbs I can see a trace of beard on his chin, a touch of mustache above his lips.

They’re pretty, those lips. I want them.

He stands next to me at the other urinal. Goes through the pretense of unzipping and making believe he’s going to pee. I’ve already got my dick out—but I’m not crowding the porcelain as if to unleash a stream of hot piss. I’m stroking, and pulling back for him to look. I know he’s going to. And he does.
I don’t even pretend that I’m going to let him put up resistance. I’m steering him and his open fly to the handicapped stall at the end. My mouth is on his. His eyes are closed as we make out, furiously pressing our mouths against each other. His hands grapple for his belt, his button; they fly apart as he thrusts them down. I push him by the shoulders to the toilet, so that he’s sitting. Then for the first time I show him the full length of my cock.

“Papi,” he breathes, staring at it.

He doesn’t waste time, this one. He’s on my dick like a starved dog, wolfing it down to the root between those extended, grasping lips. His hands clutch at mine. Our fingers intertwine. I feel him holding onto them for dear life as, eyes still closed, he takes as much of my dick into his throat as he can. He gags slightly, backs off, and then finally looks up to me as my spit-slick dick slides in and out of his gullet.

There’s worship in those eyes. He needs this. He was dreaming of this.

Nothing turns me on more.

There’s noise from outside as some revelers leave the event, but they don’t invade our privacy. My hands in his, I continue to fuck his face. His own uncut dick jerks and drips and begs for release, but like a good boy, he doesn’t touch himself. I fuck his face like I fuck pussy, stretching the hole, driving in, pulling out, letting him feel every inch. At some point I pry my fingers from his and grasp his head like a melon, my fingers nearly encircling all the way around. I skull-fuck him. I treat his head like so much fuckmeat, angling it for my pleasure and plunging in as I see fit.

His cock is leaving trails of precum all over the front of his neatly-pressed dress shirt. He’s got rivulets of drool running down his chin; his mouth is so wet and sloppy that he’s gagging on his own saliva, and I can’t tell the fucking difference between his mouth and an ass after several loads. The juice he’s producing is driving me crazy. I add my own precum to the mix as I piston in harder and faster.

He’s whimpering and pushed past the point of endurance, but still he services on. This is what he wanted. What he needed. When I release my load into his mouth, he grunts in surprise, and shock, and then redoubles his efforts. My dick disappears deep into his mouth as he sucks down every drop. Then he holds it there in his throat, nursing out the last traces. For a long, long time we remain coupled like this, dick to mouth, man to man, stranger to stranger. Then he starts to gag, and I pull out. The air chills where his spit covers me. I back off, and pull up my pants.

His hands fly to his cock. “Good boy,” I whisper.

“Papi,” he whispers again, looking at me through slitted lids. He comes, spraying his load up and over the edge of the toilet seat and onto the floor.

“Very good boy,” I repeat, giving his chin a stroke. Then I let myself out.

I see my stage mom friend shortly before I leave a few minutes later. Or she sees me, rather; I don’t think I would’ve recognized her if she hadn’t come up to me. “I’m so glad you came!” she enthuses, as she’s probably said to everyone else here. “It’s awesome that you came out for this!”

“Great place,” I tell her. “One of the best soft openings ever.”

But I’m not talking about the restaurant.