Friday, August 31, 2012

From the Archive: My Boy Scruffy

(I miss Scruffy. We still chat from time to time, and at the end of every conversation he tells me that no one fucked him the way I did. True or not, I still like hearing it. While I'm on vacation this week and being flooded by Hurricane Out-of-Town Family, I'm reposting a couple of old favorites, like this one.)

I got a text message from Scruffy, Wednesday morning. What are you up to today, handsome? I was in the middle of something and couldn’t get right back to him. A couple of minutes later he sent another: I’ve really missed you and hope you’re free to get together. Text me? My dick was hard in my jeans when I punched out a message back: My bed is yours. Come over.

I hadn’t seen Scruffy in too long. He was last here two weeks ago exactly. I’d invited him to come spend the next night while the spouse was out of town, but he came down with food poisoning or something at the last minute and had to cancel. It’s unusual that we’ve gone so long without seeing each other—for the last three months or so, it’s been at least once or twice a week, minimum, that he’s been naked and in my bed. Often it’s been more than that.

I met Scruffy on Manhunt when one January morning he opened his photos for me without comment. The photos showed him as a tousle-headed, fair-skinned blond boy with an shy grin and a chin covered with a growth of bristly fuzz. The kid was completely adorable to me, though he resembled no one else more closely than Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. I wrote and told him he was extremely cute; he was naked and at my place in less than twenty minutes. If only all online hookups were as quick and simple.

Wednesday I met Scruffy at my side door and let him in. Once the door was shut, I leaned down from the upper stair where I stood and took his face between his hands. His mouth pushed out to meet mine; I felt his teeth rake against my lower lip as he sucked it in. “God, I’ve missed you,” I said, pulling him into me.

He rested his head against my shoulder. “I missed you too. So much.”

We made out by the door for a little while longer before I took him by the hand and guided him through my kitchen and living room to the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my waist, and grinned. My hand shot up to stroke his adorable face once more. “You are so damned pretty,” I told him.

He always flushes when I praise his looks. He doesn’t believe me, I think, because he doesn’t yet believe it can be true. Part of Scruffy’s charm is that he doesn’t know how truly attractive he is; I think he looks in the mirror and sees a tall, awkward dork barely out of adolescence, an overgrown kid in dirty jeans and a Cereal Killers T-shirt. I look at him and see a handsome young man. Uncertain, perhaps. Undecided about what direction to steer his life, yes. But I see the prettiness and the sweetness of his face, and the sweet white skin of his body, and I can’t help but sigh with admiration, every damned time. “You’re the good looking one,” he said.

I wouldn’t let him shrug off the praise. “Don’t make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments. You’re beautiful. Seriously. Own it.” We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he swooped down and devoured my mouth. His lips traveled down my jawline to my neck, to my ear, around the back of my head, to all the places he knew I liked. His hands reached for mine, and our fingers curled together. Then he forced them up and over my head until he had me pinned. Hungrily we kissed. Our tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Then, with a fluid and beautiful motion that would have done a gymnast proud, he arched backward and raised his hands into the air. “Watch your fingers,” I said, warning him to avoid the ceiling fan overhead. He ignored me, crossed his hands at the back of his neck, and pulled off the Cereal Killers T-shirt and discarded it on the floor. Then he sat there and waited, watching me look at him. I took in his long, pale torso, with its pink little nipples and the trim waist. I looked at the little puffs of hair beneath his armpits, and the natural muscles beneath his arms, and the scuff on his elbow, and said, “You really are beautiful.”

Scruffy’s grin is crooked, and bashful, and I’m always glad to see it.

It was my turn to take control. I pulled him down to the mattress and held him in my arms, letting my fingertips dance up and down his stretched-out stomach as we continued to make out. Then my lips began to follow them, moving up and down his torso. I licked at his nipples and bit them gently to elicit his shivers. I ran my furry chin up and down his sides, and dug it into his ribcage, so that my beard could give him goosebumps. With his eyes closed he lay on the bed and sighed, and groaned, and writhed like a fish needing water as I kissed his soft, sweet stomach. My left hand expertly tugged at his belt and undid it, then unfastened the button of his jeans before I pulled down the zipper.

Beneath the jeans he wore a pair of blue briefs. His cock was almost popping from the elastic band. I put my mouth on his hardness and exhaled. He gasped at the sudden feel of the warmth blooming around his dick, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him; instead I pushed him back down, softly, quietly, and stood on the floor by the bed’s edge. My fingers hooked beneath the band of his briefs and prompted him to lift his hips. As if I were undressing a boy for bedtime, I pulled down his pants until they had cleared his waist. Then I tugged at the hem of his right leg, then his left, and gently removed his pants.

Whether he believed it or not, Scruffy was beautiful just then. His right hand lay on his stomach as if he was abashed of his nakedness, with me still in my jeans and T-shirt. His dick lay in curve, looking like a thick, pink comma. His balls, shaved and smooth, hung low between his legs. I took his dick in my hand and squeezed. Immediately it began to harden and swell. His hips thrust in the air, involuntarily. He wanted to be sucked. I gripped the shaft right at the base and hooked my little finger around his nuts, pulling them up so they brushed my chin as I opened my mouth and worked my way down the shaft. Scruffy’s cock is almost as large as mine, though he prefers to bottom. It always hits me at the back of the throat an inch before I’ve swallowed it all, but I always manage to get it all in. He grunted when my lips touched bottom. To add to the sensations, I reached between his legs and tickled his hole.

For a long time I sucked and played with his tackle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to eat his ass. I pushed Scruffy over so that he was lying face down. The kid has a beautiful, round, slappable butt, and he likes it treated roughly. I let my hand land on the right cheek with a loud smack that made him shudder and whimper. Then the left, leaving a red mark behind. Once more on the right, and then the left, and then I alternated between them with deliberate hand slaps that made more noise than caused any pain. Each time he jumped, and clutched the blanket.

When his cheeks were blushing, I pushed them apart with my hands and dove in. I love to rim. I tell guys that I can rim for a long, long time, and they never believe me; I licked and sucked at Scruffy’s hole for over a half hour and I still wanted more. I’d dig my tongue in as far as it could go until I reached the slightly metallic-tasting inside of his hole. I spit in the hole and blew cool air in it to drive him crazy. I bit and nibbled at the cheeks just so I could listen to him yelp and moan. Then I’d bury my face in between those beautiful buttocks and lick and munch and gnaw and rub my beard over his skin while he breathed pleas and filthy obscenities. My own cock was rock hard while I worked him over. I could feel a puddle of my own precum in my shorts where I lay. When he tried to struggle free, I switched position and sat on his shoulders and continued rimming him from the other direction, just so he couldn’t escape.

When I came up for air, he was begging. “Please,” he said. “Please let me see your dick. Let me taste it.”

I didn’t say anything. I merely undid the top button of my jeans, then yanked open the other buttons of the fly. He was shaky as he sat up. “I really dig your underwear,” he said, burying his face between the denim flaps. I was wearing a pair of cheap Gap trunks with horizontal stripes in different shades of military tans and greens. “Can I have ‘em?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If you do a good job.”

He proceeded to do a very good job. I let him ease down my jeans and remove my socks. Then he proceeded to suck me. I’ve said before that I find it difficult to shoot from getting a blowjob, but with Scruffy I have been getting increasingly closer and closer to losing it in his mouth; I think he’s due to get a gullet full any time now. He also does this thing—words fail me at trying to describe it—with his mouth on my nuts. He’ll take my entire sac in his mouth and suck and suck and somehow manipulate it with his lips and tongue so that I end up squirming. He won’t touch my dick at all while he does it, but it still feels like those cum-churning last moments before I start to lose my load. For long minutes he kept me on edge until at last he very gently spat out my balls and said, “I want to eat your beautiful hole.”

“Really?” I said, hopefully.

“Fuck yes.” Without any ado he pushed my legs up in the air so that my ass met his mouth. "I love your hole!" Then he proceeded to rim me twice as vigorously as I’d done him. I don’t remember much about it. I just remember it felt very, very good. At some point he flipped me onto my stomach and ate me from behind, but then I found myself lying on my back and rimming him while he licked me out.

Both of us were harder than cement and dripping all over each other by the time I lowered him onto his stomach. I sat beside him and played with his wet, open hole. “You know what I’m going to do.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You know I’m going to leave my seed in you.”

“I know,” he said. “I want it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want your seed in me.”

“What?” I said, feigning temporary deafness. “I didn’t hear you.”

Louder and more clearly, he enunciated. “I want your fucking seed in me.”

I didn’t have to lube him. I spread spit on the head of my dick, swung my legs over his, and began sliding in. “Go slow,” he said. “I haven’t been fucked since the last time we. . . .” I didn’t have to go slow. After a tiny bit of initial resistance, his hole opened wide and welcomed me. He let out a guttural noise that was more animal than verbal, and sank deep into the mattress. He pulled the pillow close and hugged it; I thrust my fingers beneath his armpits, guided them under the pillow, and ended up clutching his hands with mine as I began slowly to grind my hips.

“You feel good,” I whispered.

His voice was near tears. “I love sex with you. I love it so much.”

"You need it, don't you?"

His head nodded. "I need it bad. I need you. It's like your cock was made for my ass. Ever since the first day."

I continued fucking while I whispered low and close into his ear. “I know you’ve got your own life. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re my boy. I own you here.”

“Yes,” he said back, nodding. I honestly thought he might cry.

“Who are you when you’re here?”

“Your boy,” he said. “Always and forever. Your boy. Oh god. I want it to keep on going and never stop. Don’t let it . . . stop . . . .”

Still holding his hands, I fucked him sweetly. I used my knees to push his legs together and moved in and out. Scruffy excites me. He overexcites me, actually. I hadn’t been in him any longer than ten minutes than I began feeling the old familiar sensation, dragged up from the soles of my feet, that made my balls thrum like a speeding freight train. He knew by my increased breathing and the vigor with which I fucked him that I was getting close. “Breed me,” he said. “Please breed me. Please let me have your cum.” He kept begging for my sperm. When it finally came, I was silent—too busy trying to catch breath to make noise. I exploded in him with four or five gushes. “I can feel it,” he said, laughing and delighted. “I can feel it in me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I was still rock hard when I rolled over with him onto our left sides. My arms held his chest. He tugged at his own dick maybe six times, and then contracted. His own orgasm was not quiet. In fact, my first panicked reaction was to remember that I’d neglected to close the windows, and that the whole neighborhood could probably hear. But I didn’t care. When he was finished yelling, he shivered all over, and lay very still and quiet in my arms.

It was maybe four minutes later when he finally said, “I shot all over your pillow.” He rolled to show me the globs of semen that had soaked into the navy blue sheets. I didn’t care about that, either.

I stayed in him, still inserting myself and withdrawing very slowly, until he began to move his ass in time with mine. It didn’t take him long. It never does. Spooning we lay there as I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re so wet,” I said. I took his hand and made him reach to feel where my dick was sliding in and out of his distended hole. “You feel that?”

“Fuck yes,” he said. Over and over the said the words, sounding as if he spoke from the depths of a very good dream. “I love it. I love being with you. I’ve never had sex like this.”

“You are so beautiful,” I told him again. I hoped he believed it.

He twisted his neck so that we could kiss over his shoulder. I continued to fuck him until I came again. My second orgasms tend to arrive quickly. The sensation of my dick sliding in and out of my own wet, warm cum always excites me. I love the slippery sensuality of it. When I shot this time, he reached around and pulled at my ass, trying to drive me deeper inside him.

“I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy,” he said, when I wiped him down with a towel.

“I’m not busy." To prove it, I held the back of his head and pulled him to me.

We intertwined and made out. Scruffy is one of those boys who doesn’t turn off once he’s shot. I love that about him. The kissing after we’d both come was as intense and passionate as it had been the moment he’d walked through the door. “I love being yours,” he whispered to me at last. “I like being your boy when I’m here. I think about it all the time.”

“You are mine,” I told him, as I stroked his cheek.

“Your hole,” he said. “Your cum dump.”

He knows the words to say to arouse me. Within a few moments he was straddling me and sitting on my still-hard cock while jacking furiously at his own. “I wish you’d been the one who’d cunted me,” he said. “I wish you’d been in me first.”

I held onto the wooden slats of the headboard, helpless. “I'm in you now.”

“Yeah, I’ve got you, and you don’t get to go anywhere until I’ve got another load.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have a third in me, but when he really started to buck and slam his butt against my hipbones, I suspected I might. “I’m going to fucking take you captive until you give me what I want. I'll fucking rope you to the bed if I have to. Your boy wants another fucking load.”

“My beautiful boy,” I echoed.

“Your goddamned hungry boy.” He pulled his feet forward and lay them flat on either side of me, then squatted over my dick so that he could bounce his ass up and down over it. The bed creaked in protest. “Your owned boy who wants another fucking load out of you.” I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations he was milking out of me, but he was too pretty to block out. Our eyes locked. “Give it to me!” he demanded.

I usually dislike bottoms or cocksuckers who demand a load on a schedule, but I fucking love Scruffy. He does stuff to me few others can. I nodded, then grunted. A third load oozed out of my dick and into his hole. He felt my dick contracting and expanding and slammed down, greedily gobbling up every drop. I could feel his muscles trying to suck it in. “I’m going to keep it in there,” he said, beating himself wildly “I’m going to keep your hot sperm in me all day, the way I do every time we meet. Because that’s where it belongs. If I can’t have your dick in me all day, I want your nut in there.”

“Promise me,” I said.

“I promise you,” he said, loud and fervent. “I am never, ever going to push any of your sperm out of me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

We’d been through this catechism before. “Because I’m your boy,” he said. “You own me. Your boy.”

He begged me to sit on his face while he jacked himself off. I lowered myself down on top of him while he continued to thrash his own meat in his fist. By the time he came a second time, he’d managed to make my hole feel as if it was having its own mini-orgasm. I was actually sorry it had come to an end when he panted, and heaved, and went limp, like a rag doll.

We lay and talked for several minutes before he had to get up and leave. “Whose boy are you?” I asked before I let him out.

He kissed me deep. “Yours,” he said. “For always.”

My upper lip smelled of Scruffy all afternoon and evening. From time to time, whenever I had a private moment, I’d curl it up and breath deeply, and think about my beautiful, beautiful boy.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

From the Archives: Bobby

(While I'm on vacation this week, I'm reprinting a few favorite old entries. I hope you like this one from a couple of years ago.)

His name was Bobby, and he played basketball. Those are the only two substantial facts I remember about the guy. In the days I used to keep my high school yearbook, I could have picked his photo out on the page—a picture of a handsome black kid with skin the color of caramel and a face shaped like the business end of a fist, squared-off and flat and just as confrontational.

I stood out in high school for two big reasons. It wasn’t because I was especially popular, or because I was well-liked, or because I had notoriety as the class brain or clown. No, I stood out because I hit my full height when I was fifteen, well before anyone else in my school had reached such a monstrous size, and because I was the whitest kid in school. The only white kid in my otherwise all-black school, in fact.

At that age, kids who stand out tend to get the brunt of the bad treatment, but I cultivated the art of being invisible. I slunk from class to class without attracting attention. I found quiet corners to eat my lunch. In the classrooms I was fine. The dangerous areas for me were the hallways, the boys’ room, the school bus, and anywhere on the school grounds not normally monitored by the teachers. That’s where I would worry about being picked on, or called out, or worst of all, beaten up. I wasn’t a strong kid, or particularly trained in fighting. Being beaten up seemed about the worst thing that could happen.

It never did happen, though. I managed to glide through school without being noticed much at all. Bobby was one student who did.

I sat in the middle of the school bus. Not close to the front, where the extremely timid would lurk, and not in the back where the rougher kids would congregate loudly. The middle was a safe, invisible place to be, overlooked by the more boisterous. Until the that day my sophomore year, when I was minding my own business and looking out the window, and suddenly found myself inhaling a scent that was at once sharp and intimate. The cotton fabric smelled like urine and musk; I found myself jerking my head away.

Bobby had boarded the bus, his athletic bag slung over one shoulder. He was still wearing clothes from a basketball practice—and in 1980, we didn’t wear long shorts for basketball. No, we had tiny little shorts that barely covered our business, accompanied by white socks with stripes of color around the top that came up to our knees. I hadn’t paid attention as he’d terrorized the freshmen at the front by holding out his dirty jock at them. So it was something of a surprise to realize that he’d decided to thrust it under my nose. “You like it? You can have it,” he said, dropping it on my lap.

I remember want to drop the dirty jock like a hot potato. My strategy when irritated or threatened, then as now, however, was merely to show as little reaction as possible. I pinched what looked like the cleanest portion of the waistband between the very tips of my fingers, and with an expression of remote disdain, dropped the jock into the aisle, right on the dirty bus floor. Bobby’s friends had been laughing at his antics before, but when Bobby scrambled to retrieve his athletic supporter, they laughed even harder.

I wrote it off as one of those moments in which my invisibility had inadvertently become opaque, but there were a few other incidents that followed. Once or twice, Bobby sat down on the bus next to me. I was certain that there’d be harassment to follow, but no. He just sat there, saying nothing, and seeming to expect nothing. Even when I had to push my way past him into the aisle at my stop, he didn’t push me, or yank down my pants, or do any of the terrible things featured in my imagination.

It wasn’t until the day of a school assembly that I suspected anything was up. For some reason the two of us were seated in the front row of the auditorium, next to each other—which strikes me as odd, given that he was two years older and we didn’t share any classes. The assembly was long and boring. At some point, very early on, Bobby moved his leg next to mine, pressed his bare, basketball shorts-clad leg against my corduroys, and kept it there. His leg was lightly hairy. I could feel its warmth through the fabric of my pants. I must have made some vaguely move to slide away from him, but his knee and calf followed, and very firmly adhered to mine as he sprawled out with his legs spread.

I didn’t pull away again. For the rest of that assembly I let him remain that close to me, knee to knee, wondering what it could mean. I’d already been having sex with older men for four years, by that point; I was no innocent by any means. But the only sex I’d had with someone else my age was with a sad boy lost in a haze of drugs, at the request of my older friend Earl; I’d certainly never had anyone else in school make any kind of erotic advance to me, and it really threw me.

It was about a month later, close to the end of the school year, that Bobby made his move. He spied in me in the hallway between Algebra II and Civics. “I want to show you something,” he said, over the hustle and bustle of boys and girls slamming their lockers and cutting loose.

“I’ve got class,” I mumbled.

“Come on,” he insisted, and gestured to me.

My high school was shaped like an upside-down T. The bulk of the classrooms were along the horizontal cross-bar, while in the back were a few of the advanced science labs, the orchestra and band rooms, and some meeting rooms where Key Club and the National Honors Society held court. Bobby strode through the hallway toward the back as if he owned it; I slumped behind, invisible and unnoticed, as the numbers of people began to peter out. I watched as he made his way down a staircase at the very rear of the building.

The bell rang. The hallways quieted down as the last people fled to their fourth-period classes. Only Bobby and I were in the stairwell, and I followed as he disappeared under the metal stair. The only way we could have been seen is if someone had come up to the windows set in the doors leading outside.

I was in real distress. I cannot stand to be tardy for anything—I never have been able to tolerate it, even as a child. And there I was, deliberately absent from Civics, and getting to be more of a truant by the second. I had never been in that section of the school before, and I didn’t know what Bobby wanted . . . though I hoped I suspected. “I’m late,” I stammered.

“I want to show you something,” he said in his lazy drawl, as he stared at me. His eyes stayed fixed on me as his hands reached for his pants. He wore no belt. All it took to open his jeans was a quick flip of the uppermost button and the almost-silent rending of his zipper. He yanked down on the elastic waist of his white briefs, and hooked them under his balls, so that he could show me his dick.

It was not the largest dick I’d seen, but it was thick; thick and two shades lighter than the rest of his skin. He’d been hard before he’d unzipped for me, and his head was bulbous and full. Without touching himself, he made his shaft leap up in the air. “What do you think?” he said.

I was too wary to respond. I thought it might be a trap of some kind. I said nothing.

He curled his hand into a fist and drew it over the upper half of his rod. “You like it?” Again he made it jump in the air. “Touch it.”

I didn’t move. I wanted to touch it very badly, but I didn’t want him to know.

In a soft whisper, almost a growl, he repeated, “Touch it.”

When he reached out for my hand and pulled it toward him, I resisted only slightly. He rested my hand on his shaft, which was so hot and rigid that it felt like an iron bar left to bake in the sun. I felt a stirring in my own pants as my fingers wrapped around it.

“It likes you too,” he whispered.

Almost immediately after I grabbed hold, he started to shoot. His cum flew and landed several feet away on the stairwell tile; it dripped from his head and grazed his sneakers. Finally, it oozed slowly from the tip as he buckled and shook. I’d already retrieved my hand and backed away, careful not to let any of the stuff on me.

“All right,” he said at last, nodding at me. He stuffed his still-hard dick in his pants, zipped, and buttoned himself. “Later.”

I remained standing in the stairwell, stunned, for a minute before I proceeded to class. I slipped in with excuses ready on my lips, but I didn’t need them. The teacher must’ve assumed that if her top student was late, it must’ve been for a good reason.

I never had another close encounter with Bobby. He didn’t sit with me again after that, and he graduated that year. But I remember smelling his sweat and oils on my hand the rest of that day, and how I would cup my fingers and palm close and inhale discreetly, whenever I could. And I remember looking over his yearbook photo after that, and wondering what in the world became of him.

Monday, August 27, 2012

From the Archive: Without Words

(I'm taking a blog vacation this week, but here's a favorite entry from last year to keep you amused and hopefully aroused while I'm gone.)

When Spencer pads into the bedroom, his body is still steaming from the shower. With the hall light behind him, throwing his body into silhouette, I can see trails of vapor rising from his skin. He stands there for a moment, a faceless shadow with its weight shifted to its right hip, as he waits for instruction.

I say nothing.

After a moment he takes a step forward, and then another. He lifts his right knee to rest it on the mattress, next to where I lie. Then his hands press down on the bed, next to my shoulders. He leans in, and brings his mouth to mine. “Hi,” he says.

I haven’t seen him in a week. I’d driven him to the airport before the Thanksgiving holiday; he’d only arrived back home this afternoon. It’s been a long week of saving up my juice for him, all for this reunion. When he kisses me, softly and sweetly, my dick begins to harden. I lift my neck to reach him all the more easily, and use my hands to pull him in for a kiss that’s deeper and harder. “I missed you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, and say nothing.

He notices this time. “What’s the matter?” When I don’t reply, he brings his other leg onto the bed and straddles my body. “Did I do something wrong?”

I’ve already decided not to use words for the fuck. They seem too easy for this evening. He’s susceptible to what I say to him. I show him instead, by pushing him around, down onto his back. Simultaneously I roll so that I’m on top. Across the bed we tumble. His legs rise into the air and wrap themselves below my shoulder blades. I can feel him hook his heels over my spine. My prick is stiff and swollen now. The head nudges against the boy’s hole. His own dick leaps and spasms against my sternum as now I kiss him. My tongue drives into his mouth; my hands hold down his thick biceps. Helplessly he squirms beneath me, trying to press his dick harder against me, to give it the relief it craves.

“Say something,” he begs, when I lift my weight from him.

I don’t obey him, though. Instead, I push his legs up and rest his knees on his shoulders. My middle finger probes his lips, then forces its way into his mouth. He sucks on it instinctively, like a baby. When I remove it, slick and cool with his spit, immediately I use it to toy with his ass lips. His hole is hot and moist from the shower he’s just taken. The tip and first two joints slip in easily, causing him to gasp. I could fuck him so easily, right now.

But not quite yet. I kneel down beside the bed and let my mouth dive in to that sweet gap between his legs. From bottom to top I lick the hole, letting the scruff of my beard rasp against the exposed tenderness with every lap. To punctuate the pleasure, I alternately nip his cheeks with my incisors, or blow a column of cool air onto the wet skin. Every time, they bring him hushed little thrills.

I’ve been denied the ass too long for much foreplay. He’s not sucked me; I’ve barely eaten him out at all. My dick demands, though, and my dick gets. I rub some moisture on it with my fingers, and thrust forward. Instinctively the head finds the hole. He opens up, craving me. I don’t hesitate to sink all the way in.

He’s warm, and wet, and his hole is as smooth as I remember. His hips grind at the depth of me, and then he sighs, content. “This is what I wanted,” he says. “Didn’t you?” I still don’t answer. Instead, I pull out. He protests. Even in the twilight darkness of the dimly-lit room I can see his eyebrows furrow, concerned that he’d perhaps said or done the wrong thing. “What?” he asks. “What do you want?”

I show him what I want. I yank him to his feet and I shove him against the wall. His hands reach high and press hard against the plaster, as if he’s holding up the entire second story. In this position, his dancer’s ass pushes out, full and heavy, two meaty handfuls that I separate as I push back into him. He slumps forward; his head and body hit the wall with a heavy thump. “Fuck,” he moans. Then, “Fuck me.”

That’s one command I’ll obey. I was going to do it anyway. I thrust deep into him and pull out again, over and over, relentlessly assaulting his hole. I’ve been in need the entire time he’s been gone. I’m not pausing for niceties now. I don’t even think the boy has a sense of time, or place as I pound his ass. He’s lost in some private ecstasy. The side of his face presses against the wall. His eyes are closed. Though he lets out little animal moans, he seems barely conscious. If I turned on the lights, I wouldn’t be surprised to see drool running from the corner of his mouth.

When I reach around for Spencer’s dick, it’s a stiff wet stub jammed against the plaster at an uncomfortable angle. I wrap my hand around it, and the thick inches respond. I spit into my hand once more and spread it along his dick’s length, jacking him as hard as I’m fucking. It only takes him thirty seconds before he’s rasping like every breath hurts. His back aches. I feel his dick throb in my palm as he shoots. He leaves his load on the wall, where it begins to drip onto the floor in multiple wet tracks.

I rip out of him, making him yelp. Then I shove the boy onto the bed so that his hips hang over the edge, and push his legs into the air before I shove in again. He loves to be fucked after he shoots; if anything, he’s more open and relaxed after the tension in his dick is dispensed with. The angle at which I’m fucking him makes him tighter than I’ve ever felt before. It feels as if I’m entering in a way that pounds the very root of his dick and keeps him hard even after he’s blown. His jaw drops. He roars. The sound he makes is long and unending and seemingly without breath or pause. It’s the sound of a tornado at full volume, or of a train’s horn as it approaches down the tracks at top speed. He yells. And yells. I’m glad the windows are tightly shut.

Whatever spot I’m hitting does it for him. Although he’s still leaking stray semen from the load he blew onto the wall, he’s hard again. I use his dick as a handle as I continue to pound that internal pleasure button. I’m getting close myself, just listening to his pleasure.

When I shoot, it’s with a mighty grunt. I drive into him and hold it there, silently spasming. He knows me, though. He knows when I’m coming, and holds me in him, his hands clutching at my hips. He wants it deeper, and then deeper still. “Please breed me,” he begs. “Please. I’ve wanted it so much. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Please give it to me.”

The load’s large. I haven’t shot since the last time I saw him. I can feel it oozing out around my meat and dribbling down both his crack and my nuts, shortly after I’ve finished jerking and shaking. He sighs, and whimpers, and sounds for a moment as if he might cry. Then we both negotiate our way onto the mattress and rest there, still connected, dick-to-ass. “Amazing,” he whispers, running his fingertips through my beard. “God, that’s amazing.”

I still say nothing. I pull his fingers onto my lips, however, so that beneath he can feel the smile I’m wearing.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

From the Archive: Ugly-Sexy

(While I'm on vacation, I'm re-running a few of my favorite old essays for your pleasure.)

He knelt down on the floor, naked, staring up at me. His knees were spread as far as they could go, spreading the perfect, halved cantaloupes of his butt apart so that from my position on the sofa, I could almost see the pink pucker they normally hid. He rested the weight of his his naked, muscled torso on his fingers and palm as he leaned it and rubbed his face against my dick and balls. From his broad, solid shoulders, his chest tapered to a slim waist. His arms bulged and narrowed in all the right places, the products of hours and hours of weights and push-ups. From my view above him, as he bowed to worship my dick, his body was practically perfect. “Nice,” I whispered into the half-darkness.

“Thank you sir,” he said, and raised his head to look into my eyes. That fucking ugly face.


There’s a certain kind of look that makes me weak at the knees every time—the kind of guy who spends a lot of time at the gym, who takes time to pick out clothing that’s going to show off his body, and who has a plug-ugly face. No, not even a face. A mug. He might have a crooked beak, or a lop-sided smile, or a mouth that’s simply formed from the tricks of genetics into a permanent sneer. His eyebrows might be too thick, too dark, and too close together; his eyes might be too dark, too mean, too beady. Sometimes he’ll have a rock cliff of a forehead, uneven and broad and craggy. His chin might be too much of a stub, or his ears too big. He’s just not handsome in that traditional, movie-star way.

And I fucking love it.

Pretty boys—I’ve got nothing against them. They make my life a little happier when I see them walking down the street, or when I watch them undressing in my bedroom. But a less comely gent with a killer body will turn my head when he walks into a room, and keep my attention riveted, every time.

My cocksucker had lips that looked as if they’d been smashed into a permanent rosebud with a rubber band as a baby—a Sylvester Stallone pout, with the dark hair and scraggly eyebrows to match. His eyes were too far apart. His skin was too pale to be tan and too dark to be pale. His head was almost too small for his body. The nose that was the crooked, bumped crowning glory of his face had been broken at least twice. Sat next to one of the handsome Italians that undoubtably had to be in his family, anyone would’ve winced. But damned if I didn’t think he was the hottest thing on earth at that moment. “Suck me,” I ordered.

He knew what to do with that pouty mouth. It traveled up and down the length of my shaft for long, slick minutes, never stopping to utter complaint or ask for a rest. From time to time he would pause and lap at my nuts and stare up at me with those blank, beady eyes that didn’t so much see me as behold me. I’d run my hand through his hair, which was crispy from product and left a residue between my fingers, and pull him onto my dick again.

I liked the look of him better from behind, when he had his face in the pillow and his ass in the air. I fingered his pretty hole and watched it twitch at my touch. My mouth and lips made it jump. It relaxed and blossomed as I licked and dug at it with my tongue. Then, after spitting in my palm and slathering the saliva over my dick, I raised my cock to the hole I’d wanted from the beginning and slid in. He accepted me with a long, drawn-out gasp that made him claw the pillowcase.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, as I started to slide in and out. His shoulders and head rested on the mattress while his hips rose higher in the air. I had to push him down before he got them too high to continue fucking. I lifted my right knee and rested on the left as I continued to open wide his hole with my dick.

As I thrust in and out roughly, not really caring if he enjoyed it or not, he started to jack at his dick, getting more and more aroused. “I’m not ready yet,” I warned him. “If you come, I’m not stopping.”

“You don’t have to stop,” he promised. “You don’t have to . . . ah, fuck!” Ropes of semen began to shoot from his dick onto my blanket, and his hole grabbed at my dick to suck it in as deeply as it could.

He was true to his word. Once his spasms had subsided, he kept his butt in the air and let me pound away. I positioned him so that neither of us was inconvenienced by the puddle of cum in the bed’s middle, and fucked away. After a while, he pushed himself up on those beautifully-sculpted arms and looked over his shoulder at me. “You are so damned good,” he said, sounding as if he genuinely meant it. “So fucking good. My hole feels amazing right now.”

The sight of that plug-ugly face turned me on even more. I pulled his face around with one of my hands, and drove my tongue between the same ugly lips that had been around my dick only a few minutes before. My heart rate increased, as did my breathing. Before I knew it, I felt that scratched-out, diffuse feeling of expansion and diffusion that accompanies the best of my orgasms. Dimly was I aware that I was shooting a thick load of cum in him. All I could really feel was the snapped rubber-band tension of my dick, fire-red and still throbbing, and his mouth panting into mine. His own hand was jerking at his dick again. While I inhaled deeply and attempted to regain my good senses, he shot another load onto the bed.

A few moments later, I lay back on the bed and watched him dress. First his jockstrap, perfectly white and probably never used for actual exercise. Then his shiny blue sweatpants that made his cheeks seem even rounder and perkier. Finally his gymnast’s T, sleeveless and designed to show off his guns.

But then there was that face. He flashed me a grin that exposed one front tooth skewed and protruding in front of the other, and raised the caterpillars that were his eyebrows. “You are fucking good,” he said, wiping sweat from his enormous forehead. “We’ve gotta do that again.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, turned on by the contrast between how he appeared from the shoulders down and the neck up. “Definitely.”

Ugly-sexy. I wanted more of that.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

From the Archive: Big Brother

(While I'm on vacation, I've picked one of my favorite entries to re-visit with you guys. My memories of this guy are especially sweet—I wish I knew what happened to him.)

“My little brother,” the guy named Tom used to call out as he dragged me across the closed-off street in front of the Hibbs Building, my neck snared in his rigid embrace. He didn’t know any of the students lounging beneath the trees or sitting on the concrete benches waiting for their next classes to start, or who’d bought sandwiches from the cafeteria on the building’s second floor and were trying to relax in the still-warm afternoon heat. “This is my little brother, everybody. Look!”

He just yelled out for the silly joy of it, hauling me around in the meaty crook of his arm, making me trip and stumble to keep up. We didn’t look like brothers at all. I was lean and narrow and fair, and he was dark-haired, short and brawny, a jock in his prime, one hundred percent pure Italian. He didn’t care how different we looked. Occasionally he’d ruffle my hair with his knuckles, or stop to plant an exaggerated smack of a kiss on my forehead—exactly the sort of thing a playful older brother might have done to embarrass his shy younger sibling. I think he did it for the pleasure of seeing me blush. I never failed him.

Whenever I think of Tom, I picture him wearing one of his red shirts. Primary red—not one of the lesser, adulterated shades. He wore a red polo shirt the day I met him, one of the thirty students sitting somewhere in the middle and back of one of my father’s seminars.

When I was fifteen and starting the tenth grade, my parents sat down to look at the high school’s graduation requirements and reasoned out that the only thing keeping me from skipping the eleventh grade and graduating in three years would be a single credit each in English and social studies. The former I could take care of in summer school; the latter I made up by auditing one of my dad’s introductory seminars in American History for a semester. I was miserable my first day in that class—obviously younger and more out of place than the other students, and worried about having to participate at their level.

Then Tom, who was sitting next to me, turned during the break, leaned his arms on the scratched wooden surface of my classroom desk, and spoke before I could sneak out and hide somewhere. “What’s your deal?” he wanted to know. “You a kid genius or something? Graduating college at thirteen?”

I flushed furiously and said no, I was taking the class for high school credit, and that I was older than thirteen. “Cool,” he said, nodding. Tom was a junior at the time, I found out later; he was already twenty-two. It was tough for me to look at him, he was so attractive and masculine. His eyes were dark and his hair was shaggy and long like mine, but hours playing sports and lifting weights had turned him into one of those athletes whose attentions I’d avoided at school, for fear of taunting and maybe even possible beatings. He bulged in every place imaginable, where I was stick-thin. I thought that if I said too much, I'd betray exactly what I was. Having him so close made me unable to meet his gaze, like a dog wary of a possibly hostile presence suddenly invading its space. “So why this class?”

I blushed even more and admitted that the professor was my father, expecting the conversation to end with a flash of scorn and brief enough small talk for him to make a getaway. “Okay,” he finally said. Then, unexpectedly, he laid one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the front of the writing desk, and pulled it a couple of inches closer. “You can be my little brother this semester. I’ll look out for you. All right? How's that sound? Cool?”

“All right,” I replied automatically, out of politeness and a lack of anything contradictory to say. I already had one brother, much older than Tom, whom I'd come to depend upon. I wasn't seeing much of Mikey that year. I liked being protected, and it felt good that Tom being so friendly.

“All right,” he repeated. “Let’s go get a Coke, then.”

Being Tom’s little brother apparently consisted of twice weekly accompanying him to the classroom building snack bar during the two-hour class’s ten-minute break. He’d buy a cellophane-wrapped packet of Lance crackers there, or a Slim Jim, or a orange drink in an ice-filled Styrofoam cup, half of which he’d usually share with me, though I’d protest I had my own pocket money for snacks. Then he’d suggest we get some fresh air. Out in the quadrangle in front of the building, he’d act as if he’d been released from some sort of cage. His massive chest would expand as he took a breath of deep air, and then he’d become silly. “C’mere, kid!” he’d bellow, and then I’d find all hundred pounds of myself snatched up and bench-pressed over his head, as easily as if I were a rag doll. Or he’d sling me over his shoulders and jog around, laughing, like some kind of frat prank. His easy physicality always came as a shock. There would be long moments between finding myself lifted up and spun around and the laughter that eventually came . . . but it always did come, in the end.

After classes, in the long minutes in which my dad would fend questions from the students who crowded around the lectern, Tom would take me outside, where he'd sit down with me while I waited. He’d ask me questions about my life. What I studied in school. What subjects I liked best. What TV shows I watched. Or, “So, do you like girls?” He’d crack his knuckles over that one, or watch me slyly while I’d color and fumble for words. “It’s cool,” he’d say, when I’d stammer out something. “You don’t have to answer if you don't want.”

Of course I liked girls, I finally managed to say. “You have a girlfriend then, huh?” he asked. Because I thought I ought, rather than because I wanted to, I made up a romantic interest. Her alleged name was Beth. I’d known her since third grade. We just hadn’t done anything because . . . because she was Catholic. “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding with the wisdom of seven more years. “Those Catholic girls are the worst.” Then my father would come out of the building, blindly peering around to find me in the haze of students. Tom would stand up, puff out his chest and gather his bag of books, and cuff me around the neck. “See you later, little buddy,” he’d call out, before striding off.

Tom wore a red T-shirt the day he asked my dad if it would be okay if I went to the library with him for a couple of hours after class, early in the semester. “He can be like, a real college student. If that’s cool with you,” he told him. My father didn’t mind; he was thrilled that I was socializing with another classmate. So once a week Tom and I would take off to the newly-built library and find a brightly-lit, quiet corner with a table we’d share.

He’d pull out his books and study for a while, pulling faces whenever someone would invade our solitude, or asking me whispered questions about that week’s reading or lecture. Eventually he’d get restless and playful. Sometimes he would tear a sheet of paper from his spiral notebook and fold it into a triangular wedge so that we could flick it back and forth, playing an impromptu game of tabletop football.

Sometimes we’d skip the library altogether. Tom would take me to the student gymnasium, where he’d show me the basketball courts and the locker rooms where I’d avoid looking at the guys in the steamy showers. He showed me how he lifted weights and where he swam laps. Sometimes he’d join in a game of hacky sack outside the gym entrance, dancing and pulling faces as he attempted with the others to keep the little footbag in motion, showing off his moves for his little brother.

One afternoon we were walking to the library together after class he stopped outside the building’s entrance, hands on his hips. I watched him bite his lip for a moment. Then he studied me. “So,” he said. “How about we go to my place?”

“Okay,” I said, automatically, because I’d never disagreed with any of his suggestions.

“Yeah?” he asked, not betraying any emotion. “You wanna?”

I thought about it, this time. “Yeah,” I said. I really wanted to.

The campus didn’t have much in the way of dormitories, then. Tom lived a few blocks away in a townhouse divided up into student rooms. His own little home was in the basement, with only a panel of window at the top admitting light. “So this is it,” he said, throwing down his bag and letting the battered door close. The room was neater than I expected, but that could have been because there was so little in it. Some free weights sat on the floor in the corner. He had a crate full of LPs acting as his night stand, next to a mattress and box springs that sat on the floor. The week’s laundry sat packed into a basket by the door. “I don’t have much in the way of chairs,” he apologized, flopping down on the bed. His legs sprawled off the side. He kicked off his sneakers. I watched them land beneath the window well.

“That’s okay,” I mumbled.

When he patted the mattress, telling me to sit down beside him, I obeyed. My own feet remained firmly on the floor; my elbows rested on my knees while I waited for what I hoped would come next. He sat up, too, so that my back wasn’t to him. “You’re not really into girls, are you?” he asked, his voice husky and soft. His fingertips softly swiped my cheek as he brushed my long hair away from my face.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to tell the truth, nor did I want to lie to him.

Tom absently rubbed his biceps, exposed thanks to the red shirt from which he’d hacked off the sleeves, and nodded. “It’s cool, little brother,” he said, patting my back. After a moment, the pat turned into a rub, long and slow, up and down the outline of my spine.

Then I felt something soft on my neck—his lips, softly planting a kiss there. Then another, just below my ear. Acknowledging what he was doing, I reached out and put my hand on his knee, barely a butterfly’s touch. He rested his own hand atop mine, and after a moment, pulled it up his thigh to the denim covering his crotch. I felt nothing but heat there, heat so intense it felt like I’d raised my palm to an uncovered oven burner.

“It’s cool," he whispered. "Don't worry. It's only if you want to.” I looked at him, square in the eyes, while he brushed away more long, blond straggling hair from mine.

And then slowly, gently, I helped him take off his red shirt.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Summer Vacation Edition

I just wanted to let you guys know I'm going to take a brief vacation from new blog entries—the rest of August, that is. There are three reasons I'm taking the break: one is simply because I've got family visiting for part of that time, and I know from experience that trying to sneak in some blogging time is rough under those circumstances.

Another is because this is the time of year when my readers are vacationing as well, or simply huddling by their air conditioners, and I feel like I'm typing in a vacuum.

And the third reason—and I confess it's the most emotional of them—is because I found myself having a bit of a bad reaction to reader responses to Friday's entry about The Runt. It Hurts was an entry into which I poured a lot of time, and I was pretty proud of it until the moment it hit the web. Then my first two responses were along the lines of "Send me a picture of the Runt" and "Can I have a picture of the Runt?", followed by a I-guess-it-was-supposed-to-be-funny "Pics or it didn't happen." Not Thank you,  or I really liked the entry, or even Good morning, how're ya doing? Just demands for pics.

I'd started the day out bright and cheerful, but I let a few thoughtless assholes reduce me to a grumpy stompypants. When that mood didn't lift until sunset, I figured a short vacation would do me good.

In the meantime, I'll queue up some popular older entries that some of you might not have seen before—and which others of you might graciously pretend not to have read on a previous occasion.

Thanks to those of you who've been sending me photos of your assets for the Readers Assets feature. I've got a good few of you ready for the next couple of features—but I could use more! If you haven't shared photos of your cock or ass with my readers yet, and you want to, check out my plea behind the link and send me your photos!

I'll still be around on Facebook, Twitter, and via email, and I'll be trying to use the time to catch up on my backlog of correspondence. See you in September!

And now, a few questions culled from my profile.

Have you ever done it with a tranny?

You know, for the longest time, I would not have sex with a cross-dresser of any sort while he was wearing women's clothing. I like fucking women, and I liked fucking men. I didn't have any philosophical objections to cross-dressers, and I loved my transexual and drag queen friends, but I didn't really have any sexual attraction to a man in woman's clothing, for some reason.

After encounters a few years back with a couple of female-to-male transsexuals, however, my views on sex with people outside of traditional gender norms began to change. I enjoyed a couple of meetings with a muscled guy who liked to dress pretty for me, and with a few other men who liked to make themselves attractive in women's clothing, and whatever had been holding me back in the past from taking that step seemed to have been erased.

If you ever wanted to post a photo of your bare feet on your blogger page I know one follower that wouldn't mind :-)

Oh man. My feel are nothing special. They're just large!

"Oh man. My feel are nothing special. They're just large!" That just makes them even sexier!

Awww, thanks. They're size 11, by the way. Not clown feet.

Bottom question: What size is too big for you?

These days, anything over a pinky is too large for me. And I'd be eyeing that pinky dubiously.

In my bottom days the only cock I turned down was the largest cock I've still seen to this day; it was about 13 inches long and roughly the thickness of my forearm. It was also hard as concrete, with no give. I tried to suck it and couldn't get my mouth around the thing. Then I tried to bend over for it, thought the better of that rash decision, shrugged, and apologized for changing my mind.

The guy was okay with it. Apparently with his size, he rarely fucked because of the issues of getting it inside anyone's hole.

Do you think tattoos are sexy? If yes, which ones are the sexiest?

I think tattoos are very sexy, though I'm too wishy-washy to try to pick out one for myself. I went through a phase (the same phase as all the guys who got them, I guess) during which I thought tribal tattoos were very hot and erotic . . . I don't think so now, however.

The tattoos I tend to think are sexiest are those that involve writing on the skin. When I see a tattoo in script, or in a fancy typeface, and it's more than just MOTHER or a VENGEANCE or a single word emblazoned on the chest, I want to read it and know the person better. I think that's very sexy.

Do you smile or laugh during sex? Or do you have one of those "serious faces?" Or . . ?

It totally depends on the guy, the mood, and the situation. I think in my most natural state, I tend to be very playful during sex, and if the guy's of a similar mindset and is articulate and responsive, I'll joke and talk and hope we leave with grins on both our faces.

At the same time, I have absolutely no fears or hesitations about being the serious top, the grim top, the aggressive rapist top who takes what he wants and holds back nothing, or the serious romantic. All of those are elements of my personality, and can be summoned with the right stimuli.

Maybe someone who's had sex with me could better answer the question.

Do you have some favorite singers or groups who are *not* popular or mainstream? Who is it, and what sort of a genre is it? Do you remember how you found them?

Absolutely. No one ever listens to my stuff.

Unfortunately for my reputation, a lot of the crap I listen to is either Swedish pop music, or the tunes a British schoolgirl circa 1983 would've been playing on her Walkman. A man can't salvage a reputation built entirely on Army of Lovers and owning every Bananarama 12" single in existence.

Why do you think so many people want to know if you've ever been busted whether wanking or with another person?

I don't think it's anything personal; I don't think I give off a vibe of "Oh, he's so careless he must be busted ALL the time."

Instead I think it's simply a pretty common fantasy that men have—specifically passive men who prefer to masturbate and fantasize rather than go out and get it. They don't want to hunt down a three-way with a man and his wife, so they fantasize about getting caught by the wife and forced to do all kinds of unspeakable acts. They don't want actually to initiate sex with someone they've fantasized about, whether it be a family member or a nun or a teacher or a stranger in a bathroom.

For men who are too fearful to act upon their urges and have actual fun, I think this fantasy of being 'busted' has a few powerful charges. It sexualizes what they already perceive as shameful or even criminal, and it puts them in fantasy situations in which they have no choice but to admit to and act upon their forbidden urges. The fantasy makes the uncontemplatable, unavoidable.

For someone like me, who just does whatever the hell he wants, it's simply a mystifying and weird obsession.

No, I've never been busted. I can fucking hear the sounds of cars in the driveway and footsteps in the hall, moron.

I recall that you received the 2010 cast recording of A Little Night Music a while back. Do you have favourites for stage musicals? Any reason for your choices?

Yes, I do. I've loved all kinds of theater since I was a kid, musicals included. I'm not particularly apologetic about it, either. So here's a few long-time favorites.

I love She Loves Me for the sweet score and the unapologetic romance—plus the plot's been used in at least three movies (The Shop Around the Corner, In The Good Old Summertime, You've Got Mail) and is pretty indestructible. Candide is a favorite because I love the score, and the same for the more obscure The Grass Harp, which is based on one of my favorite novels.

Sometimes I'll have a fondness for a musical because I love a certain performer. So I like On a Clear Day You Can See Forever and The Apple Tree because of Barbara Harris—and Barbara Cook was in all three of the musicals I mentioned in the previous paragraph, come to think.

Some other favorites: Little Shop of Horrors, Hedwig & the Angry Inch, Once on this Island, 110 in the Shade, Bells Are Ringing, and The Full Monty. I also have a soft spot for Mame, the all-African-American production of which was the first show for which I played in the orchestra.

So yeah. As unfashionable as it is to admit, I'm kind of a big Broadway hound.

It seems to me that you like fulfilling other people's sexual fantasies. Do you have any of your own fantasies that remain unfulfilled?

Yes, absolutely. I've stated before that the one fantasy I have that has never been attempted, much less fulfilled, was of being restrained and blindfolded and then serviced and forced to top a bottom guy who could do anything to me he wanted. Or more ideally, a bunch of anonymous bottoms.

Guys always say "I'll do it!" But they never do.

Do you think your sexuality was shaped by your experiences or do you think you would have had an attraction to men if your first sexual experience had been hetero?

The logic behind this sort of question seems to imply that if a kid encounters a homosexual early in his life, he's 'imprinted' in a way that can't be shaken—and that if he'd encountered a good, decent girl, he'd be an upstanding heterosexual instead.

Sexuality doesn't work like that.

We like what we like. We seek out what we like. If I'd wanted to have sex with a girl, I would've sought out sex with a girl. I wanted sex with men, so that's what I chased after.

My earliest sexual impulses came as young as kindergarten, when I had vivid fantasies—not explicitly penetrative, but all of them involving nudity—with some of the daddies of the other kids on my school bus. They weren't a result of any contact with a homosexual. They were my own. Of course my sexuality has shaped my experiences throughout life—that's absolutely undeniable. However, my sexuality isn't something that happens to me, while I stand by as a passive observer. Nor should it be.

Friday, August 17, 2012

It Hurts

“It hurts.”

The Runt’s brow is furrowed low. His lips are trembling; they’ve been pressing themselves into tight, wordless circles as I worked my fat head and most of the thick, engorged shaft into his skinny little butt. His legs are nominally perched on my shoulders as he stares up at me, but really they’re hovering. The hair on his calves is so wispy that it’s barely there, but it tickles my neck and collarbone in little butterfly landings as his feet tense and flail in the air.

He speaks again. “It really hurts.”

It’s not a complaint. I can tell by his tone he’s not whining, not mewling like a child. The words are simple statement. They’re a prayer. Breathy. Sincere. His dark, clear eyes stare directly into mine. I pause. This boy is so pretty. He’s been letting his hair grow a little long and wild this summer. It’s spread across the pillow in dark chocolate waves. He stares at me like I’m the only sun in his universe—though we both know I’m more the crescent moon, three-quarters shrouded in darkness.

I cock my head sideways, like a bird. His gaze follows. “You are so beautiful, son,” I whisper to him. Joy and relief spreads across his face like a splash of watercolor paint into a clear, clean glass. I watch it unfurl until it tints every reach of him.

He wants to show me how grateful he is for the praise. He strains to lift his head. I help him by slipping my fingers beneath the leather of the dog collar around his neck. It’s the only thing he’s wearing. The leather creaks and strains as I pull him into a kiss. Our lips mold to each other; our tongues connect. I shove mine into his mouth, deep, all the way. He goes limp again, reminded of the invasion taking place below his waist.

“God, it hurts,” he whispers.

“You want me to pull out?” I ask. I have no intention of pulling out. “I’ll do it. It’d be a shame to pull out, though.” I have absolutely no intention of pulling out. “It feels so damned good, but if you’re in pain, I will pull out.” There is no way I’m pulling out.

His cock lies on his abdomen, untouched. The stiff, red, wet muscle jumps, leaving another sticky thread of precum connecting its tip to his stomach. Deep down, the Runt needs to please me. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He knows that if I pull out, it's because he’s letting me down. It’s a weak and vulnerable point to which I apply the chisel, then hammer away. “It’s just that you feel so good,” I tell him in a hush. “And you look . . . so . . pretty. It drives a man like me crazy, just looking down and seeing how pretty you are. How . . . fuckable.” The word drops slowly, like a leaf. I feel his hole twitch around me. His entire body shivers. “But if you want me to pull out—“ I move a few muscles, as if I’m fixing to withdraw.

But I have no intention of pulling out.

“No,” he says. His fingers claw for my thighs, my arms, my hands, anything to keep me inside. “Don’t.”

“You sure, kiddo?” He nods, uncertain at first. Then with more vigor. “All right then,” I say with a smile, pretending it wasn’t going to end like this all along.

When I shift him back into position, he winces for a split-second. His meat jumps again. “How much more?”

I pull his hand around and up to where the two of us connect. “Two inches,” I say. “Maybe three.” Our eyes never unlock.

He nods.

I know how this dance goes. I’ve fucked him for months, now. He’s tight, but he’s not as tight as when we first started. I know that all I need to do is push, and smile at him, and coo encouragement, and keep the pressure on his hole. It’s the last stretch, the roughest part of this particular road. The last two inches. He’s straining and shoving back, determined that I should break past that second ring and into the deepest part of him. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He wants it as much as I do. Hell, he wants it probably even more than I do, at this very moment.

“Oh god, it hurts.” I feel his muscles rearranging themselves, inside. There’s a clutching at my cock’s head, a last show of resistance. Then I strain through. I sink all the way into him. My eyes flicker down briefly at the sight of his balls contracting, the sac moving from fluid to tight, to almost non-existent. His eyes close. His head rolls to the side. His throat strangles a low cry. “Yes,” he tries to say.

Then it happens. It always happens at this point, when I’ve opened that second hole. His hands are on his knees, nowhere near his cock. But his shaft pulses and jerks. His hips buckle. His knees open wide, then scissor shut, over and over again. A jet of sperm erupts from his dick. Another. Then another. He’s got pain and pleasure permanently hardwired together. One elicits the other. “It hurts.” It’s barely a breath. I can only hear the words because the world around us is silent. “Oh fuck, it hurts.”

I stare with satisfaction down at the scarlet, distended flesh engulfing my shaft. We both know it’s a lie. He’s never felt so good.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012


I’ve been back to my old alma mater many times in the nearly thirty years since my graduation. I barely recognize the place, now. As long as I’m in the old section of campus I’m fine, but once I wander past the boundary line of the old, historical buildings, I have a tendency to get lost.

There’s been so much construction there since I left, you see. The library had a whole new facade constructed around it; there’s a huge student center in the center of campus that wasn’t there during my matriculation. Where there used to be a large and deserted stretch of grass for field hockey is now a veritable Times Square of activity, where new air-conditioned dormitories and tall classroom buildings shadow student-crowded sidewalks.

I guess on a solipsistic level I expected it to remain the same forever. I was young; I didn’t know any better. Plus during my time there, the only construction that took place was during my sophomore year, when my freshman dormitory burned to the ground and had to be rebuilt.

Then there was the Muscarelle, the art museum that sprung up the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I’d spent the previous summer back at my parents’ home, working at King’s Dominion up the road, but I’d taken on extra hours at my job in the ice cream store and in a burst of independence had decided to spend that summer shoving sticky cones in thirty flavors to tourists taking a break from their colonial sightseeing. I loved my summers in Williamsburg. Despite the fact I was working most days for a good eight-hour shift, I had plenty of leisure time. My female friend Perry was in town that summer as well; she and I spent a good deal of our hours off exploring the little town, wandering places we weren’t supposed to, and investigating every open door on the college campus—occupied or not.

The Muscarelle appeared almost overnight, like a July mushroom. One minute there was a marshy stretch of land next to Phi Beta Kappa hall, and then suddenly a pocket-sized museum. The Muscarelle attracted attention because of an installation of plexiglass tubes all along one side of the building. They were filled with water dyed in a number of vibrant colors that immediately began blooming with a vicious and unbanishable algae that made the spanking-new building look like some kind of target of a post-apocalyptic bio-terrorism attack.

But Perry and I liked the Muscarelle simply because we were poor, hungry, sometimes bored, and
could count on a good museum reception—they had many, right after it opened—in order to score an evening’s worth of free wine and cheese. If we saw that the museum being prepped for a lecture or a private event, we’d dress up in our very best (and honestly, I shudder to think at what my very best was, in those days, even by Southern standards, compared to what the actual adults were wearing), smile and slither into the museum, mingle with the strangers, and position ourselves at the refreshments table while we stuffed our gullets with free food and boxed rosé.

Ah, my salad days. I don’t miss them a bit.

It was at one of these events that I locked eyes with an older gentleman—very handsome, very tall. He had curly salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed beard, in a decade when the only men really sporting beards were either fishing for bass on Sunday morning television or driving tow trucks and wearing overalls with their names sewn on. There may have been a lecture that night; I seem to recall a bunch of the people present circled around some guy yammering on about something. But this guy was outside of the group, and I was over by the cubed Swiss with a plastic cup in my hand. He kept looking at me, and smiling. I was slightly tipsy, and smiled back. I remember thinking I was particularly dressed up that night, in my khakis, my short-sleeved turquoise-blue shirt, my best Docksiders, and my (here I sigh, and remind everyone it was the nineteen-eighties and I was only eighteen) bolo tie with a hammered copper clasp.

I wasn’t really the kind of guy who kept up these flirtations indefinitely. Not now, not back then. If I sniffed blood in the water, I was in there like a hungry shark, and this guy was chum to me. After I’d made sure that Perry was occupied elsewhere, I jerked my head in the direction of the men’s room. He followed.

We went right at it, in there. He unbuttoned the bottom two-thirds of my shirt and yanked down my
pants and went down on my cock. I fell back against the wall and dizzily let him blow me. I seem to recall the Muscarelle really only had one men’s room, and it was the sort that had no stalls or urinals, but only a single toilet and a lock on the door. It wasn’t long before someone rattled the doorknob expectantly, but we weren’t deterred. With our trousers around our ankles, we ground against each other, big cock to big cock, mouth on mouth, enjoying the tastes and smells and new, exciting scents of the unexplored. His hands groped my skinny ass.

“You wanna go somewhere?” he murmured. They were his first words to me.

I did, but I hadn’t considered anything long-range, not beyond getting this guy alone and seeing his cock. The two of us were in a locked bathroom with only one exit. Anyone just beyond the door would be certain to see us leaving. I had Perry waiting for me, out there. Plus I was living in a dormitory with my born-again Christian roommate; I had nowhere for us to go.

He solved the problem by exiting the bathroom after instructing me to count to thirty before I came out. Then he left me in the dark. (Now, as I reflect on it, I’m thinking the guy was an ass. It’s courtesy to let the boy out first. I mean, jeez. That’s what I’d do.) I followed my instructions and was relieved to find that no one was really in the vicinity, or raised an eyebrow when I came out. I found Perry and told her I had a stomachache and that I’d meet up with her the next day. Easy enough.

As for the last issue, the guy had that covered. He had his hands plunged deep into his slacks to cover up the boner he was sporting when I met him outside. He apparently knew the campus quite well, because without any backtracking or hesitation he led me to Morton Hall, which was home to the economics department. On the building’s first floor was some kind of graduate lounge with a sofa and a study table. It happened to be one of the few public places on campus with a door that locked.
(I remembered that important fact for the future. I had more fucks on that graduate lounge sofa than anywhere else on campus, eventually.)

Once the door was shut, we stripped all the way down. He mounted me on the sofa; I’d wanted to make out with him, to get smoochy and romantic, but he had my ass in mind. The moment my back hit the cushions, he had my legs up and apart and his sizable cock probing for my hole. He wanted to shove in raw, without lube. Off-balance as I was from his hands on my ankles, I managed to stop him and slick myself up with a little bit of spit. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing—and I was grateful for the chance to get it in there before his cock forced its way in.

I was infinitely more adept at taking fucks back in my bottom days, but even his dick hurt. He didn’t care. He just spied something young and fuckable and easy, and his intention was to breed it as quickly as possible. To make his mark and move on. He didn’t ask if I’d done it before, didn’t ask if I enjoyed getting fucked. He just lifted my legs, shoved in his meat, and went at it. He huffed and puffed heavily as the lower half of his lean body pistoned in and out; he got both my ankles in one of his hands and used the other to steady himself against the wall.

Without so much as a word or a gesture, without asking if I was doing okay, he took his pleasure from me. And I was one hundred percent good with that. That’s what I was made for, back then. I wasn’t thinking about the locked door, or wondering who might have a key. I wasn’t worried about Perry or the fact I’d left my bike in the Muscarelle rack. I just wanted cock. It was what I was there for. It was my purpose.

He didn’t come with a big climax. I felt his cock pulse a couple of times. He stopped thrusting and closed his eyes. He let out the smallest and most minute of sighs. If I hadn’t been quiet, I would’ve missed it. He held himself inside for a moment while the last of his sperm drained into me. Then he pulled out, hopped up, and started dressing.

“Thanks,” I said, reluctantly pulling on my own clothes.

He didn’t say anything.

“Maybe I could see you again sometime,” I said.

He pulled on his pants and sat down to tug on his socks.

“Are you on campus a lot?” I tried.

“Listen, kid,” he said. His voice was gruff. “You were just a fuck. That’s it.” He made sure he had his wallet. “That’s all this was ever going to be.”

Then he walked out. Thinking about it now, I realize the was pretty much an asshole.

At the time though, with my boner still bobbing between my legs and an ass full of his sperm, and the taste of him still on my lips, I thought it was one of the hottest and most romantic things a guy could’ve said to me.

Like I said. I was eighteen. And definitely not as smart as I thought I was.

Monday, August 13, 2012


One of my Sunday-morning questions yesterday reminded me of a story that took place in Toronto, years ago.

It was during the late nineteen-nineties that I discovered the city of Toronto as a good sex vacation destination. The U.S. economy was so strong then that one could get almost two Canadian dollars to the U.S. dollar, even at the crappiest exchange spots. It was a cheap, cheap vacation. And in Detroit, I lived all of ten minutes from the Canadian border. I knew plenty of people who thought absolutely nothing of popping across the river for a dinner in a foreign country.

I wasn’t one of them. Even before 9/11, when crossing from one country to another was still a simple matter of presenting your driver’s license, answering a couple of vague questions, and being waved blithely through, I would get the flop sweats whenever I’d go through Customs. Maybe it was the way the Canadians would peer at me when I rolled down my window and would ask if I was carrying any firearms. Maybe it was the way the U.S. officers would peer around in all four corners of the interior of my Malibu as if I was harboring Canadian wetbacks scheming to enter the country and take all of the red-blooded American jobs in the logging and donut shop industry, eh.

Or it might have been that until that point, the only reason I had for going to Canada was for drug smuggling. Oh yes. I was a drug smuggler. I needed the stuff I could get only over the border. I needed it bad. Especially in the spring and autumn. I’m talking about, Claritin, here. Yes, the allergy drug.

In my country at the time, it was a prescription-only pharmaceutical. You had to jump through hoops and go into the doctor regularly to get a regular supply. In Canada, you could just walk into any drugstore and cheaply (so cheaply!) buy as much of the stuff as you liked. I’m not at all convinced it was illegal to bring back Claritin from Canada into the States, but I was reluctant to declare it at the border, and paranoid about being busted with the stuff, so I’d shove it under the seat (I didn’t say I was a very good drug smuggler) and flop-sweat through the interrogation I was sure to face at the border. Then somehow I discovered the world of Toronto and its gay district, and the trips there made having to be grilled by men and women in uniform all worthwhile.

Toronto had a very concentrated gay district back then—several blocks up and down Church Street that was nothing but gay bars and baths and gay-owned restaurants. It’s still there, but it’s not as long a stretch, and it’s not as gay. My favorite bathhouse was The Barracks, a leather and wild-side-oriented establishment (since closed) that was a bit like a bathhouse opened up in a couple of old downtown brownstones. It was so far from Church Street, though, that I’d have to plan my visits to that side of town. When I wanted a spontaneously, late-night whoring session, I’d choose the Bijou, which was near the gay district and my hotel.

I’ve written before about my other favorite spot, the old Toronto Bijou. When I started visiting, it was still calling itself a bar—though basically it was a clothes-on basement bathhouse that served alcohol. There were booths down there with peepholes and gloryholes carved in every surface, including the doors; there were labyrinths of hallways that led to dark corners where men fucked and sucked. There was a large, open pitch-black room that could only be accessed through a series of increasingly-darker rooms leading to its interior. And between bellyfuls of semen, men could hit the bar for drinks. (Later, after the place was raided, the bar was removed and the place was officially classified as a bathhouse.)

My favorite room in the Bijou, though—and I’ve written about this before, too—was the slurp ramp. The slurp ramp was a walled platform accessible by stairs, around all sides of which were holes right at cock height. Men standing below the slurp ramp would find these holes were right at mouth height.

Well. You can imagine what went on. As much as I love fucking—and my readers know I love fucking—I also love sucking cock, and the slurp ramp afforded me the opportunity to exercise that side of my personality. I loved standing in the darkness behind the ramp for hours, claiming my gloryhole, and sucking off anybody who stepped up to it. Sometimes at the end of the night I’d exit the Bijou and find my shirt covered with dried semen. Caked with it, really. And that would’ve been just a small portion of the stuff I’d actually swallowed.

One night I was working the ramp from the suck side when a total stallion of a man climbed up on top. He wasn’t tall, but he was built like crazy. His biceps were roughly the size of my neck; his hands, as they clutched the top of the slurp ramp wall, were enormous and meaty. He looked like a living Tom of Finland illustration, all overblown muscles and hyper-exaggerated masculinity. The only light in that room came from a TV screen in the room’s front. It was possible to see how fucking handsome this guy was in its dim bluish light. He had a shaved head and the dark, thick eyebrows of a Greek native. He regarded the throngs of hungry cocksuckers below with a critical eye. Like the many guys around me who wanted a piece of him, I looked up at him with adoration and prayed that he’d pick me.

He didn’t. He picked the guy at the hole next to mine, a good-looking boy in a tank top. I watched as the guy’s cock disappeared down my neighbor’s throat, envious. I wasn’t envious for long, though, because the Greek saw me watching. He put his free hand on my head—his other hand was on the boy’s crown. He riffled my hair, holding me still and indicating through his body language that I shouldn’t go anywhere. Then he pulled out of the boy’s mouth, put his dick through my hole, and fed me.

His dick wasn’t long, but it was thick and uncut and hard as stone. I could taste the other boy’s spit on it, but I didn’t care. I just wanted that meat. I sucked him all the way down and gave it my best effort, and was rewarded when I heard him grunt with pleasure. He withdrew again, and fed the boy some more.

Back and forth between the two holes he went. The boy and I were his chosen mouths, and he liked us both. Eventually the boy came over to my hole and we slobbered over the Greek’s dick together, making out and letting our tongues flick against the other’s. The boy was into me, too. His hands thrust down my shorts to haul out my dick; he was well-hung himself. When the Greek would take one of our heads and thrust it down on his tool, the other would go down to our knees. I’d suck the boy hard and deep while he was on the Greek, and he gave me some of the same treatment when it was my turn to service.

We all lasted like that for a very long time, while around us men pushed by and lingered and watched and tried to get in on the action. Eventually, though, I could tell the Greek was picking up the pace. His grunting increased, until he sounded like a pig rutting; the amount of precum flowing from his dick went from rivulet to gushing stream. And his thrusts got more and more violent. At one point he was holding the back of my head while he powered his dick down my throat, before releasing me as I started to gag and doing the same to the other boy. “I’m gettin’ close,” he said. When he spoke, it was with a thick and unexpected accent.

He grabbed the back of my head, and pulled it down, hard, onto his cock. He’d been aiming for my mouth, of course. But whether I’d turned the wrong way on my trip up from between the other boy’s legs, or whether he was just too hasty in his thrusting, all I know is that I felt—rather suddenly and inexplicably—the jarring sensation of bone (his) against bone (my skull), a blinding flash of purple light, and a hell of a lot of pain from my left eye socket. The pain was so awful for a moment that for a moment I wasn’t even sure that my eyeball was still there. Clutching my face, I staggered backward into a wall of bodies, the men who’d been surrounded the pair of us as we’d been servicing the Greek. Neither of my partners seemed to notice I’d left.

Cursing and panicking, I managed to make my way to the men’s room. It was the only place inside the Bijou that was lit. My eye was streaming with tears and I panicked to see a lot of fluid on my chest. For some reason I was convinced it was squishy eyeball juice. Reason eventually took over and I figured out it was just a mixture of cum, precum, and general slobber. It seemed to be taking forever for my left eye to come back into focus, however. After a moment and some hunting along the surface of my eyeball (once I could open my lids), I realized that I’d lost my contact lens. It didn’t seem to have been pushed elsewhere on my eye (other contact lens wearers will know what I’m talking about, here). I didn’t want to get all dramatic at two a.m., but there I was in a foreign country, with only one contact lens and a difference in vision between left and right that was eye-watering at best and maddening at worst. I didn’t have my spectacles back at the hotel—they were sitting on my bedside table at home. And I had to drive back to Detroit the day after.

So I did what any sensible faggot did. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, figured I’d work it out in the morning, and went back to a sucking dick, cock-eyed, for another two hours. I stumbled back to the hotel at roughly four-thirty in the morning, smelling like the inside of someone’s jock.

Yeah. Good times.

What I learned from that experience, though: seriously, don’t let someone fuck you in the eye socket. It hurts like hell and bursts a few blood vessels. Also, carry your eyeglasses with you in case of emergency, when you travel, as well as a pair of spare contact lenses. And finally, if you do lose your contact lens, head to the nearest optometrist. They’ll call your doctor, get a confirmation of your prescription, and give you a sample lens, gratis.

Whether or not you make up some fictional story about losing it while drinking, or tell them that you lost it at the Bijou’s slurp ramp . . . that’s up to you.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Boston Market of Fate Edition

There aren't a lot of fast food chains close to me. The county in which I live is snooty enough to look down its nose at them and forbid them permits. And for the most part, that's fine—though I really miss the Pei Wei chain. Recently a Chipotle franchise managed to sneak its way in, and so fabled and exotic it was that the residents here spoke of it in hushed tones, as if its burritos had received Michelin stars. Meanwhile I, who'd had too many Chipotle branches nearby when I lived in the Midwest, always thought of Chipotle as that place I might go to if I guess I was parked nearby and my favorite real Mexican restaurant was closed and I didn't feel like driving to Taco Bell.

There is a Boston Market very close to me, though. For those unfamiliar with it, it's just a roasted chicken restaurant that serves a few other things—roasted turkey, meatloaf—along with a lot of traditional side dishes like stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn. It's not all that special, but the quality is decent—and a couple of weeks ago, when I was a bachelor here for a few days, I was feeling lazy enough that I didn't want to cook, and didn't want to drive. Boston Market seemed like a good fit. I went in, ordered a plate of something, ate it while I read a book, and went home.

Simple enough, right?

Earlier this week I got on Adam4Adam and found a message from someone there I'd been pursuing for a while. He's handsome man whose schedule doesn't quite mesh with mine, so we mostly exchange brief messages of regret. This time, though, he'd written, Didn't I see you at Boston Market not too long ago?

It turned out that he'd been there when I'd walked in, thought he'd recognized me, but didn't say anything. I, apparently was too set on getting turkey into my belly or on my book to look around and recognize him. I told him that next time he should make an effort to come up and say hello, at least, and then we rekindled our promises to get together at some point.

It was two days later that I got an instant message from a guy on Manhunt. Hey, he said. I think I saw you at Boston Market a while back. After a little questioning I found out that he, too, had been eating his meal at the place when he'd spotted me. Talk about weird coincidences.

Then last night I got another Manhunt message. You look familiar, he said. I think I saw you out and about a couple of weeks ago.

I was totally going to be freaked out if he'd seen me at the same place. I asked him if it was at Boston Market. Nah, he wrote. But it's weird you mention it. I met my ex-bf at that place.

So single guys. Stop hitting the bars, stop trolling online. There's a chicken restaurant near me you should check out. Apparently it's where all the action's happening.

Let's get to some questions that have been accumulating on

Do you think piercings are sexy? Where do you like them best?

The first body piercing I ever saw—other than the standard pierced ears on women—was a P.A. on one of the first dicks that fucked me, back in the mid-nineteen-seventies. Piercings on men were pretty damned exotic then, and not only had I never seen one before, I'd never even conceived it was possible. So I was fascinated by it, for the thirty or so seconds before the guy started ramming it in me.

I still think a P.A. looks hot on a guy.

When other forms of body piercings started to be popular in the nineteen-nineties, I thought they were hot for a while, but they became so commonplace that the novelty wore off. Nipple and scrotal piercings neither turn me on or off; weird ear piercings, bridge piercings, and eyebrow and navel piercings just make me want to dab the person off with a cotton ball and some disinfectant.

However, I am for some reason a sucker for a nasal septum piercing on a man. That's hawt.

Have you ever banged a man whose/wife or kids were in the house in another room? Have you ever been busted at your home by your wife or kids?

In answer to your first question, yes, I have had sex with people who had other household members in nearby rooms.

I've played with men and women both who had sleeping children in other parts of the house, and a few times with couples who'd invite me over after they'd put their children to bed. I've fucked younger guys living with their folks, while their parents were around (typically, upstairs, while we'd screw in the guy's grungy basement 'apartment'). A few times I fucked men in their dens, garages, or basements, while their wives were sleeping upstairs. And a fewer times than that, I did it while their wives were around and knew about it and didn't really care.

I don't get why I keep getting asked if I've been 'busted' or 'caught' at home. It's not like masturbation makes me suddenly deaf to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, for the love of god.

Weirdest place u ever got banged ?

This is like that infamous Newlywed Game question.

"In my left eyeball." (He was aiming for my mouth.)

Have you ever been caught in the act by your spouse or someone else's spouse/partner?

Nope. But I had a couple of close calls. And once I had a guy drag me across the kitchen with me still in his butt when he got a call from his wife mid-fuck telling him she'd be home in ten minutes and asking if he'd taken out the ground beef from the freezer for dinner. He hadn't. That's why he sprinted for the fridge with me in tow.

If, given the opportunity to meet one of your social media friends who you encountered online and with whom have solely had an Internet relationship, would you take it to meet them? If so, who?

I have several times taken relationships that had been online acquaintances into real-life friendships, or one-night stands, or ongoing fuck-buddy relationships.

I think it's preferable simply to knowing someone through their tweets or through an instant messenger, in fact. I'm very glad to be able to know people of so many different backgrounds, and from such diverse parts of the world, thanks to the internet. But there's nothing that beats meeting someone face to face and enjoying them as the whole person.

What's one goal you've set for yourself in 2012?

To get through it without hearing someone slaughter "Bad Romance" at a karaoke bar.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Open Forum Friday: The Crush, Take Two

Apparently, when it comes to crushes, I have a type. And that type is big, pretty, and stupid.

Also, it doesn’t hurt if the guy’s a bartender—but perhaps (and I hate to generalize, here, because I know some clever people who work on the opposite side of a sprawling bar) bartending is one of the last refuges of hope for the pretty and stupid. But after the last couple of years, and after the last couple of serious schoolgirl crushes I’ve endured, I’ve come to realize this about myself: take some pretty guy with dark, floppy hair and big brown eyes who’s never finished high school, put him in a tank top, and stick him behind a counter and ask him to make drinks for me, and boom, every night the guy is slinging liquor, you’re sure to find me there gazing at him mutely, with my chin in my hands and little pulsating heart-shapes where my dilated pupils used to be.

I wrote about my last bartender crush while I was still living in Michigan—pretty Lenny, he of the the long brown hair and the big brown eyes and the lanky body. Lenny, king of the vacant expression. Lenny, whom I watched with longing from across the bar on so many nights, and who I was so certain harbored some vibrant inner light that kept his soul nourished—a yen to become a serious artist, or a journalistic photographer. Lenny, who, when I finally sat at the bar and attempted to strike up conversations, stood there clutching a giant Tupperware container of liquid to his chest and spooned it into his mouth. Then who, in the same dopey tone as the abominable snowman in the Bugs Bunny cartoon when he squeezed Bugs hard and said I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him!, said through a mouthful of the stuff, “I like soup! Soup is good!”, forever ruining my vision of his secret artistic and sensitive nature. Because the only thing nourishing that boy was Campbell’s Chicken Noodle.


And now I have a crush on another bartender. Tommy, his name is. Tommy used to be an underwear model. He used to appear on the pages of Men’s Fitness. He’s got that classic combination of enormous brown eyes, sloppy longish hair, and muscles that makes my chest tighten and my heart go pitty-pat; when he slouches around the bar in his ratty jeans and a T-shirt, I stare at his biceps and long for the day when I find them holding me tight around my chest while he whispers the sexier sonnets of Shakespeare into my ears. When he wears a tight tank top and lifts it up to wipe his face and reveal his tanned abs, I’m reduced to a gibbering idiot who can only drool and say ‘Whuh?’ in response to any conversation directed my way.

But Tommy has, I’m not that surprised to have to relate, about the same mental acuity as a soggy baked potato. I kind of became aware of it the first time I asked him to make me one of the speciality drinks listed on the bar’s menu, and I watched him scrunch up his eyebrows and furrow his forehead as he peered at the ingredients and worked his lips as he silently sounded out the words. I haven’t had him tell me in a caveman manner that he likes soup, yet, but our conversations usually run a little something like:
HIM: So I got an audition in the city tomorrow!
ME: That’s fantastic. What’s it for?
HIM: It’s for a movie film.
ME: A movie . . . film?
HIM: Yeah! Like you know, in the movie film theaters. It’s for a Road Warrior movie film. I guess it's supposed to be like Mad Max?
ME: The Road Warrior was a Mad Max movie fil—I mean, movie..
HIM (confused): Nuh-uh?
ME: I’m pretty sure.
HIM: So they like that I got this longish hair so should I like, grease it down or leave it the way it is?
ME: Which is going to look more post-apocalyptic?
HIM (confused again): Apo—?
ME: Apocalyptic.
HIM: Apo—?
ME: Apoca. . .
HIM: Apoca. . .
ME: Lyptic.
HIM: Lyptic.
ME: Apocalyptic.
HIM: Apoppapoptic.
ME: Apocalyptic.
HIM: Apocaclyppic.
ME: Apoppapipp—which is going to look better for the movie film?!
It’s a good thing he’s so pretty.

This week I sat down at the bar and Tommy immediately asked how my week was going and what I’d done that day. I made some small talk. “Ask me how my day is going,” he said.

“How’s your day going?” I replied obediently.

Fantastic,” he told me. “You know why? Because I’m an ideas man. I got all kinds of ideas just like, coming out of my brain! Because you know what the brain is, right? It’s spirits! And once you got those spirits in you, it’s like a genie in a bottle! You rub it, and rub it, and rub it—“ And here, to demonstrate what the word rub meant in case I wasn’t clear, he started moving his palms all over his chest, so that his tank top revealed his nipples and navel. I’d been carrying a copy of Next Magazine in my hands, but at the sight of what typically one has to pay a monthly subscription to see streamed live from, it slipped out of my hands and onto the floor, along with my jaw and my dignity. “Then you rub it right and make your wish and boom! It might not come right away but it comes on its own time and when it does it rushes all through you and outside of you and it feels like a goddamn orgasm, that’s what it feels like.”

Well. I basically stood there slack-jawed, having heard only one word of that entire speech (I’ll let you guess which one). He went to take someone's drink order; I stared and stammered until someone jostled me into a seat. Tommy came back over after a moment. “It’s like when I was a dancer,” he said earnestly to me. “There were dancers, and then there was me. I’d give ‘em a little of this—“ Here he held his hands on his abs and bit his lower lip and did some sexy little thrusting motions with his hips. “And a little of this—“ He put his hands behind his head, sneered, and ground his package at the freezer. “And I’d be thinkin’ outside the box with each and every client because I’m an ideas man, and that’s why they kept comin’ back to me instead of to those other dancers. Because I think outside the box!

My throat was dry. I couldn’t speak. Somehow I got the impression that his dancing career had not been in the New York City Ballet. I was having ideas. Most of them were dirty. I noticed he was looking at me expectantly for some kind of reply. I tried to work my lips, but all I could do was look in those big brown eyes and at those bulging biceps and stutter out, “Um . . . huuuh . . . whuh?”

Which frankly makes I like soup! seem like a quip worthy of the Algonquin Round Table, in comparison.

So you know the kind of guy that makes me go moony, speechless, and head over heels. This is a Friday open forum, though. What about yours? Do you have a type for which you have a perpetual weakness—not so much as an object of sexual desire, but more for an unrequited schoolkid crush or a serious case of puppy love? Or have you had a thing for a dumb but pretty bartender, too? Let’s hear about it in the comments!