Sunday, September 30, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Rubbing One Out Edition

I've written about this in the past, but I was kind of a doofus about masturbation when I was a kid. I went from dewy-eyed innocent to masturbation fiend all in the space of a single hot summer afternoon, when in my single digits I first I got the idea to go somewhere private (my family's attic, which was about a hundred degrees), to pull down my pants, and to wrap my legs around a cardboard box in which my mom's guitar had been sold, and to hump it until . . . well, I didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but instinctively I knew that something had to, because it felt so good.

When that first orgasm came, it was so unexpected and crazy that I thought I'd passed out from the heat, or perhaps had a heart attack. But if that was what heart attacks felt like, I wanted another.

So for months and months and maybe even as long as a year after that, whenever I masturbated, it was by rubbing and humping. I would straddle the rounded corner of a mattress and push and rub and hump like a rabbit until I orgasmed. Or I'd put a rug on the edge of the tub, and wrap my little legs around the cushioned porcelain, and jackrabbit my way to a climax there. I humped an old vertical support beam in my basement, and a tree trunk in the back yard, after dark. Eventually I hit on the concept of folding my pillow in half and straddling it in bed, which was the most comfortable means of all—and I stuck to that for a long time.

It wasn't until I started hanging out in the cruisy men's room on my parents' campus and saw men handling their own dicks with their hands—a totally novel concept for me—that it occurred to me that it might be digitally manipulated. It took me a long time to figure out a way to do it, though. I started out by making my index finger and thumb into a loose circle that I'd draw up and down the skin of my dick with a light touch. I'd keep that up until I was ready to blow, when I'd grip my meat with my thumb and forefinger only and quickly jerk it off. I didn't use lube (I still don't, when I'm going solo). I use a full-fisted approach now, but I've only gotten there gradually, over the years.

I bring up the topic because I was chatting with a friend who was telling me how he used to masturbate pretty much exclusively as a kid by sticking his dick between the cushions of a sofa and fucking the fabric; I also knew someone else who as a kid stuffed Kleenex into a thermos bottle and fucked it like a proto-Fleshlight.

It just goes to show you that when it comes to getting our dicks off, the most untaught among us will expend all of our creativity in making it happen.

How about you guys? Masturbate in any creative and unexpected ways when you were kids and didn't know any better?

Let's get to some responses from

Have you ever met someone who's read your blog before a face to face meeting with them & had them expect an intimate relationship with you & were they pissed when you wouldn't give them what they expected?


I won't go into detail—just as I haven't in my blog—because I don't want to betray that kind of trust. Having someone feel they know me, and having someone want to know me because of my writing, is a big honor. I don't take it lightly. Having someone become infatuated with me because of my blog has happened a few times, and usually I know—and they know—that it's not me with whom they're really infatuated, but some idealized version of me, a sexual superstar, a handsome super-stud, and a tireless lover that could never exist. (Well, maybe the tireless lover part exists.)

When they find out I'm just an ordinary-looking guy who does attempt to relish the life he lives, but who also is vague about what day of the week it is, who forgets to pay bills, and who has a severe phobia about talking on the telephone, and who cusses like a redneck in expensive restaurants, it's disappointing both for them and for myself.

On one level there's not a lot of disconnect between the way I present myself in the blog and the way I am in real life. The blog is very much the real-life me. But somehow it's easier to overlook the flaws of the blog me, than when the real me is stammering his way through yet another dull ol' story.

You ween't hurt by your experiences as an adolescent regarding sex & you haven't become either a pedophile or homophobic so why do so many people seem to insist on informing you that these men you played with are monsters & pedos?

Cultures tell themselves stories, and grow to agree upon them.

Think of it this way. Half a century ago, the story our culture told about gays was that they were a menace to society, a shadowy subculture of a handful of subversive sexual demons and predators who all committed suicide from unhappiness and blackmail. We saw that theme everywhere—in our magazines, in movies, in novels and plays, on news programs. Over the years we've revised that story many times—there was a period in the eighties in which gays were well-meaning young men who came out and then died of AIDS, and then in the nineties in which we were every girl's asexual best friend.

And look at how we as a culture are revising the story today—it's all about protection, whether of gay youth from bullies in the schools, or bullies trying to take away equality rights from the grown-ups.

The problem with these stories is that we dislike it very much when someone deviates from the accepted narrative of the moment. People fifty years ago were scandalized and upset to find that there were gay men who were quite happy about their sexuality and didn't intend to pick up a gun and do the respectable thing. And in a turnabout, the dominant culture these days can be upset when finding a good man and settling down into a marriage isn't the first thing on a nice gay boy's mind. On television, you don't see prowling, sexual gay men—they're either in a marriage or marriage-equivalent, or yearning for a storybook wedding. That's a big shift in narrative.

At the moment, the accepted narrative about adolescent sex is that the young people involved are all victims, and passive innocents at the hands of horrible monsters, at that. A century ago, the cultural narrative might've been that fourteen, or fifteen was the age a girl might start thinkin' about gettin' hitched to an older swain. Even in my youth, parents grudgingly distinguished between genuine abuse and kids just messing around; now it's all lumped into the same victimized category. As I've said many times before, doing so does a great disservice to youth who are genuinely abused and mistreated, and whose stories are mixed up with the likes of horny sluts like me.

A culture often achieves progress by rewriting its narratives. On the converse, the dominant narrative can obscure and erase the very real stories of how people behave outside that accepted narrative.

When we buy into myths, or contribute to that noise, we're doing nobody any favors.

Have you ever played strip poker or a strip version of another game?

I've never played a strip version of another game for real. I suppose Doctor doesn't count?

The closest I game was challenging an online friend to Strip Carcassonne. However, we kind of just skipped to sending each other nude photos by the end of the third turn.

You seem to have an almost psychological understanding of what people expect or want from you, did you study psychology or have you always been astute & able to read a person?

Coincidentally, I was a psychology major in college.

I say 'coincidentally,' because studying that subject really didn't give me much of whatever insight I can claim to have into behavior, whether anyone else's or my own. What a degree in psychology gave me was a grasp of statistical analysis, the chance to babysit obnoxious and violent teenagers in the wards of a local psychiatric hospital, and a fervent desire not to enter an actual psychology-related career.

What is your personal policy around tipping? Do you tip every shmo who has a hand out, or do you only tip for excellence, or somewhere in between?

It's often true that some professions are, quite legally, paid well under the minimum wage with the expectation that they'll make up the difference with tip money. For that reason, I will tip wait staff and bartenders and drag entertainers a good amount, without hesitation. Not to do so is pretty willfully rude, I think.

However, if my service is bad—if I'm forced to wait an especially long time, or if the waiter is snappy or dismissive or manages to bring down my dining experience—I will leave almost no tip. (I won't leave out a tip completely; I don't want them assuming I simply forgot.) And generally I will tell their manager why.

I will occasionally tip people like ice-cream scoopers who don't traditionally earn tips if I'm in a good mood and/or they are super-cute.

Do you own something you are truly proud of?

I don't get a lot of pride in ownership out of objects. I don't buy cars to show off my tastes or (god knows) my wealth. I haven't lived in the flashiest neighborhoods in the biggest houses. I don't wear rings or jewelry or expensive watches that I show off proudly, the way some people do.

If there are any physical objects I own of which I'm proud, they're objects I've made myself—the results of my artistic career, for example. Those I can display with a lot of pride. Handmade objects I use to decorate my home? I'm proud of those. If I can make something myself that other people enjoy and that's beautiful, I'm proud as hell of it.

Friday, September 28, 2012

A Butt-Chugging Good Time

I swear to god, if I turn on the radio or television and have to hear the phrase butt-chugging again, I’m going to take a gun and blow out the speakers. It’s not that I’m offended by the phrase itself, inelegant as it is. What bothers me is the way that most of the newscasters speak it, as if wrapping their lips around syllables so closely related to the evacuatory channel is beneath them—though it’s very plain that most of them get a thrill out of being able to get away, finally, with saying something so crude on the air. Even Anderson Cooper, when he started talking about butt-chugging on his program, wore a little raised eyebrow that indicated he thought the whole thing was. . . .

Wait. You don’t know what butt-chugging is? Let’s back up.

There was a news article earlier this week that reporting about an incident at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity at the University of Tennessee. I don’t know about your colleges for those of you who went, but back in the day, the Pi Kappa Alphas were the target of many a jack-off fantasy of mine, because at my school they were a uniformly hot bunch. Whenever I’d see one of them coming my way in those maroon-colored sweats with the gold greek letters on the outer thigh, I’d melt. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were also uniform assholes, I would’ve almost regretted never rushing. Anyway, the incident involved a near-fatal poisoning from an alcohol enema. Alcohol, when douched into the rectum, gets absorbed into the bloodstream very quickly; it’s possible to get much more drunk rectally than it is by actually drinking.

Naturally, the report was bizarre enough to mainstream America that it couldn’t be treated as an isolated incident. No, it had to be classified as a trend, and given the name of butt-chugging. Any news outlet would have you imagining that all the cool kids are butt-chugging on college campuses these days. Hell, they’re probably butt-chugging in the men’s and women’s rooms between seminars, and butt-chugging in their dorm rooms instead of doing what coeds did in the good old-fashioned days when canasta, flagpole-sitting, and goldfish-swallowing was the height of craziness. Twenty-three skidoo, and all that. Parents are now supposed to educate their children on the dangers of butt-chugging. Priests will need to sit down with younger members of their flocks when they sense trouble and ask the question, “My child, are you a butt-chugger?”

It’s all ridiculous, of course. Alcohol enemas have been around forever. It’s never going to be a ‘trend’ because come on, let’s get real. How many frat boys are so un-homophobic that they’re going to give each other enemas? No, people. I’m talking about real frat boys outside of one of those streaming pay-per-view porn websites.

I encountered the phenomenon first back in the late nineties, when a guy who’d share his bottom at small parties would first buzz the boy up with a beer enema. The younger guy was still in training in taking multiple big dicks, so a quick flush to the colon with a Fleet bag and a cheap beer (I have a memory of it being a generic brand, because like his top said, he wasn’t going to have to taste it), and the hole was ready for a couple of hours of fucking. No nausea, no risk of puking—just a quick buzz followed by two or three men piling on to fill him up.

At the other end of the spectrum was a fellow I knew in Chicago who would invite me to his apartment when I was in town, who fancied himself a kind of specialist in the art of the wine enema. He kept a kind of log of his experiments in oenophile colonics, and was as much of a snob about what vintage went up his shitter as if he’d been a member of the Windy City Wine Council. Desperate to impress, he would keep the bottle from which he’d decanted his expensive douche by the bedside table. When I’d be undressing on my arrival, he’d bore me a little by telling me about the label, its history, and the year of its creation; he’d also offer me a glass—as if I wouldn’t be tasting the remnants on his butt cheeks in a few minutes.

On the whole, I had more sympathy for the guy with the generic beer. At least he didn’t have any pretense about what he was doing.

Now, alcoholic enemas aren’t something I’m recommending. They can be dangerous, or even fatal. I don’t even find them vaguely erotic; about the best I can say for them is that at least they don’t leave one’s breath smelling foul. But to pretend they’re something that’s done only by crrrrrazy frat boys is to do a disservice to the vast spectrum of sexual behavior among both gay and straight people (oh yes, straight people do it, too). It reinforces the act as a fetishized, marginal behavior. It sensationalizes what is really not that exceptional an experience, and makes it titillating.

But you know, maybe it’s a little bit worth it, if only to see Anderson Cooper try to keep a straight face while saying the words butt-chugger on the air.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Best Boy

The Runt’s got on his collar, like a good boy. He’s naked and sitting on my living room floor, his little butthole exposed and scraping against the carpet. His knees are drawn up; his hands hang between his legs. He’s squatting like a monkey. No inhibitions. No self-awareness. His mouth is on my cock, and the only mind he has for the moment is centered on that shaft of meat. He sucks at it greedily, his jaw opening as far as it can, as he struggles to take my dick to the base.

I’ve got his warm spit running down my sac; its skin contracts from the touch of his smooth chin, then expands from his hot, steady breath. My fingers run through his long hair, trying to clear it from his eyes. It just flops down again. I’m not saying anything, but I sigh. I gasp when he uses his tongue in what he clearly fancies is an exotic manner on the underside of my head. Finally I allow him to push me back into the depths of the armchair, where I sink into the cushions. Pleasure shackles me down. For long, endless moments, I’m his sweet prisoner.

“Do I make you feel good?” he asks after a long, long time.

The Runt rarely speaks when we have sex. We might make small talk when I pick him up from his place and drive us to whatever destination I have in mind. The minute he’s naked, though, his only remarks have been indications of assent. Breathy yes sirs. The occasional please. A fuck yes that’s little more than an exhalation. A question like that? Never. I drift to full consciousness like a man beneath layers of blankets waking to a cold and sunny morning. “What?” I ask. “Of course you do.”

When I open my eyes, he’s got his right hand wrapped around my cock. It’s slimy from his throat, big, distended. He’s still sitting on the floor, lips cherry red from the work they’ve been doing. His own cock, untouched, stands straight up. It points at his navel. It’s rigid, deep pink. There’s a slight browning at the tip of his foreskin. His eyes glisten with moisture from all his effort. “I want to make you feel better than anybody else,” he pleads. “I want to be the best you’ve had.”

I reach out with my hand. Like a puppy searching for a pat, instinctively he leans forward and rubs his cheek against my hand. I cup his chin in my palm, and pull him forward. “You want to be the best?” I say. He nods. I can tell from his eyes that he wants that more than anything. He wants to give me pleasure. He wants my pleasure more than his own. He wants it more than Christmas. “Then suck me.”

He looks at me with adoration, then opens his mouth and engulfs my still-stiff shaft. Briefly he looks up at me to see my reaction to his mouth, but I’m already lost in the rapture of the boy’s slick throat. My left hand hooks under his collar; my right holds the back of his head, pulling him down until I feel myself hitting a wall of resistance. I pull. His body buckles. He chokes, spitting a fine mist onto my pelvis. I can feel the noises of his gagging deep inside, but I keep him held down on my dick. “Make me feel good, son,” I urge. “Make me feel real, real good.”

I watch him struggle. His body is telling him to flee, to clear his mouth of the huge obstruction making him choke and gag. His dick, though, strains in the air and thrusts into nothing as it grows even harder and more needy at the command. His back arches in at attempt to push away; his hands clutch at me, refusing to let go. He’s releasing enough saliva from his pretty little lips that it’s slopping down my nuts and leaving a wet spot on the armchair cushion. It’s nothing, compared to the wet my meat is producing.

At last he comes up for air, his lanks of hair all but obscuring his eyes. His lower lip is trembling. It’s swollen and red. Almost beestung. He’s overcome with phlegm, and spit, and pain. “What do you say?” I asked.

“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Thank you.”

It’s the little amen to the silent prayer he’s been saying on his knees, this last half hour.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him, looking him straight in those tear-filled and unblinking eyes. “Now,” I add. “Make me feel good. Make my cock feel real, real good.”

He knows what to do. He scrambles to his feet and bends over, exposing his little pale ass. I apply my mouth to it and wet his hole. He tastes clean, like soap and detergent, and whatever body spray he’s applied in the belief I care how he smells. I could eat him out all night, but he waits until he’s slicked up, and then disengages.

I’m still wearing my T-shirt. He’s naked, and still stiff as an iron rod. He lifts a foot and steps onto the chair. The other foot follows. His toes dig into the space between the upholstered arms and the cushion as he lowers himself down. It’s an awkward position, but he’s young and flexible. “Do you really want to make me feel good?” I ask him. “I mean, really want to?”

He nods. He’s apprehensive about the fuck, I can tell. He always is. I watch him struggle between the need and the knowledge of how much it’s going to hurt, going in. The need wins out. “I want to be your best,” he whispers. “I want to be the best you have.”

“Then do what you have to do, son,” I tell him, stroking his cheek. He looks at me, trying to gather his nerve. I stroke his cheek, nodding. Giving him permission to do what he wants.

He takes a breath. His fingers grope for my cockhead, aligning it with his hole. Up and down his hips raise and lower as he makes a couple of false starts. Then he takes the head, and hesitates.

“Do it,” I command. “Do I have to force you, boy?”

Although for a moment, he looks as if he’s considering it, at last he shakes his head. Another deep breath. Then I feel all of his weight pressing on my cock. I make it swell, to withstand the assault. I feel the first ring open, and he begins to slide down. Then, after some struggle, the next tight ring of muscle gives way. He’s around me, and the pressure of his little hole is tighter and sweeter than anything else I could wish for at that moment.

The assault on his hole, self-inflicted though it was, makes him cry out sharply. The sound reflects around the wood and plaster of my living area, bounces into the dining room, echoes from the kitchen. His hole is twitching, he’s bucking around with his eyes closed, his nose wrinkled in a rictus of agony. “Fuck!” he yells out, with a wet catch in his throat.

He sinks all the way down until I’m buried in him. For a moment, he relaxes. Only for a moment. Because as it always does, the pain of entry triggers his first orgasm. He’s openly sobbing. The moisture in his eyes is now tears. His lips are stretched wide, pulled into an ugly shape.

But he’s the prettiest sight in the world, right now.

I feel the warmth of his semen on my chest, my left nipple, my belly. It slides down and puddles around my navel. He hasn’t touched himself once. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he says, like a little boy at the end of a spanking. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

“Ssshhh,” I tell him. The feel of my hand against his chest calms him. His breathing subsides. His sobbing slowly ceases. His eyes open, and stare into mine. “It’s good,” I say. “It’s okay. You can’t help it.”

He shakes his head. Whether it’s to say he really can’t help it, or that I’m wrong and he’s still sorry, I don’t know.

“Now show me what my best boy can do,” I tell him, sinking back into the cushions once more. I let his warmth blanket me. “Show me who’s my best boy.”

He brightens at the words, and shines like that sun on a cold morning, bright, clear, and intent in its purpose. Then his eyes close, and his head tips back at the sensations he produces as he begins sliding up and down on my shaft.

I know I’m going to be in for a long, long ride.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Shorn Nuts Edition

Is there any better sensation than a pair of freshly-shaven nuts?

I know from experience that such a seemingly innocent question will raise all sorts of controversy. Is there any deeper divide in our population than over the question of manscaping? No! shouts a vocal chunk of hair-lovin' hirsutes. Keep them nuts natural!

Yes! shout an equally avid proportion of guys who keep afloat the business of porn featuring young guys with bodies freakishly devoid of any trace of follicularity. Hair is icky!

Ordinarily I tend to fall in the middle of the debate. I like a guy to keep his natural body hair. I think it's beautiful stuff. I wish I could grow it. Belly hair, chest hair, small-of-the-back hair—it can all be very sexy. At the same time, I enjoy the sensations of a cleanly-shaved hole, or the flat of a pelvis from which all the public hair's been shorn. The sandpapery sensation of a shaved chest against the flat of my hand can be sensual. I love rubbing my hand over a shaved skull.

It's your body, I say. Do what you want to do with it, and with the stuff that grows out of it.

But I like to keep my nuts clean, generally. Though most of my hair is very soft and very fine, my balls have some genetic throwback to a Viking forebear, apparently; any hair that grows there comes out red-blond and coarse to the point that each strand is roughly the thickness of a small twig. I can picture some ancestor of mine, after a good night of pillaging and raping along the medieval coastal regions, plucking one of his scrotal pubes and using it to pick his grotty teeth, or perhaps employ it as a crude lockpick.

So I shave. Every week or so I grab my razor and have at it, hacking away at the undergrowth like some kind of explorer in the African wilds. I used to use a safety razor, but the results were less than optimal—plus I was occasionally slicing myself, and that one area from which one just doesn't want blood oozing. I tried a very gentle depilatory. While its results were fantastic, the very gentle chemical burn it produced didn't encourage me to use it again. And it left me walking bow-legged for a week.

Now I use a body razor—one of my readers used my wish list to replace the one I had that'd given up the ghost after having to thwack its way through the jungle tangle for several years. When it's done, I feel free. I feel clean. I feel civilized again.

Another confession: I occasionally trim the hair that grows around the ring of my nipples as well. But only when it's so long that I can braid it.

Where do you guys come in on the shaving thing? Do you like it on yourselves? Prefer it on others? Think it's an abomination unto the Lord?

While you discuss, I'll get to some questions rounded up from

First experience with rimming? Doing it and getting it done?

This is an interesting question about which I had to think long and hard. I seem to recall that I was very much resistant to rimming when I first encountered it in the years after I started having sex with men. The majority of the sex I was having in my early teens was in public restrooms and in the woods, and in those situations there wasn't any rimming whatsoever; the guys who occasionally took me home during that time apparently weren't big on it, either.

I don't think it was until right around the time I met my mentor, Earl, that I learned about rimming. Whoever suggested it to me first—I don't remember the name—described it as 'you lick my dirty butthole and I lick yours back'. It did not sound at all appetizing, and I wouldn't agree to do it.

It was several men later that someone explained that it wasn't about dirty buttholes, and then he flipped me over and did it to me. I was kind of amazed that it felt as good as it did. It took a few more encounters with rimming before I tried it myself, though. I'm grateful that I had clean asses to perform it on pretty consistently, because otherwise I would've run feeling from one of life's greatest pleasures.

We know from your blog a broom handle has been used up your butt, was there any other non-traditional items used as a dildo in your youth or today?

I haven't used an anal toy on myself in at least a decade. The last time anyone used one on me was a guy in a bathhouse who had a bookstore's worth of adult toys in his play bag, and who relaxed me enough to get a few finger-sized butt plugs and a very pleasurable inflatable vibrator inside my hole.

But those aren't non-traditional. As a youth I had my broom handle, but I also experimented with vegetables—a cucumber, a zucchini, the narrow end of a summer squash, a carrot. I was afraid to try anything fragile, like a glass bottle, or anything that I might accidentally lose in there, like one of my mom's lipsticks or something similar, because I'd read in one of my parents' sex manuals that homosexuals were always inserting stuff light bulbs up their rear ends and requiring emergency surgery.

That manual was stupid, of course. But then later on I knew someone who was playing with a dildo on cam and lost it up his butt and had to go to the hospital. (He was a dumbass. He should've just relaxed and let it work its way out.) So maybe the author wasn't too far off.

Do you believe bi-sexuality is a choice or do you believe that most people are bisexual to some extent but choose to ignore same-sex or hetero attractions in keeping with their most dominant attractions?

I believe when it comes to sex, we don't get to make a choice about what desires we have, but we can choose whether to act upon them, and with whom.

That is, I don't believe that someone chooses to be bisexual. I believe that people have an innate set of attractions, and that a certain proportion of the human race is sexually drawn to both men and women. Some people will embrace their feelings and sleep with both sexes; others may recognize the impulse, but confine themselves to sleep with one sex while simply recognizing the attractiveness of the other. Someone else might choose to honor a monogamous commitment and forswear the other sex; another person might be frightened of his feelings, squelch his same-sex attraction, and pretend it's not there and never act upon it.

(This also happens with gay men, by the way; I've known many who've been curious about having sex with a woman, but who never act upon it for some reason or another.)

The choice in sexuality, from my perspective, is either to have it, or not to have it. Anti-gay foes would prefer that we not. When they talk about choice, they seem to believe that not having the evil gay sex is all it takes to make someone straight. It does not. Those desires are always going to be there, acted upon or not.

Personally, I don't think that inaction makes one more virtuous, or restrained, or saintly. It is simply a denial of the rich abundance that life offers; it is slamming the door in the face of opportunity, and intimacy, and experience.

Do you think you look more sexy naked or just wearing underwear? Anyone ever tell you one way or the other?

I think generally—and I'm swimming against the mainstream here—men (and women) look sexier naked than in their underwear.

Underwear has been fetishized too much, I think, in the last ten or fifteen years. Ever since Marky Mark posted in his Calvin Kleins, in fact. Guys seem to think they don't have to bring anything to the table other than a photo of them in designer underwear and it automatically makes them super-sexy.

Whatever works for them, I'm happy to encourage. But for me, when I'm lying in bed with someone and we're enjoying that post-coital haze, the first thing out of my mouth isn't going to be, "Wow, your underwear was really amazing."

If it is, it's because they were doing it wrong.

Why are so many obsessed with your home/family life

I don't know that many are obsessed with it. I think some are fascinated by it in the same way audiences were fascinated by strippers like Gypsy Rose Lee, in the golden age of burlesque—she showed her audience quite a lot, but not everything. As a consequence, men were obsessed with what remained under wraps.

I think additionally a lot of people aren't used to seeing someone live his life as he damn well pleases, for the most part.

Friday, September 21, 2012

T.F.A.Q. (Too-Frequently Asked Questions)

One of the reasons I have a weekly-ish bit in which I answer reader questions is because I get a lot of questions. A lot of questions. Guys find one of my sex site profiles and shoot me queries there. My email inbox gets snowed under, sometimes, with inquiries from well-wishers or just the curious.

You know, there’s nothing wrong with the curiosity. I invite the questions by keeping so open a record of my sexual adventures. I know I write in a way that some people find personal and engaging. I tend to do things for a reason, rather than just random spur-of-the-moment randomness. I know that to some, the combination of my ordinariness and my sexual bravado encourages intimacy. That’s fine.

But I have to admit that there are some questions I get asked over and over and over again, to the point that when I see them, all I want to do is roll my eyes. Any regular reader of my blog knows the answer to these questions from memory, I’m certain. The top five go a little something like this:

What are your fantasies?

My fantasy is never to be asked this question again.

My impression of guys who enjoy talking about fantasies is that they clearly intend to leave them in the realm of the unapproached and the never-acted-upon. My sex life sailed from that particular dock many years ago. If you’re asking my fantasies just to see what makes me tick, you’re taking the wrong approach. Pick a handful of entries from my back log at random and read them. That’ll teach you more about me than any fantasy I could share, if I had any.

I see you like kink. I’m kinky too! What kind of kink do you like?

I don’t have a set agenda, or a pet fetish. I’m very open to all kinds of sexual activity.

Almost every time I’m asked this question, it’s a set-up for disappointment; I think I’m about to discover someone who’s into something so vile and perverted and exotic that the activity has only been described once, in a Latin scrivening found only in the locked archives of the Vatican. I’m prepared for all kinds of unholy revelations that will make me recoil and cover my ears and search fruitlessly for something to take the taste of sweet sin from my mouth. Then the guy will say something like, Yeah! I’m into sniffing feet! Or Yeah! I like rimming!

People, rimming is not kink.

The basic rule of thumb here: if you’ve looked at my profiles and you’ve read my blog and you still have to ask me what kind of kink I like, chances are very good that your definition of kink and my definition of kink are on very different scales.

How do you find the time to have all the sex you have?

I’ve answered this question more than any other. The facts are these.

While I have a lot of sex, I’m not at it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I do make time for sexual encounters because they’re important to me—the same way I make time for my work, my family, for meals, and for reading. You make time for things in your life, whether it be working out, or hitting your local bar, or playing Angry Birds.

Chances are that if you spent less time in front of your computer looking at internet porn, or masturbating, you could find time to have actual sex as well. It might be scarier and less of a sure thing than your right hand, and sure, you might have to face rejection every now and then. But chances are you’d find it better than that free porn clip site you have no problems visiting for multiple hours a week . . . or a day.

Does your spouse/family/parents/co-workers know about your sex life? What do they think about that?

I don’t talk about my home life on my blog for a reason. I don’t respond to the question when people email me privately to ask. This is really an area that’s pretty much off-limits, period.

I know that the fact I draw a line frustrates some people. They don’t seem to realize that I’ve given over a lot of my personal life and my history in the pages of this sex journal. I share a lot of information. Instead of being thankful for what I do share, however, with a certain subset of readers the fact that I don’t share all the information that piques their curiosities, upon demand, infuriates them. They push, and push, and when I remain silent on the matter, they stomp off angry. Sometimes very angry.

All I really ask is please recognize that I do draw occasional lines. I’m consistent about them. Challenging me, or damning me when I do, won’t make me change my mind.

As I state in the sidebar of my blog, your assumptions about my home life are simply that. Assumptions. I’m not asking anyone for details of his life than he doesn’t want to share. Please respect me in the same way.

It’s crazy that you invite guys back to your house for sex! I can’t believe that happens!!

I’ve written about my teenage whoring, getting paid to jerk off for a married guy, getting rimmed by someone’s over-intimate dog, a guy who serviced my feet while I wore his dad’s socks, and a fellow whose fetish was to shampoo my hair while I sucked him off, and you’re balking at the notion that I’d have sex in my own home?


Monday, September 17, 2012


There’s a billboard I see in the South Bronx every time I take my commuter train into Manhattan. Right before we clatter over the bridge into Harlem, it looms over the squat brick rooftops. On it is a single word, in all capital letters: GRATITUDE.

I’ve noticed the sign many times during my trips back and forth from the suburbs into the city. Never before had it come so sharply into focus as last week, when I seemed to see every detail for the first time. The sharp serifs of the letters. The rusts and oranges of its construction. Its one-word message—or maybe it’s a warning—rises from a background of confusion and clutter, like so many messages do. But it’s there among the rooftops and the water towers, rising above the graffiti and the junk yards and the boarded-up windows, waiting to be seen.

On that day, that one noun threw everything into focus.

I’d gotten a message from Spencer, the young dancer who had been so much a part of my life in 2010 and 2011, when I was living on my own and trying to sell my home to rejoin my household on the east coast. We were constant companions then. We spent every evening together, watching movies and television. He shared my bed, nights. We fucked constantly; I had my hand inside his ass many times.

For a spell Spencer was mine, and I was his without reservation, without straying. Then my house sold, and the bubble burst, and we went our separate ways.

I loved Spencer. I still do. From time to time he’ll send me one of his poems. When I read beyond his images to discover messages of lost affection and of separation, I’ll spend most of the rest of my day fighting back tears and trying to pretend to the world that nothing is wrong. Whenever I’ve thought of him, and of how I had to leave behind his face, his beautiful body, and his sweet presence, I ache inside. It’s a genuine, deep-down hurt that never seems to lessen in intensity. The wound has widened as more and more time passes.

Even as I wax sentimental about our relationship, I have to remember this: we both knew from the start that its duration was limited. I also have to keep in mind that the moment I left town, Spencer started to get his life together. He’d had aspirations before; what he didn’t have was direction. Within the month after I left the area, he landed a job teaching ballet at a local college. He moved out of his parents’ house and into his own apartment. He began choreographing pieces that had existed only his head, when he’d tell me about them.

When I left, Spencer started becoming the success I knew he could be. My departure was the nudge he seemed to need to venture to the edge of his comfortable nest and contemplate taking wing.

Then he went and landed himself a graduate school scholarship abroad. That's a definite honor, and just the beginning of something big in his future. School starts this week for him. He needed to spend a week in New York City, last week, to expedite the red tape for his visa. He texted me upon his arrival and suggested that we get together in the city his last day there. I suggested lunch. Sure, he texted back. Or maybe we could just get a hotel room or something.

My heart ached at that message. I stuck to lunch. I don’t think I could’ve stood rekindling a physical relationship with Spencer, and then having to give him up for another two years.

So there I was, commuting into the city, dreading the meeting. I mean, really dreading it. All I could think of were the tears I wanted to cry whenever I think about Spencer, and the tears that were certain to follow when I said goodbye to him a second time. I thought about the potential awkwardness of meeting an old lover after a year and a half, and of the things he might say to me and the hurt I might feel. I wondered if we’d outgrown each other—or worse, whether upon meeting again we’d discover that we’d never fit as well as I thought we had. I worried about how I’d react if I had to hear that he’d fallen in love with someone else.

In short, I’d fretted and sulked and backed myself into a mental corner over this meeting. Finally I’d decided that I was going to endure it with a smile on my face, but that I wasn’t likely to enjoy it, under any circumstances.

Then over the Bronx I saw the billboard with its message. It caught my attention as we jostled over the trestles. GRATITUDE. The word made me think. It made me remember the tenderness I had for the boy when we were together, and how determined I’d been at the time to enjoy the sweetness of our time together without worrying about the future. I remembered how hard I’d fallen for him, and how fast. I recalled the love I had for him during the best times, as well as at his most frustrating. I thought with fondness of how I could buy a refrigerator full of groceries for him on a Monday and have it empty by the end of Tuesday night.

I reminisced about how I’d introduced him to Doctor Who and how we’d watched the entire new seasons together, snuggled under a blanket on my sofa with the cats, and how he’d excitedly outlined the plots of all his favorite anime series to me. I thought about how he used to kiss me, and the hunger his body and his touch aroused. I thought about how he used to gasp at my cock inside him, and of the aroma of his just-soaped skin when he would join me, steamy and still wet, from his shower at night.
I thought about all those things that made him so precious to me during those months together, and as the train sped into the dark tunnel that leads to Grand Central, I remembered how we’d clung together like lost boys in the dark of my old house, in an embrace so tight it felt as if we’d never let go of each other.

I was grateful. I was so grateful. And I was so happy to have had him in my life.

In the Starbucks in upper west side where we’d agreed to meet, I saw the back of his head when I approached the door. I knew it was Spencer immediately, even from a distance. My heart skipped a beat at the sight. When I stepped inside, stood in front of him, and held open my arms in an embrace, the last of my doubts fell away. I was nothing but happy.

I’d been a fool ever to doubt how right we’d been for each other. We fit perfectly, puzzle pieces that interlocked and formed a complete picture together. I didn’t have to endure his company, that afternoon. I was free to revel in it. I took him to lunch, and listened to him talk excitedly about his plans for the future, and about his new school. We caught up on television and gossip. We laughed. We opened up.

He told me he missed me, but that my absence had taught him to appreciate what he had, when he had it. I told him, as I had in the past, that I loved him, and that I always would. I told him that he’d always have a place not only in my heart, but a place to visit when he needed a home away from home.

Because of gratitude, I was able to tell him all these things, and mean them. Hours later, when we had to part, because of gratitude, I was able to take the train home with a light heart and no tears in my eyes. My mind was already running over the memories of an afternoon that had been spent in the company of someone I love dearly.

He’s a fledgling perched at the edge of a nest, my Spencer. I’m proud to know him. I’m grateful to have had that time with him before he takes what is sure to be glorious flight.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Straight to the Chase Edition

I keep forgetting exactly how busy I get when the school year starts back up. It'll calm down some within the month, but dang. It cuts down on my writing time.

That's why I'm hopping straight to the chase with this week's round of questions collected from my page at Won't you pop over there and ask a few of your own?

What are the questions that you get repetitively & what is a question that would shock you and one question that you would love to be asked but haven't been asked yet

1. The questions I get asked repeatedly are 'have you ever been caught masturbating/fucking?' and vague, generic questions like 'what position do you like best?' or 'what do you like to do during sex?' I get asked a lot of questions about my home life to which I don't respond.

2. I'd be shocked if someone asked a question based on reading my blog and actually synthesizing what I put out there, in a non-abusive way. That is, if someone had a critical follow-up question to some point I posed.

3. I don't really have a single question that I am dying to discuss but am waiting for someone to ask about. I am a self-starter, and if I'd wanted to talk about it that much, I probably would have already. That said, I like questions that let me ruminate about sex but that aren't mundane or fall into the first category here—in-depth questions that let me draw on my experience and offer my opinions. I like personal questions that don't pry into my home life. And I like questions that let me be silly.

If you could have an orgy with the cast of a tv show, which show would you pick?

If you had asked me this question when I was a kid, the answer would've been Gilligan's Island. I know, so embarrassing. But The Professor was my first TV crush, and I had some vague Gilligan/Skipper fantasies that I couldn't explain, in my presexual single-digital days. Plus Ginger was hot.

These days? Probably Firefly. Everyone on that show was pretty damned fine.

Did you watch any of the Summer Olympics? If so, what is your favorite sport to watch and why?

I just turn the sound down low and watch the sports featuring the men with the least clothing. It's kind of like socially-acceptable porn.

Do you sleep on the left or right side of the bed? Does it matter for you when making out with someone which side you are on?

I sleep on the right-hand side of the bed. Even when I'm alone, I stick to that side.

During sex, though, I don't really care what side I'm on. I've got other stuff on my mind.

When did you understand that sexuality is more fluid than most people think? and I don't mean the bodily ones..LOL

Although I was born in the relatively repressed early nineteen-sixties, I was lucky to be born into a household with parents who thought rigid gender roles were pretty much utter nonsense. In other households the boys played with certain types of toys and the girls with others; I recognized pretty early on that it was unusual for me to be able to play with any toys I wanted. Even a doll or an Easy-Bake Oven.

I remember reasoning at a very early age—before I started school—that the rules weren't 'rules' per se; they were just constructs that different families adopted for themselves, and my family played fast and loose with such things. And if that applied to toys, then it had to apply to other areas of life.

I didn't discover sexuality until I hovered around my double-digit years, but even then I could sense that my family was different. My parents were anxious to talk to me about the facts of life, where other parents wouldn't even allow them to be mentioned.

When I started playing around, the sheer number of married men I had sex with made me realize that there were clear-cut societal rules about fidelity, and then there was the actual way married men behaved when their wives and families weren't present. The fact I recognized such a thing didn't surprise me at a young age. It wasn't really that different from learning that although at home a male friend of mine would have been scorned and punished for playing with a Barbie, at my place he'd put the doll through its paces as if he'd been playing with it all his life.

How much time a day/week do you think you spend looking for a sex partner?

Very little.

The answer might be surprising, given the amount of sex I sometimes have, but I put very little investment into it. If I go onto a hookup site online, I do not sit at my computer and pore through the profiles hunting for the ideal partner; I simply log on, and if there's an option to set my availability to 'looking for now' or something similar, I'll do that. Then I let guys hit me up.

In the meantime, I'll do my work in another computer application, return every ten or fifteen minutes to see if I'd gotten any offers, and otherwise go about my business.

It may take an hour or more to get the right offer, but the amount of time I actually spend looking is next to nothing, and all I have to do is write back a handful of short emails in response to the ones I collect. I tend to get a lot of inquiries from horny bottoms, but a lot of them are of the 'nice cock!' variety, another huge bunch are along the lines of 'I wish I were closer to take that monster!', and a handful are 'Looking for now?'

I tend to be pretty disciplined about not actually hunting for sex, but casting the net and getting the sex to hunt for me.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Return of Reader Assets: #24

You asked for it! And here it is!

Well, okay. Technically, I asked for it. I begged and cajoled and pleaded for you guys to send in photos of your assets—your butts, your dicks, your chests, your fuck shots. Whatever it is you wanted to show off to other readers. And, ahem, to me.

Thanks to my smooth and somewhat shrill pleas, I got enough entries for a couple of columns. Go you guys! It only goes to show what great sharers you are. And what great-looking guys you are, as well.

A reminder: if you'd like to participate in the feature, just read my instructions in this post and send me your junk! I'd love to see it.

Let's take a peek at a few of you. And as a reminder: if you click on the photos, they'll get bigger. Like so many other things.


Now, I have to confess that Leatherman is a buddy of mine with whom I've swapped photos and stories for quite a long time. He hails from the city of Toronto, one of my favorite metropolises—and don't think I'm not disappointed that he and I never met during my visits there.

What I really love about Leatherman is how perfect that ass of his is. Round. Hairy. Beautifully framed by that black jock, which is one of the few pieces of gear that really turn me on. And in that second photo, he's obviously ready for mounting.

If it can't be me, it should be one of you guys. Any volunteers?


When I see photos like this one, I just sigh, and sigh.

Now seriously. Isn't that beautiful? Look at how the hole peeks out from that sexy forest of hair. And look at how that hair covers those hot thighs and the small of his back. I mean, you can't get made-to-order guys with hair like that. I've tried.

This ass is one of the most fuckable I've featured in this column. Mr. Breedmeup goes by the same name on BBRT, for those of you who are inclined to get in touch with him to arrange a meeting. (And if you do, let me know the details!)


Let me give you guys a little general hint about guys who send me email who happen to have nicknames like Shyandquiet. They usually are anything but.

Or maybe he is the quietest and shyest exhibitionist I've ever had. I don't know. Maybe he blushed several times before he flopped back on the floor next to his computer and remote and lifted his legs to show off his hole to several thousand readers. Maybe he was really, really abashed to flip over and raise his butt in the air as if he were about to be drilled.

Or maybe, like so many of my readers, he's a normal guy—a sexy guy to be sure—who might be a little bashful when he's out in polite company . . . but who turns into a total wildcat slut when his pants drop.

Either way, he's turning me the hell on.


(If this video isn't showing up for you, follow this link.)

My occasional commenter Seph, with whom I share a delightful correspondence, is a handsome fucker. He suggested that his rear end is perhaps not his best asset. After this video, I'm inclined to agree that he has a hell of a cock.

There's something awesome about watching a guy masturbate, isn't there? It really shows how he likes to receive pleasure, and the types of touches and squeezes that will lead him to orgasm. Seph's hand action isn't at all the straight up-and-down beating motion. He twists his fist around the knob with a slight circular motion that I find really, really sexy. And the deep bass grunting noises he makes when he unloads? Fucking pricesless.

Thanks for sharing this, Seph.

Thanks to all of our exhibitionists, shy and otherwise, today. I hope you guys will let them know in the comments how much they're all appreciated.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012


The man is huge.

I know his stats from his profile. He’s 6’5”. Forty-two. Two hundred and forty pounds of muscle. Body fat that puts the percentage of my breakfast cereal milk to shame. But neither the raw numbers nor the pics in his profile prepare me for the sight of him. I’m sitting on the steps of my front porch, where I’ve been waiting for him for a few minutes. Whatever greeting I’ve been intending to make dies on my lips, unspoken, when I watch him unfolding that mammoth body from the interior of his car.

He’s wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of shimmering track pants. His feet are size fifteen. His athletic shoes look like small watercraft. As large as his body is, his enormous hands seems disproportional to everything else. They’re like clubs, or pendulous blunt weapons hanging from his arms. They’re like cured hams, hanging from a rafter. His face is carved with the broadest and craggiest of features. It’s handsome—everything about him is handsome—but it’s tough, and masculine.

He’s a brute. The man looks like a walking Tom of Finland illustration. Every feature is exaggerated to its most masculine proportion. His shoulders, his chest, his butt, the tree trunks of his legs. He looks like a cartoon character. Bluto from the Popeye comics. Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. When finally I do collect my senses and greet him, I’m not surprised when his voice is a deep, rumbling bass.

Yet he’s not there to chat. We shake hands and exchange polite hellos. I lead him into my place. He glances around, looks at me, and without prelude hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his track pants. They slide down to the floor in a silky, synthetic puddle. He’s wearing a jock underneath. Its bulge is considerable.

I’m usually pretty confident in my skin. I look like my online photos. I don’t overpromise and underdeliver. I’m also usually taller and larger than most of the men I meet, though. Next to this brute, I’m a 98-pound weakling.

But I don’t let it show. “Take off the shirt,” I order. He obeys immediately, pulling the tank over his head and letting it fall onto the coffee table. He’s wearing nothing but those enormous size fifteen beat-up shoes and his jock, now. His chest is sculpted, the muscles taut. “Turn around,” I say. Obediently, he does. His ass is fucking beautiful. The elastic straps of his jock perfectly frame the cheeks. My glance glides upwards from those round globes to the narrowness of his waist, the perfection of his back, the broad shoulders. His arms hang by his side. He waits more orders.

“Come with me,” I tell him. “We’re going to the bedroom.”

My shorts hit the ground by the bed. I hop up onto the mattress, lift my knees, and spread my legs. He lowers that hulk of a body between them until I feel his breath on my groin. I’m soft when he starts to suck me—perhaps I’m more intimidated by the brute than I care to admit, even to myself. It’s mere seconds, though, before I harden and fill his mouth and throat with cock.

He sucks with vigor. He sucks not because he only wants the load, but as though he relishes the feel of my meat sliding in and out of his lips. He likes that piehole opened and stuffed with dick. He’s not anxious to bring me off. His throat collapses and expands around my shaft; when he reaches the bottom, he makes little grunting noises. But he’s unaware of them; he’s lost in his pleasure. His hips grind and thrust against my mattress. His hands reach up beneath my shirt to play with my nipples.

“You like that?” I ask in a low voice. “Is that what you wanted? That cock?”

His lidded eyes open, lift in my direction. There’s adoration in that look.

“Tell me,” I order.

“Yes. I love your cock,” he says, barely comprehensible with my inches in his gullet.


“Yes, Sir. I love your cock. Sir,” he says.

“Show me yours.”

He lifts himself to his knees and pulls down his jock. His own meat, hard and dripping, outclasses mine by a mile. It has to be a thick nine inches, and it’s at full attention. His balls are enormous. When I reach out and hold that shaft in the palm of hand, it’s hot as a fever. He’s on fire. Inwardly, I curse whatever gods gave him all the physical goods.

He’s not there to have his own dick serviced, though. It might as well be a puny pinky finger’s worth, for all he cares. He wants me, and he wants me inside him. When I push his face into my pillow and part his cheeks, he groans like a man in agony. When I lick and suck his hole, he pushes back with need. He reaches behind and holds his ass wide apart to give me access. He buckles and moans. His hips fly up, while his shoulders and middle arch into the mattress. He’s ready.

It doesn’t take much for me to slide in. His hole is juicy and primed by my spit. “Oh yes,” he whispers as I go in. “Oh yes.” My reward for every inch I deliver is another small plea, another whimper, another cry of need and delight.

I’ve got him at the mattress edge, muscular thighs spread like an inverted V. All he’s wearing are his shoes. For some reason, they make him look more exposed and vulnerable than if he’d been nude. His hole stretches around my meat. The flesh is soft, pliant. Accommodating. When I thrust in, his head lifts and he lets out animal sounds from his throat. When I pull out, all but the head, his chute withdraws with me so that there’s a rosebud around my dick. He loves the long strokes; he begs for more. “This is what I needed,” he tells me, over and over. “You’re what I need.”

I know. I know that big and masculine as he is, all he wants is for someone like me to make him his bitch. This brute needs to submit to dick like this, to be made a man’s cumhole. “You like being my cunt?” I ask.

The brute grunts in reply. The word makes him open further to my cock.

“You like me opening up that pussy like that? You like me fucking you like the whore you are?”

The questions are rhetorical. I know the answers.

His body is covered in gooseflesh. He’s shuddering with the impact of every hard, deep thrust. I’m not even trying to keep down my load. The man is hot to be loaded that I’m finding it impossible to hold it back. When I shoot, it comes not as a burst or an eruption, but ever-increasing waves of pleasure. My cries become just as inhuman as his; we both sink into the moment, clutching to the mattress, to his hips, to the pillows. Like drowning men at life preservers, we cling to whatever’s at hand and at each other, to keep from losing ourselves entirely. His hole snatches desperately at my cock, trying to keep it in there, to drain every drop of the semen flowing from me to him. I stay still, and let him grind and squeeze, as I shudder.

“I’m taking this home with me.” As my shaft pulses and lengthens inside him, vows in a whisper, “I’m taking your seed home inside me and I’m not letting it out.”

I have to let my head clear. It takes a moment. “Do you want to cum?” I ask, when I’m more myself.

He shakes his head. “I got what I want.”

Together we disengage. His hands hold his ass tight, right around the hole, as I pull out. He’s desperate not to let any of the sperm go to waste. Without a word, he pulls on his jock and walks tight-legged out of the room to collect his other clothing. It takes me a minute before I’m dressed and join him. When I do, his hand’s already on the doorknob.

“Thanks dude,” he says. Then he’s gone—without a handshake or a peck on the cheek, the brute.
He’s thinking of me all afternoon, though. You’re still in me, he texts, an hour later. Then an hour later, I still feel you in there. I get bulletins all through the day.

Brute he might be, but the brute’s got a soft spot.

Monday, September 10, 2012


While I was taking my blog vacation (which went well, thank you—I survived family, heat, black flies, and a number of other surprise hurdles), I met up with a reader in Manhattan for an afternoon of fun. Nice guy. Sexy ass. Great mouth. And most importantly, on a blistering hot New York City afternoon, working air conditioning.

We’d fucked for a couple of hours and enjoyed ourselves immensely and then, in the casual and comfortable way that two men will, when they’ve enjoyed each other’s bodies and are basking in an afterglow of intimacy and confidence, started swapping stories. We talked a little about some of our old lovers, and griped about the vagaries of guys online. Somehow we started talking about escorts. After listening to one of his stories on that subject, I laughed a little and mentioned that I met up with a guy every few weeks who would drop a whole lot of cash just to watch me jack off in the back of his van.

His eyebrows went up. Not for the reason I thought. “Yeah,” he said. “I read about that.”

“Oh,” I said, laughing again. I’d forgotten that he was one of my readers. I felt kind of dopey, to be honest. It’s very easy for me to forget that when I meet readers, they usually know a hell of a lot more about me than I ever learn about them. Most of the time I forget that we’ve already met, so to speak, on opposite sites of the computer screen. “Sorry.”

“But . . . but that was for real?” he asked. His eyebrows were still sky-high. “I mean, that wasn’t just a story?”

I had to explain that no, it wasn’t just a story. This blog is not fiction. I make that statement right there in the sidebar. But as I gear up again to start sharing some of my more recent experiences, I think it bears repeating. So here goes.

What I write in my journal, and what I post publicly in this blog, is what happens to me in my real-life fiction. It’s not made up; it’s not fabricated. I change some details in order to protect my partners. They don’t ask (usually) to be represented here. They don’t always know that I keep an online record of my sexual encounters, when we meet. So I change their back stories a little, if I put them here. I alter the descriptions of their houses a little, so that other readers don’t say, “Hey! I know that house in the Bronx with the two concrete lions out front!” and immediately know their neighbor’s a big ol’ fist pig. I change the descriptions of their tattoos, or sometimes alter their hair colors or speech patterns, if it would help mark them as one of my sex partners. Those little amendments that have no effect whatsoever on the thrust (so to speak) of the material, I feel free to alter.

That’s all the liberty I take, though. When I write here about my sex life, I share just about everything. The amazing, the rotten, the confusing, the romantic, and the downright nasty. It’s all fair game to me.

We don’t talk about our sex lives honestly enough, I feel. A lot of us have amazing encounters—either with one chosen partner, or with multiple fuck buddies—but we feel compelled not to talk about them openly or honestly, especially not in front of polite audiences. We stick to the polite narrative that we’re all too busy to enjoy carnal relations of the sort we all fantasize constantly; we think ourselves as good boys and good girls who would never have sex with strangers, much less talk about it.

For a lot of us, that’s bullshit.

It’s important for me to discuss one of the most vital and important aspects of my life in an open fashion. I wish more of us did so without fear of being shamed or slighted. Keeping silent about sex is assenting to its oppressors; stepping out into the daylight and saying I am a sexual being, and these are the things I do is, these days, a bold—and yes, liberating—act of assertion that, in the eyes of the more conservative and of politicians, is something akin to civil disobedience.

We live in a culture of must nots and can’ts. We’re a population, increasingly, of want tos and don’t dares. My sex life, and my blog, aims to be a record of yes I cans and why don’t wes and why haven’t yous. My not so secret aim is to change the world, one fuck at a time.

Won’t you join me?

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

From the Archives: Perigee Moon

(I'm nearly back from my vacation, but in the meantime, enjoy this story from the archives.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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