Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I wanted to thank my readers for the emails and tweets and Facebook messages of concern that I've been getting, both before and after Hurricane Sandy.

I am in one of those areas severely affected by the storm and managed to see it all—fires, trees crashing down, the Long Island Sound in my front yard (even though I live a mile away from it). I'm without power and without reliable cellular access, but the important thing is that my household is safe. (Cold, but safe. Thank goodness we still have hot water, though.)

I'm hoping to get out some updates when I'm back online at home. Until then, all of you keep safe too, wherever you are.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Presented Without (Much) Comment Edition

So on Friday I found myself here, for lunch:

Oh yeah. I was eating a tossed salad on Deep Hole Road. (And dropping that tidbit into casual conversation every chance I got, after.)

Show of hands. How many out there think this road's named after you?

And without further ado, let's get to some questions.

What is the hottest yet non-sexual thing that turns you on? (i.e. knowledge or interest in something)

This is really silly-sounding, but I find it irresistibly sexy when someone has an expertise in something and becomes wildly enthusiastic about it.

It could be an IT guy who's totally geeked out about some new internet protocol that he's trying to explain to me at a party, or a guy into comic books who is outlining the plot of his favorite new issue to me. It could be an art historian trying to interest me in the history of a painting, or a playwright talking to me seriously about the intricacies of characterization. It could even be the dopey bartender talking about how tough it is to model underwear. If they are really into it, and if they have a palpable enthusiasm for their subject, I find it utterly charming and irresistible.

Have you ever stolen a guy's underwear?

A very long time ago I used to live in an apartment complex right above a pair of men who I'm pretty sure were just roommates. David and Joaquin, their names were. David was a lean jock, and Joaquin was a beefy, muscled, built Latin. I'd pass them when I was heading to my job in the morning and they were going to the gym together, and then I'd see them at night when they were drenched in cologne and heading out to the local pick-up bar. They weren't friends of mine, but we were friendly enough that they'd slap me on the back and call me 'buddy' as we passed.

One day I went into the basement, where the laundry room was, and found that Joaquin had left his dirty laundry sitting in a basket on the table. Lying on top was a pair of very scanty red briefs. I immediately stole them and took them back up to my apartment, where I jacked off with them on my face.

I kept that pair of underwear for years, thinking I'd be able to sneak it back in his laundry at some point—but I never got the opportunity. They moved out, and then I moved on, and eventually I discarded them. But damn, they smelled good when I snitched them out of that basket.

Are you comfortable with the amount of body hair you have? do you wish you had more? Less?

I've got plenty of hair on my head, plenty of leg hair, way too much ear hair, and nice pubes. But I've always wished I had more chest hair. Or, you know. Any chest hair.

When I was growing up, I was fascinated by men who had acres of fur growing on their chests. I actually thought it was something to which men were entitled when they were grown—when really I should've been looking at my father's chest for a clue about how I'd eventually look. He's always had a hairless chest with a pouf of wispy hair in the center, like someone had thrown a tiny Brillo pad there.

When I reached adulthood, I more or less had to consign myself to the fact that I was going to have nothing more than a lot of hair around my nipples and a few wispy strands in between. However, twice in the last month I've gotten compliments on my chest hair from men. I had to look at myself in the mirror to realize that the wispy strands had gotten a little more numerous and actually don't look too bad.

However, I wish I still had more.

Would you walk up to a stranger and kiss them on a dare?


At what age do you think you were ready to have sex?

I thought I was ready at 10, when I started hunting for it in restrooms and parks. I was ready for it when it finally happened, at 12.

Sometimes it's late. Sometimes it's early.  But sex is one of those things that comes to the person when he's ready for it, if he's left to his own devices.

If you were an animal what animal would you be? (I worked for a company that asked that when interviewing for manager positions)

I would be a lion—fiercely protective of my tribe while working with the other providers to ensure that everyone was protected and well fed. Serene and hard-working at heart, while fierce when threatened by predators from without.

Okay, so that's my job interview bullshit answer. Did I get the position? I'd really be an old tomcat that lolls around in the sun, gets fat, and gets petted a lot before he sprays on people's back doors.

What colors do you think look best on you?

I tend to dress myself in earth colors—browns, slates, and forest greens. When I go for more colorful items, they tend to be deep purples or vibrant, but dark blues.

If someone were writing an erotic novel about your life, what would it be called?

The Encyclopedia.

would you be my mr grey

I've not read that series of books, nor do I really intend to, so I don't know exactly what that involves.

Personally, I'd rather be your Mr. Steed—being myself is always much better than trying to fit someone else's mold.

Have you ever travelled specifically to have a hook up? ie, not just had sex when travelling, but made plans to go a long distance because you wanted to have a liason with a specific person?

Absolutely. There have been times in my life where I've thought nothing about driving across several states for a hookup with someone who was offering a specific type of sex. When I lived in Michigan, in the nineteen-nineties there were a handful of individuals and couples in Pennsylvania and Tennessee I'd make overnight trips to see, because I knew they'd give me exactly what I wanted.

It's not something I do so much anymore, however. Guys come to visit me. I like that.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012



It’s a word a lot of wanna-be bottoms use around me. I want to worship that beautiful dick of yours, they say.

The word appeals to me. Worship. Acts of devotion by true believers. Supplication before a deity. The thing is, I’m cock-proud enough to think my meat deserves it.

My experience, though, is that when a bottom tells me he wants to worship my dick, I know what I’ll probably end up getting is five minutes of head—if that—indifferently given and accompanied by a too-hard grip. Then while the guy lies there like a lump, I’ll be expected to mount and fuck him, doing all the work, every step of the way.

I think any minor deity would tell you the same thing: that’s not fucking worship.

This kid knows what is worship. His big, plump lips are wrapped around my dick. They quiver and extend as he engulfs my rigid meat, inch by inch. When he reaches the base for the first time, those thick lips are still pushing out, nursing at the root, rubbing themselves onto my smooth nuts, grazing against my pubes. His breath is hot and moist. It warms my thighs. I can feel the pulse of his heart as his throat closes around me.

His digs aren’t fancy in the least. Hanging on the walls are two posters of some tarty Spanish-language singer I don’t know, tacked there with Scotch tape. His tiny bedroom is mostly occupied by the mattress on the floor, covered with a cheap bedspread and a pile of thin, worn-out pillows. He’s got a student laptop on the floor, anchored by a spider’s web of wires and cables; it’s open to his mail program, and to one of the emails we’ve exchanged. If I turn my head, I can see a photo of my own dick on the screen.

No, his room’s not very fancy—but he’s treating me like royalty. He’s doing the best he can. He’s carefully arranged the pillows behind my back and made sure I was comfortable. He’s undressed me reverently, clumsily folding each article of clothing down to the socks and stacking them on the cluttered floor. Only once I’m settled and relaxed, and once he’s kissed me deeply and thankfully for being there and urged a remote control into my hand, does he arrange himself between my spread legs to apply himself to the task at hand. His act of worship.

I don’t need the remote. I’m not watching the porn playing on his little TV. It’s a distraction, if anything. I’d rather watch the kid go at it. I want to watch the ritual he’s set himself. I’m his omnipotence, observing those reddened lips that distend themselves around my shaft. I’m his all-seeing judge, watching him struggle to get it all in his mouth. I take pleasure as that pencil-thin trace of hair he fancies is a mustache turns into an upside-down arc—a horseshoe that loses all its luck around my girth.

What he’s giving me is worship. Long. Slow. Attentive. Present.


He grunts when I cup my hand on his head. His barber has trimmed the front of his hair into a razor-sharp line. There’s dark bristles in a fade up the sides, longer on top, though still barely more than stubble. Beneath that demarcation, there’s nothing but the creamy, caramel-colored skin of his forehead, his narrow nose, his dropped jaw. The swollen pinkness of his spit-slick lips.

His long-lashed eyes are half-closed. He’s almost humming to himself as he deep-throats my cock for long, sweet minutes. Down he goes to the root, impaling his own throat without seeming to care how viciously it’s being opened and stretched. Then up he comes again, slowly, carefully. Lingeringly. His eyes will open when he’s withdrawn it all, to catch sight of the very thing he’s been making a part of him. Occasionally he’ll rub his nostrils along the length, inhaling the scent of me. The scent of his own saliva and warmth. The both of us, mingled together in sweet perfume.

Then down he’ll go again, gratefully losing himself in total obeisance to my stiff beast of a prick.

He loves my cock. I know—I can tell—that right now, it’s the only thing in this kid’s world. It is this kid’s world. What he’s lived for. What he craves. What he needs. His narrow little hips are grinding into the mattress where he lies, but I know it’s just his body following its own instinct. Every act, every thought, every conscious flicker of brain activity is directed not at his own gratification, but mine. He’s not even trying to get me off. Not in the short run, anyway. He just wants to show me how much my cock matters to him. How insignificant he is in its mighty presence. What he can do for the thing he most worships.

That’s the kind of attention I can handle, and for long, long periods of time.

“Good boy,” I whisper to him from time to time. The words inflame him. He’ll grab my dick at the very base, but not to whack it crudely. To direct it, to point it, to angle it so that he has the maximum access. He could do this for hours. And from the look of things, he just might.

It’s not until a long, long time later that he comes up for air. My dick’s a raw, savage red; it’s sopping and swollen, as if it’s been left for too long in the hot tub. But it’s still rock hard. Holy or unholy, it’s ready for more of his worship.

“I gotta have you inside me, papi,” he says, looking at me with nut-brown eyes.

I nod. I’m ready. I pull myself up from the pillows, ready to get on my knees and take over. But he’s pushing me down with slender hands, settling me back again onto the altar of pillows. His lord and master. His deity. “Please, relax,” he says. “I want to ride you.”

His hand rests on the side of my face. I kiss the palm. This is what I want, this absolute devotion, this entirety of a handsome boy’s attention. I know that while he’s on me, while I’m inside him, the night and the stars will rotate around us. The universe will wheel and shift with us at its center.

That’s what worship is.

And I’m cock-proud enough to know I deserve it.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Friday Open Forum: Pussy Wars

When I was a very small kid, my parents sat me down and had a talk about my genitalia and its synonyms. Penis was the preferred term for what I had between my legs, I was gravely informed. Some people were going to call it a dick, which was vulgar—not that a little vulgarity ever stopped my parents, mind you. What they absolutely frowned upon, however, was the thought of me using infantile phrases like wee wee or pee pee to describe it. In the end, they told me, it didn’t really matter what I called it in conversation. (So long as it wasn’t pee pee.) They were all just words. Penis was merely the correct term.

I was maybe four at the time. This is the kind of dinner conversation with which I grew up.

Now, my parents were a little more flexible on the words they used to describe bodily functions. My father was strictly of the number one and number two school, while my mother was a firm believer in airy euphemisms like tinkle or whizz to describe peeing, or an earthy Anglo-Saxon shit for the other stuff. I think one of the reasons they stuck to those phrases, infantile though some of them might have been, was because one of my mom’s friends was a crunchy granola whole earth type who’d taught her little tykes to use the clinically-correct terms . . . which I found absolutely hilarious. It only took a few times of me mocking them by saying, in the accent of some little British cherub of a previous century, “Mummy! I have to urinate!” or (and this was the one I thought was especially hilarious) “Father! I must defecate!” before we all settled on pee and poop as the socially-acceptable phrases to use around the house.

I’ve never known an issue that causes such a wide divide, though, as what gay men call their holes. Their buttholes, that is. There are a few terms upon which we can all agree. Butt. Ass. Hole. Butthole. Asshole. But then we start to deviate. I’ve known a couple of guys who get a little put out when it’s called a shitter or a poop chute. They don’t like to be reminded that they defecate, apparently.
Even I am likely to get a little bit smirky when someone gets too clinical during sex, and uses a phrase like rectum. It makes me want to taunt him, in Masterpiece Theatre tones, with “Mummy! This chap wants me to insert my penis into his rectum! Mightn’t I please play with his anus?” (But I don’t.)

You know what two words create the biggest divide in the gay population, though? I bet you do. Cunt and pussy.

There’s no middle ground with these words, it seems. The men who object to them do so with a vigor that’s clamorous; the men who love them identify with them with a passion.

I think it’s quite curious how a man can be one of the biggest and most passionate pigs around—he can be dressed in stinking, sopping leather, covered with sweat and urine and semen, leaking the loads of a dozen men from both holes, smelling like a horse during harvest, uttering obscenities that would make Satan himself blush like a virgin. But growl something like, Yeah, boy, give me that mancunt, and he’ll turn into the prissiest, primmest, most disagreeable little old lady ever to wipe the tip of her white lace glove across the top of a hanging photograph to make sure it’s dusted. “I do not have a—a—a C-WORD!” he will sniff and intone, pretending he’s not sitting in a puddle of bodily fluids.

These guys post their lexicon limitations in their online profiles, admonishing you in advance never, ever to use one of those forbidden words in their presences. They scold. I’ve known them to stop the proceedings dead in their tracks to give a lecture about how they refuse to be feminized . . . after a half dozen men have pounded dick into them for a couple of hours. I used to know one guy who refused to see or speak to anyone who had the temerity to use the words pussy or cunt in his presence, and would block someone online and cut them dead in person if he dared.

On the other hand, the guys who are into it, are really, really into it. If they haven’t already made a profile online with a name like WarmSloppyCuntNYC or URPussyboi, they mention in their profiles how they need their cunts stretched and their pussies opened by monster dicks. Saying the words to them inflames their libidos; you can feel their holes become less rigid and more yielding. They want not necessarily to be feminized, but to be used. They want men to open them, to invade them, to put their holes to a purpose just like that uniquely female organ.

Me? I tend to be somewhere in the middle. If a guy’s really into being called a pussy or cunt, sure. I’ll call him that. I’ll call him that a lot. If a man dislikes it—I’m not likely to bring it into dirty talk anyway, without some obvious hints dropped. I’m unlikely to refer to my own hole as my man-pussy. On the other hand, I’ve got no issue with describing the afternoon I lost my virginity as being cunted.

Forty-five years after I learned about my penis, the point’s pretty much the same to me—they’re all just words.

How about you guys? Where do you stand in the lexicon battles that are the pussy wars? Speak up in today’s open forum and let everyone know!

Monday, October 15, 2012


He’s got a tribal tattoo that covers his right bicep. It’s a splash of dark ink against what’s otherwise milky-white skin—skin nearly as white as his facial hair, which has been trimmed into a severe, snow-colored spike that projects from his chin like a lethal icicle. It’s deceptively soft as it brushes against my thighs. His head is completely shaved. My hands both rest on it as his mouth glides up and down on my pole. They don’t let him up. I don’t want him to stop.

But I recognize the man needs air, so I release my grip on his skull. He stares up at me with eyes of a startling blue. “You like that, son?” he asks.

The word sets me off like a lit fuse. Without thinking, I jut out my jaw and growl. “Fuck yeah I do, dad.”

“I love my son’s cock,” he whispers. He holds it against his face so that I’m forced to look at it at him both. My engorged, red meat, glistening from his spit and hot out of his throat, and that handsome face. “I love sucking on my boy.”

“Then suck it, dad,” I tell him. “Suck your kid’s dick.”

And I settle back into the pillows as he goes down on me.

The man’s only a handful of years older than myself. He’d picked me up online when I was spending an afternoon in the city at the museum where I’m a member. I go often enough that I don’t feel obligated to stay for more than a couple of hours in a single visit. If an opportunity like this pops up, I take it. The fact that his place was only a three-block walk was a plus, in this metropolis.

The apartment’s a fucking mess. There’s clothing all over the floor, books and clutter strewn everywhere. He’d told me that he was cleaning out his closet, when I walked in, but if that’s the case, his closet is bigger than my old house. I’m not here for the tour, though. Just for his mouth, and his throat, and soon, his hole—that hairy little pucker that keeps pulsing in and out whenever I crane my body around to catch a glimpse.

He’s off my cock again, and pushing me down into the depths of his pillows. His mouth is on mine. His saliva is hot as we open our mouths and crush against each other. He’s on fire; his skin seems fevered to the touch. “Bite it,” he tells me, as he pushes my head down to his nipple. “Bite your daddy. Make him feel good.”

What can I do but obey? My incisors clamp down on that erase-shaped protrusion. My lips suck it out, my tongue swirls against it, and the edges of my teeth rake against the soft flesh. He sighs, and growls, and holds me down on his pec. He’s a muscular man, a man of very little body fat; there are photos of him at leather competitions across the room, on his dresser. It’s not difficult to imagine him winning.

“Jesus,” he whimpers at last, when I’ve turned that tit from pink to red with my nibbling. “I got me the best boy in the world.”

“You got a boy that loves his daddy,” I whisper. Then my face is in his armpit. It stinks. It smells of sharp, metallic body odor and tastes of salt. No deodorant there, that’s for sure. “You got a boy that wants his daddy’s ass,” I say.

He looks at me, then licks out with a broad, flat tongue like a happy dog of an oversized breed. His tongue swipes up my face from chin to eyebrow, licking the stink off me. “Fuck it then, son,” he says, pulling himself off the bed. “Fuck your daddy’s ass.”

He takes a moment to grab something from his top drawer. It’s a round-tipped syringe of sorts made from colorful plastic, in a shade of lime green one might find in a kid’s safety scissors. He submerges it into a bottle of lube, pulls back the plunger, and then hands it to me. The tip is dripping slightly, same as my dick. “Lube shooter,” he explains.

I don’t need a tutorial to use the thing. Once he’s on his hairy knees at the bed’s edge, I slide the finger-sized barrel into his hole, working the stick in a circle to open it up a little. I’m squeezing out a little lube all the way in, but it’s once I reach bottom that I let loose. I hear him sigh as it fills him up.
He sighs more loudly, gasps, and then lets out a long groan when I start to stretch his hole with my cock. The shaft slides in. He’s no novice at this, that’s for sure. I can even feel the lube once I’m all the way in; though his hole is warm and grips me slickly, my cock’s head feels like it’s dipped in Jello, or something remarkably cooler. Then I take a stroke, and another, and the coolness starts to fade and spread. The head of our bodies equalizes within a dozen strokes. I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I just know that he feels good, and that his hips keep rising to meet me with every thrust.

“That’s right, dad,” I whisper into the half-darkness. “Make your boy feel good.”

“Oh god,” he cries into the bed. And I do mean cries. I can hear the sob in his throat.

“You like this dick?” I ask him. “You like this dick? I got it from you.”

“I love that dick,” he moans.

“You are making this dick feel so . . . damned . . . good.”

He tries to rise onto his hands. He looks over his shoulder, that handsome fucker with the tough man appearance and the blue eyes of a little boy. “I love you, son.”

“I love you daddy,” I whisper back. A grin crosses my face when I say the words, and my dick swells.
When I shoot in him, minutes later, after a long fuck that leaves us both sweating and swearing, he’s holding me close and repeating the words. “I love you, son. I love you, boy.” Over and over again he says them, with his elbow locking the back of my neck against his chest. I unload in him as his legs seem both to repel me and to clamp me from leaving.

Then, after he holds me in there for a minute, the fog clears. He chuckles. His beard tickles me as he sucks me clean. I collect my things from among the junk on the floor, then find myself stumbling out of the apartment and out onto East 83rd. My face still stinks of the man—my grateful daddy, whom I left half-asleep in the tumble of sheets seven stories above.

I wonder if he’s dreaming of us.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

A Whole Lot of Crazy

I admit to having some ennui lately about my sex blog. Periodically the old Is It All Worth It? blues descend, particularly when the month is busy and even fucking seems like a chore, much less finding the time to write about it afterward.

A lot of it is the usual gripes and complaints. (I know many of you have heard them before. Feel free to chime in on the chorus.) I’ll write an entry of which I’m especially proud and, even though I have nearly 900 followers and between five and six times that in unique visitors to my blog on a daily basis, I’ll get three or four comments from the same three or four people. Which is what, less than one percent of people commenting? Or I’ll write an entry that I think is good and someone will remark, I guess this is okay, but I want to hear more about the Landscaper, like I’m some kind of lounge player who is supposed to be expected to switch to requests on demand.

And I don’t even have a tip jar on my piano!

When I sat down yesterday and did some meditation on the subject, I realized that I’ve been muddling a lot of issues, though. Comments and the like are the least of my issues. I really don’t write my blog for the sake of the comments I get—though don’t get me wrong. I do like them when I get them. But no, what’s been hindering me most is that I’ve been indulging in an old and familiar pattern of behavior into which I fall when I’m trying to avoid confrontation with people who’ve been rubbing me the wrong way. I prefer avoidance over a face-off, every time.

Believe it or not, I really dislike confrontation. I’ve had some notable instances in which I’ve given readers tongue-lashings (not the enjoyable kind) when I’ve felt they’ve crossed the line, but generally I’m not fond of the stress and the mental beating I’ll give myself afterwards, when it happens. And lately I’ve let a few bad apples really poison the brown betty.

I haven’t had anything quite as crazy as when a former prolific blogger decided I was his mortal enemy and bombed my mailbox with schizophrenic emails threatening to expose me to the world, or quite as sinister as the bipolar fellow who’d email me constantly when he slid to the manic end of his scale to tell me that I was Satan. Thank goodness for small mercies, right? But a handful of readers have been indulging in some unpleasant behavior. It’s made frequenting my Twitter account an unpleasant chore. It’s made me avoid logging into my Facebook account. And it’s really made me dread opening my email.

I’m not going to get deep into details, but over the last six weeks I’ve gotten a lot of private messages on these various services that have crossed the line from inquisitive to intrusive. There’ve been folk who don’t seem to understand that just because I appear on their computer screens a few times a week and they accordingly have what they feel to be an intimacy with my life and the way I think, I’m not really their best friend, their husband, their dad, or their therapist. (I definitely am not getting paid enough to be anyone’s therapist.) I’m likely to put up walls when I feel battered and badgered in a way I think is unwarranted, and somehow that incites certain personality types to try even harder to get my attention in ways that aren’t entirely positive.

It’s a bit of a vicious circle, I admit. There are some readers with whom I’ve had to establish rules. I’ll be very clear that I don’t intend to respond to them if they engage in certain negative behaviors—but frankly, if they’ve gotten me to that point, I’ve likely lost any incentive to interact with them at all.
Then I’ve had those who crossed the line from intrusive to abusive. One reader over the weekend decided to send me several messages that were not only derogatory in tone, but accused me of forcing my partners into sex against their will. It was the equivalent of about a gallon of crazy poured into a half-pint container, and the spectacle of the spillover was pretty horrifying.

I’m not trying to hold all my readers at arm’s length. I’ve made friends with many people through my blogging. I’d made real-time physical lovers out of readers. Getting to know people is one of the reasons I share my life—I find that sharing my experiences lets us all compare where we are on the spectrum of sexuality on various issues. It’s okay that we’re not all in the same place. Exploring those differences is what makes my journey amazing.

I guess I’m one of those idealistic people who believes that, despite our differences in opinion, we can all get along. I don’t believe that people who don’t behave as I behave should be shunned. And I really don’t believe I should have to warn readers and people who interact with me that I’m not complacent about receiving libelous emails, or threatening tweets, or insulting comments, or just plain fucking crazy communications that overstep the bounds of reaching out in a friendly manner into clinical sociopathology.

So let’s make a pact. You guys work on that end of things, and I’ll work on finding ways of eliminating the troublemakers from my life in a timely manner, so that they don’t sour me on social networking and most especially on my blogging. The latter is especially too important for me to quit.

How’s that sound?

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Gordon Merrick Edition

My readers, when sharing their experiences with me, often refer to the availability of porn in their households when they were at a formative age. Their dads subscribed to Playboy or Penthouse. Or they grew up in an age later than mine, when VCRs occasionally held a leftover skin flick that their parents had neglected to eject the night before.

Or they grew up way later than I did, and just had porn on their bedroom computers from the internet.

I know that people have often envied me for getting out into the parks and restrooms and bedrooms of strange men when I was in my teens, but it's simply because I didn't have any porn to keep me at home. I regard these tales of households in which the pornography flowed if not freely, at least with a little bit of regularity, with the same sense of exotic outsiderness with which I pick up an Amy Tan novel prepare myself for an education about life in some remote Chinese province during the late nineteenth century.

I didn't even see real pornography until I was a senior in college. Yeesh.

However, I did see these:

It's hard to believe it, but the very gay-oriented books of Gordon Merrick were pretty widely available in mainstream bookstores all over the country during the late nineteeen-seventies. These sudsy, homoerotic covers were always turned outward on the bookshelves of the local mall B. Dalton. I used to wander in, position myself in front of the Ms in the general fiction area, stare at the covers, and dream about what lay inside. I never touched them. I didn't want to be seen picking up what was obviously and blatantly so gay a work of fiction. 

But man, I used to stare at those tanned bodies, and those bare limbs, and those pouty lips, and those scantily-clad acres of male flesh, and dream about the sizzling stories they must contain. Then I'd go home and jack off furiously. Or go to some sleazy cruising spot and suck dick and wish I were old enough or pretty enough to be the subject of one of those novels.

It wasn't until I was an adult that I got my hands on some used copies of the Gorden Merrick bibliography. I licked my lips, unbuckled my jeans, got a box of Kleenex at the ready, and dived in.

Hoo, boy. Was I ever disappointed. The books are kind of fascinating, but only from a Were gay guys really so desperate for representation that they enjoyed this crap? kind of standpoint. Let me spoil the plot of every Gordon Merrick novel written for you, so that you'll never have to read them yourself. There's a rich scion of a homophobic kerjillionaire, see. He's been to all the right schools. He's intended to the prettiest coed currently going to Vassar. But in a flashback we discover that he can't get out of his head the rough and brutal anal assault he endured at the hands of a former fraternity chum/French airline captain/anonymous Greek fisherman, and he fears that he must be A Homosexual. When he falls deeply in love with another well-off son of another kerjillionaire, he rejects that love, and instead marries the girl of his father's choosing. 

Much alcohol, deterioration, and precious few sex scenes follow for about three hundred pages. Then the scion understands at last what he needs to be happy and moves in with his much older but still tastefully rich true love.

They're pretty dreadful. But I know a lot of men have a certain fondness for them—and I do too, really. More for what they represented than what they contain; to a kid in a small-town B. Dalton, they were kind of the promise of a much more exotic life tapestry than I could conceive for myself. 

Little did I know that my own life would be much more interesting and erotic than any Gordon Merrick novel. But then again, if I'd been sitting around at home masturbating to porn (if it had been available!), I wouldn't have been living it.

Let's get to some questions from

If money was not an issue, is there a business you've always wanted to start?

I'd totally start my own porn company. (As it is, anyone out there want to hire me?)

Touching on the earlier question about finding your children's personal website and your response, how do you navigate online privacy, both for yourself and when teaching your children?

I'm not so naive. Navigating websites leaves a history in the browser; keeping a volume of personal fuck shots on my hard drive means that someone might be able to find them. USB sticks with saved material can be lost. Personal diary entries can be found. When it comes to my own personal privacy, I keep those portions of my notebook computer locked and encrypted—and all its associated disks—with passwords only I know.

I'm fortunate to live in a household in which we respect each other's privacy. I wouldn't think of looking through my spouse's emails or hard drive, and I get the same respect in return. I think a parent has every right (and indeed, should exercise them) to keep tabs on his child's computer usage, because young children in particular aren't prepared to make good decisions about what sites are appropriate, nor are they skilled at knowing how much time is appropriate to spend on the computer. Getting them into good habits is something that parents are supposed to do, so that when they reach a more advanced stage of adolescence, they really are able to manage on their own in a responsible manner.

Do you prefer circumcised men or uncircumcised are you circumcised and if you are do you wish you weren't or did you have it done as an adult

I don't really prefer either. It's like asking me if I like a vanilla or a chocolate milkshake. Just give me the milkshake already, goddamnit!

That said, I wish I'd been left uncircumcised. I don't believe it's a healthy procedure, and I don't like that it's blithely done at birth for the spurious sake of 'hygiene.' I simply don't agree with it as a norm.

How do you feel when you get declarations of love that you don't feel for the other person?

I feel sad. Sad, mostly, that I don't reciprocate in the same way. Sad that I am letting down the other person. Sad that I am facing the prospect of either telling them outright that I don't feel that way and facing their disappointment, or of letting them find out gradually and having to imagine their let-down.

There's plenty of love to go around. There are times, however, when I cannot love someone in the same romantic, permanent manner that they want. When that happens, it mostly makes me sad.

Have u ever been double penetrated? Did you enjoy it? If u haven't, is it something u would do?

I never have, no. I've had a cock in my ass and one in my mouth and a couple more in my hands, but that's the closest I've been to a double-penetration.

I have, however, been one of the dicks that's double-penetrated. I just don't like it. It's never gotten me remotely close to shooting, and usually provided a lot more pleasure and sensation for the bottom than it did for either of the tops.

What is the best trick to make anal sex as enjoyable as possible? (Serious question.)

Want it.

Serious answer.

Want the dick inside you. And want the specific guy you're with. Don't want to watch porn more than you want to get fucked—want the guy who's standing behind you, or over you, or is in bed with you. Don't want poppers or drugs more than dick. Don't endure a fucking just so you can be held by someone after. Don't bend over out of loyalty or obligation or because you're bored or because your DVD stopped working and sex is second-best to the movie you wanted to watch.

Do it because you want the guy, and because you want his dick inside you.

Friday, October 5, 2012

No Complications. No Strings.

This is how it goes down. No complications. No strings.

He’s wary of giving me too much up front. I get that. There are parts of my life I don’t hand out on request, either. I don’t share with guys my phone number on a first chat. Or a second, or third. Nor my address. If it’s hookup time, they’ll get the information they need. Otherwise, fuck it. I don’t know what they’re going to do with my numbers.

So on the day he’s flown into town, I travel into the city. Take the 4 train down to Wall Street, then walk to place he’s staying. It’s a little boutique hotel across from Delmonico’s, where a porter peers at me through the glass in the front doors. I call him on the phone.

“I’m here,” I tell him.

“I’m ready,” he replies. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. It’s lighter than I’ve imagined, higher, more of a tenor than the baritone I’d expected. It has a bit of a flutter in it, as if he’s nervous. I hear him clear his throat.

“I’m ready . . . what?” I ask.

“I’m ready, sir,” he says. The three words are breathy. Excited.

“Give me your room number,” I tell him. He does. I lower my voice, as if there’s a possibility I might be overheard. There’s not. Even though it’s midday, this particular little side street is fairly quiet. “Now listen, you little shit. After I hang up, you’re gonna have three minutes to strip down, get the lights low, and assume the position. You’ve got your blindfold?”

“Yes,” he says. I can almost hear the gulp he lets out.

“It’d better be on. And after I hang up, I don’t want to hear a word from you until I’m zipping up to go. Then you'd better fuckin' thank me. And you'd better fuckin' mean it.”

“Yes,” he breathes. I don’t know whose pulse is louder—his or mine.

“Any questions?”

“No,” he says.

“I’m not gonna romance you,” I tell him. “I don’t give a shit whether you come or not. Got it?”

Then he adds, “I understand.”

“Then let’s make it happen. Oh. You got my dough?”

“Yes,” he says, for a third time.

“Have it out for me or I’m not even sticking around. I’m coming up.”

I end the call. It amazes me that anyone buys my tough top act. That it passes for genuine says something about how heavily invested men can be in their fantasy version of me. Then again, perhaps it is genuine. I pull it out often enough. I’m confident that this guy is going to follow my orders. I know exactly what he wants, and I say what he needs to hear. I’ve got no hesitation; I know that the sex is going to happen with no complications. No strings. Maybe the confidence to pull it all together all it really takes to be that tough top.

The door’s cracked when I get up there. The lights are off. There’s enough daylight in the room that I can see everything in a hazy relief. His laptop on the desk. His suitcases on the stands. His suit, neatly pressed, hanging on wooden hangers just inside the closet door. And most importantly, this man kneeling on the bed wearing nothing but a jock. His head is at a level lower than his ass, but it’s craned forward, staring blindly at the wall. He’s got some kind of mask on his face. There’s a hole for his mouth, but he can’t see anything. The eyes are completely covered.

The money’s in an obvious place. He’s tucked it under the elastic of his jock, so that the bills cover the small of his back. I let them stay for now. I don’t even stop to count them. I can tell by the sleekness of his luggage, the cut of that suit, the expense of the highest-end Apple laptop, that he’s not going to be stiffing me. The guy’s not ugly by any stretch of the imagination—not from what I’d seen in his photos. He’s built. He’s got a narrow waist and a little round ass that’s seen a lot of squats at the gym. His thighs are broad at the top. Muscular. His shoulders are strong; the arms that hold up his torso are well-rounded, powerful.

When he’s originally contacted me and asked if my cock was ever for hire, I’d added to my affirmative that with his looks, he could get any dick he wanted in this city. I prefer to pay, he’d said. It makes for no complications. No strings. I get that, too. Sometimes it's worth shelling out a little extra for quality.

That’s what I plan to give him. Value for the dollar.

Sound is going to be his main sense for this encounter, to start. I let him hear me circle the bed. I let him hear me kick off my shoes. Unbuckle my belt. Pop open the button of my jeans, unzip the fly. I let him listen to the sounds of the cotton as it slides over my head and off the chest, and hits the floor.

Taste. I open his mouth. Pry it open, with my fingertips. Cram my half-hard cock in. He gulps at it greedily, getting it hard between his lips, letting his tongue travel the length. He slurps at my balls. His hand reaches out to grab my shaft, but I shove it away. It’s the mouth and nothing else. He’s got to prove he deserves it.

Touch. I slap his ass hard. He doesn’t know it’s coming until the split-second before, when the rush of air gives him only enough warning for his mind to raise a primal alarm. He cries out and chokes around my dick, but doesn’t say a word. I slap the other ass, harder. Instinctively, he lets my cock slide out of his mouth. His hips thrust higher in the air. He buries his face in the duvet.

I walk around the bed’s edge. Yank him to the side. He puts up absolutely no resistance whatsoever as I jerk him into a position where I can fuck him without having to tiptoe, or to spread my legs to lower myself down to him. His neck’s at an angle; his shoulders are pinned down, their blades poking out his skin. He looks like a broken rag doll.

The hole’s lubed up already. Good. I’m glad not to have to waste time with that. I spit on my dick to give it a little extra moisture. Line it up with the hole. Press in. I go a little faster than usual; I don’t really give a shit whether it’s too fast for him or not. His hole opens up, though. It’s been well-fucked through his life. The edges of the fifty-dollar bills scrape against my pubes when I sink to the bottom. They’re new bills, too. Crisp, clean, sharp-edged, fresh from the bank stack. I leave them there. I don’t really care if they get a little fuck juice on them.

He’s trying hard not to talk, I can tell. He should’ve put a gag in. He starts to utter the first syllables of exclamations like Oh god or fuck or shit, but he’s got enough presence of mind to let them wash away. Ohhhhhhhh, it comes out, and fuuuuuh, and shiiiiiih.

“That’s it,” I’ll tell him. “Yeah. Open up.” Or, “Squeeze down. Make it tight. Come on.” I grunt. I slap the ass. But mostly I make sure he feels fucked.

Because that’s what they want. They want to know they’ve been fucked. They don’t want some guy climbing on and giving little rabbit thrusts that wiggle and jiggle their butt cheeks. They don’t want some novice who thrusts in twice and shoots. They don’t want a small dick that can’t do the job. I take long strokes, all the way in and a little beyond, then all the way out save for the tip. I let him feel the length of it. I squeeze the pelvic floor to make it swell when it’s at its depth, so that he feels the girth.

Men like this could have anyone, but they pick me. They pick me because I’ll give them exactly what they want. No complications. No strings. I make this guy’s ass sing from my cock. It’s vibrating. He’s humming to himself beneath me, and there’s a dark wet spot on the fabric of his mask from where he’s drooling from the side of his mouth. He’s blind with that cover over his head. But he doesn’t need to see. Everything he needs to know is centered in one place: his slick little pucker and the eight inches of colon just beyond. All the knowledge in the world, all the money in Wall Street, all the power and trinkets and accoutrements of his lifestyle, the money flapping back and forth over the small of his back as I fuck in and out for endless minutes—it all means nothing while I’m there. What matters is my cock. His hole. And the rawest of sensations I’m producing by introducing one to the other.

He remembers not to speak until I’ve pulled on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, and I’m zipping up. “Thank you, sir,” he says, in the meekest and most submissive of tones.

I snatch the bills from his jock strap. They’re not as pristine as they were. I stuff them into my pants, and take a last look at the load spilling out of his ass. “You’re welcome,” I say. Because I can tell he means it.

Then I turn on my heel and leave him there. And I wonder how long he’ll lie in that half-darkness, dreaming about what came before.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Reader Assets: #25

It's your favorite feature and mine—that time of the week when some of my hottest readers (and considering how hot my readers are, that's a pretty select bunch!) strip down and show off their stuff. And I've got some really good ones this time around, too.

Note that these guys aren't professional models . . . though they should be. They're showing their bare stuff here because they're bold and they're sexy. They should be admired for that—and rewarded with your compliments.

If you'd like to join them, read the instructions in this post and send me your photos!


Now, I've known Vince for a while; he's one of my longest-term of my long-term readers. I've been fortunate to see several sides of him over the last couple of years, and now it's high time that you did too.

And man, does Vince show off every side here. A juicy front side, a beautiful round back side, and a very sexy side side.

But that's what I've always liked about Vince. This handsome man really loves it all!


Now Rick will attest to this: When I got his pics in my email, I immediately wrote back and said, "Damn, what a beautiful dick!"

My reaction is the same today, looking at the photos again. Look how shiny it is in the top shot, as if it's just been yanked out of someone's wet hole and is ready to get shoved back in again. It's got a beautiful shape to it, and the proportions are perfect.

Just one question for you, Rick—is that your handprint on the shower door in the last photo, or is it from some hungry cocksucker trying to get at you? After sharing your photos here, I'm willing to bet there are quite a few men who'd claw their way through a glass door to get at that cock.


Dean has shared just a single shot with us. He's entitled it, My cock being treated the way it should be.

Um, you're not going to get any disagreement with me on that one, Dean.

That's another truly amazing dick there . . . fat, beautifully-proportioned, and glistening with spit. My only complaint about the photo is that it's so hot, it's hard to know where to look—the sexy meat? Or the hungry boy's mouth servicing it?

Either way. I'm willing to bet Dean would share more if you guys gave him enough compliments down below. I know I'd like to see more.


Sigh. So beautiful.

J. is a student who'll be visiting the New York City area next month. Can I ask my readers to start a write-in campaign insisting that he hook up with me while he's here? I'd take photos of us fucking.

This boy is just damned fine, don't you agree? Sexy body. Beautiful ass. Chewable nipples. Scruffy, sexy face. And as a bonus, he has great underwear and definitely knows how to wear it.

As for that locked cage—man. What wouldn't I give to be the man who kept the key.

J., you are one fine, fine piece of ass. I say that as the highest compliment possible.

Let's give this week's participants a hand, and show your appreciation for them down in the comments. I know the guys who've participated have all loved the admiration you've shown them in the past—so let's keep it coming!