Wednesday, November 28, 2012


We laid side by side, afterward. I seemed to slide off his sweat-slick body and to melt, face-down, in a puddle beside him. He lowered his legs and raised his arms above his head, and stared for a long time at the ceiling. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to talk, just for the sake of making noise. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to move.

I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.

The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”

“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.

Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.

That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.

“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”

“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.

“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“

“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.

“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”

In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.

“That’s you, man.”

“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.

But I wanted to hear him say it.

He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”

I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.

“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."

I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.

"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”

I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.

“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”

Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.

My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.

“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."

The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.

“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”

“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.

His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.

Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Our Secret

I’ve known something is up. He’s asked to see me four times in the last month—three times during Thanksgiving week. Meet me, he texted on Monday. Then, on Tuesday, Free tonight?

I had to put him off both times.

Dude, I’ve gotta see that dick again, he messaged on Thanksgiving day itself. Can you get away today?

It’s Thanksgiving, I texted him back. I’m surrounded by people.

Sneak out late tonight, lol.

I relented. Hit me up Friday, I told him. I’m not planning on doing any shopping.

Yesssss, he sent back. Let the wives do the shopping while the husbands do their thing.

Over the course of the last year, The Landscaper has contacted me roughly once a month. His interest in mansex seems to ebb and flow over a three-and-a-half-week cycle. He’ll hit me up over a weekend, typically, and we’ll set a date to connect sometime during that week. We’ll meet in a local parking lot somewhere, and I’ll climb into his van. Then I’ll masturbate for him. My pants never descend below my ankles, my shoes rarely come off, my shirt stays on. He’s still under the illusion that I’m one-hundred-percent straight trade that can be bought with his cash.

I don’t disabuse him of the notion. I say precious little to him, in fact, and let him construct his own fantasies around me. When we meet, I wear my most beat-up athletic shoes, my most faded Levis, a baseball cap. I let him watch me jack. I pretend not to notice when he laps at my nuts as I get closer to orgasm. But I don’t do any of that so-called gay shit with him. Nuh-uh. No way, dude.

Our meetings top out at a half hour at most. When we’re done, he’s satisfied for a while. I might get a rushed thanks later that day or the next, but then it’ll be radio silence. I release the internal sexual pressure for him for the better part of a month. Then the steam and the fantasy builds up and he’s texting me again for a meeting.

But three times during Thanksgiving week? Unheard of, from him. Particularly since we’d just met for a session two weeks before.

So we’re in his van after lunch, Friday, parked in a strip mall lot. It’s chilly outside, but he’s blasted the heaters until I arrived, so that the residual warmth lingers. I unbutton the plaid jacket I’m wearing, sit on it. Spread my legs. Kind of rest my hand on my crotch. I don’t like to seem too eager to get going. He likes to think he’s talking me into it. “How you been? You good?” he asks, in that verbless way men do when they’re trying to be bluff and butch with each other.

I nod. Look at him. Look away. He gets more excited when he thinks I don’t entirely want to be there.

Usually at this point he says something sexual. Asks how my big dick has been doing. Asks if I’ve fucked any pussy lately. This time, though, he just blurts out, “You ever . . . talk to a guy?”

The question catches me off-guard, a little. We don’t usually go off-script like this. “I talk to guys all the time,” I say.

“I mean . . . would you ever consider just talking to me a little?”

I look him in the eyes. There’s hope there. He’s more nervous than usual. I’m wondering what’s up. “What about,” I say. The words come out flat, incurious.


“Stuff like . . . ?”

“Close your eyes,” he says. I look at him, eyes wide open. “Please? It’ll be easier to talk if your eyes are shut. I won’t do anything weird. I promise.”

I hesitate, then shut my eyes. “Stuff like what,” I want to know.

“Do you kiss your wife?” he asks.

I’m sitting there with my back against the driver’s seat, knees up, forearms resting there. I feel him shift to a spot beside me. “Sure,” I say.

“She’s a hot little bitch? Your wife?” The Landscaper has a vision of my home life in his head that he’s generated out of my wedding band and precious little input from me. I let him have his fantasy. “You make out with her?”

“Sometimes, yeah.” I shrug.

He clears his throat. “You ever made out with a guy?”

“No.” I try not to sound too scornful.

“You like to kiss though?”

“Yeah, sure.” I want to open my eyes and see what he’s doing, how he’s reacting. This corner of the parking lot is quiet, though, and the van is cooling. I’m comfortable where I am. I like the sensation I’m getting up and down my left side, where he sits, as if his proximity is setting the nerves to tingling. So I keep my eyes shut. “It’s cool to make out during a hot fuck. Feels good.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment. “My wife says I was a lousy kisser when I met her. She says she taught me everything.” I hear him laugh. “Funny that I didn’t get any complaints before I knew her though.” I don’t say anything. I don’t really know where this is going. “But you never kissed a guy before?”

“Fuck no.”

“Me neither,” he says. “I mean, my dad or an uncle or something, but not. . . .”

I believe him. There’s a note in his voice, though, that clues me in. “Why are you asking me this,” I growl. But I keep my eyes closed.

“You don’t gotta say yes,” he says, shifting his weight beside me. I can feel his sweatshirt against the back of my arm. “I thought maybe . . . .”

There’s such a long silence that it grows awkward. I’m not going to help him out by finishing that sentence, though. It’s a long moment before he continues. “If you thought about your hot wife, or thought about my wife, if you’d let me. . . . You can pretend. . . .”

I sit there motionless. Maybe he thinks I’m considering it. Maybe he thinks I’m stunned. Either way, I’m not too surprised when I feel his warm breath on my skin, and the lightest of touches on my neck. It’s a butterfly of a kiss, the merest graze. In fact, for a moment I’m not even entirely sure it really happened.

Only I am. There’s another light touch, a little higher. Then I feel his lips and breath against my jawline. I want to sink into it. I want to connect to him eagerly, to let our mouths wander where they will. But instead, I turn my head so that my mouth is facing away from him, forcing him to breathe a trail to my ear.”I bet she’s real sexy in bed,” he whispers. “You thinking about her? Thinking about her kissing you?”

Then I feel his nose, his cheek, against my beard. He’s resting his face there. I feel one of his hands between my thighs, where he’s balancing himself. It’s trembling hard. He’s shaking like a leaf. This is the closest we’ve ever been to each other. He might have his own landscaping company, might cultivate a Mike Rowe kind of image, but he smells expensive. Groomed. “Dude,” I say, protesting weakly. “I can’t. . . .”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. I’m surprised that he’s the one reassuring me. “Nothing freaky’s going to happen.”

Nothing freaky does. By my usual sexual adventuring standards, what he does for the next couple of minutes is damned tame. He pushes down my leg so that he can straddle it. I keep my face turned away from his, but I let his lips travel up and down along the length of my jaw, from one side to another. He plants kiss after delicate kiss along the bone. They’re sweet kisses. Surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly soft. For a couple of minutes I simply enjoy the pleasure of him touching me with his warm lips, the sensation of them lingering on my skin, the shiver he elicits as his nostrils breathe in and out and create goosebumps. I let him maneuver my head back and forth. I let him touch my own lips with his thumb.

The ball of that digit rests there for a moment. If I wanted, I could lick out and taste its saltiness.

By my standards, it’s nothing. By his . . . it’s a stretch that means everything, then a whole mile more.

“You’re hard?” he asks. I feel him poke with a fingertip at the bulge in my denim.

After a moment, I shrug. Yeah. I’m rock hard.

He moves off me. I open my eyes, look at him. His own jeans are practically tenting. “Show me?” he suggests.

I avoid looking at him as I shuck down the denim, pull down the shorts. I’m sticky and drooling, though. I can’t hide that excitement. I wrap my hand around my meat and beat at it.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says to me as he watches me stroke. “Letting a dude kiss you. I mean, it wasn't real kisses, not really.”

I say nothing. I beat harder. I’m close to shooting.

“I liked it,” he breathes. “My first time, seriously. Fuck, that dick is amazing, dude. That’s a porn star dick. You should be in porn. You don’t know how amazing that dick is.”

I shrug like I don’t care. But I know.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. I can hear the need in his voice.

Yeah. I am gonna cum. It oozes out of the slit and down my dick’s underside, cascades over my clenched fingers, drips from the knuckles to the floor. It’s a fat gush of fluid, a flood of sperm that baptizes his van’s carpet.

“Fuck,” he whispers as I shake and shudder. “Fuuuuuck. So fucking hot. Looks like you needed that, buddy.”

I sit there for a minute, letting my head clear. Then I shake the cum from my hand. It flops onto the carpet. I wipe the rest on my jeans. “Shit,” I say. “I’d better go.”

“Can I do that again?” he already wants to know. “Next time? Can I do it again?” When I don’t answer, and yank up my jeans around my hips, he hastens to assure me, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret, dude. Nobody’s got to know.”

“I don’t know,” I say. But I do. Yeah. I’ll be letting him plant those little-boy butterfly kisses on me again.

I think he knows it too. He watches as I gather my jacket, check for my keys and wallet and phone, my cash. “It’s okay. I’ll text you soon buddy,” he says. When he speaks the words, it’s not in the intimate, soft voice he’s been using for the previous few minutes. It’s not in his sex voice, that voice of need and yearning and intimacy. It’s in the bluff, masculine, hearty way that dudes speak to dudes. Impersonal. Clipped. The voice men use between themselves when they know someone might overhear. Then, in a lower voice, closer to the one he’d been using during our time together, he adds, “If you want.”

I think he’s almost expecting me to disappoint him. I turn in his direction after I’ve climbed between the seats into the front, my knee deep in the passenger-side cushion as I look at him over the headrest.

“When?” I ask.

It only takes one word to make his face light up.

His voice is hoarse with surprise. “Soon,” he promises.

There’s something in the way he says the word that connects with me. I’ve given him a lifeline to cling onto.

For the next three and a half weeks, anyway.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Oh Honey Edition

The bartender at my semi-local gay bar surely is pretty. His eyes are deep and soulful. His locks are wavy and lush. His muscles are abundant, his teeth a gleaming white.

But as I've said elsewhere on these pages, he's also deeply dumb. So deeply dumb that whenever he speaks, whenever it's my turn, all I want to do is say to him with deep sympathy and a pat to his head, "Oh, honey."

Though he's nearly my age, he reminds me of nothing more closely than an enthusiastic, hyper Dalmatian. He's all about jumping up and wagging his tail and licking my face (metaphorically, I stress) and getting his muddy paw prints all over my shirt when I walk into the bar, but I'm not sure I'd trust him to look both ways before walking out into the street—or pick up a stick I've thrown instead of coming back with a water moccasin in his mouth.

"Hey buddy!" he panted with excitement when I walked into the bar the night before Thanksgiving. "Guess what? Guess what? Guess what? I'm going to have my iPhone accessories line!" Before I'd even removed my coat, he was outlining for me the latest of his harebrained schemes to make a quick million—this time by marketing high-end (e.g., tacky) cases for iPhones and iPads. He intends to call the line, for god knows what reason, iChicken. "I met with these people, right, who want to sponsor my new line for like, fashion shows! And television ads!" Then he went off into a long, long excited speech about how his iPhone cases were going to be the real deal. "Not that fake jewelry shit, but real Swarkovski crystals put all over the fuck of that shit! Real Swarkovski! It'll be hot, right? Real classy, right?"

All I could really think of was a line from the Avenue D song, "Do I Look Like a Slut?" that runs, Shiiiiit, I love your Daisy Dukes! I think they're real classy! 

The bartender's questions are rhetorical, however. He doesn't even pause for a response, or for my gentle suggestion that it's Swarovski, not Swarkovski. "I got it all up here!" he said, pointing to his skull. "Hundreds of ideas for this shit. Hundreds! I was telling them to one of my buddies and he was like, 'Dude, you're a real resonance man!' And I was like, yeah! I am!" His voice dropped to a confidential tone. "That's like a Resonance Faire, right?"

Oh, honey.

Let's get to some Formspring questions, shall we?

I'd like to try hooking up at rest stops. I live in CT like you (towards New Haven). Are there any good and safe places where I'd be likely to find some action?

By its very nature, public cruising isn't safe. It's risky and unpredictable and even dangerous. If you have a high-stakes career, or a public image, or if you don't want to take any risks whatsoever when it comes to hooking up, you shouldn't be cruising in rest stops or other public places.

However, if you do give it a try, I've noticed that the rest stops in our area tend to be very much park-and-wait experiences. Most of the cruising goes on in the backs of the parking lots, after dark. Men will turn off their engines, roll down their windows a little, and check each other out. It'll progress to a conversation between cars, and after that perhaps one man getting into the other man's car for some groping. The action is mostly taken elsewhere.

If you're looking for a lower-risk experience, I would suggest some of the adult bookstores in the New Haven area. The men in the back rooms tend to be there for one reason only, and the stores aren't really policed all that closely, from what I've heard.

How long since you've been on an airplane?

That's a good question. A year and a half? I flew from Michigan to New York on my birthday, back in 2011. Why do you ask? Are you buying me a ticket somewhere?

Would we ever see you at a karaoke bar? What song would you sing?

Um, anyone who knows me would immediately reply that it's less likely to find me in a bar that wasn't a karaoke bar.

I maintain in my phone a database of over 250 songs that I've sung in karaoke bars over the last decade. The database contains information on the song title, original artist, and the amount of half-steps that I request the KJ to change the key, if needed. I find that keeping the list helps me overcome that "I don't know anything in this karaoke book" block that I always get upon entering a karaoke bar.

Though most of the songs on the list I've performed at least a good number of times, there are a few that, after giving it the old college try, I will never perform again. There are some that no matter how many keys I tone it down, are still way too high for me (I'm looking at you, Maroon 5's "Misery"—I certainly lived up to that title). And some, while fine on the radio, are just a snooze to sing, like Level 42's "Something About You" or White Town's "I Could Never Be Your Woman."

Still. That's a lot of songs.

Posted on Twitter was a comment that said, "Some of the best Tops were previous bottoms". Was wondering what your thoughts on that were.

I think that if an observant guy who's willing to learn, experiments with the opposite role of what he generally prefers, he'll pick up a lot of nuances about the experience that will enhance his future lovemaking skills.

Some guys like me who started as bottoms have turned out to be very good tops; we remember what it was that tops did to us to make us hornier for them, and to make us feel good. Then we put those things into action.

I've known bottoms who have flipped and learned what it is that makes top men tick, and play upon that as well.

Is it an automatic process? No, not at all. There are plenty of tops who were previous bottoms out there who are still lousy at both. Being attuned to the moment, and remembering the feelings and connecting the dots between previous experiences and future encounters, though, will make anyone better in bed.

I was very touched by your recent gratitude post. Do you have a routine way you practice gratitude? And looking back on your life (sexual life it you want) what 10 or so things are you most grateful for?

Writing about my life in a journal helps me practice gratitude. Rather than letting life rush by, I find that capturing moments from it really helps me remember them better, and to appreciate the good moments for what they are.

Here are a few things for which I'm grateful, in no particular order.

- I'm grateful that I've always been willing to take chances in my life, whether it's been in throwing myself into new situations and new parts of the country in my personal life, or simply to take a risk with another person and let them into my intimate sexual space.

- I'm not wealthy, or famous, but I'm grateful that as a career I get to do what I love to do.

- I'm happy to have had an upbringing that has helped me face most of the obstacles that stand in my way, and the support to endure those that seem unattackable.

- I'm very lucky and fortunate to have been born with a sense of humor that, most days, keeps me from being bitter and overly cynical. Usually.

- I'm really glad that the universe has seen fit to send my way people who can share their lives and secrets and most intimate fantasies with me at the times I need to meet them, and I'm glad that their sparks illuminate my life in ways I didn't even know were possible—or sometimes necessary—before our lives touched.

- I'm grateful for the capacity to love deeply, and to continue to love others, despite all the pain opening up that way can bring.

- Shallow as it might sound, I'm grateful to have been born with the dick I received, because it's gotten me a lot of places I might not have been otherwise.

- I'm grateful for the bad times I've had in my life. They've only made me appreciate the good all the more.

Anyone who doesn't practice gratitude on a daily basis is letting his life simply slip by, rather than living it.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

M.J., Part Two

(This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part One.)

The first thing I found out from Professor Washington—M.J.—on our date was that he and my father had known each other during college. My father had been a year ahead of him. The coincidence wasn’t that far a stretch. I was attending my college because it was my dad’s alma mater; he’d really pushed me to attend because of his idyllic memories of the place. M.J.’s entire reason for hooking a visiting professor position at my college had been to assess whether or not he could wrangle his way back into the college as a faculty member. It really is the kind of school that people attempt to linger around,long past their expiration date.

The second thing I found out from M.J. was that he didn’t like my dad. We were sitting in the King’s Arms Tavern, which is what passed for a classy dinner joint in town back then, eating peanut soup, when he let that little tidbit drop. “Why not?” I asked, when he made that announcement.

I was sitting there in my clean but rumpled khakis—the only pair of ‘good pants’ I owned—and that black-and-yellow striped sweater he’d given me and ordered me to wear. My hair was combed neatly, though not on the side, as he’d done in my office. “Because he was a dick,” M.J. said, before taking a bite of his pork chop.

And that was as much as I ever found out about that. I had to wonder if he was remembering my dad correctly. He’s a sweet man. Absent-minded, yes. Paranoid, absolutely. Unable to come within a hundred yards of a computing device without breaking it and then feeling the urge to phone me about it, guaranteed. But he’s not a dick. I’m frequently a dick. He never is. (Later on, when I asked my father in a casual way if he remembered M.J., his puzzled response was, “Who?”)

The topic put a damper on conversation for the rest of the evening. He ate his dinner in silence and I ate mine looking around the room at the tourists and wondering if it was ever going to be over. Then he escorted me to his car, and drove me back to his apartment on the campus’ outskirts. Using the slightest and gentlest of touches on my bee-striped elbow, he steered me through the front door and up to his bedroom, where in silence he undressed me in the same unerotic manner he might’ve undressed a five-year-old nephew for his bath. He laid me in the bed, removed his own clothes, crawled in beside me, and turned out the light.

For a moment, we lay there unmoving between the chilly sheets. I wondered if that was it.

Then he was on me, straddling my chest and shoving his cock into my mouth. M.J. wasn’t gifted down there by any means, and his dick looked even shorter under the best of circumstances because he had pubes that would’ve made Rapunzel stop, pout, and ask his secrets. That shit was long. I remember once noticing that tendrils of it snaked through the fly of his underwear still, after he’d peed at some public toilet earlier in the day and undressed for me later in the day. When he was fully erect, his pubes were still longer than his dick. I’d feel them tickling my face long before I felt the nudge of a cockhead against my lips. It was a bit of a turn-off.

What also turned me off was that M.J. had a mole on his dick. It wasn’t a flat discoloration, or even a beet-colored bump. No, this was a full-blown, juicy, dark red mole that sat like a cooked pea three-quarters of the length down his cock, and every time M.J. straddled my chest and inserted it between my lips, my goal was to do anything to keep that mole out of my mouth.

I’m not really sure why I was so repulsed by it. I had some fear that my teeth would scrape it and I’d find myself spitting it out, maybe, or that I’d accidentally bite it off. Either way, I’d wrap my hand around the base and keep it from crossing my lips.

Or else I’d talk him into fucking me. “Don’t use that word,” M.J. sniffed the first night, when I said it. “It’s Anglo-Saxon.” I wanted to point out, every time, that I was Anglo-Saxon, and that I was pretty sure the name he’d called my dad was an Anglo-Saxonism, but I didn’t see the point of pressing it. If I used words like fuck or shit in front of him, I found out that first night—even if I was beginning him, “Fuck me, fuck my ass,”—he’d stop whatever we were doing to lecture me like a maiden aunt about to wash out my mouth with soap. It was certainly a lecture of a sort I never got from my own dad, the alleged dick. But M.J. liked to fuck, even though he didn’t like to say the word. He would rub my hole with a tiny fingertip of jelly from the ancient jar of Vaseline he kept by the bedside, and then with me face-down and my nose in the pillow, he’d insert himself, raise himself up and down a few times, then gently squirt a load into my hole.

It was about as passionate and erotic as pushups. Then he would roll over and fall asleep. Typically I would spend the night with him. In the mornings, he would either make sure I was back to campus in time for class, or if it was a weekend, he would take me into Merchant’s Square to the men’s department store there and pick out something for my wardrobe. His choices were always conservative, always something I didn’t want, and always something I’d never wear except for him. But he did like it when I wore his clothing on our dates.

That first date was the hard template to all the many dates that followed over the following months. M.J. would track me down somehow—either stumble across me on campus, or call my dorm—tell me when he’d be picking me up, and give me a time to be there. We’d have a silent dinner at a stodgy restaurant with good meat-and-potatoes food. He’d have a glass or two of wine. We’d retire to his place, I’d submit to being undressed, and then I’d struggle to keep his dick out of my mouth and try to maneuver it to my ass. There’d be five minutes of old-lady lovemaking, and then he’d lurch off of me and fall asleep.

Yet for some reason I kept going back to him. For a few months I considered him my boyfriend, even. I think on a lot of levels it was because with M.J. I had a lot of firsts. My first actual dinner date. I’d spent a couple of nights at Earl’s during my teens to work parties, but M.J. was the first guy with whom I actually slept side by side, the way boyfriends do. His gifts weren’t great, or even good, but with M.J., for a while, I felt like I was being courted. He was a gentleman, and I was young and dumb enough to think that maybe a gentleman was really what I needed.

Part of me, too, enjoyed the drama and intrigue of it. I’d always had older fuckbuddies, but now I had an older, even an elderly (at forty-three) gentleman caller! Someone who knew my father, even! The lies I told my roommate on the nights I spent away were at first elaborate tales of deceit and justification, but as time went on, I just left for the night or the weekend and didn’t bother to tell him in advance. I would’ve said that I grew devil-may-care and didn’t give a fuck what he thought I was doing, but I didn’t want to be accused of being Anglo-Saxon.

This is how M.J. and I carried on our relationship, such as it was, for a good four or five months. Until the warm weather of spring came around, that is, and an impromptu excursion out into the countryside changed things.

Friday, November 16, 2012

M.J., Part One

His name sounded like a weighty bludgeon of patriotic shout-outs: Franklin Madison Jefferson Washington. To me, he was always M.J.

I met him on my knees in the second floor restroom of my college library, where I spent a lot of my cold winter nights. The restroom’s most active hours were shortly after dinner, when students and staff would casually pour into the building, disappear into carrels, and settle beneath the blanket of white silence to study. I would usually start the evening at my favorite spot—the desk with a direct view of the men’s restroom door, just down the aisle of British literature to its left. From there I could listen to the door’s creaky hinge and peek down the aisle to see who was entering and leaving. If some of the more notorious campus trolls were out and about that night, I could stay in my seat and get some studying done. If it was someone hot, all I had to do was scoop up my books into my backpack. I could be in the heat of the action in ten seconds flat.

Watching was usually my goal, anyway. The reality was that I was so perpetually horny that I’d spent an hour studying—maybe—and then finally give in to temptation and spend the rest of my night in the restroom until I got laid, or satisfied . . . the latter took a lot more work than the former. It was on one of those evenings when I met M.J. I’d already given a couple of handjobs to unknown men beneath the marble partition when the door creaked open. There were only two stalls in that particular restroom; I liked to sit in the first of them, so I could peek at the men as they walked into the room. It had a perfect view of the urinal opposite. That’s where M.J. stood when he entered. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches, a pair of pressed khakis, and a button-down shirt. The faculty uniform of our institution, in other words. Over his shoulder hung a khaki-colored soft briefcase from Land’s End, with all four of his initials embroidered beneath the handle.

He looked over his shoulder. Stared at me, through the crack in my doorway. I saw he was a short man. A very, very old man. (He was forty-three. Which is younger than I am now.) Bearded. Grizzled and gray at the ends. His forearms were covered with a thick, thick coat of fur, which I interpreted then to mean the rest of his body was hairy as well. (It was.) I really went after the older guys at that time, so I had no problems in opening my stall door and showing him that I was hard and stroking.

He moved over to show me his hard cock. It wasn’t big, by any means. Four and a half inches, maybe, and I suspect I’m being generous in my imagination. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a size queen. I opened up and sucked him through the fly of his khakis, as he ran his fingers through my hair and looked at me fondly. He came quickly, shooting a sour load into my throat and then lingering in my wet mouth until he’d softened again.

I’d closed the door to the stall and had wiped down my mouth when he tapped gently at it again. He’d zipped up and washed his hands, and he looked over the top of the door down at me. There was a torn-off slip of paper hand towel between his fingers. “Are you a student?” he wanted to know. I nodded and told him I was. “Can you come to my office tomorrow at two?”

It was an unusual request, but I didn’t see any reason why not. The paper he handed me had an office number in Morton Hall on it. I did some recognizance that evening and found out not only his name, but from the department newsletter hanging in the hallway that M.J. was a visiting professor in Economics that year. It was the best I could do, twenty years before Google.

When I appeared in his office door shortly after two, he looked up from his desk hastily. I suspected that he’d been anticipating my arrival for some minutes. “Come in, come in,” he said hastily. “I hope this wasn’t too much of a bother.”

I told him it wasn’t, and asked if I should close the door.

He looked shocked at the suggestion, rightfully picking up on the fact I assumed he wanted my mouth again. I’d blown and taken fucks from several other professors over the previous year. There was no reason to presume he was any different from them. “Good heavens no,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for oral attentions last night.”

That’s the way M.J. always talked, when he spoke about sex. He sounded like someone’s maiden aunt, or a Victorian spinster reflexively smoothing down the antimacassars of her spotless parlor. “You mean the blow job?” I asked.

He looked horrified that I’d refer to it by name. “I wanted to thank you with a gift.” From one of his desk drawers he pulled out a box. I recognized it as a gift box from one of the tiny Williamsburg men’s stores in Merchant’s Square. He pushed it across the table. “Open it,” he said.

I’d been expecting more dick. Not a gift box. I pulled I across the desk and opened it. Inside was a sweater. It was a wool sweater of black and yellow horizontal stripes, each roughly four inches wide. It was pretty hideous. “Try it on,” he said.

Now, in college I was not the best dresser. I was also not the richest kid around. I was working two jobs in the afternoons and on weekends in order to pay for my expenses, and clothes were not at the top of my priorities list. I had three pairs of corduroys between which I alternated, and a couple of clean but worn cotton shirts. M.J. stood up from his desk, shut the door most but not all of the way, and out of sight of the hallway, tugged me into the sweater. It had one of those tight necks that raked all the skin cells from my face as it went over the head.

“There,” he said. “Very handsome.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic comb, which he ran through my hair. When my hair was longer, it always parted itself naturally in the middle. He made a very artificial part on the right side, and swept the hair over my forehead. “What do you think?”
I looked in the little mirror hanging on the back of his office door. I thought I looked like a Young Republican. And in that sweat, I thought I looked like an enormous bumblebee. “I guess it’s okay,” I said.

“You look very handsome this way. Now, I am going to pick you up tonight at seven-thirty and I am going to take you to my place,” he announced. “Where’s your dorm?” he asked. I told him. I was living at the very back of the campus, in housing supposed to be for creative artists. “Now, I want you to be waiting out front for me, and I want you to comb your hair nicely and wear this sweater and a pair of nice pants so I can take you out to dinner.”

I’m afraid I gaped. This sounded like a date. Men didn’t date me. Men fucked me. I’d never been on a date. Somehow I stammered out an okay.

“And wear nice shoes,” he added. I figured I had a pair of Top Siders that would suffice.

Then the next thing I knew, I was being ushered out of M.J.’s office and deposited in the hallway. “No sneakers!” he warned me, before sending me on my way.

I guessed I had a date.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012


It wasn’t even my car to begin with. I know better. When a light comes on my dash and stays on for a while, I mention it. I take it in to have it looked at. (Unless it’s the low tires light. That thing is always on. The dealer has gotten into the habit of resetting it, shrugging, and saying, What’reya gonna do?)

When the tow truck driver asks, “Where do you want to take her, buddy?” I have to think a minute.

One of the lingering effects of Hurricane Sandy on this part of the country is that the gas lines here have been impossibly long. Many stations in the tri-state area took a week or more to regain their power. Drivers slammed those that were open, draining them of their gas. Drivers from places hit worse than we have been crossing the nearby state borders to hit Connecticut’s gas outlets, causing impossible gridlock in every direction around every service station. A week ago Saturday I wanted to get out of the house for some lunch in the middle of the day and found I couldn’t get anywhere; I sat for ten minutes on a street heading north at the end of my block, not moving, even though the gas station everyone was trying to get to was over a half-mile away. I turned around and tried to head in the opposite direction to the tiny village I’m near, only to find the line to the mom-and-pop station in its center was just as long. I finally drove back home and made myself a sandwich.

So when he asks the question, I really have to think about the answer. Finally I pick a local dealer. They don’t sell gas, so getting there won’t be an issue. They’re fairly far away, but close enough to a depot that I can just catch a Metro North train for a stop and walk the couple of blocks home. “I can give you a ride to the station after, if you need,” the tow driver says, when I explain to him. It’s a nice offer. I accept.

He’s not talkative on the drive out there. Mostly he’s on his radio, calling in the tow to his headquarters. Or on his cell phone, listening to voice mail and steering with one hand. It’s not until I’ve gotten a receipt from the dealer and am back in his car that he says anything much to me. “You should’ve had that light looked at earlier.”

“It’s not my car,” I growl. I’m just the guy who gets to clean up other people’s messes.

“Oh,” he said, understanding instantly. He’s pulling down the street toward the station. Rush hour’s approaching. There’s a line of cars turning into the drop-off area with us. “Married, huh?” He’s looking at my left hand.

“Yup,” I say.

“Guy or girl?” The question’s amiable. And reasonable. This is one of those states where either’s a legal option.

It’s not until he asks the question though, that he really snaps into focus for me. Until that moment I’ve regarded him as his function. He’s the tow truck guy. He shows up, he takes me someplace, he gets my credit card. I forget his face after. That’s how it usually works, after all. Now I’m looking at the person. He’s as tall as I. Six-three, six-four. He’s a burly dude. Goateed. Blond-gray. A big fucker. The kind of overalled, blue-collar guy you’d send in to a central casting call for tow-truck driver types. Undeniably masculine. “Why do you ask?” I say, kind of amused.

His furry, thick arm is lying atop the steering wheel. He’s looking straight ahead at the line of taillights in front of us. “Just wondering if it’s a lucky chick or dude that gets you at home,” he says.

When I get out of the truck, he’s got something else to ask. “You get texts at this number?” he asks, holding the work order he’s made out for me earlier.

“I do,” I tell him.

“Anyone else see them?”

“They don’t,” I say.

“Talk to you later, then,” he says, with a grin.

It’s one of those promises that makes a long wait on the platform a little more bearable.

It’s a week later. Now he’s here on my bed. Pants around his ankles. Sneakers still on. His black T-shirt has the towing company’s garish logo. He’s got his hand around his dick and he’s pushing down on the back of my head. “Suck it,” he says.

I’m obeying. I’ve got a mouthful of his thick and powerful meat. He’s trimmed short his blond pubes; his balls are shaved smooth. His dick’s so thick that it’s tough to open my jaw wide enough to accommodate it. He doesn’t care. He slaps his palm on the top of my head and shoves me down. My eyes water as his cock head batters the back of my throat. My instinct is to gag, but I breathe through it. When I come back up, though, my nose and eyes are both streaming.

“Good cocksucker,” he says. “Maybe I should make you a regular. You want that?”

I’m too busy trying to get him in my throat to speak, but I nod and grunt.

“My own pretty little married cocksucker. You want that?”

He smells both like soap, sweet and fruity, and like the sharp metallic tang of motor oil. He takes his dick out of my mouth and slaps my face with it. It hurts. He’s got considerable meat. This isn’t some display of alpha pretentiousness. This is a fucking facial beatdown. It feels like he might leave bruises.

“Yes sir,” I whisper.

“Nice,” he said. “How long you been sucking dick?”

When I tell him, it excites him more than anything I’ve done so far. He shoves my mouth back on his meat. When my head rises, he pushes it back down. He’s setting the pace, he’s showing me exactly how far to go down and how fast to rise. It feels like he’s dribbling my head like a basketball—his cupped hand touches it only at the peak, then releases it in a shove—but the novelty of that is kind of hot. Plus I’m really digging the squirts of precum he’s letting loose, the more excited he gets.

“My own married cocksucker. My own personal married cocksucker,” he growls, bobbing me up and down. “My own pretty personal married cocksucker.” He keeps adding adjectives, like he’s playing a saucy version of some long-forgotten Victorian parlor game. “My own pretty cum-hungry personal married cocksucker. Sucks better than my own boyfriend by a long shot. Fuck yeah, you do.”

Then he blasts. The load hits the back of my throat so hard that I nearly choke. I exhale as best I can, though, and hold my mouth down on the dick. When it’s safe, I swallow. His sperm is bitter-tasting. It’s the most acid load I’ve taken in a long time. I gulp it down, though, like a pretty cum-hungry personal married cocksucker should. His hand is on the back of my neck, holding me down there until he’s sure I’ve gotten every drop. Then it relaxes.

He’s up. He’s on his feet. He’s pulling up his pants. Like I said, he hadn’t even taken off his shoes. I race to put on my clothes, since he’d taken them all off, and walk him to the door.

Today a neighbor waves at me in the street, when I’m on the way to the store. “You been having a lot of car trouble?” he asks. “I’ve seen a tow truck outside your place a couple of times this week.

I shrug. What can I do? I seem to say. Can’t help car trouble.

Can’t help hoping I’ll have a touch more of it in the coming weeks, either.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Bad Apples Edition

I don't know if it's a certain increasing briskness in the autumn weather sparking people to contemplate a change from regular sheets to the winter flannels, but I've had no less than four emails this week from guys curious what I wear to bed. In fact, the timing on them was so close that I was half-convinced there was a blind item about me being caught starkers in someone's bed, in some Page Six column somewhere.

To put your curiosities to rest: I sleep nude.

I think I've mentioned before that my parents, who were of an age to be somewhat established hippies by the time the Summer of Love rolled around, were prone to nudity around the house. I mean, they weren't the kind of people who shucked every vestige of clothing the minute they were behind closed doors, but neither were they particularly interested in replacing anything they might've removed in order to take a mid-day shower, or take a nap, or after they simply scratched themselves. The sudden appearance of a nude parent is one of the reasons I tended to go to the houses of my other friends rather than have them to mine—though since a lot of my friends tended to be the kids of my parents other hippie-ish friends, they were often in similar situations.

It's not a state of affairs that disappeared with the last of the love-ins, either, nor has it to this day. I still remember the first time I took home my spouse to spend a night at my folks' place, and first my mom and then my dad wandered through the living room where we were sleeping buck nekkid and casually brushing their teeth and wondering if we needed anything.

Anyway. My parents slept nude. (And watched TV nude. And sometimes ate nude. My mother would put on an apron while cooking, though.) So I slept nude, and never thought a thing about it until my first night at college, when I realized with no little surprise that my unfamiliar roommate actually had pajamas. Except for that four-year hiatus when I slept very uncomfortably in my briefs, I've always slept in the nude. Yes, even on the coldest of nights.

I do put on clothing when guests invade the house, though. Usually.

Let's get to some questions from, shall we?

Is flirting on the net cheating?

No. Sticking your dick in someone who's not your significant other, without permission, is cheating. Surrendering your holes to a man's dick when you don't have an agreement with your sweetheart, is cheating.

Flirting on the net is just the taxi that drives you straight to the hotel room.

What television show was your favourite when you were 6 years old?

H.R. Pufinstuf. I made my parents reschedule my Saturday morning piano lessons so I wouldn't have to miss that psychedelic, weird-ass show.

What is the earliest dream you remember fully to this day? How old were you when you had this dram?

I remember very vividly having a scary dream when I was three or four about my mother rising up out of the bathtub with her hair hanging down like snakes in front of her face, and that she was some kind of Medusa-like sea serpent. That dream freakin' terrified me.

And yes, I'm aware it's kind of Freudian.

Would you let me draw you?

Clothes on or clothes off? I'm good either way.

Do you like popping a guys cherry and how often are you able to?

It depends.

There are indeed circumstances in which I very much like popping a cherry. When the guy is young and cute and eager to have the burden of his virginity taken away from him, I'll be licking my chops like Wile E. Coyote at a speeding Roadrunner.

If I've got a guy with a reputation as an alpha top who's never been fucked before, I'm totally rock hard and anxious to get in there.

However, if the virgin in question is a guy who's never been fucked simply because he's been too scared to get out there and meet guys have have sex with them, and if he's in his thirties or forties or later and is looking for me to give him the experience he's whacked off about and fantasized over and never actually done anything about, I'm not interested. It's not because of his age, and it's not precisely because of his inexperience—it's more because I'm turned off when people waste so much of their lives fantasizing about things easily within their grasps, without ever attempting to make them real.

Without looking at a cookbook or online, what sort of things do you know how to cook/bake? How complex does it need to be before you require a recipe?

I can prepare a lot of dinners without any kind of recipe—but it's only because I've prepared them so many times, at this point. There are probably a few cookie and baking recipes I could pull off without consulting a cookbook or online recipe, as well. And I'm always making all kinds of weird preserves without benefit of a recipe to follow. (Ask the people who tried my carrot cake jam.)

I was impressed with myself this week when, after a hiatus of about three years when I didn't have anyone to make it for, I managed to prepare a really good chicken marsala from memory. It's all in there.

Have you ever given some guy just a hand job or been given one and that's all that happen?

Yes. And on its own, it's fucking boring. If I really wanted a hand job, I could give it to myself.

How do I weed through the flakes online to find the guys who really want to hook up? Don't you think there should be a rating or referral service (half kidding)?

Sadly, it just takes time, trial, and error.

Since moving to the east coast, the proportion has drastically increased of men who seem to want to talk about hooking up, but not do anything about it. The number of guys who make solid dates with me and then fail to follow through is pretty astounding in this area—and I'm not even talking about the men who come on very, very strong one night when they're horny and online, and then disappear for another six months entirely and return with a single question on their lips, "Hey, how come we never got together?"

It's because you disappeared on me, dumbass.

There are guys out there who want to hook up, but the bad apples in the bunch (and lately, it's seemed like a lot of very vinegary bushels I've run across) make me wary of plucking them out. Doing so is the only way of finding the dependable fuck buddies we all need, though.

And you know, once you get a network of friends with similar interests to yours, it's possible to compare notes on certain guys—talk to the men into the same things as you, and see if they're running into the same players and jokers. But also feel free to share with them your success stories. They might (and should) return the favor.

Friday, November 9, 2012

What We Need

His key ring is a mass of metal, a bulky collection that rattles and jingles as his fingers tango through them to find what he needs. He looks over his shoulder as he at last inserts one of them into the door. The knob turns. It’s fairly warm in this low-ceilinged, refurbished basement, but when he opens the door, a rush of chilly air sweeps past us.

He looks up and down the little hallway. The lights are low. It’s deserted. There’s no one here. I can hear the hum and buzz of a city outside the glass doorway at the top of the stairway. In many of the other old townhouses on this street, the sub-street levels have been converted into storefronts, into little restaurants, into boutiques with chain names I’ve more often seen in upscale shopping malls. This old building, however, has only the stark and dimly-lit hallway, the door marked Electrical Closet, and the open door where now the kid is yanking out the key and putting the massive ring back into the pocket of his hoodie.

I follow him past a pair of storage lockers that obviously belong to the stores above. At the end of the second hallway are a pair of restrooms. We step into the one marked Men. Our arms graze when he reaches past me to latch and lock the door. We’re not cramped for space. There’s a fair amount of room here. He steps back, and his hands nervously reach for the strings of his hood. It’s chilly in this underground washroom. It’s quiet enough that I can almost hear his heart thumping. “You want me naked?” he asks.

It’s only the second sentence he’s spoken to me.

“Take off your clothes,” I tell him. I lean against the door. Cross my arms. Wait.

He seems doubly anxious at being watched like this. Off comes the hoodie. He kicks his sneakers from his feet, pulls off the gray socks. His jeans hit the floor; he’s wearing Fruit of the Looms. Finally he shucks his T-shirt and stands there in front of me, hands cupped in front of his package, hiding that already-hard bulge in those white briefs. His eyes flick up to mine. He stares at me, half with longing, half daring me to comment.

“How old are you?” I ask.

He’s taken aback by the question. “Nineteen,” he says.

I nod. He could be. “Turn around,” I say. He rotates awkwardly until his ass is pointing at me. “Stop,” I say. He obeys.

Then I’m down on the tile, knees spread, pushing down on his spine to get him to bend over. I yank down to the briefs. Spread the ass. He’s got orange-sized butt cheeks, each small enough to fit in the palms of my hands. His hole contracts in the cool air. When I breathe on it, the pucker distends. He gasps.

When I lick out and let the flat of my tongue slide up his crack, he nearly loses his balance.

We’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. Know each other. Fuck that. We don’t know each other. I’ve never seen this kid before. Mostly I’ve seen the back of his head. I know the taste of his hole better than I know what his face looks like. I’m not sure I’d be able to pick him out in a crowd, to be honest.

But the ass sure tastes good on my tongue.

I was visiting a strange city last week, a place I’d never been. I had three hours to myself in the downtown area—time to sightsee, time to kill as I pleased. I walked around, got my bearings, took some photographs, visited the gardens, and then decided to relax with my book and a coffee. I could tell the Starbucks on the main drag was busy when I walked in, but it wasn’t until I’d claimed my order that I realized there wasn’t a single seat in the shop. Thus it was that I and two other hardy souls were sitting outdoors, in about fifty-degree weather. But it was sunny, and I had on a sweater. The coffee was warming. I had my tablet in my lap as I alternated between reading my book and simply enjoying the vibe of the city and its people as they strolled past.

Then the kid walked by. Locking eyes with him was like an electric shock. I woke up from my daydream, felt my bloodstream quicken. This sexy boy, this pale, skinny boy with the shaggy hair and the faintest wisp of a mustache on his lip, appeared from nowhere. His big blue eyes didn’t blink. They locked with mine. We stared at each other as he approached, neither of us looking away. He seemed so young; the young are usually nervous about staring at someone my age. I felt my breath catch when he came close.

Only a rail stood between us. Either of us could have reached out and touched the other. And then he passed.

As excited as I’d been moments before, the disappointment after he passed was palpable. Instinctively I sniffed the wake of air in he left behind, attempting to find some trace of him in it. It was there in the faintest whiff of berries or some sweetness in his soap or shampoo. But he was gone. I turned in my chair and found him looking over his shoulder. His eyes were sad and soulful. He, too, seemed to be melancholy at the increasing distance between us. People blocked our path. He moved further and further away. My last glimpse of him was when he turned the corner at the end of the block, still craning his neck in my direction.

Some things are just meant not to be. I went back to my book.

Five minutes later, he approached down the sidewalk again. I knew immediately he had circled around the block and come back. Our eyes met with a spark of recognition at the sight of each other. Book be damned. I stuffed my tablet into my messenger bag and tossed the coffee into a nearby wastebasket. By the time he reached the entrance to the Starbucks’ patio, I was standing there waiting for him as if I’d been loitering around for a friend to come pick me up.

He licked his lips nervously. “You want to go someplace?” he asked.

That had been the only other sentence he’d spoken.

So I’ve been eating his ass for ten minutes. Maybe a little longer. He’s got his hands on the wall, his legs spread. A sizable dong points at the sink, between his legs. He’s trying to keep it quiet, but he’s doing a piss-poor job of it. Under his breath he’s cursing, and growling, and making noises like a beast in distress, or pleasure, or both. From time to time I let the chill air of the washroom shock his hole, as I turn my lips and tongue and breath to his cock. I yank it back between his thighs and slurp at the head. I let the salty taste of his precum coat my tongue. I yank at his balls, just to make him yelp.

He wants to get fucked. He wants to let some total stranger bend him over and fill his hole. He doesn’t know who I am or where I’ve been; he’s operating on a primal level now, letting his body take over, letting his hole drive the bus. Or maybe he recognizes me—it happens occasionally, even in unfamiliar cities. Somehow, that would make it even nastier. When I drive a thumb into his wet hole, he groans, and pushes back. I feel the warmth of his insides around my digit. I know I want in.

“Sshhh.” It’s the only thing I say to him as I stand and spit on my dick and start to work it in. I don’t need to worry. The kid knows what he’s doing. He grinds his hips to let me in, inch by inch. My dick swells even harder as it splits his little ass open. He’s no novice to fucking. He knows how to take a man’s dick. I can tell. Who is this kid? Some employee of one of the stores above, with his own key to the basement restroom? How many men has he brought down here? For how many has he stripped and spread his little legs? Fucking little whore, putting out in his out-of-the-way locked restroom for any big-dicked top he can get.

He’s in control now, too. He’s got one hand digging into the sink, fingers clawing at the porcelain. The other’s bracing the wall. He’s looking back at me as he slams his hole up and down my shaft, setting the pace, keeping the rhythm. Inside, he’s doing something with his chute so that it feels like it’s clutching at the head with every thrust. Maybe I’m popping the second ring, again and again. I can’t tell. I’m not thinking too much about it. I’m just letting him do his fucking thing, because he’s doing really damned well.

Now I’m the one making the animal noises. Letting out the grunts. I’m just standing there, getting my stick waxed by this kid as he bucks and grinds. He’s the one who’s getting what he wants. Big dick, and plenty of it. Every twitch of his little hips makes me harder and hotter, and he can tell. He’s picked up the pace. His ass isn’t teasing. It’s demanding. He wants the load. He wants it now.

He shoots when I do. He brings his hand between his legs and with a very few short strokes, he brings himself off. His load drops to the floor in heavy, loud splats. Mine paints the inside of his ass. His hole continues to grab at me, to demand every drop. Only when I’m done does his insistence cease. His hips relax. His hole becomes looser. I slide out. A moment later, the better portion of my load follows, joining his on the green tile floor.

He’s still naked as I’m leaving, using a wad of toilet tissue to wipe up the mess. He looks at me very serious, and nods. “Later,” he says, as if it’s a possibility.

No thank-you is necessary. I know for a fact we gave each other exactly what we need.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

That Hat

So let me review what he looked like, when he stepped into my living room.

The top of his head came up only to my chin, but what he lacked in height, he made up in bulk. The man was built of sheer muscle. He wore a tight black tank top beneath the puffy cold-weather jacket that he dropped behind him at the front door. It made his carmel-colored skin glow. When he strutted forward, walking slightly bow-legged, he curved his arms as if posing. His shoulders were round and full, his biceps bulging, his forearms ropy and taut. The narrowest part of him was the waist. Above it, his chest bloomed into hard and enviable masculine form; below, I could see how huge his thighs were beneath the ballooning fabric of his gray sweatpants.

He kicked off his chunky sneakers, stuck his thumbs in his elastic waistband, and looked at me. His dark eyes stared into mine, glanced down, then danced back up again.

“‘Sup,” he said in a deep voice, glancing me over.

Seeing someone for the first time is always a little bit of a jolt. It’s the prick of a static shock on the back of a hand, on a cold winter’s day, when your eyes meet his for the first time in person—it’s an electric instant in which the brain compares his appearance to every photo he’s ever sent, to every stat he’s thrown your way, to see if any of it sticks. This guy stuck. He looked exactly like his too-good-to-be-true photos, those sunlit shots taken at some impossibly sunny beach, as if he’d been a model for a swimsuit brand, or a spokesperson for an Atlantis cruise. This was the kind of guy who, during that pinprick of recognition and assessment, makes me feel unworthy of him. My knee-jerk reaction to his kind of beauty is always going to be, for a fleeting instant, that I’m not hot enough, not pretty enough, not muscular enough. Just not enough. I’ve learned to make those thoughts disappear, though. And I did so that night, because he was looking at me on the sofa where I sat with my pants down and my legs spread, and looking at my fingers wrapped around my stiff, beet-red cock, and licking his lips unconsciously, and looking worried.

Worried that I might be the one not into him. I could see it in the furrow of his eyebrows as he worked his lips wordlessly, those Frida Kahlo smudges of thick, square blackness above his staring eyes. “That looks real good,” he told me, as he took a step in. His hand caressed the flat planes of his stomach.

I looked up from my masturbation. I’d squeezed a diamond drop of precum from the tip of my dick, and pointed it in his direction. “Take off your clothes,” I told him. Before he could shuck anything, I added, “Put on a show. Make me want it.”

He nodded. To some internal rhythm, he started swaying back and forth. His hips bounced as he tucked his thumbs into his waistband again and pulled it down, slowly. He wasn’t so smooth as he nearly fell over, removing his legs. Beneath the sweatpants he wore a pair of basketball shorts. He pulled those down, and stood there in a boy-like pair of ankle socks, a pair of designer briefs, that tight, tight tank top. And one other thing that I’ll get to in a moment. But my dick and I, we were too entranced by the guy’s bulging muscles much to care about his sartorial sense, right at that moment. “Turn around,” I told him. He obeyed, shyly rotating so that I could get a look at his perfect, round ass.

“Socks,” I told him.

He stood on a foot at a time so he could hook them off with a curled finger.

“Strip off the rest,” I said. The man shimmied out of it, giving me a look first at his flat abs, then the deep muscles of his chest, outlined with a light coating of fur. He crossed his arms and held his shoulders with his hands, as if cold. He wasn’t cold. He was simply shy. Then, with a self-conscious grin on his full lips, he dropped his briefs to the floor and kicked them. They skimmed the wood to land beneath my entertainment center. His cock was a fat sausage, thicker in the middle than it was at both ends, three-quarters excited, still sheathed in a thick layer of foreskin. It lolled to the side, rising up with excitement.

He took a step forward, and spread his legs. “You like, papi?”

“I like a lot,” I told him. I looked up at his face, and instantly got distracted. Because he wasn’t completely undressed. He still had on that hat.

That hat. How can I describe that hat? He’d entered the house with it on, and apparently hadn’t given it a thought sense. It was not a baseball cap, or a knitted beanie, or any of the types of headgear that drive certain gay men crazy. No one in his right man would fetishize the fleece creation on this man’s head. It had more colors than Joseph’s dreamcoat, and seemingly more points than a cactus. It resembled a jester’s headdress, minus the jingling bells. I vaguely remembered the style being popular maybe a decade and a half ago, among the ski set and those who pretended to be a part of them. No one was going to fetishize that abomination of a hat.

“Am I good enough?” he asked. The words weren’t ironic, or arrogant. He honestly wanted to know.
I didn’t know quite what to say. He was more than good enough. He was a hot fucker. He was damned fine.

But that hat.

A couple of its fuzzy points flopped down over his forehead as he dropped to his knees. His mouth opened; I could feel the heat around my shaft as he lowered his mouth onto it. He waited until he reached the bottom before letting his lips wrap around the base. I could feel the hot wetness of his cheeks, his tongue, the gentle pressure of his teeth, as he eased himself up and down on it. I reached up to grab his hat, though. I wanted it gone. No sooner had I gotten my hand on it, though, that he decided for himself what I was doing up there. “Yeah,” he sputtered, around a mouthful of my dick. He put his own hand around the back of his head and clamped my hand down on his skull. “Make me suck it. Make me suck that big dick, daddy.”

Okay, I thought to myself. I’m not going to get that fucking hat off that way.

I let him slurp up and down my pole for a little while. I confess I was a little distracted. I liked the sensations and wanted to enjoy them. But every time I looked down, I was seeing a child’s fuzzy pajama fabric flopping around like a furry squid between my legs. No, strike that. A kid would’ve turned down that fabric pattern as excessively juvenile.

“Oh, papi,” he said, coming up for air. “You got the big dick I like. You really do. I’m gonna want this dick every damn day, man.” His eyes were glistening with tears and effort and sincerity. But all I could do is both stare at that hat, and think to myself, you have to look anywhere but that hat. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Do you like what I do?”

Maybe a non-verbal cue would do. “Hey,” I said, to catch his attention. I allowed myself to look at that hat, and then I jerked my head back in a way that I hoped would convey, Why don’t you take off that godawful chapeau?

His face lit up. He leaned forward, balancing his muscular torso by gripping the sofa’s edge. His lips met mine. Kissing me is not what I’d had in mind, though admittedly I didn’t mind it much. He wasn’t too great a kisser—his lips were tense, his tongue too spear-like. That can be trained out of a guy, though, with time.

A pity you can’t train them to take off the hat.

“Let me show off for you,” he said, after we’d made out for a few moments. He stood up and turned around, then bent over. “You like that ass?” he asked between his open legs, looking back at me. All the points of that damned hat hung down to the floor. When he spanked himself, they wiggled obscenely. “You want that ass, huh?’

“I do. . . .” I growled.

He stood up and grabbed the top of my sturdy TV cabinet. Once more he spread his legs and showed off his ass. This time he held his head back and stared at the ceiling. The hat’s tendril’s splayed down his back. “Oh yeah,” he grunted, as he ground his hips into the air. It would’ve been a sexy dance, if he didn’t have a jester’s hat flopping around comically atop his head. One of my cats entered the room, took a look at that hat, and walked away disdainfully.

My new friend had just squatted down on the floor and begun to finger his hole with that hat dangling down and obstructing my view, when I’d had enough. I rubbed the bridge of my nose as if I had a headache. “Hey,” I said in a totally normal voice, the kind that destroys any kind of sexual mood.

“What?” he asked, looking up. Several folds of the hat fell in his face.

“Take off that fucking hat.”

He blinked at me, then looked up. His face wore the most sheepish grin. “Oh my loooord,” he drawled, letting out a feminine giggle. “I forgot I had it on.” He whipped it off and tossed it with the rest of his clothes, snickering the entire time. “I bet I looked like a damn fool.”

“Pretty much,” I agreed, grinning to let him know I didn’t really mean it.

He knelt down prayerfully in front of me. “Do I look like a fool now, papi?” he asked.

My dick hardened again. “No,” I decided. “You most certainly do not.”

Then I reached for the back of his head, to direct him down on my cock. It was time for him to finish what he’d started.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Juiced Edition

It was quite an exciting week for those of us in the northeastern United States, what with the hurricane and all, last Sunday and Monday. Those of us in the tri-state area were particularly hit hard, which is why I was pretty much offline until yesterday.

The worst of Sandy hit my neighborhood Monday afternoon and evening. We had no electricity, a fire in the street, huge trees coming down around the house, and flood waters lapping at the front yard. The neighborhood looked for several days following as if it had been hit by bombs; people here walked around stunned and shell-shocked—particularly when we found out how many houses were going to have to be demolished because of storm damage.

Despite the lack of power for a week, and despite the dark and the cold and the inconvenience of having extremely spotty cell reception and limited access to electrical plugs, I'm grateful for a lot of things from last week. I'm grateful to have heat and light again. I'm grateful to be safe.

I was also grateful for the many well wishes I got from readers after the storm, and the expressions of concern before it started. Know they meant a lot to me, and that I didn't take them lightly.

As for those who used a natural disaster and some internet anonymity to exercise an opportunity to enjoy some schadenfreude—well, if you don't understand what that says about you, there's no hope.

Let's get to some questions, and as life gets back to normal, hopefully I'll catch up on some entries this week.

Did you have a job while you were in school? if so what was your first? Did you like it or hate it or whatever? How much time did it take? Did you want money for a specific reason, or just wanted to have some money, or something to do?

My first paying job was as a page in the state legislature, when I was in high school. Not only did I get paid for two years, but I got to skip school for three months out of both my freshman and sophomore years.

In college, I worked almost full time at a number of different jobs. The big money-maker was as a soda jerk at a local ice cream store. I also held down a part-time position giving campus tours to prospective students and parents, playing organ at a local church (a very small local church that was so grateful to have me that they didn't mind that I couldn't really play the organ), and lifeguarding and teaching swimming in the summers. I was usually holding down all those positions at the same time.

What is your opinion of people who perform in porn videos?

It depends on how well they perform.

What’s a good ratio of bottoms to tops for an orgy?

My friend who used to organize sex parties swore by a strict ratio of fifty percent total tops to fifty percent total bottoms/versatiles, and would allow no more, no less, to attend his parties.

This is the friend who got really pissed at me for topping all the tops at at one of his parties and throwing that ratio completely off whack.

Where did you parents meet?

My parents met in graduate school, the week they both arrived there, when they were persuaded to go on a blind date with each other by their new roommates, who were dating at the time. She thought he was arrogant; he thought she was kind of slutty. Years later they had a kid who was both.

If your partner was going to talk about your best feature while having sex, what would they be saying?

"Damn, his cock is perfect!"

Have you ever been to a nude beach?

I have indeed. I like being nude outdoors, and I love the beach. However, I'm not really fond of the two of them together. It's tough enough to get the sand out of the crevices between my toes, much less my butt crack, my groin, and all the other parts of me that seem to collect sand when they're exposed to the free air.

I prefer nude camping—a more relaxed and shady sort of pursuit. And it's generally cooler, too. Join me sometime.