Friday, December 14, 2012


So I’ve got him at home—my home—face down in the pillows. The sheets are everywhere. There’s a blanket slouched down onto the floor. Heat is pouring from the antique radiator beneath the room’s window. But the slow crimson blush that’s creeping across the Runt’s skin isn’t from the boiler in the basement. It’s radiating from his hole.

Over the last several minutes it’s blossomed from pink to red to a vivid flush of scarlet. I’ve been gnawing steadily at that pucker, getting my face in his skinny little ass until everything I smell is him. My beard smells like Runt. My mustache, just below my nose, is heavily scented with spit and Runt butt. My nose, my chin, my whole world is Runt-scented.

His dick is splayed out at an awkward angle, running parallel to his thigh. From time to time I’ve been yanking back at it, bending it the wrong way, letting my tongue scoop out the nectar puddling at its tip. He’s been twitching and yelping like the small critter he is, unable to fend off the predator feasting on him.

And with the Runt, I am a brute animal. There’s no call for anything else.

His ass is red. His hole is puckered and loose, gaping from the attention I’ve given it. His cheeks are raw and stinging from the manhandling, the slapping, the squeezing, the nasty brutish treatment he craves. His yells have been filling the pillowcases for nearly an hour. His fists sometimes reach out and beat a tattoo on the mattress. Sometimes they’re clenched onto anything he can grasp—pillows, sheets, the bed frame—or he’s braced against the wall, to keep himself from flying off.

My dick is hard. Angry. I’ve been denying what it wants. It refuses to be put off any longer. Like some sinuous Chinese dragon at new year’s I arch up and slide between the boy’s legs. My serpent is red, distended. Raging. I’m roaring inside as it spits and drools, ready to stretch open that begging boy hole. Inwardly, I feel the satisfied glow of the conqueror about to claim his territory.

Then, in that split-second before my hips lunge forward, I hear something I don’t expect.

He’s crying.

At first I convince myself it’s just one of those sobs of breathy anticipation, a caught breath, a sigh captured on the wrong side. Then I hear sniffling, and wetness. He’s actually crying.

And I think to myself, Oh, shit.

He won’t look at me when I roll him over. His long hair spills in his eyes. He keeps his head turned away from me. He’s like a little boy who thinks, all evidence to the contrary, that if no one looks him in the eye, they won’t be able to intuit his distress. “Hey, did I hurt you?” I ask.

Silly question. We meet so that I can hurt him, so that I can make him cry on the end of my dick. But this is different. This is worrisome.

“No,” he whispers at last. It’s one of those tired whispers, the kind of susurrus of sound a man makes as he drifts to sleep mid-sentence in the gray of morning, after a long night of lovemaking and talking.

“Do you need me to stop?” I ask. He lies there, motionless. Passive. I wait for him to say something. Anything. He doesn’t. “Do you want me to take you home?” He doesn’t say anything. I ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Do you not like this any more? Do you want to stop?” I don’t mean the hole chewing. I know he’s liked that. I mean this whole thing. The collar around his neck. The things I use him for, the stolen moments in the back seats of cars in parking lots, or in slept-in beds when their occupants aren’t around.

I mean, us.

“No!” Suddenly he’s alive. He sits up and throws his arms around me, squeezing me as hard as a kid frightened of a thunderstorm. “Fuck. No. Please. It’s the only good thing going for me!”

He’s rocking against my body. I put my arm around him. My other hand goes to the top of his head. I ruffle and stoke his hair as gently we twist, back and forth, back and forth. He’s so warm. So soft. When I close my eyes and listen to our silence, I want to sing him a lullaby. I press my lips against the crown of his head. “Do you want to talk?”

No. He shakes his head. I can feel wetness between us, where tears are still spilling down his cheeks. They glue us together, cheek to chest. My little bird takes shelter beneath my wing, crying silently to himself.

I feel helpless. I’m not sure what to do.

“Hey,” I tell him at last. He can’t be entirely comfortable, hunched over like that. As if I’m putting him to bed, I lay him down in the hollow of the bed where someone usually sleeps. I’ve manhandled him before in less dignified ways. He lets me manipulate him now, and slide down in the sheets beside him. I pull up the blankets and try to get them back into order. “Come close,” I tell him, pulling him into a spooning position next to me. “Is that okay?”

His head nods. His lower lip is still trembling, but at least the tears have stopped.

“Talk to me, kiddo,” I tell him. We lay there in silence for a very long time. My arms are around him, making him safe. At first he lies there like a rag doll, limp and squeezed double over a child’s forearm. Then he snuggles back, cuddling into the safe spot I’ve made. “Or not,” I suggest. “You don’t have to say a thing. It’s all right.”

He’s having some kind of struggle. I can feel it in his muscles, the way they tense and relax, over and over. He tries to fight through whatever is inhibiting his tongue, and fails. Then he fights again. Half a dozen times I feel him struggle to make the words come out. “You wouldn’t. . . .” he finally says.

“I wouldn’t what?”

“You wouldn’t call your kid. . . .” His voice is very tiny. “You wouldn’t call him a . . . worthless faggot. Would you.”

I picture that word being thrown at him. Used to slap. To punish. I was roaring inside a few moments ago, but the anger I feel now is an entirely different beast. “No,” I say, calmly. “I would not.” He doesn’t seem to want to say more. He doesn’t need to. “Did your mom call you that?” He shakes his head. “Your dad?”

A nod, this time. Barely perceptible. He's afraid to allow himself to assent.

I sigh. I honestly don’t know much about the Runt’s home life. I know he still lives with his folks. I know he’s not independent enough to support himself. When he’s with me, we’re fucking. Not talking. This, though. He needs to get past these ugly words. “Hey,” I say to him, turning him a little so we can look each other in the eye, over his shoulder. “Do you think you’re worthless?” He looks as if he might start to parrot the words and agree with them. “Seriously,” I say. “Do you think you’re worthless?”

He shakes his head. It’s a tiny, tiny gesture.

“I don’t think you’re worthless,” I tell him. “I think you’re beautiful. And I think you’ve got an amazing future full of amazing things. You’re amazing. Not worthless. Watching someone with all that in front of him—“ I’m talking about him, but I’m thinking about Spencer. “—that’s the most breathtaking spectacle in the world. And it’s happening to you.”

He’s listening. He’s really listening.

“Fuck him,” I tell the Runt. “Fuck that narrow-minded, asinine bastard for using those words against you. You know the best way to get him back?” His head turns from side to side. No. He doesn’t know. But he wants to. “Fuck him. That’s how. If you need to hear someone tell you how un-worthless you are, you call me. I’ll tell you. But don’t listen to that shit. That’s his own worthlessness, trying to feed on you. That’s his problem. Kiddo, dig those feet in, endure and ignore, then get the fuck out when you get the chance. And you know the best way to get back at him?”

His eyes are shining. They’re dark stones in water, reflecting the room’s light. “How?”

“Prove him wrong. Prove. Him. Wrong,” I say, emphasizing each word. “You will. Just wait.”

For one disastrous moment I watch as his eyes puddle with tears. They spill out to the side. He blinks rapidly to clear them, and sniffles. “Yeah,” he finally says. Then he laughs, perhaps embarrassed at what he perceives as his own silliness.

“You will,” I promise him.

There’s love in his eyes when he looks at me this time. We don’t use that word. But it’s there. It’s that love between two people who care for each other, who’ve reached out and connected hands in the dark and are grateful for the company.

“You are amazing,” I tell him.

I watch as the words sink in. Maybe he doesn’t trust them yet.

We lay close for a long time. He’s scrutinizing my face. Studying my chin, surveying my nose, my forehead. What he’s cataloging in that brain of his I don’t know. His body weight shifts. He draws up his legs, his knees against his chest. Then I feel his hand, gripping my cock.

I’m still hard. I’ve been hard all this time. I haven’t been paying a whit of attention to my dick, though. His small hand clutching the horn of my erection reminds me of his physical presence, though. His carnality. He reminds me that I already smell of him, that my face will wear his stink until I wash it. When I feel his hand against my face, my eyes close. His lips meet mine. We kiss, more softly and gently than we’ve ever kissed before.

I like it. So does my dick. It roars back to demanding life.

He twists his body. Straddles me. My hands lie on the mattress, unmoving. I’m letting him take the lead. My dick swells when I feel him rubbing the head against his hole. He looks into my eyes, still studying my face, as his long skinny legs rise and lower.

The head’s in. I feel his warmth bloom around me. He makes a face of pain as he takes another inch, and then another. Now his eyes are closed as he tries to force himself down on the rest. My fat cock is stretching him wide. The length is making him whimper. His long lashes open. He looks into my eyes as he slides down. From the mattress I thrust up, meeting him halfway. I’m inside, and for the first time with him, I’m in no hurry.

“You are amazing,” I tell him with conviction.

He gasps a little as my meat swells inside him.

When he stares down at me, opens his eyes again, and smiles, I know that he’s beginning to believe me.

At least, I think he’s willing to consider trying.


  1. This is the most powerfully moving thing I've read in a very long time, Rob. Thanks so much for sharing. Happy holidays, buddy!

    1. That was really wonderful. Makes me want to kick his dad's ass. The kid has got a long road to go to get free of that, I hope he does, and that you're around to help with it.

    2. Saab,

      Yeah, it might be a lifetime of trying to get out from under that—if it's been ongoing, anyway. My fingers are crossed it was a one-time slip on the dad's part, but it seems unlikely.

  2. What a beautiful post What a kind sweet man you are. This is an early Christmas present to your readers. Thank you.

    1. Thank you. Your comment was my present as well!

  3. Caring and empowering a young man in his search for self worth. Sex is fun, it also carries a responsibility to nurture the soul. Job well dine.


    1. Beardedtop, it's all about two (or more) people connecting. Even as you go after their dicks and holes, you can't forget the humanity you share.

  4. But don’t listen to that shit. That’s his own worthlessness, trying to feed on you. That’s his problem.

    When the people, you look up to, tell you how worthless you are, it's hard to trust your own voice. It seems so ridiculously small, but when you persevere, then the day will come, when you look back, and you don't even remember why they could ever have so much power over you.

    1. I know that one well, Countess. I know that time and waiting and just living can nearly erase great hurts—but it's tough to believe in that, when you're still hurting.

  5. Well this blog didn't go as expected from how it started, so the comment I was going to leave after reading the second paragraph doesn't seem right now.

    I still can't believe in this day and age that people, especially parents would say something like that to their child. A parent of all people should know their child isn't any different because of their sexual preference.

    The father is just striking out because he feels he will be judged buy his (I'm betting asshole) friends becuase his child is gay.

    Now it's up to you to be very careful as this father doesn't seem to be stable so could strike out at you if he finds out who his son hangs out with if you know what I mean.

    A plus for you to notice something was wrong and to not let your horny cock just plow on so to speak, but to stop and try and find out what was wrong. By the ending it sounded like you made him feel better and that he now wanted to make you feel better too :-)

  6. Wow! That was awesome! You are really a HERO in my book, man!

    1. I'll never be a hero in my own eyes, Mike, but I appreciate you thinking of me that way.

  7. Very touching entry.

    It's amazing the healing power of a simple connection, really. And hopefully he's on a new path of self-worth as a result of your words and empathy. I love how it all came back full circle in the end but only this time with a seemingly different sense of gratitude on his part.

    I loved imagining you both in the spooning position. Very tender and more intimate than I recall you ever describing with him. You both know your roles with each other but letting down both your guards for a bit seemed like it was really something special. I'm sure he'll remember that.

    1. I don't think a few kind words from me are going to fix everything by any means, but still. I hope it helped a little.

      You're sweet, Joey.

    2. Oh, I'm sure it definitely helped a lot. You're a very important aspect of his life and hearing those words from you must've meant something special to him. He'll remember.

  8. I always love your Runt stories but this one just blew me away - you are an amazing man and he is going to be an amazing man too. And his father needs a good kick in the balls.

    1. I agree with you on the last point, Boi!

  9. Jesus, talk about a vivid flashback. Thank you for saying those kind words to him.

    1. I hope someone says them to you, Kevin.

  10. A man expects love (or at least some degree of emotional support) from his father. Evidently "Alex" (I name I just now made up for the Runt, see below) wasn't getting that previously. Now he has to suffer being demeaned by his father; maybe despised.

    His father is a jackass imho. None of my sons is gay, but I have thought about how I would approach the situation if they were. It would certainly not include calling them a "faggot" or "worthless." That said, we can't expect the father to change.

    It must be hell for a guy to live in a house with someone who treats him like that. So I'm wondering what's stopping "Alex" from moving out. Is he still in school? Does he not have a job?

    Since Alex' self-esteem has taken a big hit from his father's rebuke, I'd suggest that you might consider calling him by some name other than the Runt for purposes of this blog. I don't know whether he reads about himself here, of course, but I think he deserves to have an non-pejorative identifier based on something other than his stature. He can't help his lack of height.

    Even if he doesn't read the blog, a name that's not an insult would be more appropriate, and would reflect the fact that you have clearly come to care about him on some level as a person in the 11 or more months since you two met.

    Finally, I admire the way you gave him comfort and support at a time when he was evidently desperate for it - albeit hesitant to share with you what he is going through.

    1. Thanks for the comments about supporting him, Steve.

      I don't necessarily think that using a nickname for him in this blog demeans him in any way. The word 'runt' can be use in a derogatory fashion, sure. But when I call him by that nickname during sex, he responds to it with enthusiasm. It's just part of the dom/sub dynamic that he craves in his intimate relationships with men. Frankly, I don't think it's any different from the nicknames of 'Cunt' or 'Whore' or 'The Gypsy' or even 'Scruffy,' in that all those nicknames reduce the person down to a single attribute.

      Anyone who truly believes that I think any of these individuals are nothing more than their nickname wouldn't really be reading me closely.

  11. God, you always get my cunt all heated me.

    Pakistani Pussyboi

  12. How many of us have been The Runt, told by those who should be loving and protecting us that "you're a worthless faggot"? Alas, not all of us have been as lucky as The Runt to have someone as good as you to tell and show him otherwise. With your words in his ears, The Runt is surely destined for great things.

  13. Thank you for this. It spoke to me in a way I didn't know I needed.

  14. Thanks for this. You are amazing also.

  15. A beautiful and very sad story. I have a friend who was kicked out when he came out and I have never understood how parents, who are meant to love their children unconditionally could do this. They are not fit to be parents! Thank you for being a positive role model to him which he clearly needs and teaching him that he isnt a 'worthless faggot'. How is he doing now? Is his dad still being an asshole?