Friday, March 30, 2012

Friday Open Forum: The First Shame

I was having a conversation with someone earlier yesterday about the concept of sexual shame—whether it’s appropriate, when it’s a hindrance, and how it develops in our psyches from the very earliest age.

I was fortunate enough to have incredibly sexually-progressive parents who felt that what adults did in the bedroom was pretty much their own business. Nudity was pretty common in our household. I was educated not only in the proper words for the genitals and what came out of them, but in the concepts of foreplay and birth control, long before any of the other kids had gotten beyond the stork and cabbage patch concept. Even in my teen years, my mother’s advice about marriage tended to be, “For the love of god! Don’t get married until you’ve lived with someone for at least two years! Only after you’ve got the fucking out of your system will you know whether you’re good for each other!”

True dat. When you get right down to it, it’s about the most practical relationship advice you can give a young someone.

The conversation yesterday did bring to mind an incident from my youth, though, involving my grandmother—my mother’s mother. Now, my mother came from a deeply religious Southern family. Her grandfather and her father were Southern Baptist ministers. Her multiple brothers also went into the ministry, though they all broke away from it in one way or another later on in their lives. My mom was the first member of her Georgia clan who finished high school and got herself a college and then a graduate-level education; combined with her political activism, she had a reputation among both her own family and her in-laws as a firebrand radical.

My grandmother, however, couldn’t have been more opposite. Both women were equally stubborn, but where my mother was inquisitive and loved to laugh, my grandmother was sour and stern, and looked no farther for news than what she could hear over the bingo tables at the local Eastern Star lodge. My mother couldn’t stand cooking, and pressed me into kitchen labor when I hit the double-digits in years; my grandmother’s main talents had been birthing babies and baked goods. They fought like cats when they were in close proximity. More than once did my mom cut visits south short by tossing me and the suitcases in the back of the car and driving off (“For good!”, she’d yell, every time) in a huff with a squeal of brakes and a flurry of dust from the dirt road on which my grandparents lived.

I had to have been in first or second grade when the one incident of shame I remember from my very early years took place, because in my memory we’d just moved into the house where my dad is still living. I was in the basement with a boy from the neighborhood—I don’t remember anything about him except that he lived nearby and that I was trying to make friends with him, because I was new enough to the area that I didn’t have any. And my grandmother was visiting, which is the kind of thing she’d do immediately after a move, to maximize the chaos and discomfort.

My parents had bought (maybe for moving, maybe just for their offices) a Dymo label maker. Label makers in those days were heavy devices that look like the radar guns cops use on the sides of the highways, mated with the Starship Enterprise. One fed a narrow strip of plastic into these things, turned the wheel containing the alphabet and numerals and a few rudimentary punctuation marks until it reached the letter of one’s choice, squeezed the handle really, really hard, and distended the plastic tape with a die so that it embossed a character into it. When one had finally finished laboriously spelling out a word, one would advance the plastic tape, cut it, peel off the backing, and then stick the label on whatever it was that needed to be identified.

Back in the days before videos games and even electronic calculators, this device passed as nifty and high tech. Naturally, kids loved them. I’d taken my parents’ label maker and this other kid and I were down in the basement playroom messing around with it. One of us had come up with the brilliant idea of making a label that said KICK ME! on it, and we were taking turns sticking it on each other. I’d stick it on his forehead, and he’d giggle. He’d stick it on my shoulder, and we’d both laugh hysterically.

I know! You’re envying the sheer hilarity of it! And I don’t blame you! I stuck the label on his chest. Then he stuck it on my butt! Can you imagine? Walking around with KICK ME on my butt all day? What a laugh riot! We were laughing up a storm when I stuck it on his groin. Hilarious!

Then I looked up, and saw my grandmother standing on the basement stairs. She wore on her face the expression I always associate with my grandmother, pinched eyes, prim lips pressed into a grim line—the same expression she had almost twenty years ago when I drove overnight, all night, from Michigan to Virginia the day my mother died, and I stumbled out of the car and her first words of comfort to me were, “You sure have gotten fat.”

But that day, when I was no more than six or seven, I suddenly knew that I’d done something of which she hadn’t approved. I’d played around with another boy’s crotch. I knew that in her eyes, without so much as a word from her lips, that it was w-r-o-n-g wrong.

If it had been my mother, or my father, or any of their friends, such tomfoolery wouldn’t have gotten even a raised eyebrow. But my grandmother stopped there on the stairs, face pressed into that disapproving and disappointed expression, laundry in her hands, and stared. I stopped laughing, and backed away from the kid. Only when I was a good distance away, and she was certain she’d squelched any proto-homosexual orgies that might’ve arisen from the labeler incident, did she finally leave.

For the first time—maybe the only time—in my young years, I remember feeling flushed and shamed by the incident. She hadn’t said a word, but somehow she’d convinced me I was doing something wrong, something dirty. On a certain level I knew that my parents wouldn’t have cared about a kick-me label to the groin. They would’ve found it juvenile, but not worthy of condemnation. And in a lot of ways, it was the first time I was aware that my household was a little bit different in that respect than other households.

I sure as shootin’ never stuck another label on a man’s dick after that. I’ll tell you that.

For today’s Friday open forum, I’m curious about other people’s childhood experience in shame. I know mine is rather tame compared to some I’ve heard. But when was the first time you experienced sexual shame as a kid—and did it come from your parents? Your peers? From within? How did it change your behavior, after? Or did it? Do you feel shame is necessary, when it comes to sex? Or can it be a turn-on?

Let’s hear from you guys in the comments.

Monday, March 26, 2012

Hootin' 'n' Hollerin'

Last Friday I had the leisure and privacy to do a little something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I turned the lights low, drew down the blinds, pulled off my pants, dropped my drawers, and then settled down for a long, sloppy session of masturbation. Just me and my greased-up inches. On camera. In front of a good, oh, hundred and twenty people.

Getting on cam and showing off my stuff was one of the things I did a heck of a lot back in the days I was first keeping my blog. Before that, even. I was showing off my dick on CU-SeeMe back in the early nineties, and over proprietary software before that. Hell, I was taking moving pictures of my junk to Eadweard Muybridge back in the days of the magic lantern, son, in what was the industry’s first example of the ‘long shot.’ Bam!

Anyway. It had been a while.

But as I said, I had the time, and the person I’d been expecting to meet that afternoon had been forced to cancel and I didn’t have the heart to meet anyone. On camera seemed like the place to be. I started off on Manhunt, where the video cam rooms can be either very hot, or deadly dull, with no in-between. They were deadly dull. I took my dick over to my cam4.com account, where I started off with a very small but appreciative group of viewers, including a regular reader of my blog. Soon this group swelled into a mob.

By the end of an hour, the mob was so overwhelming that I was having to spend more time clicking off private messages demanding that I show my feet or my hole, and accepting friend requests, than I was actually beating my meat.

That’s when I know it’s time to go.

I was still all boned up with nowhere to go, though, so I took it to Skype, where one of my cam4 viewers was begging me to meet him. He was a Latin boy, all of twenty, and pretty and furry in all the right spots. He had a killer smile, a lean body, and an enormous curved uncut dick I wanted to get to know better.

Once I had Skype fired up, I accepted the kid’s friend request and let him call me. Within seconds, that enormous curved dick was filling up my screen. “Hola, papi!” he growled.

It was right then that I remembered why I don’t show off on Skype all that often. For one thing, I prefer the places where I can show off to a bunch of different folk at once. For another, on Manhunt or cam4, I can turn off my sound. I don’t have to talk. On Skype, they expect you to talk.

And when I start talking during sex, I sound like a completely different person than what normally I am.

Oh, it’s not so bad in one-on-one sex. On camera, though, or on those three to five occasions I’ve growled obscenities in someone’s ear over the telephone, something happens to my carefully modulated tones. I start drawling. If a word ends in -ing, you’re sure as hell not going to hear that -g sound. I start using phrases I never employ in my everyday life, like Spread those ass cheeks for me, cowboy!, or Hoooo-eeee! That dick sure looks mighty good!

In short, I become very, very Southern.

Now, I grew up Southern. My mom married my dad straight out of the back hills of Georgia with the red clay still wet on her bare feet. As a child I had the cutest little Southern accent. I ate grits, growing up. I’ve lost the outward appearances of that cultural identity over the years, though. When I moved to the midwest for graduate school, I realized that no matter what I said, people weren’t taking me at all seriously because of my accent. I could put forth a linguistic assessment of a passage we’d read with all the correct jargon, using all the faddish theorists of the time, and I’d look around the classroom and see people beaming at me, right down to the professor, who’d eventually shake his head and say, “That accent is so cute. What part of the South are you from, again?”

So I trained my accent out of my voice. For the most part. It’s still there in there way my voice appears to be softer than it really is—it’s just the way my vowels are resisting curling up into a full Southern drawl. I developed a very neutral way of speaking that doesn’t really call much attention to itself, so that people could hear the message rather than the dipthongs of where I grew up.

But hoooo-eee, cowboy, does that all fly out the damn window when I’ve got my pants around my ankles and Skype fired up. Suddenly I sound like I’m Bo Duke behind the wheel of The General Lee, tryin’ to get outta the way of Boss Hogg before he up ’n’ starts causin’ some goddamn trouble again.

It’s fuckin' appalling.

I’m not embarrassed about my background. I don’t feel particularly self-conscious when I’m showing off on cam. But neither do I understand why, once I see that little green light glowing above my screen and I know someone’s listening to me, suddenly I’m making the exclamations “Daaaaaamn!” or “Shiiiiiiiit!” have three syllables apiece, or why I take on a good ol’ boy affect that I never had even at my most Southern-bound. I don't know why I start hootin' 'n' hollerin' like a redneck yokel. It’s not a matter of dropping the acculturation that’s stuck to me since, like barnacles. I don’t speak like that at my angriest, or my most depressed, or my most unguarded. Why do I do it at my horniest?

All I know is that it’s got to stop. If I regress any further, I’ll start babbling about not knowin’ anything about birthin’ no babies, at the height of some jerk-off session.

I'm pretty sure I'm correct in assuming that’s a turn-on for nobody, right?

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Shorn Edition

It's been a big week here at the blog. We climbed to over 800 public followers, and then kept going. We hit a million unique visitors. And then, to cap off the excitement, I went and had my head shaved.

No, really.

I'd been threatening to do it for some time. My hair was long. I'd worn it long-ish for about a decade, but this year and last, it got long. Friends and family would comment on how long my mane was and when I'd retort that I was considering cutting it all off, they'd laugh politely as if they knew I'd never do such a thing.

One problem with long hair, though, is that it starts to get in the way. It hangs down in your face, when you're banging someone. It'll look great one moment, and then a brisk breeze from the wrong direction will mess up everything. It tangles when you brush it. Your bathroom walls become plastered with long curlicues of  hair that drifted there on the billows of shower steam. You have to plan your days around letting the stuff dry.

So Friday I woke up and realized I was going to cut it all off. I dressed, pulled the stuff back into a ponytail, hopped in the car, and drove to the barber, where I sat down in the chair and told him to grab his electric shears and crop it all off.

"It's going to be really short if I do that," he said, staring at me in the mirror.

"Ye-es," I replied, since that was the idea.

"I mean, really short," he said.

This was one of the Latin barber shops in the area, and it was fairly crowded for a Friday morning. I couldn't tell, though, whether I hadn't made myself clear enough, or whether he was trying to make certain I knew what I was doing. "Yeah," I said. "Go for it."

"All right," he said, shaking his head at the crazy white guy.

So the first time around he used the shears on the side of my head, and trimmed off maybe an inch. Then he paused expectantly. I shook my head. "You see my beard?" I said, which I'd just trimmed down before I'd come. "That short."

"That short?" he asked.

"That short," I told him. So he cut it that short—perhaps a quarter of an inch. Then he did the other side.I still had a long lank of hair down the middle, like I was lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls or something, but finally I convinced him to cut that down, too.

When he was done, I beamed in the mirror. It looked awesome, and I told him so. It wasn't until I got home and was examining it in the mirror that I realized I should've asked him to take it even shorter on top.

I know some of you out there are mourning the loss of my Byronic locks, but hair grows, and switching things up keeps one on one's toes. And nothing's more welcome in the spring than a little change, right?

Let's get to a few questions from formspring.me. (And in honor of the milestones we crossed this week, how about you head over to the site and ask me an anonymous question I haven't been asked before? It'll be fun!)



What is your age and what is the oldest person in which you've had sex ?

I am forty-eight. The oldest person with whom I've had sex was in his mid-seventies when I was in my early thirties. He was a professor emeritus at a well-respected university, and he was a damned fine lover, too. Highly energetic and very attentive.


Have you ever lifted someone up upside down and stood up to perform a standing 69?

No. It sounds like way too much work.

I have lifted someone up and shoved them against a wall while they wrapped their legs around me, in order to fuck them, but they were considerably smaller and lighter.


What is that meal that you loved as kid, but do not care for as an Adult?

Spaghettios with franks. Why I loved this gummy, tin-canny mess with the weird-tasting hot dogs is beyond me. It tastes like upchuck.

I used to love mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch, when I was a kid. The thought now makes me shudder.

And some of the things I used to get away with as a kid, like eating an entire pint of ice cream instead of having a good dinner, just make me shake my head and wonder what I was thinking.


Other than your home town or city, where is your favorite geographical location to meet others for "no strings hookups" or sex?

Chicago, Toronto, and Atlanta. The men are plentiful and piggier.


Have you ever made a sexual phone call to someone you had a crush on and hidden your number or disguised your voice?

That kind of behavior seems to cross the line from crush-y to stalker-y, to me.

I'm more likely to have a crush on someone and never speak of it or give any indication, only to find out five or six years later that he had a crush on me at the same time. That seems pretty typical.


I'm fascinated that your brother "pimps" you. Have you ever shared guys at the same time? Have the two of you ever played with each other?

I think most of your questions would be answered if you clicked on the 'mikey' tag either in my sidebar list of tags, or at the bottom of that particular post. You'll see a variety of posts I've made about him.


Did you participate in sports teams when you were in school? What sport(s)? What memory or experience surrounding your participation is still important (or most vivid) to you?

I played lacrosse and tennis in school, and disliked both. For the former, I lack the team mentality that's so popular in both sports and corporate America. I'm sure my former employers could attest to it, too.

I was fairly good at tennis, but because I only did it because my father had played on his high school and college teams, and pushed me into taking up the racket. Because I was a snotty teen who didn't want to please him, I never enjoyed playing it, and resented getting up at five in the mornings, summers, for him to coach me at it.

The one sport that meant the most to me in school and after was swimming. Not with a team—but I enjoyed teaching swimming to boys at the YMCA, and lifeguarding. The experience taught me a great deal about interacting with others, helping people face their worst fears, and about responsibility.

Friday, March 23, 2012

The Million-Visitor Milestone

Early in the day yesterday, my blog passed the million-visitor mark, with eight hundred people publicly following me through Blogger. That's not page hits—that's unique visitors. It's taken a little less than two years to get there, but hey. That's a lot of people who've made their way through my little back alley on the internet.

Although if you think about it, I've only slept with about eight of my readers during that entire time period. Eight out of one million equals . . . me not getting laid from this blog all that much.

So to remedy that, I'm hosting a special smut celebration. My Latin buddy, The Mover, gave me a copy of the 51 Photos he took of me last month—and I'm sharing some of the highlights here. I hope you guys enjoy.








Happy million!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

The Mid-Fuck Hair Styling

I’m a little surprised I forgot to write about this one.

Last year, sometime in the fall, I started talking to a local guy from Manhunt. He was in his late twenties, lived less than a mile away, and was astonishingly handsome. He knew it, too, because he had a large number and variety of photos displaying him at his best angles.

And by best angles, I mean bent over, showing off a perfectly-round jock butt that complimented his classic Latin looks. In these photos his body was muscular, tattooed, and perfectly complected all over. He had big, almond-shaped dreamy eyes of an impossible shade of green—whether from genetics or colored contact lenses, I couldn’t say.

He came on strong, too. His initial emails to me were full of compliments, telling me how handsome he found me, and how big my dick was, and how much he needed me to fuck him. He loved married men, he said. He was looking for a compatible, attractive man to meet for no-strings, regular meetings. That was fine by me.

We had a couple of late-night talks in which he told me that he couldn’t host, because he was living with a family member, and he couldn’t drive, because he didn’t have a car. However, he was more than willing to get a room at the local Marriott for the both of us, since it was within walking distance of his home. No, it would be his honor to get the room, he told me when I protested at the expense. It was the least he could do if I provided him with my beautiful dick, and besides, he made a good living as a hairdresser. He insisted.

We swapped phone numbers and exchanged texts for a number of weeks. Yet I noticed whenever I pressed the issue of meeting and getting this regular no-strings thing started, he’d drag his feet. He wasn’t available, one week. The next, he wanted to know if I had any poppers, and that he couldn’t get fucked without poppers. (I don’t use ‘em and I don’t even know where to buy ‘em around here, so guys, you’re on your own in that one.) I’d make tentative dates that he’d break. Then he started saying, yeah, it would be nice for us to meet sometime. Why didn’t I pay for a room for the two of us?

After that initial conversation, there were a too few many balks on his part and way too many hints that I should be pulling out my wallet in order to meet him. I automatically classified him as a hustler, and stopped saying hello to him when I saw him online. The text messages dried up.

I hadn’t heard from him since about November when suddenly I caught him online, at the beginning of this month. It was right around the time of my two poopy encounters (which were so grim that I’m not surprised they pushed this one out of my mind). My Latin friend made the mistake of coming at me in the kind of passive-aggressive way that really gets my back up—a kind of “I guess you don’t want to sleep with me any more since you haven’t talked to me in months,” kind of deal that made me get just plain old aggressive in return. I laid it all out on the table for him. I pointed out that I’d tried making dates and that he’d never kept them, that he’d dragged his feet too many times, and that I didn’t like the way it had traveled from The Marriott! My treat! to Get out your credit card and try to impress me with the room you pay for, without any mutual way-station in between.

To his credit, he apologized for his behavior. Then he asked if I could host right then. As it happened, I could. I thought it would be a good option to call his bluff, so I invited him over. I was a little surprised when he agreed, and then showed up at my place driving an expensive SUV just a shade smaller than a Hummer.

I met him at the street. When he stepped out of the car, he was even more handsome than his photos, and although he’d apparently bathed in strong cologne, I instantly found him attractive. So attractive, in fact, that my jaw dropped down to the ground and, like Wile. E. Coyote from a Looney Tunes oldie, I was conscious that I might have been licking my chops with an oversized tongue. “Wow, it’s nice finally to meet you,” I said, by way of greeting.

“Is my ride going to be safe here?” he asked, looking around at the neighborhood like I lived among crack houses.

Now, the little community in which I live is one that’s so wealthy, homogenous, and small-town New England-y that the residents don’t lock their doors. No, I’m serious. They don’t. I get laughs and comments of Oh you might have had to do that in Detroit but you really don’t have to do that here! when I pause at my back door to turn the deadbolt. I know of one little old lady here who’s paranoid about crime, and even all she does to protect her house from marauders is to keep the screen doors (plywood, flimsy) on a hook-and-eye.

(If there’s a sudden crime wave in my neighborhood after this, I’m going to know it’s one of you guys, you know.)

People in this community have a term for folk who have to lock up their homes. They call them New Yorkers. Locking doors is something they do where people aren’t nice. People are nice, here. There are people here who actually, honestly drive horses and buggies. No lie. I live in Mayberry Fucking R.F.D. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked him.

He snapped at me. “I just got these wheels and I don’t want them stolen.”

I was slightly taken about by the vehemence in his tone. “It’ll be fine,” I told him. “Come inside.”

He followed me in, peering around the immaculately-manicured shrubberies of my neighbors as if carjackers lurked within every rhododendron. When we got inside, I took his coat and invited him into the bedroom. He undressed all the way without a word, then lay back on the bed. I followed suit, hoping that things might warm up once we got the naked party started.

I erred on the side of optimism, apparently. Although he’d claimed in his profile he loved to kiss and was a great kisser, he didn’t like to kiss and was pretty lousy at it. He employed that weird approach of so many men who think they’re good kissers, who purse their lips, stick a rigid tip of their tongue through it, and jab at me like they’re trying to use an ice pick on my face. He didn’t suck well, though I made noises and groans and pretended he did, in the hope that it might inspire a little more enthusiasm in him.

Somehow, despite the lack of chemistry I was feeling on my part, we got to the point where I was fucking him. He was lying on his back. His legs were draped on my chest and shoulders. I fucked away, trying to concentrate on how hot he was and to keep my mind off how I was finding this a disappointing fuck to begin with.

He, on the other hand, was playing with my hair. Not in a sexy, oo-baby kind of way. First he reached up with two hands to pull it back, as it hung down around my face. I should probably confess here that my hair is at a length that it’s causing me some concern—though I’m fundamentally too lazy to worry about it overmuch. I can pull it into a four-inch ponytail when it’s in the way. I like to pretend I’m Bob Sinclar, but honestly, I probably look like a homeless person, or at least that I should be handing out Scooby Snacks and sayings Zoinks! a lot while I chase after cheesy-looking ghosts in haunted mansions.

So I thought, okay, he’s just getting that mess out of my face.

Then he used his fingertips to part the top of my head, and experimentally comb a sweep of it to the left side.

Then he used his fingernails and parted it to the right.

Then he reached behind my head, pulled my hair back, and looked to see what it was like when it was smoothed down against my head.

After that, he fluffed it over my ears.

Finally, he pulled the long side lanks down and tucked them behind my ears, seeing how that looked.
While I was fucking away, people. While I was fucking away.

Every time he changed my hairstyle, as I banged away at his hole, he’d tilt his head and look at me with the eye of a professional, while he judged which coif looked best. Finally, frustrated, I simply stopped. “I'm sorry, is my sex distracting you?” I asked, pointedly.

He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Slightly, mind you. “Ooo,” he said robotically, and without any real enthusiasm. “Yeah baby. I like it.”

I just stared at him with disbelief.

After that, I really wasn’t into it. I mean, what’s the point, right? “Is that your car alarm?” I asked—which was a deliberately mean thing to do, since the neighborhood was shrouded in dead silence. But it caused him enough upset that my dick dropped out of his hole as he pulled himself into an alert posture. After that, it was easy enough to tell him that I could tell it really wasn’t working for either of us. Why he came over, simply to show me how boring he found me, I still can’t figure out.

Bad sex is one thing. Sometimes it happens—one has to be philosophical about it. Completing sex merely for the sake of being polite, though, is its own excruciating plane of hell. I’d rather cut it short while I’m slightly ahead of the game, any time.

But you know, at least there wasn't any poop involved.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

A Quick Note to My Commenters

I had a long day in the city yesterday, and I didn't get back home until after midnight to check my email and attempt, vaguely, to play catch-up. What I found were a number of comments waiting for approval on a few of my recent posts that, as good-intentioned as they might have been, were simply unacceptable.

I thought perhaps I was reading them through a filter of crankiness and weariness, but upon going through them again this morning, I still find them offensive.

So I'd like to make a blanket statement, for now and the future. I like my readers to comment upon my posts. When I receive comments, it lets me know that people are reading and digesting what I write. It encourages me to write more. Thank you for the comments you make, very much.

However, you are guests here—not only in my blog, but in my bed, and in my sexual history. I don't find it acceptable to visit and to be accusatory and rude, or with the express purpose of lecturing me.

When I'm writing about events that occurred over 35 years ago, I'm simply writing about things that happened to me, as I remember them happening to me. It's impossible for me to go back in a time machine and change my responses or choices, distressing as you may find them.

It's not acceptable to develop psychosexual histories of my partners in your imaginations and then react to them hysterically, as if they were god-given fact.

It's not acceptable to claim that my patterns of sexual behavior are 'criminal.' There are no laws against having many sexual partners, nor against fucking raw.

In the future I simply will not be publishing comments that are impolite, whether to me or to the people I write about in here. Even when it comes to disagreement, there are ways to state your opinions in a respectful manner that does not bludgeon me—or the vast majority of my peaceable commenters—over the head with your moral superiority. I encourage you to explore those avenues instead.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Decoding the Park

When I was a wee little Breeder, and piecing together my first pieces of the sexuality puzzle—what exactly it was that men did together, how they did it, and where I could get in on some of that action—reading was how I figured out most of it. I read, for example, in a godawful sex manual that all homosexuals met each other for sex in bowling alley men’s rooms, which I took as gospel. Since the one bowling alley in Richmond I knew about had closed in the late nineteen-sixties, I quickly figured out that I’d probably have to improvise on that count.

So I checked out all the men’s rooms of everyplace I’d visit with my folks. The shopping mall restrooms were fairly barren of activity, as were the men’s rooms of my Presbyterian church, for some reason. But I hit pay dirt when I wandered into the basement restrooms of the downtown public library and saw all kinds of obscene graffiti decorating the walls. The first scrawl I read, in fact, said, I NEED SOMEONE TO SUCK MY BIG HARD SOCK. Titillating, yes, but I was still uninformed enough at that tender age to figure out exactly what sock-sucking was supposed to be. Frankly, it didn’t sound too appealing. My socks smelled. (It took me a couple of years of staring at that legend before I worked out that some wag had added an extra curlicue to the first C of cock.)

There were enough penciled-in dates and times on the dirty tiles of the restroom stalls, however, for me to figure out that the library was an acceptable bowling alley substitute, and that men probably met there. But on my first pre-teen detective venture into the bowels of that building, another scrawled sentence sent me off in another direction. hotel jefferson basement men’s room, it read, followed by a date that was relatively recent.

The Hotel Jefferson was only a few blocks down Franklin Street, in what was then a somewhat-marginal neighborhood. Today that same neighborhood is squeaky-clean, having been swallowed by the university and turned into dorms and shiny new classroom buildings, but back then, it was about as close to a red-light district as genteel Richmond got. The hotel had once been a showcase, a gracious and beautiful place to stay during the century’s first half; it had exalted guests, a grand staircase that allegedly was the model for the one that Scarlett O’Hara tumbled down in Gone with the Wind, and alligators in the lobby fountain. By 1975 or so, it was near the nadir of its decline. Transients shuffled in and out of a lobby that was a shabby copy of its once-grand self. The bored desk clerk didn’t give a crap who came and went. Prostitutes rented a lot of the rooms. And in the basement men’s room, the walls were covered with enough graffiti that I knew I’d hit pay dirt. (Later I was to have my first money-for-sex exchange in that restroom . . . but that was still a year or so down the road.)

It was in the Hotel Jefferson that first day that I read another scrawl of graffiti telling me to try the restrooms in one of the classroom buildings at the university down the street. When I followed up on that a few days later, I found my first gloryhole, where for months and months I chastely watched men fucking and sucking on the other side. So all in all, not bad for my first investigation as part of the Horny Boys detective agency—I only had to follow two clues to solve the mystery of where men in my town were having sex.

In a similar manner, I discovered the local park that was my number one source of sex for most of my teen years. Although I learned to ride a bicycle at the age of five (without training wheels, thank you very much), it wasn’t until I was ten or eleven that my parents allowed me to go anywhere other than around our residential block on the sidewalk. Even then, my mother gave me a warning. “Don’t go down to Bryan Park,” she warned. “It’s not safe.” Well, Bryan Park was a mile away, which seemed a vast amount when I was ten. I figured getting out that far away from home was remote, at best, when all I wanted was the freedom to bike to the dime candy store in order to fill out my Wacky Packages collection.

Only after I’d begun my sexual treasure hunt did I figure out what my mom had meant. One of the homework assignments I had all through sixth grade for social studies was once a week to clip out from the local paper news items, which we’d bring in to class and read aloud to each other until we were all bored to tears. I’d been making quite a reputation for myself by finding the goofy items about the man who grew the county’s largest watermelon, or stupid thieves who’d rob a bank but leave behind their wallets with their licenses and credit cards, ripe for the tracing. Well, some other kids had horned in on that act, so I was forced to go reading actual news items for my assignment.

While I was doing my homework at the very last second, in the few minutes before my bus arrived on the day it was due (a sad pattern I’d follow all the way through college), I ran across an item buried deep in the local news section about how over a dozen men had been arrested in Bryan Park, for soliciting homosexual activity. I pretty much had the skinny on what homosexual activity was by that point, and it only took a quick glance in the American Heritage Dictionary to figure out what soliciting meant. From that I figured out that Bryan Park was the place to be!

Suddenly that mile didn’t seem like quite the obstacle it once had been. I biked down there soon after and scoped out the place, figured out from the men’s room graffiti and the traffic where the action was taking place, and had received a few solicitations myself. I turned those down, though. I was still too chicken-shit.

Sixth grade was a frustrating year for me. I was itching to have sex and had settled on the man with whom I wanted to have it—one of my teachers—though I couldn’t get him to follow through. He’d work me up, then leave me high and dry with no option but to return home and masturbate until my dick was sore and chafed. When school was out, my summer resolution was not to be jerked around like that any longer. I lost my virginity within the first two weeks of the holiday, picked up my first restroom fuck (and my first pierced dick) within a few days after that, swapped sex for a cool fifty dollars at the Hotel Jefferson by the end of the week, and once I could walk again, hit the park for my first sex there.

I’d figured out by that point that most of the sex action in the park happened in the heavily wooded area at its rear, in and around a little brick, stinky public restroom. I was still too shy to do anything more in the restroom than pop in, see if I heard noises of men hastily separating and adjusting their pants in the stalls, and dash out again. But I liked to sit in the picnic shelter nearby, atop one of the tables, and watch the men come and go. Before, when the occasional curious cruiser would start to meander my way, hands plunged deep in his pockets to conceal his erection at the sight of a boy near the cruising area, I’d casually but quickly collect my bicycle and act as if I’d just been using the shelter for a quick place to rest.

On the first day I went to the park with my three experiences beneath my belt, I strutted into that shelter like the little man I thought I was, set my bike beside the table, and decided to wait until I had an offer for sex. I was determined to follow through on it, too.

It didn’t take long. I watched a man in a Dodge truck drive up the long and winding path. He parked, entered the empty restroom, and emerged less than thirty seconds later. For a moment it seemed as if he’d return to his truck and drive away, but he spied me, several dozen feet away. His body faced his vehicle, but his head was turned in my direction, frozen. I knew which part of him would win out.

“What’s going on?” he asked me when he approached. He had one of those Richmond accents, broad and sweet and spread thickly as honey on a Ritz cracker. “Enjoying your summer vacation, huh?”

I indicated that I was, though not in many words.

Despite the truck, I could tell by his dress shirt and polyester slacks that he was a white-collar guy. He sported a wedding ring on his left hand. “What’re you looking for back here?” he asked. His tone was low and insinuating. When I didn’t reply right away, he said softly, “You lookin’ for a mouth around that dick of yours?”

I didn’t answer again, but I didn’t shy away, either. He put one hand on my right knee and the other on the left, and pulled them apart. Then he cupped where he judged my cock to be. He made a pretty good guess. I was already rock hard, and he squeezed what dick I had back roughly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You want a hot mouth around that hot dick bad, don’t you?” He spoke the words like they were the dirtiest he knew.

The tactic worked. I didn’t have to tell him I needed it. He’d already made the decision for me. He let go of my legs and leaned over to pick up my bike for me. Before I knew what was happening, he’d walked away with it. He lifted it up and placed it in the back of his truck, and jerked his head for me to follow.

Well, he had my bike. I didn’t have a choice, right?

He didn’t live very far away—no more than a quarter mile. I recognized the street as one I’d biked along before. He stopped the car in front of the house, removed my bike and wheeled it to his back door. I followed along silently, waiting while he unlocked the house and guided me through the kitchen and hallway.

We ended up in a bedroom at the home’s other end. It was obviously a girl’s bedroom. The sheets were decorated with Holly Hobbie, a illustrated urchin popular in those days who wore a sun bonnet and plain-spun gingham dress, like a refugee from Little House on the Prairie. The curtains were white and had frills. “Get undressed,” he told me. Then he disappeared. I pulled off my shorts and my shirt, and was wondering whether I should remove my tube socks when he returned with a towel in one hand and a tub of something in the other. I recognized it as Vaseline. He’d removed his pants while he was out, but he still wore his shirt, a pair of bulging white briefs, and his dress socks. He scanned me up and down. “Turn around,” he ordered.

I did so. He slapped my thin little ass, hard. “Nice,” I remember him saying. Then he pulled apart my cheeks and jabbed his fingers in there.

They were coated with a thick, grease glob of the Vaseline. It was cold, and I jumped. I’d thought that the deal was that I was going to get my dick sucked, not that I was going to get fucked. Part of me, though, was greedy to get fucked again, and my ego inflated at the notion that I was good enough that he wanted me that way.

I wasn’t going to get much choice. He’d thrown the towel onto the bed and I went sprawling on it at his shove. He pushed my head down into one of the Holly Hobbies, all while I protested at his bony fingers greasing up my hole.

Then he fucked me. I couldn’t tell you how big he was, because I never saw his dick. I couldn’t tell you how long it lasted, because most of the time I was struggling with the pain of it. I wanted cock inside me, back then. After my first fuck I wanted more—I wanted to try it again and again, despite the fact that it hurt like hell every time. It’s tough for me to explain so many years on what drove that compulsion to keep doing it, even when it caused me no little amount of pain. A lot of it was because I knew that it was needed. And some of it was because once I’d endured all that suffering and distress, I knew that it started to feel very, very good, and that the good part, no matter how short it was, vastly outweighed all the bad.

In this case, I am pretty certain that the good part was fairly short. His fuck was sweaty and unromantic. Once he was inside, he humped me like a rutting rabbit, jabbing away at me in short stabs that quickly brought him off. He smelled of dirty armpits and spray starch, I remember.

Suddenly it was over, just as I’d gotten over the ache of it and had let him fuck me into an erection. He pulled out, and had tugged up his briefs before I could slide off the towel and turn around. “Get dressed,” he said. “Then get out and don’t ever come back to this house again. You hear?”

I heard. He spun around and left the room. I fumbled for my clothes, achey and sore. Somehow I managed to pull them on and stumble out of the room and find my way to the back door, where I climbed on my bike and pedaled home. It was a ride home of several firsts—the first time I had to ride for a mile with a freshly-fucked hole on a bicycle seat, which wasn’t without its challenges. It was the first time I used an outdoor faucet at an empty house in the neighborhood to clean myself off before returning home. And it was the first time I had to dispose of a pair of underwear in another neighbor’s trash can so that my mother wouldn’t launder them and discover how messy they were.

The first of those I quickly learned to avoid by learning to pedal standing up; the third I managed to avoid after a couple of times by taking over my own laundry. Cleaning off in strange faucets, however, was one of those things I did until I moved away to college, at which point I just began cleaning up before I returned home in other people’s bathrooms.

I learned quickly. It happens, when one has the proper motivation.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Open Forum Friday: Favorite Positions

One of the most common questions I get—so common that I really should revisit that idea of creating a FAQ that would cover topics like “How big is your dick?” and the ever-popular “How do you find the time to have so much sex and still do anything else?”—is “What’s your favorite way to fuck?”

My smart-ass answer is, inserted.

No, but really. When it comes to positions, as long as nothing’s causing actual pain or distress (to me, anyway), it’s all good. If I’m enjoying myself, the position in which the pleasure is taking place is pretty secondary to me. I’m not going to stop the proceedings, sniff, and insist that we shift to the downward-facing reverse cowgirl in order for me to have a good time.

If we come right down to brass tacks, however, if I’m control the situation and get to choose how my partners are giving me their holes, I’m going to rely on a few personal favorites of mine. Roughly in order of preference, they would be:


1. The bottom with his butt up, lying down.

I like the intimacy of this position. The angle of my dick and of most asses are at their best alignment here; I don’t have to grope and search for the hole, only to find it about forty degrees away from where I thought it might be. I just spread the cheeks, push, and there it is.

I also like pulling the guy’s legs together and straddling him with mine, giving me maximum penetration. All the warmth of a guy’s skin, from his shoulders to his thighs and calves, is beneath me. If he’s a smaller man than I, and just about everyone is smaller than I when it comes to height at least, there’s a sensation of dominance and power that gets me off.

There’s flexibility too, in this position. If I want to put my weight on the man and grind away, I can. If I want to prop myself up on my hands for some extra maneuvering legroom, it’s simple. Nothing’s there to impede my hip action, and if I want roughly to shove the guy’s legs apart and fuck him that way, it only takes a couple of shoves with my knees.

Most guys can last in this position more or less indefinitely, which is also a plus. And of course, with me on top, the bottom ain’t going anywhere.


2. The bottom with his butt up, on the knees.

For long-dicking—that is, pulling all the way with my cock and then sliding back in again, so that with every thrust the guy feels my entire length invading his hole, rather than just a good three or four inches—this position can’t be beat. The depth of penetration, as well as the total amount of shaft with which it’s possible to penetrate a guy, is superior.

Plus there’s just something about the sight of a man on his knees, face in the mattress or pillow, ass in the air, isn’t there? It’s the ultimate submission. A guy lying on his stomach with his face down might be sleeping. He might simply find it the most comfortable position in which to relax. A guy lying on his back with his legs spread and his knees bent and pointed to the ceiling might be doing naked crunches. When a man assumes the position on his hands and knees, though, there’s absolutely no mistaking what he’s doing, what he expects, and what he truly craves.

The downside of this particular posture is that its success depends quite a lot on the guy’s endurance. If he has a trick knee, or the mattress is particularly hard, he’s eventually going to give out. And that’s no fun.


3. The top on his back, the bottom sitting on his dick.

True confession time: during my teen bottom years, I hated this position. I found it horribly uncomfortable. I’d have to grope around to get the guy’s dick in me for what felt like hours, and half the time the guy couldn’t even keep it up by the time I got him in. It required a certain strength of the thigh and calf muscles to maintain a position that was a little lower than a squat, but not as low as actually sitting down.

As a top, though, I really love it when bottoms can sit on me and ride for a very long time. The depth of penetration is unparalleled. If the bottom grinds just right, going back and forth instead of merely up and down, my orgasms are extremely intense (and, generally, arrive faster than any other position). I don’t have full control over my thrusting, which can be a problem unless the bottom is extraordinarily skilled. And lying on my back is comfortable enough for me that I can enjoy it for as long as the bottom can dish it out.

Plus, I confess it’s kind of hot just to lay back and watch a guy enjoy himself, at his own pace.


Those are my top three. There certainly are others that I enjoy—both of us lying on our sides, standing up with the bottom bent over. There are exotic positions—bottom pinned against the wall with his legs wrapped around the top’s waist while the top fucks him face-to-face standing up, or an upside-down bottom being fucked by a top who is standing normally while his dick is being bent down to point to the floor—that look hotter in porn that they work out in real life, unless the bottom is extraordinarily small.

And there’s one position that I find less enjoyable—though still a hell of a lot of fun—with most men, which is missionary, with the bottom on his back and his legs in the air. A lot of men like it because of the intimacy of being able to kiss during the act, and look into each other’s faces. I get that. It’s also easy to pin down a bottom, missionary-style. I enjoy it at the edge of a bed, if the bed is at a height at which I can stand without being on tippy-toe the entire time. I enjoy it when the bottom is unusually flexible. It was my favorite position to fuck Spencer, for example, because his dancer’s legs would fold back as if they were hinged, and he’d hook his prehensile toes onto the headboard. The Runt is good at it, too. If the guy and I end up wrestling against each other to see who’s going to be more off-balance during the missionary position, though, I’d rather just skip it.

I’m not every man, though, or even every top, and everyone has his preferences when it comes to position. On this Open Forum Friday, I’m asking you guys to let everyone know which positions are your favorites. What are the old standbys to which you turn when you’ve got your clothes off and your mojo on? Which ones do you avoid, and for what reasons? And are there any exotic Kama Sutra-like tantric postures I should know about?

Share it all in the comments!

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

The Climax

I’m going to start at the climax.

His climax.

When it’s close, we’ve already been fucking for over two hours atop his bed, in a posh hotel on the upper east side. The pillows are in a haphazard pile. The windows are slightly ajar; sunlight is pouring in. It’s a beautiful, spring-like afternoon, but neither of us care about the weather. We’re naked and covered in a thin film of sweat from our exertions. I’m on my back, hips slightly raised, knees bent slightly and pointed at different angles to the ceiling. My dick’s jammed all the way into him, as deeply as I can plunge.

And then an inch more, out of lust and spite.

He’s sitting on top of me, head tilted back, hand on his thick, hard dick. His knees seem so firmly planted into the mattress that they might have taken root there. His body quivers and quakes as it determinedly grinds down on me. His nipples are dark whorls, the size and shape of half-dollars, that pucker slightly the closer he gets to his orgasm.

“Do I belong to you now?” he whispers. His eyes are closed. His face is pointing to heaven. But he’s praying to me.

“You belonged to me the minute I dumped that first load in your hole,” I tell him.

“Yessss.” It’s a long, drawn-out hiss. Relief and joy, wrapped in luxurious sibilants. “Please. . . .”

“Oh, you’re mine, boy,” I tell him. He’s a year older than I, but he’s getting called boy nonetheless. “You’ve got me for a master now.”

This man could have anyone he wanted. Anyone. I’d told him so when we’d ripped the clothes from each other and I’d first seen that perfect body in person. The planes of his massive pectorals, the broad shoulders, the muscular arms. His waist was narrow, his ass round and bulging from discipline and work. He looked like he’d been sculpted from dark river clay by the hands of an artist, an aesthete who had shaped him into a perfectly proportioned sculpture.

I’d seen that body in the short videos he’d sent me—little greetings he’d taken in front of his bathroom mirror in his California home, in which he’d stripped down to a very self-consciously-selected pair of expensive briefs, held up his iPhone, and shyly spoke to me for a few moments. I lost a little part of my heart to him with each one. I hesitated to tell him how much.

Those videos alone had told me so much about this picture of perfection, one of my readers. They told me he was a man torn between a natural desire to exhibit his beautiful, picture-perfect body, and a fear that I or someone else might laugh at him for doing so. They told me he was a man who was sincerely and objectively beautiful, but was frightened to believe it of himself. Buff and muscular as he was, every one of those sweet and touching video clips made me want to cup him in my hands, like I might a fluffy, newly-hatched chick, and protect him from the world.

He doesn’t need my protection, though. He’s not a fluffy chick. Those vulnerabilities are not something the world sees. A glimpse of them is his gift to me, and I'm appropriately touched by them. No, to all appearances, he's a hot stud who wouldn’t look amiss in any porn production. I’m a little overwhelmed at the notion that a man this handsome, a man this built, a man this hung, could walk into any bar and leave with the stud of his choice—and yet he’s flown to Manhattan for the express purpose of meeting and spending a day with me.

No, protection isn’t what he needs. What he needs is my approval. My ownership. My dick. “You are going to compare every fuck to this one, from now on, hear me?” I promise him, so fervently it comes out as a growl. “I want to make you regret any cock after mine.”

When he opens his eyes, there’s a film of happy tears across them. “I’ve never had sex like this,” he says. He sounds weak, and helpless. “I’ve never had it so good.”

I’m not immune to compliments like that during the act. I stabbed upwards, plunging my rod deeper into a hole that had grown progressively looser and sloppier over the hours I’d been inside it. “Damn right you haven’t, boy,” I growl. “‘Cause you haven’t had it from someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing.”

I’ve always thought I was the biggest pre-cummer around, but this man has me beat. His cock is leaking with sticky goo. It adheres in threads to the hardness of his abdomen, connects to the lightly fuzzy skin of my own. At my words, another glob slides down his meat, like melting ice cream on a scorcher of a day.

“This is what you’re made for, isn’t it?” I find myself snarling at him. “Taking a stranger’s dick in an expensive hotel room in the city? Taking a strange man’s cum up your sluthole?”

“Yes,” he whimpers. “Yes. Yes.”

“Fuck yes. You know it. Is this what your ass is made for?” I ask this man, this successful, wealthy paragon of the business world. The words work magic on him. He’s getting closer and closer. “Sluttin’ in up with raw cock pounding away at you? This is all you’re good for, huh? Tell me.” He nods, but I'm not appeased. "Tell me. Say it."

His head tilts back to heaven again, as he becomes lost in the sensations taking over his body. “Yes.” The word is half-murmured, half-sighed. I recognize it as his amen. “Yes. All I’m good for. It’s all I’m good for,” he echoes.

When he comes, which he does seconds after, it’s the biggest load I’ve ever seen come out of a dick. It seems like a half-pint of semen overflows my chest, my stomach, my pubes in warm, sticky jets. He’s panting and grinding and clamping down on my dick like he never wants to let it go, all while from the enraged tip of his cock gushes a flood of the stuff. I’m so overwhelmed that I shoot immediately after, deep inside. It’s my third.

By the time I leave him later in the day, he’ll have collected two more.

Afterward, when he’s in my arms, holding me so tightly that I wonder if he’s afraid of ever letting me go, I realize to myself how fiercely I meant those words I spoke at the height of our passion. I do want him to regret every dick he takes after mine. It’s a selfish thought. Regrettable, even, for someone like myself who claims to have a philosophy in which sexual jealousy plays no part. But there it is, a nugget of post-coital insight, unannealed and raw—the realization that I wish I did own this man. That I could keep him to myself, for my use only, whenever and wherever I wanted.

Or is it that I’m the one who frightened to believe that I could have given him something that good—something better than he’d had from anyone else? I don’t know. Perhaps I am.

It’s moments like these, in the quiet times after climax when I couldn’t be any closer with a very special man, that I feel the melancholy of the two of us, lost boys, adrift upon the sea, stranded upon a life raft of our own making. How we cling to each other for comfort, and solace, and company. I run my hand over the short, cropped hair of his head. He murmurs, and nuzzles closer. Relaxing in the warmth of his body, I allow myself to close my eyes and bask in the sunshine and the sound of life coming from outside the windows, and drift. And drift.

He’ll be leaving the next morning. These moments of touching, of kissing deeply and wetly, of holding each other as we listen to the distant sounds of New York’s streets a dozen stories below, will begin receding the moment the hotel door closes between us. Next to him now, I’m already anxious about it.

But for now, there’s just the two of us, and time. My dick’s still hard, even after that third load. Maybe it’s because he’s kissing me on the neck. Or maybe it’s because he’s down there between my legs, sucking me clean with his amazing, unceasing mouth. How can he be so tireless?

He looks up at me with that handsome face, his eyes pleading. “Let me give you pleasure,” he begs.

“All right,” I say. It’s an easy agreement.

And he begins again.

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Collar

“Hang on a second,” I say, as we’re walking down the aisle, between supersized pails of cat sand on one side and stacks of small cans on the other. I pick up a box of Fancy Feast. Might as well, while I’m in the Petsmart, right? I’m pretty sure we’re running low at home.

At first I tuck it under my arm. Then I realize I’ve got someone to do the work for me. “Make yourself useful, boy,” I suggest, and toss the box to the young guy at my side.

He catches it, and hugs it to his chest, his face turning a deep shade of pink. It’s endearing on him.

In my head I think of him as the Runt, still. He’s got a name, but I don’t use it much. Because the guy is younger and slight of build, to his face I call him boy. Son, sometimes. He loves the nicknames.

Even now, I’m certain he’s flushing because I’ve used one on him. The people around us probably think of him as my son—and he technically could be, admittedly, by his age alone. We don’t look alike, save for a certain leanness in the body. He’s shorter, and small, slight in the shoulders. Soaking wet, probably most of his hundred and fifteen pounds would come from the halo of dark brown hair in a bush around his head. He’s smooth where I’m scruffy, dark where I’m fair. His eyes are big, wide, and brown, while mine are blue and narrow.

Still. The human mind takes immense comfort in being able quickly to classify and sort what its owner sees. When one passes a well-dressed older guy walking along the aisles of a pet store with his hand pressed between the shoulders of a much younger guy, one automatically thinks, dad and son taking home some food for the cat.

One doesn’t think, I wonder if that older guy is going to being fucking the brains out of that boy in another twenty minutes?

I’m guiding him, though. I know this Petsmart well—it’s the closest pet supply store to my home, a mere half-mile away, across from the Starbucks where I’ll hang out in the afternoons. I take him past the banks of cat treats and down the aisle in the direction of the pet groomers and the doggy daycare studio in the back. Then, the pressure of my hand a constant against his back, I steer him down another side aisle.

It’s when we stop in front of the display of dog collars that it suddenly dawns on him why we’ve made this detour, and that it wasn’t merely because I was nearly out of Fancy Feast. He looks at me, swallows, and then laughs a little. Once he realizes I’m dead serious, the laughter fades.

While he stands there, nervously watching me, I study the collars, look at the Runt, and then finally reach out to lift one from the display. It’s a deliberately-humiliating choice, made of narrow pink leather studded with some kind of sparkly plastic imitation gems. When he looks at it, then at me, I can see in his eyes he’s worried I’m serious. I put it back.

I go through several other collars until I make my choice. It’s a sturdy brown collar, broad and made for a big dog—or a smallish male. I tug at it as if to test its give and its strength, pretending I know what I’m doing. It’s all for display, though. He’s watching my hands surround the leather, not saying a word, but no doubt imagining where that collar will be in just a few minutes.

I exchange vague pleasantries with the clerk as we check out; I don’t need a back. Without a word between us, we head to my car and drive down the road, past all the industrial installations and the self-storage warehouse and into the quiet residential neighborhood beyond.

We’re parking again at the far end of the train station commuter lot. It’s dusk on a winter’s Friday night, long enough past rush hour that most of the cars have emptied out. I pull into a space in the darkest corner, far from the road, and turn off the ignition. “Get in the back,” I order him. When he opens the car door and still has the Fancy Feast in his hands, I add, “Leave the cat food.” He puts it on the floor.

I join him in the back, after I’ve pushed up the front seats to give us as much room as possible. “Clothes off,” I tell him.

He scrambles to obey. Through his curls he looks at me after he’s shucked off his T-shirt and hoodie all as one. He pulls off his scrubby gray socks, one after the other. They join his top on the floor of the car. Then he loosens his oversized belt and shimmies out of his jeans. I stop him before he yanks off his underwear. I pull down the elastic band in the front. His small cock, erect and already dripping with pre-cum, snaps out like an obscene jack-in-the-box. He lifts his hips as I pull off the blue briefs from his narrow waist.

I’ve got the collar in my hand. It’s still stiff and unworked, so I run it as a tight curve through my fingers a few times as he looks at me with wide eyes. “Is that for me?” he asks at last.

It’s rhetorical. I don’t have to reply. He knows what the answer is. He’s just filling the quiet with words. I’ll be filling it with his cries, soon enough.

“Lean forward, son,” I tell him. My hands loop around his slender neck. The leather’s edge scrapes a trail down the nape until it rests where I settle it. I’m pulling the leather through metal, gauging where to close it. When it’s finally fastened, it hangs a little loose. There’s enough give for me to slip all four of my right fingers through and pull his face to mine. “Whose are you?” I whisper to him.

He hesitates for a second. I can tell his eyes are glistening with tears. They’re not tears of fear, or of terror—though maybe there’s some of that, mixed in. No, those are tears of gratitude. This stupid gesture of mine, unexpected and so far from any of the tame experiences he’d had before me that it’s practically alien, this cheap collar that’s put me thirteen dollars out of pocket, has resonated so much with his needs that he’s trembling with gratitude. “Yours,” he whispers.

He’s brimming with emotion. I’m not having any of that. Roughly I shove him back until his head is nestled where seat and door meet. We don’t have much foreplay, the Runt and I. He’s there to be fucked, and I’m clear that I regard him as my hole, whenever I pick him up from home and drive him somewhere. I’ve got a tube of Astroglide in the console between the two front seats. It’s been chilling in the winter weather for over a week. It’s cold on my fingertips. I know it’s got to be torture for his hole when I jam my index and third finger inside him roughly.

I’m so hard that it’s difficult to pull down my pants in the cramped confines of the car. I manage, though. I’m desperate to shove inside him. “You ready?” I ask.

Another rhetorical question. I don’t really give a shit if he’s ready or not. I can feel the lips of his hole separating from the pressure of my cock’s head. The Runt is super-tight. Not so tight that he can’t be opened, though. He’s trying to be a good boy, a quiet boy here in this silent parking lot, but the pain of my cock tearing into his hole is almost too much; he’s panting and gritting his teeth and letting out cries of pain and anxiety and of deep, deep need. My dick, steel-hard and driving in, shows no remorse.

But I’m not the only one who’s hard. His own dick is pointing in the air and letting loose another glob of pre-cum. His thin legs are flailing in the air, trying to buck me off, to keep me from entering too deeply. At the same time, though, he needs it, and he knows it. His hands are clutching to the sides of my thighs, not letting me go. Pulling me in.

It doesn’t take me long to reach bottom—though it probably seems like an eternity to him. I feel my cock nudge against that spot of his deep within. His cock jumps. I pull out slightly and then shove against it again. Once. Twice. Three times.

That’s all it takes. Everything conspires against him—the collar, the darkness, the pain of my dick. Pressure against that point pushes him over the edge, even if he hasn’t touched himself. He lets out a cry that’s more anguish than pleasure, and then his cock begins unloading all over his midsection. I hold still while he gives in to the sensations of orgasm, feeling his tight hole spasm around my meat.

When his legs stop moving and I feel his body relax a little, I begin moving again. He groans at the discomfort of it, so soon after his climax. “My turn,” I remind him. “It’s what you’re here for.”
He doesn’t protest.

We fuck for over an hour. His three climaxes come at random, when I batter his prostate with the head of my dick at a certain angle. Mine are more deliberate, more calculated. Both times I grab his collar and pull him up so he can see my face as I shoot. I make him stare into my eyes and see what his hole is doing to me.

Only when my dick stops throbbing and swelling and letting loose the seed it’s delivering do I lower him by the collar back down again.

I make him remove it once his clothes are back on. At my instruction, he tucks it into the glove compartment. I can tell he wants to take it home with him, though. I can tell he wants to wear it when he’s alone, and to think of me, and the damage my cock can do.

Perhaps another time. For now, that collar is mine, something I can keep in my back pocket for when I need it. Just like I keep him.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Hippie-Dippie Edition

The response to my anniversary post, The Handsomeness Experiment, was so overwhelmingly positive that I was a little bit buoyed by all the nice comments you guys left on it. Thank you very sincerely—both for your support over the last couple of years, and for your receptiveness to my hippie-dippie philosophies. In a sex blog, gawd help us.

At the same time, my mailbox got barraged with emails that were all very similar. They'd begin, Thank you for your thoughts in your anniversary post, or some variation thereof, and then continue, I want to think of myself as handsome, but I can't.


Everybody's story varied—and people do like sharing their stories with me, which is flattering and an honor. But they were all stories that had in common the refrain of I can't. As in, I want to meet men, but I can't. Or, I want to have better sex, but I can't. Or, I'm unhappy with the sex I have with my spouse, but I can't say anything.


I sympathize. But to a certain extent, I think this kind of thinking is bullshit.

I don't talk about my career much on these particular pages. But my particular creative career is something I've wanted to do ever since I was in my teens, and discovered I had a certain knack for it. I can't say I had a lot of parental support in my aspirations. They weren't exactly repelled by my grand dreams in the way they might have been if I'd announced I was going to make a go of a job course in high-visibility masturbation at the side of public school playgrounds, but they did kind of regard me with sympathy and suggest that I have a nice stable back-up career that would never go away in mind, like computer punch-card operator skills, or learning how to use a Dictaphone.

So I went to grad school, and made myself miserable. The only time I was happy was when I was doing what I instinctively knew I was supposed to be doing with my life. I made the big leap one summer when I ignored school completely and spent three months doing just that. I worked away at a big project and had a blast doing it. I'd never been on such a sustained high.

Along the way I got the attention of an artist's representative—an agent, if you will. She came on strong and told me how talented I was, and of all the things she could do for me. My head swelled. My hopes soared. She dropped names and made me see stars. When she was done, I didn't exactly write nicely-penned notes to all the bullies I'd ever known in high school and college that said, TOLD YA I'D BE RICH AND FAMOUS, SUCKAHS!, but I was pretty close.

Then the agent dumped me. No reason why. Just a month later, after I'd been cherishing notions of myself on The Today Show and Phil Donahue (this was the nineteen-eighties, after all), I got a postcard from the representative's assistant saying that they'd changed their minds, because on second view, they weren't as impressed with my summer project as they'd thought they were. That it was self-indulgent and self-conscious, and basically kind of sucky.

Well.

I hate to admit it, but I let that incident shape the next twenty years of my life. It became part of my life story, in fact—for a long time, the focal incident of my life story. I could've just gotten up off my feet and gone at it again. New project. New representative. I didn't, though. Over the course of time I would simply centralize that one failure so that it was an excuse for not ever really trying again. I'd think to myself, I can't start this new project and see it through—I had my one shot and I blew it. Or, I can't think about trying to get an agent to look at this thing. It's obviously just not in the cards for me.


For close to twenty years I lost all inertia, because the story I was telling myself about my life was all about defeat. It was an I-can't story. I was defeated before I even tried to begin—if I couldn't do it, why even try?

Eventually, when I realized what I was doing to myself, I made it into an I'm gonna story. As in, I'm gonna carve out another project for myself, see it through, and see if I can make a break for myself. And as in, I'm gonna keep going until I've really given it my all.


Can't is such an unassailable word. It might remove responsibility from your hands, in a way—it has a tendency to persuade us that we don't have any alternative. It's just something we can't do! But a lot of time, can't is just a damned lie. The things we can't face are really things we won't confront, or which we're too frightened to consider.

When I hear you guys saying I can't meet men, what I really hear is I'm too afraid. When you say I want to have sex that's more adventurous and fun, but I can't, I hear, There are a lot of reasons I won't allow myself to do what I want.

When you tell me, I can't fool around on my significant other, you're really telling me, I could if I really wanted to, but right now I'm choosing not to. And when you say, I can't tell myself once a day that I'm handsome, and try to believe it, you're really saying, I want to, but it hurts.

You can do any of those things. They might not be easy. They might not be right for you. But you can do them.

So this is my hard-won advice: don't tell yourself you can't do things. When you do, you'll start making it an official part of your own narrative. Can't is a seductive deceiver, a mask, an enabler. Be honest with yourself about these things, and recast your narrative as an I haven't yet story, or even an I'm afraid to tale.

Fears and lapses can be overcome, if you work at them. Can't, can't.

All right. Enough of my hippie-dippie nonsense, and onto some questions from formspring.me.


How often do your co-workers irritate you?

During the years I did office work, constantly. It was my prime driving factor in taking my creative work full-time.

I was just thinking about this issue yesterday, in fact, when I was remembering the awful man who was my supervisor for a good three or four years. He was the vice-president of my division of the university where I worked, and was so beloved by everyone that we referred to him as 'the lisping troll' behind his back. That is, when we weren't referring to him simply as 'shithead.'

Writing articles for a university publication was part of my job at the time, and once he summoned me into his office and screamed at me for forty minutes straight because he disliked a headline I'd written. The headline was innocuous: Jones to Helm Animal Investigation Committee, or something very similar.

He screamed and spat and swore and said I'd embarrassed him and embarrassed the university, ranting and raving so direly that he had me convinced that I'd put in the wrong name of the person who was going to be the committee chair, or something dire.

Then it turned out that his entire screaming fit was because he didn't think helm was a real word.

Really.

I stood up, took the dictionary off his shelf, opened it to the definition, dropped it in front of him, and left the office.

Do you own and wear any jewelry? What pieces do you wear every day? Do you have any special pieces you only wear for special occasions?

I have a ring on my left ring finger I've worn for twenty-two years. Once in a while I'll wear a watch. If I have French cuffs on a shirt, I'll wear cuff links with them. That's the only jewelry I have, though.

If you could inhabit anyone's body for 24 hours - male or female - in order to experience (and give) physical pleasure as that person experiences (and gives) it, whose body would you pick, and why?

I don't have a specific individual in mind, but I know how guys work—despite slightly different wiring between various guys, the plumbing's all the same.

I'd enjoy being a woman for a day, simply to experience the differences, and to seduce a few straight guys.

Have you ever fooled around with somebody on grindr?

Yuh-huh. I surely have. I haven't found it as effective in hooking up as other internet sites, however—and as I wrote about recently, I've actually had more hookups from the non-sexual Instagram than I have from Grindr, which was made expressly for that purpose.

When you dislike someone, do you normally let them know or do you hide it?

I'm not really very good at hiding dislike. There's always going to be a certain frosty reserve in my manner when I have to deal with people I dislike.

I'm not one of those people who feels it's necessary to be liked by one hundred percent of people one hundred percent of the time, so I don't much care.

If someone's behaving in a manner that's rude or heedless, and it's causing me to dislike them, I'll typically point out the behavior and suggest it stop, but not mention that it's driving a wedge between us.

What's one new thing you want to try -- sexual or other -- in 2012?

I'd started the new year with a resolution to bottom sometime before 2013, but I've already busted that one. So to speak. Let's just call it mission accomplished, and ask me again next year.

What was your first car? What color was it? Did you buy or was it given to you?

The first car I ever drove was a metallic green 1974 Dodge Demon that belonged to my parents. Man, that thing was a bucket of bolts. I hated it.

The first car I ever owned was a 1979 Malibu. When I bought it from a colleague of my dad's in 1991, it had less than 20,000 miles on it. The woman who'd owned it drove it a half-mile to work, three times a week, and that was pretty much it, so it was in fantastic condition.

Until I got it, that is, when it decided to go through tires like potato chips and sputter and die whenever the temperature got below, oh, fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Man, I hated that car, too.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Reader Assets: #23

You know what? It's been a damned long time since we had a Reader Assets column up in here.

How long, you ask me? Four months! That's way too long!

Let's rectify the situation with some of the photos my butt has been sitting on—pun intended—since then. These photos are of actual readers who've decided to share their naked goods with the rest of you. So let's hear it for them in the comments . . . and see below how you can share you own goods in a future edition.

Marky







Marky's been posted on the Reader Assets page before. He tells me that after all the nice compliments you guys gave him, he found the whole experience so liberating that he's totally reassessed his feelings about his own nudity and his own body. I think that's pretty damned impressive, especially for a guy of the age of fifty-six, don't you?

Of course, if I had a dick and load and ass like his, and the fur to go with it, I'd be reconsidering being nude as much as possible too.


Kellogg







If this were RuPaul's Drag Race, I'd be trying to think up comments for these photos like Ru does during the final runway. In Kellogg's case, they'd be remarks like, "Mmm, dish me up a bowl of that!" or "I'm in the mood for some . . . Special K!"

Or maybe I should've just gone with a simple, "They're grrrrrreat!"

All I know about this gentleman is that he's also in his fifties, that he works out every day, and that he's got some boyfriend at home who's no doubt made very, very happy by having that bowl of Sugar Pops in his bed.

(RuPaul, are you reading this? I'm available for freelance work.)


Jordan






I don't know much about Jordan; he didn't tell me a lot in his letter, other than that he's read my blog for quite a while.

What I do know is that he's a bottom. And he's got quite a bottom! I love the roundness of that ass. And what's that hanging out from between his cheeks? Oh yeah. A big old dildo.

Hard to argue with that.


Pakistani Pussyboi








Our friend Pakistani Pussyboi is a fairly frequent commenter within these pages. I think he's one of my finest, hottest readers; I envy the man who got to empty his load into him between the first two and the last photo here.

He's got the prettiest, firmest, hairiest ass, doesn't he? Damn. His photos get me right where it counts, every damned time.


Let's give all our assets for the day a big round of thanks and applause! If it weren't for them, people would be using the internet for dreary crap like Wikipedia and homework.

Send me your assets! 
If you're interested in participating in this feature, all you need to do is send an email to the address in the blog sidebar with a subject of 'MY ASSETS.' All I ask is that your photos are of you, and not some random porn actor—unless you're a random porn actor, of course. I ask that you be of an age to release such photos, and that you realize that by letting me publish your photos here, there's the vaguest chance that they might be seen by your pastor, your significant other, your boss, and that cute barista you've been flirting with every Tuesday and Friday.

I've basically got no more assets to run through, guys—so unless you start sending me yours, it'll be another long, dry stretch until the next round of porn here. Share with me! It's fun!



Monday, March 5, 2012

Fun and Sexual Profit through Instagram

I love taking photographs. I have absolutely no training or formal education in photography. I'm not particularly good at it. But that doesn't stop me, when I see something I’d like to remember, or a scenario that I find striking, from taking a snapshot.

Actually, whenever someone shows me his fancy SLR camera and begins talking about exposures and f-stops and shutter speeds, my eyes start to glaze over. All I know is that I like taking photographs, that I take hundreds of them a month, that I take most of them with my phone and am fairly happy to keep doing so, and that Instagram is the most absorbing app ever invented.

For those of you who aren’t using an iOS device, or who haven’t discovered the app, Instagram is a deceptively simple service that lets one share photos with other users around the world. One takes a photo—it’s possible to do so from within the program itself, though most of people I know do it with their dedicated point-and-shoots or with the phone’s camera app—labels it, and posts it for one’s friends to see.

It’s possible to touch up and frame one’s shots with one of Instagram’s built-in filters that will make the shot look distressed, or aged, or from a Instamatic camera circa 1972. And in fact, whenever I see Instagram in the press, or whenever I see someone disparaging it, they make a big deal about these filters, as if they’re the entire point of the app. They’re not. It’s possible to find applications with filters all over the damn place. Instagram doesn’t need them. Hardly anyone I know uses them.

The point of the program is its endlessly fascinating ability to connect the most unlikely of people in very personal ways. If I’ve just taken and posted a fascinating study of the train tracks down at the local Metro North station, I can click on the photo’s geotag and see who else has posted shots from the same location. Users can add hashtags to their photos so that people with similar interests can find them—so if I want to spend a nostalgic hour looking at photos of my old home town, it’s ridiculously easy. If I want to find photos of people flying kites, or classic architecture, or of guys working out, or just of sexy guys with beards, they’re only a search away.

I like the Instagram community because it’s supportive and encouraging and, by and large, pretty tolerant of each other. I don’t run into the huge flame wars I find on Facebook and other similar social networking services. Either you like a photo—in which case you can double-tap it to affix a little heart by it to show your appreciation—or you move on to the next. No hard feelings.

And damn, is it ever easy to get laid from it.

No, seriously. I’ve made a couple of comments in the past about how I’ve had more hookups from Instagram—on which no photo is anything more than R-rated lest one’s device be locked out—than I have from Grindr or Scruff or any of the apps classified as ‘adult.’ Each time, I’ve received some incredulous replies. Instagram? Really? How’s that even work?

It’s a god-damned mystery to me. There are a certain proportion of male users on the service whose feeds are nothing but self-posed shots of themselves. Hey look! I’m shirtless and twisting my body to its best advantage in front of my bathroom mirror! Hey look, it’s me, shirtless, sitting down on my workout bench at the gym! Look, it’s me with a skimpy shirt on at the club, taking my hundredth photo in front of another mirror! I follow a few of those guys, if they’re especially pretty.

But I am not one of them.

No, my photos tend to be landscapes. Shots of the neighborhood around me, or the vistas afforded down the street at the local beach. I take photos of Manhattan and of bridges and clocks and machinery, none of which is arousing in the least. The only thing I can think of that might be even vaguely sexy about my photos are the shots of skyscrapers I often include. Perhaps the phallic imagery just makes people horny.

Yet I have men on the service flirting with me all the damned time, almost as much as if I were actually contorting my body in the mirror to hide the flaws and snapping myself in jock straps to pander to a . . . hey, wait a minute. . . .

So I can’t tell you why it goes down, but I can tell you how.

Along with the basic information and photo I put in my Instagram profile, I’ve included my Kik nickname. Kik is just an instant messenger phone for the iOS platform. There’s nothing special about it. A lot of Instagrammers use it to send quick messages to each other about contests and the like. Every once in a while I’ll get a message from someone like the one I got last week. Hey sexy, it said.

I looked at the little icon by the name, which I didn’t recognize. It was of a kid in his late teens or very very early twenties. Handsome kid, despite the puppy-sized ears he still had yet to grow into. Thick, black hair. Dark eyebrows. Soulful eyes. Gangly, lean body. What’s up? I asked him.


I liked your photos, he said. Now I’m thinking about your cock.

I’d like to take the opportunity that the photos I’d most recently posted were a sunset shot of a local beach, and a night shot of the Empire State Building. So maybe my phallic subliminal message theory holds water. Have you ever seen my cock? I asked him. I knew the answer was no. So I sent a shot of it directly to him.


I want it, he wrote back. I want to sit my ass all the way down on that.


Where are you? I asked, expecting the answer to be Utah, or Texas, or Vancouver, or somewhere impossible.

But he was in Rye, not more than fifteen minutes away. I didn’t wrestle with the decision. I had a nineteen-year-old hungry for my dick, and whether or not he had a clear idea of what I looked like or was into, I was horny for his ass.

He lived in some kind of dump above someone’s garage—a parent? A grandparent? I didn’t care. All I knew is that he answered the side door naked, looked me over, nodded, and held open the door so I could walk up the stairs and into his little space. The room was over-warm and smelled like old pot and dirty laundry. The bed was unmade and littered with cords connected to the laptop that was running in the middle of it. He had the radio running, but turned it off when I entered the room. “Let me see that dick,” he said.

I obliged by unbuckling my belt, dropping my pants and my shorts, and standing there with my hands on his hips. He went down into a squat instantly, taking my dick in his mouth and worshipping it. He was good, too; he knew what to do with a cock. He didn’t squeeze with his hand, or try to beat me off while applying his lips to the tip. He sucked it down, and sucked it deep, and closed his eyes as he went deep along the shaft. His own dick hardened between his smooth, almost hairless legs. He didn’t touch it. It was one of those dicks where the foreskin never quite separated from the dick’s head; it looked like the skin there was fused around three-quarters of the perimeter.

“I don’t meant to be blunt,” he said finally, bouncing up to both feet. “But I don’t got a lot of time and I want that in me. Is that cool?”

I shrugged. Fine with me. The kid was taller that I’d expected from his Instagram photos (which mostly were of him sitting down and smiling into the camera). Standing, he was my equal in height, though he was even slighter in build. I didn’t resist when he pushed me down on the bed, though, moving the laptop aside at the last moment to accommodate me. His legs were narrow but strong; he positioned his knees on either side of me once I was lying down, applied some lube to his hole from a bottle at the bedside, and started sitting down on me. Once I reached down to hold my dick steady while he settled on it, but he pushed my hands away. “Let me,” he said in a tone that seemed to assure me he knew what he was doing.

He did. There was some serious resistance at his back door as my cock head pulsed against it, but after some grunting and pushing down on his part, the hole opened and I plunged inside. He went all the way to the base in almost one single, smooth motion, pausing only once to bounce up slightly when it got too much for him. Dick in his hole is what he’d wanted, though, and now he was getting exactly that.

He kept his eyes closed during the whole fuck. His upper teeth bit against his lower lip; from time to time he would nod, when I was hitting the right places. Once in a while, across that puppy-dog face would flash a smile, a moment when he’d seem to be completely happy, his needs met. I liked those little smiles. I’d thrust my hips up, or twist so that my dick went in at an angle, or swell my girth, just to get him to toss one at me from above, like someone angling for gleaming beads at Mardi Gras.

It wasn’t a long fuck. His big dick with the fused head kept flopping against my stomach as he bounced up and down. Eventually he grabbed hold of it and beat it off until it sprayed its load all over my chest and face. It didn’t take long. I came shortly after. He pressed his hands down onto my chest and held me there after he’d shot, and then picked up the pace with his ass and hips. “Give it to me,” he kept whispering. He wasn’t going to let me up until I did. “Give it to me.”

When I did, it was softly, with a little laugh of surprise.

I didn’t dare say no.

“You hooked up with other guys from Instagram before?” I asked him, when he was walking me down the stairs. Naked, still.

“A couple,” he admitted in a gruff voice. “Just not a lot of bullshit there. You know?”

I nodded, and pretended to understand. But I really still don’t. How is it easier to hook up on an internet service not intended to be used for that purpose, and on which this photographer, at least, rarely shows a photo of himself? It rings true somehow, but I still don’t get it.

Though quite frankly, if it’s scoring me hole like that, I’m not questioning it too deeply, either.