Sunday, December 23, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Ho-Ho-Ho Holiday Edition

Attention shoppers! Looking for last-minute gift ideas for your favorite blogger? Okay then, how about for me?

(I know, that was subtle, right?)

My holidays are going to be fairly low-key this year. A little piano playing, a little caroling, a lot of figgy pudding. I'll be sticking around the house and not really going anywhere. Given the hectic month I've had, though, it'll be nice.

But I want to hear about your plans! In the comments, tell me what you guys do for the holidays. If you're going on vacation, let me live vicariously through your plans. If you're doing something elaborate, enlighten me! If you're just staying at home like me and watching a double feature of Meet Me In St. Louis  and Love, Actually with a box of Kleenex at your side . . . well, there's no shame in it. I want to hear about what you're going to do!

Of course, if you're planning to fuck your brains out on Christmas Day, share photos. Lots of them. Dirty ones.

Let's get to some questions from formspring.me.


If you knew the pain you'd have because of your feelings for Spencer, would you, if you could turn back the clock, do things differently so you'd never have known him? In other words is it better to have loved & lost or would you prefer to have never loved at all?

I knew right from the start how very difficult it would be if I gave my heart to Spencer, knowing full well I'd have to leave him when my house finally sold.

I knew that I loved him the moment he left my bed, the first night he came over.

I knew that it was folly to have feelings for someone when I could be leaving for the east coast at any time. It was stupid, in fact.

Yet I dived in anyway, because I firmly believe it's better to have the experiences that life offers than it is to avoid them just to shun pain. One learns how to cope with pain and disappointment. They become part of the rich mix of memories we have about the people and times we've loved.

I'd rather look back on my life and think of all the amazing people with whom I've been close, tinged with regret and sadness even, than live a sterile existence in which I never took a chance with anyone, and no one reached out to touch my life.

We know your mum died & you were close to her. If you could say one thing to her what would it be?

My mom passed away nearly twenty years ago. She and I were very close on a number of levels, so I really felt her loss at the time. It took nearly a year for me to come out of the depression, after.

My mom spent most of her adult life afflicted with chronic illness, and one of the things on which she was truly adamant was that life is sometimes cruelly short, and that we never, ever really know how much time left we have. Therefore, nothing truly important should be tucked away to be unaired and unexpressed. She felt very strongly that it was important to tell the people we love how we feel about them—whether they're friends, family, or romantic interests. As massive a grudge as she could hold, she also believe that rectifying wrong-doing was important, and that apologies for misdeeds should be made quickly and sincerely.

I'm glad to be inclined to my mom's philosophy this way. I can honestly say that when she finally passed away after a very long and lingering illness, there was nothing I'd held back. Nothing important I'd left unsaid. No I-wish-I-hads to haunt me. She knew I loved her and admired her accomplishments. I felt very good about our relationship when she passed. There were family members who'd not followed her example and had a very, very rough time afterward.

My only real regret—and it's nothing for I could really have done anything—is that all my career success came after my mom's death. Since I only entered my career with her encouragement—and since it was in an area of the arts in which she'd had aspirations when she was young—I'd simply want to thank her for believing in me even when I'd given up on myself.


What countries have you had sex in & if not Australia why not?

That would be Canada, Mexico, the United States, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, and several not-so-Virgin Islands.

I haven't had sex in Australia because none of you guys down under have sent me the plane tickets yet.


Why do people think of casual sex as a negative thing?

I know that you were simply musing on the question. I'm kind of extrapolating that you've had your feelings hurt on the topic, though—or you're open-minded enough that you see casual sex as something recreational and you've found your views are bafflingly too advanced for those around you.

My reply to anyone who asked me this question would be, why do you care what people think about something you do in your private life? How do you feel about casual sex? If you're fine with it, then fuck what other people think. You don't have to follow a course in life based on approval from the masses.

Behave the way you want other people to behave. Set an example, instead of following the crowd!


If you had a perfect day, what three things would you have done?

1. Made love to someone. Not just fucked. Made love.

2. Had a really, really good dinner (preferably one I didn't have to cook, but I'd settle for not having to do the dishes after).

3. Achieved a good balance between creatively working and mindlessly relaxing.

I have a lot of near-perfect days.


What were your summers like when you were little? Did you camp? hang around, read? work, visit relatives?

My parents were great believers in keeping kids busy during summer vacations. We typically didn't travel or go on any vacations during the summer, so instead my mom and dad would sign me up for all kinds of enrichment activities. I was taking immersive Spanish and French classes during the third and fourth grade, and remember having to take a video production class in the fourth grade as well. There were summers I took creative dramatics classes and worked in community theater productions, and other summers where I took courses in crafts. I did Cub Scout camp in the summers when I was young, until my mother and father decided that the Boy Scouts of America were reactionary fascists and pulled me out of the group. (And they were right. Thirty years ahead of their time, my folks.)

Starting in middle school, I started having to do all kinds of athletic activities as well. After I learned to swim, I was enlisted in courses on diving, competitive swimming, and eventually lifesaving. My dad was a huge tennis player and somehow got it into his head that I should be on my eventual college's tennis team (I wasn't), so in middle and high school during the summer months he would drag me out of bed at the ungodly hour of five in the morning so that we could hit the courts.

A lot of the crap with which I was saddled was supposed to look good on my college resume. I certainly wouldn't have signed up for Model U.N. on my own, or volunteered for the Young Democrats, or sat in a summer school classroom with a bunch of college kids learning introductory Russian or Biblical Greek. (I have a hazy memory of the languages being my idea, maybe. I used to be good at them.)

But as structured as these courses sound, they usually were over with by the early afternoon; I really had a hell of a lot of free time during my summers for the rest of the day. I spent a lot of time reading books from the library outdoors, or biking to the tiny locally-owned drugstore for a nickel ice cream or a handful of candy, or for playing with friends. I didn't really have a curfew, so I stayed out late and relished the hot Virginia evenings.

When I was in my teens and had discovered sex, I spent most of my free time divided between whoring and reading, my two favorite activities.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Jan

Over the course of the years (jeez) that I’ve been keeping this blog online, I’ve written a few entries that I should’ve classified under a single tag—a tag called And Then He Died.

They all have basically the same kind of structure. I set up a memory of a time in my life when I was much younger—my childhood in Virginia, for example, or the long and laughing years I spent in college. I describe another man, or another boy, and how we connected and became lovers. Or perhaps I describe how we didn’t become intimate, or understand each other much at all. I mourn the lost innocence, or the bungled connection. And then (if you were reading the first paragraph, this won’t come as much of a shock) the person dies.

Not like, right in front of me or anything. Off-stage, discreetly, for me to discover much later, so I can feel badly about what I’d lost. Whether it was a friendship, or something never quite achieved, I’m always keenly aware of what can’t and never will be replaced.

I’ve been laying low this week because I haven’t felt like writing a And Then He Died entry. I just can’t do it, this time. So I’ll jump right to the ending of the entry I could’ve written in place of this one and let you know right off: an old lover of mine died recently.

I first knew Jan twenty-five years ago, when I was in graduate school. He wasn’t a friend of mine exactly, though we did know each other by sight. Though he was tall and lightly muscular, and although his voice was deep and grave, he always seemed fragile. He wore his hair long, down past his shoulder blades. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper, so that one had to lean in and keep quiet to hear him. His eyes were gentle. When he listened, he cocked his head like a bird, and rested upon the speaker a gaze that I can only recall as pure, as if all his concentration was focused upon that moment. He was a musician, primarily. He used his long and lean fingers to play the guitar. Not loud metal. Soft and sweet music of his own composition, which he would strum into life from the strings of his acoustic guitar.

It was rumored for a very long time that he was having an affair with one of our professors. It wasn’t until a few years later, when I joked with the professor about it, that her shock and panic that I’d heard such a thing convinced me the rumor had been true. Yes, a she. I remember being as surprised about that as any of us. As I said, though Jan wasn’t effeminate in any direct sense, his gentleness and shyness gave him what I can only call an air of the feminine. I’d always assumed he was gay. I remember hearing the multiple rumors about his affair with the faculty member, thinking to myself, Good on you, Jan, for defying my preconceived notions about you, and not making any further effort to get to know him.

Which was a mistake. A few years later we found ourselves in the same musical ensemble, where we sat side by side. Every week over the course of a couple of years I got to know him better both as a person and as a musician. I grew to look forward to his gentle asides, and the way he’d hug me goodbye at the end of the night. When he confided in a mutual friend that he found me attractive and had a crush on me, she immediately came to me with the news. I was tickled at the news, and flattered, and genuinely touched. Because we were all acting like fourth-graders, she immediately went back to him with the information. Eventually the two of us slowly, shyly, and tentatively agreed to go out on a date together.

Which meant we made vague noises after rehearsal about going out to dinner, and then he came over to my place one evening that week, took off his coat, and spent the rest of the evening in my bed.

I remember that night well. We stood in my kitchen, leaning against the counters with our arms folded over our own chests. We flirted like mad, and endured awkward silences in which all we could do was grin big-toothed grins at each other. Finally I leaned into him, and took the back of his head in my hand, and pulled him down to me, for a long and lingering first kiss. Yes, he was that tall.

We made love in the dark upstairs. Everything we did was gentle, and sweet, and slow. We smiled at each other between kisses, and laughed at the way he would tingle and tickle at my light touch. We relished each other’s little gasps and sighs as we explored each other’s bodies. My dick hardened like cement when he pulled my ear to his lips and whispered that he wanted me inside him. It was probably one of the longest attempts at penetration I’ve ever taken with an adult—I think it took me nearly an hour to get all the way in him, because I was taking it so slowly. I’d grind and push myself in a millimeter at a time, so that he barely knew he was taking a little more with every push. He hadn’t been fucked in years and years, he told me in whispers, and he’d never before enjoyed it.

He did with me. I fulfilled that fantasy for him. I made it sweet, and slow, and painless. When I made him reach behind to see how I was buried all the way inside him, he was so overcome with emotion and happiness that he shook. Shortly after he came in my hand, as I held him tightly and told him how truly remarkable he was. He finally went home early the next morning, happy and grateful.

And that was it. We never fucked again. He came to rehearsal later that week and handed me a hand-penned note in which he explained that he’d fallen in love with me that night. He knew that I wasn’t in any place to have the relationship he wanted. It would be wiser for him, he explained, not to carry on a physical relationship with me when it would only make him yearn for something he couldn’t have. He watched me read it, and then—characteristic Jan—worriedly asked if he’d hurt my feelings.

He hadn’t. And I understood. On some level I knew it was wrong to make him love me, when it was happening. Jan always seemed fragile, as I said; though I coddled him like an egg through that fuck, I should have been more aware that doing so would awaken in him feelings that I wouldn’t return. I did love him. I loved him dearly for his sweet nature and for the tenderness he shared with me that night. But I couldn’t give him the strings he wanted, he knew without having to ask.

The pain lasted for only a few weeks. We learned how to negotiate around that elephant in the room between us, and didn’t speak of it again. We became friends. Good friends, even. Not the kind of friends who swap fucks, but the kind of friends who always had a lot to share, whenever we saw each other. He was there for my birthday parties, right up until I moved. He was there the night before I moved, at my going-away party.

Still. I knew every time we looked at each other just a little longer than usual, and when our gazes rested upon each other and we’d simply blink our eyes and smile. I knew what he was thinking, and he knew how I felt, too.

He didn’t take care of himself, though. Jan suffered greatly from a couple of genetic diseases that ran in his family. He didn’t have health insurance. He lived alone in a decrepit old house he was trying to renovate. He wouldn’t see a doctor unless it was urgent. Apparently by the time he sought care the last time, it was too late.

So I’ve been wandering around this last week, a little dazed and confused and reminded of my own mortality. At the holiday time of year, no less.

But if there’s anything that any of us need to take away from this sort of thing, it’s this: make your moments sweet. Take the time to lie with someone, to connect with them, to make them the center of your universe for a few minutes, or hours, or days, or years. Create memories of which the both of you will be proud, and of which you’ll be fond for a lifetime.

And make those sweet moments last. Not just as they’re happening, but afterward. Write them down so you won’t forget them, as I obsessively do. Share them so that others can benefit. And revisit them yourself, not with regret or with lingering fear or sorrow, but with the freshness of the day on which they were conceived. Honor those memories, and the men and women who helped create them.

That’s the best memorial anyone could ask.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Group Sex Edition

A few of my readers, in this week's entry entitled "The Rule" about the three-way I recently had, wondered about other so-called rules that seem to arise in group sex situations.

Frequent contributor Saab, for example, wondered aloud if the first rule of a three-way was Don't do a three-way unless you would do the one you're less into, by himself. And it's a valid point. Walking into a situation in which you find one of the participants incredibly unattractive is simply setting the group dynamic up for failure. It's kinder for everyone if you're able to pay more or less equal attention to both the other players. (I'm assuming here that everyone's all male, or if it's a mixed-sex gathering, everyone's bi. If you've got a three-way with two straight men and a woman, it's perfectly acceptable for the two straight men not to want to bang each other, and for the lucky woman to get all the lovin'.)

I replied to Saab that for the encounter with Chase and Art, I broke one of my own three-way rules, which runs a little like, I won't do a three-way or group unless I'm personally acquainted with one of the other men involved. I kind of like the confidence of knowing at least one man in the group who would be able to give me a general indication of whether his buddy is going to find me attractive enough to make the encounter work. Likewise, I hope he'd remember my tastes and be able to assure me I was going to enjoy myself with both of them. The vetting process isn't foolproof, but it works a lot of the time—plus it helps me feel like less of an outsider.

With those guys, I just drove on up there without knowing either of them. It worked, and worked well. But that's kind of rare.

And finally, another reader wondered what the rules were with groups of more than three. I find that the dynamics there change based on the number of people involved. In a group of four, even if all the men are playing in the same room or even on the same bed, they tend to pair off into two pairs. Those pairs might be changing all the time, but it still feels like you're having several one-on-one sessions in rapid succession. In a group of five, I've noticed there always tends to be a three-way going on, and a couple going at it off to the side.

In larger groups still, there's still smaller clusters of people. There are paired-off guys, and smaller groups within the large. Everything's always shifting, and sometimes there are some group circle-jerks or circle-sucks going on, but what I tend to notice is that there will be two men fucking over here, another two over there, and a clump of three having fun in the corner. It's human nature to keep the interactions small and manageable, even within a group of twenty or more.

But what about bukkake scenes and gang-bangs? I hear someone asking. Well, I've never seen a bukkake group for real, ever. Maybe it happens, but I just assumed it was one of those porn things that people fantasize about but has little basis in everyday practice. Gang-bangs happen, and I've been to them. But that dynamic is usually clearly established beforehand; the guys know what's happening. The bottom knows what's happening. Anyone who steps outside the boundaries is usually reprimanded.

Left to their own devices, people tend to fuck in as small as configurations as possible . . . even when it seems they're crowding a bed or a floor or a playroom together. That's just how it seems to me.

If anyone else has any more group 'rules' or tendencies they've noticed, share them in the comments!

And in the meantime, let's get to some questions from formspring.me.


Did your family play cards at home when you were young? Do they still?

My family played bridge every Saturday night for years, starting when I was about ten. My parents were both bridge fiends during their college years. They were so certain that if I became a cut-throat player of contract bridge, my popularity in college would know no bounds.

When I got to college, of course, I was indeed a cut-throat bridge player. But absolutely no one in a college dormitory had played bridge since the Kennedy administration, so I had to be content with keeping my initials at the top of the Crystal Castles machine down at the Tinee Giant convenience store across the road from my dorm.

In Michigan, no one played any card games save for euchre, which I dislike. I'm adept at a lot of other card games, though, from pinochle to hearts to spades to bridge to my personal favorite, canasta.


Do you have a favorite candy bar?

Yes. Bit-O-Honey.

These are more candy than candy bar, but lately I have become addicted to Chimes Ginger Chews. My god, are those things good.


Would you ever bottom again? Do you think men who bottom are less masculine?

My first impulse is always going to be to top. However, I never say never—I wish I got more offers to explore my versatile side, but they aren't exactly flooding my inbox.

And no, I don't think that men who bottom are less masculine. It takes two guys to fuck; a top is pretty much useless without a bottom to meet his needs. Besides, I know a hell of a lot of masculine bottoms who'd rightfully kick the sorry ass of anyone who'd dare to suggest they were less manly for being on the receiving end.


Do you have any food preferences that are identifiably southern?

I have a weakness for a good pulled pork sandwich. Also, at Thanksgiving, I have a distinct preference for a Southern cornbread dressing over a traditional stuffing, and for pecan pie or sweet potato pie over pumpkin. (I have excellent recipes for all those.)

My mother was a good cook when I was growing up—my father not so much—but I inherited from her a box full of recipe cards that belonged both to her and to her mother, that typify what I think of as Southern Church Cooking. Everything involves cans of soup, boxes of processed food, or tins of un-fresh vegetables. So there'll be a casserole made out of a box of au gratin potatoes, canned meat, and a Campbell's, topped off with crushed potato chips. Or one I remember vividly, a layered casserole of frozen tater tots, frozen onion rings, hamburger, and cream of mushroom soup. A lot of the stuff I cooked when I was in my teens and twenties was of that nature—I could work wonders with a protein and a box of Rice-a-Roni—but as I grew older I realized how fresh foods and simpler preparations were a lot tastier and healthier. So I don't do Southern Church Cooking any more. (Okay. Much.)

I do watch shows like Honey Boo Boo, in which they make spaghetti sauce from catsup and hot water, and think, "There but for the grace of god. . . ."


How would you react if a kid of yours decided s/he was going to have a sex change operation?

I know it's difficult for anyone to come out to his or her family as trans. Harder than coming out as gay or bi, and that's often difficult enough. Even in this day and age we assume that gender identity, particularly of people in our families or whom we know, is an unchanging thing. Having that assumption challenged is always a rattling event.

So while I might be initially jolted if something like this were to occur, I hope I'd be supportive; there's more to a person than what clothes he wears and how high or low his voice is. Those kinds of things are mere details. I'd hope that any family member of mine would know that I'd love them no matter what their ultimate gender.


Do you have any memories of Jack Wrangler from the '70s or '80s? What do you think of him, in the pantheon of porn stars of that era?

I was aware of Jack Wrangler's name in the early eighties, but it wasn't until the middle of that decade that I had my first exposure to porn of any kind and actually saw him. I had a pornographic magazine that had Wrangler in one of its layouts—probably the hottest layout in there, if I remember correctly.

The thing I remember most about that magazine, though, was that the text accompanying the story was so lurid and badly written that I could never get a charge from the photos themselves, because the terrible ellipsis-laden text was that distracting. It read something like:

"His love shaft . . . his slick stick . . . his penis d'amor . . . stiff . . . turgid . . . was hard as baked Alaska and filled with more cream . . . baby batter . . . hot SPERM . . . ."

Pages of that crap. Very distracting!

I saw Wrangler: Anatomy of an Icon when it came out a few years back and thought it was a great documentary. I highly recommend it as a look at an era.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Amazing

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.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

The Rule

In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other.

It’s a rule.

I met Chase in the driveway of the hotel. I’m about to head up to your room, I was texting him, as I made the cold trek from the car to the warmth of the building.

I’m in the parking lot heading in, he texted back almost immediately. I had to go to the drugstore.
He caught up with me thirty seconds later. I looked him over in the warm glow of the lobby’s lights as they spilled out onto the portico. A handsome man in his fifties. Silver hair. Short, athletic frame. He licked his lips when he saw me. “Your photos don’t do you justice,” were his gallant opening words.

I liked him already.

We made small talk in the elevator on the way up to his room. His friend was in the shower when we reached our destination. “Well,” said Chase, shutting the door behind us. “Aren’t you handsome.” He removed my coat, then knelt down on the floor to unlace my boots. I allowed him to slip them from my feet, and was rewarded by the warmth and strength of his hands gripping the undersides of my arches. His fingers snaked beneath my pants cuffs, and deeply rubbed the calves of my legs. “I’m going to enjoy serving you,” he murmured, as he looked right into my eyes.

I knew right then he was going to be the one I liked more.

We kissed. His touch was gentle on my neck as he held my mouth to his. Then we looked into each other’s eyes again, blue against blue. He pressed with the heel of his hand against my hard dick, splayed sideways in my pants. My fingers sought out the hard nubs of his nipples beneath his shirt. His eyes squinted with pleasure as I squeezed them. They could take abuse, I could tell by their density. I squeezed harder, and made him moan.

This was definitely the one. I could tell. The buddy would be an anticlimax.

Chase retired into the bathroom to slip into the shower. I heard him talking to his buddy—lover? Boyfriend? Husband? I didn’t know—through the door. A moment later and another man padded out, wearing nothing but a hotel robe. He was tall—as tall as I, perhaps a little more. Handsome, in that way well-heeled urban men often are, when they reach their fifties. Well-groomed, with short silver hair and an Alex Trebek mustache. He was broad and long where Chase was short and athletic, but he was none the less attractive for it. “Hi,” I greeted him, from where I sat on the bed.

He stared at me as if hypnotized, but didn’t say a word. I beckoned him over.

My hand gently undid the tie of his robe. I watched as it swung and brushed the floor. His hands remained at his side. When his robe fell open, his cock twitched and hardened as if either the room’s air or my gaze made it erect. He was hung. Very hung. He looked larger than I, and thicker, though the general proportions were about the same. I reached out and took his hardening pole in my mouth.
While I moved my lips slowly up and down its length, he finally reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, along the back of my neck, under my chin. He ended by cupping my jaw in his palm, removing his cock from my mouth, and tilting my head up so that I was staring in his eyes.

“Do you like to kiss?” he asked, in a soft voice.

I showed him how much I liked to kiss. I pulled him down to me so that he was kneeling between my legs on the mattress, and joined my mouth to his. He almost collapsed on me, he was so aroused; his hands reached beneath my clothed body and pulled me to him. Our hips connected. He ground into me, hard. “I’m Art,” he growled into my ear.

“Hi Art,” I replied in a whisper, sinking deep into the soft hotel pillows as he unfastened my shirt one slow button at a time. I gave him my name.

When my shirt was open, he stared at me. There was almost a look of unabashed love in his eyes. “You’re not an asshole after all,” he said.

“Thanks?” was my puzzled reply. It was tough to hold anything against him, though, because he scooped me up into another passionate kiss. If this was what he did to people he thought were assholes, I couldn’t wait to see how he treated the guys he liked.

“I told Chase when he messaged you online that you wouldn’t agree to come up here,” he finally said, his face only inches from mine. “Then when you did, I told him you wouldn’t show. Then when you showed, I decided you wouldn’t look like your pics. When you looked like your pics, I figured you’d turn out to be an asshole who wouldn’t be into me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be into you?” I questioned. The man was handsome. He had a big dick. Anyone with a head screwed on right would be into him.

He shrugged. “Because you’re so . . .” His tongue searched for words.

“So are you.” My tongue had better things to do, after that simple reassurance. I pushed him down and engulfed his cock, slurping down to the root and pushing whatever he’d been about to say clean out of his head. He gasped, and pushed me down, aggressively spearing my throat with his meat.

No, I thought to myself. This was the one. This was going to be the one I ended up more.

Chase found us like that when he came out of the bathroom, trailing a cloud of vapor and sweet-smelling steam behind him. “My two beautiful men,” he whispered, watching us. Then he joined us on the mattress. He pulled me off Art’s cock and settled me back into the pillows. I looked up at the two faces hovering over me. Chase was handsome, gentle, smiling at what he saw. Art was no less attractive, aggressive, and his eyes were full of lust. “Suck me,” I pleaded with them.

Together they pulled down my pants. Art opened his mouth and took my cock inside; Chase pulled my legs into the air, positioned himself down between them, and began very softly and quietly to lick out my hole. Almost immediately I was overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations they created between them—Chase’s insistent, soft tongue and lips nibbling on my ass, and Chase’s rock-solid hold on my meat with his throat muscles and lips, not to mention the relentless raking of his bristle-brush mustache against my shaved nuts. I cried out, and tried to make them stop, but they pushed me back into the pillows and made me take it. Made me endure the treatment they’d decided I needed . . . and deserved. I twitched and jerked and moaned like a madman, lost and overwhelmed as my nerves overloaded with sensation.

“Do his nipples,” Chase suggested, when Art came up for air. They eyed each other, then rearranged themselves so that I had one of them on either side, both of them reaching for my nipples with their lips. Art bit down and made me gasp, and made my dick swell even harder; Chase licked out and put his soft lips around the little mound of flesh in such a sweet way that I wanted to cry.

“Just relax, son,” Chase told me.

“The two of us are in no hurry,” said Art. They both smiled at me and, as if they’d choreographed it, went back to chewing and licking on my nipples at the same moment.

Awash in pleasure, I looked from one man to the other, unable to focus clearly on either, and definitely unable to choose a superior.

In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other. It’s a rule.

But sometimes rules are made to be broken.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Sunday Morning Questions: Virgins, Dragons, and Glory Holes Edition

A few weeks back I answered a question about whether or not I enjoyed de-virginizing guys, and my response bent more than a few noses out of shape. I got emails afterward, and notes on Twitter and Facebook, and one ecard (I usually don't open those, but this one came in a simple postcard format) respectfully disagreeing with me on what I said. Which was the following:

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

Now, I don't think my position was too extreme, but to some of my readers it sounded a little ungenerous. People have their reasons not to be whores like me, they gently chided. They have perfectly good justifications for living their lives the way they do, and sometimes not having same-sex nookie is just something they can't fit into their lives.

To which I reply, that's possibly true. But it still doesn't mean I want to be the one to break them in, in their mid-forties.

There are a couple of circumstances under which I would genuinely sympathize and understand a man who hadn't slept with another man until middle age. There are genuinely bisexual guys who might have made a commitment to a woman at a young age and who are happy and satisfied in the relationship and have no need to seek same-sex encounters. I've known guys in that position who've come back onto the market only later in life, and who have precious little experience. Great. Bisexual doesn't mean promiscuous, after all.

Where I start to lose respect for men who hide behind this argument, though, is when they're spending all their free time on gay.com or adam4adam or any of the many other hookup sites men use to chat when they're feeling horny. They're not happy in their relationships, especially if they're using secret free time to flirt and send guys like me messages saying they wish I'd take their cherries. That's not commitment, folks. It's not honest, and it's a waste of time if it's not going to result in anything. If a man's cruising other cruisers, flirting with them, and toying around with the idea of losing his virginity for years and years without actually doing anything about it, he's letting fear control his life—fear of being caught, fear of being rejected, fear of disease, fear of being hurt, fear of living.

That's not a life. Postponing satisfaction for years and years when one has the remedy for one's unhappiness—no matter what the weak justification—is no kind of life at all. I don't care what it is you're hankering for, whether it's sex, or a better job, or a love who treats you right. Go after it. Demand the universe give you what you want, and learn to recognize it and treat it well while it's within your grasp. That's the way to life a good life. Not fantasy and needless self-denial.

As for the forty-year-old virgins, I didn't say they were untouchable, or undesirable, or bad people. I didn't say that no one would want them. I've simply found in most cases that I'm not really what they're looking for. And that's okay.

Now, let's get to some questions from formspring.me.


OK..here's my first question on formspring,yea! Anyway, breeder, I'm a fan of yours btw...so..in the 80s, were you a fan of Saturday Morning cartoons?, and if so, name 5 that you really liked, also name a few cereals that you ate that were specifically from those.

Saturday mornings were the best days of the week, when I was a kid; I would be glued to the television set as soon as the bass fishing shows were over at roughly eight, and would stay there with glazed eyes and a long-empty bowl of cereal in my lap until the sports games started in the afternoon.

Most of the shows I remember loving weren't so much animated cartoons, though, but the live-action shows. I loved most of the Sid and Marty Krofft shows like The Bugaloos and Land of the Lost and Sigmund and the Sea Monster, but especially H.R. Pufinstuf. I really, really, really liked Isis, who was like an Egyptian version of Wonder Woman. And I was a fan of a short-lived and really bizarre show called Uncle Croc's Block, which starred Charles Nelson Reilley as a grumpy kid's show host who spoofed other kid's shows. It was very meta, and very very gay.

When it came to cartoons I was a fan of Sabrina the Teenaged Witch and Josie and the Pussycats"(until Josie went to outer space, anyway . . . then it was just silly), as well as The New Scooby-Doo Movies, in which Scooby and the gang solved mysteries with fabulous guest stars like Phyillis Diller and Mama Cass and Cher. It was also very gay.

Probably my favorite cartoons had to be the Warner Brothers Bugs Bunny shorts. I watched them over and over again for years.

The only cereal I remember eating based on a kids' show was the Freakies cereal, which tasted like sugar and was good enough for me. Back when I was a kid I mostly at Cap'n Crunch, or Sugar Pops, until my mother decided they were unhealthy and switched me over to Golden Grahams—which probably had just as much sugar, but at least gave the illusion of being semi-healthy by having graham flour in there somewhere.


Do you believe in gaydar?

I don't believe that people have some mystical ability to spot other gay men, no.

I do believe that there are people who have a heightened observational sense. They are constantly looking at other men and noticing how they hold themselves, what they're wearing, and most importantly, what those other men are observing and where their eyes linger and over whom their eyes skip.

The highly observant person who puts together the little cues that every man gives off when he finds someone of sexual interest has a much better sense of who's interested in same-sex encounters and who's oblivious. That's what gaydar is.


Have you ever gone to someone's house who had a private glory hole? If so, how was your experience?

Many times, yes.

In Michigan I had several buddies with their own private glory hole setups. One had carved a pair of holes in the door of his fruit cellar, and he would sit beneath the steps on a bench in there and suck the men who came into his house and down into the basement for sex. The advantage of the scenario was that he didn't really have to do anything except carve two holes in the door; the disadvantage was that he was stuck in what was essentially a locked closet while a strange man entered his otherwise empty house.

The other man had a more elaborate setup in which he replaced the door between his kitchen and his mud room with a plywood partition that was equipped with hinges that fit where the old door went, and a couple of braces to lock it firm once it was set. The gloryhole was at the perfect height, and he'd set out pillows on the floor for men who wanted to suck him. The advantage of this set-up was that the guy didn't have anyone coming into his house any further than the mud room; the door was also able to be stashed elsewhere when it wasn't being used. The disadvantage was that it took a lot of carpentry skills to set up.

I also occasionally saw a guy whose 'gloryhole' was a bedsheet with a hole cut out of it that he'd hang from hooks in the ceiling. That was lame.

I think my favorite regulars with a home glory hole were a couple who lived out in one of the further-away suburbs near my old home. One was in his late thirties; his boyfriend was in his early twenties. They had cut a large glory hole in the drywall at the back of their coat closet, directly across  from their front door. It opened into their kitchen. I would stick my dick through and they'd both go at it, taking turns sucking it and backing up their asses on it, while I held onto the closet rod and let them milk load after load. I could always tell which one was which. The younger partner was a way better fuck.


Have you ever setup a private glory hole in your house or garage?

Nope. But I'd sure consider it if I had a place with the appropriate layout.


What are the differences between spencer, scruffy and the runt in looks and personality that led to your differing feelings for each of them? I hope this is not an out of bounds question thnx.

I'm glad you asked this question, because it made me consider in what respects these three boys were similar.

Most basically, they're all pretty young. I don't deliberately seek out young guys, because age isn't really one of those considerations at the top of my list when I'm looking for a hole to plow. I do get a lot of very young guys hitting on me, though—and all three of these boys were the ones to reach out to me first. Spencer and Scruffy were roughly the same age, though, and Runt is younger.

All three are of a vaguely similar physical type—lean. Spencer is muscular, however, where Scruffy was merely skinny. And both those young men are quite tall, while Runt is quite the opposite.

Spencer and Scruffy both had scruffy faces. Runt's is very smooth.

Spencer has a lot over the other two in talent and smarts, though. He knows everything about everything, and is at the start of a very promising artistic career. Scruffy was sexual, but he wasn't social, and definitely wasn't intellectual; the Runt doesn't talk. He's just there for the dick.

Sexually I've got strong ties to all of them. Intellectually and emotionally, though, Spencer and I were by far the closest.


Did you ever own a deck of tarot cards?

I own one deck of tarot cards—not because I necessarily believe in them as a tool of divination. There's a (lengthy) story behind why I have them.

A very long time ago—I think it was in 1989—I had a friend from work who was very much an avid reader. She was two and a half times my age, Mexican, and dirt poor; I was wet behind the ears, new to Michigan, and poorer than dirt poor. Since reading didn't cost much and we enjoyed each other's company, this co-worker and I would visit hole-in-the-wall bookstores and buy armloads of paperbacks for a dime apiece. We'd read them, then swap.

My friend was very much into science fiction and fantasy novels, which I'd never read; it was because of her that I developed an enduring passion for the genre. One of her very favorite authors was Anne McCaffrey, whose main fame came from the science fiction series The Dragonriders of Pern. I read what books had been written in the series to that point and was equally smitten with them.

At that time McCaffrey had collaborated with an artist, Robin Wood, on an illustrated book of portraits of characters from the novels. We really loved the book. When my friend discovered that Wood lived in the Detroit area, she just looked up her number in the phone book, called her, and invited her out to dinner. She was bold like that.

So we took the artist out to a dinner at a coffee shop that served all kinds of pies, and then after a couple of hours of pie and conversation, Wood invited us back to her home and studio. Who were we to pass that up?

At Wood's home she showed us some of the original sketches for the book, but she also showed us her then-current project, which was a tarot deck she was designing for publication. She went through several of the sketches and finished illustrations and explained to us how she reinterpreted and expanded upon traditional tarot imagery. It was really a fascinating evening.

My friend passed away about three years after that. After she was laid to rest, I was in a bookstore and noticed The Robin Wood Tarot out on the shelves, in final and published form. I bought it was a remembrance of my friend.

It's really a beautiful set of tarot cards, and whenever I look at them, I think about my friend from those years with great fondness, and remember all the fascinating authors and artists to which she introduced me.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Supermarket Suck-Off

He comments here fairly frequently. I know he’ll read this entry.

But it’s all good. I’ve got absolutely nothing bad to say about the guy. Quite the contrary. He’s a stud.

There’s a reader of mine who lives fairly close to me. I know this because we’ve exchanged messages on Scruff late at night, when we’re both at home.The GPS locator puts us at a little over a half-mile apart. We’ve talked on a couple of other sites as well. His pics show a handsome, muscular top man. The two of us have traded tips on some of the area bottoms from time to time. Since we live in the same neighborhood, more or less, we’ve talked about some of the local cuties as well—I know about the sexy young guy working the local party store because of his tip, for example. (And he is cute!)

He’s read my blog before I moved here, I think. But we hadn’t gotten together ever, though we’ve known about each other for months and months.

That changed this week.

We were on a website, Monday. I wasn’t planning to stick around indefinitely—I had a few errands I had to run. He said hello, though, so we exchanged a few pleasantries via the site’s messaging system. I’m heading up to the Buy-More, I told him, naming one of the local supermarket chains. Then, semi-jokingly, I added, Come up and find me and I’ll blow you in the parking lot.

As I said, I typed it only semi-jokingly.

So there I was at the market, halfway through my weekly shopping, resting my forearms on my cart in the middle of the dried pasta aisle as I consulted my list to see what else I needed. I looked up, and there was an attractive guy making his way toward me. Wow, I thought to myself, grinning inside. This guy really called my bluff. I like that in a man. “Hey,” I said with a grin, when he came in speaking distance.

“Hey,” he replied. He smiled as well, but kept walking. It was almost as if he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him in public—as if I might say something online like Track me down at the Buy-More and I’ll blow you, but in the flesh I’d just be one of those assholes that only nods and lets him pass by.

I’m not that kind of guy, though.

“I’m glad you came out,” I told him. “It’s great finally to meet you.” We shook hands, and chatted for a minute in the aisle. He said that he’d been between running errands himself when he got my message online, and basically had a reaction of what the hell, let me see if I can find him. I was where I said I’d be, and I look like my online photos, so it wasn’t difficult to track me down.

He was parked at the far end of the lot, he told me. His car was between a line of hedges and a truck. Out of the way, out of sight. I looked at my list. “Give me five or ten minutes,” I told him. “Let me finish getting my groceries and checking out. I’ll meet you down there.”

Easy enough. Ten minutes later I dumped my groceries in my car, drove down to the other end of the lot, and walked around the parked, empty truck to find the guy in his car. We climbed into his back seat and looked at each other. Then my hand went out for his crotch. His dick was hardening beneath the denim. I looked him in the eye. “Take it out,” I told him.

His fingers raced to unbutton his jeans. He tugged them down beneath his nuts, and lifted up his shirt to show me his flat abs and his undeniably sexy body. “Damn,” I said in a whisper. “That is a beautiful dick.”

It was a beauty. I hadn’t seen it clearly erect in his profile photos. In person, though, it was the kind of dick that made me want to suck. His balls eased out and separated as I leaned down to wrap my mouth around the shaft. He sighed softly as my lips made contact. The guy tasted good. He smelled like soap, from the tip of his stiff and dripping prick down to his shaved nuts. He was a lot like me in that he started to pump out the precum almost as soon as his dick started to get attention. Every time he rewarded me with a taste, I’d grunt instinctively, rooting for more like a French pig after truffles.

He had moved the driver’s seat up to give himself leg room. It was broad daylight—just after lunchtime, in fact. While he kept an eye out on the parking lot, I knelt with one leg down on the floor and angled myself so that I was a little more squarely in front of him, and went to work on the dick. I circled it with a couple of fingers and my thumb and let the tight circle slide up and down, following the slickness my spit left behind as I slowly bobbed up and down on his meat. He grunted, and sighed; his fingers riffled through my hair. Then his hand cupped my head and gently pushed me down in a steady rhythm. He wanted it faster. I obliged.

My grip on his dick tightened as I picked up the past. Glob after glob of salty fluid oozed from his dick’s tip as I increased the sensation. Whether or not he realized it, his knees spread further apart to give me more access. “I’m going to come soon,” he told me.

I knew. The man was basically shooting already, with the sheer amount of precum his dick was producing. It only took a few determined strokes of my tight mouth and hand to bring him off, and then he was shooting, pressing down on my skull so that I took him to the base. He held me there as he pumped his load in my mouth. I let it accumulate on my tongue. Then I backed off and swallowed.

And damn. I’ve got to say—that was the best-tasting load I have had in months. The stuff tasted so good that I went down and sucked the remains still dripping out of his slit. Then I kissed his flat stomach, just because it was so pretty.

He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Wow,” he said.

“Was it okay?” I asked.

“More than okay!” he responded, still laughing and recuperating.

“That’s a beautiful dick,” I told him. I watched as he put it away, and wiped off my mouth with the back of my forearm. “I’m hoping you’ll give me more of it, now we’ve formally met.”

He agreed that there’d be more in the future. I adjusted my hard dick in my pants so that it wasn’t quite as visible, and waited as he finished snapping and buckling and getting back to normal. We sat there for a half-second of silence when he was done, then grinned at each other.

“You know I’m going to write about this,” I told him, as we both got out of the back seat.

He knew.

This is exactly how it should be—two guys connect, go at it, and enjoy each other. If nothing else, now my reader knows one thing about me: I don’t bluff. I show up where I say I’m going to show up, and I follow through.

This time with delicious results. And my gallon of ice cream didn’t even have time to melt.

Monday, December 3, 2012

M. J., Part Three

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


Over the several months I was seeing M. J. , the professor I’d picked up in the campus restrooms during my sophomore year, it wasn’t the presents that kept me going back. Good lord, certainly not. His offerings of clothing were so poorly-chosen that they inadvertently bordered on being calculated insults in a cardboard gift box.

It wasn’t for the sex, either, those grandmotherly fumblings beneath the covers that left me feeling dirtier and a lot less satisfied than when they began. It wasn’t for the company, which mostly was stiff and formal and slightly uncomfortable.

It wasn’t exactly because he was a professor and I was a student and we were each other’s forbidden fruit. I’d slept with a lot of faculty at that point (and would continue to do so all through college and graduate school), so our relationship wasn’t exactly a novelty.

No, mostly I kept going back because I’d never had anyone before who took me on actual dates. The men I saw tended to skip the dinner and the wooing and skip straight to taking me home and fucking the daylights out of me. Though instead of ‘home’ we’d usually use a toilet stall or a dark space behind a park tree.

Although the sex M. J. and I had wasn’t good, or even really competent, I liked being able to think of myself as dating someone. I liked being able to say, without divulging many details, that I was in a relationship. M. J. and I had never professed any affection for each other beyond “I like you in that sweater” (him) or “Thanks for dinner. I’ve never had Beef Wellington before” (me, and I never would again), but technically we were dating. I clung to that for a little while in my youth as a badge of honor.

I also liked the fact that I was whoring around with one of my dad’s old classmates. I had nothing against my dad, but at eighteen I was still adolescent enough that putting out for someone he’d once known—and who didn’t like him for some mysterious reason—tickled my rebellious underbelly a little. It was a private defiance, and not the kind of thing he’d ever find out about. But in a juvenile way, I thought I was Sticking It To the Old Man, and it gave me a little thrill.

By and large, though, M. J. and I stuck for a good three months to a repetitive cycle of Friday night gifts, dinners, and then a night at his apartment. And then one warmer day, he asked if I wanted to go on an outing with him.

It was cold enough that I remember wearing one of his gift sweaters—a white cotton turtleneck with a neck hole so small that pulling it over my face exfoliated more cells than a strong acid peel, and left me red and raw for the rest of the day. But it was also warm enough that the sweater was all I really needed in the weak sunshine of the late winter. I would guess that it was about March. And M. J. suggested we visit a plantation that was only a couple of dozen miles from Williamsburg.

That sounds lovely and romantic!, a good number of you are thinking. I was definitely not. I spent most of my childhood years visiting every damned plantation and Civil War battlefield within a five-state radius of home, and when you consider that I grew up in the former capital of the Confederate States of America, that’s a lot of damned plantations and battlefields. Nor did I trespass on these sacred grounds with an awestruck face and a sense of wonder at the scope of history I was privileged to relive thanks to the preservation efforts of historians like my parents. No, I had stomped around with a constipated look on my face and many long sighs of suffering. So when M. J. suggested we have a jolly afternoon’s outing to a plantation, my reaction was more like, Oh, fuck.

But I knew how to swallow my dislike of American historical sites by then. I told him that sounded dandy, and together we drove off in his car on a sunny Saturday afternoon to our destination.

If you’ve never seen a Virginia plantation, you’ve probably a picture in mind. A bucolic vision of a genteel country mansion with Palladian columns and classical revival proportions, facade whitewashed and gleaming, set back in a verdant paradise of greenery, where in times past gentleman farmers sipped mint juleps with their hoop-skirted wives on the verandah beneath the bougainvillea. Let me disabuse you of the notion. This place was no fucking Tara.

It was a two-room shanty on a rolling bank of weeds and dead waist-high grass, located along a particularly smelly turn of the James River, where raw sewage from the Hopewell wastewater plant seemed to be collecting and stagnating. There was no bougainvillea. There were snarled black cherry trees and wild sumacs, both of which I’d always been taught were weeds. And there was a dispirited woman handing out a slip of paper with the plantation’s history printed on it (free) and selling souvenirs (overpriced) on the front porch.

Touring the place didn’t take that long, but we gave our level best to make it last. With low spirits we peered into the plantation house, which had been furnished with chairs that had weathered for decades in someone’s barn and an old spinning wheel. We looked at the gift shop’s collection of corn husk doll kits and homemade lardy soaps and invisible ink books for kids. And finally we decided to walk by the James, where M. J. managed to get burrs all over his pants legs and cursed and threw a child’s tantrum about it. They were his good pants, he kept saying, though how he could tell the difference between them and any other of the countless pairs of ironed khakis he owned, I had no idea.

Still, for late winter, the weather was nice. I’ve always enjoyed being outdoors. And burrs or no, it was still a welcome change from the usual routine into which we’d fallen.

Then came the fateful trip home.

I knew something was wrong when M. J. started the car and pulled down the dirt country road that led from the plantation back to civilization. His wheels made a terrible grinding noise, somewhere halfway between an amplified root canal drilling and a banshee’s curse. “What is that?” M. J. asked me.

Like I knew? I didn’t drive then. I didn’t learn to drive until I was twenty-one. My parents were too cheap to let me. (It occurs to me now that M. J. had made some vague noises about teaching me to drive, too—which might have been another reason I kept seeing him until that point. And yes, if you were to call up my father right now and ask him why I wasn’t allowed to drive until I was twenty-one, he will happily admit, “I was too cheap.”) “I think you should stop,” I told him.

He ignored me, and kept driving down the road. Every time he accelerated, the noise would get worse. When he slowed down, its intensity lessened a little, but it still sounded like the kind of thing Ellen Ripley might’ve heard right before the alien queen sawed through the hull of her spaceship. “I think you should stop,” I said.

When M. J. turned onto the two-lane road, the mere act of steering around a corner made the sound triple in intensity. “STOP THE CAR!” I yelled at him, bracing myself against the dashboard as if the whole thing might explode at any second.

We tumbled out of the car when he pulled it over to the side of the road. And there, in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia, we proceeded to have our first fight. “You can’t drive this the way it sounds,” I kept insisting.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, dubiously. Over ears still ringing by the decibel level of the ‘nothing,’ we argued back and forth for a few more minutes. Finally he said, “What do you want me to do? Call a tow truck? Go to some stranger’s house and call a tow truck? What are they going to say when they see us together?” He was hysterical, almost. It was the most heated I’d ever seen him. He kept pulling at his beard and throwing his hands in the air. “Who am I going to tell them you are?”

He went on and on in this vein for a very long time. I listened to his hysterics in amazement. My mother had a motto that ran a little something like You don’t owe anyone an explanation until you actually owe them an explanation. In other words, some stuff is nobody’s damned business. It’s a stance that’s worked for a lifetime. When he was purple-faced and had worked himself into a tizzy, I turned and stomped off to the closest farm house—a good half-mile away—knocked on the door, and explained that my car had broken down. In return I got the use of their telephone, a good deal of sympathy, and a small bag of sympathy cookies. They’d been baked by Keebler elves, but still.

“Funny, the woman at the house didn’t ask if I was a student fucking my professor,” I announced when I got back to the car much later. “I don’t know how she could’ve missed that.” In a sullen mood, I ate all the cookies and listened to M. J. ’s half-hearted attempts to apologize.

Unsurprisingly, the tow truck driver didn’t grill us on our relationship when he finally arrived, either. He was a hearty, oversized guy who simply tsked at my tale of the strange noise, hooked the car up to his truck, and then agreed to tow us back to Williamsburg. Simple as that. However, I had to do all the talking, down to giving M. J. ’s address. M. J. merely glowered, stood by fretting, and wrung his hands in case I said something accidental like, Did I mention that this elderly homosexual is engaging me for illicit sexual intercourse?

My memory of the driver is of something like Yukon Cornelius. Enormous, red-headed, and bearded. Once the two of us were in his front seat and he was driving us homeward, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. “So you and your dad were out looking at the plantation, huh?” he asked me, fairly quickly on.

I was wedged between Yukon Cornelius and M. J. in the middle of the seat, arms crossed because I was still appalled at M. J. ’s behavior. This question tickled me, though, even though I could hear an appalled sigh from M. J. ’s side of the truck. He could’ve been my dad. They were only a year apart. “We sure were,” I said. “Dad’s not really into old stuff, but I like it.” Well, I thought it was a clever double entendre at the time.

“Well that was real nice of him then,” said the driver. “You know, it’s real nice when a dad and a son do things together. My dad and I weren’t close at all, and time runs out mighty quick. Mighty quick.”
“My dad and I are very, very close,” I said with a straight face.

“That’s real heartwarming,” said the driver. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“We do a lot of fun stuff together,” I remarked, ignoring the fact that M. J. was hyperventilating beside me.

While the driver and I kept up a friendly conversation about nothing in particular, I did something daring. With my left fingers, which was crossed over my chest and tucked beneath my other arm, I tweaked M. J. ’s nipple. He jumped about three feet out of his seat. The driver couldn’t see anything. It was just some devilish stubbornness in me determined to make M. J. as uncomfortable as possible.

It was a long drive. When minutes passed and the driver didn’t ask any awkward questions, or attempt to nail us on the validity of our supposed father/son relationship, or notice me rubbing my hand up and down M. J. ’s ribcage, M. J. finally relaxed. He even crossed his arms and let his fingertips rub and bob against my own.

It was the tenderest moment of our relationship, honestly. Definitely the most spontaneous.

The whole bad afternoon had an unexpected effect on M. J. . Once we were back in his parking lot and Yukon Cornelius was waving out of the window of his truck, M. J. had to turn to me. “Thank you,” he said.

I shrugged.

“You handled all that by yourself and you shouldn’t have had to,” he said.

I shrugged again.

“It wasn’t even your car. Your were right. I over-thought everything.” At least his apology was hitting all the right notes. I had to give him that.

“It’s all right,” I said, unbending a little.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I have right now.”

Now, that part was a little bit of a surprise. “What?” I asked.

“I want to take you inside,” he said, close up, his hand on my wrist, “and I want to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”

M. J. had always told me that word was too much of an Anglo-Saxonism, but here he was using it three times in rapid succession. “Well, okay,” I agreed, without having to think about it too much.

We ran into his apartment. He shoved me roughly against the wall. I fell onto his carpeted staircase with one hip. We didn’t retire upstairs to the bedroom and hide under the blankets. We didn’t turn off the lights. He wrestled my pants off me right there in the hallway, pushed me roughly down on the staircase, and fucked my ass so hard that my knees got carpet burn. It wasn’t a long fuck, but it was violent, and animal, and the hottest thing I’d ever done with him. When pulled it out, he allowed me to clean him off for the first time with my mouth.

That would have been hot enough, but then he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “Jack yourself off,” he ordered. Then, as he nodded to let me know it was all right, he watched while I spread my legs and whacked away at my dick. I came in my hand—I was afraid what he might do if I dared get it on the carpet, amorous mood or not. Barely had I finished when he grabbed my hand. “Get upstairs,” he said. “Get in bed and take off your clothes.”

I did. He joined me shortly thereafter, and we did it all over again. It might have been the first time I was anxious to have sex with M. J. .

But as time proved, it was also one of the last times.