Sunday, January 27, 2013

Sunday Morning Questions: Rhymes with Sham4 Edition

Anyone who reads my blog knows I’m a big ol’ show-off, particularly when it comes to my dick. I like whipping it out, getting it hard, and displaying it for others to stare at.

And when I’m not on public transportation (kidding!), I like getting on a chat channel cam and stroking for strangers. It’s just the exhibitionist in me. He needs an airing, once in a while. Besides, my dick likes the compliments, and once it starts getting its way, there’s really no controlling it. So I play along.

Anyway, last night I was indulging myself on cam—I know a couple of my regular readers saw me—in a site where I often go. Let it remain nameless. I like the site because it’s free, attracts a number of decently hot folk, and because I’ve met several guys from it in the past.

I can also predict, though, from past experience that’s been sore and hard-won, the arc in which my natural zest for performing will wane, and leave me a grumpy, teeth-gnashing misanthrope who ends up yelling the sex cam equivalent of You kids get off my god-damned front lawn! at everyone watching.

Oh, it starts off innocently enough. For five or ten minutes I’ll only have a couple of viewers. Iluvsexydads will make compliments about my dick, and I’ll say, “Thank you, Iluvsexydads!” and carry on a conversation with the guy. I’ll have the leisure to watch a camera or two, and check my email on other sites. It’s dull, really.

Then about fifteen minutes in, I start getting a trickle of viewers. Ten. Fifteen. I’ll be thanking fluffystud602 and sexynuddistman and NYHotJockDud for their compliments, and answering their every question.

Twenty-five minutes in, I’ll have about fifty viewers. By now when NCSexxxxy and LilThug32022 and NastyAssFukka tell me I have a nice dick, I’m shortening their names and saying, “Thanks NC. Thanks Lil. Thanks Fukka.” I’m spending more time typing out No, I won’t show my feet. No, I’m not putting a dildo in my ass. No, I won’t get a pair of panties and put them in my mouth than I am touching myself.

Thirty-five minutes. I’m on the site’s front page. I have a hundred and twenty-five viewers. The chat in my broadcast room is whizzing by. I’m saying Thanks guys! generically to the compliments, every so often. Viewers are starting to get frustrated when I don’t answer their every question immediately, so they’ll type in all caps, over and over again: SO HAS UR WIFE EVER COME HOME AND CAUGHT U JACKING????? I’ll be getting a barrage of private messages, most of them urging me to cam2cam with them. I’m not even bothering to turn down the multiple requests to show my feet and masturbate with my son’s dirty jock that I stole from his gym bag after he was out all night with the football team watching sexy MILF porn and drinking Gatorade.

(Some of their fantasies are very specific.)

Forty-five minutes. There will be close to two hundred people watching. Most of them are arguing about whether or not I’m even paying attention to the conversation in my chat room. I’ll have PrinceAmir202 announcing, IF U WANT 2 SEE A CAM OF A GUY WHO IS YUNG + HOT INSTEAD OF OLD + UGLY LIKE THIS GUY CUM WATCH ME. I boot PrinceAmir202 from the room. Not all the viewers are shooting compliments my way. A few prefer to come in and say things like, His dick’s not THAT nice, or I’ve seen better. A small contingent of people start yelling in all caps TO DEMAND I SHOW MY FEET!!!!! My ardent defenders will start trying to shout down the rude people.

The whole thing very rapidly becomes about as conducive to a boner as watching a History Channel documentary about amputation techniques during the War of the Roses. So I’ll flip off my camera and whack off alone.

And people wonder why I don’t shoot on cam for them.

Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of

What is one thing that you’d be happy if you never had to experience again for the rest of your life?

A kidney stone. Sweet Jesus.

Have you ever had phone sex or would you?

If by phone sex you mean feigning excitement over the phone line while pretending that a sexual encounter is happening between the two people talking, yes. I've done it a couple of times. I found it so fake and unerotic that I've never done it again, and refuse to.

If I'm talking to a friend or an acquaintance on the phone about sexual encounters we've had, that's an entirely different beast. I like someone telling me who he's fucked that week and how it went down, or I like sharing with someone some of my past experiences. Having a dialogue about likes and dislikes can also be very intimate and erotic.

Faking sex, though? It bores me.

Seeing as how a blog is a diary are you surprised at how many people myself included are so voyueristic?

Having been a lifelong exhibitionist, I'm not surprised in the least by how many people like to watch, or get a vicarious thrill out of someone else's sexual experience.

What does surprise me is how many people obsessively return to blogs on a regular basis, but do so solely in order to abuse the people who write them. If one doesn't respect the author of a blog or like the things they do, it's time for one to move on to something else. Coming back day after day to leave abusive comments on a sex blog or to sneer doesn't make a reader superior, or virginal, or more virtuous; it just means that he has an unhealthy fixation.

What actor should play you in the story of your life?

My first choice would be James McAvoy. His hair is darker than mine, and we're not twins or anything, but I think there's something about his face that's reminiscent of mine. Plus he's Scottish, and I'm of Scottish heritage. I have no doubt he could pull off my bland American accent, though. Probably even better than I.

But if he’s not available, go for Bradley Cooper. Why, he’s practically my twin.

What race/class is your main toon in WoW? Do you still play it or other games often, and have you ever used an online game as a means to hookup?

It's been a while since anyone asked me about my gaming habits. My WoW main for a half-dozen years was a feral night elf druid. My current main is a worgen balance druid.

I have been playing WoW again in the last couple of months. I originally started playing about five or six months after the game was originally released, and raided all the way through Burning Crusade and WotLK. I then took a year-and-a-half hiatus when Cataclysm came out. There were a number of reasons I disliked that expansion, and I essentially quit because people were rude to my healers in random dungeons. MoP has addressed and corrected most of my issues—though I haven't had the stomach to run randoms or to heal yet again. Still, I've been having a lot of fun!

One of the things i've figured out about my WoW time is that I need to be able to approach it without feeling like it's enforced labor. I like taking my time and pursuing the stuff in the game that I really love, like fishing (no, really) and archaeology (no, really!) and making money. If I feel like I'm being pressured to run raids and dungeons and to churn through reputation grinds on a hundred alts, I start to resent it. In this expansion there's been enough variety to keep me engaged and happy puttering around and doing the stuff I like to do.

And I love pet battling.

I've never hooked up off of WoW; I think when I'm playing, I'm too much focused on the game and my next little goal to think about that. Unlike a blog, or Instagram, or a sex site, all of which are passively engaging (you post something, then you wait for responses), WoW and other online games are usually demanding your attention and focus in the present tense. There's also enough disconnect between a real-life person and his online presence as a gnome warlock in WoW that I don't find myself lusting after anyone I've met through it.

I don't mind sharing my BattleTag with others—if anyone wants to add me to his or her friends list, email me.

When you're feeling under the weather, is there one thing that seems to make you feel better? if so, what is it?

Matzoh ball soup. I love it. Even when I'm not sick.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Open Forum Friday: Selling It

After nearly three years of blogging about my sex life, I’ve developed a keen eye for the subjects that tend to be contentious. I know which topics are going to bring out the hateful comments and the howls of those who have a point to prove at someone else’s expense. I’ve learned the hard way which types of entries are going to elicit those little acid pools left by the dripping fangs of someone who only feels big when he’s anonymously venomous.

I almost wish I hadn’t figured it out. Because sometimes I’ll think about a topic, consider it for an entry, think about all the negative shit-storm that’ll follow, and just delete it from the list. And that’s no good, because it clearly causes me to write less.

But today I’m not so much here to write about the Negative Nancies and their desire to squelch anyone who thinks or lives differently from themselves, as I am to discuss a topic that inevitably raises their hackles. Because nothing brings out the irate and disparaging commenters as much as when I discuss the fact that sometimes I accept money for my sexual services.

It’s a taboo area of discussion or even contemplation for a lot of people. We have an cultivated knee-jerk reaction, as ‘nice people,’ automatically to assume a number of things about the people who get paid for sex. At best they think they’re hardened mercenaries who have no better way to earn money. They’re predators, out to make an easy buck. They can’t get a real job. They’re simply unfortunate. At the other end of the spectrum, they see sex workers as wicked, and evil. Diseased. Untouchables. They’re taught to think these things from an early age and taught so strictly not to deviate from a single way of thinking about people who are sex workers that it almost prevents any serious and critical thought about it. Hell, those in the sex trade aren’t even people to most folk. They become in many minds an awful, dreaded other, a subhuman species that’s disposable and forgettable and which should be ignored.

For the life of me I can’t figure out why my selling sex enrages and disgusts a small handful of (vocal) readers. It’s not like I’m telling them to fork over a twenty to read my sexual encounters. I don’t post on my profiles phrases like, LQQKing 4 generou$ men. I don’t hot men up and then suggest they make it worth my while with cold cash. In my youth and adulthood both, I never demanded cash for cock; I just accepted it when it was given me. I don’t claim to be an escort. (Hardly. Escorts are much better looking and have way better bodies than I.) I never suggest anyone pay me, I never demand it. I don’t have only an eye for the bottom line, and choose sex for cash over just good old-fashioned fucking.

To be totally honest, when my libido’s running on overdrive and my dick is hard and my pants barely holding onto my waist, exchanging sperm for cash is about the last thing on my mind.

Yet earlier this week, when I was contemplating my 2012 reported annual income for my tax returns, one thing that kind of leapt out at me was that when I compared the amount I made last year from pushing my artistic work to the amount I made from selling my body . . . well, it kind of made me half-wonder for a moment or two if I was in the wrong business.

If we look at the amount of income I’ve generated over the years from sex work, my life would look like a reverse bell curve. The graph would be high in my teens, start declining in my mid-twenties, bottom out to nothing during my thirties, and then swing back up to a new peak in my forties. It’s not something I think is an awesome accomplishment of my life. But I’m not ashamed of selling sex, either; I’ll talk about my experiences pretty openly. Mostly I just think it’s kind of a hoot that I’m racing up a half-century and still rake in pretty good bucks for my body.

Yet when some butthole of a reader decides to be snide and to write in a comment saying something like Aren’t you ashamed of having been a prostitute when you were a teen?, it makes me sigh, swat the irritation off my shoulders like a bull would a swarm of flies, and ask right back, Are you ashamed of having been a babysitter when you were younger? Because frankly, if one removes the stigma of the sexual component from the equation, the economic transactions are about the same. And there’s less puke to clean.

Though frankly I don’t know many people who would rather babysit brats for three or four hours when they could make four times the money in a fraction of the time getting a blow job. Nor do I know many people who made their first house downpayment with their babysitting or lawn-mowing money. Just sayin’.

As as bad as the misconceptions I think we have about sex workers, however, are those we have about those who buy it. I get those in my comments as well—the sneering implications that anyone who would pay for my time must be ancient, decrepit, blind, desperate, or some combination of the above. And probably leprous. People believe that anyone who would pay for sex must be unattractive, past his prime, and unable to get it any other way than preying on young victims. (Or me, if he’s really desperate.)

These people would be dead wrong.

Over the years I’ve found that men who offer to pay for sex fall into three broad types.

1. The Fetishists: These men get off on the little extra kick that the exchange of money lends to a sexual situation. Whether they’ve bought into the notion that adding a financial component to something they already consider sordid and dirty makes it doubly so, or whether they get off on the notion of being controlled through the wallet in the same way that some men like to be controlled with blindfolds, or restraints, or verbal domination, the exchange of money is vital to their enjoyment.

The cash slaves I’ve had fall into this category—that is the men who give me money to degrade and control them, whether or not we’ve actually met or not. So does the Latin boy I wrote about in my last entry, who empties his billfold into my pocket to prove how thoroughly I control him before I skull-fuck him and pound his little hole. So do the married men who fork over folded bills for my time and then breathlessly get off on a dick that other men have paid for.

2. The Justifiers: Some men, like the Landscaper, can only settle their consciences by rationalizing what they do in what is—let’s face it—a self-deluding way. They approach their sex not as a physical act, but as a financial transaction. To them, sex is best when it’s drained of all its implications of desire and need, and reduced to an entry in their Quicken ledger or the writing of a check. Everyone buys stuff. To these guys, paying a couple of hundred dollars to suck a dick is about as free of guilt and shame as a trip for groceries to Trader Joe’s. (In my opinion, the two are already equally shameless, but not everyone is as sexually liberal as I.)

3. The Businessmen: Some of these guys actually do have careers in business, but I use the phrase loosely. These are guys who feel their time is valuable; they’d rather pay someone to give them exactly what they want, than have to waste time hunting fruitlessly for it. They’re willing to pay a guy who has the look they want, or the dick size they want, or who can perform the specific act they crave. The money’s not a sticking point. Nor do they get off on paying a professional for his services any more than they might get off on hiring a guy to clean out the gutters on their houses in the autumn after the leaves have fallen. It’s simply a matter of expediency and guaranteed performance, for them. They get what they want, for a guaranteed period of time, with a minimum of fuss and complication.

I’d venture to say that the vast majority of men who’ve paid me for sex fall into this last category. The Texas department store magnate who forks over hundreds of dollars for three hours of my time in his hotel whenever he’s in the city is a handsome, virile, and surprisingly young man—but he’d rather have me come back time after time because I give him what he wants, and then some. The college professor in New Haven who could easily have just about any man he wanted, but who reads my blog and enjoys talking to me after the sex, pays me because I understand what makes him tick in bed and he’d rather not have to answer Craigslist ads for hours. The out-of-towners who contact me before their visits, pay ask me to reserve nights for them weeks in advance, pay me for the courtesy of arranging my calendar for them (and for the fucking).

Whatever it is, I have something all these men want. They consider it worth their money. So I pocket it, keep in mind the reasons they pay for sex, and attempt to exceed their expectations. They get what they need, and I have a little extra spending money for books and music and household expenses. Are they men unattractive? Lord, no. Not by a long shot. A handful of them are pictures of physical perfection. Are they old and senile? Most are mature enough to be earning a comfortable living, but some are young and barely scraping by, but need the thrill that saving up for a really good fuck can give them. Are they desperate?

Desperate for my dick, surely. But not desperate in the general sense of the word.

I know that many of my readers—probably more than most would suspect— have had experience with the sex trade. I’m curious to hear from those who have, in today’s open forum. If you’ve bought sex before, in what category would you consider yourself to be—or would you create a new category for yourself? If you’d sold it, how have you experiences compared to mine, with the types of men who pay for yourself?

I just ask that your comments be thoughtful and nonjudgmental. It’s not necessary automatically to preface your comments with a phrase like I’ve never paid for sex and never would, but. . . . I’ll probably delete comments like those. That kind of phrasing isn’t thoughtful. It’s just a way to to establish guiltlessness—which implies guilt for those who have paid, or received money, for sexual acts.

But insightful dialogue about money for sex? Bring it on, people. And enjoy your weekends.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Stupid Faggot

“Do I look like a stupid faggot, sir?” he asks. The boy is looking up at me from waist level. My cock is distending his left cheek. He’s got his yap wide open, his lips wrapped around my shaft. When he speaks around the inches, his syllables come out thick, slurred, and heavy, like he’s slow. Drool is trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, dark as the night sky, stare up at me. They’re imploring me for an honest answer.

He’s been on my dick for a half-hour at this point, sucking it. He’s been curled up in a fetal position, lying on his side, nursing at it as deeply as he can get it into his throat. I lift my foot and kick him back so that he rolls over so heavily that the mattress shivers. “What the hell do you think?” I snarl at him. “Yeah, you look like a stupid faggot. Because you are a stupid faggot.”

“Yes sir,” he whimpers, looking at me adoringly.

“What are you?”

“A stupid faggot, sir,” he whispers.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask, irritated. “I didn’t hear that.”

“A stupid faggot, sir,” he says. This time it’s louder. More aggressive. “I’m a stupid faggot.”

“Yeah? And what are stupid faggots like you made for?”

“For superior dick,” he tells me. His fingers instinctively clutch for his own dick. It’s triangular in shape, wider at the base, short, and narrowing toward the tip. I use my foot to kick away his arm. “For superior white dick like yours.”

“That’s right,” I tell him. “Now go get me a glass of water.” I scarcely let a second pass before I roll my head with impatience. “Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Do I have to tell you twice?”

The boy hops up. His skin is the color of manila paper. He has a long ponytail pulled back into a rope that hangs to the small of his back. It ends just above his butt, which is small and muscular. He is a beautiful, beautiful young man. If I’d seen him in a bar, or supermarket, or walking along the street in his everyday work clothes, I would have stared at him in frank admiration. In fact, I do that now, as his egress sets those miniature globes of his ass revolving around an invisible axis. I hear water splashing in the sink of his miniature kitchen. A moment later he’s back, his naked body strolling toward me, then dipping as he approaches his bedside. He kneels on the floor and, holding the glass out with both hands, offers it to me.

I take the cheap tumbler and swig down the water. I need it, after all the talking I’ve been doing. The water’s cold and delicious. I let it cool the ache in my throat. But I have a point to make. “What the fuck?” I ask as I stare at him and then the drink in disbelief. “Don’t they teach you people what the fuck ice is, in Puerto Rico?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it, sir,” he says, grabbing back the glass. He can’t take his eyes off me. He wears the grateful expression of a man who has gotten exactly what he’s wanted, and then some.
“Don’t you worry, papi. I’ll fix it for you, just the way you like it.”


Men don’t like to talk about this particular ghetto of sex, this shadowy neighborhood where so many dwell or wish they could play tourist. We don’t talk about it because of our aspirations to middle-class respectability, and this isn’t a nice place to visit. These racial and sexual extremes not how we like to think of ourselves by light of day.

Humiliation is a very real part of many people’s sex lives and fantasies, however. Pretending it’s not—just because it doesn’t fit in with a narrow and homogenized vision of the tame activities to which gay men should constrict themselves—does everyone a disservice. To do so propounds a limited vision of what we are, as sexual creatures.

Banishing humiliation to the shadows makes it only more mysterious, though. More desirable. If it’s something that only dirty men do, it’s where men will scuttle like roaches when they need to feel dirty.

Most people don’t realize how many men need to be treated like dirt, when the apartment doors are closed and the clothes come off. Upstanding businessmen can crawl on cold concrete for the privilege of being splattered with piss and called faggot. Black men can gasp and sink into ecstasy when a white man snarls the word nigger at them. Latin boys like this one can become submissive when vilified as a spic.

There’s a certain subset of so-called good people that becomes outraged by this sort of play, though. They clutch their pearls and declare they’ve never heard the like. It’s not the sort of thing respectable folk do. The people involved must be full of self-loathing. Or they’re mentally ill. They’re certainly not normal. Never mind that there are conservative forces out there who’d be happy to outlaw any kind of man-on-man sex—even the tamest—in the name of purging it from the earth. We’re all too happy to tell each other what kinds of sex we can’t have, too.

Fuck that shit. Men come to me with these fantasies because they know I’m not going to be one of the stick-in-the-ass naysayers. They know they’re safe with me. What’s more, they know that this kind of sex is play—and that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. These men craving my foot planted on their foreheads aren’t freaks. They’re not sick, or crazy.

They’re our brothers.


“You know you’re just a hole to me,” I tell him, after I’ve sprayed my load in his ass. “Just a fucking hole. And what is a hole, baby?”

I’m eight deep in him, and his cunt is stretched to capacity. I fucked him on all fours—like the animal he is, I told him. He’s on his back now, his hands on his dick, tugging himself to a climax. I’m twisted behind him, my hips glued to his, as my meat gently slides in and out of his slick wet hole. He’s resting on me like a comfortable sofa; his head lolls back against my face, so I can whisper in his ear. “I am, sir. I’m a hole.”

“That’s not what I asked, you dumb piece of shit.” He groans. I can see the tip of his penis glisten with a new dime-sized glob of pre-cum. “I said what is a hole. What. Qué. You understand that, right? Qué?

We’re both sweaty from the long afternoon of sex. His Harlem apartment is a tiny little hotbox. The radiator’s been hissing with steam the entire time I’ve been there. He’s gasping for air. His eyes are slits, behind which glisten obsidian. “I understand,” he gasps. “I don’t know. What is a hole, sir?”

“A hole’s an absence. It’s nothing.”

“I’m nothing,” he says, in an almost-echo.

“Good boy. That’s right,” I say, sounding almost proud of him. “You’re nothing. A hole only becomes something when it’s filled, baby. It’s only worth something when it’s filled. Just like you,” I say into his ear. My beard is brushing against his lobe. He’s shivering and sweating at the same time. “You get it now?”

“Oh god,” he’s saying softly, over and over. Beneath the thin layer of fur on his chest, his nipples are hard and pointed. “I’m a hole, sir. A hole. A fucking hole.”

“A nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” I tell him in a normal voice. “Say it.”

“I’m a nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” he repeats obediently. “I’m a nasty faggot hole, sir.”

He’s beating himself off furiously. His hand is flying over his dick so hard that his balls are flying in the air. “Shoot that pathetic thing you call a dick, you cheap little piece of shit,” I order.

“Oh god,” he says, as he melts back into my arms. His dick erupts and spews his load all they way up to his chin. He shudders against me, becoming heavier with every spasm. My mouth is full of his hair. His hands drift away from his cock and down to my thighs, where they rest lightly. His eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls, each breath almost imperceptibly slower than the one before. “Oh, papi,” he breathes in barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

And then he relaxes completely into me, like I’m a feather bed.


The world’s a scary place. People say and do ugly things. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes not. I understand why people hear the words involved in humiliation play and recoil—it’s because they’ve been taught from childhood how bad they are, how hurtful. What aren’t ripe old Anglo-Saxonisms are derogatory, even taboo. What kind of sane person would ask to have those flung at them?

Brave men, I tell you.

They’re men who choose to confront invective, to hear those derogatory phrases and refuse to run. Fuck, they don’t hear the words and slink away—they invite the slurs into their bedrooms. They face them down. They denature the ugliness and the abuse into something powerful and sexual, something pleasurable—what’s coarse and disgusting becomes, through their grace, something beautiful.

Something transformative.

Moreover, they’re doing so in a context that’s entirely different from where they might ordinarily hear those phrases. There’s a world of difference between being the skinny kid who walks down the hall of his high school and is forced to pass by a crowd of jocks snickering fucking faggot among themselves, and the adult who spreads his legs and looks lovingly into another man’s eyes as the top whispers the same words into his ear. Hearing stupid spic under the breath of a man who signs the paychecks is a world apart from choosing the man who’ll say it when you’re skin to skin with your limbs tangled among sweat-soaked sheets.

Someone who invites these powerful incivilities into his life is brave. He’s facing down those slurs on his own terms. He’s choosing when and how he hears them, who will say them to him. Not only is he saying I am what and who I am, but he’s adding a defiant cry of And even these supposed worst of words will only bring me joy.

How can anyone say that’s not courageous? That it’s not beautiful? Because it is. When someone wants to share that side of himself with me, it’s a gift of unimaginable magnitude.

I treat such gifts with the respect they deserve.

As for the nay-sayers, the clutch-my-pearls, those who turn up their nose and sneer: the names they call those men—crazy, self-loathing, sick—are as bad as any of the epithets. The urge to squelch everyone into their vision of correctness makes them condescending; it makes them as hurtful as anyone casually spewing a deliberate taunt. They reduce men of complexity into objects of derision. It’s fear that makes them do it—but when the result is the same as slapping them with invective, to what end?

There’s nothing to fear here. Nothing that any of us experience, or for which we dream, is truly unimaginable to anyone else. We’re all brothers, beneath the skin.


All men are equal in their slumber.

We nap together for the better part of an hour. I’m grateful for the steam from that radiator as our bodies cool. We’re glued together by sweat and spit and semen. My arms are curled around his shoulders and chest, my legs wrapped around his knees. In his sleep, he lifts his hand and lets his fingertips rest against the back of my wrist. From time to time they pulse, as if in his doze he’s typing, or playing piano.

He’s beautiful, this boy. The thin beard on his jaw grazes my own as he sighs and shifts and painfully peels apart a few inches of our flesh. There’s a smile on his face that makes him glow. When I look at it, I yearn to be the one of whom he’s dreaming.

Perhaps I am.

My own eyelids droop. I pull this boy closer in, holding him to keep the world at bay. It’s my unspoken promise to him. He’s known it from the start. Down, down into the gentle rise and fall of our breathing I drift, until I, too, am sleeping once again.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

M. J., Part Four

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

 After that trip in the early spring of 1983 which his car broke down outside a historic Virginia plantation, it didn’t take me long to figure out what made M. J. tick. The economics professor I’d been dating for most of one semester and the better part of another really only came to life sexually when I showed him contempt.

Unfortunately, we were at a stage of our relationship when that was all too easy for me to do.
For months we’d had a quiet, respectful, and timid relationship in which he’d given me gifts, taken me out to places where the menus hadn’t seen a refreshing since the nineteen-fifties, and subjected me to silent, boring sex under the covers of his bed with the lights off. When his car had ground to a stop and I’d had to handle matters because he was too preoccupied with fretting and fuming and stomping around his econo-box, I’d snapped at him. I’d stomped off to call a tow truck without consulting him. I’d mocked him in front of the tow truck driver. Probably most damning of all, I’d eaten his share of the sympathy cookies the nice lady with the telephone had given me. Right in front of his face. Without even a pretend offer to share.

The result? When we got back to his apartment, M. J. had practically assaulted me in the hallway, he was so overcome with desire and need. When I was easy and pliant, he’s been reserved and a bit clammy. The minute I showed him exactly how little I thought of him, he couldn’t get enough of me.

The following weekend he showed up with a box from the small department store in Merchant’s Square. He gave it to me with an air of expectation, as we sat in the parking lot of the gymnasium at the back of campus. I opened up the green cardboard lid, pulled back the tissue paper, and found myself staring at about three pounds of some of the ugliest wool ever knitted into a sweater. It was of a hue so grape-purple that if I ever pulled it over my head—and there was no way in hell I ever planned to—I would’ve been greeted with cries of Hey! Kool-Aid!

“What is this?” I asked him, appalled.

“It’s a sweater,” he said. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I’m not wearing this,” I told him. “Sorry.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it’s hideous.”

He stared at me, then lunged. We ended up having sex in the back seat, right there in the parking lot.

For a couple more weeks we followed a similar pattern. I finally balked at going to the cafeteria for senior citizens on Richmond Road where all the food was boiled to within an inch of its life before being slopped into the steam trays, and we ended up banging like beasts parked behind the dumpster in back. I told him that if I had to listen to him talk about Reaganomics one more time, I’d fucking blow a gasket, and I ended up getting skull-fucked in a restroom along the Colonial Turnpike at eleven at night.

There was just some twisted part of M. J. that flared to life when I was nasty to him. That incident with the tow truck, though, had tipped him far enough out of my favor that really all I could see were his faults—the tasteful yet ridiculous and unwearable presents he gave me, the old lady kisses he gave me under normal circumstances, the clammy-fish touch of his skin against mine, the weird mole on his penis. The more I focused on those faults, the less I wanted to see of him, and the meaner I was.

Eventually I just stopped seeing him altogether.

That was the idea, anyway. He called one Friday night to tell me he’d be picking me up at our usual time, and I told him that I had something else to do. I didn’t feel compelled to make up a bullshit excuse. I didn’t feel I had to soften the blow that way. I just had something else to do, I said, and thanked him and hung up. The weekend after, I did the same thing. He didn’t even call the third week. I felt secure he’d got the message.

My big problem in my youth was an inability to conceive of confrontation. I’d do anything to avoid it. But here’s the thing: if I’d sat M. J. down and told him that I wasn’t interested in seeing him any more, there would’ve been an argument and then a couple of days of hurt feelings, but very likely it would’ve been over and I could’ve moved on. My method of breaking-up-by-avoidance dragged out for the rest of the semester, and caused months of pain and annoyance and outright anger.

Because what M. J. started doing was to stalk me around campus. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he’d decided that me ignoring him was my attempt to fan the flames of his desire for me; the more he was denied and rebuffed, the more desperately he had to have me.

So when I would turn around and see him following me across the campus, I would roll my eyes and go back to my walking and pretend he wasn’t there—though it was hard to miss him following behind me like a sad, whipped puppy with a loyalty complex. I hoped he’d just ‘get the message.’ He seemed to interpret my scorn as a promise the most explosive sex of his entire life if he’d persist and stalk me harder.

Which he did, relentlessly. He followed me to classrooms at night where I was studying with friends, who would see his bearded face peeking in the door and announce that some weirdo kept looking in. He would follow me to the library on weekends, and stand in the stacks to stare at me mournfully until one of my study buddies would point him out to me. When I was working at the ice cream store where I earned my income, he’d sit in his car, parked in a space outside the big plate glass windows, staring holes through me while I pretended he wasn’t there.

I passed him off for a while as a friend of my parents—but it became pretty obvious, even to my oblivious companions, that no college kid really talked to his parents’ friend that much. They wanted to know why he was following me so much, all the time, all around the clock. They wondered if he was that way about me, a thought they’d usually accompany with titters and embarrassed glances. It had to end.

Eventually it did, in a hissing match outside the door of a classroom in the business building where I was studying right before final exam time. My friends had noted that ‘that weird guy’ was outside again, which caused me to slam shut my books and stomp outside to have it out with M. J. once and for all.

I didn’t want to see him again, I told him. He had to stop following me. He was embarrassing me. My friends all called him ‘that creepy old guy.’ My supervisor at work was on the verge of calling the cops because she thought he was a flasher. All the frustration of several weeks of stalking came spilling out of my lips.

M. J. looked up at me—he was a short man—and said in a plaintive voice, “But I love you!”

And I just shook my head at him, turned on my heel, and stomped away. That was the end of it, for real this time. I never spoke to him again, never saw him. I don’t know what happened to him, other than that his year-long position ended and he moved on to some other university.

When I look back on my life, there are plenty of incidents of which I’m not proud. That encounter nears the top of the list. Rather than hurt someone just a little, in a straight-forward way, I dragged out the pain and the suffering for weeks, and then topped it off as spectacularly as possible by packing in as much hurtfulness into a couple of minutes as I could muster. I still hear that cry of astonishment—But I love you!—in my nightmares. It haunts me.

M. J. didn’t love me. He might have convinced himself that he did, simply because it justified all the relentless pursuit in which he indulged when I started spurning him. Even when we had been dating and engaging in zestless sex, he’d never mentioned love, or any emotion stronger than a hunger for cafeteria fare or peanut soup. I didn’t love him, either. Toward the end, I didn’t even like him.

He still deserved better, though. If we learn more from the ways we err than the ways we succeed, my time with M. J. was an education. If I could, I’d tell him I was sorry. Sorry for being a know-it-all of eighteen; sorry for being so untaught about the ways people communicated outside of the bedroom. Sorry for being a total dick, certainly.

Neither of us were particularly what the other was looking for. We could have found some common ground, however, if I’d been a little less inept at meeting a challenge head-on. I wish I’d been man enough then to try it.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Don't Do Anything

Two days before Christmas. I still have shopping left to do, and I’ve had a cold on burn for a week. I’m past the sore throat stage, past the worst of the stuffiness. But I’m drained, and tired, and even though I have the place to myself for an evening, all I really want to do is lie in bed in the dark, listen to some music, and work my slow way through the pounding in my head.

Runt texts me. thought we were getting 2gether 2nite, he says.

I text back to tell him I’m not at a hundred percent, and that I couldn’t be as aggressive as I usually am with him.

u r always making everything perfect 4 me, he writes back. now it should be my turn. even if its just me rubbin u feet. please?

In a moment of weakness I find myself tempted. Then he texts again. i am walking 2 the train and comin over, he says. Then a moment later, he sends me a smiley face.

He lives four blocks from the train station. I’m one stop and two blocks away from him. I’ve never made him take the train before, but it’s a quick and viable option. I’ll leave the front door unlocked, is the last thing I send him. Then I put my phone away, turn down the music, and wait.

The Runt is like a ghost when at last he slips into the room—a pale shadow, silent and luminescent in what little reflected light shines through the blinds. I remember too late that his dog collar is in the glove compartment of my car; he’s never gone without it since we bought it together. I’m too tired to get up, get dressed, and walk the block to where I’m currently parked, however.

Nor does he seem to need it. He’s obedient without it. I feel a touch of a hand on my foot. The warmth of a set of fingertips on my right calf. He uses my leg to balance himself as he removes his hoodie, his pullover. I hear his jeans hit the floor. There’s a soft, shushed rush when he frees himself from his underpants. My mattress quivers when he puts a knee on it.

I didn’t think I’d have the strength to muster an erection, but there it is, raging from nothing to full tumescence. It’s the scent of him, I think to myself. That careful, soaped, lightly perfumed odor he always wears. It’s sweet, like candy. Like candy, he’s easy to devour.

My hands reach up to hold him. I’m ready to grasp him around the waist and to shove him roughly into the mattress as I roll on top of him. I want to cover his mouth with mine, to rake his face with my beard. My cock wants to punish him, to make him pay for arousing me. But “No,” is what he says. It’s just a whisper. If I’d been sniffling, or clearing my throat, I would’ve missed it. “No,” he orders. “Don’t do anything.”

It’s cute. His hands are wrapped around my wrists. He holds my arms out to the side, pinning them into L-shapes onto the bed. I could break the hold easily if I wanted; his hands aren’t large. He’s not strong. I’m much bigger than he. I’m curious, though. I want to see what he’s going to do. So I don’t resist. I lay there, and let him hold me still.

I see the pale arc of his head as it moves down. I feel the warmth of his lips against my chest. They move to the side, to my left nipple. I gasp as his mouth wraps around it. His teeth close onto the tiny pyramid, fasten on. My dick becomes more rigid; I catch my breath. He chews on my nipple the way I’ve taught him, the way I like it. Not too soft, but not hard enough to draw blood. His knees draw in on either side of my hip. I can feel his little ass just out of my cock’s reach. I thrust up and forward, trying to make contact, but he presses down on my wrists and doesn’t let go.

My right nipple, now. The waves of pleasure he creates there radiate out over my body. I thrash a little, beneath his weight. I’d been content to lie still for a few moments, but as his mouth travels down, kissing and licking beneath my rib cage, across my belly, down my navel, across the hardness of my pelvic bone, I find I can’t stop moving. My legs writhe and kick; my back arches. I grind my dick into the dark air. But not for long. Soon I feel his mouth, warm and shallow, trying to take my length.

I had to teach Runt how to suck when we met. His efforts, when he met me, were amateurish at best. Too much teeth. Not enough moisture. He’s learned eagerly, though, and we’ve had plenty of practice. He’s scarcely got his mouth on me when I feel globs of his spit slipping from those pretty lips down onto my balls. I want to push his head down, to test the limits of his throat this week. But I respect his wishes, and leave my hands at my side. No, I pull them up and put them behind my head, so I won’t be tempted.

He’s not trying to get me off. Not with his mouth. That’s not how he’d want it. He’s just attempting to give me pleasure. I feel his hands on my nuts. His fingers trace a timid circle around my hole. He kisses and licks my shaft, going down on it as far as he can without choking—maybe just a little to the choking point, even. For long minutes I allow myself this pleasure, the enjoyment of this boy on my dick, sucking and slobbering over me in the dark room.

I hope he has more in store, though.

When he backs off my dick and adjusts his position so that his face hovers over mine, I try to look him in the eye as best I can. Mostly I feel his hair hanging down on either side of his face, as it touches mine. His lips brush across my own. I kiss him back, slipping him tongue. But no. He backs off at that. I’m too aggressive, again.

His hand closes around my dick. I feel the pressure of his body’s weight as he tries to connect the spike of my meat to his hole. We pause for a moment so he can find the lube on my shelf, and then start again. This time, my cock head reacts instantly to the slickness around his entrance. I don’t need to lunge my hips to get into him. He’s greedy enough for it, sliding down and forcing himself to the base.

He doesn’t shoot, though. I’m used to him ejaculating violently when I enter him. This time, he merely gasps, and shivers, and sits there as his body sorted through the various pains and sensations accumulated during the opening. Once processed, he starts rising and falling on my dick.

It’s pleasant, this. His ass is warm, and super-tight. I enjoy the sensations of his quivering legs, like a fledgling foal’s, as he pushes himself up and down on my shaft. It’s sweet. It’s lovely.

But it’s not especially erotic. Not like the sex we usually have. He senses it, too. After a few minutes, he says in frustration, “What am I not doing?”

“Let me,” I tell him.

He protests. It isn’t what he had in mine. “But—“

“No,” I say, echoing his words from earlier. “Don’t do anything.” I know what he needs. What we both need.

I lift him off me, and gently lay him onto the mattress. I put the pillow beneath his head. I kiss him roughly, until he responds by giving in. I can’t grab him beneath the collar like usually, but I keep his mouth fastened against mine by cupping the back of his head and pulling him against me until he’s short of breath. “You need me to fuck you,” I tell him. “You need a man to fuck you. You need a real man to fuck you.”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“You want my big dick?” I ask him. “Is that what you want?”

“Please.” He’s whimpering now.

“Yeah? Then take the fuck, son. Take the fuck.”

He’s already slick; his hole’s been opened by the minutes of sex we’ve already had. But when I spread his legs and drive into him in a single, savage thrust, it’s as if we hadn’t fucked at all. He’s tight as hell. His resistance gives way. He cries out into the dark with a long, piercing howl.

Then he starts to shudder. I feel his cock against my stomach, leaping and spewing sticky fluid. He’s still crying out in hushed sobs and genuine tears. This is what he needed, that sense of being taken, of being used. Sweet as his impulse was to take care of me, he can’t help the way he’s wired.

He’ll never be the kind of boy who’ll get off from gentle, kind, lovemaking. Lowering himself onto a dick and sliding up and down might satisfy a basic need, but it won’t get to his core. Not ever. He needs the force of a man bigger than himself, the roughness—the invasion. There can be a sweetness and romance of its own kind in that kind of fuck. There’s an intimacy to it of its own quality. But the heat between us now is roaring; since I took over, it’s a furnace compared to the mere lit candle of a few minutes before.

I let him finish his orgasm before I start pounding him. I hold his legs out to the sides, and take him, the way he was meant to be taken. My cock punishes his hole, stretches it. If there were more light, I know I could watch his hole turn from pink to scarlet. My own pleasure is swift. The intensity of his reactions always brings me to climax very quickly. My own howl matches the one he let out earlier, when I shoot deep inside him. He’s just as anxious for my load. I feel his hands on my ass, pulling me in, then refusing to let me go once my motions cease.

The bedroom is suddenly hot, and full of the sound of heavy breathing. For a long moment we remain in that position. “Don’t pull out,” he begs me.

I listen to him. I roll us both onto our sides. We’re face to face on the mattress. I’m lying on one of his legs; the other is atop my hip. We rest like that for a moment, and then he moves in close to hold me around my middle.

And it’s in this position that I end my last fuck of 2012. The Runt and I. Connected by flesh, glued together by my semen, as he holds onto me as if hoping I’ll never pull out of him.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013


“When you touch me,” he says, pronouncing the verb as if it rhymed with botch, “you are making the music. Piano, piano, piano, fortissimo.” His lips are against my ears; his hard cock is pressing into my pelvis as if it’s trying to make a new hole for itself. My hands roam over the slope of this back, the hills of his ass, the valley between his thighs. The room echoes with his sighs. “Soft, soft, soft, then—“ He puffs out his cheeks. His big eyes grow wide, as he lets out a big poof of air. “The explosion that makes me rattle to the bone.”

This is the way he talks to me. All the time. The romance of it makes me shiver. He makes me want to do things to him, just so I can have the private pleasure of listening to him recount them back to me afterward with his limited English.

“You really are one of the sweetest men I know,” I tell him. I wonder if, beneath the curve of his hand on my face, he can feel the heat from my blush. He makes me blush. A lot. “Everything you say is poetry.”

“Is because I am Russian,” he says. He draws himself up and props himself on his forearms, so he can look down at me. He’s a handsome man, the Russian. He’s much shorter than I, and narrower. Whenever he greets me at the door of his Hell’s Kitchen apartment, he’s always wearing blue jeans and some kind of oversized shirt that manages to make him look like a twelve-year-old boy. Naked, though, he’s got a firm body and a cock that’s bigger than mine, made even larger in aspect by the contrast of his small frame. There’s nothing boy-like about that dick. “Eastern Europeans, we are the most passion-like of souls. Romantic, like Tolstoy. Dramatic, like Pushkin.” I love the way his lips breathe out Poooooosh-kin, like they were wrapping themselves around something wickedly erotic. “The heart of Chopin. And the lover, like Rasputin.”

I’m carried away by his litany of names. He makes my brain feel like it’s cuddled in bed under blankets, warm and sleepy. It only protests a little bit at the last comparison with a half-hearted wait, what? at the mention of the ugliest, scraggliest Russian monk in all of history. But here’s the thing. His accent is so thick and charming that he could be comparing his love-making skills to Joseph Stalin’s and I wouldn’t be objecting too strenuously. “Wow,” I tell him, as I look into his cookie-brown eyes.

“I loff your face,” he tells me, kissing it. He moves down to my chin. “I loff your beard.” I’m charmed by the way he pronounces love. “I loff your sexy body. I loff your big, big cock.” He’s been fucked twice by that cock this evening already. He knows it well. We’d met for a nooner earlier in the week when he snuck away from work and I took a break between meetings to meet him the first time. Tonight I’ve managed to set aside several hours for the two of us simply to enjoy each other. “I loff your legs.” Gently, but firmly, he rolls me over on the mattress of his king-sized Murphy bed. “And oh, my sweetheart. How I loff your ass.”

I’m basking in all these compliments. If the lights were all the way out instead of merely lowered, he’d surely see me glowing. “It’s flat,” I tell him.

“It is beautiful,” he counters. I feel his hands on my cheeks. The warmth of his breath. A lick on my crack. Then he’s nibbling on my hole—chewing on it, using his lips and mouth and teeth to stretch and rend it. I feel like I’m slipping down the mattress and onto the floor in a wet, hot puddle. “I loff this ass,” he hisses.

“Just do what you want,” I tell him. The words aren’t an empty offer. I know what he wants. Our minds, our desires, our moods are in sync.

“I will make you loff it,” I hear him promise, from between my legs. “I will make you loff me in you.”

“Okay,” I groan. Part of me feels half-asleep, as if I’m dreaming. But when I feel his fingers prodding at me, and when I’m woken slightly by the cold of the lube he spreads on and in my hole, I know this is no drowsy fantasy.

“I will make you want more,” he assures me, as he pulls himself between my thighs.

“Okay,” I breath, clutching onto the sheets.

“I will make loff to you the way you make loff to me.” There’s something so sincere and simple in this last promise that any fear I’m hanging onto falls away; I believe him. I know he’s telling the truth.

“Please,” I beg, smiling to myself. Then I feel the warm, fat head of his dick pushing against my hole.

There’s pressure. No pain. Just intense, indescribable pressure. “Am I hurting?” he asks. I shake my head. There’s more pressure as he presses in. “You feel so good, baby,” he tells me. “I loff this ass. I want to be part of it.”

“It’s yours,” I tell him. “Take it.” There’s something I’m reaching for, down there. It feels like chasing a butterfly, bright and yellow and beckoning, through a field on a sunny spring day. The butterfly’s just out of grasp, but there’s just such joy in the running and chasing and reaching that my heart lifts. Then there’s a blinding rush of sensation. “Are you in?” I breathe. For response, he takes my hand and pulls it down to where we connect. Not only is he in, but he’s all the fucking way in. Not a centimeter of his nine-incher isn’t surrounded by my hole.

“You are so special,” he tells me in my ear. “You are so special to give me this. Bright my day. Bright my every hour, thinking about doing this to you.”

“Oh god,” I say aloud. My whole body is trembling. I grab at his hands.

“Now our body and soul are tight together,” he murmurs in my ear. I believe every word he says, without question. His buzz in my ear sounds like the word of God itself, if God had chosen to talk to me like Boris from the Bullwinkle cartoons. “I loff to feel your trembling body. I can tell by your fingers so tight to mine that you want me inside you. Yes? You look so sexy with me inside you. So sexy.”

I don’t know whether it’s his accent, or his sweet words, or whether it’s the sensations he’s sending through every inch of my flesh, but I want him. I want him inside me. I want him deep. I want him hard. I press my face into the mattress. My hips elevate into the air as if lifted by invisible strings. I’m determined to get it as hard as possible. “Fuck me,” I tell him. “Just fuck me. Fuck the shit out of me.”

“Yes, baby,” he whispers, pleased. All I feel is the intense pleasure of being filled. I don’t know how fast he’s going, or how deep. I don’t care. I just want it. All of it. All of it in me. “Yes. This is what I think of all week.”

As he fucks away, he whispers sweet words of encouragement in my ear. I don’t remember any of them. I just remember the need of the moment—the need to open wider for him. To raise up my hole to meet his thrusts. The need to be held down and opened by this small-framed, big-cocked man. When he releases inside of me, it’s with a grunt and a series of whispers: “Yes baby, yes baby, yes baby,” he purrs. “Yes. Yes.”

“Don’t pull out,” I beg. Although I’ve spent twice inside him, I know I’m rock-hard again. My whole body feels on fire. I’m not ready for it to end.

He holds me. His arms are around me. I feel him rub his chin on his shoulders. Into my ears he pours soft, sexy words of praise and thanks.

Of that, and of him, I could take endless refills.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Sunday Morning Questions: Complimentary Edition

My new year's post about accepting compliments got so many, er, compliments from you people. Thank you very much for every one of them.

I was particularly taken aback by the volume of email I received in my personal box, after I published my thoughts. It seems that there are a good number of us—myself included—who often have difficulty accepting compliments. I think it's important to remember, however, that accepting a compliment is not the same thing as believing it—just as accepting a wrapped holiday gift is not the same thing as loving it once you've ripped off the paper and discovered that someone's given you a pair of particularly hideous argyle socks, or that they've regifted you a white elephant from their office party and not bothered to remove the original gift tag.

It would really be nice, if someone was impulsive and kind enough to lay a compliment upon you, if you were able to take the kind words, hug them to yourself, and let yourself believe them. The person who complimented you would love it if, when you give him your thank-you, you managed to imply with batted eyelashes that yes, you totally deserved that kind remark because you do have spectacular eyes, thank you very much and goodnight!

However, a thank-you is all that's really required. You might not take the compliment seriously. You might think it doesn't suit you, like loud argyle. Don't toss it aside carelessly, though, or fling it back in the giver's face. Just smile. And say thank you.

The world's a little better for it.

Anyway, after the volume of response to that particular entry of mine, I made a resolution for the rest of the year: I intend to dispense a compliment at a day, minimum, to someone I don't know. It'd be easy enough to accomplish that by hopping onto some cruising site and typing Nice ass! to the first round booty I see. I don't want it to be quite so easy a slam-dunk, though. I've been putting some genuine thought into it.

I have complimented a guy online, but it was for his profile's content—which was unusual as well as brave; he obviously put some thought into taking an unpopular stance and defending it ably in his profile, and I thought it was brave of him to do so. So I told him.

I told a guy on the commuter train that he had great hair. (He really did.) He seemed a little flustered to get a compliment like that from a stranger, but I could tell he loved hearing it.

I told a woman on the Times Square subway shuttle, who was older than I but exquisitely dressed, that she was beautifully put together. I've never seen anyone smile more broadly.

Not every compliment is going to land gracefully, or be so well received. Maybe more of them will connect than I suspect, though. And maybe by making them, I'll find I'm paying it forward a little, and some of the universe's bounty will spill into my lap. Who knows? As a resolution, it's definitely more fun to keep than a diet.

Let's get to some questions from

Why are so many tops derogatory about bottoms?

There are as many flavors of tops as there are of Baskin-Robbins ice cream, of course, but the perception is (with justification) that most bottoms crave a dominant top. You don't see profile ads from bottoms that say, Looking for milquetoast top to boss around and control. Never. Well, hardly ever.

For a lot of top men, the only way they can conceive of providing dominance is to be abusive, rude, cutting, and nasty—not in a good, self-aware, sexy manner. Some of these guys behave this way because they've seen it so often in porn. Others do it because they don't have enough imagination to make something other than brutish behavior their only shortcut to dominance.

I've engaged in some name-calling roleplay from time to time, and have pushed faces into pillows and called grown men 'boy' and 'faggot,' but I feel my personal style is better suited to just being comfortable in my own skin and directing the flow of the scene with non-abusive control. I think ultimately I am just as dominant—but I'm not abrasive.

Every top (and every bottom, too) needs to find his own personal style. That means relying on strengths, instead of attempting to ape some hyper-masculine monkey one once saw in a hot porn.

Was you first sexual experience with Spencer different to your usual hook-ups or was it his personality that made you love him despite knowing the pain you were inviting into your life?

It's been well over two years since I made love to Spencer the first time. I expected a simple hook-up; what I got was about six hours of some of the primal and athletic sex I'd had in years.

There was more to it than that, though. When he opened up and communicated with me his aspirations and his interests, and when he showed his tender side and his vulnerabilities, it made me want to know him better and to open up to him in kind.

Guys might open their holes to me, but they don't always open their lives or their hearts in the way Spencer did. Our connection was unexpected and unplanned, and even though to this day reflecting on it is like jabbing a bruise with a sharp fork, I wouldn't have traded it for the world.

Have you ever been in a hot tub outside when it was snowing?

Yes, often, and it's one of the most incredible sensations in the world.

At my old house we used to have a great hot tub. It went basically unused during the summer months, but on cool nights I was always out there after dark, soaking up the warm water and the bubbles. During icy or snowing conditions it was amazing to bask in the warmth while the ice and snow whipped around me.

I preferred to use the hot tub at night, because then we could use it nude without being spied upon by neighbors. Even in the dead of winter—or maybe even especially during—it's more comfortable to emerge naked and steaming from a hot tub than it is to have wet fabric dripping and slopping around and making the rest of you frigid.

hallo mrsexy whose side of your family do you take after-your mum or dad

Physically I take after my mom's side of the family. The men from her family are tall and lean and lanky, and hung. (At least, I'm assuming that's where I got that part of myself. It certainly wasn't from my dad.)

For years I would've said I took after my mother temperamentally as well; like her, I have a strong musical streak, a flair for writing, a love for reading, and tendency to depression (though my blue periods are nothing like hers). However, lately I notice that I'm spookily like my dad. We have the same laugh. I find myself pulling out his hoary old aphorisms and repeating them. We share the same academic rigor and get outraged about the exact same things.

It's freaking me out, man!

Sir, you are very open about your life & it's a privilege. Do you ever feel others try to trespass into areas of your life you don't or won't talk about?

Thanks for phrasing your question as you did. I like to think I'm remarkably open in my blog about quite a number of facets of my life.

There's a certain subset of people, however, who seem not to recognize the abundance of what I have given, and who feel entitled to more and more. When I balk, citing my limits as a blogger and semi-public person, they indulge in hissy fits and name-calling.

It's frustrating. Particularly when I've received precious little from them in any form.

Which decade of life do you think you had the best sexual experience, teens-20s-30s-40s and why?

I really like this question. However, it doesn't lend itself to as straightforward an answer as one might expect.

I'd nominate two of those decades as having the best sexual experiences. The first would be the decades of my teens; it was a stretch of time in which even the prospect of impending sex with a man made my hands shake and my heart pound so heavily in my chest I thought it would burst out. It was a decade in which everyone chased me—which is always gratifying to the ego—and when I could be assured of walking into a room and getting the attention of gay men, just because of my age and build. It was the only decade in which I didn't get turned down by anyone.

The nineteen-seventies were a time when guys fucked and swapped fluids without fear, which was liberating. The first few years of sexual exploration can be scary, but they're also amazing when they're unfolding. I like remembering those years because it seemed as if anything could happen, then.

In my twenties and thirties I continued to have good sex—a lot of it. But when one hits thirty in the gay world, one suddenly becomes invisible and irrelevant in a lot of contexts. Coming to terms with that sudden invisibility took a few years of getting used to. I also learned to use it to my advantage.

However, when I hit my forties, suddenly I became a daddy in the world of gay sex, and everything got good again. The young guys started crawling out of the woodwork for me. Older ones suddenly began rediscovering me again as well. I was by that time confident in my skin and in my abilities, which made me even better in the sack. Also, my sexual philosophies had matured to the point where I was comfortable with pursuing what I loved doing best.

I might've had a ton of sex in my teens when it was all vital and new, but though the quantity has decreased (only slightly!) in my forties, the quality has been overall a vast, vast improvement. I wouldn't trade those gains for youth, under any circumstances.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Common Language

They live in the poorest section of the city. In a wealthy community, though, this area of modest income is nothing like the poverty-stricken slums of Detroit. There, every day I drove through areas that looked like they’d been bombed out. Areas so bankrupt that I couldn’t imagine anyone living in the homes without roofs, or windows, or even much more than the rotted and weathered bare timber fingers projecting skeletally to the winter skies. But people did live in those monstrosities. Whole families, or groups of men and women would hole themselves up beneath fallen plaster walls or boarded-up fireplaces, hiding in the shadows and waiting for a change in fortune that never comes.

Here, poverty looks a lot like Detroit’s lower middle-class neighborhoods of slightly shabby older homes, tightly spaced to conserve land. None of them have seen updates or coats of paint in years, but none of them are rotted out, or abandoned, or unlivable. If the people in my neighborhood are afraid to drive through here after dark, it’s only because at night there are actual people roaming the street, rather than the deserted sidewalks and empty driveways of suburbia. There are nightclubs in old commercial buildings, and food trucks serving spicy food through their back windows, on the perimeter of the little city park. There’s a bodega bustling with activity on the corner, and a lunchtime rush of cars along Route 1 half a block away. This might not be the pristine and manicured showcase of a street that’s typical of this part of my state, but compared to where I lived for twenty-five years, it’s just a bustling neighborhood of working class people.

One of them is waiting in front for me as I park my car. He stubs out a cigarette a nods. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face—the profile of this couple merely shows a couple of dicks (good-looking dicks, admittedly) and a vague silhouette of two Latin men standing arm-in-arm, muscular shadows without faces against a sunny doorway. But this guy’s quite handsome. He’s a full half-foot shorter than I, and twice as broad in the shoulders and chest. His black hair is full and thick; there’s a trace of a mustache across his upper lip.

As I approach, he extends his hand. Nods. Jerks his head. We walk down the house’s driveway and around the back. When he leads me down a half-flight of cellar stairs to an exterior door there, I understand where we’re going. There are a lot of houses like these, in this neighborhood—old large family homes that have been divided into as many possible rentable rooms and apartments as possible. Even some of the most windowless basement enclosures have been laid with linoleum and crudely drywalled and transformed into miniature dwellings.

That’s where he leads me—into a two-room basement apartment where the ceiling is so low that I can’t stand up straight. He and his boyfriend are both short enough that neither of them have much problem maneuvering around. As I stalk through to the bedroom, doubled over, I feel like Alice, after ill-advisedly munching the cake that says EAT ME, or Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

The other man is less muscular than his boyfriend. He’s softer, slightly more effeminate. Younger, too. He’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t have that rough trade quality the older guy has. He’s sitting at the computer when I enter, prowling through Manhunt profiles. At the sight of me he rises, smiles, shakes my head. They speak to each other in rapid Spanish, then simultaneously gesture me in the direction of their bed.

It’s a king-sized bed wedged into a pint-sized room. I’m grateful to lie down simply to give my craned neck relief. The moment my ass hits the mattress, the two of them silently remove their clothes. Then they go to work on removing mine. The older guy lifts up my shoulders and pulls off my sweater and shirt; the younger removes my sneakers and unbuttons my jeans and pulls them off. We’re all wearing nothing but our socks when they’re done.

The top lies beside me on the bed. He can’t keep his eyes off my cock. I’m twice his size, easily, but his uncut inches are nothing to sniff at. He lets me take it in my hand, squeeze it. His boyfriend is down between my legs, licking at my balls and sucking my dick to hardness. The top reaches down and shoves on his skull roughly, making his mouth take more of me.

Yeah. I can deal with this.

This is one of those situations where I’ve come in not really knowing what to expect. I think it’s the top who’s been communicating with me on Manhunt, but the only word of English in his vocabulary seems to be lookin? In person, they talk to each other in Spanish from time to time. The top barks out sharp commands I don’t understand. The bottom grunts and obeys, sucking on my nuts, or spreading my legs to get at my asshole for a lick, at his partner’s voice. Finally the top says something to me that my vanished high school Spanish classes didn’t cover. When the bottom slithers from the mattress and bends over it with his legs spread, head submissively down, and his ass in the air, though, I’m pretty sure I can figure out what he wants.

The top takes over my vacated spot in the center of the bed. He throws me a bottle of lube. The bottom guy’s hole is already slick, though. There’s no telling how many guys have been in there already, and I have no way to ask. I rub a little bit of the cheap lubricant on my dick and push in. My head pops through immediately with no resistance, and the rest of me glides inside. He’s warm, and juicy. There’s a load in there already—I can tell by the slick sensation and the faintly chlorine smell coming from his hole. The top is stroking himself as he watches me fuck. Our eyes meet and lock. He lifts up his head a little bit, acknowledging the work I’m doing. He’s enjoying the sight of it.

The bottom doesn’t make any noise. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let me know his pleasure. He just stands there with his ass up, taking my dick. The top looks at me, stops stroking for a moment. He turns his hands palm-up to the ceiling, curls them into fists. Clenching hard enough to make veins pop on on the undersides of his forearms, he draws his fists in.

He wants me to fuck harder.

So I fuck hard. I bang away. I draw up a foot and place it on the foot of the bed so that I can get some leverage going. The bottom lets out a little gasp, then a grunt. If anything, the rough fucking makes him more submissive. His hips relax and push up; his legs spread even farther apart. His hole seems to deepen, to suck me in with every thrust. The boyfriend has his jaw jutted out and his lips pressed together. This is what he likes to watch, apparently. He likes to see his boyfriend roughed up.

I slap the bottom’s ass. He sighs and groans. The top starts whacking again. Our gazes are locked. Our focus is not on the hole, but on each other. I start fucking hard enough that the bed’s headboard begins banging against the wall. I don’t care who might be in the house to hear it. The frame’s newel post knock against the drywall over and over again, creating a steady tattoo of noise. Then the top leaps up and stands and my side. Again he draws his clenched fists in and makes a tough face. More, he’s telling me. More.

I’m plunging all the way in and out by the time I shoot. The top is whispering obscenities to me in Spanish. I don’t understand the words, but I know exactly what he means. He wants me to use his boyfriend, to slam it into him. When I shoot, it’s balls-deep. The bottom is groaning and clutching the cheap bedspread.

I’ve scarcely released my nut when the top is pushing me aside and shoving his own dick into my sticky load. I climb onto the mattress and kneel there, forcing the bottom to clean his juices off my dick. The top fucks even more roughly than I do; the bed is jumping up and down with each of his invasive thrusts. We’ve each got a dick in his boyfriend’s holes. When the top realizes how completely his boyfriend is filled, he grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward. Our mouths lock in a kiss that tastes of coffee and cigarettes.

This is how we’re all connected when the boyfriend comes with a loud grunt—our dicks in the front and back of his partner, our mouths and tongues grappling to get in the other even more deeply than they already are. His body spasms. Our mouths drift apart, our cheeks graze. Then we’re left standing and kneeling while we stare at each other, completely spent.

They’re anxious for me to leave. I don’t mind. I pull on my clothes, kick back on my shoes, and shake their hands. Then with my head cocked sideways, I make my way out of their makeshift apartment and back out into the busy neighborhood.

We haven’t really exchanged a word. Somehow in the space of a few minutes, though, we found a common language.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

A Resolution

I’d like to wish all my readers a most happy new year. May it be even better than your last.

I’ve got sex to write about—I had quite a few adventures worth recording at the end of the year. But I’d like to take a brief moment today simply because it’s the first of the year, and so many of you out there might still be finalizing your list of resolutions. Some of you might want to add one more item to that list, at my behest.

I using one of those location-based GPS cruising apps on my phone, today. It doesn’t matter which. They’re all roughly the same in the way they arrange the men currently using it into a grid of tiny thumbnails for one perusal, from closest to further away. I have only spotty luck on those things. When I’m traveling I get hit on like crazy; when I’m within a fifty-mile radius of my home, I can go for weeks without a shout-out. Anyway, today I fired up the app and during a look at the faces appearing nearby, I saw that a younger man with a great, great smile had taken a look at my profile only a few minutes before. He was in his later twenties, wore a layer of heavy-duty scruff on his handsome face, and his enormous smile made his eyes crinkle. He was offbeat enough that I knew he wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but his photo really took my breath away.

So I sent him a compliment. A short and simple compliment. You have a really amazing smile!, it said. I wasn’t intending that he should be so overwhelmed by my eloquence that he’d want to hop into my bed. It wasn’t a marriage proposal. I just wanted to honor an impulse, to let this individual know that for a couple of brief moments, just the sight of his face took me out of my worries and woes and made me feel good. You know?

This is what I got back from him:
-Thanks I guess, but your profile says you’re in a relationship. 
-Fuck, why does everyone who thinks I’m cute have to be in a relationship??? 
-I guess I should put in my profile that I’m SINGLE and only looking for SINGLE guys huh 
-It’s like I’m cursed or something so that the only people who talk to me are married guys and it fucking sucks.
I came back to the app at this point, a little astonished at the negativity my statement had generated. I told him, I didn’t mean to upset you. I only offered a compliment, kindly intended.

In reply I got a flurry of messages back.
-Yeah whatever it just feels like being on the receiving end of really fucking awful luck. 
-You’ve got a boyfriend or whatever so you don’t know what it’s like being alone on day like today 
-One day some single sexy guy is going to message me maybe but I’ll probably be dead by then. 
- God now I feel fucking miserable.
I was about to write back to the guy and try to get him into a more reasonable state of mind. In the end, though, I just put down my phone and backed away with my hands in the air. I can spot a losing battle when I see one.

Do you guys know why it’s so rare to receive genuine compliments on the internet, and why it’s so difficult to find friendly guys? Because when at the drop of a hat guys turn compliments into psychodramas in which they’re dead on their living room floors on New Year’s Day, friendly men like me are frightened into keeping our mouths shut. That’s why.

Guys, a compliment is a compliment. When you receive one, simply say Thank you. If you’re so moved or attracted, offer one back. But all you really have to give is your simple thanks.

A compliment is not intended to imply that the guy wants to pick you up in his car right that afternoon so the two of you can spend the afternoon at Macy’s working on your wedding registry before you drive off together into the sunset at the end of the day. It’s not necessary to look at a man’s profile, when he proffers praise, to establish how well he fits some preconceived template you’ve envisioned for your one true love. It’s definitely not necessarily to castigate a perfect stranger for his relationship status, or his looks, or his age, or his photographs, or however else he doesn’t happen to match your ideal Prince Charming. You are not obligated to meet, sleep with, or marry a guy who tells you on Grindr that you’re cute.

He’s simply telling you that you’re cute. Say thank you.

When a man offers a compliment, he’s trying very sincerely to say that he finds some aspect of you delightful. You’ve managed to make him feel good in some meaningful way; he’s trying to repay the favor.

He’s honestly not intending to send you into depression. If his words send you spiraling into despair, that’s really something for you to address and work on in your own or your therapist’s time; throwing all that self-negativity at him does nothing to honor the simple, sweet intent of a moment’s impulse.

Don’t say Oh my eyes are too close together or My body’s not all that. Don’t launch into a monologue about how you’re trying to lose thirty-five pounds so that then you’ll be really cute. Don’t ask if he needs eyeglasses, or if other people have questioned his taste before.

Say thank you. Mean it. Don’t qualify it. And then bask in the knowledge that you live in a universe generous enough to send your way a little positive energy—a little bit of its bounty—through another man’s random act of kindness.

If you’re going to resolve anything this year, resolve this: to address those shortcomings that are under your own control, and to accept the well-intended goodness that comes your own way.

That’s what’s going to make a great 2013.