Friday, May 31, 2013

Making a Difference

One morning last week I was in a terrible mood. Oh, it doesn’t matter why. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure I really remember. But it was only nine in the morning and already I’d boarded the commuter train to Grumpytown and was chugging full-steam ahead to Peevish Junction.

There are two ways that a day like this can go. Either I can wallow in my cantankerousness and stay inside my head all day, reliving whatever petty slight has chucked me on the jaw. (And to be honest, sometimes this is the path I choose.) Or else I can get out of that truculent mental space and back on a more normal track. Last week, I decided consciously to attempt the latter.

Over the years, I’ve found the most effective way to lift my mood in these situations is simply to do something kind for someone else. It can be something as simple as buying a gift for a loved one, doing an unexpected good turn for a neighbor, or going out of one’s way for a total stranger. I can't claim it's unadulterated altruism, but hey, I’m totally okay with having selfish motivations mixed up in doing something nice for someone. The other person still gets something good and unexpected and kind that they wouldn't have otherwise. And even if I don’t get my bad mood erased, at least I get to think about someone else other than myself for a change.

So there I was last week, trying to think of something to do that could benefit someone else. I did a little extra housework at home so that my other half wouldn’t have to. I called up a friend I know who doesn’t have a car and asked if there were anywhere he needed to go that morning. Then I sat down in front of the computer, logged onto my Facebook account, and a perfect opportunity dropped into my lap.

I thought I’d written about this long-past encounter at some point in my blog, but I can’t find a record of it. Years ago in college, there was a cruisy men’s room in the campus center. The library used to get a lot more traffic from men and boys looking for quick sex, but the campus center had a large restroom with a creaky door and a convoluted layout that was perfect for cruisers. Even better, next door to the restroom was the television room—which back in the early nineteen-eighties was only ever tuned to MTV. In those days, the network only played music videos. Many were the happy afternoons that I’d spend in that room watching Frankie Goes to Hollywood and the Thompson Twins and listening for the creak of the restroom door to tell me that a potential cock to suck had arrived.

There was one summer in which I was working in Williamsburg and living in an apartment with two other students. I didn’t like either of my roommates. It was the year in which another former roommate had spread false rumors that I’d raped him (which I've written about before, here and here), so I’d had a fucking miserable two semesters and spent most of that summer feeling friendless and alone. I spent a lot of solitary time in that MTV room, over those hot months.

One day another student strolled by the open doorway of the TV room and stared in at me. I recognized him from around campus. He was one of those guys known as a total jock, the sort of dark-haired, dark-eyed prep who strolled around campus perpetually wearing sweatpants and a well-worn rugby short with fraternity letters over the nipple. Not only was he a frat boy, but he was the president of his chapter. And he had a rockin’ porn stache that approached the magnificence of that worn by John Oates during his heyday. Considering that we Southern boys were all clean-shaven and baby-faced in those days and only had about three people in the entire undergraduate population who had grown any sort of facial hair, this guy was an exotic.

I stared back at him. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, then disappeared. I heard the creak of the door, and seconds later, I followed.

I met him in the toilets. He stood up and stroked his cock for me and checked me out over the top of the marble partition. I opened his stall door, got on my knees, and sucked his fat cock for him. He grunted in appreciation, and riffled his fingers through my hair. All I could think at the time was Damn, a frat president likes me being his cocksucker! So when the guy yanked my face off of his dick, tilted my head back, and asked if I wanted to take a drive with him, of course I said yes.

He took me out to his truck and drove me down Jamestown Road in the direction of the lake that lay at the back of the campus. Decades before, the drama department had put on a historical pageant for tourists every summer at an amphitheater by the lakeside. Goldie Hawn had been in it—Linda Lavin, too. The pageant was long-gone, but the amphitheater was still there, overgrown and disused. The guy stopped his truck, led me to one of the old dressing rooms, yanked down my pants, and bent me over. Then he used spit to lube up his cock and he shoved himself in me.

The fuck was hot. I had a lot of fucking in college and I remember this one better than just about any of the others. It wasn’t romantic, or particularly passionate, but in sheer animalistic sex it was tops. The frat boy grabbed my hips and let me fucking have it. There were dressing room mirrors on the floor that reflected our copulation twice, four times, eight times, dozens of times over. As I braced myself against an old dressing table and let my head hang while he banged me like I was a bitch in heat, I could see our images over and over, in every direction.

After he shot his load in me, he knelt down and helped me draw up my pants. Then he indicated I should follow him back to the truck, so he could drive me back to the campus center. He didn’t say a word to me on the drive back, but as we drove, he steered with his left hand and put his right on my knee, and held it there the entire time. I think it was this part of the encounter that made me remember it so vividly in the years after. I’d spent months feeling shunned and ignored and shunted to the margins by just about everyone, but here was a total (and handsome) stranger who not only found me suitable to fuck, but who made me feel human again simply by putting his hand on my leg.

I never saw him again. But I never forgot it.

Back to last week, and my bad mood. I turned on my computer and was looking through my college’s gay and lesbian alumni page, only to see the frat boy’s name there. He’d just joined the group. And I thought to myself, You know, one of the nicest things I could do today is to let this guy know he made a difference to me, one hot summer afternoon. It seemed as if the universe was wanting me to make that right, to settle that debt with thanks. So I did.

I wrote him and explained that we hadn’t been social in college, but that I’d been an admirer of his and that he’d given me one of the best afternoons of my life, and that even if he didn’t remember me, I owed him a great deal of thanks. I didn’t go into detail.

I was surprised when he wrote back. I’d expected the thanks to be another that went floating into a great unacknowledged void. I was a little surprised, though, when he instantly suggested that we’d perhaps met in the campus center restroom. I don’t think he recalled the incident at all, or me, when I described it to him in a follow-up note. But I was able to let him know that no matter what he thought about himself back in those college days, or no matter what had happened to him since, I remembered him with fondness and gratitude, and immeasurable affection.

God damn, he wrote back. You were worried I wouldn’t respond. But you made my day. He told me that I humbled him with how deeply our simple encounter affected me. Then he wondered how many people he and I—and everyone, really—affected without really ever knowing about it.

And you know, after that, my bad mood evaporated. How could it not?

I know so many people who never speak of their affection for someone; we should be telling them when they’re in our lives. We should cherish people and mark the moments of grace they provide with thanks and praise and gratitude. Instead, we let these important moments pass and vanish unremarked. Sometimes the universe drops opportunities in our path to rectify the situation months, years, or even decades later. You need to repay this debt, it tells us, and provides us the means and the happenstance to bring it to fruition.

We hang back and balk, though. Sometimes it’s from fear. Sometimes it’s from stupid pride. But our time on this earth is limited; we none of us have unlimited chances. Sometimes, without knowing, we have remarkably few left.

I don’t care what your mood is today. Tell someone—someone other than myself—what a tangible difference he or she has made in your life. Let someone from your past know how much he meant to you, and how glowingly you honor his memory. Apologize to the person you’ve forgiven and never let know; forgive the person who needs it. Reach out to someone who hasn’t heard from you in a long time, if ever.

Let people know they’ve made a difference.

Make your time here worthwhile.

Monday, May 27, 2013

Mr. B______, Part 2

“I’m worried,” he tells me. His blue eyes are guileless. When he makes the admission, he sucks on his lower lip.

I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot.

I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?”

“I don’t want to turn you off,” he says.

“You’re not going to turn me off.”

“What if I do something wrong?”

“What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.”

I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?”

“Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?”

He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us.

We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.”

He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?”

Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod.

“Do you want your first time to be with me, still?”

His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?”

I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.”

When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?”

“All right,” he says.

When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried.

“If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask.

“Okay,” he says, very softly.

Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.”

He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before.

At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure.

“You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.”

“Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear.

“Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?”

The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in.

He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself.

I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.”

My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out.

“Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.”

He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world.

Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?”

“Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.

I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too.

After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering.

Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Mr. B______, Part 1

All over his body, his skin is taut. When I drop the ball of a finger on the flat planes of his stomach, his chest, his thigh, I expect to hear a hollow resounding, like a drum. What sparse hair there is around his cock is fluffy and untrimmed. It’s as fair as the messy curls on his head. A narrow trail of it leads to his navel, where it vanishes.

When he raises his legs for me, they’re trembling. His neck strains as he holds up his head and looks me square in the eyes. I recognize the expression on his face. It’s half dick-lust, pure craving and need. It’s half fear. My cock head is wet, shining, and engorged as it nudges against his hole. I let it sniff there like an animal, let it prod apart the sweet lips on the kid’s hole. Already there’s a connection between us. Strands, thick and glistening, of my precum mixed with the lube I’ve already thrust inside there, stretch and droop from my slit to his hole.

His own dick is shaped like a scythe—curved more than the average meat, from base to crown. His hand is wrapped around it, squeezing it until the head is red to bursting. I swat away his hand. I don’t want him shooting too soon. He obeys my unspoken command and puts his hands over his head. His brows knit into expectation. He wants me, I can tell. He wants me badly.

“Why me?” I’m moved to ask. This kid could have anyone.

I can tell he’s been afraid to open his mouth, fearful it would all come spilling out if he did. At my question, his expression softens. His dick lurches. Because of its curve, instead of pointing into the air, it arcs and targets his navel instead. “You want me to list why? You’re unbearably handsome,” he says. “Your smile makes me melt. This is right. You’re right.” He swallows, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Fuck me.”

I hesitate. I rarely feel handsome, but his praise makes me glow. My dick swells to proportions even larger than normal. I let the tip wallow in the softness of his outer lips for a moment more. Then I shove. His head snaps back. His back arches. I’m in, and driving home.

Earlier in the year I volunteered some time and some mentoring at the local high school. The amount of raw talent in the area guarantees that the kids in the drama department there put on shows like no other—and the shows are huge, too. This particular one had a cast of over fifty, a number that required some extra adult supervision and participation in the wings. So there I was, among the other parents and volunteers, shoving props in kids’ hands so they could make it onto the stage in time. It was a thankless job, but not without its moments. I confess I had a mild crush on one of the show’s leads, a senior with a lithe waist and a solid chest and ass for days who would regularly race backstage, strip shirtless, and make a sweaty costume change right next to me.

He was dreamy. The night he rested one of his meaty paws on my shoulder for balance, I went home and wrote his name with little hearts and arrows all over my fifth period Trapper Keeper.

About a month after the show was over, I was logged onto Manhunt when I got a message from a nearly-blank profile. I checked it out before opening the email. You know the kind. It’s a vast blue expanse of nothing, with a meaningless tagline like Anyone for fun???, a buttload of Ask mes instead of stats, and a default silhouette instead of a photo. About the only concrete details that I could glean were that the guy said he was 20, and that he was in my immediate area. Still, I’m pretty explicit in my profiles that I don’t reply to faceless, data-less profiles. I was ready to trash it unscanned when I opened it by accident and saw that the message inside read, Are you Mr. B_____? Only instead of the blank was my actual last name.

Intrigued, I wrote back. It turned out that the profile’s owner was an 18-year-old senior from the high school. He’d been in the production I’d worked, he told me, and he’d recognized me immediately from my thumbnails. My heart pounded a little bit when he offered to send me photos. Was he going to turn out to be the lead I’d found so dreamy?

He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t recognize him at all, though I made out as if I remembered him among the faces in the dim backstage.

But the texted photos and videos I received from the kid were fucking adorable in their own right—he was a golden-haired, chin-dimpled young scamp with big blue eyes, a snubbed nose, the faintest traces of freckles on his apple cheeks. Out of the baggy costumes they’d worn on the stage, and lying on his own bed naked in the photos and videos he sent me, his body was fucking amazing: lean-waisted, muscled, and breathtaking.

And now, here he is on my my shaft, with my cock inside him for the first time. His eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the pleasure of what he was feeling, I can’t tell. His curved rod is still rock-hard, though. He can’t be in that much pain. I pause and watch his naked chest rise and fall as he pants heavily. Its center is covered with wisps of golden fur. “Do you want more?” I ask softly. “Do you want it all?’

His eyes flick up to me. They’re glistening with moisture. He nods, slightly at first, then more affirmatively. When I push the remaining inches in, he sucks in air with his lips pursed, as if through an invisible straw.

This isn’t his first fuck. He’s told me that. Some other man had him as a fuck toy for a few times over the course of a year. What I am is the first man he’s ever asked to fuck him. The first one he’s picked.

There’s a difference between letting someone inside you after they’ve put the moves on you, and choosing your own top for the first time. I recognize and honor that fact. I’ll make this special for him. He’ll remember it.

He stirs when I’m all the way inside. He raises his arms helplessly, his fists half-curled. He blinks slowly, and lifts his hips. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. He looks as if he’s waking up from a deep sleep; what he’s really wakening to is discovering how he’s supposed to be opened. He hasn’t experienced such strong and compelling sensations with a cock inside him before. I can tell. I always can.

“You all right?” I ask him.

When he looks at me again, his eyes are puddled with tears. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he says, confirming my suspicions. I nod, very slowly. I’m sliding in and out. I’ve used plenty of lube in the anticipation of him being extra-tight, but I didn’t need to. He’s relaxing around me moment by moment. “It wasn’t like this before.”

“You like it, right?” He nods vigorously. “If it doesn’t feel like this, the guy’s not doing it right.” I look down at him. My palms are planted on either side of his armpits. My hips have taken over. There’s a motor inside them that keeps them pistoning in and out, but the rest of me is very, very still. “Didn’t your other man take the time to make you feel good?”

He shakes his head, almost as if he’s afraid to betray the guy.

His lips have parted. He gazes up at me, half in rapture, half oblivious to anything save for the sensations my cock’s head makes as it rakes back against his insides. “Didn’t he give you as much pleasure as you gave him?” I ask.

Again, there’s hesitation. Whether it’s with his senses in an attempt to speak, or whether it’s with his inner decency against badmouthing a former trick, there’s a battle going on. “No,” he says at last. “Not like you.”

His little legs are hairy. I grab onto his ankles and drive all the way in. His head lolls. He groans. I can feel my cock head nudging his prostate; it dents the upper side when I get to the base. He’s not having the usual struggles of the near-beginner. His fingers reach down to claw at his little bubble butt, to pull apart the cheeks to give me greater access. He’s adjusting the way his shoulders rest on the pillows in order to push his hips up even higher. Experienced he isn’t, but his body is telling him exactly what to do in order to increase his own pleasure. He’s obeying every dictate.

“Please don’t stop fucking me, Mr. B______,” he whispers.

Fuck. The formality of my address swells my meat. It’s enraged, now. Like a drunken brute on a Saturday night, it’s angry and looking to punish. I turn him over. He looks back over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. The look changes to fear at the size when I drive in, then astonishment at the sensations. Then he’s back to being the horny little shit he is, lifting his hips to take more cock than he’s ever had in his life.

I’m gyrating my hips, grinding even more deeply into him. “Oh shit,” he says. His voice is astonished. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Mr. B______.” Again he’s prying apart his cheeks for me. I push his face down into the pillows and hold him down as I start power-fucking his little hole. “This is . . . I’m . . . I want. . . .”

He can’t talk. It doesn’t matter. I hear him slurp the drool that’s running out of his mouth. He can barely control that, either. “Tell me what you want, son,” I order.

“All I’ve ever wanted . . . your dick . . . Mr. B______,” he manages to huff out. “I always want it like this. Do you want to cum in me?”

“You know I do, boy,” I tell him.

“Then cum in me,” he says. I’m pounding the air from his lungs—I can barely hear what he says. But I know an invitation when I hear one. “Please. Just cum in me. Please. Cum in my butt. Please,” he begs.

He’s still drooling. Tears are running from his eyes, and he’s trying to sniff back against his runny nose. He’s already leaking from every orifice. Soon there’ll be one more.

When the fingers he’s been using to pull apart his cheeks stroke my nuts, I lose it. I let out a mighty roar and start spraying his insides with my load. On and on the orgasm rages, taking me to a place where all I see is black and red as I continue to hose him out with what feels like impossible amounts of semen. By instinct he’s clutching onto my hips. He refuses to let me go, awkward as it is for him. “Don’t pull out,” he begs, when I subside.

“I won’t, son,” I assure him. We turn together, still connected, until we’re lying on our right sides. When I let my hand graze his cock, it’s still rock hard, and still slick with his own wetness. His hand reaches to clutch it. “No,” I tell him, tugging it away by the wrist. “Not that way.”

He doesn’t protest. He’s too weak to put up a fuss. We lie there, panting and returning to our senses, until he speaks a few moments later. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel good for the bottom dude too.” I say nothing. “I thought the bottom dude was just supposed to wait for it to be over, kind of.”

“Not if it’s done right,” I say in his ear.

We lie there in the half-twilight. He shivers when the passage of my hand draws gooseflesh. “Mr. B______?” he asks.

“You don’t have to call me that,” I say, trying not to laugh too audibly. “I told you my first name.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I can almost feel the blush of embarrassment spread over his skin. “I guess I’m just used to it.”

“It’s okay,” I say, brushing away the hair from his forehead. “Truth be told, I actually kind of like it when you call me Mr. B______.”

He waits a moment to ask his question. “I don’t bug you when I text you or send you pics and vids and stuff, do I?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. I love your pics.”

“How about when I ask you questions about stuff guys do?”

I shake my head again. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“So. . . .” I’m not sure in which direction he’s heading with the questions. “Can we do . . . it’s okay if you don’t want to . . . everything we talked about? When I sent you pics?”

Oh. That. My dick starts to stir again. “Oh yes, son,” I tell him. I don’t want to pull out, don’t want to disturb this perfect peace we’re sharing. I regret having to slide out of his ass, but I want to look at him, face to face. My load spills out, after I withdraw my dick. The mess is my last concern, though. I turn him over so he faces me, and stare into those blue eyes. “We’ll do it all. Right now.”

And the look of gratitude he gives me as he melts into my hug makes having pulled out worth it.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Sunday Morning Questions: Back in the Saddle Edition

When I took my unannounced hiatus a couple of months ago, in large part it was because of a sense of being betrayed personally. I’d had someone cull information about my personal life and attempt to use it against me. The immediate result was to not only to cause me to shut down writing about myself for a while, but to be wary about sharing anything more than I really had to.

That’s why I’ve not done any Sunday Morning Question answering for a while. I’ve had a lot of readers write to tell me they’ve missed the feature—and to be honest, I’ve missed having the opportunity to answer questions that lie outside the scope of what I normally write about for my entries.

So starting today I’m trying to ease back into the old routine. I can’t promise it’ll be weekly at the start, but at the very least it should signal that I’m feeling less beleaguered.

Of course, you can help by submitting some of your own questions to my page. The service is still up and running; there was some noise that it was shutting down, but it’s now under new management. Just follow the link above to my page there and ask your question, anonymously or un-. I’ll answer anything that hasn’t been asked about a dozen times before, or that doesn’t invade what personal space I have left.

Let’s get to the questions!

As a top with experience, what advice would you give to someone who wants to get fisted?

As a top with over 25 years of fisting experience, I can recommend a couple of things. Some of my other readers (with more experience on the receiving end) could probably chime in, too.

1. Choose your fisting top carefully. I'm not saying he should be me—though that would be fun!—but make sure it's someone who's going to respect the fact you're a novice and who isn't going to expecting to be punching his fist deep into your gut the moment he's Criscoed up. Being fisted can be an intimate and even loving experience, but it can also being extremely invasive and scary if you don't pick someone who's sensitive to your needs.

At the same time, you want to choose someone who's not going to so over-sensitive that he doesn't give you what you ultimately want. Finding someone who'll back off a little when you need, and yet who will keep pushing your boundaries may be a challenge, but it'll be worth the effort.

2. Manage your own expectations and preconceptions about fisting. You are very likely not going to walk into a guy's play space as a first-timer and end up with his arm inside you all the way to the elbow. You might have seen it happen in a porn video, but you are probably not a porn actor. (A couple of you are.) You might not even get fisted completely (and by completely, I mean at least past the knuckles and down to the wrist) the first time, or the second time, or the third time. When I've worked with fisting novices, we've usually had the best success when we've taken it slowly and in multiple sessions. But we did have success.

3. Clean out. Make sure you clean yourself out thoroughly. Then clean yourself out some more. Even if your top is using rubber gloves, nothing is stinkier than pulling a hand out of a man and having it covered with poop.

Just sayin'.

Since I've started hooking up with guys, it's opened the sexual floodgates and sex with the wife is back to being as good as when we were newlyweds. Q1: Does your mansex enhance sex at home? Q2: Do I have to "come out" to her about my extracurriculars?

I'm not surprised that you find your sex life has blossomed at home now that you've been hooking up outside of the relationship. Good sex has a tendency to beget more good sex. You're probably feeling more desirable, and you're less tense and more happy. The wife is picking up on those things. It's a positive feedback loop. Keep it up.

Now, for your questions.

1. Focusing on being a good lover helps me bring the best experiences to all my partners—at home or elsewhere.

2. This is a question that I can't really answer for you, since I don't know your situation, and I don't know you. No, you don't have to tell your wife you're fucking elsewhere. If you choose not to, however, you're going to have to live with that decision for a long time to come, and it could have extremely negative consequences if you're not good at covering up your tracks, or wrestling with your conscience.

There are relationships, however, that are strong enough that the partners can be open with each other. That is, they can be as honest with each other about wanting and having extra-marital relationships. Honest and open relationships do exist. They take work and talk and kindness and extra effort to pull off. If you want one of these relationships with your wife, you’ll have to address it with her and work out the ground rules first. She may want to know about your affairs, and may even take pride in them and share in your happiness for having them. Or she may be all right with you having your fun in the theoretical sense, while not wanting to hear the details. Only you two can determine which of those options—or some other compromise—it will be.

I think the thing to take away is that your relationship is your relationship. It is whatever you and your wife make it. You don't have to follow a marriage template that you've seen in other couples, or in your parents, or on television. Your marriage is not on a fixed set of tracks beyond your control, like a roller-coaster. It is your marriage. You are helping to steer it. You are half of it, and it is something you can assist in controlling and directing.

So you decide what kind of marriage it's going to be.

As a kid did you ever run away from home & if you did for how long & how long before your parents became worried?

No, I never did, but I fantasized about it often enough.

My rebellion during the teenaged years came in my sexual misdeeds. A lot of the stuff that teenaged kids do to rebel wouldn't have phased my folks in the least. Loud rock music? They listened to that themselves, thanks. Swearing? My sibling's first word was 'shit,' because my parents said it so much. Smoking? My mom did that. Drinking? I tried alcohol and didn't like the taste.

So I fucked around like crazy, and at every opportunity, and inappropriately, and went home with a smile and sweetly did my homework and kept up the appearance of being a perfect child—because when you're a perfect child, you can get away with just about anything you want by flying under the radar.

I didn't need to run away from home. I was getting all the adventure and attention I needed at the end of strange men's dicks.

Have you been to the NYC bathhouses yet?

I have not.

Unless i'm mistaken, NYC has the West Side Club and the East Side Club, and I've heard mixed reviews about both. Someone specifically told me that I'd find them grungy—and while I expect that in a bathhouse to a certain extent, the implication was that I'd find it grungy in a way I'd be actively icked out the entire time I was there. So I've not been.

If someone wants to go along with me to either and show me otherwise, I'm open to invitations.

I don't mean this question in any offensive way, especially given how hot I find your sexual escapades, but aren't you in the slightest worried that your dangerous sexual behavior could lead you to contract AIDS/HIV and what that might mean for your kids?

Look. When you ask the question the way you did—that is, using inflammatory words like 'dangerous' and bringing up the specter of wailing children deprived of their daddy—let's not prevaricate. You're trying to go for the maximum amount of offense possible.

There are two explanations for why you'd frame the question this way.

1) You're butt-ignorant about the transmission of HIV, its treatment, and how it is by no means a swift and certain death sentence, or

2) You're using a 'think of the children!' approach not as persuasive argument—which it isn't—but as what you conceive as an emotional trump card that should reduce all counter-arguments to ash. As rhetoric, it's overblown and transparent.

The risks I take are my risks; I only take the risks with which I've made my peace. I do not advocate or suggest that you or anyone else follow in my footsteps. I have always told my readers that they should only take risks with which they are comfortable and on which they have educated themselves.

I've said this many times in this forum before as well: merely because one of the risks to which I expose myself is sexual in nature does not make it any worse, any more horrifying, or any more 'sinful' than the risks you take to your life on a daily basis—whether that is alcohol, drugs, exceeding the speed limit, living near an electrical sub-station, smoking, high-stress environments, or carrying extra pounds around your waist.

It's quite easy for you to shriek "think of the children!" about a sexually-transmitted virus, but all you're doing is perpetuating an unfortunate stigma that does a grave disservice to many men and women who are HIV-positive. You probably wouldn't whine it out to someone who was crossing the street while texting on his phone—though that behavior can be more immediately and equally deadly than any virus.

In the future I advise examining your own prejudices before asking such a question. You probably think you're well-meaning, but you're really what you profess not to be: offensive.

Friday, May 17, 2013

Open Forum Friday: That Manwhore!

One of the things I love about the area where I live is that no matter what the night, no matter what the hour, there’s always weird shit to do.

Weird is a relative term, of course. I’m not talking about dressing up in rubber and rolling around in butterscotch pudding with someone weird (though I probably could find it with a little hunting), or getting into a hot ’n’ nasty session of popping helium balloons in the nude weird (ditto). But at any given moment, there’s always something entertaining to do that I would never have found in the Midwest, or god knows the South. This calendar year alone I’ve stumbled into odd art gallery openings, movie and TV shoots, impromptu zombie appearances, a kimono fashion show, strange street theater, and a pair of Elmos going at each other with fists flying in Times Square.

Compared to all that, a night at something called Porno Bingo sounds pretty tame. And it actually was. I’ve been to many a Drag Queen Bingo night at some bar or another, all of them of varying quality. Porno Bingo is something of an institution here, though; it’s run by porn actor Will Clark, a handsome grizzly of a guy who keeps things moving through three games.

The porno, in case you’re wondering, is the prize for each winner. Porn is not actually playing during the game itself. And porno not something that takes place when Clark calls O-69. Although it does get a little porny when he starts flirting with me, which is something he’s done the couple of times I’ve been. (Did one of you guys show him a pic of my dick?)

Anyway. A couple of weeks ago I was at Porno Bingo with a handful of friends. It was between games, and during the break a Boylesque performer was sauntering around the bar wearing an awful lot of makeup and an outfit that looked like one of the Kit Kat Club dancers from the Alan Cumming Cabaret. And I mean the female Kit Kat Club dancers. I knew two of the other guys fairly well; the others crowding around our table were more mere acquaintances than anything else. We were drinking and commiserating over not winning any man-on-man DVDs at that point, and watching the Boylesque performer use a very sharp pair of hair shears to cut the elastic bands holding together his skimpy little outfit, when a fellow named Philip walked up.

I’d met Philip once before. Much as I dislike the word, I find it appropriate here—he’s a little bit of a hipster. Scruffy face, bad complexion, hair that looks like it just rolled out of bed independently of the head to which it was attached. He was wearing a hand-knitted scarf of Doctor Who proportions in Kelly green and dirty white, a pair of too-tight jeans, and a ironic T-shirt of some late-nineteen-eighties band. He was slightly sleazy looking, to be honest—not a bad look for someone who admires a little sleaze, like I do, but it wasn’t quite the well-groomed fashion of most of the guys in the bar.

Philip had come not to play bingo, and not to see the Boylesque performer who was down to nothing but his lederhosen and some spangles on his nipples, but to drop off a book to one of the other guys at my table. He was on his way to a party, he explained—and the party had a name, which I now can’t recall. It was something like Splashdown! or Hothouse! or Jetstream!—it definitely had an exclamation mark at the end, and I remember thinking during the moment that the party name sounded like some kind of porn distributor. But he wanted to stop in and drop off the book he’d promised his friend—and then, with a round of handshakes and hugs as appropriate, he was on his way.

“Splashdown!?” I asked (or Hothouse!, or Jetstream!, or whatever it was), once he was out of earshot. “Is that a party at a bar? Or like, a sex party?” Not an unreasonable question, as this city has a lot of regular, weekly sex parties, most of which have their own names for easy publicity.

One fellow that I didn’t know well leaned over and hissed, “I’m sure it’s an orgy, because that one is such a MANWHORE!

I stared at the guy, blinked, and thought to myself, Man, you really don’t know whom you’re talking to, do you?

I have no idea whether Philip is a manwhore or not. If he is, more power to him, from one manwhore to another. Solidarity, manwhorebro! But I did have my suspicions about why someone else was accusing him of marwhoreialism. “A bigger manwhore than me? Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Oh please. You, a manwhore? As for him, trust me on this one,” said the gossipy queen. “All you have to do is look at him.”

I left it alone after that, and thought to myself how dispiriting it was that someone would assume the guy was the town tramp, just because of looking at him.

When I was much younger, I considered myself afflicted by a wholesome demeanor. I had a sweet, innocent baby face that totally belied the depraved things I was doing for men in parks and restrooms city-side. I learned fairly quickly that no one wanted to corrupt what they assumed was my unsullied innocence until they actually saw me whip out my dick or unzip my pantsand get on my hands and knees. Then they were game. The experience taught me to be a sexual instigator, rather than someone who sits and waits. To this day I’ve used that wholesome, innocent look to get what I want. It’s tough for many guys to imagine that someone with my sweet smile can be as lowdown and dirty. Until they see the X-rated photos, that is.

In other words, I get away with so much simply because I look so innocent. It’s a quality I’ve learned to work to my advantage. I suspect a good four-fifths of what appeal I have is because on the surface I don’t really look like the kind of guy who’d do incredibly dirty stuff. But if I’d been born with hair that was more unruly, or eyes that were beadier, or a complexion that wasn’t as good, if my facial hair grew out in a way that was seedier or if I put myself together differently, maybe people I know would be (rightly) hissing the word manwhore about me, too.

Okay, perhaps I should assume that the people I know who know me well are already using that word to describe me. Maybe the people who’ve just seen me a few times would be hissing it, too.
It applies to sexual roles, too. I’ve known guys who’ve gone far in their sexual adventuring because they look like the strapping, take-charge tops that they really are, and I’ve known bottoms who exude a certain come-hither appeal that lets others know exactly what they want. At the same time, I’ve known quite a few bottoms who become frustrated because the looks with which they were born seem to give off a toppish, butch, or dominant message—they can’t hook up without the other guy trying to go ass-up for them. And I’ve known a couple of tops whom no one takes seriously because they seem so damned bottomy, even before they take off their clothes.

It’s not a new observation that we tend to project our own expectations and desires on others based on how they look. What I’m curious about, in today’s Open Forum, is how my readers have found their own looks affect the snap judgments others make of you.

Have you gotten away with debauched escapades all your life because of your rosy cheeks and winsome dimples? Are your friends whispering things about your sluttiness behind your back because of your louche appearance? Are they dismissing you because you look like the type of person who would never do anything extreme? Are you characterized as one thing when you’re really another? If so, is it something you’ve resented all your life, or have you learned how to capitalize on it?

Post your thoughts in the comments below, and let’s learn something from each other.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013


In early March, the Russian wanted to know why it was taking me so long to see him again. We’d traded fucks one passionate night right before Christmas, but for about two months I’d avoided making a follow-up date.

With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape.

I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull.

Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that.

One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe.

I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?)

So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud.

I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook.

“Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.”

Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything.

He fuckin’ knows it, too.

We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming.

He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust.

Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers.

“I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear.

“I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .”

What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.”

It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification.

“It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.”

He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?”

I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no.

He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure.

And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper.

He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me.

When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed.

It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him.

The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to.

I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself.

He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do.

By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again.

I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week.
But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy.

I think I’m ready for more now, though.