Friday Open Forum: Deal-Breakers

Deal-breakers. All of us have them. What’re yours?

Not that long ago I was going about my day when I got a direct message on Twitter. It was from a reader. He loved my blog, he told me. He thought I was hot. He wanted me to be his daddy and fuck his hot little ass.

Well, it’s tough for me to hold up against blandishments like that. I couldn’t tell much about the guy from his Twitter profile other than he did indeed appear to have a hot ass (it featured prominently as his user photo), so I asked him to tell me more about himself.

He responded with some photos and information. He was young—in his early twenties. Of mixed race. Muscular and attractive. His dick was large, his ass round and larger. And he happened to be taking a train from Manhattan home back to somewhere else in New England he happened to call home, and would be passing through my area around dinnertime.

I actually had that afternoon and evening free, and was able to host. I offered the kid my phone number and asked him what time his train was coming through my area. Well look, he replied. I can’t commit right now. It depends on whether these muscle guys get back to me or not.

Which made me ask him, Huh?

I was going to hook up these muscle guys if they get back to me. But if they don’t I am totally free to chill with you, he wrote back.

I took a moment to make sure I understood the situation. So I’m really just second choice behind some muscle couple? I wrote.

No, no, he wrote back, trying to soothe me. They’re not a couple. Just two hot muscle guys. Not together. I’ve been after one of them for a long time, but I told the other if the first didn’t get back to me I’d fuck with him. If I don’t hear back from either of them it can be you, daddy. Followed by little smiley faces.

I was so taken aback I could’ve spit nails. The little motherfucker was telling me outright that I wasn’t his first or second choice of hookups, but a distant third, behind some random guys with muscles.

Now, for some guys, this state of affairs might be fine. Some guys are more laid back than I. Some chaps don’t have as huge an ego to wound. I, however, was offended. After I made sure that I’d assessed the situation correctly, I wrote back to the kid plainly and politely. I’m going to say no to meeting, I told him. I’m not interested in being your third choice. Good luck to you.

Unfortunately, the kid tried to badger me for the rest of the day. He said he’d tell the other two guys no and meet up with me. He said he’d wanted me first all along, but had been afraid to ask. Then he turned right around and said I’d better meet him because after all, I wasn’t going to get any better offers than him. No thank you, I wrote, then blocked him on Twitter.

Also unfortunate was the fact I’d already given him my phone number. Immediately after that the text messages started to come. Pleas. Photos. Please stop contacting me, I texted him, and blocked the number on my phone.

Then somehow he started to send me messages on one of the geolocation apps on my phone. I blocked him there, too.

It was a lot of weirdness in a very short period of time, and it just made me kind of glad that I discovered how annoying and stalkery the kid really was before I’d actually met him. He’s unfortunately not unique, however. There are certainly a lot of men out there who need to realize the impression they’re giving when they’re trying to lure someone between the sheets.

The deal-breaker here, of course, was the presumption that I’d be okay with the bronze medallion in this guy’s sexual olympics. I wasn’t. Frankly, nobody should be happy to be anyone’s third place. Before I’m accused of hypocrisy, let me state that yes, absolutely, I have confessed on these very pages before to double-booking and even triple-booking a time slot I know I’ll have open and available for some sexual gymnastics, so that if my first choice of playmate doesn’t show, at least I’ll have a couple of other options from which to choose. Sure I do. Almost every time.

But you know what I don’t do? I don’t tell the guys. I don’t inform someone that I might be available Wednesday night and if so, would he like to get together, and oh, by the way, he’s the backup to my backup. Telling the guy is fucking rude. I’d basically be saying I’d be happy to give him the amazing gift of myself but that he doesn’t mean as much to me in return. When I’m fucking someone, my goal is make sure they know they’re my gold trophy. Not just something I’m dumping a load into because better options weren’t available.

So I’m interested. What are your deal-breakers? What can a guy say or do, after he’s interested you in meeting, to make you break off the deal? Is it issues of common courtesy, as mine? Or is it more specific, like finding out a guy’s a smoker, or married, or hasn’t visited the dentist in ten years? What behaviors or attributes will make you do a complete one-eighty in your attitude and send a prospect packing? Sound off in the comments below.

And for the record, I certainly did have better offers than that kid, that night. I usually do.

Beast

Were anyone to ask me, out of the blue, if I’m a selfish top, I’d be offended. Hell no, I’d reply. I’m a giving lover. I do everything I can to tailor the experience specifically for my partner. I want him to feel better than he’s felt in a long, long time. With a smile, I’d tell you I was anything but a selfish top.

It’s a fucking lie.

I’m a gentleman on the outside. True enough. But it’s often a front, a thin veneer of manners and words. I might appear to be wearing a smile, but it’s really a snarl of a carnivore exposing sharp teeth to his prey. I use the words to get my quarry right where I want him.

I might be a lot of things. But I am no gentleman.

Not tonight. Not with this hole. It doesn’t matter whose. Maybe he’s been in these pages before. Maybe not. Like I said, it doesn’t fucking matter. All I care about is that this hole is tight, and warm, and slick with the lube I’m shoving deep inside with my index and middle fingers. That’s all he is to me at this moment, in the half-darkness.

He’s thrashing around on the mattress like a netted fish on a trawler’s deck. Maybe he’s protesting how rough I am. You know what? Whatever he’s saying doesn’t fucking matter, either. I can’t hear it. Not above the pounding of my heart. My blood’s a heavy slurry being forced through my veins with every percussive beat. I can’t hear anything but the quickening of my pulse and the greedy slaverings of the beast inside the thin layer of civility. Fuck it, it chortles to me. Fuck that hole.

Maybe that hole is ready. Maybe it’s actually presenting itself, high in the air, taunting me with its moist throbbing. Inviting me to take it, even. Maybe it’s not. Doesn’t matter. I would’ve taken it anyway. Ready or not, I would’ve pressed my engorged meat against that little pucker and shoved in, waiting for the head to pop through that taut outer ring before plunging in deep. I would’ve sunk in to the hilt just like now, then sadistically forced it in a little more and made it swell, just to get the same reaction of shock, just to get that moment’s apprehension that there’s still more to come.

A gentleman doesn’t does that. A gentleman doesn’t treat his fuck like so much warm meat. He doesn’t press his lips together and furrow his brow and ignore the soft affirmations and thanks coming from the hole’s lips. He would respond to the thank-yous and the praise instead of disregarding them as noise—the mere buzz of a fly as it wings by the ears. Listening and responding to his partner—that’s what a considerate man would do.

But all I’m considering is how good the hole feels wrapped around the meat. My meat. My pleasure. How deep I can get it. How much of a grunt I can get when I shove it in again, hard. At this moment, about courtesy I don’t give a shit.

Gentleman—fuck that. This is how an animal fucks. Not even an animal. A beast. Domesticated animals actually listen when they’re chided or encouraged. Dog have the decency to look guilty when scolded. A beast roars, and takes, and uses. A beast doesn’t know what decency is. To me this quivering flesh doesn’t even belong to a person. It’s a hole. It’s a hole meant to be fucked and filled.

And I’ll be god-damned if anyone else but me does the filling tonight.

I’ve got my prey pinned down. Helpless. Submissive beneath my relentless thrusts. The dick feels good. Looks good. Feels juicy, as I shove it brutally in and out. I’ve got the chute loose and ready for my load. Those cunt lips are split open, stretched wide and pulled out. Puffy from fucking. Just as it should be. I’m wrecking that hole. Spreading it to fit my massive meat. Ruining it for smaller dicks—ruining it for fucking gentlemen. This is not a gentle fuck. It’s a ramming, a complete and utter violation. As I mash my rigid cock deeper, deeper, and deeper still, I’m only dimly aware that my fuckmeat has released a load of semen in a puddle on the mattress.

Oh, the hole has a dick? Huh. I guess it’s there, pointed down at his feet, untouched, unused, dripping semen. Don't care. My load is the only thing I'm fucking concerned about. Getting it in deep. Leaving my mark. Making sure it never, ever comes out. I shove in with a savage thrust and start squirting my juice. My sight dims from the strength of the climax. This is what it’s all about, this moment when my DNA floods his guts. The beast inside me roars. It stands and lifts its head to the heavens and beats its chest as it lets loose with a mighty blast that silences the jungle. For a moment, it is satisfied.

Then I start to come to. The tattoo of rainforest drums is only my heartbeat. The roar that echoes in my ears still is only my blood draining from my dick back to my brain. And beneath me, the hole is murmuring to himself. “Oh my god. Oh my god. I loved it.”

Of course he fucking loved it, the beast smirks, as he retreats into the shadows to hide beneath the veneer of civility again. He got it from ME.

Me. My dick. My load. The hole belongs to me now.

Yeah, tonight I’m a selfish top. And you know what? I just don’t give a fuck.

A Quick Note About . . .

. . . a certain contest.

A winner for the Cum Sock Contest has been declared! The winner has been notified by email and has dutifully sent me his home address. Now I can drop one last load into what is already a crusty length of cotton, seal it up in a plastic baggie, and send it his way.

Everyone congratulate SlurpATL for winning the lucky draw! Maybe he'll be good enough to share what he intends to do with the thing.

Check back here for a new blog entry tomorrow!

The Birthday Gangbang 4: Terry

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Anniversary and a Contest

During the last couple of weeks that I was moving house, I managed to miss a milestone that’s usually pretty important to me—the fourth anniversary of my blog. (And the 750th installment, too!)
I’m not going to recap my motivations for starting this account of my sex life. I’ve talked about those before. What I’d like to address, briefly, is the primary reason I keep doing it.

It seems to me that when people engage in dialogue about sex, the conversation takes place either in the hushed tones of the forbidden, or the loud shrieks of the outraged. There’s a lot of allure to both extremes, admittedly—it’s fun to wear either the scarlet hues of the slut and the pure white robes of the saint. So wherever I turn, there’s always a lot of talk about sexual behavior that borders on the fantastical. It’s either extreme and pornographic to an extent that one wonders whether any of the acts within could actually take place, physiologically . . . or it’s so shrill in its denial that humans of all ages engage in sexual behavior and desire sex that it’s equally as dubious.

Simply put, there’s not an awful lot of honest talk out there about people’s real sex lives. So few people share anything genuine. People hide away their desires and indulge in them only in fantasy, and even then feel morbid guilt afterward. Men and women alike engage in furtive encounters and hope they’re erased from time and memory even before the body warmth has faded from the sheets. Meek little mice in real life engage in braggadocio on the internet, hoping to get a slice of the action they’ve always craved, while brazen sluts whore under cover of dark and hope they’re never discovered.

I’m perfectly aware that people assume because I have a lot of sex in a lot of unusual circumstances, that what I write in my blog is fiction. It isn’t. I keep myself honest when I write here. I think it’s important for people to realize that one doesn’t have to be compartmentalized and secretive about sex. I think it’s important for people to know that sometimes sex is more than just one body part spurting excretions into another body part, and that there are actual, genuine human beings involved. That sometimes those human beings bring their hearts and hopes and disappointments and joys into the bed with them.

And of course, sometimes sex can be nothing but sheer heat, hard body parts, and slick skin. That’s okay too.

2013 was rough for me in a number of ways—stalkers and a patch of poor health discouraged me from writing during a few months of the year. There are still days, I admit, when I’ll get a rash of hate mail or death threats and wonder what the use of it all might be. But I keep stubbornly plugging along because I think what I do is important.

Important in a very very small way, of course. A bee pollenates only one flower at a time, though—but think of all the blooms it makes possible later in a season. I like to think of myself as one of those little invisible bees, doing little bits of good with my work.

In the past I’ve celebrated my anniversaries with contests. So let’s have another one! While I was packing up earlier last month, I ran across a favorite pair of old socks that I used to love. I can’t really say why I liked them so much other than that the tops of them looked good sticking up over a pair of leather boots when I was naked and fucking. (Isn’t that enough?)

Anyway, they were old and worn out and unsuitable for wear anymore, but I put them aside. During the month of February, I used one as my exclusive cum rag. I wiped up my semen with it when I masturbated. I wiped up the Runt’s sperm with it when he’d shoot his loads all over the place. I mopped up with it the semen of a couple of other guys who came on their bellies when I fucked them. But mostly it’s my sperm that’s made it crusty.

And as I did once before with some underwear in probably my most popular contest, I’m giving away this glorious cum-soaked footwear to another lucky winner!

Here’s what you do to enter.

1. Write a comment on this entry before the deadline. It doesn’t have to be elaborate. Even ‘Enter me!’ will do. But most important of all, GIVE ME A NAME so that I can announce who won, later on. It doesn’t have to be your real name. It can be a made-up handle. You don’t have to use a Google account to comment . . . you may still do so anonymously as long you identify yourself with a name of some sort. (And if your name is common, make it a little less so with an initial or something, wouldya?)

2. Alternately, if you are absolutely adverse to commenting on this entry, send me an email telling me you want to enter the contest, before the deadline. But again, GIVE ME A NAME so that when I announce the winner here, you can respond.

3. BE PREPARED TO SHARE YOUR MAILING ADDRESS WITH ME LATER. LATER, I TELL YOU. This is vital. I can’t email you this DNA-soaked sock if you don’t give me your mailing address. If you don’t feel you can trust me with your mailing address . . . well, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not going to send seventy-five pizzas to your house or anything.

4. And again, DON’T SHARE YOUR ADDRESS RIGHT AWAY. I will announce a winner and then give that winner a few days to respond with his or her address at that point.

5. I’ll take entries until MIDNIGHT, MARCH 17. That’s Monday. St. Patrick’s Day. Enter by then if ye want t’ be after me lucky charms.

If you do win, I thoroughly encourage you to tell me (or send me photographs!) of what you’ll be doing with my cast-off cum rag. Such a course of action is not, however, required.

(And if your answer is “I’ll be washing that nasty thing in Lysol, thank you very much,” I know you’re my grandmother on my mother’s side.)

Enter today! What’re you waiting for? Do it now!

Sunday Morning Questions: Movin' On Up Edition

My readers might have noticed that I’ve not been online much in the last week. I apologize for that. No, nothing to worry about. My health is fine, and I don’t have any stalkers making my life miserable again. I’ve merely been moving into my home.

Most of you guys who’ve been on this ride with me for a while know that when I moved to the east coast three years ago, it was into an apartment meant to be temporary. I ended up staying in it a little longer than the three or four months I expected. Now that I’m finally in place more permanently, I’m having to haul everything that’s been in storage for the duration and find a place for it. It’s a grubby process, made more mystifying by locating numerous items that I’m not even sure I knew I had. There are some huge decorative bowls, for example, which we all gazed upon blankly with absolutely no recollection of whose they might be or where they came from. (Last-minute moving gift? Surprise Christmas gift one of us forgot to give the other, then just plain forgot? Stolen from the neighbors?)

I was very happy to find, on the other hand, a box of sex toys and accessories that I’d squirreled away four years ago when I put my old house up for sale. I remember making the cache when I considered all the prospective buyers walking through the house and poking into my bedside drawers. So I took a couple of cock rings I used regularly and a bottle of lube and kept those accessible. Laughingly, I expected to sell the house within a couple of months and assumed I’d be in a more permanent place a few months after that. But the rest of the sex toys I put into a box, taped it up, and hid it away from prying eyes.

The problem was that when I arrived in my new location, I’d forgotten exactly what that box looked like, where I’d tucked it away, and how I’d labeled it. I’d made several excursions to the storage locker to try to find the thing, but they’d all been fruitless. I was about to give up the notion that I had a secret cache of sex toys hidden away somewhere as a mirage when something triggered my memory this week, and I investigated an old trunk that was my mom’s—a present from her parents when she went away to college. It had been at the back of the storage unit, taped up and dusty, and held a rug, a trumpet mute (another of those mystery items, since no one in my family plays trumpet), the stuffed teddybear that was my present for my first birthday, and a shoebox made impenetrable by multiple layers of tape (and helpfully marked ‘Shoes’).

When I cracked open the shoebox, all sorts of things tumbled out. A half-dozen cock rings of various sizes and materials. Four bottles of lube. One Fleshlight. Two butt plugs, one teeny-tiny, one long. Two sets of snake bite nipple suckers. One pair of nipple clamps with a metal chain. One enormous double-headed dildo.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing better than finding your sex toys after they’ve been gone for years. It’s like a pervert’s Christmas morning!

So please forgive me if I take a few more days finally to settle in. I promise I’ll be back with more stories of fucking in the near future. Until then I’ll just be unpacking pounds and pounds of dusty books and shoes, and putting that Fleshlight to good use.


Let’s get to some reader questions. Today I’m attending to some questions written directly to my email box. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, just hit me up at the address in my sidebar. Put the word ‘Question’ in the subject line, just to help a geezer of my advanced age sort out the wheat from the chaff, would you?

What size bed to you sleep/play in at home (usually)?

Growing up, I slept in a creaky old single bed that had belonged, box springs and dusty mattress and all, to my father when he had been a kid. It was fine. I didn’t know any better. I graduated to a new twin mattress and springs when I started high school. That’s the bed I still sleep in when I visit my dad, these days. In college and grad school, I always had a twin-sized mattress. I already had the sheets for it, after all.

I’ve always been way too tall for a twin bed, though; my feet dangle off the bottom. So when I finally got hitched and moved into a home of my own, I discovered the luxury of a queen-sized bed. Oh, I loved it. I could stretch out and not have to compromise by letting limbs hang off the bed’s edge. If I was on my own, I could even spread my legs wide apart (get your mind out of the gutter!) and still not touch the corners.

Even though I secretly envy those with a king, these days I still sleep on a queen—a memory foam mattress on a wood platform bed, to be exact. Best bed I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve had less insomnia and less tossing and turning on the memory foam than any other bed, anywhere else. The queen-sized bed seems a little smaller these days than it used to, but I suspect that’s because usually I have one cat parked between my ankles all night, and other shoving her butt in my face as I sleep.


Do you end up doing lots of laundry then, to keep fresh sheets and towels handy?

The only kind of laundry I don’t mind doing is sheets and towels. They’re a breeze. They don’t require sorting or hanging up. Just wash them, dry them, fold them, and you’re done. I never really mastered that technique people use to fold fitted sheets, though.

I know this admission is going to make a dozen readers write in and tell me how easy it is to fold fitted sheets and how even a child can do it and there are videos and YouTube that’ll show me how easy it is. I know that there are six-year-olds who can best me at fitted sheet folding. I’ve seen the videos. All I know is that when I attempt to replicate this ‘easy’ technique, I end up with what looks like a dead body wrapped up for dumping in the East River.

If you’re wondering specifically how I keep the bed clean for fucking, I usually put a spare blanket atop the (queen-sized) bed that I and my partners fuck on. Then afterwards I’ll just pop it into the laundry. It has square corners that I can fold as well as any kindergartener.


Do you get the chance to sleep (overnight) with any of your partners, or does that take a whole other level of planning?

It happens, but it’s rare.

I probably could count on two hands the number of men with whom I’ve had overnighters in the last twenty years, and even then I’d suspect I’d have a lot of fingers left over. It’s not something I do casually, because it involves a lot of fortunate timing and planning on my part; I tend to have my sexual encounters in the daytime or early evenings instead of during the usual sleeping hours. I’ve also done sleep-overs when I’m traveling.

I think the last person with whom I slept over a lot was Spencer—and he basically was living with me and sleeping in my bed for the better part of a year.

Also, I really don’t get asked to sleep over, that much. Even though I’d probably have to say no, I’d be honored to be asked.