Sunday, June 22, 2014

Sunday Morning Questions: Mental Vacation Edition

My line of work involves long stretches of seeming inactivity during which I’m supposed to be generating my artistic output (though if you ever catch me swanning around in public like a total poseur talking about “my artistic output”, please feel free to slap me), punctuated by frantic activity around the times I’m either pulling up to a big deadline or actively gunning for a new commission. Since April I’ve been dealing with both a deadline and trying to land a new gig; it’s my career version of one of those special eclipses involving a conjunction of events that comes around every seventy-eight years. The result, sadly, has been that I haven’t had the leisure to devote much time to my blog. Or, more sadly, my blog readers.

I apologize for that. I’m here to thank all of you for your patience with me . . . well, most of you. The ones that have been patient, anyway. I’m also here to request you all hang in with me a little bit longer, because I intend to take a break for two to three weeks.

Part of that time I’ll be spending on an actual, honest-to-god, getting-the-hell-out-of-Dodge vacation that I haven’t had for a year or more. The rest of it I’ll just be spending decompressing, spending time with the family, and letting my brain vegetate without the pressure of a deadline or a duty to perform. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll even be able to get around to the backlog of email that’s accumulated in the last couple of months.

In the meantime, let’s get to some reader questions.


What's the worst lie you ever told? Did you get caught?

I've told a lot of lies in my life. I think I wrote a blog post once about dozens of lies I've told to get sex.

I'm at a stage of my life now, however, where generally I like living as authentic a life as possible—plus lying is so exhausting. Keeping track of the fake name. Trying to remember how a famous astronaut would talk. Very wearying.

I think the worst lies I've told are those deliberately intended to wall me off from intimacy with perfectly nice guys. When I've determined that someone new I'm meeting will be just a one-time trick, and I've given him a false name or some reason why I'm not available to meet him more frequently than he wants, I tend to feel badly when he turns out to be a good person I'd like to know better.

The worst lies aren't those about trivial things, but those that keep you from fully experiencing the world and other people.


I've started hooking up with guys on the side. To my surprise, it's increased me desire at home and I'm fucking my wife like when we were newlyweds. Q1: Does this seem odd to you? Q2: Do I have to "come out" about it, or just let her enjoy the perks?

The increased desire might surprise you, but it doesn't surprise me—nor would it surprise a lot of men and women who are in relationships yet play with others. So no, it's not odd at all.

It's easy to fall into a rut at home. Daily living takes a toll on the sexiness of two people, no matter how blazing hot the heat was during their courtship. Your wife (or, for other folk, husband) has seen you slurp cereal out of a bowl without using a spoon. She's seen you scratch your gonads and pick your nose when you thought she wasn't looking...or when you didn't care if she was. She's seen you pee and poop and has listened and smelled your farts. She knows the stains you leave on your dirty laundry. Every little act of familiarity, no matter how comfortable it is, chips away at that fa├žade of flawlessness and sexual desirability we present to another person before moving in with him or her. I don't care who you are. If you don't pay take exquisite care, your sexiness level is going to drop.

But when you start playing with others, you start paying attention again. You shave more carefully. You groom other parts of your body. You dress better in the morning knowing you're going to see your new buddy at lunchtime or in the evening. Then you come home after a hot session where you've had hot sex and attention and compliments lavished on you, feeling infinitely younger and more seductive and more handsome than when you left.

Of course that's going to pay off at home. If you're feeling sexier and looking better and roaring with erotic confidence, your wife's going to notice. You're going to want to spread it around and let her share in it. Unless the sex is totally dead between a couple, most people I know tell me they have much better sex at home when they're playing with others than when they aren't. And this goes for people who are in open relationships as well as those on the down-low.

Whether or not you tell your significant other about your fucking around is up to you; I'm not your scowling priest, nor am I the man who intends to enable your adultery. It's your life. Live it how you want.

I will say, however, that if you intend to keep your fucking a secret, don't be so foolish as to assume that it will never result in unintended consequences. Know what can happen to you, prepare for it, and If something adverse does happen, be prepare to deal with it.


hallo mr. i've just discovered my red-neck hubby reading your blog. i’m wondering if he's bi or gay,i had hot sex with bi guys in college, so wouldn't really have any problems however should i ask, or leave it to him? he was extremely upset when i saw what he

I'm kind of curious why you call your husband a redneck. It's not a very complimentary term even under the most generous of usages.

Unless your husband is a sociologist (who happens to be a redneck) or a psychologist studying human sexuality (who likes six-packs of cheap beer and hangs a Confederate flag in the rear window of his pickup truck), I'm guessing he's bi. If he's reading my blog, I'm deducing he has impeccable good taste.

If you've got no problems with it, good for you! Most men feel cornered when they're confronted with direct questions about their sexuality, however, especially when it's about activities they might not have known or expected to be observed; you might not want to tell him outright you saw him looking at my piquant prose.

You might broach the subject a couple of other ways, however. Tell him you have fantasies of a three-way with another guy, and see how he reacts. Buy or rent some bisexual porn and masturbate to it so that he can see, or ask him if he minds if you play it during sex with him. If the questions and fantasies sound as if they're originating from you, he might be more likely to enjoy your suggestions, even if he’s pretending to play along with them. And hopefully you'd both learn something new about the other and be able to enjoy each other in a more honest and playful fashion.

If you don't care for that approach, just make sure to make more noise when you get home early, and always leave a five-second modesty grace period for the poor guy to pull up his pants.


When a guy sucks your cock, what percentage do you think can go nose to pubes? Do you try and 'encourage' guys who can't to take more?

The percentage of men—or women—who can take my dick all the way down is pretty low. I'd say less than about five percent.

Of those five percent, there are vanishingly few who can deep-throat me and do so in a way that isn't either excruciating to witness/listen to—that is, who don't gag or choke or make me look around for a nearby ball-point pen just in case I have to perform an emergency tracheotomy—or who don't actually make my dick uncomfortable by biting it, squeezing it too hard in their throats, or by wrenching it to a truly painful angle. I'd say less than one in a hundred manage to make me enjoy their deep-throat efforts.

To be honest, I'd rather get really good head over five and a half of my inches than an indifferent-to-bad deep throating over all eight.


Why are so many self-loathing gay or bisexual men so bitchy?

There are a lot of self-loathing gay or bi men. And there are a lot of bitchy gay or bi men. But as I learned in two semesters of college statistics classes, a correlation doesn't imply causation. It may very well be that some men who've loathed their sexuality become bitchy. But it may just as well turn out that because some men are bitchy, they loath themselves.

I became very aware, about a decade ago, that among my circle of gay and bi male friends there was a very popular form of discourse in which it was popular to let loose with all kinds of scattershot little quips and barbs directed at each other. They were supposed to be playful, but none of the bon mots were remotely affectionate or really all that witty; they were just put-downs. Some of the people I knew communicated entirely through them, it seemed. Once someone started, it'd be like wildfire—everyone would join in. Sometimes they'd all dogpile on one unfortunate soul who'd get picked apart mercilessly. To add insult to injury, the victim would be chided as a bad sport if he didn't go along with it.

Now, I'm not saying I'm totally unbitchy. I definitely have my moments. I can be an ice-cold, sharp-tongued frost queen on the turn of a dime. I try save it, however, for the very small handful of people who have earned my sincere displeasure. I'll blast a person I despise with an icicle to his face; I don't send thousands of tiny, nearly invisible needles everyone's way every time I'm in public.

So I withdrew from that kind of bitchy discourse disguised as 'wit' as much as possible. If other people did it, I wouldn't join in. Later on I got brave enough to say to certain people words to the effect of, "Hey, listen, I like having you as my friend, but I don't find much actual friendship when you talk about me like that."

And hoo boy, did that ever offend people. It's not like I ever said "Wow, did you know you’re really a bitch-faced cunt?" No, I used adult language to express my discomfort with a particular type of behavior. Hearing it, some folk would fly off the handle and say I was weak, even though I'd had the strength to stand up to them instead of cowering and hoping no one would notice me. Others would try to misdirect their bad behavior by claiming that I did the exact same thing all the time—although they couldn't name a single instance when I had. Others doubled down and talked twice as badly about me as before, behind my back.

So I lost friends—a lot of friends—when I finally took a stand and very mildly protested a form of bad behavior for which I no longer cared. And you know what? Good riddance. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life, and neither do you. When I meet people now who have a tendency to make a 'joke' that takes the form of laughing lightly and ending their sentences with "...and you're a whore!", I smile politely and make a mental note not to engage with them very deeply or frequently. When I encounter people who make cutting remarks about their so-called friends behind their backs, I don't make plans to meet them for coffee. I don’t invite them to parties. I avoid people who proudly call themselves 'sarcastic.' They're often just bullies who think the label gives them immunity to hurt feelings at whim, and that everyone should laugh along with them—especially their victims.

There are plenty of unbitchy people, gay, bi, and straight, with whom I can surround myself. I suggest you do the same, even though it might mean making totally new friends.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Competitive Top

When a real sex hound enters a room full of men fucking, he looks around to discover one thing.

He’s not looking first for the best looking guys, the way a kid might. A real pig is seasoned and experienced enough not to need the cheap and needy kind of validation that comes from fucking around with a guy one or two grades higher on the scale than himself. Nor is he searching out the man with the best underwear, or the hottest chest, or the most worked-out body in the group. Some guys think those are the things that get a guy laid. They’re not.

No, what a real sex hound does when he enters a room full of men fucking is to study the action for a moment and size up who are the likely tops and the bottoms. Then he works from there. If he’s looking to be plugged with cock, he’ll insinuate himself down on his knees in front of one of the men who appear to be taking a more active role. If he’s looking to top, he’ll approach a guy with his cock in his hand, ready for service.

When this particular guy strode into the bedroom at The Professor’s home, one weekday morning, I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. There some something about the cocky way he held himself—furry, muscular chest puffed out, shoulders back, hips askew—that told me he was used to being the center of attention. The guy was built like a barrel: stocky, solid, gym-shaped to withstand a lot of use. I saw his eyes alight on the pair of men sixty-nining on the carpeted floor, then on the trio swapping kisses and fondling each other’s dicks in the corner. Then he looked at the low-slung queen-sized bed where I and four other men cavorted. He stood for a long time, his short fat dick sticking straight out in front of him, hands on hips, watching us there.

Watching me, I should say. I was the focus of the other men’s sexual energy. I had one sexy daddy straddling my chest as he made out with me. My cock was wedged into his ass crack, where it thrust up and down, made slippery by the mouth of the sexy bald muscle man I always fuck once or twice at this particular party. The bald guy was crouched on all fours licking my stick and my balls, hungrily gobbling the head whenever it emerged. One older man knelt at the bottom of the bed, sucking on my toes; it’s what he likes to do while other men are pleasuring me. I can’t say I objected. The feeling of a warm mouth on my feet just amplifies whatever sensations other mouths and hands create. Finally I had an Asian boy trying to insert himself between me and the man on my chest. He grabbed kisses when he could, and chewed on my nipples when he couldn’t.

The furry muscle dude looked at my cock, red and wet and big and much in demand, and looked at me, and looked at the guys competing for my attention. When his lips worked a little, silently, I knew exactly what kind of guy he was: a competitive top.

I’m not judging competitive tops, mind you. I’m a highly-competitive top myself. Are there any true tops who aren’t competitive at heart? We want our cocks to be the biggest, the thickest, the hardest—the best. We want our fucks to be the most memorable. We want to be, more than the prettiest or the biggest or the strongest, the most desired in the room. At my cockiest and my most son-of-a-bitchiest, I get it.

This guy had swagger, though. I had to give him that. After he sized me up and (correctly) determined that I was his biggest competition in the room, he made his way to the bed and hauled the bald muscle guy off my dick. The bald guy didn’t care about the rough treatment; he’s used to being manhandled. He’s got a built frame, but he’s pocket-sized and easily manhandled. His mouth was still in an O-shape from sucking me when he landed on his knees in front of the furry dude. The furry top roughly shoved him down on his dick, gave the back of the bald skull a push, and started getting the rest of the blow job I’d been enjoying myself. Then the furry muscle top looked at me without expression.

I got the hot one now, he seemed to be saying.

I wasn’t flustered. I don’t get threatened so easily. Besides, I’d already had my dick inside that hole he was currently fucking. I raised my hands up. Used them to cradle the back of my head. The daddy who’d been straddling my chest moved down to my dick and started to suck. The Asian kid took his place, eagerly thrusting his dripping cock into my stomach as he greedily made out with me. Meanwhile, the guy working my feet continued to do my thing. I didn’t look back in the furry dude’s direction, but I could tell he was watching.

He decided to escalate it. He turned his little bald bottom around and shoved him forward so that the guy started edging me off the bed. Then he pried apart the bald guy’s ass, spat in his palm, rubbed it around, and shoved his cock in. I know how to fuck Junior Mr. Clean; I’ve been dicking him for over a year. Just stabbing it into him isn’t going to do it. My bald buddy’s face was screwed up not in that sweet mix of anguish and pleasure that lets me know I’m doing my job right, but in outright pain. He was pro enough, though, to bite his lower lip, close his eyes, and power on through. Then the furry top decided to poach another of my men—the daddy on my dick. He pulled his skull off my rod and pushed the daddy’s face against his broad pec.

I found the move a little sleazy, to be honest. I’m not the kind of guy who asserts himself by showing up others. In a group situation, there’s plenty of fun to be found; when I’m on the playground, I don’t feel the need to snatch other boys’ toys just so I can climb to the top of the jungle gym. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let the guy see that he was irritating me. So I got up on my knees, turned the Asian kid around, and slowly started to lube his ass.

I squeezed out a dollop of the stuff and rubbed it in. Another clump of the cold goo went from my palm to my dick. Then I pressed the head against that hairless hole and rubbed the tip around the dark fringe of hair before I started to slip it in. I went in slow, inch by inch. The kid rested on his palms and panted and groaned. The muscle bottom stared him in the eye.

I wasn’t in a hurry. While the furry top kept humping away with little rabbit thrusts, I slid the length of my meat in and out of that tight hole. I was putting on a show. I just didn’t acknowledge the audience. The other top might have been making the bed jiggle more; he might have been making more of a ruckus and making his bottom hiss with pain, but my bottom was hitting low baritone notes of pure pleasure.

I hadn’t seen the Asian kid before; he hadn’t attended any previous parties. He was a handsome boy, though, with a faint trace of a mustache and a lean body. His butt, though . . . fucking perfection. Round, smooth, blemish-free. And he fucked like a dream. I pulled him up so that his torso reclined against mine. “You love this dick, don’t you,” I breathed in his ear.

“Yes, fuck yes,” he replied, his eyes slitted.

That’s all the validation I needed.

The other guys attending started to crowd around the bed to watch the double fucks. The daddy wrenched himself away from the other top’s nipple to kneel down and lick at my hole as best he could, while I fucked. I tweaked the kid’s nipples fiercely while I ground into him. They were as hard as pencil erasers between my fingers. The muscle bottom had reached out to jack at the kid’s uncut dick. “Crap,” I heard him say. “Oh crap.”

Cum spewed from his dick in the way a carbonated soda erupts from a bottle after a vigorous shaking. It splattered the face of the muscle bottom, landed on the pillows, hit the cabinets behind the bed. The kid yelled as he shot, shuddering in my arms.

I waited until he subsided, and fell forward, totally spent. Then I pulled out of him. My cock was wet, the skin flushed and slick from the fuck. I just let it hang there, unsatisfied. I liked the look.

So did my blade friend. Even though the furry top was still jackrabbiting away at his ass, my muscle bottom buddy had had enough. He detached himself from the top’s dick, winked at me, and then lay on his back with his legs in the air. I grabbed his ankles and slipped right in.

I don’t grab guys away from other tops. I don’t play that way. I let the bottoms do the choosing.
It didn’t take long for my bald friend to shoot. My dick reaches his prostate perfectly, and I know him well enough by now to push that button perfectly. I slammed it again and again; he lifted his butt higher for me until he was holding his own legs for support. This is how an alpha top fucks. No bad sportsmanship. No poaching. Just good old-fashioned banging until the bottom is pushed beyond the point of no return. The bald guy let loose with a small load on his stomach, panting like a dog the entire time.

I waited for him to recuperate, then slowly snake out. My dick was still wet. Still slick. Still red. Still hard. Still unsatisfied. The daddy tried to grab at it, and the Asian kid wanted to suck it, but I gently wrested myself away. I’d been at the center of the crowd for a while. I took myself to the edges, and let someone else occupy the vacuum I created.

I’m not surprised when the furry top joined me on the sidelines after a moment. He looked down at my dick.

“You know how to fuck,” he said in a low voice. He had a Long Island accent.

“Thanks man,” I said, casually leaning against the wall. My dick was still a stiff length poking out in front of me.

He licked his lips. His next question was more tentative. “Maybe you want to fuck me a little.”

I let him wait long enough to wonder if I’d heard the question, before I reply. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be hot.”

“Not here, though,” he said. I understood. He’s got his pride.

I jerked my head. There’s another bedroom downstairs that The Professor lets me use when I want a little privacy.

I don’t grandstand. I don’t poach. I stick to my own style. I let the bottoms do the choosing. I’m a competitive top, and today was the day I won.

Friday, June 6, 2014

There's the Rub

When I first started masturbating, all I knew how to do was rub. It rose from instinct when I first secluded myself in my parents’ attic one hot summer day, and in my itchy boredom straddled an old cardboard box that had held a guitar. Something about the position felt good; I had no idea what I was doing, but I knew I liked the pressure, and knew it would feel better if I pulled down my pants to get it. I humped that box until I had my first dry orgasm, and thought the wave of pleasure was heatstroke.

I caught on pretty quickly, though, and once I’d battered that guitar box down into pulp, I was humping everything I could wrap my juvenile little legs around. The side of the bathroom tub was one of my first regular humping spots. I discovered I could lay a towel or rug on the cold porcelain ledge—which was perhaps four or five inches wide—then rest my erect penis atop it while I lifted my little rump into the air and let it grind against the tub’s cushioned hardness. Looking at certain pictures helped. The occasional cartoon male rump in a Mad Magazine would do, but the real jackpot would be if I could filch one of the two copies of old Playboys that my father kept hidden in his bedroom. The shots of boobies didn’t arouse my interest, but both copies had fleeting images of near full-frontal male nudity, as well as shots of a shirtless Burt Reynolds that set my prepubescent heart a-fluttering.

There was a steel girder in my parents’ basement that proved another fruitful spot. I’d pull out a towel from the laundry basket, wrap it where my cock would go, and cling on with my thighs gripping tight. Like a little monkey, my prehensile toes gripping onto the girder’s inner ridge, I’d jiggle up and down with increasing rapidity until my skin would break out in gooseflesh and I’d go all shivery.

Finally I happened upon the best rubbing place of all: my parents’ bed. They had a simple mattress on box springs with no headboard and nothing at the foot. Moreover, the mattress was on the softer side, and perfect for digging into with my couple of inches of hard boy dick. When my folks were both out teaching, or at meetings, and I was left alone in the house, I’d creep into their room, align myself with one of the corners at the bed’s foot, brace my bare feet against the wood, and hump away. The bed had everything—a soft place to rest my head, something to clutch onto as I rubbed my way to a climax, a comfort in something familiar.

The day came months later, however, when at the conclusion of my usual daily gyrations I noticed that I’d left behind a dime-sized dollop of sticky fluid on my parents’ gold cotton bedspread. I made the stain worse when I attempted to wash it off with a wet sponge, and made a tiny moistness that would’ve dried in ten minutes into an ungainly wet spot that took nearly an hour to disappear—an hour I spent fretting that one of my parents would come home, only to immediately accuse me of sexual assault and battery on their mattress. Since I was producing semen, after that day I took my masturbation into my own bedroom, where I’d wad up my pillow and thrust against it until I finally climaxed.

That technique suited me for a very long time. Readers who’ve been with me longer know the answer, of course, but I know at this point some of my newer readers are wondering to themselves, Why didn’t you just jack off like a normal kid? It’s because it simply never occurred to me to use my hands. I know. It’s dumb. It’s obvious, even. I learned early that humping was the way to go, to get to orgasm; I stuck with the tried and true.

It wasn’t until I ventured into my first cruisy restroom in the basement of the downtown public library that I had a notion there were other ways to achieve the same goal. Once I’d locked myself into my stall and noticed the penciled scrawls on the tiles that told me that someone was there Thursdays to suck my sock (now I’m pretty sure that the original word had read cock, but some other wag had added an extra curlicue that confused me enough to make me think for a couple of weeks that sock was some underground slang for my penis), I settled my ass on the toilet seat and saw through a tiny peephole another cruiser pumping his erect meat with his clenched fist. And I thought to myself, Huh.

It was really a moment of revelation. I remember it vividly. There weren’t any actual trumpet sounds, nor a chorus of heavenly angels—but if I were recreating the moment on film, there surely would be. I couldn’t believe that I’d wasted so many months rubbing and humping and clinging to a metal girder with my toes, when I could’ve just been going at it with my two god-given hands.

I know from vast experience, though, that my technique has changed over the years. When I was a boy I used to begin by lightly sliding the balls of my thumb and index finger over the front and back of my dick. If I started getting close to orgasm from that light, tickly friction, I’d grip my skin more tightly and whip it back and forth until I came. In my mid-to-late teens I would get things started with a ring made by my thumb and pointing finger—but again I’d start with just sliding it up and down the shaft and concentrating it around the base of my head, until I was close enough to grab the shaft and let the cum fly. That became the technique I used for decades, until my forties. Since then I’ve been a full-fister who grabs onto the lower part of his shaft and beats lewdly. It’s a good way to show off on cam, and to my sex partners and potential sex partners at cruisy urinals.

I can’t help but wonder, however, how much of my natural instinct as a top comes from those rubbing days, when I’d grind into it until I came. Even without direction, without porn as a visual aid or any kind of prose as instruction, my instinct was to mount things and wiggle around until I climaxed. It’s how I learned to shoot as a kid—and these days, it’s how I prefer to shoot as a man, though I would much rather have a sexy butt to plunder than a porcelain bathing fixture or a willing mattress.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Face Down. Butt Up.

Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh.

We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.

I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.

His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”

I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.

He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.

I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.

“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.

I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.

“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.

My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.

I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.

I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.

“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”

My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.

“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.

Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.