Monday, March 23, 2015

Poolside Encounter

It’s the one day of my week that’s as advertised: morning sun blazing in a sky of deep blue, cabana roofs rippling in a gentle breeze, waves lapping gently at the concrete edges of the pool. Attendants have set out row upon row of deck chairs that only now are gradually filling. A rolling cart near the central walkway holds hundreds of beach towels folded neatly into rectangles. The temperature is warm, bordering on hot. The breeze is cool. I’m wearing shorts and smell of sunscreen. There’s a magazine of crossword puzzles in the bag at my side. A novel on my lap. I’m here to stay for a while.

There’s a parade before me, to distract me from the pages of my book. Some of the bodies are bronzed and built; the men strut confidently in their trunks as they pad with wet feet across the boards to their chairs, where they spread out the beach towels to lie upon. Some of the men have flown down from frigid places, as I have. Their bodies are paler, their shoulders caught in a perpetual hunch to ward off the cold. They’ve all come out to enjoy the warmth, though, to sit and ogle each other, to chat, to read. To relax, and forget their lives for a little while.

I don’t even know how long I sit there in those morning hours, digesting my breakfast and letting the warmth gradually work the seemingly permanent chill from my muscles. This, I think to myself, is all a vacation should be about.

After a long while, I have to pee.

The restroom’s indoors, past the nook where the attendants stand gossiping as they collect used towels for the laundry. Inside, the air conditioning blasts the light layer of sweat from my skin. I walk down a narrow hallway and push down on the latch that opens the restroom door.

The men’s room is small, but well appointed. Urinals stretch to the left when I step in; three toilet stalls are immediately behind them. Each has marble partitions, and wooden shuttered doors that reach down to the shiny, reflective stone floor. There’s an orchid sitting in the center of the sinks, across from the stalls. Wooden spikes curlicue out of the peat and up beyond the mirrors. Someone could seriously put out an eye on one of those things.

At the urinal I yank down the waistband of my shorts. They’re made of a sweatpant fabric, and stretch easily. I’m just finishing my business when another man comes in. He’s built like a bulldog—stout, muscular. His eyes are wide and blue, his hair a buzz of auburn on a suntanned head. He’s shirtless. His pecs are bulging. He steps up to the urinal closest to the door, angles his hips at the porcelain, and stares straight ahead.

Or not quite straight ahead. When I let my waistband snap back up and turn to pass him as I walk to the sinks, I can see his eyes tracking me. I’d only taken a quick glance at him before, but when I’m at the sink I study him a little more in the mirror’s reflection. He’s a hot little fucker, this one. Five foot five, five foot six, maybe. Round, built ass. Metal rings glint from his fat little nipples. He’s got his hands positioned around his dick like he’s aiming . . . but there’s no noise. He’s not pissing.

I’m deciding what to do when the door opens again. Some other guys intrudes into the silence, talking on his cell phone as he heads to the urinal I’d recently vacated. I prolong the washing of my hands, soaping them up thoroughly, rinsing them again and again as I observe the pair in the mirror. Phone call guy is oblivious. He’s just peeing and talking away, getting his business done and completely bypassing washing his hands.

The shirtless guy, though, continues to stare straight ahead. When the guy entered making his call, his stance closed in slightly, became more alert. As the stranger exits, though, he relaxes. Pulls away from the urinal a little bit. Glances over his left shoulder, in my direction.

Time to act. I ball up the paper towel with which I’ve been wasting time, walk back to the urinals, and stand next to him. I tuck the elastic of my waistband beneath my nuts. Start pulling on my meat. When I turn my head in his direction, his own head turns. Our eyes meet. We nod.

He steps back from the urinal, just slightly. I follow suit, dick in my hand. Now he faces me directly, pointing his cock in my direction. It’s not long—maybe five inches—but it’s fat, that dick. When I reach out to grip it, feverishly hot in the palm of my soap-scented hand, it’s like gripping a baseball bat. He grunts when I squeeze. Nods. I want that dick as much as he wants me to have it.

I jerk my neck in the direction of the first stall. My erection still flopping as I walk, I stride inside it. When he follows, I push the door shut behind him. No one’s going to see us in there. The partitions connect to the floor. There’s no crack beneath the door to peek under. I let my sweat shorts drop to the marble floor, discard them, and sit on the toilet. He in turn steps out of his swim trunks. He’s naked in front of me save for his sandals.

We’re thinking in sync. When my mouth opens, he thrusts forward and fills it with dick. The dude tastes good. He’s been in the pool, I’m guessing by the faintly chlorinated taste of his skin. But that chemical taste is rapidly replaced by the all-organic tang of his precum as it begins to ooze in thick globs onto my tongue. In and out he thrusts, using my lips and mouth as his personal pussy. He grabs my hands and pulls them up to his chest, where he coaxes my fingers to pinch his tits. Beneath the soft flesh I hit the metal of his piercings. He grunts again, then growls as he pistons his meat more fiercely into my mouth.

Someone opens the restroom door. We hear it close. The noise doesn’t stop us, nor the reality of the intruder just on the other side of our partition. Whoever it is can’t see us. They can’t stop us. My eyes water as the man seems determined to puncture my gullet with his stiff rod. While my left hand continues to torture his nipple, my right cups his balls. Moves between his legs. Starts to finger the crack behind it.

The move drives him wild. He’s yanking me up and dropping to his knees. The sounds of someone washing hands at the sinks right outside our door cover up the greedy slobbering he makes as he gobbles down on my cock. The fucker deep-throats it expertly to the base, lets it pop out of the tight ring of his throat, and then goes down on it once more. I’m trying, more or less successfully, to suppress my groans of pleasure. While he sucks and slavers, he grips his own meat more tightly than I dared. He squeezes it hard. Chokes it, really, until it turns purple.

I sit down on the toilet again. My turn. Eagerly he shoves his cock back in my mouth. I let one of my hands caress his thick, shaved nuts while the other explores his ass. He’s more than willing to widen his stance and give me access. I continue sucking while I squeeze his muscular butt. My finger roam back into his crack. Nudge at his hole. Start to edge their way in.

It’s the last bit that pushes him over the edge. He grabs my skull with both hands and yanks my face down on his dick. I feel my cheeks fill up with his cum. It seems like an impossible amount. I must look like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. After a long, long time he backs off. He’s still letting my lips rub the crown of his head, as the last bits of cum dribble out.

When he pulls out, I swallow my prize. It’s slightly sour stuff, but I’m still hungry for it. He watches me gulp it down, then grins. “Thanks,” he says. One of his hands instinctively reaches out to caress my head. He ruffles the hair, grins again. “See you later, maybe.”

I nod. My head is still swimming. The entire encounter has lasted maybe all of five minutes. I wait as he swings open the stall door and steps out; I shut it closed again. I myself wait until I hear the restroom door close and his footsteps vanish down the hall. Then I pull up my shorts—though the fabric doesn’t do a thing to conceal the boner still pronging out to my right—wash my hands once more, and make my own exit.

I pass him on the way back to my own chair. He’s with another man, allowing the guy to reapply sunscreen to his back. Boyfriends? It’s possible. He’s wearing sunglasses now, but I think I clock his head following me as I pass.

Back at my chair, I adjust my pants, pick up my book, and settle down. It’s still warm. Still sunny. This, I think to myself. This is what a vacation should be all about.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Making Loff

The Russian’s skin is warm against mine. Soft. When he pushes against my chest to lower me to his blanket, he does it with such care, such delicacy, it’s as if he’s nestling rare and fragile glass into protective wrapping. Once I’m fully reclined, he leans down and unbuttons my jeans. Then he tugs down my zipper.

There’s deliberation in every move. It’s as if he’s already planned out the swiftest and most efficient way to undress me. He pulls off the denim pants by the legs, shucks each sock with a crooked finger. Shirt buttons slide from their holes as if sliced with a blade. Removes my shorts with enough vigor to make my erection fall onto my belly with a sharp slap.

I’m naked, but he’s still completely clothed. “It has been so, so long,” he murmurs, as he unbuttons and removes the pressed cotton of his work shirt. He unbuckles his belt, lets it slither through the loops. The cool leather drapes across my ankles. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband. Tugs. Slides the pants down, while I watch. He’s wearing white briefs. Everything in his apartment is white, I think to myself as he strokes his massive cock through the fabric. His shirt. The fuzzy rugs. The sheets. The bath mat by his tub, the thick Turkish bath towels, the dish cloth lying folded on the white granite kitchen countertop. All of it, crisp and bright and white.

Then slowly, emphatically, he pulls down his briefs and unleashes the monster. That wild thing might be breathing now, but I’m not. My lungs don’t seem to be working. All I can do is stare at those nine thick inches, and gape. “I want to make loff to you, sweet man,” he says in his thick Slavic accent. “I will make loff to you all night long.”

“Oh, god,” I force out. Finally I start breathing again. “I’d forgotten how big you are.”

“You will loff it,” he promises. He reaches down, squeezes the hardness between his fingers, waves it lewdly in my direction. “I want to make loff to you.”

I confess, I’m slightly frightened at the size. He’s been inside me before. But the last time, well over a year before, has scared me off attempting him again. I left his place with my hole so turned out that it took over a week to get back to normal. I’d limped back to Grand Central with visions of a prolapsed colon dragging along the sidewalk behind me. Before agreeing to this meeting, I’d reminded him of that night and had extracted from him multiple promises of being treated gently and sweetly. So far, he seems to be remembering them.

“Yes.” It’s a simple syllable that melts on my tongue like a pillow mint. “I want that.”

He lowers himself to me. His knees push against the inside of my thighs. Hardness meets hardness as our hips press together. He’s already dripping. I can feel the precum making my skin wet and slippery as he grinds into me. Our lips meet again. Our tongues tangle. His nostrils flare as his breath warms my cheek, my ear, my neck. The sensation of his lips across my shoulders and my neck causes me to close my eyes, to respond to his touch by arching my back, by pushing myself into and against him.

Without a word he grabs one of the white pillows from the head of the bed and helps me pivot my hips upward. The pillow slides beneath without effort. My legs are still in the air when he pushes up at the base of my spine and raises my hole to his mouth. “Fuck,” I growl.

“I want you to enjoy me,” he says, the buzz of his words tickling my balls. “I want you to keep coming back for me, sweet loffer.”

He’s licking my hole with such fervor that I can’t reply. My brain has short circuited; wayward electricity shoots along my spine, making my limbs twitch and jerk. I can almost smell the acrid sharpness of fried wires. “Christ,” I swear.

He lowers my legs again and pulls himself between them. I feel his cock probing at my spit-slick hole. “Let me make loff to you.” Half of me wants to protest. I shake my head, but I’m not telling him no. I’m trying to let him know I really have no choice. “I know you haff been hurt before,” he says, stroking my chest. He pets me as he might a frightened animal, soothing and calming me with his touch. “I will not hurt you. We will merge our waters together as one. Yes?” He reaches for the little tub of lube by his bed, and begins massaging it into me.

When the Russian speaks, it’s in a soft and lilting tone that’s almost lyrical. I feel as if he’s sometimes quoting and translating some piece of his native poetry that I’m not recognizing. Perhaps it just sounds particularly beautiful in the darkness, with his rigid cock teasing my hole. “Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, please. But—“

Too late. Whatever protests I might have had I swallow as he begins pressing his massive tool into me. Though he’s nearly a foot shorter than I, the Russian outclasses me in the meat department. He’s easily nine inches or even more, and of such thickness that I can barely get my mouth around it. I’ve got a big dick, and he’s got equipment that makes me want to cover mine in shame. His is not a beginner’s cock, and here I am, who almost never gets fucked, coping with the damned thing.

At first I’m trying to control the situation. I’m holding my hand against his stomach, I’m trying to withdraw my hips from his to keep him from going too deep, too quickly. I’m clutching at his wrists, attempting to wrest out words from my dry and uncooperative mouth to tell him to slow down, to stop for a minute. He just looks at me with those dark, puppy dog eyes. Though his cock presses relentlessly in, he reaches up and cups my face. He says my name. He smiles.

And then. Oh god, and then. The fifteen seconds of panic and pain vanish with the soft spray of a popped soap bubble. He slides all the way into me, and something just clicks. It feels good. It feels right. I want it all, and I want it now. I hear myself making a deep, guttural sound from deep in my core. “Ungggh,” it comes out.

My jaw clenches. My hands, resting on his abdomen, had been trying to stop him from advancing. Now they grab at him. They find his hipbones. Pull him in. I need him deeper. I need him as deep as he can get.

Then I want him deeper than that.

He notices the change in me almost immediately. His eyes light up. The corner of his full lips quirks upward. It’s half-smirk, half-smile. “Yes,” he says. “You loff it.”

“I fucking love it,” I tell him. My legs are wrapped around him now, refusing to let him pull out. “I love it. I need it.”

The Russian treats me like I’m the little one and he’s the hulk. He presses my hips down into the pillow, pushes my legs back, maneuvers himself so that he’s rolling me forward and backward, ever so slightly. He’s staying in place, but the rocking motion slides his meat in and out of my greasy hole. The sensation is thrilling me. It’s sending shivers out from the epicenter of cock in hole that end with every nerve rumbling in a body quake that never seems to end.

“Fuck it,” I bark at him. I’m surprised at how feral my voice sounds. “Fuck it. Breed it.”

The words cause him to shove it in me, to start moving his hips. “I will giff you every drop of myself, sweet man,” he promises.

“Breed the hole,” I order him. Apparently I’m a bossy bottom. “Make it wet.”

He adjusts his angle so that I’m pinned down to the bed, my knees banging against my ears. He’s on top of me, driving down. My hole is wide open now. I’m taking him so easily. How could I ever have fretted about this? It’s what I need. “You are so very sexy,” he tells me. “I want to sperm inside.”

“Yeah,” I growl. “Sperm inside.” My hole is actually clutching at him, tightening when he hits bottom and refusing to let him pull out. “Get it all in there. All that fucking sperm.”

“I will make my babies inside you,” he pants, fucking harder. “I will knock you up with my loff.”

His dirty talk is quainter than mine. “Fuck the hole, fucker,” I demand. “Pump it full of your god-damned seed.”

Back and forth we go, exchanging increasingly filthy dirty talk—his offbeat, mine filled with Anglo-Saxonisms. My back is going to ache tomorrow. My back, shit. My hole is going to be sore for a month. But I don’t care. That thick monster of his has hit some trigger deep in my guts and all I can think about in my fuck frenzy is how deep I can get him in me, how big his load will be . . . and then how soon it’ll be before he does it again.

His eyes are heavy-lidded when he groans to himself and unloads in me. My legs extend over my head and grapple against his headboard. My back arches as my hips try to force his tool that last quarter-inch inside. “Do it,” I order him. “Breed it. Breed it good.”

He’s a fish on a boat’s deck, thrashing, gasping for air, as he empties into me. My jaw is still clenched. My teeth are still grinding as I try to extract every last drop. I’m behaving like the horniest, greediest bottoms I’ve ever fucked, and there’s no shame. I worked for that load. I deserve that load. He’s going to fucking give it to me.

It’s a long time before he opens his eyes. He says something in Russian. It sounds like swearing. I decide it’s a compliment. When he slides out, I can almost hear my ass close with a wet plop. I almost think he’s going to roll over and fall asleep for a moment, but instead he lowers me down to the pillow, withdraws a few inches, and relaxes to his knees. “You are still hard,” he says, laughing.

I am. I hadn’t thought about my dick since he entered me, but I can see it’s red and swollen and distended. There’s precum all over my chest. My dick’s been slobbering all over it the entire time.

He smiles, and rearranges himself on the mattress so that he’s lying down. “Fuck me, loffer,” he whispers.

I roll myself down, sit up, and reposition myself between his legs. Already I can feel his spunk dripping out of my hole. It’s a big load. It’s going to mess up those pristine white sheets.

But I don’t give a fuck. I reach for the lube and shove two fingers in his tight little hole.

I might not be as big as he, but I’m surely going to fuck him like I am.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Cruising 101: Yes and No

If there’s anything I’ve learned from my years as a sex blogger, it’s that people have very deep sexual needs that aren’t being met. They reach out to tell me about them all the time. They want to be used by a man who knows what he’s doing. They want to fuck like they perceive I do, freely and with abandon. They want a perfect first time, a boyfriend who’ll understand them, a man to call them names and treat them like dirt before using and discarding them. They want sex as a relaxing respite from the world at large; they want the passionate sex they’ve read about and seen on movie screens and heard about in pop songs, but have never had.

If there’s also anything I’ve learned as a blogger, it’s that most of the time, the only thing standing between these people and the sex they need happens to be themselves. The virgin craving a first time who wants the encounter to be so perfect and has such rigid criteria for his partner is doomed; in his quest for flawlessness he’s looking for a very thin needle in a field of haystacks. The harried husbands who claim never to have time to get the fucks they desire are the same ones sitting mutely on the sofa at home in the evenings, letting the wives and kids control the TV remote instead of standing up and declaring they’re going out for the evening. The guys who want their first sex party so badly they can taste it are also the first ones who make excuses not to go, when the appointed time rolls around.

Guys postpone having sex until they’ve lost that five pounds they imagine is the only thing standing between themselves and the ultimate sexual experience. Perfectly agreeable human beings duck their heads and stay at home to masturbate because they’ve convinced themselves they’re unfuckable trolls. They’re not clean enough, not pretty enough, not slim enough, not hairy enough, too married, too single, too poor, too awkward.

It’s all in their fucking heads, of course. Every single bit of it. When I point it out to them, it goes one of two ways—either the clouds part and a light comes down from heaven accompanied by a chorus as they realize that yes! The miniscule bulge they can see over the waistband of their underwear is really not going to prevent anyone from finding them desirable! Or else they continue trudging along their weary and well-trodden path of regret and blame.

It’s for reasons like this I’m always encouraging my readers to say yes instead of no. Yes, I’d like to meet that guy who seems nice, even though I’m not sure of his looks. Yes, I’ll accept that invitation to the group motel party at the end of the month . . . and yes, I’ll show up. Yes, I’ll go outside my usual comfort level and try a sexual act not in my current repertoire. Yes, I’ll have sex with a guy older than I prefer. Yes, I’ll get out of my damned chair and out from behind my computer and my phone and meet someone face to face.

I mean, fuck. If there’s one message this journal has, it’s to say yes to all the good things the universe offers. There’s no guarantee the offers will keep coming. Turning your face to the ground and shaking your head all the time will only mean that over time, you’ll stop noticing when good things present themselves.

Not that the word no doesn’t have its place, of course. If you’re at a group sex party and a truly unattractive, annoying guy won’t leave you alone, politely say no until he gets the message. If you feel you’re being played by a guy or lied to, say no. If you’re honestly uncomfortable with something your partner asks you to do, to the point that it’s causing you distress, say no. If you’re being asked to endanger your health or your safety, say no and walk away.

I’ve noticed over the last few months in particular that I really resent having to pull out the word no, however. When it happens, it’s because the guys set themselves up for it.

r u looking?? they’ll text me at midnight.

Not right now, I’ll say. Are you available tomorrow during the day or earlier in the evening?

And of course I’ll never get a reply. Not until another midnight rolls around. r u looking??

I’m not usually free this late at night, I’ll say, more specifically. Can you ever meet earlier in the day?

No reply. Another midnight will roll around. dude, you available???

Not at this time of night, I’ll say, sighing.

What’s typical after this is that we’ll have more back and forths. Am I free? No. Am I free, dude? No. Am I looking?

No. No. No. After a while—and maybe it’s just me, but I’m willing to bet the experience is more universal—I start to feel that the guy is just challenging me. He’s sitting there saying, I know this top fucker is going to say no. Just watch. I’ll just prove what a predictable ass he is. Regardless of what the guy actually intends, what happens is that I get so tired of saying no, so tired of being forced into a position in which my only answer can be no, that I end up blocking the guy forever . . . just so I don’t have to keep refusing him, over and over and over again.

Another example: guys tend to underestimate the lead time I need to make an encounter happen. I have a top friend—theoretical friend, since we’ve never met—who never uses the cell number I’ve given him until the very last minute, every time. I have a bottom who wants two tops to fuck him! You in? he’ll text me . . . fifteen minutes before the encounter is supposed to take place.

Sorry, I need a little more lead time than that, I’ll tell him.

He’ll send me a frowny face, but the next time something similar rolls around, either he doesn’t recall what I said before, or he doesn’t much care. I’m fucking a hot bottom boy in a half hour. You want to come?

No, I’m at work, I’ll have to say. I appreciate you thinking of me, but I really need a little more warning most days.

Three days later. I’m fucking that hole again in 25 minutes. Come with me!

No, I’m forced to say. Over and over again. No.

And honestly, I hate saying it. I like this guy. It’d be fun to fuck with him. But I get increasingly frustrated when he doesn’t seem to realize I’m not usually available at the drop of a hat, and I get upset when he makes me tell him no. The day is going to come when he makes me feel badly for saying no so many times, and I’ll have to block him, too.

My suggestion for the day is that if you find a particular guy saying no to you all the time, find a way to turn the no into a yes. I’m not talking about cases in which a guy is genuinely not into you. That’s the kind of no you should listen to. But if the guy has seemed nice and approachable in the past, and if he’s expressed interest in getting together with you, but he’s declining every time you inquiring if he’s around, take a step back and see if there’s any way you might be sabotaging yourself.

If you’re asking looking???? every time you message him, it’s time to change your approach. Instead of your frustrating one-word interrogation, have an actual dialogue with the guy about his availability and how it meshes with yours. Try to make a tentative date at a time he’s available. Do something to break that pattern of no, because like me, sooner or later he’ll get tired of saying it.

Break the pattern, no matter what it is. If a guy is your last-minute, last-resort choice and he’s always unavailable, make him your first choice and give him plenty of time to respond. If you’re unable to host and you keep asking a guy can you host??? even when he’s told you before it’s impossible, desist. Find a cheap motel the two of you can visit. Find a friend who doesn’t mind you fucking on his mattress. If you realize you’re not giving the guy enough time to make his excuses and get away from work or home, figure out ways to keep the spontaneity for yourself while giving him ample opportunities to plan.

Guys don’t like to say no. We all want to be able to say yes. When you run into a lot of negatives, listen to what men are telling you. React accordingly. Figure out strategies to turn a no into a yes.
Nobody likes to be the bad guy. Nobody likes shaking their head and being the obstruction, over and over again. If you’re the one who’s making a fellow say no repeatedly, it might not be him who’s the ass. He might just think it’s you.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Sunday Morning Questions: Hipster Mage Edition

Earlier this week I was full of righteous indignation over Google’s decision to ban adult images from Blogger, the platform on which I host my blog. Although Google had been fine with adult content for over a decade—welcomed it, even, in their mission statement—they announced with little fanfare that any blogs containing X-rated photos or videos would be hidden from public view. The turnaround left a lot of my fellow bloggers in a panic.

I gave the announcement a couple of days to sink in, then with a heavy heart spent an evening deleting photographs and videos from past entries. I started back at the very beginning—2010, when I started keeping this blog. I managed to purge an even hundred entries before my eyes were spinning. One hundred out of nearly eight hundred. I figured that was good enough progress for an evening.

Then the next morning, of course, I discovered that Google had suddenly reversed their decision and decided to allow blogs with adult content to continue—instead, they’ll crack down on the unlawful distribution of commercial porn instead. Seventh-eighths of my blog is relieved that they reconsidered their hasty, reactionary move. One-eighth of my blog, though, is now missing its photos and is kind of ticked off about it.

I’m also a little annoyed that although Google saw fit to notify every adult blogger via email about their initial crackdown, and also by messages atop the Blogger console web page warning users to clean out offending images by mid-March, they haven’t really seen fit to distribute the word about their change of mind in a similar manner; the change-of-heart announcement appeared in a forum that no one I know reads, somewhere in a corner of Google’s bureaucratic space. It got picked up and redistributed and announced on many a tech blog, thank god—but they haven’t sent around an email to apologize for putting their users into a panic, or anything.

Still. I should be thankful I still have my blog here, as well as some of my images left. So let’s get to some Sunday morning questions. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, the fastest way to get them answered in my occasional feature here is to email them to me at the address on the sidebar with Sunday Morning Question(s) in the subject line. The more I get, the faster the answers will come.

What, for you, is the key to good sex?

You know, so much goes into any one sexual encounter that it’s really, really tough to offer any one single thing that will prove the magical key to making every encounter fantastic. (Of course, having an amazing dick like mine helps.)

More than that, though, these days I feel when both parties go into an encounter with the mindset of wanting to please their partners, and with a willingness to cast aside all the petty stuff that can inhibit or hamper an encounter, they’ll have a good time. If two guys (or gals, or any combination thereof) can ignore for a few hours the little worries of the home, the big concerns of the workplace, the fears about money and the everyday anxieties about being good enough to deserve sex, or pretty enough to get sex, they’ll have a good time. If they hop into bed with smiles on their faces and their attention focused on their partners, ready to accept attention and equally willing to give it, they’ll have a good time.

Just remember, those of you hunting out good sex: if what you’re bringing to an encounter is anxiety, anger, or fear, the chances are pretty good that the sex you’ll have will only make those bad things worse. Learn to breath, to smile, to give yourself positive messages, and to wipe away as much of that bullshit as possible.

Or at least learn to hide it well.

Do you prefer to be addressed by your name, or as ‘Sir,’ or ‘daddy,’ or what?

A few weeks ago I was approached by some semi-local guy somewhere online—I’ve forgotten whether it was an app or some hookup site—who decided that I was going to be his beta top. That is, he was the Alpha in the situation, and I’d be his sidekick top. Boy Wonder to his Caped Crusader, I guess. If he threw a group, I’d be invited and I’d fuck the holes he told me to fuck. I’d hold down the bottoms he told me to hold down. If he wanted me to plug a bottom’s mouth while he was fucking the hole, I’d do as I was told. I guess there was some lube carrying and maybe some sword polishing to be done in his vision of the modern-day equivalent of a knight’s squire, too. I don’t know.

To be honest, it seemed totally relaxing. I’ve been totally accustomed, over the last twenty-five years, to having to manage every aspect of a sexual encounter. Taking a step back to obey orders without having to think them up sounded like a fucking vacation. So I told the guy that his parties could be fun, and that I was in if he’d have me.

That’s when the nightmare began. If I was going to be in his stable of tops, the guy informed me, I’d have to call him Sir. Every single time. If I left the address ‘Sir’ out of a sentence, I would have to beg his forgiveness (Sir). No, I would have to beg his humble forgiveness, Sir. If I referred to him to any of his stable of bottoms, I would have to call him ‘Our Gracious Master’. It was just in direct address that I would call him ‘Sir.’ In the middle of his stream of directives, he then changed his mind. Instead of ‘Sir,’ I was call him ‘Sire.’ That’s what his stable of bottoms called him. ‘Sire.’ And if I forgot to call him ‘Sire….’

It was at that point that I blocked him and his line of bullshit. Christ, I hadn’t even been invited to a party yet and already it was just so much work.

Look. I don’t have any particular need to be called any particular title. My ego doesn’t need the inflation of being called Sir; I’ve got better things to do with my time and my dick than make guys jump over linguistic hoops just to get to the goods. There are a lot better ways for them to prove how much they want my meat—directly—than by adhering to any artificial demands for a title.

However. I’m very much turned on when a man addresses me by a title, whether it be Dad or Sir or Papi or Owner, when it means something to him. When a man truly wants me to be his master, or the sexy dad who fucks his hole, or the aggressive top Sir who plunders his ass, and when he uses one of those words to signal his feelings for me and his regard for me, nothing makes my dick harder for him.

Men who use those words with sincerity, need, and naked honesty will get a response out of me.
I’m always likely to prefer ‘dad’ over ‘daddy,’ though. Just a personal thing.

You have a knack for making yourself feel approachable. I mean, I’ve read just about every entry (I think) and feel like if I sat down next to you somewhere that I could start a conversation about a dozen things, just like one of my real life friends. Do you think one of the reasons you’ve been stalked and taken advantage of by readers is because you seem so accessible?

The short answer to your question is yes, I do believe you are correct. I have a definite ability—when I care to—to project through my writing a certain amount of warmth, honesty, and informal attainability. It does have a tendency to make perfect strangers feel as if they can walk up to me and start a conversation.

Which is great. I was on vacation earlier this month somewhere with a much warmer climate (and had a great time, thanks for asking) and had no less than five guys recognize me as the author of this blog. Two of them approached me through Scruff (You don’t happen to have a blog, do you. . . ?).

Two others found me when it was quiet and I was on my own. They sat down and very quietly and very shyly informed me that they’d recognized me from my photos and just wanted to say that they were long-term fans of my blog. Very nice. Very sweet. And finally one Australian guy—and no offense to the four others, but I had to admire his style and accent—came up to me at midnight at a cruising spot to whisper in my ear, “Are you Mr. Steed? I fucking love your writing, mate. You write my favorite blog!” We ended up having a really nice half-hour talk in the pitch black until twelve-thirty rolled around and he had to go to a pre-arranged fuck.

(I guess being someone’s favorite blog writer isn’t enough of an honor to score an invite to a fuck? Maybe it’s just Australian reserve.)

At the same time, I wish some of my readers would remember that my blog only reflects a part of my life. A great part of my life, sure. But it’s not all of me. Nor is it really enough for anyone simply to drop into my life and assume that suddenly we’ll be besties forever.

When I talk in my blog about the extreme difficulties I have with a very small handful of my readers, I kind of get the impression that people think I’m just griping about being called a name here and there. If only it were that easy! Insults about my appearance or my sex life I can shrug off easily. It’s the insults to my privacy and to my good will that afflict me more.

For example, from this week, I had a reader who attempted to post a comment to my blog that contained my real-life name . . . like I was going to let that one pass. What he felt he was pulling with such a stunt I don’t know—but it was definitely some attempt to establish a hold over me. I’m not freaked out that a reader knows my name. Plenty of them do. The guy didn’t frighten me. He didn’t impress me with any spurious cleverness. But he certainly pissed me off to the point that I won’t be publishing any more comments from him again, or interacting with him. Why would anyone purporting friendly intentions do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense. It was a violation, pure and simple—and one of those outrages to my propriety that seem to be coming more and more frequently these days. For what reasons, I really cannot fathom.

I am friendly with the vast majority of my readers. But it doesn’t make us instant friends. That is a privilege with no shortcuts.

Are you still gaming?

If you mean video gaming, sure! It’s my biggest hobby.

I think everyone knows I used to be a big World of Warcraft player—I druid-healed for many of you in dungeons and raids during the Pandaria expansion—but I haven’t played that for a couple of years now at this point. I’m still a big player of Diablo 3, which I regard as basically a big slot machine that I click mindlessly in the hope of bigger and better gear jackpots. I indulge in a lot of Minecraft. Yes, I know a lot of six-year-olds play Minecraft. I like it for the same reason they do. It’s a big sandbox in which I can do whatever the fuck I feel like, whether that’s building enormous towers, exploring, or just going down in my impressively vast mineshafts and digging for diamonds for hours on end.

I do most of my gaming on the Wii U and on the Playstation 4. If anyone wants to befriend me on either of those devices, I’m open to it. Just contact me by email with your IDs.

Recently I finished Dragon Age: Inquisition. It took me fucking forever to get the hipster mage who caught my eye to give me his ass. I mean, key-rist. I did all the little favors he oh-so-coyly asked me, and would he go to bed with me? No. When I killed my first dragon, he suddenly warmed up a little and told me how manly and dashing I’d been out there, whipping my sword around. So I killed another dragon, then another, thinking maybe it would impress my little hipster mage. No luck. All he’d do was kiss me chastely and continue to give me come-hither glances.

I was a little frustrated with the guy by the time I’d finished killing all ten fucking dragons in the game. “Screw you, hipster mage,” I told the guy. “I’m not hanging around any more. I’ve done all the quests. I’m killing the end boss and finishing the game and you know what? It’s your fucking loss.

Then of course the moment I finished killing the game’s Big Bad and everyone across two imaginary continents loved and adored me for saving them from the forces of evil, he came oozing out of his lair to tell me that he had reconsidered and wanted to be my boyfriend forever and ever. Oh sure, now that I could have my pick of the entire population. Asshole.

Yeah, I went through with it. I mean, I'd put so much time into it. Yeah, the sex was . . . okay. You’d think a guy with a mustache like that would be a little more creative in bed, but whatever. I got his hole.

Lesson learned: It’s easier to get laid in real life than in a fantasy role-playing game, people.