Friday, January 29, 2016

5 Foxiness Tips from a Foxy Fox

Next week, I’ll be turning 52. (If you’d like to celebrate with me, why not pick out a gift from my Amazon wish list?) And you know what? I’m still lookin’ mighty foxy.

Right off the bat, this particular blog post might seem as if it's being sponsored by the National Institute for Rampant Narcissism, but bear with me. I have a genuine point here. It’s this: I’ve only spent about maybe ten years of my life accepting, and even appreciating and enjoying, the way I look. As a proportion of my overall span, it’s much too slim.

I hated during my teens how gangly I turned out, and how I towered over my classmates by a good foot or more. As a result, I hunched my shoulders, I hid in the shadows as much as possible, I effaced myself whenever I could. In my twenties I had a baby face; I looked like a twink of sixteen until the time I was thirty. I couldn’t bear to pass a mirror lest I see the horror that was my reflection. I passed my thirties feeling old and invisible, with an impending sense that my sex and social life would be done by the time I hit forty.

Now, I was indulging in my mental beatdown despite all kinds of evidence to the contrary. I was chased, pursued, and stalked by guys during my teens and twenties. My sex life continued unabated throughout my thirties—and the guys who wanted me weren’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination. When I hit 40, if anything, the number of offers and come-ons I received skyrocketed.

I’m not ever going to be one of those men that describes himself in an online profile as a sex bomb, or who is likely to self-assess as ‘hot, hot, HOT!’ on Scruff. My ego might be monstrous, but it’s not quite all that all-devouring. (Yet.) I know my appeal is actually quite modest. If a guy finds me attractive, that’s fine by me. It’s another entirely to attempt to convince others I’m the VGL guy of their dreams.

But hey. During those moments I’m fond of my modest good looks and express that happiness on occasion (or even relentlessly), nobody minds. When I’m on my personal Facebook account and toss up a photo or two that I like of myself and comment, “Looking foxy!”, most people take the self-assessment in the good-hearted spirit in which it was intended. And you know why? It’s because the majority of people have so much god-damned negativity about their own appearances that it’s probably refreshing to see a damned fool grinning and enjoying himself.

But as one old geezer speaking to, well, you, I’d just like to say this: it’s a lot more pleasant to live appreciating yourself, and appreciating the way you look, than it is to whine and moan and scowl at your reflection whenever you’re in the vicinity of a mirror. You’ll be happier, letting go of all that negative shit you’ve believed about yourself all your life. You’ll be confident. Other people will find you confident as well, and admire you for it. Truth.

So here are a few precepts that might just help you navigate that road to positivity. Am I a mental health expert? Nah. Just a guy who spent too much time loathing himself when he was pretty all right, all along.

1. No one regards your lack of self-esteem as a virtue. Neither should you. So many people invoke their low self-esteem to protect themselves from the outside world and all the terrors it contains. When poked or disturbed, they exclaim “But I have low self-esteem!” as if that answer will explain their general inaction in any aspect of their life. They have self-esteem issues thanks to their bad childhoods, their bad relationships, their sexuality, their other-ness.

Whatever. Nobody really cares. Stop announcing to all and sundry that you have problems with self-esteem. It’s unbecoming, and solves nothing. Nobody’s going to tiptoe around you or love you more because you’re clutching that low self-esteem to your chest like your great-granny clutches her shawl.
Are you fortunate enough to be alive, healthy, have most of your limbs intact? Do you have a comfortable home instead of shuffling from war zone to war zone as a refugee? Are you Ebola-free? Then you’re pretty damned lucky that low self-esteem is the biggest of your problems.

2. The one surefire cure to low self-esteem is to esteem the fuck out of yourself. Seeking a remedy from the outside isn’t going to work; other people have probably held you in high regard all along, right? Have their pep talks and reassurances worked, in the long run? Nope.

The only thing that’s going to turn around that negative attitude of yours is a determination to be—and stay—positive. Find the shit you like about yourself and like it a hell of a lot more. If you’ve got changes to make, change them—then instead of focusing on how much more there is to go, celebrate each and every victory. Stop avoiding the mirror. Look it full on and revel in the small details you actually enjoy about yourself. Do it today, do it tomorrow, and most importantly, keep doing it day after day. Every time.

3. Cultivate and advertise your strengths. Rather than gripe about and apologize for your thousands of flaws, focus on the good stuff. Make it gooder . . . er, better. Don’t write a sex profile that reads Age is only a number and even though I’m 52 I still feel like a 29-year old on the inside or Hey, my body’s not the best, I know, but I’m going to join a gym this year I swear. These ads are out there in abundance, and the kick-me desperation they reek will put off anybody and everybody. Fuck that.

Has my body ever been the best, at any point in my life? Nope. (This confession might come as news to those of you who send me photos of super-buff porn actors and inquire if that’s what I look like.) Does it limit my sex life? Also nope. I nail super-hot guys and actual porn actors with enviable frequency because I don’t try to hide my physique and because I advertise my other strengths instead: big dick, experience, skill at what I do. I’m never going to post shirtless shots of my physique. My sexual confidence and expertise, however, is more than going to make up for it.

Are you a good performer in bed? Advertise that. Do you have above-average oral skills? Advertise those. (But please avoid that phrase, Guys tell me I can suck the chrome off a bumper! For one thing, advertising that you remember the days bumpers were made of chrome dates you. For another, it sounds painful. I really don’t want the dermis stripped off my dick.) Do you really know what you’re doing when you give a gum job? Someone out there’s going to want to try. Do you give the best foot service in town? Make people aware (and send me your number). Are the times you’re available attractive to the lunchtime married man crowd? Let them know. Have you got a great sense of humor? Let it shine in your profile. Those are the things that are going to get you attention—not lame apologies.

4. That gay you think you’re supposed to be? You don’t have to be that. Not ever. Substitute the word ‘straight’ or ‘lesbian’ or ‘bi’ for the word gay in that sentence, if it applies to you. The point is that you don’t have to conform to any stereotypes. You don’t have to do it to get laid. You don’t have to do it in order to find someone. Nor do you have to do it to live a happy life.

If the pursuit of a summer bod in the middle of January is making you miserable and guilty because you’re preferring to stay at home and watch old Gilmore Girls episodes on Netflix, go spend an evening with the residents of Star’s Hollow. If you’re a twenty-five-year-old guy who’s hiding his attraction to older men because your friends think it’s disgusting to be seeing someone older, get up, get out, and go hunting for your perfect daddy. If you’re miserable being out at the bar drinking and yelling “YASSSSS” to anything and everything, leave the table and go somewhere more congenial to you, whether it’s to a Gay Geeks meeting, a karaoke dive, or to the movies. You don’t to be the bear who says WOOF! the most, who decorates his apartment with paws and claws and the bear pride flag.

You don’t have to remain unhappy and closeted, just so you don’t make waves. Likewise, you don’t have to be straight person who marries his or her high school sweetheart and works in the family business, just to please your mom and dad. You don’t have to follow the paths they followed, or tread unwelcoming roads simply because everyone else in your college class did.

But do yourself this favor. If you find yourself feeling you have to live a certain way—whether it’s saying things you don’t want to say, professing beliefs you don’t believe, doing things you don’t want to do, or publicly shunning sexual acts you secretly crave—take ten minutes, a half hour, a week, and really think about the reasons you’re going through with that shit. I’m willing to bet that under scrutiny, you’ll realize that attempting to live up to the expectations of others at the expense of your own desires is making you miserable.

Your life is too short to spend it in misery.

5. Attempt the Handsomeness Experiment. Several years ago I wrote about the Handsomeness Experiment in one of my blog entries. A good friend and former lover of mine had a very difficult time accepting the fact that I found him desirable. Extremely handsome, even. In a post-coital moment, he murmured that I made him feel like an entirely different person.

I suggested that he give himself to be an entirely different person. Just for a day.

Much to my surprise, my friend decided to give it a shot. He got up the next morning and wrestled with the decision for a few minutes, but ultimately decided to spend one day—just twenty-four hours—walking through his life while pretending he was a handsome and desirable fellow, instead of the freakish gargoyle he apparently liked to fancy himself. He looked cute guys in the eye when they talked to him. He walked like a handsome man. He interacted with others not in a way designed to hide from them, or to efface himself, but in the way he believed a handsome man might.

Improbable as it might sound, the experiment really tickled and amazed him. Strangers responded to him differently. A barista gave him a free cookie. A free cookie. In my universe, a free cookie is like a direct tap on the shoulder from God, giving the thumbs-up. For the first time in thirty years, my friend actually felt handsome.

So this is my advice to those of you who need a little foxiness in your lives: give yourself permission to be handsome. Give yourself permission to be desirable. Give yourself permission to be lovable, and hot, and a sexual superstar. Maybe you won’t feel it at first, but get out of your home and, with the world as your stage, act all those things. Act the hell out of it, even just for one day. Then maybe another. Then maybe some more after that.

And if you can’t give yourself the permission? Take mine. I grant it willingly. You deserve to feel good about yourself—at any age.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

The Gift

The Puppy greets me at the door wearing the Christmas gift I’d given him: a black wrestling singlet, edged in red. The spandex pulls tightly at his crotch, squeezing his goods into a small, tight package that’s easy to grab. He’s already erect when I step inside his front door; all that meat of his juts forward to stab my hip as I squeeze by and let him close the door.

Outside, it’s frigid. I’m wearing a hooded windbreaker, with a heavy sweater and t-shirt beneath. He’s wearing nothing but the singlet, so that his furry chest is on display. His hands reach up to my cold cheeks and pull my face down to his. I curve my neck while he stands on tiptoe, so we can navigate our very different heights. Our lips meet. His warm mouth parts eagerly to welcome my tongue.

As we kiss, I run my hands over him. I’ve only had the briefest glimpse of how my gift hugs his body, but now, next to each other, I relish the sensations of my hand running over the taut spandex. It feels like liquid beneath my palms—warm here, where the smooth fabric cups his buttocks, cooler here, where it barely touches the concavities beneath the ribs and above the hips. The edging just above his ass tantalizes me; my fingertips pry it from his skin and slide into the crevice just beyond. Now the flats of my hands warm themselves on the rounded mounds of his ass, while the spandex cools the knuckles and the backs.

He kisses me deeply. I’m reluctant to break apart from the intensity of our locked lips, but at last he releases me and falls down to the flats of his feet. His hands have rested on either side of my face; when I stand back up to my full height, they remain in place, as if grasping some ghostly memory of me. His eyes open, and then his hands drift down, slowly. I admire the dazed expression lingering on his face. “I don’t know about you,” I tell him, aware that I’m still bundled up for the cold temperatures outside, “but I’m going into the bedroom.”

He holds my hand as I lead him there. I kick off my sneakers, leave my coat and hat on his dresser, and then shimmy out of my sweater. Then I lie down on the bed. He starts to pounce on me, but I keep him at arm’s length. “Nuh-uh.” I lean back on the bed, prop my head up with my locked fingers, and assume a stance of relaxation. “Show it off for me.”

“What?” he says. He breaks into one of his shy smiles, and almost giggles.

“Your singlet,” I say. Then I nod for him to back up. “Show it off.”

For a fleeting few seconds I witness a struggle on his face. He’s almost paralyzed by shyness and self-consciousness, while at the same time he’s anxious to do what I’m tell him. In the end, he looks askance at the floor as he backs up, but darts little looks to judge my reaction all the while. He stands square to my view, hanging his head low so that his mutton chops graze the fur of his chest, and stares me down. His hands grope for the hardness that pushes the singlet’s pouch into an obscene projection. His lips purse; he studies me for a response.

I lift my index finger and twirl it around. I want to see his ass.

He obeys the silent command and turns around. With a hand on each each, he rubs the half-globes of his ass in circles, the circles rotating in opposite directions. The singlet has a thick plastic zipper in back. It takes all my patience and strength not to lunge at the pull. The Puppy turns his head slowly to regard me over his left shoulder. Light from the bedroom window, shrouded both by blinds and the drapery covering them, captures the bearded fringe of his jawline in profile. It’s a classic position, immortalized by any number of Renaissance painters. Raphael never had a subject this handsome, however; Titian was never privileged to have so breathtaking a boy showing off expressly for his pleasure.

It’s a curious dynamic, this. I’m the one in control. It’s my desires that drive our time together, it’s I who set the pace, the positions, the activities. I own the Puppy’s hole—and he tells me so, leaving no uncertainties. Yet he’s the one who can reduce me to breathlessness with a single turn of his head. He’s the boy who can summon my erection with a tilt of his head, who can make it even more rigid wimply by grinding his hips. He has ownership of me, too, whether or not I’m willing to admit it.

I can’t stand any more teasing. I crook my finger. “Come here,” I order. The silent tension broken, he grins, then leaps onto my reclining body. I catch him, and squeeze the rude bulge that’s causing so rude a protrusion. He sucks in air; his eyes close. Then slowly I unzip the pouch and pull the spandex to release his dick. “Thank you,” he gasps. His breaths are shallow, and his chest rises and falls quickly. The Puppy’s dick is rigid. Its tip is slick with precum. Even now, the tip releases a sticky globe of the stuff that glistens in the filtered light like dew. It must have been cramped, stuffed in those tight confines.

“Suck me,” I say.

He’s unbuttoning my jeans before I’ve even finished making the suggestion. He stands to tug the legs off at the ankle, then folds the denim and lays it on the bureau. Then he’s tugging down my trunks set free the monster within.

“Look what I’m wearing,” I whisper.

His Christmas gift to me had been a cock ring, the word BREEDER engraved in the aluminum. It’s lightweight and comfortable; the metal conducts heat easily. If the state of my concrete-hard dick is anything to go by, the ring should now be hot to the touch. I’ve positioned the ring so that the word arches above my dick facing out—in other words, clearly visible and right-side-up to the cocksucker between my legs. I shove my dick down, pointing it to my toes, so that the cock ring is clearly visible. I’ve got to admit—it looks fucking great on me.

“You like?”

“I love,” he starts to say, but the words garble as he closes his throat around my dick.

He’s eager. Almost too eager. I always prolong the big reveal of my dick with him to the point that when it finally emerges, he’s starving and anxious for it. He gulps down so eagerly that he nearly chokes, but then falls into a familiar rhythm of rising and falling along its length. The cock ring is almost more of a gift to him than it is to me. But then again, the singlet’s almost more for my benefit than his, too.

I have to have his hole, though. There’s no getting around it. I remove the singlet and let it puddle on the floor, then position the boy face down on the mattress with one of his pillows propping up his hips. Then I proceed to make him whimper and plead as my lips and tongue attack his most private place. He smells like soap, of course, but there’s some essence, uniquely his, that lingers. I’ll be smelling him on my moustache all evening, I know. Already, with my mouth firmly affixed to his pucker, I’m anticipating the pleasurable hours I’ll spend curling my upper lip to my nostrils to relish this scent.

There’s a bottle of Liquid Silk on the bedside table. I pump some onto my fingers and let them curl into his hole, releasing the lubricant deep within. Another glob spirals around my cock, already colored a deep red from the combination of the BREEDER ring and the sheer lust that seems to be pumping all my blood into it. I can feel the throb of the vein that runs along the top of the shaft as I release my meat; it springs up and nudges the boy’s hole.

“I want you sniffing those poppers,” I warn him.

His hand darts out to grab the bottle of Rush that sits by the lube. I have only enough patience to wait for him to unscrew the little cap and take the beginning of a deep sniff before I start to push in. “Go slow,” he begs.

I acknowledge the warning with a grunt, but I don’t stop pushing. My cock knows when to push ahead and when to stop. Between the desire that’s wrenching his ass upward, forcing himself to grab at me with the lips of his hole, and the relaxation the poppers inspire, he’s opening up rapidly. My bare cock slides into the widening cavity before it. His head lifts; his back arches. The Puppy is lost in a moment of raw and unadulterated sensation, I can tell. It’s sending waves of shivers over his body, causing his ass to contract and squeeze me deeper inside.

“There you go,” I whisper in his ear. “You’ve got all of me, now.”

“I love it,” he murmurs into the bedding. His arms are curled up to clutch the pillow like a boy might hug his teddy bear. For all his fur and facial hair, in fact, the Puppy looks like a child fallen asleep. His ass still rises to meet mine, and his every anal muscle clutches at me desperately, but with his closed eyes, and with the way he seems sunken heavily into the pillowy mattress, he seems utterly relaxed. Lost into himself. Artless.

It’s a beautiful sight.

My favorite position with the Puppy is to lie atop him with my cock parting and stretching his hole as deeply as possible. It’s an attitude that allows me to rest my weight upon him, which he loves, while reaching my arms around his torso. Our bodies move together in sync. When my lips rest on the back of his neck, gently kissing and nibbling there, he cries out in pleasure. I wish I knew what he was feeling, from the inside—but the cries and moans he make let me know how happy he is.

After several minutes of this pleasure we swap positions. My other favorite position with the Puppy—and who am I kidding, they’re all favorites as long as my bare dick is inside his hole—is when he sits on my cock. He does so now, straddling it expertly as he leans forward to pin my hands to the pillow above my head. Our mouths meet to kiss, but he says nothing as he rises and falls on my dick. My inches are a deep purple, now, engorged and puffy with pleasure as he churns it with determination. His hips gyrate in a circular motion, taking my cock not only on the vertical, but swiveling it in an ellipse around its base. There’s not much chance I can hold off much longer.

I wrench loose my hands so I can grab another handful of Liquid Silk. I slap it onto his own dick and curl my hand around that rock-hard flesh. Now he’s receiving tactile overload at both ends—from the ass that’s being stretched beyond belief, and from fucking the tight, wet cylinder my hand is making. His breath is nothing more than meager pantings. Sweat beads over his skin. Our eyes meet, and lock.

“Tell me,” I say to him. Am I ordering, or pleading? Even I’m not certain. “Tell me.”

“Stop!” he suddenly demands.

His tone—loud, normal, an intrusion into the quiet intimacy of our fuck—is a slap to the face. I’m so shocked by the order that immediately I lie still. My hand still clutches him, but my hips stop racing to meet his. Time freezes, suspended for what seems like indefinitely—though it’s really only for a moment. I feel the heavy thud of my heart in my rib cage; I force air through my nostrils while my senses adjust to the sense of alarm and worry. Have I pushed him too far? Have I done the wrong thing, said something forbidden? Have I hurt him, somehow?

Frozen, we stare at each other without sound, without words. Then his lips part. “I love you,” are the words he speaks. Slowly. Deliberately. Every word spoken distinctly, so that I hear and understand.

The declaration is like electricity returning after a long outage. Beneath my fingertips, I feel the underside of his cock pulse. Once. Twice. Then I feel the sensation of something warm and sticky splattering across my chest—one time, then two. Somewhere in the background a clock begins ticking again as time resumes its march. There’s a pungent smell, chlorine-like, as he douses me with more of his sperm. It strikes the side of my face, paints my chest and shoulders and the pillows on which I lie with a Jackson Pollock-like signature. He continues to fuck my hand as his ass clutches once more at the base of my dick.

“You want it?” I ask. “You want my load in you?”

“Cum in me, dad,” he begs. He bites his lower lip, and his eyes close. He has a job to do.

Expertly he rides me, yanking at my dick with every crazy twist of his hips. He knows what to do to make me shoot. It’s only moments before I’m ready. My jaw juts forward; I know I look primal, angry even, as I lunge upward to drive into him as deeply as I can. My cock pulses and unleashes jets of cum into his hole. A week’s worth of cum is what I drive into the boy’s guts. The release isn’t so much pleasurable as it is necessary—essential. Even as the orgasm diminishes, I continue to thrust up and into him. My instinct is to breed as deeply as possible. To mark him. To make that ass mine. Urgency overtakes pleasure. My continuing instinct is ownership—not self-indulgence.

He collapses on top of me, and his semen glues us together. The Puppy is so sweaty that he nearly squelches as his skin slides on mine. I wrap my arms around him, protecting my property, as my cock continues gently to stretch and slide in his chute. He could fall asleep like this, I know—well fucked and exhausted from his efforts.

But my dick’s not finished with him. Not yet. He might not know it yet, but he’ll have to wait a while before he can relax. Then once again I’ll admire the beauty of him as he lets loose and allows himself to love and be loved with abandon, without restraint.

Of all the gifts he could give me, that’s the greatest.