During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.
Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.
What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.
Maybe one of these men is you.
If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.
My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.
All of us could stand to do better.
Tape 1: Dad
There are some fantasies I can get behind.
Can I tell you something personal and true? he texts me, one hot spring morning.
You know you can, I say.
When I stumbled on your blog, I read your latest entry with the biggest boner, sir. It was hard not to jack off and shoot right there. You write so well, sir.
I’m sitting on my front porch, reading these words. There’s a big plastic cup of ice water sweating onto the table at my side. I reach for it, intending to drink, but my fingertips rest on the dewy surface instead, as another text pops up on my screen.
Then I read more, and more, thinking to myself, could this be . . . ? I thought I recognized you, sir. Something about the way you used your words. It sounded familiar. Then I noticed you had links to your profiles on your page, so I clicked them.
My cock stirs in my sweat shorts. I know good storytellers. This guy’s a storyteller, plain and simple. Between that and the flattery, he’s hooked me from the first line. I’m willing to follow wherever he goes.
Then fuuuuuck, sir. I saw who it was. The man I’d been rubbing myself to, the man I’d been fantasizing about giving myself to—YOU. I saw your pictures, dad. My own dad. The man whose seed made me.
I swallow. I’m still thirsty; my hand still rests on the moist tumbler of water, but I’m so rapt, so aroused, that such a mundane act as lifting the glass to my lips might break the spell.
Do you remember teaching me, dad? At night? In my bed? After mom had gone to sleep?
He expects an answer. I wouldn’t forget that, my fingers tap out. My heart is pounding so fast that I stumble over the tiny letters on my touchscreen. I wouldn’t forget teaching my own son.
It hurt so much that I thought I’d die the first time you opened my hole. Remember? How old was I?
You don’t remember?
I think I was 12 or 13. The fantasy he’s spinning conjures images, imaginary but with the sharp clarity of recollection—the distinct tang of an adolescent’s laundry hamper, the flash of a taut white ass by moonlight, the sound of a moan as my hard dick thrusts into soft flesh. I’d fantasized about it happening, and then you did it. You taught me how to take dick. My own father taught me to take his breedings.
At this point I’ve forgotten about the water entirely. My shorts are tented; my dick is rigid and in need. You needed to learn, I tell him in a text. My boy needed to learn.
He starts sending me photos. You haven’t seen me in a long time. Look how I’ve grown, he says, sending me a shot of his big, muscular body sprawled out on his sofa. His legs are spread. His dick, ignored, is a fat uncut log that lies across his hairy abdomen. His hands are spreading the golden-red cleft of fur surrounding his hole; his mouth is open in an expression of ecstasy. In another photo he’s sucking dick, his bearded jaw stretched wide to accommodate a fat black dick, while another white hand reaches from behind to grab his curly red hair. The guy—my supposed son—is fucking beautiful.
He could be mine, I think. More photos come in, each of them increasingly explicit. This ginger muscle bear of a man could have been my spawn. I would have been, well, seventeen when he was born. But it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of plausible belief.
When you and mom divorced and she took me away, I never thought I’d see you again, dad. Then I find out you’re a sex blogger . . . and still so handsome and sexy to boot. I am the luckiest boy.
On my porch, I clear my throat. There’s no hesitation when I tap out my reply. Let me make you happy in person.
I was hoping you’d say that. I’m so happy. You’ve made me so happy, dad. Will you be writing about me in your blog?
Do you want me to, son?
Yes. I want to make you proud. I’m proud that my dad is my lover. I want everyone to know about it.
We meet the next day. He makes it easy for us to connect; he doesn’t have to work during the day, his apartment is a block away from the 7 train. He wants me there. He wants to make this good for me. He wants his dad. The need is apparent in every text he sends, in every lewd photo he shares. Even as I’m taking the train to Queens, he’s texting me every couple of minutes to check on my arrival time. When I’m strolling down the block past the noisy bodega, he’s sending me a real-time photo of his furry hole.
He buzzes me in. I climb up two flights of stairs and knock. There’s a sound of footsteps on the other side. The door opens. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a jock and a pair of white sneakers.
He’s only an inch or two shorter than I. Flat red nipples sit on perfect pecs, surrounded by and covered by his red-gold fur. His beard, bushy and carefully-cultivated, reaches to his collarbone. His green eyes are alight with desire as he looks me over. This boy is so beautiful. I’m already breathless from the walk and the climb and the nervousness of the first meeting; the sight of him standing there nearly naked, his rigid short dick trying to poke a hole through one side of the jock, temporarily knocks out of me what wind I have remaining.
We stand there silently for a moment, each of us framed on either side of the door. “I know it’s been years since mom took me away from you, sir. But have I changed much?” He clears his throat. Maybe he’s as nervous as I. “Have I changed a lot, dad?”
“No, son.” I step forward through the door. I put my hands on the sharp bones of his pelvis, and let my fingers slip beneath the elastic of the band. “You’re still my boy.” When I plant my lips on his, and thrust my tongue into his mouth, he relaxes and melts into my hands.
His apartment is a mess—a narrow warren of hallways and small rooms where suitcases are stacked on top of bookcases on top of cabinets, where clothes are tucked under the desk and in the wardrobes and under the bed. It smells of cigarette smoke and some neighbor’s seafood lunch. I don’t give a fuck about the squalor. I’ve got my boy back at last. I lead him to the bed as if I already know the way, and shove him onto his back. His legs fly up as I kneel on the mattress and separate them with my knees; he links his fingers behind his head to lift it as we kiss even more deeply. He wears no deodorant; his pits smell musky and masculine. “Oh god, dad,” he moans. “I used to worry that all my memories of us were a dream, that you didn’t love me any more.”
“I didn’t forget you, son,” I say into his ear. My lips travel down his jawbone. “I couldn’t forget my only boy.”
“Do you remember when you used to come to my room after fucking mom? Do you remember what you used to say to me?”
He’s clearly expecting an answer. My mouth is more interested in chewing on those broad, flat nipples of his, but I venture a guess. “I know I used to tell you how you were a much better fuck than she was,” I say, as I drive my fingers into that hairy cleft framed by the jock. I find his hole lubed already, slick and ready for my fingers. He groans as they slip inside.
“Yesssss,” he whispers. He unhooks his fingers and grabs the toes of his sneakers to open his ass wider for me. “Did you mean it? Was I really a better fuck?”
“Oh god yes, son. So much better.”
“Was my pussy sweeter?’
“What was it you used to call me, that special nickname that you’d use when we were naked together?”
My dick is raging in my shorts, and I’ve stood up from the bed to let it loose. The question takes me aback a little. I try to think quickly, despite the fact that the blood that’s usually in my brain is all now located in the eight fat inches emerging over the elastic of my trunks. “Um. Daddy’s little buddy?”
“Yes.” He sighs with contentment as I kneel back on the bed. “You’re going to fuck me now, aren’t you, dad. You’re just going to take me, like you used to. Your right. I’m your boy, after all. I'm daddy’s little buddy.”
“You want to be fucked? You want dad’s dick in you again, little buddy?”
“Please dad. Please fuck me. Just fuck your son. Fuck me. Fuck me. Aaaaaah!”
He yells when I plunge in. He’s pre-lubed, and I’ve added some spit to the mix, but he’s a tight, tight fit.
“Oh god, yes. Yes. I’m so happy.”
I like making boys happy.
He sighs, contented. “So, so happy.”
I slide in an out, establishing a rhythm. He’s hanging onto his ankles like a gymnast; his face is red and flushed with heat and excitement. All this time, every moment of it, I’ve been trying to memorize the details—the hardened glint of his green eyes, the prickles of red on his skin as our fuck intensifies, the softness of his hole wrapped around my rigid meat. He’s giving me so much to remember, to write about. The entry I write about him will sizzle. Entry? Fuck. I’ll becoming back for more of this. Entries. “You still take my dick like a pro, son.”
“Thank you dad,” he says,
There’s a pause. We stare hard at each other, for the last time both perfectly content.
Then. “Remember when mom went away for a week? And you and me were alone?” I nod. Okay. Sure. “After you and mom argued? What did you argue about again?”
I’m still maintaining a steady rhythm that falters one for a split second as I try to grapple with his out-of-the-blue question. “Our arguments had nothing to do with you, son. You were a good boy.”
“I know, I know you loved me. But what did you argue about?”
He could’ve let it drop. Anyone else would’ve let it drop. But this one didn’t let it drop. “It was about money, son.”
“Yes, about money. And then she went away for a week. Where did she go?”
Christ, I thought. Seriously? “She went to stay with her sister.”
“Which one, dad?”
I blinked several times. “Your Aunt Rachel.”
“Aunt Rachel had boys too, didn’t she?” Where in the world was this going? “Didn’t she have two boys? My cousins?”
“Yes, son. She did,” I said, agreeing with him. Maybe it was the fastest way to get him back into the fuck.
“What were their names, dad?”
“I don’t remember, son. We hardly ever saw them.”
“Did you ever look at them, dad? Did you ever want to pound your fat dick into them the way you fucked me?”
I pulled my dick out of his hole. It gaped as I withdrew, and pulsated in need. “No, son. The only boy I wanted to fuck was you. My own beautiful boy. Daddy’s little buddy.”
“Oh fuck,” he says, so softly it’s little more than air. I’ve made him happy again. Finally. After all the damned questions. “Thank you, dad. Thank you so much.”
Okay. We’re back in the groove again. I pick up the pace as I plunge in and out of his hole. He’s shoved a pillow under the small of his back to support himself as he lifts his ass up with every thrust to meet me. I’m leaning down to kiss him when once again he opens his mouth to speak. “Remember how you comforted me when my dog died?”
He’s not doing this now, I think, appalled. Aloud, I say, “Really?”
“Yes, it really meant a lot to me. What was the dog’s name?”
“Bingo?” I blurt out, mortified at how ridiculous it sounds as it flys out of my mouth. A thousand dog names to choose from, and of everything I could choose, fucking BINGO as the name-o?
He didn't even seem to realize how absurd it was, either. “I was really sad when we had to put down Bingo, but you made me forget it all that night when you came to me in my room,” he said, so totally lost in the fantasy that he failed to see the increasing annoyance registering on my face. “You were deep inside me and holding me in your arms and you said. . . .”
What the actual fuck. Was this dude kidding me? Was a fucking camera hidden in the mess surrounding the bed? Was there a smarmy host of a YouTube sexual prank show about to pop out and tell me that I was being punked?
Despite the fact that I was being rapidly turned off at his weird insistence I participate in some weird kind of game of Incestual Mad Libs, I gamely tried to yank his attention back to the here and now. To me and to my fat dick inside him. To what was happening, to what was going on—to get his mind off the baroque fantasy for which he was attempting to enlist me as a mere collaborator. “You’ve got to forget all the bad times, son. Focus on the moment. You like dad’s cock, right?”
Maddeningly, he runs with it and says, “Yes, that’s exactly what you said. And it consoled me so much. You always know the right thing to say, dad. Remember when you got me my first jock? How old was I?”
“Fourteen,” I snap. Maybe if I just fuck and pretend I'm somewhere else, I'll get my nut and then I could plead some excuse to make a quick exit. Like a dog’s funeral, say.
“Right. Fourteen, and you took me to….”
“Dick’s Sporting Goods.” I preemptively add, “Bike brand. Four-ninety-five.”
“And you put it on me, didn't on you. My first jock, and you put it on me and told me I was a man now. You said that the coach would look at my ass in that jock. What was the coach’s name, dad?”
“Hey. Son. I’m not interested in him, or those memories.” I sounded brusque. I knew it. I couldn't conceal my testiness or my annoyance any longer. Having sex with this guy, muscle stud though he was, was like trying to fuck while a swarm of annoying gnats surrounded my head. Maybe a better man—or a more desperate man—might power through, but dammit, those gnats were fucking annoying. This casual encounter was turning out to have more lore than all three hundred films in the Lord of the Rings series. I fucking couldn't keep up.
But he persisted his wheedling. “What was the coach’s name?”
I excused myself to the guy’s filthy bathroom, where I remained until my temper subsided enough to leave politely.
To this day, you wonder why I won't return your online messages. Now you know.
You wanted me to write about you. For the longest time after that disastrous afternoon, I wouldn't. I don't like showing well-meaning souls behaving inanely. But by being deaf to my requests to engage in the present, to leave behind the fantasy, to set aside your complicated agenda—or at least bring it all into the moment—you turned powerful potential into the worst kind of reality.
You took a scorching hot premise for an encounter and ran too fucking far with it. In the process, you shut me down as a writer. If I'd recorded the truth of that hot spring afternoon as it really happened, you'd have hated it. If I'd glossed over your shortcomings, if I'd written puff porn for my blog, I'd have hated myself. So I stayed silent.
I don’t keep a blog to stay silent. Doing so left me a little more dead inside. At least, until now, long after, when I’m addressing a one of many resentments I should have confronted long ago.
Welcome to your tape, son.