“What’re you thinking?”
The guy straddling my hips has his hands hooked around the back of his neck, elbows angled upward to display twin Brillo-like patches of armpit hair. Little coils of chest fuzz spring from between his nipples; his eyes are a luminous white against skin the color of strong coffee. He’s had my cock buried in him for the better part of ten minutes, and he’s been milking it steadily the entire time. Our mingled juices flow down my shaft to make my pubes lie slick and flat against my skin.
“Hmmm,” I eventually say to his question. “I’m thinking my dick feels great inside you.”
I like the way he’s leaning back against nothing, showing off his muscular body for me. The kid has a cocky grin on his face. Kid. He’s in his early thirties. Still a kid to me. “And I’m thinking you look good, too.”
“No. . . .” he says, and for a charmed moment I think he’s being shy or modest or some such shit. He ducks his face away from me, then looks slyly back. “I mean, what’re you thinking in your head?” For a confused second, I wonder if he’s assuming I’m able to do my thinking somewhere else? In an external portable thinking pod, maybe? “Don’t you write as we do this?” he goes on to clarify.
“Oh,” I said, comprehension finally dawning.
“You know. Tell me. What’s my entry going to say?”
Antonio . . . welcome to your tape.
I confess that when I hook up with someone—readers, regular fucks, doesn’t matter—I have a writer’s habit of attempting to memorize details. My eyes try to scan a fellow so I’ll remember his appearance, so later I can bring a sketch of him a bit to life when I write a journal entry. My ears listen for dialogue, picking up little quirks of speech and snatches of what men say when they're alone and unguarded; my other senses attempt to ferret out the meanings behind what’s left unsaid. Body language. Where a man’s eyes focus—or don’t. The passion he puts into his lovemaking.
I’m always drinking it all in, storing it all up until that time comes when at last I sit down with my notebook and try to put my thoughts back in order. That’s when I sort through the sense memories, reconnect the strands of dialogue, and attempt to link actions with intentions.
“I don’t really write it in my head as I go along,” I chuckle. In my head, though, I’m thinking . . . .
The boy looked shyly at me, his thick eyelashes almost batting like a Southern belle’s. “What’s my entry going to say?” he teased.
“I don’t really write it in my head as I go along,” I chuckled, thrusting more deeply into his hole to wipe the coquettish smile from his lips.
As an afterthought, I thrust more deeply into his hole. That action doesn’t, however, wipe anything. “C’mon,” Antonio wheedles. “Tell me what you’re going to say. Are you going to tell your readers I’m the sexiest boy you’ve fucked?”
I’m still in a good mood, and he’s keeping my dick hard, so I’m willing to play along. “Eh.”
It’s a tease, and he knows it. His ass clamps down like a vise, making me throb. “Fucker. Are you going to tell them I’m the best fuck you’ve had?”
“Are you going to be the best fuck I’ve had?” I ask, this time more serious.
“Damn straight.” His palms rest for a moment on my shoulders to press me down. Then he places them onto the mattress and leans over me. He’s got a handsome face. His facial hair is carefully trimmed and shaven close; his eyes are a deep brown. They stare at me with an intensity that makes me harder. Nearer and nearer he comes. I tilt my chin up to meet him in what I’m sure is going to be a passionate kiss.
“Your blogger buddy said I was ‘one of the hottest pieces of ass I’ve had in years,’” he instead informs me, breaking the momentary spell he’s cast.
I blink. I’m not really able to tell whether or not he’s teasing. When Antonio originally contacted me, he did with almost a letter of reference, suggesting I consult another sex blogger’s website to see what the guy had written about their encounter. I wasn’t really familiar with the other blogger, and if I may be blunt, I didn’t think much of his writing style, or the fact that his entries were a basic no-details format that all read along the lines of Met this guy on Grindr who said he wanted my big cock, so he came over to the apartment and got on his knees and took my cock and nut in him, fuck yeah! But the blogger in question had indeed said that Antonio was a hot piece of ass—which I guess at the time was good enough for me.
Antonio had come at me hard, too. I love your blog, been reading you since the beginning, he said, which I always take in with a grain of salt to mean that they’ve read maybe the last two entries before clicking on the links to one of my sex profiles. I’ve been fucked by the rest. I want to be fucked by best.
And if there’s a theme that readers should pick up on in this series of posts, it’s that I’m sadly susceptible to this line of flattery. Compliment me on my dick photos alone and I’m likely to be kindly disposed to you, sure. Compliment me on my dick and my writing? Like a bad habit, I’ll be handing out my phone number and a GPS location while shouting, LET’S FUCK, BABY.
“Don’t talk about my skin problems,” he says, pausing his gyrations on my cock. “When you write about me, I mean.”
“What skin problems?” I ask, baffled. I’m looking at his face for old scars or blemishes, but there are none.
He actually lifts up on his knees so that my dick falls out of his hole with a wet plop on my belly, and pivots around. “Right here,” he says, pointing to an area on his shoulder blades. All I really see is dark skin, but he indicates an area of imaginary acne with his fingers. “I get these breakouts. That’s why I wanted to sit on you, so you wouldn’t see it if you fucked me from behind.”
“That’s why I wanted to sit on you, so you wouldn’t see it if you fucked me from behind,” says the boy, craning his neck to see the imaginary spot over his right shoulder, I write, in my head.
“You know how else I wouldn’t have seen it?” I growl. “If you hadn’t stopped mid-fuck to FUCKING SHOW IT TO ME.”
I don’t follow that plot path, though. Instead, I try to get things back on track. “I have no intention of writing about your skin problems,” I assure him. I take him by the hips. My cock is rigid, standing straight up in the air. It would be so easy to sit him back down on it.
“When I was a teen, my mama used to have to take me in for shots, it got so bad.”
“Well, I can barely see anything now, so. . . .”
“Those shots hurt like a son of a bitch. And the pus. Used to leave stains.”
Readers, there’ve been many times I’ve set out what I think are some basic rules for bottoms to follow. Usually they run: show up when you say you’ll show up. Treat your top with respect, and he’ll pay you back in kind. Remember that even if getting the load is your goal, still make your top feel good; he might be inclined to see you more often that way.
Not once have I before felt compelled to lay down what I think should be one of the most fundamental laws of sexual interaction: Never, ever, go into lengthy discussions about pus while copulating.
“Sometimes it was greenish.” He shuddered, and readers, so did I. “It was nasty.”
I felt emboldened to speak up. “How about we not talk about pus?” I suggested. I’m pretty sure it was the first time ever I’ve had to speak that particular sentence aloud, during sex.
“You’re right,” he smiled. He went silent, and groped for my cock. A moment later, I was back in the warm confines of his ass.
So we’re fucking. He’s grinding. I’m moving my hips in a circular motion myself, pulsating in and out of his slick chute. For a moment, everything’s back on track, and I’m absolutely prepared to ignore the disgusting conversation we’d moved past, and enjoy the rest of the fuck.
“Aw, shit, I know a couple of people who are going to crap their pants when they find out I got you,” he says.
The fact I’m blinking my eyes rapidly at his remark is what clues me in to the fact that I’m irritated, long before the itchy effects of the emotion actually begin to register in my brain. There’ve been several times I’ve suspected that guys have bedded me more for the bragging rights than the actual sex. Once they get my notch on their belt, I never hear from them again.
“The Breeder. I’ve got the Breeder’s dick in my tail. I wonder how many loads the Breeder is going to shoot up my hot ass. Maybe I’m the Breeder’s hottest piece of ass.”
“Ssssshh,” I suggest, putting a finger on his lips. For a ridiculous moment I remind myself of Dianne Wiest in Bullets over Broadway, shushing the loquacious Jon Cusack with an imperious Don’t speak!
Silence falls yet again.
Something’s broken, though. My dick’s still hard, but at this point it’s more out of mechanical reflex than actual desire. I don’t really want to be here, with this guy, at this moment. I could’ve relished the fuck if he hadn’t kept talking about it—if he hadn’t kept trying to make me experience it as a finished piece of writing that, in his mind, apparently went I met this guy named Antonio who wanted my big cock and he came over to my place and got on his knees and took my cock and nut in him, and fuck, was he the hottest piece of ass the Breeder has ever had.
Part of me felt as if he expected me to be taking fucking dictation while he took my fucking dick. Mostly, though, I feel shut down, shut up, backed into a corner. He'll wait months to read about himself before figuring out it's an entry that will never be coming. What have I got left to write about, when he’s yanking my words away from me, phrase by phrase?
Antonio is still staring up at the ceiling, absent and lost in his own little world as he bounces up and down. “Maybe I’ll be your next Spencer. What do you think about that?”
Oh, I think to myself. Maybe he did read more than two entries.
But I still think it’s as unlikely an outcome to this particular scenario as one can get.
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.