Only For You, Sir

Just parked in the lot outside, sir.

I’m lying on the king-sized bed in my hotel room, naked in the dark, when the phone lying on the bedside table lights up with the text, illuminating the popcorn ceiling above. I lift my head, grab the device. My cock comes to life, slowly lolling to one side as it grows heavier and thicker. I’ve already considered how I’m going to reply, so it’s but the work of a moment to thumb out a response.

Dad is taking a nap in room 208, son. Let yourself in and wake him up the way you used to.

After I hit send, I spring to my feet and pad across the carpet. My cock is still stiffening. It bounces and swings with every step. I angle my body so that it’s mostly hidden from the hall when I pull open the door. There’s a latch at the top intended to keep intruders from forcing their way in. I swing it so that it extends over the frame and prevents the door from swinging all the way shut. Then I scamper back to the bed once more, dive under the comforter, and arrange myself into a slumbering position: flat on my back, hands raised above my head, head tilted to one side.

While I wait, I take stock. There’s lube on the bedside table, with a couple of hand towels. The blackout curtain is pulled to maximum, so that despite the bright street sign of the Mexican restaurant next door, the room exists in perpetual twilight. My cock ring is snug against my balls. This position is stupid, though. Who sleeps on his back with his arms over his head like some cheesy porn magazine spread from the eighties? Onto my side I flop, as I tuck one of the many hotel pillows under the crook of my neck and pull the comforter up to my chin. This is how I really sleep.

My room isn’t far down the hallway from the elevator. Though the crack in my door is only a sliver, I can still hear the grind of mechanics as the elevator door slides open and the pad of approaching footsteps gradually grows louder. For a moment the room is bright as the door opens; then dark, as my visitor softly shuts it behind him and flips the latch. I consider closing my eyes to feign sleep—but why deny myself the sight of his shadowed figure kicking off his sneakers, removing his calf-high athletic socks? I watch as the boy drops a baseball cap onto the floor and crosses his arms to seize the hem of his t-shirt. There’s a crackle of static as he pulls it off, then lets it drop where he stands. The shorts and briefs he discards last. He steps out of both in one fluid motion, his back to me. I’d seen his ass in photos, but my first glimpse of it in the flesh—pale, round, and blue in the room’s gloom—takes my breath away. My dick pulses, fully hard.

I finally close my eyes when he turns. I feel a rush of cool air as the bedclothes lift. Quietly, softly, as if he’s actually fearful of waking me, the boy crawls into my bed and slides close to me. I feel a hand groping my midsection. It connects with my hip, slides to my rigid dick. Then a mouth, warm and wet, wraps around my shaft. I allow the boy to suck me for a moment or two before I stir. “Who’s there?” I ask sleepily.

He releases his hold on my meat and slides up until his head is on my pillow. “It’s me, dad. Barry. Your son.”

“Barry?” I ask. “But I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“I know, dad,” he says. There’s an earnest and even innocent yearning in his voice that moves me. It moves my cock, too, so that it butts against his hard stomach. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah? How?”

For response, he presses his mouth against mine and wraps his muscular arms around my chest to draw me close. When I slide my tongue through his open lips, I can feel him tremble with excitement. My hands roam up and down his hard body. The shortest of stubble grazes my palms when I slide them across his chest; though the crack of his ass is furry, the skin of the globes is shaved smooth. Even in the dark I can tell he’s handsome. His eyes remained closed as we make out; he sighs and shivers as my hands discover near places to explore.

When I gather spit onto my index and middle finger and spread the slippery stuff over his hairy hole, he rests his chin on my shoulder and lets out a little gasp. “I remember you like that,” I whisper to him.

“I do, dad. Oh god, I do.” He yanks off the comforter and lets it fall at the foot of the bed, admitting the cold to play over my skin. Then, with his big hands, he adjusts a couple of pillows and nestles me onto them, face up. He straddles my thighs. The guy is what—30? 32? I can’t remember from his profile. He’s got the hard, worked-out body of an athlete. I gaze at the broad plains of his pecs, the dark quarter-sized nipples, the flat and rippled valley of his abdomen, his narrow waist, the obliques that lead my gaze down to his erect dick. The glitter in my eyes must be obvious; shyly, he grins and covers himself like a Botticelli virgin, one hand crossed to his shoulder, the other slanted down to his hip.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember, son,” I whisper, as my hands run over his smooth flesh. When I cup his cock between my palms, it leaps from their embrace. “You’re all grown up now.”

I’ve never seen this guy before, of course. This meeting is our first. It hasn’t been at all difficult, however, to intuit the sexual fantasy that excites him the most, even without overt discussion. He’s a boy with daddy fantasies—and I’m a dad who’s happy to indulge him.

Goose flesh ripples out across his skin; I can see his nipples harden into points at my words. “You were my first, dad,” he whispers, his eyes half-closed, as he gives in to the vision.

“I am your best,” I correct.

The boy’s lids lift. Our eyes lock, as he nods. “Dad is always my best.” He lifts the tips of his middle three left fingers to his mouth to moisten them. His back arches as he reaches behind to wet his hole with the spit. “I need you inside me, sir.”

“I need you more, son. It’s been so long since you visited your poor old dad.” Ordinarily my M.O. is to take a little longer to get to this point. I like to finger the hole, get it slick, flip the boy over, eat him until he groans and begs for me to open him up. This hungry faggot has his own agenda, though. Every time I mention our putative relationship, his libido surges. He’s flooded with desire. I feel his fingers grapple to find my cock . . . which isn’t much of a feat, as it’s been standing erect and nudging against the boy’s ass cheek the entire time he’s been straddled over me. He guides me to the vicinity of his hole, lifts his hips. I know what’s coming next.

Or at least, I think I do. I’m anticipating the meeting of tip to hole, followed by the gradual accommodation of a tight chute as my thick hardness stretches its walls. What I get is the last thing I expect. This hungry bottom aligns my shaft to his point of entry, then simply impales himself in one violent motion. There’s no gradual anything, in his haste to engulf my entire eight-plus inches. One second my cock is exposed to the AC’s gentle breeze; the next it’s roughly swallowed by this boy’s hole. He lets out a mighty groan as he slams down on me, so loud that had I not already been blinking and thinking about the consequences of what might’ve happened had I not been so rigid, or aligned so perfectly, that I would’ve been completely taken out of the moment. But my dick’s still intact, and his insides feel warm and wet and in need of fucking . . . so I quickly find myself back in the mood.

“Fuck,” I whisper. He’s bucking and riding, head lolled back, eyes closed, hand on his dick. “You really needed that.”

“I needed to feel my daddy’s cock rip me wide open,” he says. Now he looks down at me. “Was that all right, sir?”

“Oh yes.” I reach up with my right hand to cup his chin and cheek. “It’s very all right.”

As I prop myself up on my elbows, he leans down to kiss me once more. My tongue bores deep into his mouth; my fingers cup the sides of his face. He leans onto the mattress with the heels of his hands and begins bucking wildly. The boy has great ass control. I can tell he’s trying to do some fancy milking of my dick with the considerable muscles of his glutes. The sensations are working for me. Other guys often try to produce the same effect, but it’s nowhere near as compelling as the way his chute clamps and loosens around my meat as his hips gyrate to and fro. I know I’m pumping out precum, because his ass grows more and more slippery as insistently he grinds.

His nipples are sensitive. Sensitive? That’s an understatement. When my thumbs and forefingers reach up to grasp them, his ass becomes a vise, his back arches, he throws his head back so abruptly I worry that he’ll wrench his neck. I twist. His body spasms; his lungs expel a low groan. All I have to do in order to tighten that already-taut hole is give those knobs a yank. It’s like turning the volume from zero to ninety with a simple pinch.

Finally he speaks. “This is exactly what I remember,” he manages to grunt out, syllables arriving in fits and spurts. “You inside me, in my bedroom.”

“After school,” I suggest.

His eyes open and look down into mine, full of love for the suggestion. “After school,” he agrees.

“You used to come home from lacrosse,” I say. I don’t know where the lacrosse came from. My dad played it as a kid, but I hadn’t thought about it in years. “All sweaty. Dragging that lacrosse . . . stick up the stairs. Your hair all tousled.”

Slowly he rocks, slowly milking my dick. “I would always hope you’d follow me, dad.”

“How could I stay downstairs after watching that hot ass walk by? I’m the father of the most beautiful boy in the world,” I say, giving the nipples another tug.

He clenches, moans, and begins to pick up the pace. “Did you really used to think that?”

“I still do.”

Our eyes lock. I hope he can read the truth in them—even if it’s our own truth we’re creating.

“You know most dads don’t have a relationship with their boys like we do.”

He nods. “You always said it was our secret.”

“Oh yes. Definitely our secret,” I reply.

“You said I shouldn’t tell anyone that my daddy shoves his massive cock up my butthole.”

I shake my head. “No, you definitely shouldn’t mention to anyone that your dad loves stretching that beautiful little butt.”

“Good boys keep secrets.”

“Like you always kept ours, son.”

Spinning this fantasy together, detail by detail, noticeably excites him. My boy is leaking from the tip of his cock onto my abdomen. As up and down he bobs on my dick, the spiderweb strands of precum stretch and slacken, glistening in what little light there is. “I just wanted my dad to keep pumping his seed in me forever.”

“Greedy.” When I say the word, he clenches down on my meat, as if attempting to wrench it from my body and forever keep it for his own.

“Only for you,” he whispers. “Sir.”

“Yeah?” I’m still toying with his nipples as if I’m maniacally twisting the dials on an old cathode-ray television with poor reception, but although his body is twitching and convulsing with every new sensation, our eyes remain open and locked upon each other. “You don’t say those pretty words to other daddies?”

“Only,” he reiterates, then pauses as he draws his ass up to just below the crown of my dick, and then slamming back down as roughly as he had upon first taking me, “for you, sir.”

“How about those sweet kisses, son?”

“Those,” he breathes, as he leans down and plants one on my lips, “are only for you.”

Our mouths devour each other. It may be a fantasy we’re weaving, but we’re spinning it mutually, in the moment. We’re fashioning something demonstrably false: a tissue of lies based upon nothing but desire and longing. Yet right then, with every word, with every thrust, with every kiss and fumble and groan, we’re creating something more than the mere two of us. Our own truths. Our own reality, contained entirely in the dark of that hotel room The sweet perfume of our mutual fancy smells like sweat, and testosterone, and the salty prickle of precum.

He is a greedy boy. Up and down his hole slams on my cock. He knows what he wants. He’s determined to get it. When it arrives, my semen jets into him, erupting almost painfully as if it’s molten. “I can feel it, dad,” he grunts, as I buck and struggle beneath him. He holds me down, keeps me from moving, as he shifts his determined grinding to a shorter, swifter rhythm. “I can feel you shooting. Just like you used to.”

I gargle out something that makes no sense. I’m lost in my orgasm. Shuddering. Shaking. Struggling to catch my breath. My boy’s cock is flopping up and down and striking my belly like a mallet attacks the tight skin of a timpani. And then, on one of its pendulous thuds as my own waves of pleasure subside, it erupts. His seed jets out, splatting onto my face, marking the pillows, covering my chest, then finally, slowly, oozing out onto my belly.

We’re both breathing heavily. Trying to reorient ourselves. Moistening our lips, wiping the sweat from our eyes. Is this going to be the moment when the fantasy dissipates, when dad and son become two perfect strangers and their exchanges become small talk? Or will we continue creating our own world together?

At long last, I clear my throat and speak. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet, son.”

He nods. “I hope you never will be . . . dad.” Then slowly, relentlessly, he begins grinding those hips once more.

Hole

It’s a chilly morning and my breath unfurls in frosty curlicues before me. The sun’s on my face as I walk toward the man’s apartment, however, and I’m still toasty from my car. I’m a little surprised to find him sitting on the building’s steps in gym shorts. His legs are spread, his smile broad as he recognizes me. He’s got one hand thrust into a lightweight jacket pocket. The other holds a cell phone. He lifts his chin in greeting, says something in Spanish to the person on the other end, then ends the call. “Come on inside,” he says.

This neighborhood is filled with apartment buildings like this. They look like single-family residences from the outside, once inside they’re a warren-like complex of tiny flats crammed into every available space. I let him maneuver around me in the tight stairwell once I’m inside, so that he can lead me down into the basement. There are three white wooden doors at the bottom of the steps. He opens one with his key, and escorts me in to a clean, surprisingly sunny residence. I pull off my jacket and toss it on the sofa as I glance around. There’s a tiny kitchenette, and a sofa where he’s tossed a Playstation controller, and a large television hung on the wall. Before I get a chance to look at more, though, the man puts his hands on my hips, and pulls me to him.

Our lips meet. The guy kind of looks a little bit like a brute. His shoulders and broad, his chest deep and developed. His Latin features are hewn rough on his face; his eyebrows are broad charcoal smudges. But his kisses are light. Wet. Soft. His mouth tastes sweet, like honey water.

While he holds the back of my head, refusing to let my lips pull away, his free hand unbuttons my shirt. I kick off my sneakers as he stares hard into my eyes. When I put my palm to his crotch, I feel the hardness there. For a split-second I worry that my hands are too cold from the raw morning. But he grinds forward at the pressure, and uses his wandering hand to grab the small of my back and yank me closer.

The rough treatment makes me let out the smallest of gasps. He hears me, though. He knows I like it. His hands move up to my shoulders, and push me down.

He helps me pull his shorts to his ankles, letting them and his underwear drop in one smooth, swift motion. His uncut cock is dark, chocolate-colored. The sheath covers almost the entire head; only the slit peeks out. Already it’s glistening. When I open my mouth wide and take the six inches to the root, he grunts.

Within seconds, my saliva lets my lips glide back and forth along the whole length of his shaft. I feel him shift from foot to foot as he spreads his legs and lets his balls dangle more freely. Then he seizes my skull and yanks it down, roughly, until his cock head is plugging my throat. I’d taken a deep breath at the appropriate time, though. I’m prepared to relax and let him savor the sensations as he impales me for a long moment. When I back off, though, and his cock slithers out and drops heavily from my lips to my chin to point to the floor, I’m gagging and gasping for air. My eyes sting from the tears he’s drawn with that thick, dark ramrod.

He likes the sight of those tears, too.

He enjoys watching me as I dive once more for my prize. Holding me at arm’s length, tilting my head as I suck and slobber. The man forces me to look at him as I go deep on his meat. His dark eyes bore down. Though I feel water filling mine every time he stretches my throat, I strive my hardest to keep from blinking. Only when I’m awash in my own tears do I finally squeeze my lids together. Rivulets stream down my cheeks.

When he moves me into the bedroom it’s nothing more than a rush of blur and motion—a few seconds of deprivation and an empty mouth. Then I’m lying on his high queen-sized mattress, rumpling the primly-made bedding, and he’s straddling my face. One of his big hands grabs the back of my head like a basketball, yanks it up, shoves a pillow beneath. Several times he shoves it down, craning my neck upward, until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t give a shit about my comfort. He’s just trying to get my open, begging mouth at the perfect angle for his dick. That dick is his only concern for the moment. His dick, and the wet mouth that he’s using.

And I’m not so much sucking him anymore as getting the hole fucked. I keep my jaw wide and my throat loose and my teeth wrapped with my lips. I want to stay out of his way as much as possible, basically, as he pounds my mouth. He bones it like pussy. He plants his palms into the mattress above my head and rests his weight there. His knees are splayed far to either side. The bony parts of his hips bruise my cheeks as he thrusts hard, in and out. My nose is full of the sharp, musky smell of his black pubes. It’s my responsibility to gulp breaths when I’m able—not his to facilitate it. I know what I’m there for.

I can tell he’s getting close when his precum begins to flood my mouth. It’s salty, slightly sour, slick enough to make the passage of his inches even faster and smoother. I feel his hips buckle, his legs twitch. Then he drives in to the back of my throat, smothering me with his pelvis, grinding those hairs so hard into my skin they abrade. I feel his meat swell and subside, grow and shrink, several times over until he’s finally dumped the entire load.

When finally he pulls out I’m both choking and trying to get air into my lungs, but I’m gracious enough—and proud—not to let my distress show. I swallow that thick, pungent semen and lick both it and his precum from my lips. I blink away the moisture from my eyes, and wipe my nose. He climbs off me, his mostly-hard dick swinging like a pendulum as he hops off the bed and pads into the bathroom.

I still have on my shoes, my pants, my shirt. Nothing came off. All I have to do is crawl off the bed and make sure everything’s tucked in, check my hair in the mirror. He emerges from the bathroom and tosses a lukewarm washcloth at me. While I wipe my face with it, he studies me. Taking it back, he comments, “Pretty good cocksucker for a white boy.”

I nod, grateful for the praise, then turn to go. “Hey,” he says, grabbing my forearm with a strong grip. Then he pulls me into another kiss—just as deep and passionate as before. “Come back sometime,” he whispers, looking into my eyes again. I nod again, and grin. He guides me to the door, undoes the chain locking it, and lets me out.

It’s still cold outside when I trip down his steps and onto the sidewalk. I can still see my breath on the air. But my hands are a little warmer, my face a little redder, and my throat a whole lot more sore when I make my way down the street with my long shadow dancing down the pavement before me.

Seven A.M., Cape Cod

Very few people are awake in this beachside community at seven in the morning. As I walk down the main street out of the commercial district, I pass a couple of locals still wiping sleep and sand from their eyes as they trudge into town. Very few cars, though. Everyone in this community is on foot.

It’s a sunny morning. Every now and then the clusters of seafront restaurants and shops give way to stretches of sand. Beyond the beach rolls the surf, which bears the cool breezes to shore. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt because I know the temperatures will soar once the sun rises above the rooftops. For now, though, it’s cool and almost chilly. There’s a spring in my step.

I pass the town hall, the shops, the library. Where the commercial district peters out are a mixture of tiny, three-table restaurants and art galleries, then guest houses and the occasional old hotel from the nineteen-fifties. Finally even those disappear, and I’m surrounded by houses on either side.

His place is past the ancient little grocery, a tiny hole in the wall where metal chairs on either side of the front door rust in the salt air. It looks like a regular Cape Cod home, but there’s an addition on the back that’s as big as a barn. A number of mailboxes by the sidewalk tell me that there are at least six apartments in the structure. I check my phone and read the note the guy sent me, then follow his instructions around the garden path to the back, then up the stairs to the second floor. A yellow welcome mat lies outside the door, as he said. I turn the knob and step quietly in.

It’s not wood, I think to myself. His profile said the private glory hole in his home was solid wood. But what’s separating the kitchen from the living room where I stand isn’t a sheet of plywood sporting a hole, but an actual cloth bedsheet suspended from a rod that dangles all the way to the floor. It’s got a tribal print that I couldn’t picture on any of my mattresses, any time, but what the fuck. It’s all right. The only part I intend to dirty are the several inches just below the oval he’s cut into it, down at mouth level.

I kick off my hiking sandals. Drop my shorts. Step out of my trunks. In the closeness of his apartment I’m a little sweaty, but that’s all right too. Then I align my junk with the hole and ease it through.

For a split second I can see the guy on the other side, knees splayed out on a nest of sheets and pillows. He’s naked. Furry. Tattooed. In his forties. He’s got a sleeve that starts at the collarbone and insinuates itself down his arm to the wrist; it’s a thick layer of dark inks in a sinister design. In the split second before I fill the hole I can see the glint of metal through his nipples, his defined muscles and lean hips, the grizzled fur on his chin. His mouth drops open in anticipation.

When his lips surround my cock, I let out an involuntary gasp. This is what I needed. I’ve got a three-day reward in my nuts if he can coax it out. He seems determined. With a steady sucking motion he nurses me to half mast, then fully erect. I can feel his tongue flick out to lick the underside of my balls.

Yeah. This is going to be good.

The guy’s smoking hot. He sucks long and slow, taking time to savor my shaft. I can feel his nostrils billowing warm air on the wet skin, as he backs off my inches. He’s determined to enjoy this encounter as much as I am.

When I lean back, buckling my body into a bow-shaped figure, I can see that he’s a hell of a handsome dude. His hair might be prematurely gray, but he’s masculine as hell, with heavy brows and thick hair. I confess I originally thought the cloth glory hole was a bit of a sham, but he’s making it work for us. He’s cupping my balls in a sheath of the fabric so that as I gently thrust in and out, the sheet is rubbing against them and creating a sensation that’s making the seed in my nuts churn. I like this; I like the way the sheet allows me to thrust suddenly without resistance. I like the way I feel the heat of his body through it, only a thin layer away. I think I prefer the anonymity of the wood in general, but for this guy, fuck yes. It works.

From time to time I pull out and make him beg for it. Silently beg, that is. We don’t exchange a word. I’ll take my meat in my fist and show off the red head, the inch or two of throbbing flesh protruding from my hand. He’ll try to dive for it, to snatch at it with his soft lips and tongue. I’ll hold it just out of reach, though, squeezing it hard so that a glob of pre-cum will ooze from the tip and slide down to join the wetness already making the head shiny. I want to make him hungry for it; I want to make him slaver. I like watching him pout, watching his lips tremble with frustration and need. Then I’ll relent, and remove my hand, and shove it back in the fucker’s mouth, just to hear him moan and burble with pleasure.

Closer and closer he gets me. I’m in no hurry at this time of the morning. It’s my vacation; I’ve got nowhere to be, no work to get to. No appointments. No one even knows where I am; they’re all asleep back at the cabin. This load has been building up day by day, though, and it’s time to feed it to his hungry hole. I back off once more and jerk at it, showing it off. His entire world is a three-inch hole in an expanse of cloth at that moment. I can feel the laser-like focus on my cock as I display it for his approval. Then I grab his head through the sheet and pull it onto the eight inches until it strikes the back of his throat.

One gush. Two gush. Three. He sucks and slobbers. I feel his drool running down my balls, hear the gulping, feel the muscles convulse around my shaft. The orgasm nearly blinds me. Some feel amazing and shivery, some are just a relief to have. This one’s almost painful, it’s so necessary; it feels like knives, or teeth gnawing at me, Alien-like, from the inside. At the same time, it feels so damned good.

When I open my eyes, I see he’s got his tattooed arms around my waist, enveloping my lower half completely in sheet. He holds me there tightly, refusing to let my cock out of his mouth. Then slowly, gently, he lets go. The fabric sways back into place. My cock drops heavily down and points at the floor, drained.

“Thanks,” I say, loud enough for him hear. I see his chin dip down in a nod. That’s all I need. I step back into my trunks, don my shorts, slide in my sandals, make sure I have my wallet. Then I’m out the door, where the smell of the ocean fills my nostrils and a breeze dries the sweat I wasn’t even aware was on my brow.

Seven-thirty, my phone says. Invigorated by the morning exercise, I head back to town, with breakfast in mind.

White Man's Dick

“I don’t usually like white dick,” he says. He’s kneeling down in front of me on the living room carpet. I look at that coal-colored skin against the burgundy wool; the athletic socks he’s left on are tattletale gray. He’s strewn his sweats on the ottoman and pushed the furniture beside him. His round, worked-out ass nudges it when he leans forward. “No offense, but it doesn’t appeal to me a lot,” he says, examining my hardness up close. “But damn.”

I’m sitting in nothing but a T-shirt. My pants have joined his on the ottoman. My elbows rest on sides of the armchair; I’ve got an index finger supporting my forehead. From the waist up I could be listening to someone at any casual get-together in any coffee shop. From the waist down, it’s pure porn set scenery. “Suck it,” I suggest.

For a black man who doesn’t usually like white dick, he’s quick to obey. I feel first the heat of his breath as he open his mouth to accommodate me, then the softness of his lips. My dick takes a slow trip through the warm cavern of his mouth and the tighter, wetter tunnel of his throat. I slide forward on the upholstery a little bit in order to give him full access to my inches.

The man knows how to give head. He does that thing I like the best, when he applies most of the friction on the trip back up to the head, then opens wide to spear his throat on my meat. When he’s at the base, his lips open wider to attempt to encompass my balls. Their soft scraping against the skin plays my spinal cord like a harp. This is turning out better than I expected.

“Very nice,” I murmur, as my fingers rustle across the short coarse hairs of his scalp. He hums to himself softly in reply. He’s not really paying attention to anything but my dick. No matter what the color, he’s lost in the head job he’s giving me. All he cares about is maintaining that rhythmic, gentle, repetitive motion. He’s nursing at it. Suckling it. He’s a baby at his mama’s tit, a calf hungry at the udder. His eyes are closed and his breathing heavy; he’s got his arms lying atop my thighs so he can hold me around the waist. His fingers are tucked between the cushion and my butt.

I’m torn. I intend to fuck this one. He’s got a hot ass that looks like it needs to be plugged. But the head is so good I’m reluctant to stop him. The blow jobs I get are so indifferent or poor or just plain too rough that a good one is rare. I’m dimly aware it’s a dilemma other tops would give their left nut to have.

I let him suck for long minutes, watching him take as much of my inches as he can with every gulp. His own meat stands ignored, stiff, and raging between his thighs. It’s a curved and uncut seven inches, thickly hooded at the enormous head. It jerks and throbs to some internal rhythm, beating his flat stomach like a timpani stick.

He solves the problem for me when finally he disengages from my cock and lets it slap down on my abdomen with a wet splat. “Never had white dick inside my ass either,” he says, looking me in the eye.

“Maybe you want to try it.” Like so many of the other things I say during sex, it’s not a question.
He grunts and gives me a single nod. “Maybe I do.”

“Or maybe I should just put it away,” I say. We both know that won’t happen, but I sure try to make it sound as if it might. “Maybe I should put my big white dick back in my pants so you won’t be tempted by it. Don’t want you taking a white dick if you don’t like it.”

His face has gone hard. He’s not amused by my little game. “I didn’t say I didn’t like that white dick.”

“Do you?” We stare at each other for a long moment. He nods, but I’m not letting that response pass. “Then say it.”

“You want me to say the words, huh.”

“Exactly. I want you to say the words.”

His own cock is still rock hard. It’s standing out in front of him stiff and pointing due north by the compass. He licks his lips, swallows. “I like that white dick. I really like it”

“You want this white dick.”

His dick jumps, betraying his excitement. “I . . . want that . . . big . . . white man’s dick you got there,” he growls. “I want it up in my guts. I want that big white dick making babies up in this cunt.” My meat’s been glistening already from his spit and slobber. His words make precum bead at the tip. I look down at my cock, grab wrap my fist around the bottom few inches, then spread the gooey fluid over the head. The man’s lips part. “Please.” He clears his throat again. “Please, sir.”

“All right.” My voice comes out as a lazy drawl. “You earned it.”

It’s clear I’m not moving. He spits in his hand and rubs it around on his hole, then turns around and bends over. He’s exposing himself for me. Showing it off. I see him spit again. His fingers massage more spit against his shitter. When he cranes his neck around to look at my cock, I hold it out for display.

He backs up. Sits down. Allows me to spread his ass for him while I direct the head at that shiny black pucker. The pinkness of my head contrasts against his dark skin for a moment, then disappears, little by little. His hole swallows the last crescent moon, then slides down on my shaft. I’m in, all the way to the nuts.

I slide down in the armchair. My body is a shelf for him to sit on. He raises himself up and down on my cock, his hands stretching his ass cheeks out so that there’s nothing preventing him from taking me as deeply as possible. “Oh god,” he mutters to himself. “Oh god, yes.”

“How’s white dick feel?” I ask.

“So good.” His response is instantaneous. Genuine. Heartfelt. “So damn good. So damn good, baby.”

“I knew you’d like it.” The horny fucker is doing some fancy shit—swiveling his hips, grinding, clenching with his hole. No matter. As long as he keeps sliding that greasy ass up and down the length of my inches, I’m good. “Keep going,” I tell him. “Be a good boy and you’ll get some white man cum.”

“Please,” he says. “I want that white man cum. I need that white cum up in me. I love that white dick.” He keeps repeating words to himself. I can see his eyes are closed. He’s not talking to me so much as praying. “Please give me that white cum. I’ll do anything you want for that white man cum.”
I don’t have to say a fucking thing. He keeps doing all the talking for me while he bounces up and down on my dick, edging me closer and closer to the inevitable. First white dick or not, he’s experienced enough to know how to get it out of me, too.

When I blow, I hold him down. He practically falls back onto me and reclines on my body like a mattress, but he’s supporting himself on the chair’s arms so I’m not crushed. My seed blasts into his hole, deep. At the same time, the position changes enough that my dick starts to slip out. I try to hold him still so I can finish loading him up before it pops out. Most of it makes it in there. Then my shaft slops out and falls between my legs, where another glob of semen falls onto the carpet.

He’s trembling. “Thank you,” he says. Then he falls once again to his knees, uses his mouth to lift up my slick cock, and swallows it. He spends long moments cleaning it off in a worshipful manner. “Thank you, sir,” he says again, when he’s done.

I cup his chin. “Now you can either put on your clothes and slink out of here with your first white man’s load in your hole,” I tell him. “Or you can collect them, take them into the bedroom, then lie down on that bed and be ready to take some more dick and cum. Your pick.”

He stares at me, then nods and stands up. Slowly he pulls out his sweats and his top from under my jeans.

Then he makes the choice I knew he’d go for, all along.

I Know What You Want

“‘Sup,” is all he says as he pours himself into my car’s front passenger seat. That’s all. ‘Sup. Our eyes connect for a moment. His flick away. They’re black and shiny, like obsidian. Then he stares at the road ahead and bobs his neck back and forth, as if listening to beats from an invisible source.

I nod and make a U-turn. ‘Sup, indeed. I can see right through him. He’s all swagger and defenses, this one. He’s a little Latin boy wearing a baseball cap, big baggy sweats, and a hoodie two sizes too large. Beneath all that excess of jersey I can discern the outline of his shoulders—narrow and lean, like the hips that barely keep those jeans from falling to the floor. His knees are thin poles making his pant legs into tents. He’s looking out the window like all’s cool with the world, but those knees are scissoring together, then apart. He might be living in his first rented room after flying out of his mommy’s nest. He might like thinking of himself as bad. He might try to appear tough and impervious. But I know he’s a nervous little boy of twenty, behind that slick facade.

The drive to my place is short. He doesn’t speak again until I’ve pulled up in front of my home. “This is it, huh,” he comments. He oozes out of the car and tugs at the imaginary lapels of his hoodie like he’s casing the joint. I lead him up the porch and inside.

He’s silent as he follows me to the bedroom. I’ve already turned on the light. Before he plunges his hands in his pockets, he takes time to adjust that oversized Yankees cap he’s wearing. It’s set at a forty-five degree angle between forehead and ear, and another forty-five degrees up from the horizontal plane. It’s such a specific angle that I suspect he’s spent hours and hours testing it in the mirror. “So what now, boss?” he asks, when I stand in front of him. He chuckles at himself, as if he’s a regular wit.

I haven’t said a word this entire time. There’s no need for me to compensate for his tough-guy act. I’m not trying to impress the little shit. I’m not trying to get a second date. I know exactly what I want from him. I’m pretty confident I’ll get it. My lips part to say, “Strip.”

Then I fold my arms, and wait.

He pauses for a moment like he’s caught in the headlights. I watch him make the choice to brazen it out. “Aiiiight,” he says, his heavy lids hooding his eyes. He’s a handsome kid, I’ll give him that. He’s got beautiful eyes, a pretty face. There’s a tiny little fringe of hair at the very base of his lip that’s supposed to pass for a mustache, and a similar trace of the stuff around his jaw. It’s cute. But it’s a boy’s facial hair.

He shimmies out of the hoodie and the aqua tank top he’s wearing underneath. His nipples are brown candies, round and tiny. There’s a tiny trace of fur leading from his navel down the flatness of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. He tugs at the elastic and pulls them down to his ankles. He’s wearing basketball shorts beneath, and beneath those, briefs of neon yellow mesh. His uncut dick flops around, mostly hard, as he steps out of the three layers.

He stands before me almost defiantly, hat still on. I study his body, with the skin the cover of creamy coffee. It’s flat in all the right places, firm in others. Save for the thatch of dark pubes above his swinging meat, he’s almost totally smooth. “Now you,” he says. His jaw grinds with challenge.

I shake my head.

“No?” he says, surprised. “You ain’t gonna get naked?”

“I’ll get naked,” I tell him, keeping my tone level, “when I get naked. Get on the bed.”

Those black eyes regard me with something approaching hostility. “You act like you’re the boss or something.”

At least the kid is picking up on that fact. I let my eyebrows rise, incline my head toward him. “Listen,” I say in a low voice. “I know what you want.”

“You do, huh.”

“I know what you want.”

He stares at me. Then I see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “What do I want?” His voice is husky.

“Get on the damn bed,” I repeat.

Our eyes are locked for a moment. Then his break away. I’ve won the battle. Slowly he climbs onto my mattress. For a moment I think he’s going to argue with me some more. Then I watch as he spreads those bony knees across the mattress, puts his head down, and lifts his ass in the air.

Good boy. He’s learning.

I strip behind him, making sure he hears the sound of my belt buckle and my jeans hitting the floor. I’m naked when I slither between his legs with my body, and put my mouth on that hole. He hisses when I make contact. “Oh yesssss.”

He’s got a beautiful butt, this boy. Round, worked out, smooth as a baby’s skin. Just as I knew he would, he responds passionately to my rimming. He’s moaning, and clutching his hands into fists as he grabs at the sheets and tries to hang onto them for dear life. I chew at the hole with my teeth, rake it with my beard. I slap his cheeks and grab his balls and tug, just to get the reactions I want.

He’s not so tough now, this kid. That carefully-constructed front has tumbled as suddenly as if I’d blown all the trumpets of Jericho. He’s rolling his head on his neck and banging his forehead against the shelf over my pillows. That damned Yankees cap has fallen off his close-shorn head and onto the floor. He’s all reaction, now, that artificial personality drowned by tides of pleasure.

Like I said, I’m not romancing this kid. He’s just here to be fucked. I’ve got a thumb up his hole before he realizes what’s happening. But once he recognizes the sensation, he lifts himself to his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder in my direction. Those black eyes are glazed and wet and angry. It’s the anger of someone who hates that someone sees right through him. I stare back, my face impassive as I squeeze a dollop of clear gel into my hands. I cover my dick with the stuff, then shove some up his little fuckhole. His mouth twitches. He’s trying to be tough again.

When I force two fingers inside him, though, he gives up and hangs his head. He nods when I shove my wet, red cock head up against his pucker. When I shove in, he pushes back. He yells as it slides home. When I’m all the way in, he pants. Resists—like it isn’t too late, now. Then gives in.

We sink together to the mattress. My weight is on him as I start to thrust in and out.

“This is what you want,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he agrees. His face is twisted in pain. I’m a big boy.

“Say it.”

He follows my order without challenge. “This is what I want.”

“You love it.”

“I do love it. Oh god, I love it. I love it, I love it.” I’m fucking him harder now, enjoying the sight of my cock stretching his brown hole. “Thank you, daddy,” he murmurs into the pillow. It’s probably the first sincere thing he’s said since we met.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. I was raised to be polite.

When I shoot, he’s on his back and I’m pounding the shit out of him. His eyes are still half-hooded like a snake’s, but they’re regarding me in a happy daze. He’s the kid who got everything he wanted for Christmas morning. “I need it so bad, daddy,” he’s begging. “Please knock up my pussy. Please.” Now he’s whining. There’s a thin edge to the plea that’s raw and cutting. “Please give me your babies, sir. Please.”

We kiss for the first time when I shoot inside him. His mouth is open wide and hungry, taking my lips in his. His mouth is as open as his hole, at this point, and I’m in both of them, filling them. My load slides from my nuts to his insides, spraying his colon with my juice. His own cock is sticky against my belly. I push his hands away as he tries to jack it, while my thrusting subsides to a slight rotation of my hips.

Maybe I’ll let him cum after my second fuck. If I decide he wants it, that is.

One the ride back he sits low in the passenger seat, the Yankees cap brim pulled low over his eyes. There’s not a trace of his cockiness left when I pull in front of his house. After I shift into park, he sits there for a moment. Then he turns his head. “Thank you, daddy,” he says quietly. Then he pulls himself out, shuts the car, and shuffles to the side door.

I guess he was raised to be polite, too.

The Lower Level

The apartment building lobby is the plainest of the plain. Beige walls. Beige mailboxes near the doors. Beige carpet leading to beige staircases, everything inoffensive to the eye. No matter. I’m not here for the interior decorating.

I take the stairs to the lower level and follow the hallway to the higher numbers. We’d arranged the tryst the night before, when I told him I’d be dropping the family at the train station early in the morning. I’ll put the key under the mat before I go to bed, he wrote me. How about you just come on in and get into bed with me. When I pull back the plastic mat in front of his door, it’s lying there, metallic and shiny. I slide it into the knob, twist, and feel the lock release. I ease the door open, step inside, and leave the key on the front table.

The living room’s neat and inexpensively furnished. He’s drawn the blinds and curtains tight so that very little light leaks through. The CD tower, the computer desk, the back of the sofa are all silhouettes. Across the carpet I shuffle, past the kitchen and the bathroom and down the short hallway to the end. It’s stuffy in here; he keeps the heat high.

He’s beneath a thick duvet. I can see his close-cropped short hair in the dark, but not much else. He’s still as I stand by the bed and remove my shoes, my socks, my sweater. He’s breathing deeply. Perhaps he’s faking, but it sounds as if he’s fast asleep.

That won’t last long.

I remove my T-shirt. Unbuckle my belt. It makes a faint metallic sound as it and my pants slide to the floor. I step out of my trunks. The only things I’m wearing now are a cock ring and a smirk. He stirs a little when his naked flesh is exposed to air. It’s only a few minutes after seven in the morning. I’m still pretty sure he’s sleeping—or he’s doing a mighty fine job of faking it.

I pause to admire his body. It’s a crapshoot with photos online, you know. Some are old, some are deceptive. Some guys just photograph better than they appear in person, and it’s only afterward that you go back to the pics and see all the things that should’ve been obvious on the first viewing: the clever angle that hides the paunch, the body stretch that hides the hunched shoulders, the bad skin that’s been smoothed by a blur. This guy hasn’t deceived me in the least. His photos showed a lean and athletic Latin man with face stubble trimmed in a Nike swoop across his chin, fit and fine.

And that’s exactly what he is. One of his arms lies by his side while the other clutches the pillow. They’re as muscular as his photos, bulging in a way that makes my cock stir. His ass is a marvel of worked-out roundness. There’s a trace of fur across the cheeks, and a valley of the stuff between them. He has one leg pulled up so that I can almost—almost—see his hole.

I lay down on the white sheets next to him and pull the duvet over our bodies.

It’s warm beneath the heavy textiles. Warmer still when I slide behind him. My cock finds his crack, the hardness of it nuzzling the furry crack. My right arm burrows beneath the pillow as my left surrounds his chest. I pull him close to me. It’s then that he begins to waken—or to do an Oscar-worthy imitation of it. He startles; I see his head jerk to see who’s joined him. Either he recognizes me in the near-dark, or he remembers his promises of the night before, because he settles, then melts into me.

I’m kissing the back of his neck, running the flat of my hand up and over the bristles of his hair. His shoulders are broad; I run my palms over their natural bulk, down his biceps, over the light hair of his forearms. My left hand grabs at his ass, squeezing it, stroking it, grabbing at it. When I pull apart his cheeks, my cock hones in on its target, rubbing against the outermost ring of his hole.

He curses softly, and buries his face in the pillow.

I slide down between his legs. I hear him moan a little bit as my hands pull apart his ass. It’s mine, this ass. He’s giving it to me. He’s pushing it up against my breath, humping the mattress fruitlessly in need and frustration. I know he can feel my hot breath against his skin. I know he can feel my beard against his flesh, prickling when he moves against it. Desire is making him anxious. Even his respiration increases. If I laid my hand on his chest, I’d feel his heart fluttering like a bird.

I pull apart his ass and dive in with my face. His hole tastes good. It’s lightly sweaty from a good night’s sleep, but it’s obviously clean. He reacts as if he’s never had it eaten before. Bucks. Whimpers. Lets loose with a torrent of Spanish I don’t really understand. I don’t need to brush up on my high school foreign language skills, though. I know what he’s telling me by the way he pushes, by the way his hole opens for my tongue. He clutches at his pillow as he would a lover. I manhandle his cheeks. I don’t care if my paws leave prints on that round butt. He can’t complain. He knew, when he left that key beneath his apartment mat on the lower level, that I’d take ownership.

For long minutes I chew at his hole. My lips and teeth draw it out, make it wink at me. His breath is increasingly short and raspy. My own cock is retribution itself, stiff and red and angry. Pre-cum is soaking his sheets. I want to punish him for making me this way, for making me need release in these wet and puffy ass lips. I flip him over so that he’s on his back, then rise between his legs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him face to face. His eyes are dark and round obsidian, glinting in what morning light has infiltrated the bedroom. There’s that little swoop of facial hair, the obscenely handsome face. His chest is hair-free, but lightly freckled. There’s a trail of fur leading down from his navel, though, and he lifts his hairy legs into the air without my having to ask. I stare at him while I spit in my hand and mix it with the lube my dick’s already been pumping out on my own.

He must have been doing the same to me. His eyes finish their dance across my face and body. “God damn,” he whispers at me. “You are a hot daddy.”

“You know what I’m here for, boy,” I whisper back. They’re the first words we’ve uttered to each other.

I can see him gulp and strain to try to look at my dick. I’ve already seized his ankles with my left hand, however, as I’ve guided my cock to his hole. It’s engorged with lust for the guy. It wants to split him wide open.

“You ready?” I ask.

He bites his lip. Nods. Then his head jerks back. He gargles out incomprehensible noises as I slide into that wet, tight hole.

His ass wraps around my meat tightly in a hot embrace. His body shakes. Struggles. Then I pass through his tight inner ring; I can feel it stretch and open around my head.

I pause. When I loom over him and brace myself on the mattress, my face directly over his, he stares up at me with half-closed eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers. He looks almost drugged, but I know that expression well. It’s the expression boys wear when they’re truly in the moment, feeling full and complete and in love with my dick. Hell, I challenge myself to make every man wear that look, every time I fuck.

“You’re welcome, son,” I say softly. Then, as he clings to my arms, I drive the rest of my inches home.

Nasty Little Faggot

“What do you want?” I ask him. He’s kneeling on the floor, naked, knees spread wide. His wrists are crossed as if they’re bound, though nothing is holding them together. His little peter curves up to point at the ceiling.

He’s mesmerized by cock. My cock, which is dangling in front of his face. It’s bait to a hungry fish; his lips work in and out as unconsciously they strain for it. His eyes are the size of saucers, as he stares at the heavy, blood-filled meat exuding heat a few inches above his face.

“What do you want?” I ask again.

He delivers his answer with a rattle in his throat. “I want that cock.”

“Why do you want my cock?” I demand.

He thinks about it a moment, trying to suss out the response I expect to hear. “Because it’s big. Because it’s beautiful. Because it’s yours.”

All true enough, but it’s not the answer I want. “It’s because you’re a greedy little cocksucking whore,” I inform him. “And big dick is what you were made for.”

For the first time in a while he removes his gaze from my dick, and looks me in the eye. “Yes.” His agreement arrives on a sigh.

“It’s because you’re a nasty little faggot,” I tell him. His eyes are locked onto mine. They’re full of adoration. I’ve penetrated right to the secret core of him. I’ve spoken the words that unlock his deepest secret, and in the speaking, unburdened him of it. “Because you’re nothing more than a fucking little skank hole.”

“Yes,” he repeats. “I’m a nasty little faggot boy.”

“Anyone’s cum dump.”

His eyes are beginning to glaze. His cock jerks once, twice, three times. He wraps his hands around it. “Nothing but a cum dump.”

I grab my own dick, thwack it into my palm with a heavy slap. “Well fuck, son. What’re you waiting for?” When he lunges at my erect cock, I halt him with my hand on his forehead. “You don’t get it yet. Fuck. Work your way up, kid.” I shove him back so he’s on his haunches again. “From the feet,” I explain, like he’s simple. “Like a nasty little faggot does.”

The look he gives me is of sheer worship. And that pleases my dick.

No one around this tony community in which I live would recognize this guy as he is now, sprawled on the floor, sucking at my toes, squirming around like a worm in the dirt. He’s one of those fastidious types in public. Neatly dressed in trendy fashions from Zara, little Harry Potter spectacles on his face. I’ve seen him and his boyfriend out and about at the local bars and gay gatherings for a couple of years. When we meet, he and the boyfriend recognize my face well enough to smile and nod, and occasionally exchange pleasantries. We’re not social friends, by any stretch of the imagination.

“That boyfriend of yours know you’re here?” I ask.

“No,” he says. He’s tonguing out the space between two of my toes. He looks up at me in sudden panic. “Please don’t tell him.”

“That really depends on how good a job you do, doesn’t it?”

“Yes sir.” It’s a rhetorical question, but it spurs him on. He’s slurping his tongue all over my feet now, obediently licking the soles when I lift them up, one by one. His ass is pointed in the air; his back arch. In his head, he’s already getting fucked.

“You want me to tell him how you’ve been putting that pussy up in the air for me for months? How you begged me to break that bareback cherry?”

“Please don’t,” he begs.

“Why, are you ashamed of what a little cumdump whore you are? You don’t want him to find out how you’ve been slutting around behind his back with some guy at the bar you barely know? You worried he’d dump that ass when he finds out how many strange dicks have been up it since mine?”

“Please.” He huffs out the word. His face is red. He’s aroused. “Please don’t tell.”

“Suck it, faggot,” I tell him. I grab him by the hair and lower his mouth onto my dick. “No teeth, or I’ll slap the shit out of you.”

This is the root of him, the inner core deep inside that fuels his every waking dream. Daily, in public, he cultivates an air of fastidious perfection. Impeccably-dressed, nicely-coiffed, soft-spoken, a little effeminate. Genteel. Arm candy for his older boyfriend. In private, he wants to be a dirty little whore. The kid wants it all: Men’s Vogue days, Treasure Island nights.

Which side of him is closer to his real nature? I think I know. The artificial tends to fall away from a guy when I drop my pants in front of him.

My cock is slick with his spit. He’s choking on it by the time I withdraw and shove him roughly onto the bed. He howls with pain as I drive into the hole. I can tell by the way he clamps down on my meat that he’s in distress, but this is how whores get fucked. No mercy. Relentless. By the time his mind and body catch up to the heat that’s already pulsing through his still-hard cock, I’m halfway there.

“That boyfriend of yours would kick you out on your ass if he knew what you were doing right now,” I say as I pound his quivering butt.

“Please don’t tell . . . !”

“I don’t know. I think it might be fun to see the expression on his face when he finds out what a cum-hungry little bitch you really are,” I muse. “I bet he’s all polite in bed and shit. Probably thinks a wild time is turning on a fuck flick and jacking off together. Am I right?”

“Only if I’m lucky,” he moans. The words are heavy with rue.

“Who gives you what you really want?”

“You do,” he whispers. “You do.”

“Who gives your faggot holes the sperm they really need?”

“Fuck . . . you know it’s you. It’s totally you.”

I’m close. “Then fucking take it, you little whore.”

My cock pulses. I drive in to the root, and let the seed blast out deep inside him. His back arches more, his butt rises to meet me. He wants every fucking seed I’ve got, and I’m hostage to his need. Finally, after a long time in which his hungry holes milks my meat for every drop, he slides off me.

“Clean it off,” I tell him.

He’s already on it, sucking any traces of sperm from my jizz-slick dick. I hold his head on my dick as I maneuver myself onto the bed, and then I cradle it as he continues to suck and suck.

“Good boy,” I tell him.

“I’m your little faggot,” he murmurs, before losing himself in the scent and sensation of my semi-rigid shaft again. “Just a little faggot.”

Yeah. I won’t be telling the boyfriend. This time.

Untamed

We laid side by side, afterward. I seemed to slide off his sweat-slick body and to melt, face-down, in a puddle beside him. He lowered his legs and raised his arms above his head, and stared for a long time at the ceiling. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to talk, just for the sake of making noise. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to move.

I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.

The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”

“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.

Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.

That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.

“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”

“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.

“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“

“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.

“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”

In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.

“That’s you, man.”

“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.

But I wanted to hear him say it.

He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”

I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.

“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."

I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.

"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”

I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.

“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”

Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.

My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.

“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."

The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.

“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”

“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.

His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.

Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.

That Hat

So let me review what he looked like, when he stepped into my living room.

The top of his head came up only to my chin, but what he lacked in height, he made up in bulk. The man was built of sheer muscle. He wore a tight black tank top beneath the puffy cold-weather jacket that he dropped behind him at the front door. It made his carmel-colored skin glow. When he strutted forward, walking slightly bow-legged, he curved his arms as if posing. His shoulders were round and full, his biceps bulging, his forearms ropy and taut. The narrowest part of him was the waist. Above it, his chest bloomed into hard and enviable masculine form; below, I could see how huge his thighs were beneath the ballooning fabric of his gray sweatpants.

He kicked off his chunky sneakers, stuck his thumbs in his elastic waistband, and looked at me. His dark eyes stared into mine, glanced down, then danced back up again.

“‘Sup,” he said in a deep voice, glancing me over.

Seeing someone for the first time is always a little bit of a jolt. It’s the prick of a static shock on the back of a hand, on a cold winter’s day, when your eyes meet his for the first time in person—it’s an electric instant in which the brain compares his appearance to every photo he’s ever sent, to every stat he’s thrown your way, to see if any of it sticks. This guy stuck. He looked exactly like his too-good-to-be-true photos, those sunlit shots taken at some impossibly sunny beach, as if he’d been a model for a swimsuit brand, or a spokesperson for an Atlantis cruise. This was the kind of guy who, during that pinprick of recognition and assessment, makes me feel unworthy of him. My knee-jerk reaction to his kind of beauty is always going to be, for a fleeting instant, that I’m not hot enough, not pretty enough, not muscular enough. Just not enough. I’ve learned to make those thoughts disappear, though. And I did so that night, because he was looking at me on the sofa where I sat with my pants down and my legs spread, and looking at my fingers wrapped around my stiff, beet-red cock, and licking his lips unconsciously, and looking worried.

Worried that I might be the one not into him. I could see it in the furrow of his eyebrows as he worked his lips wordlessly, those Frida Kahlo smudges of thick, square blackness above his staring eyes. “That looks real good,” he told me, as he took a step in. His hand caressed the flat planes of his stomach.

I looked up from my masturbation. I’d squeezed a diamond drop of precum from the tip of my dick, and pointed it in his direction. “Take off your clothes,” I told him. Before he could shuck anything, I added, “Put on a show. Make me want it.”

He nodded. To some internal rhythm, he started swaying back and forth. His hips bounced as he tucked his thumbs into his waistband again and pulled it down, slowly. He wasn’t so smooth as he nearly fell over, removing his legs. Beneath the sweatpants he wore a pair of basketball shorts. He pulled those down, and stood there in a boy-like pair of ankle socks, a pair of designer briefs, that tight, tight tank top. And one other thing that I’ll get to in a moment. But my dick and I, we were too entranced by the guy’s bulging muscles much to care about his sartorial sense, right at that moment. “Turn around,” I told him. He obeyed, shyly rotating so that I could get a look at his perfect, round ass.

“Socks,” I told him.

He stood on a foot at a time so he could hook them off with a curled finger.

“Strip off the rest,” I said. The man shimmied out of it, giving me a look first at his flat abs, then the deep muscles of his chest, outlined with a light coating of fur. He crossed his arms and held his shoulders with his hands, as if cold. He wasn’t cold. He was simply shy. Then, with a self-conscious grin on his full lips, he dropped his briefs to the floor and kicked them. They skimmed the wood to land beneath my entertainment center. His cock was a fat sausage, thicker in the middle than it was at both ends, three-quarters excited, still sheathed in a thick layer of foreskin. It lolled to the side, rising up with excitement.

He took a step forward, and spread his legs. “You like, papi?”

“I like a lot,” I told him. I looked up at his face, and instantly got distracted. Because he wasn’t completely undressed. He still had on that hat.

That hat. How can I describe that hat? He’d entered the house with it on, and apparently hadn’t given it a thought sense. It was not a baseball cap, or a knitted beanie, or any of the types of headgear that drive certain gay men crazy. No one in his right man would fetishize the fleece creation on this man’s head. It had more colors than Joseph’s dreamcoat, and seemingly more points than a cactus. It resembled a jester’s headdress, minus the jingling bells. I vaguely remembered the style being popular maybe a decade and a half ago, among the ski set and those who pretended to be a part of them. No one was going to fetishize that abomination of a hat.

“Am I good enough?” he asked. The words weren’t ironic, or arrogant. He honestly wanted to know.
I didn’t know quite what to say. He was more than good enough. He was a hot fucker. He was damned fine.

But that hat.

A couple of its fuzzy points flopped down over his forehead as he dropped to his knees. His mouth opened; I could feel the heat around my shaft as he lowered his mouth onto it. He waited until he reached the bottom before letting his lips wrap around the base. I could feel the hot wetness of his cheeks, his tongue, the gentle pressure of his teeth, as he eased himself up and down on it. I reached up to grab his hat, though. I wanted it gone. No sooner had I gotten my hand on it, though, that he decided for himself what I was doing up there. “Yeah,” he sputtered, around a mouthful of my dick. He put his own hand around the back of his head and clamped my hand down on his skull. “Make me suck it. Make me suck that big dick, daddy.”

Okay, I thought to myself. I’m not going to get that fucking hat off that way.

I let him slurp up and down my pole for a little while. I confess I was a little distracted. I liked the sensations and wanted to enjoy them. But every time I looked down, I was seeing a child’s fuzzy pajama fabric flopping around like a furry squid between my legs. No, strike that. A kid would’ve turned down that fabric pattern as excessively juvenile.

“Oh, papi,” he said, coming up for air. “You got the big dick I like. You really do. I’m gonna want this dick every damn day, man.” His eyes were glistening with tears and effort and sincerity. But all I could do is both stare at that hat, and think to myself, you have to look anywhere but that hat. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Do you like what I do?”

Maybe a non-verbal cue would do. “Hey,” I said, to catch his attention. I allowed myself to look at that hat, and then I jerked my head back in a way that I hoped would convey, Why don’t you take off that godawful chapeau?

His face lit up. He leaned forward, balancing his muscular torso by gripping the sofa’s edge. His lips met mine. Kissing me is not what I’d had in mind, though admittedly I didn’t mind it much. He wasn’t too great a kisser—his lips were tense, his tongue too spear-like. That can be trained out of a guy, though, with time.

A pity you can’t train them to take off the hat.

“Let me show off for you,” he said, after we’d made out for a few moments. He stood up and turned around, then bent over. “You like that ass?” he asked between his open legs, looking back at me. All the points of that damned hat hung down to the floor. When he spanked himself, they wiggled obscenely. “You want that ass, huh?’

“I do. . . .” I growled.

He stood up and grabbed the top of my sturdy TV cabinet. Once more he spread his legs and showed off his ass. This time he held his head back and stared at the ceiling. The hat’s tendril’s splayed down his back. “Oh yeah,” he grunted, as he ground his hips into the air. It would’ve been a sexy dance, if he didn’t have a jester’s hat flopping around comically atop his head. One of my cats entered the room, took a look at that hat, and walked away disdainfully.

My new friend had just squatted down on the floor and begun to finger his hole with that hat dangling down and obstructing my view, when I’d had enough. I rubbed the bridge of my nose as if I had a headache. “Hey,” I said in a totally normal voice, the kind that destroys any kind of sexual mood.

“What?” he asked, looking up. Several folds of the hat fell in his face.

“Take off that fucking hat.”

He blinked at me, then looked up. His face wore the most sheepish grin. “Oh my loooord,” he drawled, letting out a feminine giggle. “I forgot I had it on.” He whipped it off and tossed it with the rest of his clothes, snickering the entire time. “I bet I looked like a damn fool.”

“Pretty much,” I agreed, grinning to let him know I didn’t really mean it.

He knelt down prayerfully in front of me. “Do I look like a fool now, papi?” he asked.

My dick hardened again. “No,” I decided. “You most certainly do not.”

Then I reached for the back of his head, to direct him down on my cock. It was time for him to finish what he’d started.

Daddy

He’s a skinny boy. Twenty-three. Tall as I am, but maybe twenty or twenty-five pounds less—one-forty, maybe. His waist is narrow and pale; I can see his hipbones jutting out above the elastic of his baggy striped boxers. From their bottoms are his long, lean legs. His nipples are small, but their tips are round and hard. He’s half-aroused in his underwear as he invites me in the house.

It’s not the best of houses. It perches on a street next to one of Richmond’s busier expressways, and the front yard is overgrown with weeds. There’s no driveway, but parked in the waist-high grass are three cars that made me balk when I pulled up off the curb and next to the closest of them; I thought this boy was going to be alone. And inside the house is a bit of a wreck. There’s debris everywhere. CD cases. DVD cases. Discarded mail and food packaging. A pizza box. It’s clean. There weren’t any surfaces so grungy that they made me recoil to touch or sit upon. But it’s cluttered.

When I’m in the door and it’s shut behind me, he grows shy. I hadn’t seen his face in the photos, and I could see why he hid it. He’s a little bit nerdy. His hair is cut in a timeless Richmond style—short but not too short, parted on the side, a cowlick poking up in the back. He wears round Harry Potter glasses. He’s not ugly by a long shot, but he obviously feels his body is his strong point. I put my hands on those hips, so sharp they could cut me, and pull that body in close. His legs automatically pull together and move between mine. His hands go around my shoulders. And then we kiss, long, and slowly, and deep.

The boy knows how to kiss. I don’t want it to stop. But he pulls away slightly. I feel a tremble shiver through his body. Then he says, “Oh, daddy.”

When I’m visiting my own daddy in Virginia, in the springtime I do so to help him out. I do all his spring yard cleaning—cutting down the sturdy trees that were mere twigs six months before, pulling out the strangling wisteria and the English ivy, pulling out the weeds from my mother’s former garden of roses, now gone wild and fragrantly feral. I fix things around the house. And when that’s all done, I perform chauffeur duty. My dad can’t drive after sunset, and doesn’t like driving anywhere he can’t reach on surface streets, so if he has errands that require distance driving, I’m his go-to guy.

The day before we’d driving all the way out to the Blue Ridge and back, allegedly to drop off a box of documents to an academic society there, but really, I think, so that my dad could have lunch at of his two favorite restaurants out that way—only he couldn’t decide which. I frankly thought the buffet at Kentucky Fried Chicken (“It’s the only KFC I’ve ever seen to have a buffet!”, he enthused) or the buffet at Golden Corral sounded both about equally vile, so I’d had to spend over an hour that morning trying to make him pick one. By rights that should’ve been the highlight of our day. Instead, on the trip home, we were talking and my car started to make one of those funny noises that cars make when something’s not right. It proved to be the plastic shield beneath the car had detached from the bumper and was alternately dragging against the highway or splintering into tiny shards.

I know nothing about cars. I really don’t. This was a fact driven home back at my dad’s place that afternoon, when his insistence that we poke around under the hood led to the astonishing revelation that in the several years I’ve owned this particular vehicle, I’d never lifted the hook, and didn’t even know how to unlatch it. (In my defense, I’m great around the house and have excellent soldering skills.) I determined that I’d get up the next morning, early, and head to the dealer for service . . . which why, at five in the morning, I’d been awake with this skinny kid begging me to come over and fuck his little hole. I need my daddy in me, he said in his messages. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to service my daddy’s dick.

Fine by me. At seven in the morning I presented myself at the dealer and, thanks to my brother’s superior car knowledge, was able to say in a blasé manner that my car’s air guard was dragging on the ground and could they please fix it so that I didn’t have to drive back to New England with it scraping all four hundred miles back? They could, but they couldn’t get the part until the next morning. Could I come back then, before I left for home?

It was nearly eight a.m. when I get on my phone and email him. He sends back his address immediately.
And now, here I am. “I’m so glad you’re in town, daddy,” he whimpers. “I’ve needed you.”
He’s playacting, but it’s not put-on. He’s genuinely happy. He genuinely does need me. I can tell that from the way his legs and hip mold against my own. He gasps and relaxes when my hands move over his smooth, hairless skin, when they shuck down his briefs like limp corn husks. “Take me to your bedroom, son,” I murmur.

He looks embarrassed. “The bedroom is . . . unavailable.” Ah. I get it. He’s got roommates. They’ve divided up this house into partitioned areas, I see now. There’s a divider between the living room and the dining room that’s an accordion-like vinyl pleat, latched in the middle. There’s probably a roommate sleeping on the other side. That would account for why we were being so quiet.

I didn’t give a fuck who was there. I led him to the sofa and let my shorts drop to the floor. The boy was on his daddy’s dick immediately, sucking it all the way to the base. Good head, too. He knew how to suck. Not too much teeth, not too much abrasion. Just the right amount of tongue action along the underside. He’s getting me close, and getting me close quickly. It’s more than most grown men can do.

I alternate between kissing him and letting him slobber all over my fuckstick. I’m not in a hurry to get back to my dad’s. His own dick—small, narrow, uncut—drips precum over his belly. There’s a long sticky thread of it connecting navel to tip, as his dick jerks and begs for his own attention. His hands are busy with my nuts, though. Stroking them. Caressing them. Squeezing them. Making my dick and balls feel good, and feel loved, the way a boy should. Yeah. He’s very good.

It’s time. I pull him up to the sofa and push him face-down on the pillows. I’ve already been licking at his little pucker from time to time. He’s wet and slick and hungry for it, so I push my dick against the sweet, warm spot and shove in. He twitches, then relaxes once more. He needs this dick. His hips raise up and push back, trying to get me deeper inside him. We try again with a little lube, and then I’m in, sliding all the way home. “Fuck, boy,” I whisper.

He starts a prayer into the seat cushion that doesn’t end the entire time I’m in him. “Oh god daddy oh god I need you daddy, fuck me, fuck me daddy, I needed this so bad, please don’t stop, please give it to me, oh god, oh god. . . .” He’s almost crying. His breath is ragged and torn as I move in and out of him. For long minutes I stroke in and out. I can tell he gets the most pleasure when I long-dick him, drawing out all but the tip before slowly pushing back in. His eyes roll up in his head when I do this. Drool hangs from the corner of his mouth, all over the pillow.

“Fuck me please, oh god daddy, please fuck me, fuck me please,” he says. The litany makes my juices flow. He’s so slick and wet now. His hot little hole grips onto me. He moans when I thrust hard. “Sssh,” I tell him. “We don’t want to wake your mom.”

This little bit of inspired roleplay sends him into a frenzy. He silences us both by craning his neck so that he can kiss me over his shoulder. Hard and keep we kiss as I shove my raw dick inside him. I’m coming before I really know it’s happening. It’s one of those orgasms in which it feels like something’s snapped, and the release is almost painful. Three, four jets of semen I shoot into him. A reluctant fifth. A small and tired sixth. We lay still.

But only for a moment. “Let me clean you,” he begs. “Let me clean you, dad.” He flips onto his back. I settle on my knees into the cushion and lower my dick into his mouth. He sucks away at my tool, cleaning off the ass juices and the semen and my sticky tool as he whacks away at his own dick.
“Good boy,” I say, stroking his hair. “I have a very, very good boy.”

When he comes, almost immediately after the words, it’s a geyser. Fluid sprays everywhere on the first shot. The second shot flies up like a ninja weapon to his nipple. He chokes slightly on my dick. I lift up and out of his mouth.

Then I watch him lying there, shuddering for a long minute after. He keeps twitching. His eyes are closed. I can almost see the electrical charge playing over his skin, from head to feet and back again. At last he subsides. By then, I have back on my clothes.

“Good boy,” I whisper, as I lean down to kiss him. “This is just between us guys, right?”

“Yes, daddy,” he whispers. A beatific smile crosses his face. With his eyes closed, he looks like an angel.
I give him one more kiss, and then I leave the house, to drive home to my own daddy.

A Long, Sloppy Blow Job

There are times I will hook up with a guy even though my better judgment tells me to run in the opposite direction. Then I wish I’d listened to my better judgment.

I spent Wednesday in the city. The family’s away for a few days. I took myself shopping, to dinner, to a show. I hung around in a coffee shop trying to connect with one (any one!) of the guys who keep telling me that when I’m in Manhattan, we should get together. Then finally, frustrated, I boarded my train back to the suburbs.

I thought it might be easy to score some sex online. Unfortunately, all the offers I got were from guys in Manhattan, who were suddenly interested in me now that I was twenty miles away. The closest I got was a Latin kid who was listed as being in my city, but then who revealed he was really in New Rochelle, twenty-five minutes down the road. (In Michigan that would’ve been nothing. Here, it’s a long-ass haul.) And that he didn’t have a car. And that he couldn’t host, so I’d have to pick him up, bring him back to my place, then take him back after. At one in the morning.

I was about to give up and just hit the sheets when a guy much closer started hitting me up. He was all top, he told me, but he was in love with my dick and he wanted to give it the expert treatment it deserved. I’m cock-proud enough to enjoy such blandishments, certainly. But I’m usually looking for anal, I told him.

Two tops can have fun together too, he wrote back. I would love to give you a long, sloppy blow job for as long as you like.

I enjoy getting head, I typed. But it doesn’t usually get me off, and I don’t like the guy expecting me to shoot when it’s not likely to happen from a blow job.


Guys say that to me all the time, he said. Then I show them what a real blow job is like.

I said, All right, as long as you know what you’re doing, and you’re not planning to try to beat my dick into submission with your hand.


I use nothing but my mouth, baby. For as long as you want it. Up to you.


So I shrugged, gave him my address and some very explicit instructions on how to find my house, and told him to text me when he pulled up, and that I’d meet him on the front porch. I didn’t need him ringing the bell of my upstairs neighbor at one-thirty in the morning. Then I flipped on the porch light.

Now, I should explain something about my current living situation. I live in a big old house in the middle of nothing. I mean, really. There’s a vast wilderness surrounding the house—nothing but flora in every direction. You know that Andrew Wyeth painting, “Christina’s World”? Well, that’s pretty much what my current living situation is like. Only I have indoor plumbing and cable.

It’s really hard to miss me, in other words. And I give very good directions.

The guy only lived ten minutes away. My phone vibrated fairly quickly with the notice that he was outside. I opened the screen door, and went out on the porch to greet him. And I waited. And I waited.
I could see his car. It was parked on the street where I’d told him, right in front of the slate stones that lead up the vast grassy knoll to the house. But I couldn’t see him. I texted him to ask if he was coming in.

Nothing.

It was five minutes before he texted again. I can’t find your house.

I’d had one unfortunate late-night encounter last year with a methed-up individual who had been pounding on the front doors of my neighbors across the street , while texting me that my road had nothing but even-numbered addresses on it and my address was odd. I was already dreading a repeat of it. I texted some terse comments about how my house was the only fucking house in the area and I was freezing my ass off on the front porch.


I’m at a building with a mail slot that says book deposit on it, he texted me.

The idiot had parked directly in front of my house. And then he had turned, walked five minutes down the street, and arrived in front of the public library.

What. The. Fuck.

I wasn’t all that happy when, a good ten minutes later, I finally got him into the house. He wasn’t all that attractive a guy—definitely there was some disconnect between his fairly good-looking pictures and his actual appearance. But I stomped into the bedroom, kicked off my pants, and let him go at it. I was slightly relieved he didn’t remove his own clothes, since that would make it easier to get rid of him if I had to.

I was pretty sure I was going to have to, fairly quickly.

For one thing, the guy’s ‘long, sloppy blow job’ technique consisted of grabbing my dick in his fist and letting his lips travel as far as the ridge of my head. And apparently ‘for as long as I liked’ was approximately two and a half minutes, because that’s when he started beating me off like he was frantically auditioning for a Shake Weight ad. “You gonna come?” he growled, in none too sexy a manner. “You gonna blow that big beautiful dick for me?”

I pulled myself up, unattached his death grip from my tender meat, and led him back to the front door with a gentle thanks, but no thanks.

So, guys. I’m advising that you not oversell your oral skills. There’s such a thing as good, hot oral sex, and then there’s such a thing as a guy between your legs with his mouth on your dick, not doing anything sexy or that even feels good. Believe it or not, I’m actually going to notice the difference.

When I do, I’m not going to hesitate to boot you out the front door—and make sure that you find your car, so that you’re not wandering around the parking lot of the local public library down the road.

Open Forum Friday: Online Hookup Turn-Offs

Online is how men find each other for sex these days. Sure, it’s still possible to cruise public parks or restrooms to find some occasional dick. One can still head to the bar and pick someone up. Okay, I suppose it’s still possible to meet people at places like the job or while doing things like volunteer work or attending church, but let’s face it. Going online, whether on one of the many sex cruising websites, or Craigslist, or a phone app like Grindr, is these days the fastest and most expedient way for most horny guys looking for man-on-man action to get laid.

That’s one of the reasons I do it. But it’s also so ripe for the mocking that I can’t resist going at it, on occasion.

Which is basically my set-up for saying, I was going to write today about a fuck I had this week that was less than stellar, but then I decided to be an old curmudgeon instead, as if I were starring as a sexed-up Mr. Wilson in a reboot of the Hank Ketcham comic strip called ‘Dennis the Leather Menace.’

So. Without further ado, I present:

4 Things I Wish You Wouldn’t Write Me in Your Hookup Notes


1. UNLOCK

It’s usually a one-word note. Not even that. Just a subject line in an online email, on a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam. UNLOCK.

What it means is that the guy wants you to flip the switch that permits him to see any private photos you might have that aren’t on view to the general public. Simple enough, right? Sure, there might be more polite ways to ask such a thing. Hey, I find you attractive. May I see your locked pics? comes to mind.


Unlock strikes me as abrupt and imperative, but hey. At least it’s not coy, right?

The thing is that I don’t lock my photos. They’re all out there in the open, X-rated and G-rated alike, shots of my goofy face rubbing up next to photos of my nuts and dick on proud display. (Not in the same single photo. I don't do that any more.)

I know that most guys, particularly in my area, don’t do such a thing. They have either their faces and torsos on display and their gonads behind the lock, or the reverse. Not me. I’ve received email lectures about doing it from local guys who are shocked that I’d be so trashy. Screw ‘em.

Don’t ask me to unlock. I don’t have anything to unlock. You look like a dumbass, saying it. It’s like walking up to a naked man and yelling at him, Take it off!

Note: I do have locked pics on my BBRT profile—but only because the site asks that users lock penetration shots. It’s also the one site where I don’t have people sending me UNLOCK emails.


2. Picture Inequity

I suppose I shouldn’t really complain about notes with twice the number of words as UNLOCK. But I’m gonna complain about this one: MORE PICS?

I do have more pics. I have a lot more pics. I have a decade’s worth of digital shots, dating back to the days when I had a Sony Mavica that recorded photos on floppy disks.

But see, sir, the thing is that while I have—oh, I don’t know—eight or ten photos on my profile, you’ve got exactly zero. Or maybe one. And if you do have one, that one is a particularly small and grainy shot of what could be your chest, or might be your elbow. Again, I don’t know. It’s tough to tell when it’s so blurry and out of focus that it seems to have been shot through a field of dirty beer mugs.

With my old Mavica.

So here’s the thing, guys. If you really want someone to send you more pics, why not make the first and more generous move? Say, I really like your pics. What’s your email so I can send you a few more? Do you have any others to trade, too? Not only does it make you sound as if you’re trying to do the right thing, but it tells the guy that you’re willing to give a little to get a little.

That’s a good thing, because MORE PICS? always gives me the impression that you don’t think my existing pics are good enough for your blurry ass.


3. Are you still interested?

There’s a certain type of personality online that needs constant reassurance. I find that type of personal fucking exhausting.

There’s always a good initial fit, it seems. Mutual interest on both sides. But there’s something that keeps us from getting together right away. That something is usually distance—I’m where I am, and they’re in Pennsylvania, or Boston. Or it could be scheduling—he’s in Manhattan, but he’s only available weekends, and I usually only go into the city on weekdays.

So then will come the barrage of emails. Hi, I thought we were a good match the other day but I need to know if you’re interested in getting together sometime. There still aren’t any concrete suggestions of what to do, on his end. Just a general need to know if I’m interested.

Nothing wrong with that. Once.

But the more extreme types of this personality require constant reassurance. Usually within about ten seconds of me logging on. Are you still interested in meeting sometime? I need to know. Or, I really need to know if you still want to meet.

Dude, listen. I’ve told you I’m interested. I’ve given you ways to contact me. I’ve given you my schedule and probable best days to hook up. The ball’s in your court. We’re not a Victorian relationship with a decade-long engagement; it’s not my responsibility daily to assure you that my intentions have not changed, or that I don’t have my eye on that saucy minx who shows a bit of ankle from under her bustle.

If propping up your fragile ego is becoming a bit of a full-time job, chances are that you’re going to be put on my block list real soon.


4. Lookin

Another one-word note. LOOKING. Or sometimes, LOOKIN. Sometimes with a question mark, often without.

Yeah, I might be lookin’. I might even have found you attractive under other circumstances. But for some reason, those one-word notes, usually no more than a subject line, I find really off-putting.

Or off-puttin’.

If you can’t be bothered to write even a simple note like, I can host and I’m horny, want to come over?, chances are that I really don’t want to meet you. You’re just telling me you’re a lazy fuck, basically. And who wants to labor over a lazy fuck?


Man, apparently I am Mr. Wilson.

So readers, tell me. What’re the notes you dread getting online? Is it the ‘sups, or the UNLOCKS? Is it the constant requests for you to top when you’ve plainly stated you’re a bottom? I declare this Open Forum Friday. Gentlemen, start your engines. And may the best griper win!

My Love

His photos seem designed to make me drool. He’s a Puerto Rican guy in his mid-thirties, and in all his clothed shots he’s wearing baggy shorts that cut off in the middle of his thick calves, showing only a few inches of flesh before it’s taken over by black ankle socks and a fuckin’ huge pair of beat-up sneakers. He’s muscular in that natural way that manual laborers can be. In some of the pictures he’s got a beard, or a goatee. In others, it’s a sculpted soul patch, or a landing strip on his chin.

He’s hot, and he’s horny, and he’s available. He’s also less than a mile from where I live. That’s all I need to know. I tell him I’ll meet him in ten minutes.

There’s a buffer zone between my neighborhood and his—a grid of storage warehouses, landscaping companies (including my own landscaper’s company), and other light industrial facilities. My dick’s still hard from the conversation we had online as I dodge flatbeds carrying small bulldozers and pickup trucks loaded with leaf-blowing equipment. Once I cross under the freeway, I’m into the area where he lives, where wooden houses perch precariously on steep hills. It’s not a poor neighborhood by any means, but it’s by no means as ritzy and pretentious as the one that’s temporarily adopted me. In fact, I always think of it as the Taco Truck Neighborhood, since only two blocks to the north sits a noisy white truck that dispenses in equal enormous quantities both gas fumes and delicious cheap lunches on foam plates.

He meets me at the door of the apartment building, set back from the street. He’s as sexy as his photos, and wearing a floppy pair of sweatpants, a tank top. His bare feet slap on the linoleum as he leads me to the elevator. He’s staying with his sister and her two nieces, he explains as we ride up, but they’re out for the afternoon and he has the place to himself. “Damn, pa,” he says, when he looks me up and down after the elevator door closes. “You so tall.”

All the younger latin guys around here call me pa. I’ve learned to like it. His eyes devour me in the elevator, but we don’t touch. There’s a camera prominently displayed above head level. “Come on, pa,” he whispers, when the elevator doors open onto a hallways that’s pungent with the scent of cumin and sweet onions. “I got things I want to do to you.”

He’s sexy, this one. When he walks down the hall to his sister’s apartment, his butt cheeks twitch up and down with every step. His hair is tousled, as if he’s just gotten out of bed. He strides down the hall as if he’s unobserved, unaccompanied, even pausing to scratch his beautiful round butt as he unlocks the door. Once it’s shut, though, he’s all over me. He’s standing on tiptoes to thrust his mouth against mine. It tastes of coffee and mint candy. “Oh baby,” he moans. “I want you so bad.” His dick is tenting the fabric of his sweats.

I shuck myself out of my leather jacket. It falls to the floor with the thump. “I want you,” I murmur back. I’ve got his face between my hands. His beard rasps against my palms. It’s cropped close, and is mostly dark, but there are a few gray hairs already popping up on that sexy face.

He says something to me in rapid-fire Spanish that I don’t comprehend, but I get his meaning when he tugs at my hand and pulls me in the direction of the bedroom. The moment that door is shut and locked—against the possible intrusion of the sister and the nieces, I’m guessing—he’s stripping off his clothes.

Off come the sweats, and out pops his little dick. It’s tiny, and narrow; even erect, it can’t measure any longer than four and a half inches. It’s a hot little pinga, though, and a good inch of overhanging foreskin droops from the tip. His tank top flies in the air, and he’s down to skin that’s the color of caramel sauce. “You like what you see, baby?” he wants to know. His stubby fingers are plucking his nipples.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I tell him. I kick off my sneakers and shimmy out of my sweatshirt. “I love your muscles.”

The compliment makes him shy. “I don’t work out or nothing. It’s just from my job, baby.” He tells me the name of the local furniture store where he works as a mover in the warehouse. He’s running the flats of his palms over his biceps and forearms the entire time. I’ve got my pants off now, and he’s staring at my dick. “Now that’s what’s beautiful, pa,” he breathes.

He’s on his knees, mouth on my dick, pushing me back onto his mattress. The bed is covered with pillows and there’s a half-consumed Pop Tart on a paper plate at the far edge. It’s clean, though, and still carries a scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener. He’s actually using suction on my dick, inhaling as hard as possible as if he’s trying to nurse it. It feels good, though. I hold his head as he makes me feel better and better.

For a long time we alternate between his sucking and him mounting me. He rubs his little dick against mine as we make out. He grunts and groans as we connect and hump. He’s so frantic and desperate that he can’t decide what he wants—my dick down his mouth, his mouth on mine, or my cock up his ass. Sometimes he’ll straddle me and rub my shaft across his hairy crack. When I reach around behind him to grab those meaty cheeks, his eyes roll up and back into his head, and his neck drops back, as if I’ve slid out a toy spine.

I roll him over, and climb on top of him. Now it’s my turn to hump him. My dick’s prodding at his hole, bluntly stabbing at his butt as I make out with him. His own dick is dripping heavily with precum that glistens on my chest, where his foreskin paints it. “Oh, my love,” he says. The words startle me. They sound like dialogue from a telenovella, but he’s just responding to the heat of the moment. “I want you inside me, lover,” he says, in his accented English. “I want your big dick inside me, pa.”

I flip him over. When I spit on my hand, my middle and index fingers slide right in. I add more saliva to my dick, kneel on the mattress, and position myself behind him.

His hands clutch at the mattress and come up with fistfuls of sheet when I start pushing in. “Aieeee!” he moans, as if he’s in pain. “So big!” But then I’m not pushing at all. I’m just holding still while he impales himself with it. He doesn’t seem to care about the pain. He just wants it inside him, desperately. There’s a moment when he reaches the base of the shaft that he seems to think he’s taken too much at once; he tenses, and goes silent, his mouth open and his lips still pursed. Then he pants, and breathes deeply, and begins gyrating his hips.

He feels good. He feels great, in fact. He’s reaching over his head, blindly trying to grasp the back of my head to pull my lips down to his. I make out with him over his shoulder. He awkwardly tries to drive his tongue into my mouth as I begin pistoning in and out of his ass. “Ohhh,” he moans, over and over again. Then he bites his lower lip and shakes his head. He’s really getting into it now. Our rhythm locks. He’s thrusting back while I’m thrusting forward, and his hole is slipping around my meat like a tight-fitting glove.

When I pull him to his knees and begin fucking more vigorously, he starts swearing in Spanish again. His eyes open for the first time since I’ve entered him, and he stares at me over his shoulder with something in his eyes I can’t quite identify. There’s respect, certainly—respect for the meat that’s pummeling him from behind. There’s challenge, as if he wants me to push him further. But mostly I see animal lust.

Maybe he sees the same thing from me, because when our eyes lock, the temperature we’re generating seems to rise exponentially. I throw my dick all the way in, in one swift push that makes him wince. Then he’s looking straight at me again, nodding, telling me without words how much he fucking loves it.

His legs are spread wide. He’s pulling wide his ass cheeks, trying to admit as much of me as he can. He wants it all. Every millimeter. When he gets it, he still wants more. He slams down on it as if he’s trying to keep it for himself, as if he expects to walk away with it touching the deepest places inside him. Then I start to come. He’s listened to my breathing and knows when it’s arriving. “I want your babies,” he says.
His hand flies back and he twists around, trying to kiss me while I shoot. At the same time, he arches his back and sits back on my dick as it throbs and squirts into him. He’s shuddering himself. It takes me a while before the haze before my eyes clears, and I realize he’s shot his own load onto the mattress. His foreskin is dripping with sperm. There’s a trail of it across the bed, up to the pillow, where he’s shot.

And yet he hasn’t touched himself. He’s been on his hands and knees the entire time.

My dick slops out of him noisily when we untie from each other. “No, no, no,” he says. He’s been aggressive since the door shut, but now he’s soft and tender. With gentle hands he pushes me down onto the mattress, helping me avoid the spots he’s covered with his load. “I will be right back, my lover.”

The apartment’s overheated, I realize. I’m sweating up a storm. Through the open door I hear sounds of running water from the bathroom, and then he’s back with a washcloth. It’s discolored, but wet and warm, and he’s down between my legs, softly wiping off my dick. He runs the rough cloth under my balls, down my thighs, on the soles of my feet. Then he kisses the tip of my cock, still semi-hard, still dripping sperm.

“I love your cock, pa,” he says. “It makes me feel amazing. My love.”

When he calls me by that phrase again, I feel my dick stir.

He notices it. “My love,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my thigh. “My love,” he says, when I begin to harden again. Then, he’s covering my meat with kisses, whispering, “My love, my love. My love.”

And that that moment, right before we begin again, they’re the sweetest two words in the world.