Sunday Morning Questions: Mourning the Back Yard Neighbor Edition

It is a sad Sunday morning for me, readers. The end of an era has come. Yesterday, when I was driving down the adjoining street after a thunderstorm so I could check out the remains of a tree sheared in half by high winds, I saw something that astounded me. Yes, it was my back yard neighbor Michael's house, sitting there all neat and tidy with curb appeal up the wazoo, with a Real Estate One sign parked in front of it.

The fucker is moving.

Quite honestly, it felt like a slap in the face. I don't care that the man has three children under the age of ten and lives in a two-bedroom house. Clearly he should have thought of the ramifications of having that extra baby after he'd moved in and made me his salivating fan. All that energy I invested in stalking him is going to be for naught, once he's no longer around. Will my new neighbor have luxurious long curly locks? Doubtful. Will the new neighbor strut around in the nude in his kitchen, or sprawl shirtless in his backyard nursing a beer between his legs while studying me frankly from a distance? Hah! That lightning doesn't strike twice.

Here's hoping the house doesn't move. Damn it for being so cute! On the plus side, if any of my readers are in the market for a two-story house with a cute screen back porch and me as a back door neighbor (in every sense of the phrase), you're in luck.

Here's a few questions I've been asked on formspring.me to keep you occupied on this Sunday. As always, feel free to ask me more. I'm pretty frank about most things.



How does it feel to be worshipped and adored by so many guys?
Are you implying I am? Most of the time I don't feel adored or worshipped, though sometimes I feel mildly flirted with. I could really do with a little worship, frankly.

On a broader level, it does feel very nice to have guys be so kind to me, both on my blog and on Twitter. I've never lost the capacity to be surprised at, or delighted with, compliments. Every single one makes me feel as if I should be wrapping it up, pressing it in the family Bible, and saving it to bring out and reminisce over on a rainy day. I mean that most sincerely.

So I'm grateful.


how long does it take you to write one of your post? i love your ability to paint a picture as you write, it always makes me feel like i am there.
The average length of time it takes to compose a journal entry is probably between a half hour and an hour. Then I spend a few minutes re-reading and revising, and then I post it for the following morning.

Sometimes I'll revise a little more before the post appears. Then I go back and correct stuff when the sharp-eyed readers tell me exactly what errors I've made. And they do tell me.


What does a bottom have to learn to be fucked the way you want?
I really had to think about this one. I think it boils down to the following: he needs to learn to relax, to enjoy what's happening, and to trust me to make it good for us both. I know what I'm doing.


I always figure most guys who put a pic in a CL post are fakes. What do you think?
I have put my photos in my Craigslist posts, and those aren't fakes.

I've also seen my photos reappear in other mens' ads (or I'll have one of my sharp-eyed friends spot it and tell me). At that point, they're fakes, and I usually write the posters and request their removal.

I don't use Craigslist very often in my area because at least where I live, the guys who are looking there aren't all that enjoyable. However, I've run across about the same proportion of real photos to real-but-ten-years-or-more-old photos to absolute fakes. My experience with Craigslist has been that the number of guys from it who flake is substantially higher than other sites.


Damn, that is an accomplishment. Can you elaborate on that 4 hour session you had? ;)
I've had a lot of long sessions. Typically they took place on lazy afternoons or long evenings when my partner and I were both relaxed and enjoying each other. I'd fuck, shoot, stay inside, and begin fucking when we were both ready. Which is always pretty quickly for me.

The one former buddy I had with whom I enjoyed a lot of marathon sessions had a similar sexual development to mine. We would swap stories while I was fucking him, and talk about the similar kinds of places where we used to cruise, and work each other into a frenzy while talking about our pasts.


All those guys from your loss of virginity period: ever get an STD?
Nope. The only sexually transmitted nuisance I received during my teens was a case of crabs, and that wasn't until I was 19.


Yes, Craigslist is Flakesville. What's your ranking of other sites, least to most flakes?
Every site has a lot of flakes, unfortunately. But here you go.

1) BarebackRT.com: This bareback site isn't for everyone, and it does have a lot of guys who are there to look at photos rather than meet. However, I've met a lot of good guys from there, and only a few total flakes. It's especially good on the road.

2) Manhunt: There are a lot of men who irritate me on Manhunt, but the sheer numbers of guys who have accounts there make it easier to find someone to have sex with.

3) Adam4Adam: It's not the best site in my area, but when I've been traveling, I've gotten a ton of responses from guys who followed through.

4) Craigslist: I usually don't both responding to, or placing, ads in my area. I've used it for travel, but the number of flakes is too high to guarantee results.

5) Squirt and Men4sexnow: Skanky guys, and a high flake-to-real ratio.

There are other sites I haven't tried, like asspig.com or bnskin.com. The administrator of bear411 said I wasn't bear enough for their site, so I've not revisited that one, either.


ok warning, this is a real nerdy question. i saw u added a wow gamecard to ur wishlist. what class/spec do u play? what server?
Oh my god, best question ever. (Though yes, it is nerdy.) My main is a feral druid, and my favorite alt is a holy priest. How about you?


Places like bars, how do you decide who's a likely bottom?
To be honest, I assume that pretty much everyone's a bottom.

I know that sounds like a smart-ass answer, but save for a handful of times, I've rarely run across anyone who didn't want to bottom--in a bar, in a bathhouse, online, name it. There are a lot of bottoms out there. There are a lot of men who call themselves versatile who would truly prefer to bottom but switch just because someone has to. And there are a lot of tops who want to take a break and give it up.

So yes, while it may be true that I'm an arrogant S.O.B. with a sense of entitlement to men's butts, it's also a fact that no matter where I go, I'm wading in a sea of bottoms.


You've previously mentioned that you suspect that you're the biological father of two children outside of your own relationship. Have either of the two couples you've helped impregnate tried to demand child support?
No. With one of the couples, I signed a contract that made clear that while I was the sperm donor, I did not have either any claims upon or responsibilities for the resulting child. The other couple simply had me fuck them until she was pregnant, and then they stopped contacting me. It was only later, after I inadvertently discovered that he had a low sperm count and they'd been trying for a baby for years without success, did I figure out I'd been used for sex and sperm.

There are worse ways to be used.


So... I've never been fucked before. Each time I'm jerking it, I get this burning desire to have a cock up my ass. How would you handle someone like me?
First, I'd suggest purchasing a small toy and using it on yourself while you masturbate. Small, notice I said. A lot of first-timers buy something way too large, discover it's more painful than pleasurable on their initial tries to take it, and give up. Something finger-sized or slightly larger might help.

Fingers work, too. Use plenty of lube and simply play with your hole as you masturbate, and work up to inserting your toy or fingers and seeing what you enjoy. Replicate the things you like, and analyze the stuff you don't.

Finally, find someone you trust to give you your first fuck. Let them in in advance--I prefer knowing, at least, so I can be extra-supportive. A lot of tops prefer experienced holes, so tell him you're not in order that he won't be unduly frustrated. And please make sure to rinse yourself out before you give it up. That way neither you nor your top will be embarrassed.

The steps from virgin to experienced bottom aren't many, and aren't difficult to take. You simply have to act upon it, rather than fantasize.



Honorable slut daddy sexy grizzly bitch you, Sir: Have you ever had sex with a CIA or an FBI person?
Your grizzly daddy bitch is flattered that you think he could seduce an agent of espionage or a skilled FBI professional. but the answer is no. Not to my knowledge, anyway.

Of course, if I had, I'd probably be required to give that answer anyway, wouldn't I?

An Open Letter To My Neighbor

Dear Michael, My Back Yard Neighbor,

It’s me. You know, the tall, lanky, bearded bisexual guy from the house behind yours. Yes, the one to whom you flashed your naked body, late that one night not so long ago. The one who’ll appear like magic in his glass back doors, mornings, with his bowl of cereal when you pace up and down your back yard walk and pretend to stretch for the morning runs that you never take. But that’s okay. I like the way you bend over and point your ass in my direction as you stretch your hamstrings.

It’s really a beautiful ass, by the way. Just like the rest of you is beautiful. I’ve always been a fan of your long, shoulder-length curly hair, though I’ve heard your wife suggest at least twice that you should cut it. I really am turned on by that huge Slavic nose of yours, believe it or not. I love your stocky, jock-ish body, even when you’ve been eating a few too many pierogies over the winter. For a guy in your mid-thirties carrying three kids, a mortgage, and a full-time teaching job (at least, that’s my best guess from your schedule), you’re doing really well.

I still think of the first day we met, a few years back, when you’d just moved in and were cutting down that crabapple tree between us that blocked my view of your house. (Thank you for that favor, by the way. Best thing you ever did for our relationship.) The majority of the tree was gone by the time I saw what you were doing. When I stepped out onto my back porch, hands on my hips, I saw for the first time that part of one of the tree’s upper branches had grown between the power lines in a way that was suspending it in mid-air. So there you were, on a ladder, trying to snip away at a branch belonging to a tree that no longer existed, like some conundrum from an absurdist painting.

“Hey,” I said, and told you my name.

“Hey. I’m Michael,” you told me.

I watched you cut away most of the branch. “Do you need some help there?” I asked. “Or do you want to bring your ladder over here?”

You refused, amiably enough. Maybe you rightly suspected that my subtext was something along the lines of, Do you want to bring your sexy daddy body into my bed? Because since that moment there’s been a sexual tension that I know isn’t my own imagination. When you sit in the back yard, you do it when I’m relaxing or working on my deck, and you always point your body directly at me. When you’re stretching, you always look over your shoulder to see if I’m there with my cereal bowl. There’s always an awareness of each other, between us.

Then there was yesterday.

I was out on my deck in the afternoon warmth, reading my book, while you puttered around on your porch. I watched you for a while, yes. But then I’m afraid that Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger got the better of me, because I became so absorbed in it that I kind of stopped paying attention to you at all.

That is, until you yelled out, at top volume, “Feast your eyes! FEAST YOUR EYES!” Whereupon I looked up to find you standing on the top porch step clad in only a tight pair of shorts, bare-chested for the world to see. And by ‘world,’ I mean, ‘me.’

May I just say at this juncture, Michael, on the extremely off-chance that you’re reading my blog, that you have a beautiful chest? You’ve been working out, and it shows. Your proportions are great. Your chest fuzz is inspiring. The trail that leads down to what I remember as your substantial, dark pubic hair makes me want to drop to my knees. My eyes feasted, Michael. Oh, they feasted.

The alleged intended recipient of your manly cry was supposed to be your mouse of a wife. However, Michael, I know that it was meant for me. Why? Because for one thing, you were facing my direction. Your wife was behind you. The only person who could feast was me. For another, you shouted out the directive so loudly that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. And that wife of yours? Only two feet away. I know she’s not deaf.

I’m reasonably sure, and I think a jury of my peers would back me up here, that you stripped down especially for me, to celebrate the first day it was warm enough for the both of us to be in our back yards. Furthermore, I know by the looks you kept shooting me, as I watched you tinker around on your porch shirtless and always facing my direction, that you enjoy it when I stare at you.

So let’s cut to the chase. We haven’t talked since the incident with the crabapple branch. But I’m game. Do you want my dick? It’s yours. My ass? It’s yours. Are you one of those straight guys whose vanity preens itself a little when I gawk at you from not-so-afar? It’ll be torture, but I’ll keep doing it, if your ego needs the strokes.

Michael, you’re a fine, fine man, and feasting upon you is exactly what I’d like to do.

Hoping you read this letter,
Your back yard neighbor.

Dear Neighbor

Dear Michael, my Backyard Neighbor,

It’s me. The guy behind your house who has the mildest of crushes on you. Okay, maybe it’s not so mild. Ever since you moved in and you and I made contact over our fence, talking about the power lines, my heart goes all pitter-pat whenever I’m working in my den and, through the big glass doorwall, I see you leave your side door to take out the trash.

Now, we both know that compared to Brady, the Abercrombie and Fitch daddy two doors down from me, you’re not much of a looker. He’s lean and tanned and worked out and fond of jumping around his back yard wearing nothing but shorts, as if he’s still playing on his college extreme disc golf team. You’re pale and constantly struggle with your waistline, your nose is large and sharp, and you’re a little too old for the long, curly hair you cultivate. Not that you’re not dreamy, mind you. When Brady’s charms have receded with his hairline, you’ll still be an American classic.

I think it’s because my appreciation of this fact that you’re always putting on a little show for me whenever you appear in your back yard. My favorite was how last summer, whenever I was on my deck working and you were home, you sat on your patio with your chair angled directly facing me, so you could sprawl with your legs spread and your arms stretched behind your head, eyes slitted so you can watch me trying not to stare at you too much. Now that it's spring, I'm appreciating it when you start doing your backyard stretches and exercises, ass bent and prominent, at the exact moment I’ll step outside to eat my breakfast cereal. And the time you recently watched me from your upstairs window, then came out onto your porch to parade around shirtless in your boxers, while you kept an eye on me? I wanted to applaud. Bravo!

Your latest exploit in the art of teasing the bisexual neighbor, however, has had serious side effects. I believe you know to which incident I refer, sir. Yes, it would have been Tuesday night, when I was afflicted with a mild insomnia and was sitting in my dark den with the laptop illuminating my face. I was sitting there, trying to bore myself into sleep, when the brightness of your kitchen overhead light cut through the pitch black between our yards. And there you stood, naked, back turned, so that all I could see was how very perfect was your bare ass, as you leaned against the kitchen counter, shifting weight. Yes, I was a little stunned at how you showed it off.

When you moved out of the window’s view for a few moments, I was disappointed. Yet you came back, once again displaying that magnificent ass for my benefit. Then you turned and faced the window, and simply stood there. Just leaned against the counter, showing me your chest and the top of your bush. You did nothing with your hands. You weren’t drinking or fidgeting. You merely stood there, completely naked, staring through the window in my direction, making me wonder if you knew how hard my heart was thudding in my chest.

After a few moments in which I had a good look, you sauntered very slowly up to the window and stood framed for it for several last moments in which you seemed to be peering through. Then, very deliberately, you turned out the light so that the whole world seemed to go black again.

Yes, that incident. Remember it? Well dude, thanks. You appear to have given me a perpetual case of blue balls.

Sincerely,
Your horny stalker one street over.