Some questions about recognition—or lack thereof, in today’s occasional feature. Got questions for your friendly neighborhood sex blogger? Send them to the email in my sidebar, with a subject line of ‘Sunday Morning Questions’. Of course, if you have questions you don’t want answered on a Sunday morning, you can submit them the same way, of course . . . but I do reserve the right to use the questions and their answers in my blog sometime.
You really get recognized on a regular basis? What’s it like when some stranger comes up to you and asks if you are who they think you are?
The short answer: yes, and it’s okay.
A couple of points, first. Although I don’t show it on my blog, I’m not so rigorous on my various sex profiles about keeping my face anonymous. In fact, I’m adamant about keeping my own face photos unlocked, because I’m not really fond of guys who lock and unlock and dole out peeks like barkers at a sideshow. When people see me on a website or a GPS app and ask if I’m the guy who keeps this blog, I don’t lie about it. I say yes.
So quite honestly, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes—or even much of a Scooby Doo—to see my face and say, “Oh, so that’s what he looks like. Okay.” There’ve been several times in the past, however, when guys have thought that they’d really stumbled onto the secret of the century and have attempted to use their knowledge of what I look like as leverage against me. Like that’ll get them anything.
Most of the people who’ve recognized me online, have been totally delightful about it. They’ll say hi, they’ll tell me they read the blog, I’ll thank them, and then we’ll each go our merry ways. My public encounters have been much the same—and I’ve had a lot of those as well. I’ll be in a Starbucks, or sitting in a theater, or in a bar, or on vacation, or in the mall (seriously . . . it’s happened at the food courts of malls, three times) when someone will approach me, half-smile, and nervously say something along the lines of, “I know this is going to be a weird question but. . . .”
It usually is a weird question, too. Unexpected, at least. Being recognized is great when it gets me a quiet compliment or two. My blog is a tiny sliver of my life, though; I’m not thinking about it or its contents all the time. So when someone approaches me, especially in a bar or at the food court, I’m most likely thinking they’re going to ask “Do you mind if I take this chair?” instead of “HEY DUDE, ARE YOU A FAMOUS SEX BLOGGER?” When the latter comes out of their mouths, particularly at an indiscreet volume (and it has), I’m likely to feel like a deer in the headlights, honestly.
There’ve also been times when I find out I’ve been recognized only after the fact. Someone will see me perform in a karaoke bar someplace, and three days later I’ll get an email saying “Nice blog! By the way, did you sing an Erasure song at . . . ?” Last week I took the L train cross-town and that night I had someone leave a comment on a past entry to the effect that they’d seen me but hadn’t wanted to introduce themselves. Also last week, I went bar-hopping with friends and had no less than three messages on Scruff from readers who asked if they’d really seen me.
My long answer, I guess is that yes. I get recognized. It happens fairly regularly—and sometimes it happens more often than others. Being recognized in public feels mostly fairly weird, because I’m never really all that sure of what people expect from me once they’ve approached me—and also because a handful of people are fairly indiscreet about their inquiries, even though I might be with friends or family or colleagues.
If you are one of those people who see me out and about, and you do want to walk up and say something to me, don’t hold back just because you think I’ll freak out. I would be much happier, however, if you were simply to hold out a hand and something along the lines of “Hi! I enjoy reading you online!”, instead of “HEY DUDE, AREN’T YOU THE BREEDER?”
I know everybody’s got to remember you after you’ve been with them but have you ever been with anyone you couldn’t remember after?
I really appreciate your confidence that I’m unforgettable. Sadly, that assumption has already been proven wrong, more than a few times. There have been several guys I’ve met up with who, months after the fuck, will contact me with a message of, hey guy hot pics maybe we should meet sometime.
A few years back I told the story of a stoner I used to fuck, sometimes weekly, for close to two years whom I stopped seeing after he started doing drug deals through the mail slot in his front door . . . while I was fucking him. (It’s pretty sad, and typical of Detroit, where I was living at the time, that he was not the only guy I saw who paused mid-fuck to perform drug deals through his mail slot.) When I encountered him in a bathhouse a few years later, after he’d gotten himself cleaned up, and we struck up our fuckbuddyship again, he had absolutely no idea who I was, nor that we’d been together countless times before.
I had another encounter with a guy with an unusual name from Maine who once flew to Detroit to attend a fisting party one of my best friends threw. He spent the weekend at my friend’s house, took not only my dick but both my fists and the dick and fists of my buddy, and posed for over three dozen photographs, most with his face visible, of me mounting and using him. Cut to ten years later, when a guy with the same unusual name from the same place in Maine contacted me online to ask if I’d like to get together with him when he visited Manhattan. Hey ——, I wrote back, using his unusual name. It’s ——. We met at my buddy’s —‘s house when you flew to Detroit and visited on Valentine’s weekend in 2002.
This guy wrote back to say he’d never met me and had never been in Detroit. I sent him his photos and asked, Aren’t these you?
No, he said.
Just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, I asked my host buddy if the guy online wasn’t the same guy we’d both bred a decade before. “I don’t know what that fucker is on,” said my buddy, “but if he doesn’t remember being worked over by you, he’s crazy in the head.”
Crazy in the head. I like that theory.
Did you get my birthday gift? Did you get a lot of birthday gifts?
I received several birthday gifts this year, thanks to my kind readers. I got a stretchy cock ring, several packages of underwear, some filters for my camera, a book, a game, two bottles of lube . . . and maybe something else I’m forgetting. But it was a birthday bonanza! Thank you guys!
There are many times when Amazon doesn’t inform me who has sent me a particular item—so don’t be shy about speaking up and asking me if I received something. That’s very often the only time I learn from whom it came.
I kind of think you must have a sad life if sex is all you have time to do or think about.
Ah, but sex isn’t all I do. It’s not all I have time for. Outside my blog, I have a life that has room for all kinds of activities—social, intellectual, recreational, and yes, sexual. I work, I volunteer, I spend time with family, I create, I teach, I share. I have hobbies, I travel, I’m a great cook, I take advantage of cultural opportunities. I have a rich and satisfying life that I am zealous about keeping that way.
So no. Sex isn’t all I do. It’s just something I do really fucking well.
I kind of think you must have a sad life if all you have time to do is jack off to my blog, then try to project how badly you feel about yourself and what you've just done onto me.
Showing posts with label formspring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label formspring. Show all posts
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Sunday Evening Questions: Department of Odd Stank Edition
I was at a bar in the Village a couple of weeks ago when the drag queen who was acting as hostess there, that afternoon, started to play a little game with the audience. The game in question was the traditional Never Have I Ever drinking competition. Typically it consists of people going around the room starting a sentence with the words “Never have I ever. . . .” and then finishing it up with something personal and maybe humorously scandalous they’ve not done, but they hope other people in the group have. Anyone who’s actually done the act has to take a drink. Hilarity ensues.
Well, in this particular iteration of the game, the drag queen was making all the statements, then forcing the somewhat rowdy crowd to hold up their glasses and take a slug if they’d committed the act in question. And all the questions, as you might expect in a gay bar in the Village where a drag queen was holding court, were all sexual. “Never have I ever . . . slept with a drag queen!” she’d bark out. Then while about three of us chugged our liquor, she took good note of who had.
“Never have I ever . . . had a threesome!” she said. I and quite a few others downed our drinks.
A few minutes later, it was, “Never have I ever . . . gone to a bathhouse!” A very few us admitted to that one, but I drank proudly.
“Never have I ever . . . taken two cocks in both ends at the same time!” Yeah. I drank to that one, too.
As you might guess, I ended up drinking to every single damned never have I ever that she called out. I’d never been drunk before. But I sure as hell was that night. I passed out in the cab, that’s how drunk I was.
“Honey,” said the drag queen afterward, when I was stumbling my way to the men’s room to take my fifth leak of the evening. “I was watching you up there during my little drinking game. And no harm meant? But you are a fucking slut.”
Point taken.
I haven’t done a Sunday questions in a long while, and I was noticing in my backlog I have several questions that begin not with never have I ever, but at least with the enticing words Have you ever . . . ? So in honor of my first total drunken episode, a couple of weekends back, let’s assay three of those.
(And a question to my readers: why didn’t any of you come take advantage of me in my vulnerable state? I’m so disappointed.)
Have you ever gotten revenge on a former fuck who pissed you off? I am in a situation now where a guy I used to see really upset me, and I know ways to fuck with his life. You seem like you’d have a level-headed way to keep me from doing it, though.
At this stage of my life, I honestly feel the best policy, when teased by thoughts of revenge, is simply to hold up your hands and walk away from the temptation. If you can possibly do so with your former fuck, I totally recommend you do.
That said. . . .
A very long time ago when I was thirty-six, I made friends with a local couple. Just friends. We met online somehow, and then at a bar for a social gathering. They were an oddball couple, ten years younger than I. One of them was a round, short, rotund little ball of lard-colored dough with squinty eyes. His boyfriend was a thin, lanky Canadian with a head of copper-colored hair that came straight out of a bottle. He wasn’t attractive in any traditional sense, but he was a live wire of sexual electricity. When I say the red-head was Canadian, I don’t mean he was originally from Quebec or anything. He was an illegal immigrant, in the U.S. without permission for years and unable to get any job except for those that paid under the table in cash. As I said, they were a little odd. But we used to go out to dinner together, or to the movies; sometimes we’d go shopping for CDs together or out to the mall for an afternoon. I enjoyed their company.
The red-headed boyfriend was slutting around behind the roly-poly one’s back, though. He was always taking me aside and telling me who’d barebacked him that week. After he saw a couple of my dick shots, he started begging me to fuck him. We wouldn’t have to tell his boyfriend. It would be our secret.
I resisted for quite a long time. Months, actually. I have my limits, though, and finally after months of being hounded and flattered, I reached them. I told the red-head that if he came over to my place and kept it from his boyfriend, I’d fuck and breed him.
The night came. The red-head got to my place. He’d barely been there for three minutes, though—I mean, the most I got him to do was kick off his shoes—when he got a phone call from his boyfriend back home. The boyfriend had seen a couple of the emails he’d sent me that afternoon arranging what time he was coming over, rightly assumed the worst, and called him up in hysterics to confront him.
Well, the red-head locked himself into my bedroom and proceeded to fight with his boyfriend for a solid ninety minutes. They yelled, they cried, they whispered, they yelled some more. I sat outside feeling awkward and a little bit miserable. Finally the red-head came out, shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “I guess I better go,” and shuffled out the front door.
I thought that was the bad part. But no.
The next day I got a phone call from the red-head while I was at work. He told me that my attempt at wrecking the relationship that he had with his boyfriend had failed, and that they were staying together after all. Then he said that he’d only offered to sleep with me because I was old and probably wouldn’t get any better offers, and because he felt sorry for me. “Are you telling me I’m a pity fuck?” I asked, horrified. He said that yes, that’s exactly what I was, then wished me a nice life.
Within a couple of weeks I found out that he and his boyfriend were telling people around town that I’d tried to break them up. I got cut dead by mutual acquaintances who informed me they didn’t want to talk to men who attempted to come between such a lovely, perfect couple. It was quite honestly one of the all-time lows of my thirties; I don’t know quite why I bought into the notion that I could only be someone’s pity fuck, but the insult cut deeply enough that I couldn’t shake it. And when I was being shunned for being a homewrecker, too—well. It put me into a rage.
Nowadays I think it’s all ridiculous. The red-head and his roly-poly boyfriend constructed some kind of fictional narrative between them that I was the bad guy who’d tried to become the wedge in their rock-solid relationship; the red-head convinced him that it was only his pity and his drive to be a sexual Good Samaritan, I suppose, that prompted him to give in to my disgusting propositions. I mean, look. I saw the red-head at the bathhouse, slutting around bareback without permission, basically every time I went, for years after. (I ignored him.) But at the time, I just ground my teeth helplessly.
Then after a few weeks of seething I gave in and left an anonymous tip about him on the Immigration Department’s hotline.
Pity fuck, my ass, motherfucker! (*mic drop*)
So yeah. I’ve done it.
Have you ever dropped a guy because of some little stupid thing that could be fixed, but it was easier to drop him than bring it up? I broke up with a guy over his cell phone case (I hated it, if you can’t guess). I guess I’m wondering if I’m shallow, LOL.
Oh sure, I’ve done it. Again, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done it.
When I was in graduate school I started seeing a guy I met online. In 1989 or 1990, going online meant connecting your black and white computer with a phone wire into a ginormous 400 baud modem and signing onto a service like Prodigy, where you’d post cryptic notes about being straight-acting on public bulletin boards. Then you’d exchange two-line private messages with a guy until you’d agreed to hook up. So yeah, except for the fact that it would’ve taken hours to transmit even the grainiest of tiny photos over a 400-baud modem, not so very different than Scruff.
The guy I was seeing was married. Big dicked. Kind of a hot body. He liked to come to my graduate student apartment and take over the place. He’d strut in, whip off his belt, drop his pants, fall onto my sofa with his legs spread wide, then order me to suck his dick. If I was a good boy, he’d flip me over and fuck me hard on the floor. Then he’d pull up his slacks, button up, nod, and walk out the door. A few times a week, he might drop by. I dug his direct approach.
But there was one little thing that bugged the hell out of me. Whenever I would kneel to suck the guy, I would get a whiff of something. He was fine when we were standing; he smelled like the cheap cologne his wife liked him to wear. Down there on my knees, though, fuck. The smell would be so rank that I’d gag. It’s tough to describe the scent. It was a little bit like a swamp. A lot like an infected wound. Much like a corpse. It was just wrong.
It wasn’t his dick. His cock was very clean; the skin beneath his head was free of smegma. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t his balls. He didn’t have a funky ass smell. The odor that was making my eyes water was the kind of stank you might expect if a morbidly obese person got a small piece of raw beef trapped in one of the folds of his belly, only to have it emerge completely rotten at the end of a few weeks. But the dude wasn’t obese. He didn’t have folds. It was a complete mystery.
The one thing that turns me from sex hound to sex-averse on the turn of a dime is a nasty smell. I’ll lose an erection permanently if I get a whiff of something bad, mid-sex. I suppose I could’ve said “Hey, you stink. Can you fix that in the shower so I can get back to sucking you?” At the time, though, it just seemed a lot easier to drop him. So I did.
Years later I had a bad case of the flu during which I didn’t shower as much as I normally do. Toward the end of my time as an invalid, I casually stuck my finger in my navel and, as one does, sniffed it. (Oh, shut up. You know you do.) Immediately I reeled. The scent was so familiar from my days in front of that guy’s cock that I had flashbacks. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the dude simply never washed his belly button. Ever.
So if we’re every showing together and you see me lathering my navel for what seems an unusually long time, now you’ll know why. I scrub that fucker daily.
Have you ever had anyone shit in your mouth during sex? Intentionally or non.
Oh god, yes. It was totally non. Just to be clear.
A note to the weak of stomach: you might want to skip the rest of this reply.
I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this guy before in these pages, but I had sex with a local guy a couple of years ago who was very aggressive about having me eat out his ass. We were having a good time about it. He was sitting on my face, grinding his hole on my beard and moaning while he called out, “Eat me out, fucker! Eat me out good!”
I was mumbling out an enthusiastic reply to the best of my ability with a hundred and thirty pounds of New Yorker on my face, when suddenly the guy bent over and—I think—attempted to push out his hole so I could get better access to it. Unfortunately, he pushed a little hard. The guy had attempted to clean himself out before coming over, and though he’d douched, he’d neglected to evacuate all the water still in his colon. So when he pushed, I got a partial mouthful and a definite face full of a brownish liquid that had a consistency not unlike thin diarrhea.
The guy was offended when I leapt up howling. And he never understood why I refused ever to see him again.
Another more recent occurrence was over the summer, when I was seeing someone who really turned me on for a few weeks. He liked to brag about his anal hygiene. “I’m always squeaky clean,” he’d say. “You can fuck me anyplace, anytime, and I’ll always be squeaky clean.”
Squeaky clean. Hah. I was seeing him for the sixth or seventh time over the summer and I had hoped to spend some quality time down at his hole, munching away. About five minutes into my intensive butt-eating, though, I sensed something was amiss. My face smelled, to put it bluntly, like a baby’s diaper.
As I said, bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my erection. I like to think I’m a little more adept at handling these things now, though. “Hey,” I told him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re not as squeaky clean as usual.”
“I’m always squeaky clean!” he protested.
I wiped my face off on the towel he kept handy and showed it to him. He had to admit that not everything was squeaky clean.
So he took me into his shower. Once the water was warm, he washed off my face and soaped up his ass. He had one of those wand extensions installed, so he shoved it up his hole and douched out again. Then he had me kneel, while the water was still running (it was quite a large shower, custom built), pulled apart his ass cheeks, and had me inspect his hole once more. “Now I’m squeaky clean,” he said, pushing a little bit to turn his hole out.
Once again, it was a case of pushing just a little too hard. A hard little turdlet, about the size of a piece of dog kibble, shot out of his ass and hit me in the middle of my forehead with a ping! My patience tried, I told him what happened. He retrieved the still-hard kibble from where it had bounced, tossed it in the toilet, then turned around and started pissing on my face.
I think he still wonders why I’ve refused to see him again, too.
Well, in this particular iteration of the game, the drag queen was making all the statements, then forcing the somewhat rowdy crowd to hold up their glasses and take a slug if they’d committed the act in question. And all the questions, as you might expect in a gay bar in the Village where a drag queen was holding court, were all sexual. “Never have I ever . . . slept with a drag queen!” she’d bark out. Then while about three of us chugged our liquor, she took good note of who had.
“Never have I ever . . . had a threesome!” she said. I and quite a few others downed our drinks.
A few minutes later, it was, “Never have I ever . . . gone to a bathhouse!” A very few us admitted to that one, but I drank proudly.
“Never have I ever . . . taken two cocks in both ends at the same time!” Yeah. I drank to that one, too.
As you might guess, I ended up drinking to every single damned never have I ever that she called out. I’d never been drunk before. But I sure as hell was that night. I passed out in the cab, that’s how drunk I was.
“Honey,” said the drag queen afterward, when I was stumbling my way to the men’s room to take my fifth leak of the evening. “I was watching you up there during my little drinking game. And no harm meant? But you are a fucking slut.”
Point taken.
I haven’t done a Sunday questions in a long while, and I was noticing in my backlog I have several questions that begin not with never have I ever, but at least with the enticing words Have you ever . . . ? So in honor of my first total drunken episode, a couple of weekends back, let’s assay three of those.
(And a question to my readers: why didn’t any of you come take advantage of me in my vulnerable state? I’m so disappointed.)
Have you ever gotten revenge on a former fuck who pissed you off? I am in a situation now where a guy I used to see really upset me, and I know ways to fuck with his life. You seem like you’d have a level-headed way to keep me from doing it, though.
At this stage of my life, I honestly feel the best policy, when teased by thoughts of revenge, is simply to hold up your hands and walk away from the temptation. If you can possibly do so with your former fuck, I totally recommend you do.
That said. . . .
A very long time ago when I was thirty-six, I made friends with a local couple. Just friends. We met online somehow, and then at a bar for a social gathering. They were an oddball couple, ten years younger than I. One of them was a round, short, rotund little ball of lard-colored dough with squinty eyes. His boyfriend was a thin, lanky Canadian with a head of copper-colored hair that came straight out of a bottle. He wasn’t attractive in any traditional sense, but he was a live wire of sexual electricity. When I say the red-head was Canadian, I don’t mean he was originally from Quebec or anything. He was an illegal immigrant, in the U.S. without permission for years and unable to get any job except for those that paid under the table in cash. As I said, they were a little odd. But we used to go out to dinner together, or to the movies; sometimes we’d go shopping for CDs together or out to the mall for an afternoon. I enjoyed their company.
The red-headed boyfriend was slutting around behind the roly-poly one’s back, though. He was always taking me aside and telling me who’d barebacked him that week. After he saw a couple of my dick shots, he started begging me to fuck him. We wouldn’t have to tell his boyfriend. It would be our secret.
I resisted for quite a long time. Months, actually. I have my limits, though, and finally after months of being hounded and flattered, I reached them. I told the red-head that if he came over to my place and kept it from his boyfriend, I’d fuck and breed him.
The night came. The red-head got to my place. He’d barely been there for three minutes, though—I mean, the most I got him to do was kick off his shoes—when he got a phone call from his boyfriend back home. The boyfriend had seen a couple of the emails he’d sent me that afternoon arranging what time he was coming over, rightly assumed the worst, and called him up in hysterics to confront him.
Well, the red-head locked himself into my bedroom and proceeded to fight with his boyfriend for a solid ninety minutes. They yelled, they cried, they whispered, they yelled some more. I sat outside feeling awkward and a little bit miserable. Finally the red-head came out, shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “I guess I better go,” and shuffled out the front door.
I thought that was the bad part. But no.
The next day I got a phone call from the red-head while I was at work. He told me that my attempt at wrecking the relationship that he had with his boyfriend had failed, and that they were staying together after all. Then he said that he’d only offered to sleep with me because I was old and probably wouldn’t get any better offers, and because he felt sorry for me. “Are you telling me I’m a pity fuck?” I asked, horrified. He said that yes, that’s exactly what I was, then wished me a nice life.
Within a couple of weeks I found out that he and his boyfriend were telling people around town that I’d tried to break them up. I got cut dead by mutual acquaintances who informed me they didn’t want to talk to men who attempted to come between such a lovely, perfect couple. It was quite honestly one of the all-time lows of my thirties; I don’t know quite why I bought into the notion that I could only be someone’s pity fuck, but the insult cut deeply enough that I couldn’t shake it. And when I was being shunned for being a homewrecker, too—well. It put me into a rage.
Nowadays I think it’s all ridiculous. The red-head and his roly-poly boyfriend constructed some kind of fictional narrative between them that I was the bad guy who’d tried to become the wedge in their rock-solid relationship; the red-head convinced him that it was only his pity and his drive to be a sexual Good Samaritan, I suppose, that prompted him to give in to my disgusting propositions. I mean, look. I saw the red-head at the bathhouse, slutting around bareback without permission, basically every time I went, for years after. (I ignored him.) But at the time, I just ground my teeth helplessly.
Then after a few weeks of seething I gave in and left an anonymous tip about him on the Immigration Department’s hotline.
Pity fuck, my ass, motherfucker! (*mic drop*)
So yeah. I’ve done it.
Have you ever dropped a guy because of some little stupid thing that could be fixed, but it was easier to drop him than bring it up? I broke up with a guy over his cell phone case (I hated it, if you can’t guess). I guess I’m wondering if I’m shallow, LOL.
Oh sure, I’ve done it. Again, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done it.
When I was in graduate school I started seeing a guy I met online. In 1989 or 1990, going online meant connecting your black and white computer with a phone wire into a ginormous 400 baud modem and signing onto a service like Prodigy, where you’d post cryptic notes about being straight-acting on public bulletin boards. Then you’d exchange two-line private messages with a guy until you’d agreed to hook up. So yeah, except for the fact that it would’ve taken hours to transmit even the grainiest of tiny photos over a 400-baud modem, not so very different than Scruff.
The guy I was seeing was married. Big dicked. Kind of a hot body. He liked to come to my graduate student apartment and take over the place. He’d strut in, whip off his belt, drop his pants, fall onto my sofa with his legs spread wide, then order me to suck his dick. If I was a good boy, he’d flip me over and fuck me hard on the floor. Then he’d pull up his slacks, button up, nod, and walk out the door. A few times a week, he might drop by. I dug his direct approach.
But there was one little thing that bugged the hell out of me. Whenever I would kneel to suck the guy, I would get a whiff of something. He was fine when we were standing; he smelled like the cheap cologne his wife liked him to wear. Down there on my knees, though, fuck. The smell would be so rank that I’d gag. It’s tough to describe the scent. It was a little bit like a swamp. A lot like an infected wound. Much like a corpse. It was just wrong.
It wasn’t his dick. His cock was very clean; the skin beneath his head was free of smegma. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t his balls. He didn’t have a funky ass smell. The odor that was making my eyes water was the kind of stank you might expect if a morbidly obese person got a small piece of raw beef trapped in one of the folds of his belly, only to have it emerge completely rotten at the end of a few weeks. But the dude wasn’t obese. He didn’t have folds. It was a complete mystery.
The one thing that turns me from sex hound to sex-averse on the turn of a dime is a nasty smell. I’ll lose an erection permanently if I get a whiff of something bad, mid-sex. I suppose I could’ve said “Hey, you stink. Can you fix that in the shower so I can get back to sucking you?” At the time, though, it just seemed a lot easier to drop him. So I did.
Years later I had a bad case of the flu during which I didn’t shower as much as I normally do. Toward the end of my time as an invalid, I casually stuck my finger in my navel and, as one does, sniffed it. (Oh, shut up. You know you do.) Immediately I reeled. The scent was so familiar from my days in front of that guy’s cock that I had flashbacks. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the dude simply never washed his belly button. Ever.
So if we’re every showing together and you see me lathering my navel for what seems an unusually long time, now you’ll know why. I scrub that fucker daily.
Have you ever had anyone shit in your mouth during sex? Intentionally or non.
Oh god, yes. It was totally non. Just to be clear.
A note to the weak of stomach: you might want to skip the rest of this reply.
I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this guy before in these pages, but I had sex with a local guy a couple of years ago who was very aggressive about having me eat out his ass. We were having a good time about it. He was sitting on my face, grinding his hole on my beard and moaning while he called out, “Eat me out, fucker! Eat me out good!”
I was mumbling out an enthusiastic reply to the best of my ability with a hundred and thirty pounds of New Yorker on my face, when suddenly the guy bent over and—I think—attempted to push out his hole so I could get better access to it. Unfortunately, he pushed a little hard. The guy had attempted to clean himself out before coming over, and though he’d douched, he’d neglected to evacuate all the water still in his colon. So when he pushed, I got a partial mouthful and a definite face full of a brownish liquid that had a consistency not unlike thin diarrhea.
The guy was offended when I leapt up howling. And he never understood why I refused ever to see him again.
Another more recent occurrence was over the summer, when I was seeing someone who really turned me on for a few weeks. He liked to brag about his anal hygiene. “I’m always squeaky clean,” he’d say. “You can fuck me anyplace, anytime, and I’ll always be squeaky clean.”
Squeaky clean. Hah. I was seeing him for the sixth or seventh time over the summer and I had hoped to spend some quality time down at his hole, munching away. About five minutes into my intensive butt-eating, though, I sensed something was amiss. My face smelled, to put it bluntly, like a baby’s diaper.
As I said, bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my erection. I like to think I’m a little more adept at handling these things now, though. “Hey,” I told him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re not as squeaky clean as usual.”
“I’m always squeaky clean!” he protested.
I wiped my face off on the towel he kept handy and showed it to him. He had to admit that not everything was squeaky clean.
So he took me into his shower. Once the water was warm, he washed off my face and soaped up his ass. He had one of those wand extensions installed, so he shoved it up his hole and douched out again. Then he had me kneel, while the water was still running (it was quite a large shower, custom built), pulled apart his ass cheeks, and had me inspect his hole once more. “Now I’m squeaky clean,” he said, pushing a little bit to turn his hole out.
Once again, it was a case of pushing just a little too hard. A hard little turdlet, about the size of a piece of dog kibble, shot out of his ass and hit me in the middle of my forehead with a ping! My patience tried, I told him what happened. He retrieved the still-hard kibble from where it had bounced, tossed it in the toilet, then turned around and started pissing on my face.
I think he still wonders why I’ve refused to see him again, too.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Sunday Morning Questions: Bluto Edition
Every once in a while I’ll write a blog post that seems to touch a nerve. My recent entry about giving head to a man in his seventies opened up a floodgate of private emails—I’m still getting them, in fact. Most of the notes I received were of a celebratory nature, either from older gentlemen happily involved with younger guys: “I’m older than the man you sucked and I have a thirty-three-year-old boyfriend and I couldn’t have a better sex life!”, or “I’m in my late sixties and involved with a guy who’s twenty, and most of the time I’m the one wearing him out!”
Congrats on that, guys. I think it’s awesome when an intergenerational relationship blossoms so fragrantly.
A minority of my correspondence, though, came from men who seemed to have a good thing, but didn’t understand why—or felt that they were unworthy of it. “I’m seventy-four and seeing a young man in his late twenties,” wrote one. “He gets aroused with me, that’s for sure, and he always leaves me satisfied . . . and then some! But I can’t understand what he sees in me. I’m not anywhere near as attractive as him. I’m only of average size. I know I’m being stupid, but every time we meet I’m not enjoying myself fully because I’m thinking more about why in the world he associates with a guy like me instead of with hot guys his own age.”
Another wrote, “I’m just an average-looking college guy who loves, loves, loves daddies. The older the better. If I see a sexy older man all I can think of is the kinky sexual shit I want to do with him. But if I try to talk to one I freeze up because I know they’re not going to take me seriously. Older guys have their shit together. I don’t even know what classes I’m taking next semester. I don’t want to be attractive just because I’m young. What are they going to see in me? I want to be able to bring something to the table.”
I think all of us have experienced these inadequacies at times. Haven’t we? I’ve always been upfront about my own feelings of unworthiness—the multiple times I’ve felt that guys are out of my league, the times I’ve felt I’m not sexy enough, not wealthy enough, not muscular enough. When I was younger, I felt that I was too young for the older guys I desired. At my current age, I sometimes worry I’m too old for anyone who still has his own teeth.
The thing is, though, that it’s fruitless to try to micromanage other people’s desires. If a man of any age tells you that he finds you attractive, why question it? What’s the profit, there? If he’s seen you in a bar or in a social situation, he’s had plenty of time to size you up and decide that the two of you should spend time together. If you’ve communicated online or on an app, and the photos he’s seen are good representations of you (and genuinely are of you and not your favorite porn star), why waste your time trying to pick apart his professed attraction?
Ultimately doubting someone because he’s into you is an insult to the guy in question. You’re not only doubting his taste, but you’re giving him no credit whatsoever to make his own adult decisions. Let him be the one to decide if you’re the one right for him. Don’t dump him because you’ve decided you’re not right for him. Don’t distance yourself in case you suspect he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t refuse to meet him because you worry he’s not got a clear perception of who you really are. Let the guy choose. He might surprise you.
I think it’s always important to keep in mind that when we’re meeting a man for sex, we’re not just meeting his penis. We’re meeting all his insecurities, all the vulnerabilities he’s been carrying around, all the doubt he’s had in the last two hours when he’s readied himself in the mirror just to meet you. That’s one of the reasons a little kindness goes a long way—it’s a salve to all the stings and hurts in our lives. If someone’s being kind to you . . . please allow him.
Let’s get to a few reader questions, shall we? (And if you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, feel free to email me.)
Would you rather fuck the Fellowship of the Ring in an orgy, or hit them all one at a time, or (with your penchant for 'ugly-sexy') just pass over the whole lot and make your way through Sauron's army?
That’s quite the question, there. If you’d asked me before those Peter Jackson movies had come out, my answer would’ve been quite different. I would’ve gone with Sauron’s army all the way, because bad boys are always more fun.
After sitting through the movies though? Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the only thing that got me through it was having some man-on-hobbit fantasies involving some Sam on my dick. Oh, that’s right. I said it, my precious. Breeder and Samwise Gamgee, gettin’ it on. Girls, you can keep your Orlando Blooms, your Viggos, your Elijahs. I’ve got my eye on something a little tastier, and together we’re going to put the ‘mount’ in Mount Doom.
Please notice that I did manage to avoid a joke about ‘one cock ring to rule them all.’ You’re welcome.
Do you have any real conception of how many people you help with your blog? I’ve been reading you for several years and it’s remarkable how much you’ve changed my own perceptions about sex in general and my own sexual desires in particular, but I don’t get the impression that you understand how you affect people. I would have hung up my hat and retired from sex a long time ago, but you’ve helped me understand that I can have fun the way I want without apologizing for who I am and what I desire.
Thank you. I am honored, and genuinely touched, by your compliment.
I get people writing in a lot to tell me how much reading me has changed their lives. It’s not such an everyday occurrence that I’m blasé about it. In fact, every time someone shows me his appreciation in that way, I hug it to myself for a while because it’s such a blessing. Really.
The thing is, I don’t write to affect lives. It’s not my primary purpose. I write to share my sexual experiences with the world—the encounters I have, the bulletins I have from the leading edge of the sexual frontier, the reflections I have on my past. I’m just one guy sharing a solitary perspective on sex. If occasionally I hit a universal theme that resonates with another person, it’s simply a fortunate byproduct. I’m too modest a person in my everyday life to perceive myself as a life-changing guru.
I’m happy when it happens, though.
I’ve noticed you haven’t been writing as much lately. Is everything okay?
Everything’s good. I’ve been very happy the last several months, honest!
There have been a few times in the last couple of years when I’ve had to contemplate whether or not I wanted to continue writing this blog. Although I’ve gotten a lot of joy out of it in the more than five years I’ve kept it, and although I’ve met a hell of a lot of incredibly great guys because of it, sometimes the hassles seem to overshadow the fun parts.
I’ve had stalkers, troublemakers, psychos, name-callers, game-players, and guys who feel because I share parts of my life freely that they don’t have to observe any of my boundaries whatsoever. I’ve had men whose need for validation and attention is so great that they don’t really seem to care that there’s a real person behind the blogger. Even this last week I had someone whose need for attention was so great that he stayed up for hours one night leaving potty-mouthed comments on dozens of entries across my blog.
The compromise I’ve had to make with myself to keep writing is that I write when I want to. I write when I have a story that I really want to share. I’m not obligating myself to interact when the impulse isn’t there; I’m not trying to force myself to write a given number of times a week, just to keep the posts coming. If I share a story, it’s because I really, really want to.
I know that means I’m writing less this year than in previous years. I’m sorry for those of you who wish I’d post more frequently. But I think you can concede it’s better that I post once in a while, because I want to, than it is that I post multiple half-hearted entries . . . or post none at all.
I always laugh when you post about the losers you encounter. Any good ones lately? Thanks for the posts!
Well, I did have one who managed to flabbergast me with the sheer size of his ego, not that long ago.
There’s a local guy—name and profile link provided upon request, because he managed to piss me off so badly by being such an fuckwad!—who’s lived several places in my vicinity over the past four years. He started out a good few dozen miles west down the highway, then migrated closer and closer until he lived right in my town. I’m not going to deny his profile is hot. I mean, the guy’s a stud, judging from his photos. He’s one of those hairy muscle-ass types whom bears like to claim as being of their own tribe . . . he looks a bit as if Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto (or Brutus, depending on your generation) were a furry bareback porn star who’d not only eaten his spinach every day and grown muscles all over, but had knocked over Popeye to steal his spinach so that his muscles could grow muscles of his own.
He’d been hitting me up ever since I moved here. The problem, however, wasn’t distance. I was willing to drive out to see him in the days he lived a good hour away, and I’ve certainly been willing to drive the eight or nine miles to his current home ever since he took up residence here. The problem is that he would come online, hit me up strong and hungry, and then disappear for fucking months at a time.
The other problem is that we’d make a date to connect, and he’d never keep it. Every time he’d show up online, after being AWOL for an entire season, he’d tell me that we’d have to fuck man, fuck, man, we have to fuck! I’d leave him ways to contact me—my email, my phone number. I’d ask if he was free on Thursday—I had all Thursday off and was willing to come see him. Sure, man, he’d call me Thursday, sounds good, it’s definite . . . he promised he wouldn’t flake, man. Then Thursday would roll around. No call.
This happened so many times that I gave up on the guy. What’s more, he did it to several other guys I know in the area. My best friend attempted to hook up with him several times. “He’s going to tell you he’ll keep a certain day clear just for you,” I warned him. “But then that day will come and he won’t be around.” My friend, I think, was convinced that I was too cynical and this hairy muscle-ass guy wouldn’t disappoint him the way he’d consistently disappointed me.
When my friend was inevitably ditched and dismayed, though, it managed to piss me off even more than the multiple times when the guy had done it to me.
So I was done with him. I just ignored the guy when he’d log on. I’d read his mails, but not respond. I didn’t want to play the game any longer.
One day in April, though, after I declined to interact with the asshole, I got this email from him:
I confess my jaw dropped. Really, this guy was lumping everyone else into the category of ‘the less fortunates’ just because he thinks he’s the hottest bottom in the room? Damn. That takes some gall. I wrote back the following response, waited until he’d read it, and then blocked him:
Somehow I’ve managed to get by, all these years, without being the recipient solely of pity fucks or charity sex. Sometimes I find the ‘less fortunates’ to be better lovers—and better people—than those who can only bring muscle to the table.
Sometimes I’ve even the hottest top in the room. But I manage not to be an asshole about it.
Congrats on that, guys. I think it’s awesome when an intergenerational relationship blossoms so fragrantly.
A minority of my correspondence, though, came from men who seemed to have a good thing, but didn’t understand why—or felt that they were unworthy of it. “I’m seventy-four and seeing a young man in his late twenties,” wrote one. “He gets aroused with me, that’s for sure, and he always leaves me satisfied . . . and then some! But I can’t understand what he sees in me. I’m not anywhere near as attractive as him. I’m only of average size. I know I’m being stupid, but every time we meet I’m not enjoying myself fully because I’m thinking more about why in the world he associates with a guy like me instead of with hot guys his own age.”
Another wrote, “I’m just an average-looking college guy who loves, loves, loves daddies. The older the better. If I see a sexy older man all I can think of is the kinky sexual shit I want to do with him. But if I try to talk to one I freeze up because I know they’re not going to take me seriously. Older guys have their shit together. I don’t even know what classes I’m taking next semester. I don’t want to be attractive just because I’m young. What are they going to see in me? I want to be able to bring something to the table.”
I think all of us have experienced these inadequacies at times. Haven’t we? I’ve always been upfront about my own feelings of unworthiness—the multiple times I’ve felt that guys are out of my league, the times I’ve felt I’m not sexy enough, not wealthy enough, not muscular enough. When I was younger, I felt that I was too young for the older guys I desired. At my current age, I sometimes worry I’m too old for anyone who still has his own teeth.
The thing is, though, that it’s fruitless to try to micromanage other people’s desires. If a man of any age tells you that he finds you attractive, why question it? What’s the profit, there? If he’s seen you in a bar or in a social situation, he’s had plenty of time to size you up and decide that the two of you should spend time together. If you’ve communicated online or on an app, and the photos he’s seen are good representations of you (and genuinely are of you and not your favorite porn star), why waste your time trying to pick apart his professed attraction?
Ultimately doubting someone because he’s into you is an insult to the guy in question. You’re not only doubting his taste, but you’re giving him no credit whatsoever to make his own adult decisions. Let him be the one to decide if you’re the one right for him. Don’t dump him because you’ve decided you’re not right for him. Don’t distance yourself in case you suspect he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t refuse to meet him because you worry he’s not got a clear perception of who you really are. Let the guy choose. He might surprise you.
I think it’s always important to keep in mind that when we’re meeting a man for sex, we’re not just meeting his penis. We’re meeting all his insecurities, all the vulnerabilities he’s been carrying around, all the doubt he’s had in the last two hours when he’s readied himself in the mirror just to meet you. That’s one of the reasons a little kindness goes a long way—it’s a salve to all the stings and hurts in our lives. If someone’s being kind to you . . . please allow him.
Let’s get to a few reader questions, shall we? (And if you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, feel free to email me.)
Would you rather fuck the Fellowship of the Ring in an orgy, or hit them all one at a time, or (with your penchant for 'ugly-sexy') just pass over the whole lot and make your way through Sauron's army?
That’s quite the question, there. If you’d asked me before those Peter Jackson movies had come out, my answer would’ve been quite different. I would’ve gone with Sauron’s army all the way, because bad boys are always more fun.
After sitting through the movies though? Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the only thing that got me through it was having some man-on-hobbit fantasies involving some Sam on my dick. Oh, that’s right. I said it, my precious. Breeder and Samwise Gamgee, gettin’ it on. Girls, you can keep your Orlando Blooms, your Viggos, your Elijahs. I’ve got my eye on something a little tastier, and together we’re going to put the ‘mount’ in Mount Doom.
Please notice that I did manage to avoid a joke about ‘one cock ring to rule them all.’ You’re welcome.
Do you have any real conception of how many people you help with your blog? I’ve been reading you for several years and it’s remarkable how much you’ve changed my own perceptions about sex in general and my own sexual desires in particular, but I don’t get the impression that you understand how you affect people. I would have hung up my hat and retired from sex a long time ago, but you’ve helped me understand that I can have fun the way I want without apologizing for who I am and what I desire.
Thank you. I am honored, and genuinely touched, by your compliment.
I get people writing in a lot to tell me how much reading me has changed their lives. It’s not such an everyday occurrence that I’m blasé about it. In fact, every time someone shows me his appreciation in that way, I hug it to myself for a while because it’s such a blessing. Really.
The thing is, I don’t write to affect lives. It’s not my primary purpose. I write to share my sexual experiences with the world—the encounters I have, the bulletins I have from the leading edge of the sexual frontier, the reflections I have on my past. I’m just one guy sharing a solitary perspective on sex. If occasionally I hit a universal theme that resonates with another person, it’s simply a fortunate byproduct. I’m too modest a person in my everyday life to perceive myself as a life-changing guru.
I’m happy when it happens, though.
I’ve noticed you haven’t been writing as much lately. Is everything okay?
Everything’s good. I’ve been very happy the last several months, honest!
There have been a few times in the last couple of years when I’ve had to contemplate whether or not I wanted to continue writing this blog. Although I’ve gotten a lot of joy out of it in the more than five years I’ve kept it, and although I’ve met a hell of a lot of incredibly great guys because of it, sometimes the hassles seem to overshadow the fun parts.
I’ve had stalkers, troublemakers, psychos, name-callers, game-players, and guys who feel because I share parts of my life freely that they don’t have to observe any of my boundaries whatsoever. I’ve had men whose need for validation and attention is so great that they don’t really seem to care that there’s a real person behind the blogger. Even this last week I had someone whose need for attention was so great that he stayed up for hours one night leaving potty-mouthed comments on dozens of entries across my blog.
The compromise I’ve had to make with myself to keep writing is that I write when I want to. I write when I have a story that I really want to share. I’m not obligating myself to interact when the impulse isn’t there; I’m not trying to force myself to write a given number of times a week, just to keep the posts coming. If I share a story, it’s because I really, really want to.
I know that means I’m writing less this year than in previous years. I’m sorry for those of you who wish I’d post more frequently. But I think you can concede it’s better that I post once in a while, because I want to, than it is that I post multiple half-hearted entries . . . or post none at all.
I always laugh when you post about the losers you encounter. Any good ones lately? Thanks for the posts!
Well, I did have one who managed to flabbergast me with the sheer size of his ego, not that long ago.
There’s a local guy—name and profile link provided upon request, because he managed to piss me off so badly by being such an fuckwad!—who’s lived several places in my vicinity over the past four years. He started out a good few dozen miles west down the highway, then migrated closer and closer until he lived right in my town. I’m not going to deny his profile is hot. I mean, the guy’s a stud, judging from his photos. He’s one of those hairy muscle-ass types whom bears like to claim as being of their own tribe . . . he looks a bit as if Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto (or Brutus, depending on your generation) were a furry bareback porn star who’d not only eaten his spinach every day and grown muscles all over, but had knocked over Popeye to steal his spinach so that his muscles could grow muscles of his own.
He’d been hitting me up ever since I moved here. The problem, however, wasn’t distance. I was willing to drive out to see him in the days he lived a good hour away, and I’ve certainly been willing to drive the eight or nine miles to his current home ever since he took up residence here. The problem is that he would come online, hit me up strong and hungry, and then disappear for fucking months at a time.
The other problem is that we’d make a date to connect, and he’d never keep it. Every time he’d show up online, after being AWOL for an entire season, he’d tell me that we’d have to fuck man, fuck, man, we have to fuck! I’d leave him ways to contact me—my email, my phone number. I’d ask if he was free on Thursday—I had all Thursday off and was willing to come see him. Sure, man, he’d call me Thursday, sounds good, it’s definite . . . he promised he wouldn’t flake, man. Then Thursday would roll around. No call.
This happened so many times that I gave up on the guy. What’s more, he did it to several other guys I know in the area. My best friend attempted to hook up with him several times. “He’s going to tell you he’ll keep a certain day clear just for you,” I warned him. “But then that day will come and he won’t be around.” My friend, I think, was convinced that I was too cynical and this hairy muscle-ass guy wouldn’t disappoint him the way he’d consistently disappointed me.
When my friend was inevitably ditched and dismayed, though, it managed to piss me off even more than the multiple times when the guy had done it to me.
So I was done with him. I just ignored the guy when he’d log on. I’d read his mails, but not respond. I didn’t want to play the game any longer.
One day in April, though, after I declined to interact with the asshole, I got this email from him:
Okay man.... When the hottest Bottom in the room offers someone like yourself his ass, you are clearly intimidated (for good reason) or you are clearly not a Top. Confessing your a bottom certainly doesn't make you less of a Man, Look at me... Fortunately there are a lot of less fortunates in the room to for you to play with. Cheers...
I confess my jaw dropped. Really, this guy was lumping everyone else into the category of ‘the less fortunates’ just because he thinks he’s the hottest bottom in the room? Damn. That takes some gall. I wrote back the following response, waited until he’d read it, and then blocked him:
I have given you both my email and phone number in the past. You've never used either. When we've talked before and I've given you times I'm available, you've claimed you would hit me up....and never did. Multiple times.
You're attractive. Sure. But assuming that you're the hottest bottom 'someone like myself' could pull is both egotistical and wildly incorrect.
I'm glad you consider yourself fortunate. I hope your good fortune continues. Perhaps in the future you'll also be fortunate enough to realize that your looks aren't always going to compensate for poor behavior.
Somehow I’ve managed to get by, all these years, without being the recipient solely of pity fucks or charity sex. Sometimes I find the ‘less fortunates’ to be better lovers—and better people—than those who can only bring muscle to the table.
Sometimes I’ve even the hottest top in the room. But I manage not to be an asshole about it.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Sunday Morning Questions: Hipster Mage Edition
Earlier this week I was full of righteous indignation over Google’s decision to ban adult images from Blogger, the platform on which I host my blog. Although Google had been fine with adult content for over a decade—welcomed it, even, in their mission statement—they announced with little fanfare that any blogs containing X-rated photos or videos would be hidden from public view. The turnaround left a lot of my fellow bloggers in a panic.
I gave the announcement a couple of days to sink in, then with a heavy heart spent an evening deleting photographs and videos from past entries. I started back at the very beginning—2010, when I started keeping this blog. I managed to purge an even hundred entries before my eyes were spinning. One hundred out of nearly eight hundred. I figured that was good enough progress for an evening.
Then the next morning, of course, I discovered that Google had suddenly reversed their decision and decided to allow blogs with adult content to continue—instead, they’ll crack down on the unlawful distribution of commercial porn instead. Seventh-eighths of my blog is relieved that they reconsidered their hasty, reactionary move. One-eighth of my blog, though, is now missing its photos and is kind of ticked off about it.
I’m also a little annoyed that although Google saw fit to notify every adult blogger via email about their initial crackdown, and also by messages atop the Blogger console web page warning users to clean out offending images by mid-March, they haven’t really seen fit to distribute the word about their change of mind in a similar manner; the change-of-heart announcement appeared in a forum that no one I know reads, somewhere in a corner of Google’s bureaucratic space. It got picked up and redistributed and announced on many a tech blog, thank god—but they haven’t sent around an email to apologize for putting their users into a panic, or anything.
Still. I should be thankful I still have my blog here, as well as some of my images left. So let’s get to some Sunday morning questions. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, the fastest way to get them answered in my occasional feature here is to email them to me at the address on the sidebar with Sunday Morning Question(s) in the subject line. The more I get, the faster the answers will come.
What, for you, is the key to good sex?
You know, so much goes into any one sexual encounter that it’s really, really tough to offer any one single thing that will prove the magical key to making every encounter fantastic. (Of course, having an amazing dick like mine helps.)
More than that, though, these days I feel when both parties go into an encounter with the mindset of wanting to please their partners, and with a willingness to cast aside all the petty stuff that can inhibit or hamper an encounter, they’ll have a good time. If two guys (or gals, or any combination thereof) can ignore for a few hours the little worries of the home, the big concerns of the workplace, the fears about money and the everyday anxieties about being good enough to deserve sex, or pretty enough to get sex, they’ll have a good time. If they hop into bed with smiles on their faces and their attention focused on their partners, ready to accept attention and equally willing to give it, they’ll have a good time.
Just remember, those of you hunting out good sex: if what you’re bringing to an encounter is anxiety, anger, or fear, the chances are pretty good that the sex you’ll have will only make those bad things worse. Learn to breath, to smile, to give yourself positive messages, and to wipe away as much of that bullshit as possible.
Or at least learn to hide it well.
Do you prefer to be addressed by your name, or as ‘Sir,’ or ‘daddy,’ or what?
A few weeks ago I was approached by some semi-local guy somewhere online—I’ve forgotten whether it was an app or some hookup site—who decided that I was going to be his beta top. That is, he was the Alpha in the situation, and I’d be his sidekick top. Boy Wonder to his Caped Crusader, I guess. If he threw a group, I’d be invited and I’d fuck the holes he told me to fuck. I’d hold down the bottoms he told me to hold down. If he wanted me to plug a bottom’s mouth while he was fucking the hole, I’d do as I was told. I guess there was some lube carrying and maybe some sword polishing to be done in his vision of the modern-day equivalent of a knight’s squire, too. I don’t know.
To be honest, it seemed totally relaxing. I’ve been totally accustomed, over the last twenty-five years, to having to manage every aspect of a sexual encounter. Taking a step back to obey orders without having to think them up sounded like a fucking vacation. So I told the guy that his parties could be fun, and that I was in if he’d have me.
That’s when the nightmare began. If I was going to be in his stable of tops, the guy informed me, I’d have to call him Sir. Every single time. If I left the address ‘Sir’ out of a sentence, I would have to beg his forgiveness (Sir). No, I would have to beg his humble forgiveness, Sir. If I referred to him to any of his stable of bottoms, I would have to call him ‘Our Gracious Master’. It was just in direct address that I would call him ‘Sir.’ In the middle of his stream of directives, he then changed his mind. Instead of ‘Sir,’ I was call him ‘Sire.’ That’s what his stable of bottoms called him. ‘Sire.’ And if I forgot to call him ‘Sire….’
It was at that point that I blocked him and his line of bullshit. Christ, I hadn’t even been invited to a party yet and already it was just so much work.
Look. I don’t have any particular need to be called any particular title. My ego doesn’t need the inflation of being called Sir; I’ve got better things to do with my time and my dick than make guys jump over linguistic hoops just to get to the goods. There are a lot better ways for them to prove how much they want my meat—directly—than by adhering to any artificial demands for a title.
However. I’m very much turned on when a man addresses me by a title, whether it be Dad or Sir or Papi or Owner, when it means something to him. When a man truly wants me to be his master, or the sexy dad who fucks his hole, or the aggressive top Sir who plunders his ass, and when he uses one of those words to signal his feelings for me and his regard for me, nothing makes my dick harder for him.
Men who use those words with sincerity, need, and naked honesty will get a response out of me.
I’m always likely to prefer ‘dad’ over ‘daddy,’ though. Just a personal thing.
You have a knack for making yourself feel approachable. I mean, I’ve read just about every entry (I think) and feel like if I sat down next to you somewhere that I could start a conversation about a dozen things, just like one of my real life friends. Do you think one of the reasons you’ve been stalked and taken advantage of by readers is because you seem so accessible?
The short answer to your question is yes, I do believe you are correct. I have a definite ability—when I care to—to project through my writing a certain amount of warmth, honesty, and informal attainability. It does have a tendency to make perfect strangers feel as if they can walk up to me and start a conversation.
Which is great. I was on vacation earlier this month somewhere with a much warmer climate (and had a great time, thanks for asking) and had no less than five guys recognize me as the author of this blog. Two of them approached me through Scruff (You don’t happen to have a blog, do you. . . ?).
Two others found me when it was quiet and I was on my own. They sat down and very quietly and very shyly informed me that they’d recognized me from my photos and just wanted to say that they were long-term fans of my blog. Very nice. Very sweet. And finally one Australian guy—and no offense to the four others, but I had to admire his style and accent—came up to me at midnight at a cruising spot to whisper in my ear, “Are you Mr. Steed? I fucking love your writing, mate. You write my favorite blog!” We ended up having a really nice half-hour talk in the pitch black until twelve-thirty rolled around and he had to go to a pre-arranged fuck.
(I guess being someone’s favorite blog writer isn’t enough of an honor to score an invite to a fuck? Maybe it’s just Australian reserve.)
At the same time, I wish some of my readers would remember that my blog only reflects a part of my life. A great part of my life, sure. But it’s not all of me. Nor is it really enough for anyone simply to drop into my life and assume that suddenly we’ll be besties forever.
When I talk in my blog about the extreme difficulties I have with a very small handful of my readers, I kind of get the impression that people think I’m just griping about being called a name here and there. If only it were that easy! Insults about my appearance or my sex life I can shrug off easily. It’s the insults to my privacy and to my good will that afflict me more.
For example, from this week, I had a reader who attempted to post a comment to my blog that contained my real-life name . . . like I was going to let that one pass. What he felt he was pulling with such a stunt I don’t know—but it was definitely some attempt to establish a hold over me. I’m not freaked out that a reader knows my name. Plenty of them do. The guy didn’t frighten me. He didn’t impress me with any spurious cleverness. But he certainly pissed me off to the point that I won’t be publishing any more comments from him again, or interacting with him. Why would anyone purporting friendly intentions do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense. It was a violation, pure and simple—and one of those outrages to my propriety that seem to be coming more and more frequently these days. For what reasons, I really cannot fathom.
I am friendly with the vast majority of my readers. But it doesn’t make us instant friends. That is a privilege with no shortcuts.
Are you still gaming?
If you mean video gaming, sure! It’s my biggest hobby.
I think everyone knows I used to be a big World of Warcraft player—I druid-healed for many of you in dungeons and raids during the Pandaria expansion—but I haven’t played that for a couple of years now at this point. I’m still a big player of Diablo 3, which I regard as basically a big slot machine that I click mindlessly in the hope of bigger and better gear jackpots. I indulge in a lot of Minecraft. Yes, I know a lot of six-year-olds play Minecraft. I like it for the same reason they do. It’s a big sandbox in which I can do whatever the fuck I feel like, whether that’s building enormous towers, exploring, or just going down in my impressively vast mineshafts and digging for diamonds for hours on end.
I do most of my gaming on the Wii U and on the Playstation 4. If anyone wants to befriend me on either of those devices, I’m open to it. Just contact me by email with your IDs.
Recently I finished Dragon Age: Inquisition. It took me fucking forever to get the hipster mage who caught my eye to give me his ass. I mean, key-rist. I did all the little favors he oh-so-coyly asked me, and would he go to bed with me? No. When I killed my first dragon, he suddenly warmed up a little and told me how manly and dashing I’d been out there, whipping my sword around. So I killed another dragon, then another, thinking maybe it would impress my little hipster mage. No luck. All he’d do was kiss me chastely and continue to give me come-hither glances.
I was a little frustrated with the guy by the time I’d finished killing all ten fucking dragons in the game. “Screw you, hipster mage,” I told the guy. “I’m not hanging around any more. I’ve done all the quests. I’m killing the end boss and finishing the game and you know what? It’s your fucking loss.”
Then of course the moment I finished killing the game’s Big Bad and everyone across two imaginary continents loved and adored me for saving them from the forces of evil, he came oozing out of his lair to tell me that he had reconsidered and wanted to be my boyfriend forever and ever. Oh sure, now that I could have my pick of the entire population. Asshole.
Yeah, I went through with it. I mean, I'd put so much time into it. Yeah, the sex was . . . okay. You’d think a guy with a mustache like that would be a little more creative in bed, but whatever. I got his hole.
Lesson learned: It’s easier to get laid in real life than in a fantasy role-playing game, people.
I gave the announcement a couple of days to sink in, then with a heavy heart spent an evening deleting photographs and videos from past entries. I started back at the very beginning—2010, when I started keeping this blog. I managed to purge an even hundred entries before my eyes were spinning. One hundred out of nearly eight hundred. I figured that was good enough progress for an evening.
Then the next morning, of course, I discovered that Google had suddenly reversed their decision and decided to allow blogs with adult content to continue—instead, they’ll crack down on the unlawful distribution of commercial porn instead. Seventh-eighths of my blog is relieved that they reconsidered their hasty, reactionary move. One-eighth of my blog, though, is now missing its photos and is kind of ticked off about it.
I’m also a little annoyed that although Google saw fit to notify every adult blogger via email about their initial crackdown, and also by messages atop the Blogger console web page warning users to clean out offending images by mid-March, they haven’t really seen fit to distribute the word about their change of mind in a similar manner; the change-of-heart announcement appeared in a forum that no one I know reads, somewhere in a corner of Google’s bureaucratic space. It got picked up and redistributed and announced on many a tech blog, thank god—but they haven’t sent around an email to apologize for putting their users into a panic, or anything.
Still. I should be thankful I still have my blog here, as well as some of my images left. So let’s get to some Sunday morning questions. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, the fastest way to get them answered in my occasional feature here is to email them to me at the address on the sidebar with Sunday Morning Question(s) in the subject line. The more I get, the faster the answers will come.
What, for you, is the key to good sex?
You know, so much goes into any one sexual encounter that it’s really, really tough to offer any one single thing that will prove the magical key to making every encounter fantastic. (Of course, having an amazing dick like mine helps.)
More than that, though, these days I feel when both parties go into an encounter with the mindset of wanting to please their partners, and with a willingness to cast aside all the petty stuff that can inhibit or hamper an encounter, they’ll have a good time. If two guys (or gals, or any combination thereof) can ignore for a few hours the little worries of the home, the big concerns of the workplace, the fears about money and the everyday anxieties about being good enough to deserve sex, or pretty enough to get sex, they’ll have a good time. If they hop into bed with smiles on their faces and their attention focused on their partners, ready to accept attention and equally willing to give it, they’ll have a good time.
Just remember, those of you hunting out good sex: if what you’re bringing to an encounter is anxiety, anger, or fear, the chances are pretty good that the sex you’ll have will only make those bad things worse. Learn to breath, to smile, to give yourself positive messages, and to wipe away as much of that bullshit as possible.
Or at least learn to hide it well.
Do you prefer to be addressed by your name, or as ‘Sir,’ or ‘daddy,’ or what?
A few weeks ago I was approached by some semi-local guy somewhere online—I’ve forgotten whether it was an app or some hookup site—who decided that I was going to be his beta top. That is, he was the Alpha in the situation, and I’d be his sidekick top. Boy Wonder to his Caped Crusader, I guess. If he threw a group, I’d be invited and I’d fuck the holes he told me to fuck. I’d hold down the bottoms he told me to hold down. If he wanted me to plug a bottom’s mouth while he was fucking the hole, I’d do as I was told. I guess there was some lube carrying and maybe some sword polishing to be done in his vision of the modern-day equivalent of a knight’s squire, too. I don’t know.
To be honest, it seemed totally relaxing. I’ve been totally accustomed, over the last twenty-five years, to having to manage every aspect of a sexual encounter. Taking a step back to obey orders without having to think them up sounded like a fucking vacation. So I told the guy that his parties could be fun, and that I was in if he’d have me.
That’s when the nightmare began. If I was going to be in his stable of tops, the guy informed me, I’d have to call him Sir. Every single time. If I left the address ‘Sir’ out of a sentence, I would have to beg his forgiveness (Sir). No, I would have to beg his humble forgiveness, Sir. If I referred to him to any of his stable of bottoms, I would have to call him ‘Our Gracious Master’. It was just in direct address that I would call him ‘Sir.’ In the middle of his stream of directives, he then changed his mind. Instead of ‘Sir,’ I was call him ‘Sire.’ That’s what his stable of bottoms called him. ‘Sire.’ And if I forgot to call him ‘Sire….’
It was at that point that I blocked him and his line of bullshit. Christ, I hadn’t even been invited to a party yet and already it was just so much work.
Look. I don’t have any particular need to be called any particular title. My ego doesn’t need the inflation of being called Sir; I’ve got better things to do with my time and my dick than make guys jump over linguistic hoops just to get to the goods. There are a lot better ways for them to prove how much they want my meat—directly—than by adhering to any artificial demands for a title.
However. I’m very much turned on when a man addresses me by a title, whether it be Dad or Sir or Papi or Owner, when it means something to him. When a man truly wants me to be his master, or the sexy dad who fucks his hole, or the aggressive top Sir who plunders his ass, and when he uses one of those words to signal his feelings for me and his regard for me, nothing makes my dick harder for him.
Men who use those words with sincerity, need, and naked honesty will get a response out of me.
I’m always likely to prefer ‘dad’ over ‘daddy,’ though. Just a personal thing.
You have a knack for making yourself feel approachable. I mean, I’ve read just about every entry (I think) and feel like if I sat down next to you somewhere that I could start a conversation about a dozen things, just like one of my real life friends. Do you think one of the reasons you’ve been stalked and taken advantage of by readers is because you seem so accessible?
The short answer to your question is yes, I do believe you are correct. I have a definite ability—when I care to—to project through my writing a certain amount of warmth, honesty, and informal attainability. It does have a tendency to make perfect strangers feel as if they can walk up to me and start a conversation.
Which is great. I was on vacation earlier this month somewhere with a much warmer climate (and had a great time, thanks for asking) and had no less than five guys recognize me as the author of this blog. Two of them approached me through Scruff (You don’t happen to have a blog, do you. . . ?).
Two others found me when it was quiet and I was on my own. They sat down and very quietly and very shyly informed me that they’d recognized me from my photos and just wanted to say that they were long-term fans of my blog. Very nice. Very sweet. And finally one Australian guy—and no offense to the four others, but I had to admire his style and accent—came up to me at midnight at a cruising spot to whisper in my ear, “Are you Mr. Steed? I fucking love your writing, mate. You write my favorite blog!” We ended up having a really nice half-hour talk in the pitch black until twelve-thirty rolled around and he had to go to a pre-arranged fuck.
(I guess being someone’s favorite blog writer isn’t enough of an honor to score an invite to a fuck? Maybe it’s just Australian reserve.)
At the same time, I wish some of my readers would remember that my blog only reflects a part of my life. A great part of my life, sure. But it’s not all of me. Nor is it really enough for anyone simply to drop into my life and assume that suddenly we’ll be besties forever.
When I talk in my blog about the extreme difficulties I have with a very small handful of my readers, I kind of get the impression that people think I’m just griping about being called a name here and there. If only it were that easy! Insults about my appearance or my sex life I can shrug off easily. It’s the insults to my privacy and to my good will that afflict me more.
For example, from this week, I had a reader who attempted to post a comment to my blog that contained my real-life name . . . like I was going to let that one pass. What he felt he was pulling with such a stunt I don’t know—but it was definitely some attempt to establish a hold over me. I’m not freaked out that a reader knows my name. Plenty of them do. The guy didn’t frighten me. He didn’t impress me with any spurious cleverness. But he certainly pissed me off to the point that I won’t be publishing any more comments from him again, or interacting with him. Why would anyone purporting friendly intentions do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense. It was a violation, pure and simple—and one of those outrages to my propriety that seem to be coming more and more frequently these days. For what reasons, I really cannot fathom.
I am friendly with the vast majority of my readers. But it doesn’t make us instant friends. That is a privilege with no shortcuts.
Are you still gaming?
If you mean video gaming, sure! It’s my biggest hobby.
I think everyone knows I used to be a big World of Warcraft player—I druid-healed for many of you in dungeons and raids during the Pandaria expansion—but I haven’t played that for a couple of years now at this point. I’m still a big player of Diablo 3, which I regard as basically a big slot machine that I click mindlessly in the hope of bigger and better gear jackpots. I indulge in a lot of Minecraft. Yes, I know a lot of six-year-olds play Minecraft. I like it for the same reason they do. It’s a big sandbox in which I can do whatever the fuck I feel like, whether that’s building enormous towers, exploring, or just going down in my impressively vast mineshafts and digging for diamonds for hours on end.
I do most of my gaming on the Wii U and on the Playstation 4. If anyone wants to befriend me on either of those devices, I’m open to it. Just contact me by email with your IDs.
Recently I finished Dragon Age: Inquisition. It took me fucking forever to get the hipster mage who caught my eye to give me his ass. I mean, key-rist. I did all the little favors he oh-so-coyly asked me, and would he go to bed with me? No. When I killed my first dragon, he suddenly warmed up a little and told me how manly and dashing I’d been out there, whipping my sword around. So I killed another dragon, then another, thinking maybe it would impress my little hipster mage. No luck. All he’d do was kiss me chastely and continue to give me come-hither glances.
I was a little frustrated with the guy by the time I’d finished killing all ten fucking dragons in the game. “Screw you, hipster mage,” I told the guy. “I’m not hanging around any more. I’ve done all the quests. I’m killing the end boss and finishing the game and you know what? It’s your fucking loss.”
Then of course the moment I finished killing the game’s Big Bad and everyone across two imaginary continents loved and adored me for saving them from the forces of evil, he came oozing out of his lair to tell me that he had reconsidered and wanted to be my boyfriend forever and ever. Oh sure, now that I could have my pick of the entire population. Asshole.
Yeah, I went through with it. I mean, I'd put so much time into it. Yeah, the sex was . . . okay. You’d think a guy with a mustache like that would be a little more creative in bed, but whatever. I got his hole.
Lesson learned: It’s easier to get laid in real life than in a fantasy role-playing game, people.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Sunday Morning Question: Texas Tea Edition
I always find that things ebb and flow, in my sex life. There’ll be periods of high sexual activities followed by lulls; I’ll be doing group after group for a while, and then none for a long time. Some weeks I’ll have so many offers that I legitimately couldn’t take them all if I tried, while others I can’t find a mouth for my cock if I wrapped it in bacon and a twenty-dollar bill.
The quality of the interactions I have with men, both online and in person, tends to follow a sine wave, too. I had a great couple of weeks off on vacation in which I very easily met some incredible guys. Then I returned to normal life and a flabbergasting amount of outright rudeness.
Oh, I’ve this week had the usual stand-ups and no-shows, the guys who come on strong and then, after we’ve made a firm date for coffee the next morning, manage to ‘completely forget’ about it when nine a.m. rolls around, leaving me sitting at the local Starbucks sipping my skinny mocha and tapping my foot until finally I just get up and leave. I’ve had a lunch date in which I seemed to get along with the guy and we made an agreement to get together and discreetly bang sometime in the future, only to get home and discover the other guy had not only Googled up articles about me online over a decade old that he presented to me with all the pride of a housecat offering up the fresh kill of a baby bird at my unsuspecting feet, but somehow managed to find three old phone numbers (one for a job I haven’t worked at in over fifteen years) and wanted to know which one was best to keep in touch with me.
I mean, even Mr. Killer Stalker of 2013 wasn’t that thorough, especially in the space of an hour and a half.
There might’ve been a time in my life when I would’ve found any of these experiences soul-crushing, but now I just have to laugh. No, really. Instead of feeling dispirited by the little-mindedness of it all, I try instead to find amusement and even delight in the ways that boys have of surprising me, even as they’re displaying both bad manners and bad taste.
Take, for example, this brittle repartee that I am quoting verbatim:
Technically he’s right. I shouldn’t have assumed. But ouch. Right? Trust me, laughing helps when you get a kick on the shin like that one.
Or this:
Because trust me, you can’t make up that kind of comedy gold.
Let’s get to some questions from readers, shall we? If you’ve got questions to ask your resident sex blogger, either get on spring.me and ask me there, or send me email to the address in the sidebar with Reader Question in the subject line. I have a backlog of these that I work my way through, but I’ll get to them sooner or later.
Your child goes off to college and comes back during the summer. He's made a very attractive friend who happens to live in the same neighborhood. He shows interest in you. Would you ever consider fucking him?
Oh please. I was already texting the kid and getting nuts-deep in his hole before I got to the word 'neighborhood.'
I understand updating a profile keep it interesting, I've noticed guys abandoning their profiles creating entirely new ones. Is there a new trend emerging? 1 guy has had 3 on MH, 4 on Adam and Jack'd! Do you think a new moniker helps or hurts?
I've noticed the phenomenon myself—though it's difficult to account for, in many ways.
I can understand why some people have three or four profiles on a website like Manhunt, for example. It's a site that requires a paid account in order to do much of anything beyond read and respond to three or four emails a day; having a second or third account allows someone to double or triple the amount of activity he can undertake there.
Why someone would need multiple accounts on a free site like Adam4Adam or on a GPS app like Jack'd is beyond me, though in the past people have attempted to explain to me why. I knew one fellow who kept two profiles because one was 'nice' (with only a face and a chest photo) and the other 'naughty' (the camera was pointed lower). I knew another fellow who kept one profile that said he was in the mood to bottom, and another profile for when he felt more versatile. And I've known a couple of people who flit between cities and keep a separate sex profile for each.
There are legitimate reasons for a person to eliminate a profile and start anew. I'm not going to knock those in the least. I do find it slightly irritating, however, when someone will start a conversation with me on one profile and then assume I'll recognize them when they approach me on another—especially if there's no continuity between the photos in them both.
In light of the recent murder using the Grinder App while sad and tragic I found it disturbing that a man of 25 in a 17 month relationship had an "open relationship" they weren't together long enough to have a relationship to open! Is monogamy dead?
One of the things I've learned over the years is that there’s no shortage of people out there who are more than willing to invalidate other people’s relationships.
I've got conservatives and fundamentalists telling me that gay marriages are an abomination. I've got gay friends who say that if a relationship is open, it's not a ‘real’ relationship at all. I've known people who had fancy weddings with extensive registries who look down on those of us whose weddings were much humbler and hastier affairs. I've known people who've become serious after a very short period of time, only to be told by outsiders that it wouldn't last.
I'm not going to judge how long is appropriate for a relationship to be in existence before the pair open it up to others. For some couples it's bound to take a long time. Others might be ready for it instantly. That's a matter for a couple to decide on their own, and not for you or me to judge. What's disturbing is not the open relationship, but that someone would murder anyone else—and murder, sadly happens not only only to men on Grindr, but to people in all walks of life in the real world. It happens in families, and to straight people, and to people who are half of a monogamous couple.
An open relationship did not cause this death. A murderer did. That’s what we should be focusing on.
Do you believe there is such thing as "the gay look?” Not effeminate men but average looking men who are tagged gay cos of their general appearance.
I believe it's possible to have a personal gaydar that's pretty accurate.
I know people talk about being able to identify other gay men by having something they call 'gayface' or by the way the men dress, or by the way they walk or talk or, god help us, the way they cross their legs when they sit down. Perhaps some of those indicators actually work. (I personally believe in the 'gayface' thing myself.)
I've always prided myself on my gaydar, however, but it's based not on the way men look, but on the way they behave when they think they're not being observed. From my teens I've always observed the way guys look at other people around them—whether they check out the women or the men, where their eyes linger on the body when they do look someone over. Is it at the guy's watch, briefcase, and car keys? Or is it at the guy's eyes, chest, and crotch? Because of those is what straight men do, and the other is what gay men do when they assume no one's looking.
While straight men let their gazes linger on the bodies of attractive women, gay men's eyes wander over male forms. Even those men who think they've managed to button down and corral their desire do it for a split-second before habit and fear rein in a perfectly natural instinct.
Some men might have some kind of external indicators that constitute a gay look, accurate or not. My own experience is that there are little behaviors that are a better indicator of secret desire.
What age is the oldest guy you have recently fucked? As I hit 60 I find it curious what role age plays in sex.
There’s a guy at one of my group sessions who has a monster dick. I’m not exaggerating. The thing’s at least nine inches and beer-can thick. I feel like a little pea shooter when I’m erect next to him. He’s an older guy with gray hair, but he’s got a good physique on him, is handsome as all get out, and has a pair of blue eyes that could make a guy do anything.
I’d spent half a morning with him sucking his dick and fucking him and being rewarded with coffee-flavored kisses when he announced to the group that he had a birthday that week.
“Happy fortieth!” I said, thinking I was shaving off twenty years and complimenting him at the same time.
“How old will you be?” asked the group host.
“Sixty-nine,” admitted the guy.
Readers, if I’m still performing like that man when I’m sixty-nine, I’ll start taking the extra vitamins today, thanks very much.
The quality of the interactions I have with men, both online and in person, tends to follow a sine wave, too. I had a great couple of weeks off on vacation in which I very easily met some incredible guys. Then I returned to normal life and a flabbergasting amount of outright rudeness.
Oh, I’ve this week had the usual stand-ups and no-shows, the guys who come on strong and then, after we’ve made a firm date for coffee the next morning, manage to ‘completely forget’ about it when nine a.m. rolls around, leaving me sitting at the local Starbucks sipping my skinny mocha and tapping my foot until finally I just get up and leave. I’ve had a lunch date in which I seemed to get along with the guy and we made an agreement to get together and discreetly bang sometime in the future, only to get home and discover the other guy had not only Googled up articles about me online over a decade old that he presented to me with all the pride of a housecat offering up the fresh kill of a baby bird at my unsuspecting feet, but somehow managed to find three old phone numbers (one for a job I haven’t worked at in over fifteen years) and wanted to know which one was best to keep in touch with me.
I mean, even Mr. Killer Stalker of 2013 wasn’t that thorough, especially in the space of an hour and a half.
There might’ve been a time in my life when I would’ve found any of these experiences soul-crushing, but now I just have to laugh. No, really. Instead of feeling dispirited by the little-mindedness of it all, I try instead to find amusement and even delight in the ways that boys have of surprising me, even as they’re displaying both bad manners and bad taste.
Take, for example, this brittle repartee that I am quoting verbatim:
HIM: Wow! You have a really great smile! And dick!
ME: I appreciate the compliments. Thank you. You’re a handsome man yourself.
HIM: I didn’t say you were handsome.
Technically he’s right. I shouldn’t have assumed. But ouch. Right? Trust me, laughing helps when you get a kick on the shin like that one.
Or this:
HIM: You have a hot dick. You kind of remind me of a guy on television.
ME: Thank you. Which guy on television?
HIM: The one about that family that moved to Hollywood.
ME: Beverly Hills 90210?
HIM: No. Oh, I know. You remind me a lot like a kind-of-hot Jed Clampett.
Because trust me, you can’t make up that kind of comedy gold.
Let’s get to some questions from readers, shall we? If you’ve got questions to ask your resident sex blogger, either get on spring.me and ask me there, or send me email to the address in the sidebar with Reader Question in the subject line. I have a backlog of these that I work my way through, but I’ll get to them sooner or later.
Your child goes off to college and comes back during the summer. He's made a very attractive friend who happens to live in the same neighborhood. He shows interest in you. Would you ever consider fucking him?
Oh please. I was already texting the kid and getting nuts-deep in his hole before I got to the word 'neighborhood.'
I understand updating a profile keep it interesting, I've noticed guys abandoning their profiles creating entirely new ones. Is there a new trend emerging? 1 guy has had 3 on MH, 4 on Adam and Jack'd! Do you think a new moniker helps or hurts?
I've noticed the phenomenon myself—though it's difficult to account for, in many ways.
I can understand why some people have three or four profiles on a website like Manhunt, for example. It's a site that requires a paid account in order to do much of anything beyond read and respond to three or four emails a day; having a second or third account allows someone to double or triple the amount of activity he can undertake there.
Why someone would need multiple accounts on a free site like Adam4Adam or on a GPS app like Jack'd is beyond me, though in the past people have attempted to explain to me why. I knew one fellow who kept two profiles because one was 'nice' (with only a face and a chest photo) and the other 'naughty' (the camera was pointed lower). I knew another fellow who kept one profile that said he was in the mood to bottom, and another profile for when he felt more versatile. And I've known a couple of people who flit between cities and keep a separate sex profile for each.
There are legitimate reasons for a person to eliminate a profile and start anew. I'm not going to knock those in the least. I do find it slightly irritating, however, when someone will start a conversation with me on one profile and then assume I'll recognize them when they approach me on another—especially if there's no continuity between the photos in them both.
In light of the recent murder using the Grinder App while sad and tragic I found it disturbing that a man of 25 in a 17 month relationship had an "open relationship" they weren't together long enough to have a relationship to open! Is monogamy dead?
One of the things I've learned over the years is that there’s no shortage of people out there who are more than willing to invalidate other people’s relationships.
I've got conservatives and fundamentalists telling me that gay marriages are an abomination. I've got gay friends who say that if a relationship is open, it's not a ‘real’ relationship at all. I've known people who had fancy weddings with extensive registries who look down on those of us whose weddings were much humbler and hastier affairs. I've known people who've become serious after a very short period of time, only to be told by outsiders that it wouldn't last.
I'm not going to judge how long is appropriate for a relationship to be in existence before the pair open it up to others. For some couples it's bound to take a long time. Others might be ready for it instantly. That's a matter for a couple to decide on their own, and not for you or me to judge. What's disturbing is not the open relationship, but that someone would murder anyone else—and murder, sadly happens not only only to men on Grindr, but to people in all walks of life in the real world. It happens in families, and to straight people, and to people who are half of a monogamous couple.
An open relationship did not cause this death. A murderer did. That’s what we should be focusing on.
Do you believe there is such thing as "the gay look?” Not effeminate men but average looking men who are tagged gay cos of their general appearance.
I believe it's possible to have a personal gaydar that's pretty accurate.
I know people talk about being able to identify other gay men by having something they call 'gayface' or by the way the men dress, or by the way they walk or talk or, god help us, the way they cross their legs when they sit down. Perhaps some of those indicators actually work. (I personally believe in the 'gayface' thing myself.)
I've always prided myself on my gaydar, however, but it's based not on the way men look, but on the way they behave when they think they're not being observed. From my teens I've always observed the way guys look at other people around them—whether they check out the women or the men, where their eyes linger on the body when they do look someone over. Is it at the guy's watch, briefcase, and car keys? Or is it at the guy's eyes, chest, and crotch? Because of those is what straight men do, and the other is what gay men do when they assume no one's looking.
While straight men let their gazes linger on the bodies of attractive women, gay men's eyes wander over male forms. Even those men who think they've managed to button down and corral their desire do it for a split-second before habit and fear rein in a perfectly natural instinct.
Some men might have some kind of external indicators that constitute a gay look, accurate or not. My own experience is that there are little behaviors that are a better indicator of secret desire.
What age is the oldest guy you have recently fucked? As I hit 60 I find it curious what role age plays in sex.
There’s a guy at one of my group sessions who has a monster dick. I’m not exaggerating. The thing’s at least nine inches and beer-can thick. I feel like a little pea shooter when I’m erect next to him. He’s an older guy with gray hair, but he’s got a good physique on him, is handsome as all get out, and has a pair of blue eyes that could make a guy do anything.
I’d spent half a morning with him sucking his dick and fucking him and being rewarded with coffee-flavored kisses when he announced to the group that he had a birthday that week.
“Happy fortieth!” I said, thinking I was shaving off twenty years and complimenting him at the same time.
“How old will you be?” asked the group host.
“Sixty-nine,” admitted the guy.
Readers, if I’m still performing like that man when I’m sixty-nine, I’ll start taking the extra vitamins today, thanks very much.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sunday Morning Questions: Mental Vacation Edition
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Sunday, May 25, 2014
Sunday Morning Questions: S-S-S-Single Bed Edition
I’m just back from a visit down South. Yes, I’ve been visiting my dad again, which is never as relaxing as it sounds. He saves up chores for me during the months I’m up here in Yankee-land, then springs them upon me when I arrive. No matter when I go down, I know I’m in for a hectic few days of yard work, chauffeur service, handyman duty, and personal shopper assignments.
Which is all well and good. But you know what I hate about the visits? Having to sleep in my old bed.
Now, the bed in which I sleep when I go down there isn’t the bed I had as a kid. That would’ve been my dad’s old childhood bed, a creaky wooden affair that I inherited, ancient mattress and groaning bedsprings and all, when I graduated out of the crib. It only lasted until I was in my early teens when my parents decided to shell out the money for a box spring and a new mattress.
I was grateful for the change, because by then I was painfully aware that every slight movement I made resulted in a symphony of springs straining and rubbing at top volume. Attempting to masturbate on that old bed would’ve brought the whole neighborhood running. If I wanted to get my juvenile dick off at night, I had to climb out of the bed, lie down on the floor, do my business, wipe up, and get back into bed again, just to avoid detection—and the gunshot sounds the springs released on my exit from and re-entry back into the sheets were probably a dead giveaway in themselves.
With the new mattress, though, I could whack away for hours and no one would be the wiser.
I only had sex once on that mattress, however. When I was living with my parents the year after I graduated college, I’d moved into their basement because it was an apartment unto its own self—it had its own bathroom, its own air conditioning, a separate entrance, and a lot more space than my old bedroom. One night I was bold enough to sneak home my old college boyfriend, who was two years older than I and for whom I had a soft spot, even though he had a tendency to treat me like gay dirt. I met him at the end of my block, walked him to my parents’ house after dark, snuck him in through the basement entrance, and had very mediocre sex with him until dawn, at which point I snuck him out again before my folks would be awake.
But now, when I go back to my childhood house again and toss down my bag and look at the single bed that my dad has carefully made up for me, I think to myself, I actually had sex on that? How?! The mattress is so damned tiny. When I try to sleep on it, either my head or my feet dangle off one of the ends. If I attempt to flop my body over in the middle of the night, the same way I do at home, I usually wake up in a panic, mere milliseconds away from tipping off the side to the floor. I’m pretty sure I could have athletic sex on it without making a sound, but what’s the point? I’ve got an ottoman at home that’s bigger than the bed of my teen years.
But let’s get to some reader questions. Thanks to those of you who’ve been sending in new questions for me to answer—I’ve added them to the queue and you’ll get answers soon. Eventually, anyway. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, whether they’re grand and general or short and specific, pop over to spring.me and type them in, or else email me directly at the address in the sidebar with the word Question in the subject line.
I apologize if this is a duplicate: Are you still using your Aneros Prostate toy? Describe more recent experiences. I love to use mine in the jacuzzi tub weekly following my personal fitness training sessions. Aiming a water jet just right really works.
You don't need the Aneros to get a good prostate massage with the water jets of a Jacuzzi. All you need to do is back your hole up to the jet, turn it on, and you get the massage AND a enema.
Man, I miss my hot tub.
I still use the Aneros fairly consistently. I like the extra stimulation it gives me when I masturbate. I've said a few times before that I prefer sex with someone else (or multiple someone elses) to solitary masturbation, so I tend to keep my solo sessions infrequent. When I'm looking for a good long self-pleasuring bout, though, I'll grease my hole, insert the Aneros, and go at it.
Twitter, blogging, etc. can create a very lopsided intimacy between people. How do you deal with people who feel they have a personal relationship with you from reading your posts, yet are complete strangers to you?
It's difficult.
There's a huge lop-sided balance between most people who read my blog, and myself. They've had the opportunity to read over four years' worth of my writings—two big thick books worth of it—where I've talked about my childhood, my teen and college years, and my day-to-day sex life now. In many cases, the readers have already made up their minds about what kind of person long before I ever begin to interact with them.
And that's okay. When I write, I know that my readers react. Sometimes it's positive and supportive. Sometimes I challenge them or turn them off. That's what opinions do.
The problem, however, usually arises when the reader forgets that although they know everything about me from the age of ten up, I know very, very little about them. Sometimes I have a face shot. Sometimes not. Their expectations of deep and immediate intimacy—either conversational or physical—aren't something I can usually offer with so little to go on.
When my readers and followers actually take the time to engage with me, to let me get to know them and their senses of humor or their quirks or interests, I'm usually much more at ease with them when we meet than otherwise. I'm wary when someone starts attempting to use the information I've shared against me; my problem with a stalker last year arose from a reader who exploited me based on what he'd read in my blog, and it not only made me think twice about my online fans and friends for a while, it made me not want to write anything anymore, ever again.
So all I ask of my readers is a bit of reciprocity. I give a lot of myself. I'm not asking them to write me two books in exchange, but neither should I have to dig and wheedle and beg to get more definite information out of them in order to establish a friendly relationship.
How do I start a sex blog? Do you make a lot of money from it?
Starting a sex blog is easy. It merely takes three steps:
1) Have great sex.
2) Write about it.
3) Post what you write publicly for everyone to see.
That’s it.
Do I make buckets of cash from it? No. I don’t make a cent. I don’t make any money from advertising because the site hosting my blog doesn’t allow advertising on sites with adult content. Even if they did, I don’t like advertising flashing its message in the margins. So during the several years in which I’ve put my life out there, I’ve done it for the love of my readers, and for the love of the experience.
Daddy likes his folding bills too, don’t get me wrong, but he ain’t gettin’ any from his blog.
I accept gifts from readers who’ve wanted to look over my Amazon wish list and purchase something for me, but no one is required to do so, and very few do. I’m always grateful when it happens, though.
So if you’re looking to start a sex blog because you want to have interesting dialogues with others, and occasionally meet new people, and because you like writing and you like sex, go for it. If you’re doing it because you want to have extra spending money . . . well, excuse me for a minute or two. I need to have a good giggle for a little bit over here in this corner.
What's the weirdest request you've had... in bed?
I suspect you were looking for an answer that involved kinky and depraved acts of sexual deviance. Oh, I’ve had plenty of those.
The weirdest request I've had was a marriage proposal, though. It happened in bed, after sex. Apparently it was great sex for him . . . for me it was kind of eh-to-average.
The whole conversation started with me pulling out of his hole, whereupon he started gushing about how fantastic I had been (naturally!), then asking me what color I'd paint the bedroom if I lived there. I told him I liked it as it was. Then he asked which side of the bed I slept on. I told him I slept on the right side, and he replied I'd have to learn to sleep on the left because he took the right, hah-hah-hah. Then he asked where I wanted to go on a honeymoon. Thinking he was joking, I started to name some actual location. Then I stopped and said, "You're joking, right?"
He was not. Then he suggested I move in and that we get married. He had known me ONE HALF HOUR.
I mean, I know sometimes I'm good, but damn!
When You meet up with guys is it always for sex or do You just hang out with them.
It's for sex.
That's the short answer, anyway. When I meet up with friends—that is, people I've known for a long time, with whom I like spending my free time, guys who've opened up to let me into their lives in the same way I've let them into mine—we will hang out. We'll go to a bar and drink and talk. Or we'll watch television. Or we'll do a movie and dinner. Or we'll play video games together. Something friends do.
On the other hand, if a guy has approached me online or on some app on my cell phone and has told me I've got a great dick and asks if I want to ‘hang out,’ I expect that ‘hanging out’ to involve his tongue hanging out of his mouth as I pound him from behind.
If the sex leads to a friendship at some point, awesome. But I'm not going to drive a ways to the guy's house and sit around awkwardly while we both try to ignore the fact that we met only an hour before on pigsforporking.com.
Which is all well and good. But you know what I hate about the visits? Having to sleep in my old bed.
Now, the bed in which I sleep when I go down there isn’t the bed I had as a kid. That would’ve been my dad’s old childhood bed, a creaky wooden affair that I inherited, ancient mattress and groaning bedsprings and all, when I graduated out of the crib. It only lasted until I was in my early teens when my parents decided to shell out the money for a box spring and a new mattress.
I was grateful for the change, because by then I was painfully aware that every slight movement I made resulted in a symphony of springs straining and rubbing at top volume. Attempting to masturbate on that old bed would’ve brought the whole neighborhood running. If I wanted to get my juvenile dick off at night, I had to climb out of the bed, lie down on the floor, do my business, wipe up, and get back into bed again, just to avoid detection—and the gunshot sounds the springs released on my exit from and re-entry back into the sheets were probably a dead giveaway in themselves.
With the new mattress, though, I could whack away for hours and no one would be the wiser.
I only had sex once on that mattress, however. When I was living with my parents the year after I graduated college, I’d moved into their basement because it was an apartment unto its own self—it had its own bathroom, its own air conditioning, a separate entrance, and a lot more space than my old bedroom. One night I was bold enough to sneak home my old college boyfriend, who was two years older than I and for whom I had a soft spot, even though he had a tendency to treat me like gay dirt. I met him at the end of my block, walked him to my parents’ house after dark, snuck him in through the basement entrance, and had very mediocre sex with him until dawn, at which point I snuck him out again before my folks would be awake.
But now, when I go back to my childhood house again and toss down my bag and look at the single bed that my dad has carefully made up for me, I think to myself, I actually had sex on that? How?! The mattress is so damned tiny. When I try to sleep on it, either my head or my feet dangle off one of the ends. If I attempt to flop my body over in the middle of the night, the same way I do at home, I usually wake up in a panic, mere milliseconds away from tipping off the side to the floor. I’m pretty sure I could have athletic sex on it without making a sound, but what’s the point? I’ve got an ottoman at home that’s bigger than the bed of my teen years.
But let’s get to some reader questions. Thanks to those of you who’ve been sending in new questions for me to answer—I’ve added them to the queue and you’ll get answers soon. Eventually, anyway. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, whether they’re grand and general or short and specific, pop over to spring.me and type them in, or else email me directly at the address in the sidebar with the word Question in the subject line.
I apologize if this is a duplicate: Are you still using your Aneros Prostate toy? Describe more recent experiences. I love to use mine in the jacuzzi tub weekly following my personal fitness training sessions. Aiming a water jet just right really works.
You don't need the Aneros to get a good prostate massage with the water jets of a Jacuzzi. All you need to do is back your hole up to the jet, turn it on, and you get the massage AND a enema.
Man, I miss my hot tub.
I still use the Aneros fairly consistently. I like the extra stimulation it gives me when I masturbate. I've said a few times before that I prefer sex with someone else (or multiple someone elses) to solitary masturbation, so I tend to keep my solo sessions infrequent. When I'm looking for a good long self-pleasuring bout, though, I'll grease my hole, insert the Aneros, and go at it.
Twitter, blogging, etc. can create a very lopsided intimacy between people. How do you deal with people who feel they have a personal relationship with you from reading your posts, yet are complete strangers to you?
It's difficult.
There's a huge lop-sided balance between most people who read my blog, and myself. They've had the opportunity to read over four years' worth of my writings—two big thick books worth of it—where I've talked about my childhood, my teen and college years, and my day-to-day sex life now. In many cases, the readers have already made up their minds about what kind of person long before I ever begin to interact with them.
And that's okay. When I write, I know that my readers react. Sometimes it's positive and supportive. Sometimes I challenge them or turn them off. That's what opinions do.
The problem, however, usually arises when the reader forgets that although they know everything about me from the age of ten up, I know very, very little about them. Sometimes I have a face shot. Sometimes not. Their expectations of deep and immediate intimacy—either conversational or physical—aren't something I can usually offer with so little to go on.
When my readers and followers actually take the time to engage with me, to let me get to know them and their senses of humor or their quirks or interests, I'm usually much more at ease with them when we meet than otherwise. I'm wary when someone starts attempting to use the information I've shared against me; my problem with a stalker last year arose from a reader who exploited me based on what he'd read in my blog, and it not only made me think twice about my online fans and friends for a while, it made me not want to write anything anymore, ever again.
So all I ask of my readers is a bit of reciprocity. I give a lot of myself. I'm not asking them to write me two books in exchange, but neither should I have to dig and wheedle and beg to get more definite information out of them in order to establish a friendly relationship.
How do I start a sex blog? Do you make a lot of money from it?
Starting a sex blog is easy. It merely takes three steps:
1) Have great sex.
2) Write about it.
3) Post what you write publicly for everyone to see.
That’s it.
Do I make buckets of cash from it? No. I don’t make a cent. I don’t make any money from advertising because the site hosting my blog doesn’t allow advertising on sites with adult content. Even if they did, I don’t like advertising flashing its message in the margins. So during the several years in which I’ve put my life out there, I’ve done it for the love of my readers, and for the love of the experience.
Daddy likes his folding bills too, don’t get me wrong, but he ain’t gettin’ any from his blog.
I accept gifts from readers who’ve wanted to look over my Amazon wish list and purchase something for me, but no one is required to do so, and very few do. I’m always grateful when it happens, though.
So if you’re looking to start a sex blog because you want to have interesting dialogues with others, and occasionally meet new people, and because you like writing and you like sex, go for it. If you’re doing it because you want to have extra spending money . . . well, excuse me for a minute or two. I need to have a good giggle for a little bit over here in this corner.
What's the weirdest request you've had... in bed?
I suspect you were looking for an answer that involved kinky and depraved acts of sexual deviance. Oh, I’ve had plenty of those.
The weirdest request I've had was a marriage proposal, though. It happened in bed, after sex. Apparently it was great sex for him . . . for me it was kind of eh-to-average.
The whole conversation started with me pulling out of his hole, whereupon he started gushing about how fantastic I had been (naturally!), then asking me what color I'd paint the bedroom if I lived there. I told him I liked it as it was. Then he asked which side of the bed I slept on. I told him I slept on the right side, and he replied I'd have to learn to sleep on the left because he took the right, hah-hah-hah. Then he asked where I wanted to go on a honeymoon. Thinking he was joking, I started to name some actual location. Then I stopped and said, "You're joking, right?"
He was not. Then he suggested I move in and that we get married. He had known me ONE HALF HOUR.
I mean, I know sometimes I'm good, but damn!
When You meet up with guys is it always for sex or do You just hang out with them.
It's for sex.
That's the short answer, anyway. When I meet up with friends—that is, people I've known for a long time, with whom I like spending my free time, guys who've opened up to let me into their lives in the same way I've let them into mine—we will hang out. We'll go to a bar and drink and talk. Or we'll watch television. Or we'll do a movie and dinner. Or we'll play video games together. Something friends do.
On the other hand, if a guy has approached me online or on some app on my cell phone and has told me I've got a great dick and asks if I want to ‘hang out,’ I expect that ‘hanging out’ to involve his tongue hanging out of his mouth as I pound him from behind.
If the sex leads to a friendship at some point, awesome. But I'm not going to drive a ways to the guy's house and sit around awkwardly while we both try to ignore the fact that we met only an hour before on pigsforporking.com.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Sunday Morning Questions: Even More Questions Edition
When I started my sex blog I really didn’t expect anyone much to read it. Truth. I thought there’d be a couple of people who stumbled on it. I figured I might tell a couple of sex buddies who got off hearing about my exploits. But that was it, I reasoned. I’d have kind of a safe outlet where I could share my sex writings. The fact it was potentially public gave me a naughty little thrill, but that’s about all the exposure I expected.
Nearly two million visitors later, I like to think I’m a leetle beet savvier than that. I get a lot of visitors here on a daily basis. The ones who’ve stuck around for a while are always keeping me on my toes, often remembering better than I what I’ve said in the past. Hey, they’ll poke me after I write a post. You said after that guy who squirted enema juice in your face that you weren’t going to rim the holes of strange asses any more. Then you rimmed that new guy. What gives? Or they’ll just rib me gently with Hey Breeder. Remember when you moved to the east coast and you were so sure you’d never meet any guys to have sex with again? How hard do your regular orgy buddies laugh when you tell them that story?
I like my long-term readers simply because they’ve been on the same ride with me for a while, and we have that luxury of being able to compare notes about it.
I like my new readers too, because they bring an enthusiasm to older material that I might’ve forgotten about. When a newer readers goes through my old Spencer entries, for example, and leaves thoughtful comments, I have a tendency to go back to the same entries just to see what they’re commenting about. Then I relive them in a way I hoped I might, when originally I wrote them.
One of the reasons I started my Sunday Morning Questions feature was because when I started getting an avalanche of readers, they all had questions. Sometimes those questions inspired new entries. A lot of the time, though, the questions were so easily answered, or so beyond the scope of my usual blog entries, that I preferred not giving them an essay to themselves. Someone wanting to hear whose hole I plugged last isn’t going to tune in for much longer if he shows up and finds me writing about what type of food I liked best, or what musical instruments I learned as a kid. That kind of trivia was better suited in a semi-regular feature of its own.
So please—continue to send in your questions. I enjoy answering them. Some of you seem to enjoy reading them. It’s a win-win situation for both of us. If you’re on spring.me, feel free to follow me and ask me questions there; if you’re not, just email them in. I’ll get around to them either way.
Let’s get to some of today’s inquiries.
Wanted your opinion on this.. I'd like to both fuck and be fucked. However I have an average dick size (5" but reasonably thick) … so I’m not sure if too many bottoms would dig me. I'd like to bottom too, but I've had issues taking in coz I'm tight and small.
Not to disparage you or to make generalizations about horny bottoms, but let me assure you that there are a hell of a lot of bottoms out there. If you can get your dick hard and keep it hard, I can guarantee one hundred percent that there are going to be many many many bottoms who are anxious to go butt-up for you, regardless of your size.
You could look like Ron Jeremy (sorry, Ron) and have a dick roughly the proportions of a bite-sized mini-Tootsie Roll, and there would be bottoms clamoring to service it.
Not all of them, mind you. Being willing to top does not give you the liberty to expect to top whomever you please. And whether or not your partner will ask for a repeat performance depends on how well you treat him and how well you use the tool between your legs. In my opinion, those two things are what really matters.
But yeah. Bottoms dig guys with hard dicks. You’ll get laid.
Do you find nose rings attractive?
Oh god yes. That is, I love men with septum piercings. They make me want to grab the ring and lead the guy around like Ferdinand the fuckin' bull.
Those twee little nostril rings on either side, though? If you're a Nepalese woman, go for it. Otherwise they do nothing for me.
YOU are the BEST! New question ...
With so many men in open relationships if one is partnered is it better to be upfront about it including it in one’s profile or simply omit it? Does it influence you either way if the possibility of a hook up exists?
Thank you. I agree. I am the best!
It's a little more difficult, however, for me to come up with as firm an answer for your question. One of the things you have to think about when you're putting personal information about your home life on your profile is that publicly stating you're in an open relationship affects not only how people are going to see you, but how they're going to perceive your partner as well.
If your other half is comfortable that you're putting up a personal ad proclaiming that you both are free to play around with others, even though he knows full well that a mutual acquaintance, employer, or person from your church or book club might see it, sure. Go for it. If he or she would be a little uncomfortable that someone local you both know might run across your personal ad on doublefistmymanflaps.com and assume that your partner's into similar fun, you might want to hold back announcing your relationship status.
If your partner's feelings aren't a hindrance, and you want to make very clear to others that you're not looking to date, but just for casual sex buddies, I say stating your relationship status up front is the way to go. It's one less thing you'll have to reveal when you get to the negotiation phase, and it might prevent someone else from having unreasonable expectations about picking out flatware patterns with you in the future.
You may find, however, that on some sites there can be a lot of antipathy toward a man in a relationship. I've noticed on many of the location-based apps like Grindr and Scruff in particular, the users often have off-putting rants about guys in relationships in their profiles—and they have absolutely zero inhibitions about messaging you (even if you haven't looked at their profile or pinged them in any way) and telling you what a lying scumbag you are for cheating on your spouse like a god-damned whore (even though you may not be). I don't necessarily advocate lying to guys to get laid, but sometimes a judicious omission is not necessarily a bad thing.
I personally am not swayed by a guy's relationship status either way. What goes on behind closed doors in a person's home is his own concern; I'm not the morality police. My concern is merely how good their holes are.
Do you ever get to the point where you just 'need' to unplug? If so, what do you do?
Over the years, as the internet as grown in importance and abundance, I've found more and more of my time consumed in front of a computer monitor or laptop or tablet or cell phone. I've found it very helpful to maintain balance by unplugging from electronic devices for a significant portion of each day—sometimes for a day, a weekend, or even a week at a time.
Hobbies are something I find valuable. Since I already spend chunks of my free time browsing internet sites and playing video games, I invest an equal amount of time in hands-on, constructive crafts and hobbies. i gardened for a long time until I came to terms with the fact that I truly dislike gardening. I took classes in paper making and calligraphy. I taught classes in stained glass art. I've had other enthusiasms and pet projects over the years. Some of them have been more successful than others. (I pity my household the year I attempted to learn how to play clarinet.)
For the last two years, when I put away the phone and the laptop and ignore the electronic chirps of all the devices in my house, I'm either reading, exploring New York City, participating in one of my musical activities, or knitting. Most nights, probably knitting. Don't judge.
GPS Apps – Get On – Hook Up – Get Off, right? On the days I don’t make a connection I opt off and check back rather than risk looking like day old baked goods. Does hanging out for several hours increase or decrease chances of securing a Hook Up?
I suppose there's an argument to be made that if you hang around long enough anywhere, you'll eventually get a hit or two. However, I tend to be more like you—when I see guys who've been on one of the GPS apps all day long, I have a tendency to think of them as guys who are are probably going to waste my time, since they have no problem wasting so much of their own.
It's unfair, I admit. Sometimes the GPS apps will keep a guy logged on—or give the appearance of it—for hours longer than he actually was active. And I have no proof that anyone who actually is on Grindr or Scruff all day is doing so just to jerk other guys around.
I tend to use GPS apps either only when I'm in a new locale, or at home only after I’ve been logged off for a few days. I've noticed I get more sniffs when I'm giving the appearance of being new meat than an old troll.
Nearly two million visitors later, I like to think I’m a leetle beet savvier than that. I get a lot of visitors here on a daily basis. The ones who’ve stuck around for a while are always keeping me on my toes, often remembering better than I what I’ve said in the past. Hey, they’ll poke me after I write a post. You said after that guy who squirted enema juice in your face that you weren’t going to rim the holes of strange asses any more. Then you rimmed that new guy. What gives? Or they’ll just rib me gently with Hey Breeder. Remember when you moved to the east coast and you were so sure you’d never meet any guys to have sex with again? How hard do your regular orgy buddies laugh when you tell them that story?
I like my long-term readers simply because they’ve been on the same ride with me for a while, and we have that luxury of being able to compare notes about it.
I like my new readers too, because they bring an enthusiasm to older material that I might’ve forgotten about. When a newer readers goes through my old Spencer entries, for example, and leaves thoughtful comments, I have a tendency to go back to the same entries just to see what they’re commenting about. Then I relive them in a way I hoped I might, when originally I wrote them.
One of the reasons I started my Sunday Morning Questions feature was because when I started getting an avalanche of readers, they all had questions. Sometimes those questions inspired new entries. A lot of the time, though, the questions were so easily answered, or so beyond the scope of my usual blog entries, that I preferred not giving them an essay to themselves. Someone wanting to hear whose hole I plugged last isn’t going to tune in for much longer if he shows up and finds me writing about what type of food I liked best, or what musical instruments I learned as a kid. That kind of trivia was better suited in a semi-regular feature of its own.
So please—continue to send in your questions. I enjoy answering them. Some of you seem to enjoy reading them. It’s a win-win situation for both of us. If you’re on spring.me, feel free to follow me and ask me questions there; if you’re not, just email them in. I’ll get around to them either way.
Let’s get to some of today’s inquiries.
Wanted your opinion on this.. I'd like to both fuck and be fucked. However I have an average dick size (5" but reasonably thick) … so I’m not sure if too many bottoms would dig me. I'd like to bottom too, but I've had issues taking in coz I'm tight and small.
Not to disparage you or to make generalizations about horny bottoms, but let me assure you that there are a hell of a lot of bottoms out there. If you can get your dick hard and keep it hard, I can guarantee one hundred percent that there are going to be many many many bottoms who are anxious to go butt-up for you, regardless of your size.
You could look like Ron Jeremy (sorry, Ron) and have a dick roughly the proportions of a bite-sized mini-Tootsie Roll, and there would be bottoms clamoring to service it.
Not all of them, mind you. Being willing to top does not give you the liberty to expect to top whomever you please. And whether or not your partner will ask for a repeat performance depends on how well you treat him and how well you use the tool between your legs. In my opinion, those two things are what really matters.
But yeah. Bottoms dig guys with hard dicks. You’ll get laid.
Do you find nose rings attractive?
Oh god yes. That is, I love men with septum piercings. They make me want to grab the ring and lead the guy around like Ferdinand the fuckin' bull.
Those twee little nostril rings on either side, though? If you're a Nepalese woman, go for it. Otherwise they do nothing for me.
YOU are the BEST! New question ...
With so many men in open relationships if one is partnered is it better to be upfront about it including it in one’s profile or simply omit it? Does it influence you either way if the possibility of a hook up exists?
Thank you. I agree. I am the best!
It's a little more difficult, however, for me to come up with as firm an answer for your question. One of the things you have to think about when you're putting personal information about your home life on your profile is that publicly stating you're in an open relationship affects not only how people are going to see you, but how they're going to perceive your partner as well.
If your other half is comfortable that you're putting up a personal ad proclaiming that you both are free to play around with others, even though he knows full well that a mutual acquaintance, employer, or person from your church or book club might see it, sure. Go for it. If he or she would be a little uncomfortable that someone local you both know might run across your personal ad on doublefistmymanflaps.com and assume that your partner's into similar fun, you might want to hold back announcing your relationship status.
If your partner's feelings aren't a hindrance, and you want to make very clear to others that you're not looking to date, but just for casual sex buddies, I say stating your relationship status up front is the way to go. It's one less thing you'll have to reveal when you get to the negotiation phase, and it might prevent someone else from having unreasonable expectations about picking out flatware patterns with you in the future.
You may find, however, that on some sites there can be a lot of antipathy toward a man in a relationship. I've noticed on many of the location-based apps like Grindr and Scruff in particular, the users often have off-putting rants about guys in relationships in their profiles—and they have absolutely zero inhibitions about messaging you (even if you haven't looked at their profile or pinged them in any way) and telling you what a lying scumbag you are for cheating on your spouse like a god-damned whore (even though you may not be). I don't necessarily advocate lying to guys to get laid, but sometimes a judicious omission is not necessarily a bad thing.
I personally am not swayed by a guy's relationship status either way. What goes on behind closed doors in a person's home is his own concern; I'm not the morality police. My concern is merely how good their holes are.
Do you ever get to the point where you just 'need' to unplug? If so, what do you do?
Over the years, as the internet as grown in importance and abundance, I've found more and more of my time consumed in front of a computer monitor or laptop or tablet or cell phone. I've found it very helpful to maintain balance by unplugging from electronic devices for a significant portion of each day—sometimes for a day, a weekend, or even a week at a time.
Hobbies are something I find valuable. Since I already spend chunks of my free time browsing internet sites and playing video games, I invest an equal amount of time in hands-on, constructive crafts and hobbies. i gardened for a long time until I came to terms with the fact that I truly dislike gardening. I took classes in paper making and calligraphy. I taught classes in stained glass art. I've had other enthusiasms and pet projects over the years. Some of them have been more successful than others. (I pity my household the year I attempted to learn how to play clarinet.)
For the last two years, when I put away the phone and the laptop and ignore the electronic chirps of all the devices in my house, I'm either reading, exploring New York City, participating in one of my musical activities, or knitting. Most nights, probably knitting. Don't judge.
GPS Apps – Get On – Hook Up – Get Off, right? On the days I don’t make a connection I opt off and check back rather than risk looking like day old baked goods. Does hanging out for several hours increase or decrease chances of securing a Hook Up?
I suppose there's an argument to be made that if you hang around long enough anywhere, you'll eventually get a hit or two. However, I tend to be more like you—when I see guys who've been on one of the GPS apps all day long, I have a tendency to think of them as guys who are are probably going to waste my time, since they have no problem wasting so much of their own.
It's unfair, I admit. Sometimes the GPS apps will keep a guy logged on—or give the appearance of it—for hours longer than he actually was active. And I have no proof that anyone who actually is on Grindr or Scruff all day is doing so just to jerk other guys around.
I tend to use GPS apps either only when I'm in a new locale, or at home only after I’ve been logged off for a few days. I've noticed I get more sniffs when I'm giving the appearance of being new meat than an old troll.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Sunday Morning Questions: Big Dick Edition
I’m going to hop right to some reader questions today, because I have a suspicion my answers to a couple of them might be on the longer side.
Since formspring.me has been decidedly unfriendly to anonymous questions of late, I’m grateful that a few of you of late have been sending in questions via email. You can still always ask me questions on formspring, if you’re a member there—but if not, just send me an email to the address in the sidebar, put the word ‘questions’ in the subject, and I’ll get around to them in one of my Sunday columns.
The advantage of writing me directly, of course, is that you can get around a website’s built-in limitation to the length of a question. But the real advantage is that I just love the email from you guys and gals.
When did you become aware of the fact that you've got a big dick? You don't really mention much about your dick in your descriptions of your teenage escapades. Was it at the time that The Fulcrum turned you from bottom to top?
A lot of the guys I tricked with when I was in my early and mid teens didn’t know my name. I might’ve been with them dozens of times, either sucking them off in the cruisy toilet stalls around town or getting splinters in my back from lying on old picnic tables with my legs in the air in the park, but we weren’t making much small talk, much less exchanging names. Just as I thought of them as Old guy in the mint green Cadillac or That hot guy with the mustache, they referred to me That skinny blond kid with the big dick.
I was always the tallest kid in my classes. I have old grammar school photos in which you’ll see a couple of dozen smiling little munchkins and then me, Lurch, at the rear. By middle school I was taller than most of my teachers. I was about 14 when I hit my full foot size (elevens, for those of you who are interested). I was six feet tall by fifteen, and added another three inches before the end of the year.
What most people couldn’t see is that my dick was growing in proportion as well. I started measuring it when my parents gave me their copy of Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), around the age of ten. The doctor who’d written that book said the average penis was six inches in length. Naturally I wanted to compare. When I placed a metal ruler on the top of my erect dick, I discovered that I was a little below normal. By the time I was twelve, that metal ruler said that I was seven inches. And by the time I was 14, it read eight.
What took a few years to catch up, however, was the thickness. It never really occurred to me to measure my girth back then. But I do know I had a remarkably skinny dick until I was about eighteen, when it began filling out. It matched my remarkably skinny body—although I was six-foot-three, until I was twenty-one I never weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.
So a long and skinny dick on a long and skinny kid makes quite an impression on guys; I probably looked a lot larger than I really was. I heard comments about my dick all the time—how lucky I was, how I was going to make some woman happy when I grew up, how huge I was for a boy. But other than masturbating constantly, I wasn’t really dick-centric back then. Guys sucked me occasionally, but usually I was seeking to service, rather than to receive it.
I was truly most aware of how large I was compared to other boys and even to most men when I sucked myself for others to watch. Sometimes I’d do it for groups of guys at my mentor Earl’s place; usually I did it for cash for solo men. I was limber and hung enough back then that I could strip down, lie on my back, lift up my hips from the floor as if I were doing a shoulder stand, and then lower my dick into my mouth. I could easily get two or three inches in there, and more if I really strained. It wasn’t all that pleasurable to me—with all that back and neck strain, it’s not remotely like getting a blow job from someone else. It wasn’t something I would normally do on my own. But usually I could get off easily enough by sucking and jacking myself, and then I’d shoot my own seed down into my waiting mouth for the guy to watch. (That part I liked.)
Yeah, I knew I was hung then, because auto-fellatio was not exactly something that anyone else I knew was able to do back then. I was probably a cocky little shit about it, too.
It wasn’t until the fuck I detailed in The Fulcrum, however, that I learned that having a big dick meant I could satisfy others by topping. After that point, I became a cocky big shit.
When you aren't feeling particularly in a sexy mood, or your mojo is down, how do you get yourself sexually worked up again?
I look at my foxy self in the mirror, baby! How could I fail to turned on by that sexy sight?
No, I’m being facetious. (Really.)
I think it’s totally natural for your mojo to ebb and wane. I know that my horniness flares in the late spring and early summer, for example; I want to bang everything in sight, then. Anything vaguely dick-receptive sounds good, then. I start looking at the holes in Krispy Kreme donuts in an entirely different light.
But I also know there are times I don’t feel particularly attractive or fuckable, either. It might be after the holiday season when it seems my diet has entirely consisted of Christmas cookies and zero fiber for a month. It might be around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, when I tend to get a little down and mopey. It’s not only one hundred percent okay for you to feel the exact opposite of horny at times, but it’s normal.
I can really only speak for myself, of course, but I’ve found there are also times when I’ll talk myself out of feeling horny by trying to convince myself I’m an unattractive bastard whom no one would want to touch. Usually there are a lot of circumstances contributing to that conviction. Things might not be going swimmingly at home. My work might be in a stagnant place. Maybe my checking account is a little lower than I would wish. It might even be that I haven’t been able to get myself any, and as a result I’ve settled on the backward conclusion that I’m unattractive and a sexual leper.
It takes some self-honesty and some rigorous mental sorting out to get to the bottom of things when you’re in one of those moods. I find it’s usually helpful to dip your toes in the waters by being a little self-centric, sexually then. Pick one or two activities you really enjoy during the best of times and focus on those. Don’t expect or demand that it blossom into full-blown sex, but don’t deny it if it does, either.
Last autumn when I was deathly ill, it took me a very long time to bounce back, for example. There was a period in which, after medical care, I was physically better, but still feeling like a troglodyte. I didn’t just see myself as unfuckworthy, but I didn’t understand why anyone had ever at any point in my life wanted to fuck with me, and I was convinced that no one would ever want to fuck me again.
I had my friend Rock Star anxious to see me, though. So I told him that hey, I needed to re-enter the sex thing slowly. Could we please just meet up after our long hiatus and, as corny as it sounded, hold each other and maybe make out a little? That was what I needed more than a full-blown fuck.
He was sweet enough to agree. And that’s exactly what happened. We met, we lay on his bed clothed (shoes off, though!) and made out gently. I didn’t feel like fucking, but I felt less subhuman. We met again and made out some more. That time we got naked, and my erection started to reassure me that maybe I was getting back to normal.
The time after that, I was back in his hungry hole.
My point here is that it’s perfectly okay to request activities that might convince you and your mojo specifically to come back to life. You deserve to be enjoying yourself. We all do.
Have you written any stories of your MF or MMF hook ups?
In my personal journal, I’ve written those, just as I write about my guy-on-guy hookups. I don’t usually reproduce them in my blog, however.
I know that a portion of my audience would be receptive to hearing about MFM encounters in particular. Back in the days when I discovered how popular I could be in the strange little subculture of cuckolding, I fucked a lot of women that would make the jaws drop of one hundred percent straight dudes, and fucked a lot of hot straight guys straight out of many gay mens’ fantasies.
While I know that there would be a lot of (silently) appreciative readers who’d enjoy hearing about those times, there are also a handful of very vocal readers who would complain loudly if I went in that direction. The couple of times I’ve come close to including scary vaginas in my life story, the screeching and caterwauling has been deafening. And the amount of abusive email I’ve endured about it has made me lose my temper.
Most of my encounters these days are with guys. By far. But I feel stymied about talking about other aspects of my sexuality, past and present, because of the outrage with which I have to put up afterward. I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be cowed that way. But after four years of writing here I’ve learned that nothing makes me enjoy it less than waking up in the morning to a box of nasty email.
Since formspring.me has been decidedly unfriendly to anonymous questions of late, I’m grateful that a few of you of late have been sending in questions via email. You can still always ask me questions on formspring, if you’re a member there—but if not, just send me an email to the address in the sidebar, put the word ‘questions’ in the subject, and I’ll get around to them in one of my Sunday columns.
The advantage of writing me directly, of course, is that you can get around a website’s built-in limitation to the length of a question. But the real advantage is that I just love the email from you guys and gals.
When did you become aware of the fact that you've got a big dick? You don't really mention much about your dick in your descriptions of your teenage escapades. Was it at the time that The Fulcrum turned you from bottom to top?
A lot of the guys I tricked with when I was in my early and mid teens didn’t know my name. I might’ve been with them dozens of times, either sucking them off in the cruisy toilet stalls around town or getting splinters in my back from lying on old picnic tables with my legs in the air in the park, but we weren’t making much small talk, much less exchanging names. Just as I thought of them as Old guy in the mint green Cadillac or That hot guy with the mustache, they referred to me That skinny blond kid with the big dick.
I was always the tallest kid in my classes. I have old grammar school photos in which you’ll see a couple of dozen smiling little munchkins and then me, Lurch, at the rear. By middle school I was taller than most of my teachers. I was about 14 when I hit my full foot size (elevens, for those of you who are interested). I was six feet tall by fifteen, and added another three inches before the end of the year.
What most people couldn’t see is that my dick was growing in proportion as well. I started measuring it when my parents gave me their copy of Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), around the age of ten. The doctor who’d written that book said the average penis was six inches in length. Naturally I wanted to compare. When I placed a metal ruler on the top of my erect dick, I discovered that I was a little below normal. By the time I was twelve, that metal ruler said that I was seven inches. And by the time I was 14, it read eight.
What took a few years to catch up, however, was the thickness. It never really occurred to me to measure my girth back then. But I do know I had a remarkably skinny dick until I was about eighteen, when it began filling out. It matched my remarkably skinny body—although I was six-foot-three, until I was twenty-one I never weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.
So a long and skinny dick on a long and skinny kid makes quite an impression on guys; I probably looked a lot larger than I really was. I heard comments about my dick all the time—how lucky I was, how I was going to make some woman happy when I grew up, how huge I was for a boy. But other than masturbating constantly, I wasn’t really dick-centric back then. Guys sucked me occasionally, but usually I was seeking to service, rather than to receive it.
I was truly most aware of how large I was compared to other boys and even to most men when I sucked myself for others to watch. Sometimes I’d do it for groups of guys at my mentor Earl’s place; usually I did it for cash for solo men. I was limber and hung enough back then that I could strip down, lie on my back, lift up my hips from the floor as if I were doing a shoulder stand, and then lower my dick into my mouth. I could easily get two or three inches in there, and more if I really strained. It wasn’t all that pleasurable to me—with all that back and neck strain, it’s not remotely like getting a blow job from someone else. It wasn’t something I would normally do on my own. But usually I could get off easily enough by sucking and jacking myself, and then I’d shoot my own seed down into my waiting mouth for the guy to watch. (That part I liked.)
Yeah, I knew I was hung then, because auto-fellatio was not exactly something that anyone else I knew was able to do back then. I was probably a cocky little shit about it, too.
It wasn’t until the fuck I detailed in The Fulcrum, however, that I learned that having a big dick meant I could satisfy others by topping. After that point, I became a cocky big shit.
When you aren't feeling particularly in a sexy mood, or your mojo is down, how do you get yourself sexually worked up again?
I look at my foxy self in the mirror, baby! How could I fail to turned on by that sexy sight?
No, I’m being facetious. (Really.)
I think it’s totally natural for your mojo to ebb and wane. I know that my horniness flares in the late spring and early summer, for example; I want to bang everything in sight, then. Anything vaguely dick-receptive sounds good, then. I start looking at the holes in Krispy Kreme donuts in an entirely different light.
But I also know there are times I don’t feel particularly attractive or fuckable, either. It might be after the holiday season when it seems my diet has entirely consisted of Christmas cookies and zero fiber for a month. It might be around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, when I tend to get a little down and mopey. It’s not only one hundred percent okay for you to feel the exact opposite of horny at times, but it’s normal.
I can really only speak for myself, of course, but I’ve found there are also times when I’ll talk myself out of feeling horny by trying to convince myself I’m an unattractive bastard whom no one would want to touch. Usually there are a lot of circumstances contributing to that conviction. Things might not be going swimmingly at home. My work might be in a stagnant place. Maybe my checking account is a little lower than I would wish. It might even be that I haven’t been able to get myself any, and as a result I’ve settled on the backward conclusion that I’m unattractive and a sexual leper.
It takes some self-honesty and some rigorous mental sorting out to get to the bottom of things when you’re in one of those moods. I find it’s usually helpful to dip your toes in the waters by being a little self-centric, sexually then. Pick one or two activities you really enjoy during the best of times and focus on those. Don’t expect or demand that it blossom into full-blown sex, but don’t deny it if it does, either.
Last autumn when I was deathly ill, it took me a very long time to bounce back, for example. There was a period in which, after medical care, I was physically better, but still feeling like a troglodyte. I didn’t just see myself as unfuckworthy, but I didn’t understand why anyone had ever at any point in my life wanted to fuck with me, and I was convinced that no one would ever want to fuck me again.
I had my friend Rock Star anxious to see me, though. So I told him that hey, I needed to re-enter the sex thing slowly. Could we please just meet up after our long hiatus and, as corny as it sounded, hold each other and maybe make out a little? That was what I needed more than a full-blown fuck.
He was sweet enough to agree. And that’s exactly what happened. We met, we lay on his bed clothed (shoes off, though!) and made out gently. I didn’t feel like fucking, but I felt less subhuman. We met again and made out some more. That time we got naked, and my erection started to reassure me that maybe I was getting back to normal.
The time after that, I was back in his hungry hole.
My point here is that it’s perfectly okay to request activities that might convince you and your mojo specifically to come back to life. You deserve to be enjoying yourself. We all do.
Have you written any stories of your MF or MMF hook ups?
In my personal journal, I’ve written those, just as I write about my guy-on-guy hookups. I don’t usually reproduce them in my blog, however.
I know that a portion of my audience would be receptive to hearing about MFM encounters in particular. Back in the days when I discovered how popular I could be in the strange little subculture of cuckolding, I fucked a lot of women that would make the jaws drop of one hundred percent straight dudes, and fucked a lot of hot straight guys straight out of many gay mens’ fantasies.
While I know that there would be a lot of (silently) appreciative readers who’d enjoy hearing about those times, there are also a handful of very vocal readers who would complain loudly if I went in that direction. The couple of times I’ve come close to including scary vaginas in my life story, the screeching and caterwauling has been deafening. And the amount of abusive email I’ve endured about it has made me lose my temper.
Most of my encounters these days are with guys. By far. But I feel stymied about talking about other aspects of my sexuality, past and present, because of the outrage with which I have to put up afterward. I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be cowed that way. But after four years of writing here I’ve learned that nothing makes me enjoy it less than waking up in the morning to a box of nasty email.
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