Monday Morning Questions: Public Apology Edition

I can tell by the way you write you’re educated, but all you write about is sex. Is it just me or does it seem like a waste of all your education to have your entire life obsessed with one thing? Seems like you could be doing something better with your time, I don’t know.

I extend my deepest apologies that you have tracked down and visited a sex blog on the internet to find that it is primarily focused upon . . . sex.

I thank you for bringing this unforgivable oversight to my attention. My highly-honed mission statement here at A Breeder’s Journal is to be absolutely everything to absolutely everyone. Obviously I have failed in this regard.

In order to make amends, I would call to your attention the fact that at my twitter account (@meetthebreeder), you will find that I am not only obsessed with sex, but also with the pop music group Steps, the video game Animal Crossing, and with incredibly bad television shows. It is upon Twitter I thus achieve a rich diversity I obviously have failed to garner—much to my eternal regret—with my blog.

Thank you for bringing these oversights to my attention. Rest assured that in the future, I will do everything in my control to tailor the contents of my personal sex blog to the needs of you, the individual who pays absolutely nothing for its content, who never buys me gifts, and who doesn’t contribute to my income in any way. Until that day comes, here’s an image of kittens with laser eyes on pizza slices:

I have a gentlemen caller who is trying to get me into a cock cage. It's not as if I had nothing to do with that desire (I sure did) but I also have not decided yet if I just like the idea of being in one (I never have). I'm enjoying every moment of his attention, though it is a bit hard to keep any sort of focus! I probably will buy one on my own and find out the answer - is this something I'd rather just fantasize about?

I’ve noticed a curious correlation between a huge rise in interest in chastity caging and the current pandemic. Were I still an academic, I’d propose the theory that men are turning to chastity devices as a way to deal with increasing uncertainty during a time of lockdowns—asserting control over a device from which they can be released any time, unlike how most of us captives have felt during this COVID-19 crisis.

If you’re interested in genital restraint, why not give it a try? Unlike auto-erotic asphyxiation, it's a safe kink to explore. 

I’ve held the keys to many a man’s cock cage over the last several decades. Physically held the keys, that is. A guy will buy a chastity device and I will lock him into it. Then I will take the only copies of the keys that can release him, thus leaving his little dick restrained until I return. It’s a kick for both parties. The caged party gets the sexual thrill of being denied and controlled; I get the knowledge that the boy has ceded his own sexual freedom to me, plus the sadistic knowledge that the longer I deny him, the more discomfort and need he experiences.

The longest I’ve held a key was probably for about five years, with a local guy I’d see frequently. No, I didn’t keep the guy caged that entire time—the longest period was for maybe about a month. When in lockdown, he was totally free to suck as many cocks and he wanted and to take as many loads in his hole as he could collect. The only time he would get himself off, however, was when I granted him the favor of unlocking his penis cage myself. I enjoyed that control. He enjoyed my superiority, and loved to hand over his own sexual authority to a more dominant personality.

That relationship may be a more extreme example of chastity and control; not everyone who locks himself into a cock cage hands over the key to someone, much less for years at a time. You may wish to experiment by letting yourself be caged (without an actual lock) for the length of a single sexual session, to see if you like it. That’s enough for most men who engage in the kink. If you choose to explore longer periods of chastity, add a single day at a time, and see how much you can endure.

Consider the type of cage in which you intend to imprison yourself. Solid plastic cages tend to be the cheapest—but how disgusting are they going to be, and how rancid will they become from your own urine and secretions, when you wear them for days at a time? You’re going to want to select something that allows you to keep clean (unless staying dirty is your goal—and if so, no judgement), that can be flushed with extended wear, and that’s going to make you feel sexy and good about yourself, even as you’re denying yourself or being denied your own sexual autonomy.

If I had to pick an ideal cage for enforcing chastity on someone long-term, I’d probably choose a steel cage, like those by Mature Metal (modeled below by my friend @verswolfXXX—I wish I were close enough to hold his key). The cage allows air and water to circulate. The heft of the steel construction means it can’t be easily ignored or forgotten, even as it’s concealed by everyday clothing. From a fetish perspective, it’s everything a guy could ask for.*

As for actually handing over the key to someone—I don’t recommend beginners take that step immediately. At least, not without keeping a copy of the key for yourself, in case of emergency. Ask yourself the following questions: are you going to be in raptures at the thrill of being caged while the man caging you is towering over you, only to be irritated by the mundane realities when he isn’t? Will the fellow be responsible enough, and considerate enough, about your health and sexual well-being to uncage you on a schedule you can tolerate? Is he going to be around enough to do so? Can you truly rely upon your key holder not to ghost you?

Most dominant-submissive scenarios require mutual trust between parties. Make sure your trust in your partner is rock solid before you make any commitments that might end up with a professional having to take bolt cutters to your most delicate regions.

*Note: I have not received any promotional consideration from Mature Metal for this endorsement. I just like their stuff. @verswolfXXX, on the other hand, owes me his hole for pimping him.

Could you tell us about your best/worst gloryhole experiences?

I’m finding your question difficult to answer. Not because I’m ancient and my memory is like a sieve just yet—but because I’ve had so many excellent gloryhole experiences, and because I am having a lot of difficult trying to summon up even one truly bad one. (If someone remembers one from my decade plus of this blog, remind me. I’m ancient and my memory is like a sieve.)

Let’s start with the latter. It’s not so much an actual singular experience as an ongoing circumstance. There was a year when I was a doctoral candidate that I would visit a gloryhole in the campus library, in an out-of-the-way men’s room in a far stretch of the library’s periodicals section that few people visited. Chances were that if anyone trekked the long route to that restroom, they were looking for business.

The gloryhole itself had been hacked into the sheet metal partition between the two stalls within. Someone had used pliers to bend back the points of jagged metal so that they wouldn’t stab anyone in the groin or face; someone else had applied electrical tape around the perimeter on both sides to smooth it out and prevent injury. I used to spend hours at a time at that glory hole. Lunch times were particularly busy. I’d sit in the stall further from the two doors leading in, sucking cock after cock. Students, faculty, staff, men from the streets. Some would stride in already hard, unzip, and without prelude shove their meat through the hole. I’d efficiently take care of it, swallow the load, and await the next horny fucker standing impatiently by the sinks for his turn.

I know, it all sounds very good, but after the hole had been open for about a month, a rival arose. Some lump of a person from the local community (in my head, I remember him as the wheelchair-bound Andy that Matt Lucas used to perform on Little Britain, but he probably wasn’t that repulsive) discovered the hole and would attempt to commandeer it at the same times I did. (So basically, whenever the library was open.) 

If I arrived after my rival was already there and I spied him through the hole, I honorably followed the Cocksucker’s Code and would leave. He, however, like a total asswad, would refuse to vacate the other stall when I had arrived first. Cocksucker’s Code says the first cocksucker claims the hole, so I would stubbornly refuse to budge when he'd shuffle in, groan, and heft his enormous backside on the other seat. On those days, no one got sucked. Men would come in, wait a little bit, see that nothing was going on, and then leave for greener pastures.

Sadly, gloryholes are ephemeral things. That particular hole was open only about six months before the school’s custodial staff welded new metal over it on both sides. I’d had it to myself most days for maybe the first third of that time. The last two-thirds were a bitter rivalry to the end between two cocksuckers, with both of us losing out in the end.

Okay, now the best gloryholes. I’m going to divide this into two parts—gloryholes knowingly created for their intended use, and gloryholes in the wild.

The best manufactured gloryholes I would visit were at the late and much-lamented Bijou in Toronto, during the nineteen-nineties and early two-thousands. The Bijou was essentially a clothes-on bathhouse in the basement of a building in Toronto’s gay district. It featured what was known as the Slurp Ramp, an elevated platform with stairs, partitioned on all sides so that guys who wanted to feed would stand on the platform and slide their meat through the dozen-plus gloryholes around the perimeter. Cocksuckers below would stand on the ground, the holes at mouth level, fighting for the prime cocks. The room was dark save for what light filtered in from a TV playing porn in an adjacent room.

I could easily spend hours at a time at the Slurp Ramp, sucking cock after cock, then climbing the ramp and taking my pick of the eager mouths, then heading back to the floor once more. I’d often drag myself back to my hotel at three in the morning, shirt covered in dried cum despite my best attempts to take every drop, weary and exhausted, but happy. I even once had a cock poke me in the eye so insistently that I lost a contact lens in the dark, there.

Best gloryhole in the wild: probably my first, what was then known as the Business Building (now Harris Hall) at the university where my parents taught, in Richmond, Virginia. I’ve written before of my business in that particular building, so I’ll keep it brief. But let me paint you a picture of public cruising in 1975, when my prepubescent self went exploring while my mom or dad would be teaching a two-hour seminar in the evenings.

The Business Building was a six-story structure with all its men’s rooms stacked atop each other, directly across from the same stairwell. Though there were no facilities on the first floor, the second and third floor boasted identical large U-shaped restrooms with five stalls apiece, basically all of which had gloryholes drilled into the particleboard. Floors four through seven had smaller restrooms with only two stalls apiece.

The action would always start on the second floor. Men would occupy the stalls and fuck and suck through the holes and beneath the partitions; others would stand at the urinals on the side of the U invisible from the door leading in and out, and either fuck and suck there, or watch what was going on in the stalls, or wait for someone to open a stall door for sex. Some men watched the action from the sink area in front of the door; they would take it upon themselves clumsily to impede intruders who weren’t regulars for just enough time it took for the men in the stalls to climb from their knees and back onto the seats. If the second floor restroom was totally occupied—and in the evenings it always was at capacity—men would take their business up to the third floor. If both the large restrooms were too full, the action would spill up the staircase to the fourth floor, to the smaller facilities. And then up to the fifth and sixth, if necessary. In the mid-seventies, it was never unusual to find all five upper stories…every stall, every urinal…occupied with cocksuckers and sodomites and voyeurs, going at it until ten or eleven at night.

And those weren’t the campus’ only cruising spots, either: the campus library there was equally cruisy, as was the Hibbs Building, where in 1976 I finally gave in and let my first stranger fuck me.

By the time I graduated college in 1985 and had started studying for a Master’s degree at that university, the AIDS epidemic had struck fear into everyone. The Business Building tearooms had emptied out; the gloryholes patched over. Occasional shenanigans happened in the second floor restrooms, but I’d have to waste fruitless hours there in the silence for it to happen, and the cruising scene there became no longer worth the investment of time. The spillover from floor to floor that had taken place nightly, for years, was gone forever. Generations after mine would never experience anything like it. (Hell, most of my generation never experienced anything like it.)

I miss the gloryholes of the Business Building. They were where I’d seen my first erect penis. They were where I’d been taken in hand by my elders and shown the ropes of making contact and pleasing anonymous dick. The Business Building restrooms were where I was protected by, and welcomed into, the fraternity of cocksuckers.

Have you had many experiences with cum rags? I am a little obsessed. I have always hunted for them— both my brothers, my dad, roommates— pretty much my entire life I’ve tried to track down the rag/cloth/sock/tissue just to smell the musk of it or lick out anything still wet and sticky. Maybe a question for the blog and probably something you’ve got a story about!

As a kid I was scrupulous about leaving absolutely zero evidence of my masturbation around the house, so I’d shoot my boy loads on my stomach, wipe them up with tissue, and then toss the hardened mass in the toilet to flush the next morning before my parents woke up. Later on, most of my sex was happening in the parks and toilets around the city, so I was usually shooting there (and leaving the evidence either down someone’s throat or spilled on the ground).

I don’t think I actually realized guys kept towels or scraps to mop up their seed until I was in my early twenties, when a Latin guy fucking me would mop up my leaking ass or the semen I’d spewed onto my chest with a terry-cloth towel he kept beneath his bed. When he was done, he’d simply toss it back under. The next time we’d play, it would be harder and crustier than before.

I’ve written before about Darryl, a guy I used to play with back in Michigan who had a serious fetish for underwear used as a cum rag. Probably of all my encounters, he had the biggest cum rag fetish of anyone I knew. And of course, for readers of my blog, I’ve made crusty cum rags out of old socks and raffled them off.

Maybe this is a good question for my readers, too—have any of you gentlemen harbored a fetish for cum rags? Whose did you track down and how did you get them?

As someone who has done financial domination and has seen finsubs, what do you think are the signs to you that a sub is taking it too far?

I wrote a long answer last year about my relationship with the fetish known as findom—financial domination, or being a cash master to cash slaves. For those unfamiliar with the scene, or with my relationship to it, I advise taking a moment to review what I said there.

I’m not one of those low-investment cash masters whose day-to-day involvement with his subs extends only as far as posting scowling photos of himself on social media and demanding money for new footwear. Any findom arrangement with me is an investment of my time and energy. I am always devising ways in which my submissives should express their gratitude for my attention in ways including, but not exclusive to, what’s in their wallets or bank accounts.

As a responsible dominant, I don’t allow a submissive to make promises that he’s going to be unable to keep. One of the first assessments I make of a prospective cash slave before accepting him is of how sustainable a commitment to me is going to be. In the flush of sexual excitement, a submissive will promise all kinds of things—but when a man's boner deflates, does he have the actual wherewithal to follow through? I may ask to see bank statements, pay checks. Invasive as that might seem to you, to cash slaves, a good rummaging in their finances can be as erotic and exposing as bending over with bare buttocks.

I keep an eye out for signs of trouble. Late offerings. Missed tributes. Emails that sound stressed or distraught. Lack of response altogether, as if he’s avoiding me. I look for signs that draining a submissive’s wallet is causing trouble in his home life, such as missed bill payments, or an inability to pay essentials. Money arguments with their significant other. If a submissive wants to deny himself luxuries in order to please his cash master, that’s one thing. If he’s genuinely unable to make commitments to his landlord or to utility companies, that’s another, and it’s a sign that the sub should withdraw and reassess his ability to serve a cash master.

In general I think it’s fair to ask the very same questions about cash servitude as it might be about other behaviors that might interfere with everyday life—from something as mild as too much video game playing or too much time on social media, to more serious interferences like too many party favors or too much alcohol. Is it interfering with the person’s family relationships? Is it affecting his work? Is it causing the submissive too much stress? Is it even affecting his health?

If any of these turn out to be the case, I feel it’s the dominant’s duty to step back and ask the submissive to make changes in his life before he’s permitted to resume his tributes.

How do I get over my shyness? I wanna suck my friends dick. He’s gay. I’m gay. We have many things in common. Lotta flirting. My underwear are always wet after he leaves. And I kick myself for not just jumping him? I feel like I’m getting signals. How can I tell and how do I tell him I wanna swallow his dick and his load.

It’s kind of tough to tell when flirting is mere playfulness—a form of social lubricant that keeps the dialogue flowing—and when it’s the real thing. Is it the real thing on your end? Are you flirting back because he’s flirting? Or is there actual intent behind it, on your part?

If the latter and you’re truly trying to hook up with your friend, I’d recommend a little more directness. However, if you’re typically a reticent type, I wouldn’t try leading with “Hey, shove those inches of yours down my throat.” That might be too much for a shy personality to handle, right out of the gate.

However, even a morbidly shy person can speak up and say, when the double entendres fly, something earnest and honest along the lines of, “Hey, am I reading too much into this, or is there something between us you’d maybe like to explore?” Or, “I can’t tell if you’re just being playful with me, or if you’re flirting for real. Can we talk about that for a second?” You’re the one who knows the typical interplay between yourself and your friend. Think up something like those above statements, memorize it, and have it ready to go at an appropriate point.

If your friend says that yes, he’s been wanting to jump your bones too, fan-fucking-tastic. Enjoy. Know, however, that you absolutely run the risk of having your friend say, “Oh shit, nah, I was just jokin’ with you, bro.” Just because you’re both gay doesn’t mean that sex inevitably is in the cards. But you know what? It’s better to ask, get rejected, and to know, than to waste months or years of your life pining after someone who’s just a flirt for the fun of it.

If it does turn out that your friend isn’t into the idea—you’ve still got a friend. Hang onto those. They’re tough to find these days.

Do you have questions for future editions of Monday Morning Questions? Email me at the address on the sidebar, or send me a DM on Twitter.

Seven A.M., Cape Cod

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. This is going to be good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home Gloryhole

Do you like gloryholes? he asks me on a sex site.

No, I shoot back. I fucking LOVE gloryholes.

Then you should try my home gloryhole sometime, he writes back. Conveniently located near Times Square.

I look at the clock in my living room. I was just about to leave to catch the train into the city, in fact. Fifty minutes for the ride, a half-hour for a quick lunch, ten minutes for walking. . . . I’m going to be in that area in ninety minutes.

He sends me an address. I copy and paste it into in my contacts. I use Gloryhole for his surname. Home for his first.

So here’s the setup. He’s in a seven-story building on a busy street in the east forties. It’s one of those doorways I wouldn’t even notice if I weren’t looking for it, wedged as it is in between commercial storefronts and restaurants. I ring the bell, he buzzes me in, I walk up to his floor. Each floor has only one apartment; the only door there is ajar.

I step through. Shut it behind me. Let the latch click. There’s a solid wall on my left. An opening to the right that has black fabric tightly stretched across it to keep out intruders. Then, directly across from the doorway, a six-foot stretch of drywall. Right at dick level is the hole. It’s oval, about four inches high. Smooth around the edges.

It’s a professional setup. He’s bolted a long pipe—a plumbing fitting—into the wall right at the level of my forehead. I see a single ring hanging at the far end. I instantly deduct how this stark room with the hole looks when he’s not stripped down, mouth open, behind it. Curtains, probably, to hide the hole and break up the monotony of the wall. Maybe a little table to discourage people from lifting it up and discovering the gaping vacancy right at waist level. Art hanging from the hangers I can discern on the left-hand wall. A proper little foyer for an expensive midtown apartment.

Not an anonymous dick delivery system for a cocksucker.

I’ve already shoved my sunglasses and wallet into my bag. I let it fall to the ground with a thud. I step up to the hole. See him beyond. Squatting. Ready. Even through the narrow hole I can see that his body is beyond muscular. It’s a Men’s Health magazine body. He’s shirtless. His hand is inserted into the fly a pair of madras shorts. I see a shadow approach the hole. He’s looking through. Mouth open.

He’s ready.

I step up. Unbutton. Unzip. Pull down the waistbands of my jeans and shorts simultaneously. I’m wearing the thickest and heaviest of my cock rings. It weighs down my nuts, makes my dick flop out and swing. Then I step up to the hole and insert my junk right through.

There’s a pause. I imagine he’s looking at me, planning his attack. I feel my dick lift. There’s a slight breeze on the top of my balls. Then I feel wetness around my soft cock, and warmth around the base. I’m in.

His mouth is so soft and wet, and his tongue action so gentle that I can’t pinpoint the moment I go from soft to hard. All I know is that suckling sensation all around my meat, insistently nursing it to fullness. When that happens, he starts up and down the shaft. I feel his lips travel, slowly, insistently, deliberately, along every one of my inches. He’s in no hurry; he’s making each trip from base to glans last. He’s savoring the taste of my flesh—flicking in and out of the slit when he reaches the top, nuzzling against my pubes at the bottom.

I can tell I’m in good hands. Or a good mouth, anyway. I grab the bar from beneath, push my body against the wall, and relax.

I don’t know how many minutes I’m there. It seems like an eternity. He does this thing where he clamps his mouth down on my dick, gets me going so hard that my whole body’s shaking. If it weren’t for my grip on the pipe above, I’d probably fall to the floor. I’m trembling, I’m bucking so hard into the wall that my knees make it resound with deep, percussive thuds. “Please,” I croak out.

Then he’ll stop, leaving me gasping for more.

He’s got it down to a science. He knows how to give me enough to make my body shake and quiver. When he stops, my dick is wet and red and angry that the cocksucker’s not finishing me off. He could finish me off so easily. He knows it. That’s why he’s torturing me like this. Fucker.

Two can play at that game. Still hanging onto the bar, I lean back, let my body fall into a long S-shape. My engorged cock is on my side of the hole now. I can see he’s got his pants open. His fat, short dick is out; his forearm is busy beating it. His jaw approaches the hole, rubs against it like a cat marking his territory. It’s a strong chin with a two-day growth of stubble. I’m kind of wondering at this point if it belongs to a face I’ve seen on the screen before, large or small. A personal gloryhole would be a good outlet for someone known to indulge in his favorite sport.

I don’t really care to whom that mouth belongs, though. I just like the look of it, lips protruding and begging for my dick. I give him the tip. He responds hungrily. I pull out. My turn to tease. A little tip more before I swing back again. Then I’m feeding him the head, backing out, and pushing it back in. I’m using his mouth as a fuckhole, and it’s as wet and hungry as most of the boys I drill.

Finally he’s getting it all. He handles my inches like a pro as I drive into the back of his throat. He doesn’t need his hands; he’s got his mouth to get me off. By the time I’m thrust all the way through hole, he’s using his throat like a pussy and getting my body shaking again. I’ve got sweat soaking the back of my head; my armpits are dark spots on the fabric of my shirt. “Please,” I whisper. “Please. Please!”

I don’t know whether or not he hears my begging. Doesn’t matter. I get what I want. My cock erupts almost painfully, tossing ropes of seed down his open throat. I hear him grunt on the other side of the wall, feel his lips widen to take more of me in. Feel his throat swallow around my shaft. For what seems an eternity I blast away into that unseen mouth. When I come to, I’m hanging from the pipe with weak hands and feeling him nurse the very last drops onto his broad, flat tongue.

I withdraw. Take a breath. Try to stuff my still-stiff cock and balls into my pants. Zip it down tightly, and pick up my bag. “Thanks, buddy,” I say to the figure still crouched on the other side of the hole.

No reply.

No worries. I wasn’t there to listen to the guy talk. He’s got better things to do with that mouth. Damn, that mouth. Twenty-four hours later and I’m still thinking about that mouth.

Stinking

I arrived at the bar stinking of dick, the other night.

Now, normally I’m not a slob. I have something of a uniform of jeans and a T-shirt when I’m running around town, and I’ll wear even less when I’m at home. On a night out, however, when I’m in a bar or club among the judgmental eyes of my fellow homosexuals, I’ll clean up a bit. I’m not really concerned with looking trendy. I don’t feel the urge to pull on a tight sports shirt printed with some oversized, off-center fleur-de-lis or other grainy, heraldic emblazonment. But I will make sure my pants aren’t raggedy, and that my top isn’t covered with more cat hair than the cats themselves are wearing. I’ll pull on one of my good pairs of leather shoes—or at least one of the better and snazzier pairs of my sneakers. I’ll even iron.

I was all dressed up and ready to head out for a night of drinking (Diet Coke, if you must know) and the occasional dip into karaoke waters when I got a text from Urlipsmypole, the fellow in my neighborhood with his own private gloryhole. You got time? he wanted to know. I’ve got a boner that won’t quit and dude, you know I like your sweet mouth.


I looked at my watch. It was 7:50. I told my friends I’d meet them at the bar at 8:30. Yeah, I had time.
My buddy’s gloryhole must be a cinch to install, because when I walked through his back door and into the little mud room at the top of the back steps, his kitchen was already dim and the plywood partition blocking it from view was already in place, as were the towels and padding he always throws down at the foot of it. I should write an email to the guy before I move, asking him exactly how he’s constructed the thing—it’d be handy to have one of my own, some day. I suspect it’s simply a piece of thick sheeting with a routed hole at the appropriate height, cut to fit the door and fitted with hinges and a safety bolt or two, so that all he need do is remove the regular kitchen door from its hinges (if he has one there at all) and replace it with the gloryhole partition.

I always tell myself I’m going to inspect it more closely, when I’m driving over to his place. When I hit the mud room and see the door, however, my next trip to Home Depot is the last thing on my mind. His dick is number one. I shucked off my jacket, unbuckled my belt, dropped my pressed slacks and my trunks to my ankles, and fell to my knees. Through the hole I saw a shadow, and then movement. The curves of his muscular thighs appeared first, followed by the silhouette of his trim waist. I couldn’t see his dick until it appeared through the gloryhole. It hung in a perfect arc over his full, shapely nuts, soft, but twitching at the feel of my breathing.

My own meat stiffened in the palm of my left hand. My lips parted, and my tongue licked out to guide his knob into my mouth. I felt him lean against the partition, pushing his hips forward to make available as much of his dick as possible. Gratefully I took him to the root, and found my eagerness rewarded as his cock grew in one mighty shot, like a javelin, and speared the back of my throat. He groaned, the deep grunt plainly audible through the three-quarters of an inch of wood, and seven inches of rock hard flesh.

But I wasn’t ready to go to town on him, yet. Now that he was hard, I took my left hand and wrapped it around his meat, while my right fingers brought his nuts to my lips. He groaned again as I sucked them into my mouth and very gently ran my teeth over the firm globes. One at a time I worked on them, and then both together. Finally, when I had him banging his forehead gently against the partition, my tongue snaked out and licked his hairy taint as far back as I could. He cooperated by spreading his legs and pushing forward even farther. I half-hoped he might turn around and offer me his butt to eat through the hole, but that didn’t seem to be his focus. He wanted his dick sucked.

Suck I did, as expertly as ever. I know how to get this guy off. From a soft, unfocused slurping I picked up the pace and began working his shaft with a tight jaw and my lips stretched over my teeth to provide some tension. A minute after that, I added my encircled thumb and forefinger. I used my left hand to cup his balls; my left index finger stretched out as far as it could and buried itself in his flesh, somewhere near his butthole. He parted his legs to accommodate me.

His dick started to produce precum; I could feel his hips thrusting back and forth more quickly, in the slightest of motions. I added another finger to the tight circle I was making around his shaft as I sucked. I’d slobbered enough saliva over his balls that his sac was completely slick. My finger withdrew from his hole and pressed hard at the underside of his nuts, right at the back, where I could feel his heart and cock pulsing in unison. The pressure elicited from him a mighty groan, and the partition shuddered from where some part of his body struck it.

Faster and faster my mouth moved back and forth over the shaft. My own dick was neglected, but hard nonetheless. His pleasure was what mattered, at this juncture. He began to batter the board with his body, trying to drive his dick deeper into my willing mouth.

Then he came. I could tell it was nearing a mile away. He yelled, and shouted its arrival, then thrust forward as far as he could. I wrapped my mouth tightly onto his shaft, and felt it pulse and shake as the head released pulse after pulse of fluid onto the back of my tongue. Only when it was quiescent once more did I pull back a little and swallow the mouthful of salty fluid.

Then, finally I went back to my dick. My right hand jerked myself furiously, while my left cradled and tugged at my balls. My mouth remained on his dick, nursing out the last sweet drops as I jerked myself to orgasm. I shot the fiery load into my left palm, jerking and convulsing with his meat still between my lips. He pulled out when I was done, and I lifted the cupped palm to my mouth and ate the generous amount of nacreous liquid it contained.

Like I said I stunk of cum. I knew it when I pulled up my pants and escaped with my coat out the back door. I knew it when I got into my car and drove straight to the bar. And I definitely knew it when the bar’s owner and several of my friends tried to close in for a hug and a peck on the lips, upon my arrival. I deftly squirmed out of their embrace before they could sense the telltale scent lingering on my beard, lips and face.

It’s a scent I love—dick and spit and cum, all mingled into one of the sweetest perfumes there is. After a few minutes of savoring it, though, I ducked into the men’s room and washed the lower half of my face. There was no telling who might have to smell me, that evening.

Basement Gloryhole

On a street of crowded bungalows, his stands out. Every other address on this street is enumerated with the same cheap brass numbers from the local hardware store. The numbers by his front door are of hammered black metal in an arts and crafts style, special-ordered to match a sleek black door lamp of the same material. His deep front porch is covered with Adirondack chairs and period lanterns, his front windows illuminated by stained glass, instead of the blue-white glow of a flat-screen TV.

I park in the front, remove my coat before I lock up the car, and jog up the driveway. The entrance to his back yard lies behind a trellis in a vaguely Chinese style. I pull open the latch, slip in, and take the stairs up to his deck, and then the door that leads into his kitchen. I wipe my feet on the mat of cut pebbles within the door.

The basement stairs are to my right. I follow them down, into the depths of the cellar where the only light is coming from a window in the laundry room. My destination is across from the bottom of the stairs, however. Two ovals are cut into the door of an old fruit cellar there, both slightly below waist-high. I see a hand beckoning me forward. I step up to the larger of the two holes, unzip, pull down my shorts and push down my jeans to my knees before I ease my semi-hard meat into the darkness beyond.

He takes over from there.

I’d told him in our messaging that I find it difficult to come from a blow job. It’s sad, but it’s true. In a public sex situation like a bookstore or restroom I generally have no problem. One on one, even in a private gloryhole situation like this guy’s got, I find myself over-thinking the experience. I like it. I like the sensation of his wet mouth on my meat, of his lips pursing forward as far as they can to take it to the root. I love the light sensation of his teeth sliding across the shaft as he slurps, making me grow rigid in the dark recesses of his throat. I can’t get enough of that.

But this is where I run into problems: most cocksuckers expect me to deliver, and to deliver quickly. They want the load as fast as they can get it, and I’m not exactly wired like that. My dick responds to ass, yes. It swells and pulses inside the tightness of a wet hole in a way it never can inside a mouth, no matter how delicious the feelings. With an ass, I usually have the option of varying the angle or the position if it’s not working for me. I get to speed up if I need, and to repeat the sensations that make me tingle.

With a mouth, I’m at the cocksucker’s mercy. If he’s good, I’ll enjoy myself. If he’s not, I’ll start to feel self-conscious. I’ll worry about the guy’s jaw, and wonder how he’s holding out. I’ll fret about him thinking me a jerk for holding out on him. If he gets really impatient and starts whacking at my dick as if it’s a pound of insensate meat, that’s usually my cue to say something polite and leave.

I’ve told all this to the guy, this unseen face on the other side of the gloryhole. The reason he convinced me to come over? Because he wrote, in all sincerity, If you cum, that’s cool. If you don’t, that’s cool too. I just want to suck that hot dick.

And suck it he does, all the way down. He plays with my balls roughly, grabbing them in his hands and tugging at them as he slurps his way up and down my shaft. My hands reach down and encircle my balls as he sucks. With my fingers I can feel a fine stubble on his jaw; he has a goatee of some sort, and a narrow, pronounced chin. I can feel his fist around my inches, but he’s not bruising it, or yanking the skin off. He’s just squeezing it to nurse out the squirts of pre-cum I produce so liberally. I can hear him hungrily enjoying every drop.

At the top of the wooden wall he’s screwed in two antique door handles. I grab onto them and thrust my hips hard against the wood. I’m not going to shoot, I realize. He’s going to be disappointed, no matter how polite he was about it. But still, his mouth feels good, so I’ll let him suck for a few more minutes.

Then he reaches out through the hole. His fingers tickle the area behind my balls, then snake their way to my hole. I can feel the underside of his forearm providing a shelf of support for my balls, my taint. His finger only tickles lightly outside my asshole, but it’s a new sensation that makes me groan aloud.

I grab onto the handles at the top of the wall for dear life. I’m not going to shoot, my mind repeats, over and over. My body’s responding differently, however. It’s shaking hard, up and down, fast as a jackhammer, while the stranger’s hand still toys with my hole. Even as my brain denies it, my orgasm arrives. It’s relentless, and hard, and feels less like a flush of pleasure than a cauldron of molten lead coursing from my veins.

My body can’t stop shaking. Even after I’ve released all the sperm I’m going to produce, and he’s withdrawn to leave my dick full and hanging just outside the hole, I’m still shuddering and twitching and trying to collect myself. I fasten my jeans, and twist my baseball cap back around so the brim’s in the front.

It’s not until I’m outside, and refreshed by the cold blast of winter air that my hands stop shaking enough to allow me to zip up my sweatshirt.

Two Dicks, One Hole

Playing with my former gloryhole boy last Friday put me in a certain mood. I knew my own local friend with the home gloryhole tends to hang around on weekend afternoons, so every couple of hours after lunch Sunday I would pop onto Manhunt to see if he was hanging around. I got lucky around four-thirty when I saw his nickname, Urlipsmypole, listed in my friends list.

Need a mouth? I messaged him.

lol glad you asked...if you're feeling extra hungry I may be able to get a bud to join me :-), he wrote back.

I can handle two of you, I said.

He told me to hang on for a couple of minutes while he waited to see if his friend was available. I agreed, and mentally noted that the very next person to look at my profile on Manhunt would be his buddy. Surely enough, about three minutes later, I got a trackback on a profile local to the both of us. The guy was in his mid-thirties, had a decent dick and a thick thatch of hair surrounding it. None of his photos showed his face. I was fine with that.

A minute after that, the little green button next to his name had gone blank, indicating he was offline. He’s on the way over, said Urlipsmypole.

I’ll be there in ten, I told him.

It was four-fifty-five when I pulled around to the back of the guy’s house. His yard was neatly raked (more neatly than mine by a mile), and his steps decorated with pumpkins and gourds. I unlatched his back gate, tromped up the stairs, and let myself into the little mudroom. I was grateful for the space heater in the back corner. Cold as it was that afternoon, I’d put the car’s heat on high so that I wouldn’t arrive to his place with icy fingers. I undid my pants, reversed my baseball cap, and knelt down on the pillows tossed down before the gloryhole.

I’m not a hundred percent certain about this detail, but the hole seemed bigger this week. I remembered it as round and just big enough to admit the owner’s dick and balls. Sunday, though, it was a long, squared oval of approximately six inches by three—large enough to see all kinds of things through, for a change. As I put my mouth to the hole, I could see almost all of the guy’s kitchen, which was as immaculate and neat as his yard. I could also see all of the man himself from the neck down. He was naked. His dick was soft, but as he closed the distance between us and maneuvered it through the hole, it twitched. It twitched again when I reached out and pulled it into my mouth. Then it began to swell.

I sucked him to hardness quickly as my hands tickled at the sides of his nuts. He wasn’t yet pressed so tightly against the plywood partition that I couldn’t see behind him. The other man stood behind and slightly to the side, as if he was looking over Urlipsmypole’s shoulder. I recognized the dark pubes and the lower half of his body from the photos on Manhunt—so that was no surprised. The guest kept his wife-beater on as he stroked.

I’d gotten the gloryhole owner’s dick completely hard and dripping at the tip when he pulled out of my mouth and stepped to the side. The guest stepped forward to take his turn. His bush smelled of mingled soap and poppers. He was already rock-hard by the time he slid through, and his pre-cum tasted saltier than any I’ve had recently. When I wrapped my thumb and forefinger around his meat and let it follow the path of my lips, squeezing tightly, I could hear him gasp and moan on the other side of the partition.

He pulled out quickly, as if he was close; my buddy took his place. Urlipsmypole likes more of a buildup to his blow jobs. He likes them to start soft and sweet and then end up rough. While I played with my own dick, I sucked the owner with my mouth only, letting him set the pace and the depth. Without removing my mouth from his dick, I wet the fingers of my one free hand and let them brush behind his nuts with every thrust in and out. It drove him crazy. He pressed in closer against the wood, battering it with his hips as he ground further down my throat.

Then he pulled out, leaving my mouth empty and almost aching. The guest replaced him, shoving his thicker and shorter cock into my mouth. His fingers snaked through the hole and felt the scruff of my beard, the shape of my jaw, rubbed the underside of my chin. I wrapped my hand around his dick and swiveled it as I moved back and forth. It only took a few strokes before I heard him grunt, animal-like, from the other side. A moment later, he flooded my mouth with his load. I slowed down, then held still, so I could collect every drop. Only when he withdrew did I swallow the salty payload.

He said something to Urlipsmypole after he withdrew, but I couldn’t understand it. I think he was making an excuse to zip up and leave. My host didn’t really seem to care. He was too anxious to have his own dick sucked again. I went back to sucking with my mouth only, adding in a finger or two after a little of that. My fingers kept stroking the sides and back of his shaved scrotum, causing him to gasp loudly.

It wasn’t very long after that my host fed me his load. He always shoots very deeply in my throat, but I managed not to choke on the stuff. Once his dick throbbed a last time, I kept it in my mouth as I swallowed, then moved my hands down to my own stiff dick to give it some relief. My gloryhole buddy is always very good about letting me continue to suck on his dick as I get myself off. I held it there and savored the taste and the feel of it in my mouth as I jacked. Moments later, I grunted and bucked as I unloaded onto the floor.

“Good job,” I heard him say, as he withdrew.

“Thank you,” I managed to croak out. My hands fumbled for my zipper. I fastened myself up, revolved my baseball cap again, and headed out the door to my car.

I looked at my watch. It was five after five; I’d been there for all of ten minutes. For a moment I considered a breath mint, but in the end I drove home with the taste of two men’s sperm fresh in my mouth.

The Hole, Part 2

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The Hole, Part 1

There used to be a guy I knew a dozen years ago. I didn’t like him. He was one of those men who made the mistaken assumption that our situations were identical because we both were in long-term relationships, tops, and enjoyed sex with others. And not only identical, but that our parallels somehow entitled him to have sex with me whenever he wanted, regardless of how I felt about such a thing. Frankly, one encounter with the guy shortly after I met him was enough. He smelled. He grossly overestimated his own attractiveness. And worst of all, he gave off a creepy vibe that many people commented about when he wasn’t around. He seemed like one of those men whose photo, some years down the road, would interrupt a regularly-scheduled television show with the legend BARRICADED GUNMAN SITUATION UPDATE beneath it and a worried live reporter to the side.

He would phone me at seven in the morning, or during dinner, or at ten o’clock on a Saturday evening, whichever was most inconvenient, to see if I wanted to have sex in his van—the only place he could entertain, with his wife and kids at home—on the streets of the city where we both lived. And he wouldn’t only call once, and then drop it when I didn’t pick up. When I wouldn’t answer, he’d call back again, immediately, two or three times in a row, as if prolonging the amount of time my phone made an insane racket would predispose me to think of his sexual guarantee with more enthusiasm. Eventually I cut off all contact with him by telling him he couldn’t call me any more. “This week?” he asked.

“Ever,” I said. And that was that.

For a half-dozen years too many after that icky time we had sex, though, I kept on tolerant terms with the guy simply because he was a good source of information. The fact that he was a top landed him in a lot of mens’ beds. (Though it rarely resulted in a return invitation.) And bottoms, you may or may not know this, but top men do tend to talk about their fucks with each other. It’s a bit like the the boys’ high school locker room. Get a bunch of cocky idiots together and they’ll compare notes on who has the best ass, sexiest body. There are whoops and hollers and cries of, “Oh yeah, I tapped that.”

Now, some top guys are worse offenders than others. I personally am wary about talking about my fucks with other local tops unless the bottoms have specifically indicated that it’s okay. (Yes, I’m quite aware that I write about every single one of them on my blog, thank you, but I don’t give out screen names and phone numbers.) Others, like this guy, are extremely chatty about their conquests. And about eleven years ago this particular married top man told me of a couple he’d met out in the remote suburbs who enjoyed servicing strange guys through a gloryhole in their apartment. “They’ve got hot mouths,” he told me. “We should go do them together.”

“There’s an idea,” I said, evasively. Later that week I talked online to my buddy Daddy Tim, with whom I was on good terms at the time. “Listen,” I told him. “There’s a couple I heard about that we should try.” I gave him the particulars. He was on it immediately. Within a few days we had a date.

We drove out to the remote apartment complex and met in the parking lot. Then, as instructed, we walked into the apartment. The gloryhole was set in the wall immediately opposite the front door, which happened to be in the coat closet. The guys had removed the closet’s doors, left it empty, and themselves had carved the four-inch round hole in the drywall. Later on I discovered that it opened out into the kitchen, where the guys had put pillows beneath it. I unzipped, dropped my pants, and shoved my hard cock through to the other side. Immediately a mouth latched onto it. While Daddy Tim and I made out and I held onto the coat bar as if I were doing pull-ups, I let the guy suck me. When I felt myself getting close, I’d pull out and let Tim take his turn. Back and forth we swapped our dicks for the better part of an hour, until we’d both fed our loads to the mouth on the other side.

Now, the guy manning the gloryhole that night was only half the couple—Jake, the older of the two. Jake was a total bottom in his mid-thirties of modest looks who somehow had managed to land a hot nineteen-year-old boyfriend. He considered the first visit a vetting process to see if we were worthy of returning to share both their mouths.

I was the one who got to keep coming back. On my first solo trip I walked into the dark apartment, with its makeshift curtain hanging over the entrance to the living room, and let my jeans fall to my ankles. Though the closet was almost totally dark, I could see a warm light on the hole’s other side, in the kitchen, and the shadows that crossed its lip. I was hard when I stuck my cock through. At first I felt the mouth from before, licking and sucking at my dick. At some point shortly thereafter, though, the sensations changed. The mouth on my meat was different. The lips were softer. The mouth itself was wetter and warmer, It seemed to savor the taste of me, the length and the girth, rather than hurry to get me off. I always associated that mouth with David, the younger of the two. It was that mouth that was more likely to get me off. The moment it clamped down on my inches and began to suck, I recognized it immediately and would always become more excited.

I could distinguished between their asses, too. With me the guys didn’t use the gloryhole simply for sucking. There was usually point at which I’d feel a cold glob of lube suddenly surround me, followed by the grip of a hand spreading it around. Then I’d feel pressure against my cock head and the unmistakable sensations of an ass spreading itself around me. Jake had a bony ass that opened readily and didn’t provide much in the way of friction. It was, as one of my friends has a tendency to say, like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.

David, the nineteen-year-old, on the other hand, was tight and had a full ass. It took a lot of effort to get into him the first time, but once he loosened up, he’d shiver and shake on the wall’s other side. I couldn’t see either of them, but the eight inches of me that projected through to the kitchen could feel perfectly what was going on. Jake would back his ass up to the hole and slam against it like I was some kind of suction-cup dildo. Then his boy toy would take both his turn and his time, just as he would with his mouth. The result was that David would more often be the one to get my load—or loads, more usually. I could also hear his groans and grunts and judged that he came pretty often while I was fucking him, too. I liked that.

The guys were a little far out for me to visit every week, but I hit their hole for at least once a month for the better part of three years, until the elder half had some issues with keeping his job and the pair had to move out of the apartment to another that was even further out. (I always wondered how they explained that hole in the wall to the apartment managers.) They made another move even further away shortly after that—and then about four years ago they landed way the hell out in the middle of nowhere with one of their parents, over an hour away from the city. I figured I’d never hear from them again.

Then suddenly I did, Thursday.

Another Sunday at the Hole

I spent much of Sunday morning at the mercy of friends. When finally I got some alone time at around five-thirty, I flipped up the lid of my notebook and logged onto Manhunt. My buddy with the private gloryhole, Urlipsmypole, was online. I opened up and looked at his profile. I knew that’s all it would take. My name would appear on the list of who viewed him, and if he wanted me, he’d let me know.

It didn’t take thirty seconds for my menubar to flash that I had mailing waiting. Haven’t seen you in a while, he wrote. It had been all of three weeks, really. Let me know when we can meet again.

My reply was more direct. How about now? I wrote. I can be there in 10 minutes. All I need to do is pull on my pants.

You put yours on and I’ll take mine off, he said. See you in 10.

I love it when hookups are that simple.

The guy lives in my neighborhood; all I have to do is drive a few blocks east, head north, and cross one semi-major road to get to his house. As always, his back yard was immaculate. I wasn’t admiring his even clumps of cornflowers or his freshly-painted birdhouses, though, when I opened the latch to his gate and let myself onto his back porch. I was too busily thrusting my hands deep in my jeans to conceal the erection snaking down one pants leg. Once I’d closed the door behind me, though, my hands scrambled to loosen the buttons of my fly. I dropped my jeans below my knees, and knelt down on the pillows set before the wooden partition, dick in hand.

The hole was at face level before me, shadowed by the form in the kitchen beyond. Both that room and the porch lay in the artificial twilight of drawn shades and blinds and shutters; it was possible for me to see the outlines of forms, but little else. When the man’s dick eased out through the hole, though, I could see it well enough. I sighed, and touched it, and brought it to my mouth.

It had occurred to me on my short drive over that perhaps I could get some photos, or maybe even a video while I nursed on my buddy’s dick through the hole. Secretly, of course—I didn’t want the flash going off during the experience, giving the game away. I’d brought up my phone’s camera application while driving, and turned off the phone’s volume so there wouldn’t be any of those giveaway clicking noises.

As I began to suck my anonymous friend’s meat, angling my head so that it could accommodate its downward curve, I fished in my pocket and withdrew the device and turned it on by feel. As I still sucked, getting his rod slick with my spit and letting him enjoy the warmth of his mouth, out of the corner of my eyes I peered at the camera and tried to adjust the settings. Then I positioned my finger over what I hoped was the on-screen shutter button, pointed it in the general direction of my face, and pressed.

Then I repeated it a couple of more times, hoping something would take.

I wasn’t there with the goal only of taking photos of myself sucking dick, though; that wasn’t my primary purpose. I had a cock to please. So I put the camera back in my pocket and got back to the matter at hand. I squeezed the guy’s shaft with the palm of my right hand, took both of his nuts in my mouth and sucked on them, and then returned my attention to my buddy’s engorged, dripping cock head.

I’m not sure if the camera inspired my cocksucking, Sunday afternoon, or whether he or I were just unusually horny, but I had the man close to orgasm in almost no time flat. Usually I work him to a climax slowly, using first my mouth alone and then using my fingers, one by one, for more stimulation. Sunday, however, I didn’t need any of that. I had stuck the first joint of my left index finger into my mouth as I sucked and gotten it wet. Then I simply applied its tip to his taint, right at the area directly behind his sack. Something about the slippery stimulus right at that spot pushed my friend to the edge very closely. I heard him gasp; his started thrusting through the cutout hole and banging his hips into the plywood so that it rattled with every grind. “Oh, fuck,” I heard him say on the other side.

I slipped my finger back into my mouth and gently stroked it along the underside of his tightening nut sack, using the same motion I might to tell someone to come closer. He did come closer, and closer. His breath came in ragged pulses, and before I knew it, I felt his dick force itself forward, deeper down my mouth until the tip was lodged in my throat. Then he started to unload.

Gush after gush came, out, collecting in the back of my mouth and in my throat. I forced my windpipe to stay open, and willed myself not to choke on the volume of sperm he was pushing out. Finally, though, it subsided. I opened my mouth and my throat, collected as much of it as I could, and swallowed in one gulp. I savored the salty fluid as it went down. Then I clamped my mouth around his dick again, as I fisted myself to my own climax.

He always waits for me to finish, when I suck him. His pleasure comes first, then mine. I came noisily, my grunts and cries muffled by the cock plugging my mouth, the harsh huffs of air from my nose cooling the top of his dick. My semen went all over the floor—the pillow, the towels covering it, the stairs leading up to the kitchen, the plywood. I shuddered, and closed my eyes.

Then he withdrew, knowing I was done. “Damn!” I heard him call out in the darkness. “I needed that, boy!” I could see his lean form stride away from the partition between us, as he padded off in search of clothing. That was my cue to pull up my jeans, button up, and get the hell out.

Some of his cum was still on my lips at that point. I didn’t want to wipe it away quite yet. “Thank you,” I whispered through the hole, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me, and that he wasn’t listening. “Thank you so much.”

I don’t get to indulge that side of my desires very often. The opportunity always deserves thanks.

(For a dark video of part of the experience, please visit my Xtube page. The things I do for you guys!)

The Hole

The first time he wrote me on Manhunt a couple of years back, I wanted to toss away his note. You know you want to come over, get down on your knees, and suck my big dick through my home gloryhole, it read. So when can you get here?

No please, no hey how’re you doin’, no hiya or hey or ‘sup. Just that arrogant, cocky assumption that I wanted the dick in his photo. It was curved and a good seven and a half inches, on the slender side. The guy’s profile name was Urlipsmypole, which was right to the point. His profile stated that he was looking only to receive oral from good-looking guys in their thirties and forties through the private gloryhole in his house. His dick was the only thing showing, but I could tell from the stance and trim waist in the photo that the guy was tall and built well.

Still. What makes you think I’m so hungry for that dick? I wrote back, a little bit affronted.

Dude, if you weren’t interested, you would’ve ignored my note. I know tops. Every top likes to bitch out his mouth for a dick like mine once in a while. If you want it, now’s your chance. He named an address that was only a quarter-mile from me. You want it?

I thought about it for a minute, then closed my laptop and grabbed my car keys. He was right. I do like to bitch out my mouth for a good cock, and his was pretty damned good. Plus I love a private gloryhole, and it had been a long, long time since I’d sucked through a new one.

The guy’s house is a well-kept bungalow in my neighborhood. In summer it’s a flower-filled paradise for butterflies and hummingbirds. The first time I visited was in a December, when the shrubberies were wrapped with canvas to protect them from the snow and wind; I unlatched the back gate as I’d been instructed, and walked up the steps to the door of an enclosed porch. I was surprised to find inside a small electric heater blowing warm air into the tiny enclosure. On the porch’s floor lay an ocean of towels and a couple of old pillows, on which I was careful not to step with my snow-covered shoes. Then, right where the door to the guy’s kitchen should have been, was the gloryhole. It was set in a sheet of sturdy wood affixed somehow to the door frame. I pushed on it tentatively, and was satisfied to find it held. Beyond the well-sanded hole I could see a shadow shift beyond.

As I always do when I visit, I unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick, which was already rock hard. I arranged the pillows so that they would be beneath my knees as I knelt down to the floor, and brought my lips to the hole.

When it began to push through, impeded by nothing but moving slowly, as if it thrust through some invisible obstacle, the man’s dick looked like it had in the photo. I wrapped my hand around it and was gratified when it leapt and twitched in my firm grasp. It was smooth to the touch, and pinker than mine. When I brought my face to it, he smelled of soap—the mildest brand, meant for babies and soft skin.

The first time we met, I didn’t know what turned him on. Through practice, I do now. He likes to be ramped up slowly and brought off with a quick finish. So I start on him with nothing more than my lips and mouth wetting his dick. At this stage it’s not all about his penetration, either. I’ll run my lips and jaw up and down his wet dick, or pause to tickle with my tongue below his head, or blow cool air over his slick skin. He’s not verbal. I’ve never heard Urlips speak a word. I’ve never seen his face, or seen his body, or know anything more about him than what his dick looks like. I know his responses, though, and when he groans and leans into the wood of the board separating the two of us, I know he’s a happy man.

There reaches a point when his nuts draw up and he begins to grind through the hole. He wants my mouth, then. I oblige by giving it all to him to use as he wants. He controls the thrusting, the speed, the angle. If he wants to pound the back of my throat, it’s there for him to bruise. If he wants to tease me with the head, or withdraw and make me tongue precum beading from his dick’s slit, it’s his choice. Usually, though, he prefers at this stage to withdraw slowly and plunge back in with a mighty thrust, over and over again. It’s excruciating, almost, how leisurely he can be on the outstroke, taking his inches from my mouth and leaving emptiness behind. Then, after a pause, he’ll ram it home, bringing a red glow to my lips when his hips meet my face. I’m full again, choking on his dick and loving its strength and power.

I play with myself while he face-fucks me, but I know how to keep myself under the threshold of maximum pleasure so that I don’t shoot too quickly. I’m not there for my pleasure, for a change, and he knows it. I’m there to give him pleasure, which I do by grabbing his wet, spit-slick dick. My fingers wrap around it as I take over and pick up the pace. First my index and thumb follow my lips in a tight circle. The pressure and extra stimulation make his dick swell; I can always feel his nut sack shifting and tightening as I work. Then I add my middle finger, then the ring finger.

After a few minutes, I’ve got my entire fist curved around his dick. It’s a wet, slippery tunnel for his meat to travel through. As he approaches his climax, I pick up the pace. He’s thrusting too, now, but I’m impaling myself onto his pole more vigorously than he’s working. His groans are louder, now, and the wooden board is shuddering from the weight and intensity of his thrusts.

That’s when I bring him off. It’s easy to do, when he reaches this stage. I simply add one little bit of extra stimulation that pushes him over the edge. Sometimes I’ll use my other hand to stroke the sides of his balls, lightly, lightly, with my fingertips. Or I’ll reach through and tickle his hole with my fingertip. This last Sunday, I grabbed his nuts roughly and pulled. It was at that point when he roared and began to empty his sperm into my mouth.

This is my chance for pleasure. As he shoots, I jerk my dick. I love the taste of his cum, which is always mild and never bitter. I keep both it and his dick in my mouth as I stroke myself to a climax. He knows what I’m doing; he can tell by my breathing and the grunts of pig-like concentration as I hold every inch of him in my throat. When I shoot, I do it right onto the towels, onto the floor, onto the pillows. He’ll wait until I’m done, and then he’ll withdraw. I’ll see him walk away from the door and into the darkness of his house.

Then I swallow, pull up my pants, and go.

When I was at the man’s house over the weekend, it was the same as always. Routine it might be, but it’s never dull for me. When I got home a few minutes later, I found Urlips had dropped me a note thanking me, as he usually does. Maybe it’s time you joined me on my side of the hole, he said. I know a cocksucker who wants two dicks. Think you’re interested?

I haven’t replied yet. I think I’m going to turn him down, though. Part of me worries I’ll find something about the guy I won’t like, when I’m exposed to the whole of him. It’s a silly fear, maybe, but the relationship’s worked well so far—why fuck with it?

Part of me, too, is just there for the dick. Because yeah, top I might be, but sometimes I just want to bitch out my mouth a little.

Another Bijou

Yesterday's trip down memory lane made me think of another Bijou I've visited in the past: Chicago's Bijou Theater, a dirty movie house/cruisy gloryhole maze/clothes-on bathhouse where I've had more than a few good times.

In 2002 I wrote the following entry about it, when I visited the place with my friend Matt. Enjoy it, while I'm on the road in Toronto!

At the intersection of Wells and Goethe--the latter seems appropriate somehow--is an old one-story garage built, I'm guessing, sometime around 1925. The outside is all white polished stone, while heraldic emblems and Notre Dame-like gargoyles thickly cluster around the top of the facade. There are some tame birds staring blankly away from each other, and some unremarkable lions roaring from shields. The real stars of the garage's architecture, however, are the animals sitting at the bottom of the pillars at eye level: rabbits and monkeys, their eyes wide and plainly terrified of something. But of what? Horseless carriages? The humans walking by? Both species have their paws stuffed in their mouths, as if gnawing on their fingernails. I love those monkeys.

Jutting down over the centers of the garage door openings are gargoyles of a store. With their long necks and their dog-like faces, they remind me an awful lot of the sock puppet that used to be the spokesman for pets.com.

Near the garage is a bar we occasionally visit when we're in town. The last time I was there I got picked up by a guy I've talked about for the three years since; he looked like Bob Villa of This Old House save that he's twenty years younger, leaner, and pretty basically all muscle and fur. "What do you think the chances are you'll see your Bob Villa guy again?" Matt asked as we walked past the sock puppet gargoyles.

"Probably about the same as being struck twice by lightning," I told him.

Remind me not to go out in thunderstorms. Scarcely did I get there when I saw a fellow with salt and pepper hair and a matching beard and eyes that skewered me when I walked in. I took a swig of my Pepsi and he yanked his head back to motion me into a back room. "That's Bob Villa guy," I told Matt.

"No way!"

I followed and saw him standing in the furthest back corner, hips jutted out to the side and his hands in his pockets.

I didn't think he'd remember me, but the first thing he growled was "Fucker, it's been too long since I saw you last."

The only thing I could really say was "Uh-huh," because scarcely were the words out of his mouth than he proceeded to strip out of all his clothes. Then he pulled off my belt and yanked down my jeans. I wasn't wearing anything underneath. On my own I pulled the front of my henley shirt over my head. So there he was, beautiful body displayed for everyone in the back room to see, wearing nothing but his boots, while I was mostly naked save for the shirt hiked back around my neck and my Doc Martens.

Did we ever put on a show. Sexually it was pretty mild--mostly we made out, chewed on each other's nipples, and sucked while barking out orders and appreciative comments to each other. But it was sweatin', growlin', swearin', pullin', chewin', gropin', butt-slappin' stuff. The scene could've been filmed for porn. Convincingly aggressive though it was, it was obvious to both of us that neither of us took it too seriously. I think we're both pretty much hams.

We did a lot of it, though, and we did it in front of a highly appreciative crowd of about fifteen or eighteen guys crowding around to watch at any given time. I emerged about forty-five minutes later, a sheepish grin on my face. "Jeez," Matt said, shaking his head and pretending not to grin. "Are you like that all the time?"

"I couldn't help it," I told him. "I just like that Bob Villa guy."

The funniest part of the evening came after several members of my audience helped me get dressed again. I was crossing the room when I passed a guy on his knees kneeling between the legs of another guy. He was holding his cell phone to his ear with one hand and working on his trick's cock with the other. Despite all the juggling he was doing, he beckoned me over and began playing with my dick, too.

"Listen, honey," he was saying into the phone with an impatient voice. "I'll be home in a few minutes." A pause. "I'm out, that's where I am." Another pause. "None of your fucking business. I'm just out." Another pause. "God damn, woman, I'll get home when I get home. Jesus Christ, can't a guy just come home a little late from work?" Still he pumped away with his other hand. When he wasn't speaking, his mouth was slurping on my dick. "Fuck, stop calling me. I'm hanging up now. I'll get home when I get home."

Immediately after the wayward husband ended the call, the other guy shot all over him. The guy cleaned it off of himself with a hand and shook it onto the floor so he could suck me off as well. He'd just hit the base of my dick when the phone chimed again. "God damn it!" he yelled into the receiver after punching the button savagely. "Just go ahead and eat without me!"

Toronto Memories: The Bijou

(I'm on the road in Toronto this week, but I wrote this memory of one of my favorite Toronto haunts, so that you won't forget about me while I'm gone.)





At the end of a dreary sidewalk running down the side of an industrial building lay a red door illuminated by a stark, single lightbulb hanging unadorned overhead. The door led to a steep staircase leading into the building’s cellar, where behind an old-fashioned ticket-taker’s booth lay at the foot. A couple of toonies and a loonie, and he’d buzz you through the black door beyond. And once you stepped through through that door, everything changed.

The Bijou in Toronto—now sadly closed—was one of my favorite nighttime haunts in that city in days past. It was seedy, and scandalous, and catered to a crowd too impatient to play the cruising game at the nearby bars on Church Street, or men who didn’t want to invest the energy in disrobing at one of the local bathhouses. When I discovered it in the nineties, it actually was a bar; a well-lit central area hosted bartenders and television screens playing ancient gay porn, where men would sit and drink before vanishing into the darkness around the cellar’s perimeter and getting dirty with other guys. Police raids at the end of the decade forced the owners to close the bar and declare themselves a bathhouse.

It didn’t matter to me. I wasn’t there for the drinks.

The Bijou had a lot of sprawling spaces for men to play. There was an obligatory steam room that I never saw saw anyone use; one had to stoop down low and crawl under a partition to get to it—and for a bathhouse in which no one ever removed his clothes, a steam room was a silly proposition at best. Late in its career, the establishment expanded to the first floor and featured a dark maze of glory holes and gloomy corners, where men wandered and would reach out to touch the men who seemed attractive in the perpetual dusk, hoping to draw them closer. There were chains of booths where men who had coupled off would withdraw and fuck, to be watched through by curious eyes through holes in every door and wall. There were a couple of movie rooms where guys would watch porn and relax with a pop, or make eye contact and discreetly stand up and move to a more private, darker section.

There were two areas I usually hung out. One was the slurp ramp, and the other was the dark room.

The slurp ramp occupied the largest of the basement rooms. The only light came from a television monitor playing porn next to the entrance, which in later years was a hanging of military camouflage draping. In the room’s center was the slurp ramp, a platform a few feet from the ground with stairs in its middle and two booths at its front. If you stepped up on the platform, you’d find a partition that ran slightly taller than waist-high, with holes drilled at crotch level. The platform was constructed so that there was a tight, dark corridor along the three sides at the room’s farthest end.

When the Bijou was busy, that little corridor would fill up with men jostling and fighting for position at one of the holes, which were at mouth level for those at the floor. Anyone who wanted his dick sucked would step up on the platform survey the seething masses of men below, and stick his cock through the hole and almost immediately into a warm, waiting mouth. I played both sides of the slurp ramp, many times, but it was standing up on the platform I liked best—being on display, being argued over, even fought for. If one mouth was too toothy, or the guy was a lousy suck, or even if I just felt bored and wanted to try something different, I could walk to the ramp’s other side and find a new, wet anonymous mouth for my meat. The variety was never-ending.

The dark room was even more to my liking. Around a corner, through a series of hallways and rooms with no lights that grew progressively darker, was an old cement room that was pitch black by the time you reached it. Only by feel could you tell it was perhaps fifteen by fifteen feet square; a wooden rail was hammered into the floor around the perimeter, on which it was possible to perch one’s heels. The only light that ever entered that room was when someone brought a lit cigarette in, or struck a match; the brightness from those tiny sources of illumination, after a while, seemed blinding.

There’s nothing I didn’t do in that back room. I’d stand there with my dick hard and running down the leg of my jeans, or pulled out of my shorts and hard in my hands, and wait. I’d hear footsteps and see the vague shadow of someone approaching through the antechamber. They’d enter, and feel their way around to an empty spot on the wall. Then I’d feel a hand grope me, or a mouth on my neck, searching for my own. Sometimes I’d feel a hand on my ass, turning me around and parting my ass cheeks. Sometimes the hand would pull me down and beneath, pulling me into a greased and sloppy hole.

Often I had multiple men on me. I remember one occasion in which I was making out with a tall man with a beard, while two other men each sucked at one of my nipples, a fourth man slobbered on my dick, and a spectator had two of his fingers up my ass. If men entered and heard the grunting sounds of copulation in one of the corners, they’d sidle up, linger, and gradually try to work themselves in on the action. Even on the coldest of Toronto nights, sometimes I’d emerge from the dark room covered with sweat and cum, trying to find a place to cool down. It was strange, how I learned to recognize the men in that dark room, blind as we all were. A man might have played with me and left for an hour or more, but when he returned I could tell who he was by the way he kissed, or the way he stroked my face to learn more about me. Sometimes I could tell by his scent—the cologne he’d worn or the soap he’d used.

I remember one night returning to my hotel room on a hot June evening, at three in the morning, and looking at myself in the mirror before collapsing in bed. My shirt was covered with cum. Countless loads, dripping down the front in a dried deluge, as if someone had thrown a paint can of the stuff at my face.

Proudest night of my life. I miss that place.