What Dads Are For

You are exceptionally handsome, Sir.

My attention perks up at the message. Whose ego wouldn’t respond to such outlandish flattery? The adverb alone makes my dick swell, where it lurks within my terrycloth shorts.

I’m visiting my dad in Virginia for the week. Today I’ve been with him since the early morning; he had one of his semi-annual checkups with his oncologist at nine, and then a blood draw for a subsequent, different specialist, tomorrow. We’ve stopped at the pharmacy, where I’ve plumbed the mysteries of my dad’s several prescriptions. I’ve clipped his cats’ claws. I’ve navigated the complications of ordering a deli sandwich for his lunch, which involves reading each of the dozens of ingredients from the deli’s app, then listening to him expel air through his lips and ruminate before he approves or vetoes each one. I’ve bought and replaced a toilet seat for him. And it’s not even yet two o’clock.

Now I’m sitting in his living room, Grindr open on my phone, as he putters around his kitchen and listens to MSNBC at top volume. Thank you, I text back to the boy who’s caught my attention. But look who’s talking.

He’s got several pics visible in his profile. A selfie in his car, square-jawed, wearing a baseball cap, his cool blue eyes staring into his camera lens. Another in red flannel, equally serious, revealing straw-colored hair, cut with military severity. A third of his torso, emblazoned with a massive dragon tattoo across his left pectoral. He’s all of twenty-three, this young dreamboat, and he’s going out of his way to flatter me.

I feel unworthy.

You wouldn’t happen to be looking this afternoon, would you, Sir?

It just so happens that I might be. When I’m visiting my hometown, it’s usually my custom to take a break mid-afternoon to head back to my hotel to relax and decompress before meeting my dad once more for dinner. I definitely could be.

Would you like to trade some pics, Sir?

His insistent use of the capital-S Sir gives me wood. So do the more explicit photos with which he follows up. Two are of his cock, taken in a way that shows off the furry blond hair on his legs; the remainder are of his backside. My heart rate soars at the sight of his impossibly narrow waist. He’s chosen jockstraps in differing colors to accentuate the round globes of his ass. You are beautiful, son, I tell him.

What are you into, dad?

Eating and breeding hole, making out, oral, and open to much more. You?

Bottom here. Into kissing, oral, poppers, bondage, choking, kissing, kink, role play, voyeurism, exhibitionism, video taping, bb.

It’s quite a list. From the kitchen, my dad asks for the third time if I want either some of the cookies he’s baked, or a slice of cake. I yell no, and reply to the kid with a couple of explicit photos of myself: one in which my cock is impaling and stretching out a hole, and another in which it’s greased up and shiny as I stroke it for the camera.

I need that. Will you please breed me, Sir? Where are you staying?

I should go for this kid, right? I really want to. I give the boy my details and my phone number. I’ll be in my hotel room after three, I tell him.

I can’t wait, Sir. It’s been over a week since I took cum.

Although my father’s eyesight is bad enough that I could be outright tenting and he wouldn’t see, I adjust my shorts, make my promises to be back by dinner, and head to my car.

Back in my hotel room and after my shower, I lie on the mattress while a stream of air conditioning blows over my half-naked body. Now, my uncertainty rises. I’ve barely tiptoed back into having sex after a two-year hiatus. I’m older. My body has changed during the pandemic: my waistline’s a little more snug, my back feels creakier. I feel I’ve lost flexibility. In the half-darkness, as I review the shots the boy has sent, I’m assailed with doubts. Why in the world would a kid of this caliber want me? He looks as if he should be collabing with porn stars for his OnlyFans, or curating shirtless photos for his influencer account, not resorting to hitting up some near-geriatric for anonymous fucking in a sleazy hotel room.

Already I’m anticipating an expression of disappointment on his face, the moment I open that door and he sees the gray in my beard and realizes I’m over twice his age. What’s he going to do, I berate myself, when he shows up and sees what a fat fuck I’ve become? Two years have given me more of a belly. It’s made me slower. Perhaps it’s erased any skills I once might have boasted. Maybe I’m not the top I once was. Maybe this entire encounter will be nothing but disappointment for us both. Whatever I used to have—whatever might have made me stand out a little among the competition—I’ve probably lost.

Although the kid has already texted me to say he’s out of the shower and on his way, there’s still time to abort this doomed tryst. I could send a stupid excuse and opt out of meeting—I should opt out, in fact. How could I have been so stupid, to subject this boy to my gross corpulence? To him, I’ll probably look like some demon, straight out of the hellscapes of Hieronymus Bosch.

Then my reason takes over, as I look at his photos on my phone and play with myself. Come on, I chide. The young man had contacted me, after seeing one of my selfies on Grindr. I’d sent him more. He knows what I look like. He knows how tall I am, how much I weigh. I don’t lie about my age, so he’s aware of that, too. He’s smart enough to make his own hookup choices. If he wants to get naked with me, why deny him the opportunity? I’m reasonably sure I haven’t forgotten how to fuck. My tongue is as glib as ever. No matter what happens, I still have the skill set to give this boy a good time. I’ll focus on that, and let the cards fall where they may.

I hear a knock at the door.

He’s standing in front of me, now, kicking off a pair of flip-flops as he looks me over. “Wow, dad.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re even more handsome than your photos.”

“Thank you, son.” I couldn’t be more sincere in my gratitude. His hungry eyes still bore into my own as he drops his basketball shorts to reveal the bulging gray jock beneath. He’s taller than I thought, nearly my own height—maybe six foot two. As lean as his photos. Beautiful. If I’d seen him on the street, I would’ve turned my head with a silent prayer he might meet my stare with his own. Yet here he is before me, telling me how attractive I am.

He’s about to take off his tank top with the same speed when I hold up a palm to arrest him. I sit on the bed’s edge. “Slowly.” I lean back.

“Yes, Sir.” The boy understands. He pulls himself to his full height. Runs the fingers of both hands through his short, blond hair, so that I get a glimpse of the corn silk decorating his pits. His eyes lock on mine as he crosses his wrists at the waist and, in one smooth, practiced move, slowly lifts his tank up and over his head. Once balled up in a hand, he uses it to mop moisture from his face. Then it joins his shorts on the floor.

There’s a half-smile on my face as I drink in the sight of him—that lean waist, the worked-out chest with its coiled Chinese dragon, the muscular thighs that shift his weight from side to side. I point an index finger to the ceiling and give it a twirl. Again, he knows exactly what to do. Looking at me over his shoulder, he turns. I draw in a sharp hiss of air at the sight of his ass. In the photos, it had been perfect. My impression is only improved, in person. Twin globes, pert, framed perfectly by the gray elastic. He watches as I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, appreciating the view. “Am I okay, dad?”

I chuckle. “Okay?” He’s not asking out of cockiness, nor from vanity, I can tell. There’s a genuine tinge of anxiety behind the question. I sit up and look him directly in the eyes. “No, son. You’re not okay. You are fuckin’ beautiful.” He opens his mouth to thank me, but I’ve hooked my pinkie and index finger in the elastic bands separating buttock from thigh. When I tug him toward me, he stumbles backward with surprise. I press the heel of a hand on the small of his back, and he bends.

“Oh!” is all he says when my mouth meets his pucker. He smells of soap. Though his legs are covered in blond fur, the pelt ceases where the jock begins. My hands run over the smooth skin of his back and chest and ass; his hole is completely hairless. The boy tastes so good. This isn’t going to be some lick ’n’ stick. I need to spend some time on this hole.

“Come here,” I order, as hastily I plump two of the pillows in the bed’s center. His hips grind into them as he flops in a diagonal across the mattress. Once he’s settled, I dive back in.

“Your beard…fuck,” he whispers. He’s grinding his hole back onto my face, mashing it hard as he can, trying to abrade my facial hair against the tender flesh. “May I do poppers, dad? Please?” I grunt to let him know I approve. I hear, rather than see, his lungs expand to accommodate the vapors from within the little brown bottle. Beneath my tongue, though, his ass blossoms.

For long minutes I apply heat and pressure to his pink hole, working in moisture, opening it wider. His hips rise and fall in tidal rhythm. His groans subside to whimpers, then rise in volume to become noisy pleas once more. My own cock lies, thick and hard, at an angle beneath my thigh as I grind it against the bedsprings. It can’t go unsatisfied for long. At last, I seize the boy’s ankles and pull them apart. Between his legs I slither up, until my dick juts against that wet crack. “Dad needs to be inside you, son,” I whisper in his ear. “You understand, right?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replies. His eyes are wet with adoration as he looks over his shoulder at me. “Anything you need.”

“Give me those poppers.” I hold out my hand as he scrabbles to find where they’ve rolled. Once mine, I unscrew the little cap and curl a thumb halfway over the aperture. “Head back now. Breathe.” He takes a tentative sniff as I force the bottle beneath his nose. “Breathe deep, son.” This time he obeys, huffing deep. “Other side. Sniff deep, son. It’ll get you ready for dad’s big dick.”

“Is dad going to bareback me?” He knows the answer, but as he takes another lungful of poppers, it’s clear he needs to hear the answer aloud.

“Dad is going to slide his raw dick up inside your tight little hole,” I promise, “and fuck his beautiful boy. Then he’s going to fill his son full of seed. How’s that sound, sport? Think you can handle a real man’s dick?”

He’s eager now, turned on by the scenario. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy,” I tell him.

I haven’t forgotten how to turn a bottom on. Not in the least. This perfect specimen of youth is arching his back. His neck is craning upward, his lips begging to be covered with my own. When our mouths meet, he exhales, the scent from the bottle still in his lungs. We kiss deeply. His eyes close.

“You can do this,” I encourage him. “Show dad what a good boy you are.”

“Yes sir.”

When my knob begins to probe at him, he whimpers a little. I need no more than a little more spit to slick him up. He opens for me while I slide deep, inch by inch. “You’ve got it,” I whisper, as it hits home. “You’re doing it, son. You feel so…damned…good.”

“Oh god.” His head hangs now. The pillows hold his hips at a perfect angle for me. I draw his legs together and surround them with my own, as I drive in. My hands wrap around his neck, applying a gentle pressure. He responds with gratitude, shoving backward onto my cock. “Yes, sir. Thank you, dad.”

“Good boy,” I whisper again. As I fuck, deeper and faster, I keep up a stream of filth in his ear. “That is one sweet ass, kid. Made to be fucked. Dad’s going to fill up that boyhole with seed, just because you show it off so well, son. It’s not right to tease your dad like that.” I lose track of my words, even as they continue. The sensations feel too good. The velvet of his clutch grips and milks my shaft; he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Tell dad you love his big cock.”

“I love it,” he gasps, his voice box vibrating between my palms.

“Say it.”

“I love dad’s big cock in my little boyhole,” he trumpets. “I love my dad fucking me. I love my handsome dad’s enormous—oh, Christ.”

Hearing the words force me to stab harder. At home, late nights after I’ve turned out the lights, raccoons fuck in the trees outside my bedroom windows, screeching like they’re being murdered. Those are the sounds we’re making, now—deeper, but just as loud and unbridled. This is no longer lovemaking. What we’re doing is mattress-bouncing, barnyard fucking, no less frantic and feral than animals in the moonlight. “Good boy,” I growl once more as I pound into him. My arm is now wrapped around his neck; his chin rests in the crook. “Take it. Take it. Take your dad’s cum.”

When I release into him, he’s ready for it. His hole opens wide to receive my gift; simultaneously he turns on his side and takes me with him, as I continue to convulse, so he can release his swollen cock from its elastic confines. Still shooting, I reach around to feel it, feverish and slick in my grasp. “May I cum, Sir?” he begs.

“That depends on if you want more loads from dad,” I warn.

Immediately he releases his cock. I, too, take my hand away, in case he’s too close. “I do,” he admits. “I do want more loads. I can wait. Can you cum again?”

“I can.” I grind my cock into his prostate, feeling the button press back against the head.

The sensation makes him close his eyes. “Oh shit,” he says. The words are urgent. “I’m shooting. Sorry, dad. I’m shooting!”

I’m lying both beneath and beside him, with enough clearance to peer at his midsection. He’s not touching himself, but his his erection pulsates and shudders. One jerk toward the ceiling. Two. Then, hands-free, as his hole contracts around my only slightly softened dick, semen shoots from the tip. The thick fluid arcs through the air and lands on his abdomen. Another jet flies onto the blanket, a third onto his forearm. The remainder oozes from the tip in a slow and inexorable gush.

“Sorry,” he pants, genuinely mournful. “I wanted to hold out. But you just made my ass feel so fucking amazing.”

“That’s what dads are for,” I say, as I enfold the boy in my arms and hold him close.

Maybe I haven’t lost my touch, after all.

Monster

“Monster.” The man is kneeling on the floor as he speaks, hands on his thighs, back erect. His eyes are transfixed several feet away, between my spread legs. From time to time, though, his glance attempts to meet mine, to garner approval. “Gargantuan.”

I’m sitting buck-naked in the hotel room’s armchair. It’s an high-backed, period replica with a hard seat that’s about as relaxing as an iron maiden. But my comfort isn’t what’s important, here. What matters is the view I’m providing—sitting there with my knees wide apart, my meat pulsing against the palm of my hand. He can’t take his eyes off it . . . but neither can I. There’s a naked man on the floor in front of me, but I deliberately pay him zero consideration. I focus on my dick, my rock-hard, red dick. It’s the main attraction. Anything he might be saying, I’m telling him through my inattention, is just background noise.

“Colossal,” he says, flicking his eyes to my face. “Titan.” He’s hoping for approval. I don’t intend to give it to him. Not yet.

He’s a handsome fellow. Worked-out biceps. Deep chest, with a trail of fur leading down his abdomen to where his dick stands at attention. A couple of times his right hand wanders between his thighs so he can pleasure himself. When that happens, I use the top of my foot to punt it away. He should know better.

Pre-cum is beading at my dick’s tip. With my right hand, I squeeze tight my inches, making them redder, fuller. With the left, I dip my index finger into the clear fluid, pulling it up to my mouth. Its tendril of slime stretches, diminishes, then snaps right as I shove my finger in my mouth. With gratification I notice that he unconsciously licks his lips.

He’s parched. “Monumental,” he rasps, adding to his thesaurus of compliments. He amends, “Sir.”

Still not paying attention to him. My left hand now chokes my cock, as the right grabs and pulls at my nuts. I let out a little sigh of satisfaction.

The man starts to rise from his kneeling position. “May I…?”

For the first time in several moments, I break out of my absorption and stare directly at him. Slowly, I shake my head. My foot lifts. Settles on his shoulder. Pushes him back down upon his haunches. Then I return my attention to my silent self-pleasure.

He offers no resistance to my direction. When his hand jerks, I think he’s going to touch himself again, but with discipline he plants it firmly on his leg again. He understands his assignment: to observe, and to yearn.

Denying him what he wants—well, that’s what he wants, isn’t it? I sized that up immediately when he contacted me, when he made the arrangements to host me in this expensive midtown hotel. He could’ve picked any dank and dismal location, but he wanted to impress with his taste. He wanted to impress with his carefully-chosen, understated but expensive clothing, which I’d made him remove while I pretended not to watch. With the wine he’d brought, in case I wanted any. He’s a man used to casually gratifying himself with his credit card, or thrilling others with that Hollywood smile. And I have no intention of giving him what he wants.

Not immediately. Not yet. He needs to work for it, a little.

The sound of his swallowing is plainly audible as he attempts to moisten his dry throat. “I bet you get any hole you want, with that cock.” I make no reply. There’s a silence before he tries again. “I bet I’m not the only one to pay for a chance to touch that monster.”

Our eyes lock. I’m still stroking, but I acknowledge the statement.

“Fuck. I didn’t think so. You deserve fags emptying their accounts for that weapon.” I’m pretty sure he can tell this line of talk is turning me on; my dick is already rigid, but it visibly swells at his words. “You could have anyone you wanted, and you said yes to me.”

I return my attention to the throbbing sexmeat in the palm of my hand. I lift a fist, spit into it, and slather the slickness over my length. I’m not particularly fond of this form of lubricant for masturbation, but I am fully aware of how good it must look from his perspective, down there on the floor.

From the corner of my eye, I can tell the show is having its intended effect. His stubby uncut dick points upward; his shoulders snap back. He raises a hand to run it through his short blond hair. “Shit.”

Again I meet his glance. My dick surrounded by my fist, I point it in his direction. He stares first at it, then at me, then at it again. Is it an invitation? Am I ready to let him have what he’s so anxious for?

Tentatively he leans forward, ready to service me.

I, however, thwart him. Before he can connect with me, I raise my foot again, and shove his shoulder to the floor. He flops prone before me on the hotel carpet, face down. When he looks up again, I’ve got my dick in one hand and my phone in the other. “Please,” he whispers.

But fuck, I’m busy with my emails. Or Grindr. Or maybe I’m watching cat videos on YouTube. Who knows? I’m putting on a good show of it, anyway. He doesn’t deserve to know my business. He just needs to know it’s not him—yet. I’ve got one foot on the back of his neck, and the other on top of his head, holding him down to the floor as I pay him absolutely no nevermind.

“I’ll do anything.”

I look around the phone’s screen, as if mildly interested in what he’s got to say.

“Anything,” he promises, grateful for my slight attention.

I kick him upward and over, onto his back. I plant my right foot onto his chest. He attempts to grab it, but I boot his hands away. When he’s finally still, I lift my left foot and bring it down onto his face.

He knows exactly what to do. I feel the tickle of his lips against my sole. Then he’s lapping at the bottom of my foot with broad, wet lengths of his tongue. When he seizes my foot again, I allow it; the man angles my heel so that his lips can encompass it. Sheer sensation overwhelms that area of my body as he greedily nibbles, licks, and chews his way around my foot. I angle my ankle so he can attempt to take my toes into his mouth, but it doesn’t work. He flops onto his belly again to service one foot while the other rests on the back of his neck. At last I put down my phone.

After long minutes of him pleasuring my left foot, he takes it between his hands and kneads the flesh. He looks up at me for validation. I’m still stroking my dick, but I don’t have to feign or exaggerate my expression. He’s making me feel good. I starre him in the eye. Nod.

That’s all he needs to commence servicing the other foot.

For a wordless half-hour or more he lies there on the hotel floor, groveling, writhing as he makes love to my feet. First one, then the other, then back again. I know he’s using the opportunity to grind his own dick into the plush carpeting, to ease the tension building in his own nuts. But he’s not attempting to grab himself. All his focus is on me.

As it should be.

Finally I remove my feet from his face. I prod him with a toe, flick a finger, to have him resume his kneeling position. He knows something’s going to happen. Will it be what he most wants?

He clears his throat. Runs his hand once more through his messy hair. Dares to speak. “Please?”

But no. Not yet.

I point my index and middle finger in his direction. Raise them twice. The motion clearly orders him to rise, and he obeys. When his hands automatically slide in front of his hips to hide his nakedness—a newly self-conscious Adam trembling before his God in front of the Tree of Life—I shake my head. His hands drop again to his side.

I circle my index finger in the air, slowly. He turns. I have him stop when he’s facing away, though allow him to look at me over his shoulder. Still stroking, I pleasure myself while I admire his firm buttocks, his thick thighs. A fantastic Chinese dragon covers his left shoulder in colorful inks. His shoulders are broad. He is, as I’ve said, a handsome man.

There’s a helpless expression in his eyes. I recognize it. It’s the look that a thousand and more men have given me, the moment they realize that I honestly, truly, see them. That I’m aroused not by some fantasy on an app, or a flawless shirtless selfie they’ve managed to pull off—no, but by the reality of them, the here and now of them as they stand naked and exposed before me. I can tell by the liquid aspect of his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips, that he realizes I am turned on not by the sight of my own dick, but by him. By his ass. By the curve of his hips. By his presence before me. Most of all, by the potential of pleasure I see in him, in this very moment.

He turns to face me. Slowly, carefully, not breaking the contact we’re making in our held glance, he lowers himself to his knees.

Once more, he licks his lips. Clears his throat. Asks softly, “Please, sir? Have I earned it?”

I pause to give the question the consideration it deserves.

Then this time—this time, I nod.

Close Encounter in Room 155

You know how some guys know how to take a sexy photo? This redhead was one of them.

When I’d arrived only a few days ago at this hotel in the neighborhood of the youth, it had been packed. Groups book it for the weekend, my dad told me; other people visiting the city see it just off I-95 and use it as a weekend stop. I mean, my Grindr had been buzzing constantly the first two days of my visit, from guys less than two dozen feet away. By midweek, though, the place is deserted. Sunday night, every parking space had been occupied. Now the only car in the rear lot is mine. Grindr notifications from men less than a hundred feet away have disappeared.

It’s the last night of my visit with my dad. I’ll have breakfast with him in the morning before I drive back home, but for now I’m back in Room 155, hitting the internet for some sex. I’ve got a couple of nibbles on Grindr, a couple more on Scruff. But no one really piques my interest until this redheaded guy on BBRT hits me up. I’ll worship that magnificent dick and let you fuck me for hours, he tells me as he unlocks his photos. I check them out. They’re great shots, artfully done. Nice physique, I notice, as I run my eyes over the photos of him flexing. His face is shown only in profile, but with that full red beard jutting out at an oblique angle from his chest, he seems attractive enough.

My big dick likes worship, I tell him.

The bigger the better! he writes back. Yours is a monster!

You able to travel? I ask. How long will it take you to get here?

He tells me he’ll be here in ten minutes. I give him the name of my hotel and the room number and run to the bathroom for a quick rinse. I pull on a tee and a pair of shorts. While I’m waiting, I decide to check out the guy’s photos again. Like I said, he knew how to take a sexy shot. The pics are obviously posed and not in the least casual, but they’re showing off his fur and muscles to his best advantage. I’m definitely looking forward to fucking this one.

I’m rubbing myself through my shorts and reading over his profile when a message pops up on BBRT. It’s the redhead. There’s no room 155 here, he says.

What did he mean, there’s no room 155? I was in room 155. I’d been in room 155 all week. I’d had other guys show up at the door with the 155 on it and knock. Are you at the right hotel?

He doesn’t answer. The mobile version of the BBRT site has a geolocation function, so I check out the men nearest me. He’s only 110 feet away. So yeah, he’s at the correct hotel. I’m in Building 2, off the back parking lot, I tell him. There’s a big sign on it that says ‘Building 2.’ If you’re at Building 1 or Building 3, you’re in the wrong building. Clear enough, right?

There’s no room 155, he writes back.

By now I’m baffled. My confused brain is entertaining possibilities that it shouldn’t. Like, did the hotel staff come around and change all the room numbers while I was out with my dad that day? Had I been staying in room 135 all along? I get up, toss on some sandals, and open my door.
155. Just like I thought.

I’m coming to stand outside Building 2, I say, as I pat my pocket to make sure I have my key card. Look for me.

When I reach the end of the hall and step outside into the cool night air, I can see that my car is still the only one in the parking lot. The guy’s probably at one of the other two buildings on the hotel property. It’s not that large a hotel, though; it never was. All I have to do is turn my head one way to see that Building 1 to the south, and Building 3 to the west. The courtyard where I’m standing is in the dead center. No matter where he might be, he should be able to see me eventually. Right?

I’m outside room 155 but you’re not answering, he’s messaged, when I look at the site again.

What the fucking fuck? He can’t be outside my room. I would’ve seen him go in. In fact, I look through the glass door and down my hallway. There’s no one there. Sighing, I head back inside. Nope. He’s definitely not there. For some reason—just because I’m half-convinced that this point that I might be going crazy—I open my door with the key card and poke my head in. Not there either.
You’re not at room 155, I tell him. I’m here.

I’m knocking at the door, he replies within moments.

While I walk back to the courtyard outside, once again I ask him if he’s at the hotel I’d given him. Room 155 is in Building 2, I repeat. There’s only one room 155. You’re not outside it.

I’m knocking at the door and you’re not answering, he says yet again.

The fact that he could be gaslighting me crosses my mind. Yet the BBRT geolocation thing says he’s only 60 feet away. I honestly don’t know what to tell the guy. If a dude is utterly incapable of finding a fucking room in a fucking hotel when I’ve given him every helpful fucking instruction that I could . . . well, I don’t know what else to do. I’m not really into sticking my dick into total morons. Feeling like I should be shutting off my phone and just going to bed, I stomp back to my room (which still is plainly labeled 155) and slam shut the door. Then I kick off my sandals and flounce down on the bed, my brain busily composing multiple messages telling this asshole exactly how to fuck off and go the hell home.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Fuck.

I’m still simmering with anger when I yank at the knob. “I guess I had the wrong room,” is all he says by way of apology.

“You think?” I say, trying to keep my hostility tamped down. But I don’t stop him from entering.

It’s not until he’s in the little vestibule, with the light from the bathroom on him as he began to strip off his clothing, that I really notice what he looks like. This little redhead has all the components of the guy in his photos, but it’s as if they’ve all been tossed in a box and reassembled in a decidedly unflattering way. Sure, he had the bushy beard, but it looks more like a unkempt mess, scraggly and wan, than the proud bush of his photos. Yeah, he was a ginger. But his hair wasn’t the sexy, vigorous red it had been in his pics. More like weak carrot juice, really.

His muscles—well, he didn’t have any. His chest was furry, yes. I imagine how, if he posed in a certain way that pushed out the flesh, and how, if he cropped his photos artfully (which he had), he might look from certain angles as if he were well-built. I could see how, if he bent a certain way and wore clothing that obstructed parts, he might give the illusion that he had an ass. And though his profile from the side was handsome enough to appear in all his photos, when looked at from the front, the guy’s face made me want to flinch. If Jesse Tyler Ferguson were to have a scrawny, ugly little buck-toothed brother that he had to hide for extended periods in a basement room whenever People or Us Magazine dropped by for interviews . . . well, this guy is what he’d look like.

You know how some guys know how to take a sexy photo? Occasionally it’s because they’re so far from sexy that they learn to feign it.

Oh god. He’s stripped to his underwear. After all those back-and-forth messages and the anger and the Yakety Sax-scored antic chase around the hotel, I was going to have to through with this fucking encounter. God damn it.

Fine. Whatever. It wouldn’t be my first time to close my eyes and think of England. Since he’s already dropping his drawers, I hook my thumbs beneath the elastic of my waistband and yank down my shorts. My dick flops out. It’s only half-hard at this point—and I know, why even that erect when I’ve just been through ten minutes of sex farce staging?—but still, at half-mast my dick is pretty imposing. I’d like to say that the redhead’s eyes bug out when he saw it, but quite frankly, he already has bug eyes. They just bug out even more, and it’s not exactly a pretty sight.

“That’s fucking huge,” he says.

Tell me something I don’t know, googly-eyes, I want to tell him. Instead, I order, “Turn around.”

He obeys. “How big is that cock?”

“Eight inches.”

“It looks way bigger than eight.”

My dick responds by swelling and jumping. Fucking traitor, I thought in its direction. I rubbed the guy’s flat ass and tried maneuvering him so that butterface of his was pointed away from me.
Scarcely have my fingertip rubbed the guy’s hole than he yelps as if I’ve bitten him. Startled, I straighten up. The dude is pulling on his briefs. Groping for his polo shirt. “What’s up?” I ask.

“You’re too big,” he tells me, scrambling in his clothes as fast as he can. “Your profile says once you’re in, you don’t pull out. That thing is going to wreck me.”

I realize that I’m a split second away from actually protesting his departure. Then I swallow my words and rally. “That’s right!” I say, realizing that he’s solving my problem for me. “I’d ruin it for life!”

“Fuck, I’m tempted,” he says, staring at it. For a moment I’m worried he might change his mind. But no, he pulls on his sneakers, thank god. “Nope. Too big. Sorry. Can’t risk it. Bye.”

No worshiping of my dick. No fucking for minutes, much less hours. Just a rush of air and dust and a quick slam of the door. Like the Roadrunner escaping from Wile E. Coyote, he’s gone.

It’s not the best way to close out my time in room 155, true. But better a night jacking off in solitude, than a duty fuck with the one Weasley brother that Ron was too embarrassed to introduce to Harry and Hermione.

Room 155

The hotel was a Howard Johnson’s fifty years ago, when my parents first moved from a cramped apartment to their first and only house. On Friday nights in good weather we’d walk three blocks down our sleepy street and see it through the bowers of trees—an orange-roofed and turquoise oasis sitting across from the freeway entrance. My dad loved the HoJo’s fried clam plate—he still esteems it (and its fifty-cent price) as one of the culinary triumphs of the twentieth century. I would tolerate my Little Boy Blue special of a hamburger patty and assorted bland vegetables, tossed on dishes sporting the silhouette of the chain’s famous Pie Man serving a kid and his dog. What I really loved, though, was the exotic, soothing dessert I was always allowed to order: a dish of orange sherbet, speared with a vanilla cookie. I played Pong, my very first video arcade game, at that Howard Johnson’s in second or third grade. Two years later there I played my second cabinet game, Midway’s Gun Fight.

Sometime in the late seventies all the HoJos in our area disappeared, though; another chain bought up the hotel, repainted the roof, and added some modern additions in the back. It’s changed hands several times since. At one point it was a Holiday Inn. When my mother died and I stayed there for the funeral twenty years ago, it had devolved into a no-name motel with hot water in the toilets and cold in the showers.

On this particular visit to my dad—my annual spring jaunt when I help him clean up his yard and do chores around his house—I’ve chosen this particular hotel to stay. Before I’ve always slept in my childhood home. My back’s not as resilient as it was in my teens, though. I can’t squeeze my six-foot-three frame into a twin bed quite as easily. But between its nadir and now, the hotel’s been renovated and refreshed to become part of a middle-tier chain. It’s close to my dad. The price is right. This hotel is respectable again.

Or so I think.


Sunday, 6 p.m.

I’ve told my dad that I’ll take him out to dinner after I check in. I’ve had a six-and-a-half hour drive from home through New York City and down the east coast with only one break. I’m exhausted. But after I get into my room for the next three days, and after I drop my luggage and my gear in room 155, I’m not super-anxious to hop back into the car again. So I flop onto the king-sized bed and fire up Grindr.

There’s someone 35 feet away from me—the photo is of a scrawny 20-year-old torso, hairless, his chin the only part of his face showing. He must in one of the rooms close by, I figure. But I’m not into hitting up 20 year-olds. When they come on to me, I welcome it . . . but I refuse to be part of any kid’s I can’t go on Grindr without all these old perverts trying to get into my pants narrative.

I’m browsing the other guys in my vicinity when the phone buzzes. It’s from that twink kid. He’s sent me a photo of himself without comment—a picture of his face. He’s got green eyes, red hair. He’s paler than me, which means practically paper-white. Cute, though. Cute as fuck. I’m still looking at his face when another photo pops up. It’s of his dick. Skinny, like the rest of him. Curved. Its head just as red as his hair.

A third pic arrives, this time of a skinny white ass. Are you at the hotel? he asks. Then, Looking for right now? I need dick.

My dad can go hungry for a half-hour, can’t he?

Give me your room number, I tell the kid.

He’s in 159—a mere two doors down from me. As far as Grindr encounters go, he’s been the closest body to me I’ve ever talked to, certainly the closest I’ve had an offer to fuck. Unlatch your door and be ready. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.

The couple of minutes is just so I can quickly brush my teeth. After I check my phone one last time to make sure he’s not changed his mind, I leave it on the room’s desk before I tuck the card key in my pocket and walk out into the hallway. I’m not even wearing shoes.

159 is two rooms closer to the ice machine. I push on the door—it gives way. It’s early evening but still bright out, but the kid’s got his privacy blind drawn and all the lights off. I can still see the luminous white of his skin on top of the bed. He’s face down. Skinny butt up.

And this kid is so damned skinny. I can feel his hipbones jutting beneath his skin as I assume my place behind him. He grinds back on the crotch of my jeans, the heat of his crack warming my dick beneath a layer of denim and the cotton of my shorts. He’s smooth, too. My fingers rub against his hole, trace up his crack, circle his buns. When I reach under to tweak his nipples, even his chest is smooth as a boy’s.

I’m hard in my jeans from his insistent friction. “You need dick?” I ask the kid. For response, he reaches above his head to clutch the headboard. His ass grinds against my bulge. “All right,” I say. “I’ll give you dick.”

There’s no romance to this encounter. No kissing. No preliminaries. I don’t even know his name. This is just some little whore in a hotel, letting a stranger nearly three times his age invade his room and then his ass. I unbuckle my belt. Unbutton and loosen my jeans. Yank down my shorts. My dick flips up from under the waistband and wedges itself into the boy’s crack. He groans at the sudden feel of flesh against his flesh.

I spit on my fingers. Work it around the length of my dick until it’s slick. Once again I spit. This time I deliver the moisture to the kid’s hole. He’s loose. Two of my fingers slip in with no resistance. Three. The insides of his chute are already slippery. Maybe it’s lube. Maybe it’s some other guy’s hour-old load.

I don’t care, either way.

My dick slides in as easily as my fingers. Maybe easier. There’s more pleasure as his hole gulps at my inches, though; when I’m all the way in, his ass constricts to clamp down on me like he never intends to let go. He arches his back, lifts his butt up even higher; I have to stand on tiptoe so that I don’t slide out.

Not that he’d let me. He’s an aggressive little whore. He starts ramming his hole down to the base of my dick. Every time he hits bottom, he grunts a little. I’m turned on by his sheer need, but I need to set the pace, here. I push down at the base of his spine to lower his ass a little, so I can stand on the flats of my feet. I keep my hand there, stilling his up-and-down motion; my other hand grasps his left hip to keep him from wriggling so much. I’m taming this little bronco, whether it wants taming or not.

He learns quickly that I’m in charge of his hole. I lift up my tee so that it’s out of the way when I thrust. “Yes, daddy, like that” he says, when I start long-dicking his hole. His voice is soft. Light. Almost feminine. Even when I’m banging him harder, spreading his skinny little legs as I push him into the mattress and kneel between his knees, he’s still softly moaning and begging for dad’s dick. I’ve got three hundred miles of driving tension to work out on this hole, and the kid is good at taking a hard fuck.

When I shoot, I’ve got my right hand gripping the kid’s skull, pushing his face into the pillow so firmly that his little cries of pleasure are muffled. My left hand is squarely between his shoulder blades, keeping him still as I bang into his skinny little ass. He can tell I’m shooting; he clutches at the sheets and says “Yes . . . yes,” as my meat throbs and expands inside him. Maybe it’s my breathing that tips him off; maybe it’s the increasing ferocity of the fuck. Either way, I shoot my three-day load inside the kid with my dick splitting him open to the maximum.

I stay in there a moment, grinding the seed in with my dick. Then I pull out. He’s left a hand towel on the side table. I use it to wipe off, while he lies there motionless. He makes no motion to rise. I then toss the cum wipe onto his butt. Pull up my shorts. Fasten my pants.

“Thanks, kid,” I say. Then I leave.

Elapsed time: 20 minutes. My dad won’t be late to dinner at all.


Monday, 7:30 a.m.

Big day planned with my dad—dental appointment, yard work, errands. But it’s seven-thirty and I don’t have to be there until nine, and I’m in bed, naked, lounging.

So I fire up Grindr again. There’s a message waiting for me from the red-headed kid: holy fuck u r a hot top.

It’s a compliment I’ll accept. He’s 12 miles distant now, though.

On the nearby screen, the closest guy is a smiling, attractive African-American kid. Bearded, skinny, young. 24, his profile says. And he’s only 40 feet away.

Fuck, lightning can’t strike twice, can it?

Apparently it can. Sexy, he messages me, while I’m still viewing his profile.

Yes, you are indeed, I reply.

Ha ha, I meant you. Are you at the hotel?

I am, I tell him. What’re you looking for?

His answer is short and sweet. White dick in my hole.

How do you like it?

Raw only, the kid writes back, and follows it by five emoji: three smiling devils, one pig snout, and an arrow pointing down.

I send him something better than an emoji: one of my dick shots. The deal clincher. As I expect, he writes back, Come now.

I tell him I’ll be there in 5, and he sends me his room number.

The night before I’d taken a shower. I’m clean enough for a morning fuck, I reckon. I brush my teeth, though, and pull on a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Slip on a cock ring. I’m good to go.

This kid’s room is three doors down the hall away from the ice machine, on the opposite side of the hall. All I’ve had to do for both these tricks is just pad down the carpet in my bare feet. The door’s off the latch, as I instructed. I push inside and close it behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness within. I mean, I had my blackout blinds drawn in my room, but it still wasn’t pitch black in there like it is here. And fuck, is it ever stifling. He’s got the heat turned up high, even though the morning temperature is in the sixties.

The only light in the room is a rectangle that appears on the screen of his phone, in the general vicinity of where the bed should be. I aim myself in that direction and find myself hitting the mattress with my knees. My eyes are adjusting, now; I can see a figure looming closer in the dark.

A hand touches my chest; another grasps the back of my head. There’s a mouth against mine that’s hungrily seizing my lips, pushing them apart with a probing tongue. This boy’s an octopus, eight hands doing crazy things to me all at once—rubbing my dick through the thin fabric of my shorts, tweaking my nipples, pulling my shirt over my head, seizing my short hair and using it to pull my mouth harder against his own. Not being able to see him clearly—or at all—makes the situation even hotter than the room.

My dick is rock hard when finally he flips me onto my back. I feel the heat of his mouth surround me, his hand clutching at my balls as he sucks me down all the way. I groan and try to sit back up, but he pushes me down. This boy knows exactly what he wants.

He’s got my knob sloppy with his spit when he tries to sit on it. I can feel resistance from his hairy hole as he struggles to spear himself with my inches. He’s a tiny thing, like the white boy the day before. But the ginger twink had a gape that could accommodate a Boeing; this boy’s pucker is tough to get into.

Once, twice, he tries. Neither time is he successful at opening himself. Finally I take pity on him and pull myself up and stand by the bedside. I flip him face down, on his knees. I spit on my hand, then sheerly by groping my way there, I spread the moisture on his hole. Finally I guide the head to the entry point and start pushing.

Third time’s the charm.

Now that I’m actually in him, he starts to open up. I’m down to the base when he collapses his knees and lies prone on the mattress; I let my weight push him into the springs as I begin pounding. He’s craning his neck to kiss me again; he has to strain so that our lips can meet. “You want my cum, don’t you,” I observe. He makes animal noises as his answer. “You want this big white dick breeding that black ass, don’t you, son.”

“Yes daddy,” is his eager reply. “Fuck me like you own it. Please!”

He’s open, now. Hungry for dick. The mattress is bouncing up and down as I pound the shit out of this boy, and he’s loving every bruise I might be leaving on his cheeks. I’m loud when I shoot; I’m hoping his neighbors in the adjacent rooms aren’t sleeping.

Oh wait. I’m one of those neighbors.

When my spent dick slithers out, he rolls over and grabs my hand, shoves my fingers up his hole. I manipulate the sloppy flesh as he jacks himself. He shoots within ten seconds, panting and heaving from the climax.

“You sticking around?” I ask, as I grope on the floor for my shirt and shorts. “Maybe we can do this again.”

“Supposed to check out this morning, but now I’m thinking it over,” he says softly, as he rolls over to check his phone.

“Let me know. I’d like more of that ass.”

“Fuck yeah.”

I let myself out.


Monday, 10 p.m.

You ever top?

Unlike every other profile I maintain, my Grindr information doesn’t specify any positional preference. I kind of like it that way. It broadens the offers I get. In theory, anyway. In practice, most guys look at me and come to the conclusion I top.

It’s a pretty good assumption.

I’m back in my hotel room after a long day with my dad. I send this blank profile in question a shot of my dick. The guy has turned off his geolocation, so I have no idea how far he is. He sends me back a pic of his own, of a lean, lightly-muscled body sporting a pert and round little ass. He’s what, in his forties, it looks like? The next photo he sends shows him manspreading in a coffee shop somewhere, handsome, smiling, looking like a lumberjack with a latte. His left hand, clutching a cardboard cup, sports a prominent ring.

Married? I ask.

Yeah. Hope that’s not a problem. Really get into guys who like guys cheating on their wives like me. Are you one?

I breed cheaters like you, I tell him. Might as well get to the point. I send him a shot of my bare dick plunged halfway into a jocked Latin hole.

I want that, he responds immediately. Come flood my guts. Now?

I ask him where he is. Lightning has struck not once, not twice, but three times in two days: the guy is in the very same hotel, one floor up. Fuuuuuck, I love this joint. I am staying here every time I visit my old home town, in the future. It might look mildly respectable on the outside, but on the inside, it’s one hundred percent pure sleaze . . . and I love it.

I’m upstairs knocking on the dude’s door within five minutes. He’s naked when he admits me inside. He must like what he sees, because the door’s barely latched behind us than he’s yanked my basketball shorts on the floor and gobbled my knob down his throat. He’s not the most masculine guy in the world; his eyelashes and lips are sultry, almost feminine, his voice soft and light as he begs me to lie down on the bed so he can service me. Plenty of down-low married dudes get away with that in their marriages, though, without the wife ever thinking twice about it. I’ve fucked enough of them to know.

The guy’s got a hot mouth. His hole is already juicy . . . prelubed, at least. When I rub it as he sucks me, my index finger just glides right in. There are a lot of men out there who take the moral high ground when it comes to married men who cheat on their wives for dick. I’m not one of them. Depriving them isn’t going to fix their marriage. It’s not going to stop them from cruising. These fuckers are going to get cock from someone or another. It might as well be me. Especially a hot, lean piece of ass like this one.

I admire the way his hole stretches, how the chute clutches at my dick as I force my way in. Force, shit. His hole is practically suctioning my meat into its vortex. “That what you wanted?” I ask. “This big bare dick?”

“Yes sir!” he yelps, as he starts grinding back on it.

“Married dad dick up your cheating hole?”

“Fuck, are you married too?” he asks. I shove my dick all the way up that cunt, then shove my left hand in front of his face as response. “Christ. That’s even hotter, sir. Does she know?”

That answer is none of his business. I keep fucking.

“Make babies in me like you made in her, sir,” he begs. “Knock me up.”

“You want this seed, huh?”

“I’ll do anything for it. Anything,” he stresses. I don’t know what else he needs to do for it at this point; he’s already got a stranger’s raw dick up his butt in a motel. Seems like a load in his hole is the given outcome of that scenario. “Just make those babies in me, please.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge, like denying him is a serious option.

This dude is seriously into the dirty talk. Filth pours from his mouth. He tells me he wants my babies, that he needs to be bred, that his pussy begs to be always wet from my bareback breedings. I flip the married slut over and rest my forearms on the soles of his feet while I pound and he continues talking about me knocking up his cunt. It’s my most arrogant fuck pose. Look at this, it says. I could do this all goddamned day . . . and you’re just a fucking armrest and cock cozy to me.

“Is this what you do? Rent a hotel room and let strange men sodomize you, faggot?” I ask him.

“Once a month, sir,” he says, between pants. “I don’t always get as lucky as I did with you.”

I’m close to shooting. I hold both his ankles with one hand, and use the other to give one of his nipples a savage twist. The sensation makes his hole contract . . . and that’s what pushes me over the edge. I’ve cum in two other boys in roughly twenty-four hours, but jets of my goo spurt into his hole. The married guy’s eyes roll up so that I only see the whites of his eyes.

I shove all the way to the base while the last drops dribble out. “Tell me what a lucky faggot you are now,” I order.

“I’m a lucky faggot, sir. I’m such a lucky faggot.”

“Why is that?” I just want to make him say the words.

“I’ve got a fuck god’s sperm inside my lucky faggot cunt, sir. I’m the luckiest faggot in the world right now. Thank you sir. Thank you.”

It’ll do. When I pull out, his hole vomits seed; it dribbles down his butt and onto the hotel bedspread. Immediately his fingers race to collect it and shove it back in. I’ve got my shorts back on by now; my shirt didn’t even come off.

“Hope I see you again, sir,” he said, an edge of pleading coloring the statement.

“Likewise, faggot,” I say. Then I’m out the door.


I am definitely, one hundred percent, positively going to have to stay in this hotel again.

13 Reasons Why/Tape 3: When An Experiment Fails

When I’m with a man . . . when I’m inside a man . . . I’ll often tell him he’s beautiful. I don’t have to praise anyone’s looks to flatter my way into his pants. With a single photograph, usually the size and proportions of my dick do all that work for me. I don’t tell a sex partner he’s handsome to fluff his ego. In fact, I won’t tell him he’s good looking if he’s not.

No, when I tell a man he’s beautiful, it’s solely because he deserves the praise. It’s because he’s opened up for me—legs, hole, and soul—and put himself into a vulnerable position. When men are at their most vulnerable, they’ll believe truths about themselves they might not otherwise.

But this story is not so much about fucking, as it is about a friendship. Hamilton, welcome to your tape.

A long time ago I had sex with a man in a Manhattan hotel room.

Okay. I know, given the number of men I’ve fucked in Manhattan hotel rooms, that my opening sentence doesn’t exactly narrow anything down. But this guy was different. We had—I thought, for a while—a connection.

His name was Hamilton, and his photos were deceptive. I don’t mean those words in their shadiest sense. That is, he didn’t post photos of an Adonis and show up looking like a slightly less comely Wallace Shawn. The pictures he unlocked for me on Manhunt were sexy as hell, admittedly, featuring a lightly muscled, narrow-waisted body decked in a leather harness, and an impressive and rigid cock jutting out with menace from a pair of slick black chaps. All the photos had been taken, it looked like, lit solely by the red glow from a police car light. The effect was devilish.

He listed himself as a top, but he wanted an experienced man like myself to show him the pleasures of his hole. I was only too glad to oblige.

When I met him for our afternoon together, I was greeted at the hotel door not by the sex demon I expected, but by a perfectly respectable man dressed in a natty tweed suit and tie, beaming from ear to ear finally to see me. He was a good-looking guy, absolutely, but for a short time that afternoon, the dissonance between the sexy little clean-cut man who looked like the host of an HGTV decorating show, and the raging Prince of Lust from the Manhunt profile, was difficult to reconcile.

Until I got his clothes off, that is, and buried my dick deep into his tight, hairy hole. That’s when the spark ignited in his eyes, and the flames between us flickered white hot. I banged him three times on the mattress of that four-star hotel, holding him down while I talked about how pretty he was, and how hot his hole felt, what a pleasure it was to fuck a hot boy like him, and how I was going to paint his guts with my seed.

A bucket of sweat and cum later, he surprised me by climbing on top of me, flipping me over, and spitting in his hand and spreading it over his dick. “You want my cock, faggot?” he growled in my ear.

Yes, sir. Yes, I did.

That fuck was primal. I melted, looking into that handsome face as he drove into me again and again. That’s when I realized those Manhunt photos weren’t deceptive at all. Hamilton might’ve dressed in a particularly dapper way when I met him, but behind closed doors, he unleashed a beast that got what it wanted. Anything it wanted.

Afterward, we lay on top of the bed, still and quiet, covered with rivulets and exhausted, seemingly worn out. “You are a hell of a good bottom,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

Maybe it had been true in that moment. Maybe, after torturing myself for years over my inability to enjoy taking dick in my ass, it was a truth I needed to hear after I’d opened my hole and exposed my vulnerable underbelly. Either way, it made my dick stir into hardness once again.

“No, no, I think I’m worn out,” he protested with a laugh when I positioned myself over him on the bed, one palm flat against the mattress to either side of his shoulders. He chuckled weakly when first one knee, then the other, pried apart his legs. Then, when my rigid dick probed his dripping pussy, he moaned a little, and allowed me to slide inside.

I looked in the face of Hamilton, that satyr, that man of many facets, and parted his hole with my dick until it hit the base. My own seed squished around my rod in its slippery home. “You are fucking beautiful,” I told him. He shook his head, nay-saying the compliment. “You don’t know how attractive and sexy you are, do you?”

At his shy non-response, I shook my own head and began picking up the pace with my thrusts. His body responded as it had before, with hunger. He might have thought he was done, but his hole now told him differently.

“You are incredibly good to look at, Hamilton,” I whispered to him. “You truly are beautiful.”

His lips parted with a small sigh of contentment. Happiness, even. “You make me feel beautiful.”

“Because you are.”

“But you make me feel it,” he said, smiling.

“You need to give yourself permission to feel it more often,” I suggested. Then, with my hands cupped around his sweet face, I pounded another load into him.

We met again a couple of months later when he was again in the city. For the first part of the excursion, we spent several hours in bookstores, talking and catching up. In the interim we’d established a friendship via email. We’d talk about the holes we’d fucked—you know, the way we do in the rarified enclosure of The Tops’ Lounge—and reminisce about the afternoon we’d shared. We exchanged dozens of emails about reading and art, and about writing and our own feelings of being oddballs in the sexual culture.

I’d even come out to him about my blog, and asked permission to write about our encounter together. He’d granted it—and when my post about him came out, he was furiously shy about his appreciation.

When it comes to afternoons out, I can’t think of one that was more delightful. Even now, when I think about it, it’s cast in a rosy glow—giving each other books to look at, laughing about topics dear to my heart in which none of my other friends have any interest, discussing the difficulties of writing. Several times during the afternoon, I noticed other men cruising Hamilton as we walked toward them. I’d nudge him. “That guy is totally into you,” I’d say.

“No,” he’d laugh. “Absolutely not. He’s out of my league.”

“Bullshit! He’s checking you out! Look!”

Hamilton would at last raise his eyes and briefly meet those of the man giving him the once-over. Then he’d blush like a schoolgirl. “Well, fuck,” he’d mumble.

“It’s because you’re totally hot,” I told him.

“I’m not. Seriously. I’m the scrawny little ninety-eight-pound weakling who the hot guys hate. They’re only looking because—well. . . .”

“You’ve got this notion of yourself in your head that’s totally at odds with the reality of you,” I said.
“You’re getting all this feedback from the real world that should be telling you I’m hot! I’m hot! But you keep repeating to yourself, I’m not, I’m not.”

“I’m not hot,” he mumbled. Then, as concession, “But you make me feel like I am.” It was an echo of the afternoon we’d shared.

I also echoed back to that afternoon. “Give yourself permission to feel it more often.”

We returned to his hotel shortly thereafter, stripped down, and repeated our first session—although I did all the topping. The entire time I kept telling him, you are beautiful, you are beautiful. I fucked like I was trying to pound the message home—or at least silence that inner critic who kept telling him otherwise.

It was afterward, when we were panting and sweaty once more, that he looked me in the eyes and said, “I never think of myself as attractive. But you make me feel like an entirely different person.”

“So why don’t you allow yourself to be?” I asked him quietly. “Let yourself be an entirely different person. Do it as an experiment. Just for a day. Try it on and see how you like it.”

He nodded, and I let the subject drop.

I’ve written about this incident before. I received a letter from him not long after in which he confessed that the question I’d asked—so why don’t you allow yourself to be?—resonated with him so much that the very next day he gave himself the assignment of getting through the day, assuming he was sexy, and hot, and handsome, and attractive.

So he looked at himself in the mirror, and liked what he saw there. He went out into the streets, and for the first time noticed men and women admiring him. He flirted with a barista and got a cookie. He kept repeating the experiment, day after day, and found his confidence growing.

It was one of the few times in my blogging career, honestly, that I felt I’d made a concrete difference. Oh, I have readers write to me and tell me I’ve changed their lives, and it makes me so happy to hear those words. It genuinely does. But I don’t personally, in the flesh, know any of the fine men who make these assurances.

I knew Hamilton. We were friends. He was one of my rare friends who didn’t make a big deal about my blog, or treat me any differently because of it. Knowing I’d helped him a little, as a friend . . . well, it was everything to me at the time.

The problem was, subsequently, that as Hamilton’s confidence grew, the less he seemed to need me as a confidante. We continued to exchange emails for a time, but while mine were full of chat about books and sex and theater and sex, his grew more and more terse. Just got your email!, he’d reply to me. I’ll send one back after I finish this lecture I’m preparing. When I didn’t get anything, I waited a week or two, then sent another. I owe you an email!, he responded. I’ll be doing it this weekend!

After the third reply in which he told me he would write back to me as soon as possible, I conceded defeat. I got the message. I stopped writing. I commented only rarely on his many Facebook posts, knowing that my contributions there were being drowned out in the flood of chatter from his thousands (yes, thousands) of social media followers.

Hamilton would come to town. I’d hope for another invitation to meet him—if not in his hotel room, at least at a bookstore, or for lunch or coffee. The invitations never came. Again, I got the message.

Friendships wax and wane, I sadly know. I try not to take friends for granted, because I know that they’re just as likely to vanish without warning as they are to arrive unheralded. Friendships are meant to be enjoyed while they persist, and to be remembered with fondness later if they’d been cultivated well. Maybe, I told myself, Hamilton’s friendship was only supposed to last for as long as it took for me to deliver that one message from the universe: You are beautiful. Why don’t you allow yourself to be?

It was small solace, that thought. But it helped me let go. I clung to it for a while, as I seemed to become more and more invisible to my former friend.

What consolation I derived, however, was short-lived. Hamilton’s self-dislike began to creep back onto his social media postings. One day he’d post a screed about being the ugly guy being pushed around by the muscle gods of the gym. He’d follow it up a couple of weeks later about feeling freakish and ugly around groups of gay men. Last year, he wrote a couple of Facebook posts that revealed such depths of fury toward his self-image that for weeks after I had to let my eyes skip over anything he subsequently had to say.

That experiment I’d proposed had obviously failed.

Again, as I’d had to do with the friendship that Hamilton and I had once shared, I forced myself to concede defeat. Letting go for the second time, though, hurt. I thought I’d made a difference. I hadn’t. Not a lasting one, at least. If I couldn’t contribute lastingly to someone I’d once considered a close, dear friend, how the hell could anything I said, anything I wrote, make a difference with a total stranger? A blog reader?

This Faggot, from my previous entry, had claimed I’d changed him. It’s how he approached me. My words, he told me, had made a concrete difference in the day-to-day quality of his life. But in the end, was I able to change him enough to get his dick out of his hand long enough actually to meet me? Nope. Was my writing, my ethic, enough to convince him to act toward me with the same good faith to which I’d extended him? Not in the least. If that’s the kind of change I’m making in readers—no thanks.

At a low point in my life, I was forced to confront the fact that perhaps, despite what men told me, my words, my advice, the very things I believed about sex and love and life, meant absolutely nothing. Nothing I had ever done had felt so futile. Why write at all? Why create?

Self-image issues often run deep. They can’t be erased by a simple encomium or a quick platitude. Years of hearing how ugly one is from other people leads to even more years of one telling oneself the same falsehoods, until the pattern is so deeply engrained it feels impossible to fight against. I know all these things. I’ve struggled with them, myself. I still do. Daily. But sometimes I can get through a day in which I allow myself to be foxy as hell, to all and sundry. Sometimes I can make it two days. A week. I give myself that permission.

There’s nothing that I can say that will repair anyone. I know this, too. Every man gets to haul out the self-help toolbox and treat himself as a fixer-upper. It’s the individual’s responsibility to look in the mirror, daily, and say, Today’s the day I’m allowing myself to be all the good thing things I wish for.

Every time I climb into bed with a good-looking man and I tell him how beautiful he is, I’m going to wonder if he really hears the message I’m trying to tell him. Judging by my spotty track record, I’m going to guess not.

But I’m going to keep on saying the words, anyway. And I’m going to hope that some day, someone will listen, and believe me.

Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.

I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.

After the Party #1: Total Trade

He’d arrived late to that party I’d attended, earlier in the summer. The room had been as pitch black as the host could make it, noontime in a cheap hotel room with shabby drapes. Like vampires caught mid-feast, we’d recoiled from the blast of sunlight and froze in a tableau on the bed. When the door opened I was balls-deep inside the state trooper, his legs over my shoulder, my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, while someone or another ate my ass.

Then I saw this guy come in. Pete, I later found out his name was. Thrown into silhouette by the sun, he seemed immediately the most attractive man in the room—and with a bald muscle pup and a built black guy and a state trooper arguing over my dick, that was some pretty stiff competition. He had the build of a construction worker. Broad shouldered. Worked-out arms. Narrow waist. Long surfer’s hair.

The door had closed. He stared at me. Then he’d removed his shorts and his T-shirt, taken his already-hard dick in his hand, and walked over to where I knelt on the bed with my dick shoved up the cop’s hole. Then he’d pulled my head to his, given me a surprisingly soft and gentle kiss, and then maneuvered me down to his dick.

I’d melted at that.

I want Pete, I’d written the host after the party. Give him my email or my profile or something.

You are barking up the wrong tree there, the host wrote back. He’s even more top than you. He’s total trade.

Don’t care, I wrote back. I just want more of his dick.

In his email back the host had given me a written shrug. Okay, but you’re just going to be disappointed if you want to fuck him.

I figured I could live with that disappointment, if it meant getting that man’s hog in my mouth again. I don’t mind servicing trade. Especially handsome trade like that.

He’s married, though. And I’m married. Neither of us can host that often, so hooking up for a second go-round, one-on-one, has been difficult. But here it is, an afternoon when the family’s not due back until midnight, and he’s actually free. I’m reminded of that afternoon in the hotel when he gets out of his car and strides up my walk. I’m sitting on the front porch in a T-shirt and a pair of thin sweat shorts, no underwear, hard at the prospect of seeing him again. And he’s still as burly and handsome as before. His hair is long and curly and hangs down to his shoulders; he’s got on a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of khakis. I push down my boner from inside my pockets, greet him warmly, and lead him into my home.

Once we’re inside, I put a hand on his chest. Through the flannel I can feel his heart beating. He looks at me with his big blue eyes and says his first words to me: “I’m kind of nervous.”

They take me aback. “Why?” I ask. “You know me already.”

“Barely,” he says. We stand still for a moment in my living room. It’s a warm afternoon. A breeze blows through the windows and open door. We stare at each other, and then he reaches up to pull my head down to his again. We kiss.

I go with the assumption he’s not as nervous any longer, after that.

I take him back to the bedroom. Sit down on the bed. Unbuckle his belt, undo the khakis. He’s not wearing any underwear either. His dick is soft, hooded with foreskin. He starts to unbutton his shirt when I bend down to suck him. His hands settle on the back of my head, holding it gently, cradling it. When I back off a half-minute later, he’s rock hard.

I stand up and maneuver him onto the bed. I make sure he has a pillow beneath his head. Then I spread his legs and sprawl between them, so I can go to work on his dick. “I just want to make you feel good,” I tell him before I go down on him again. “Anything you want.” It’s an honor to be taking this man’s cock; he’s just fucking handsome. I want to take him so he’ll be in my system. If he’s in my mouth, down my throat, he’s part of me. Simple as that.

And it’s a great dick. It’s not huge by any means, but I love the ample foreskin, the fatness of it, the generosity of his head and its obscene veininess. It throbs and jumps in my mouth as I fellate him. I know I’m doing well when it releases little tastes of precum on the back of my tongue. “Not yet,” he says suddenly, as he pries my head off of him. When I look up, he’s panting. He’s got a short trigger, this one. I hadn’t realized. I hadn’t been the one to get his load at the party.

Then he gets aggressive. He pushes me back, makes me get on my knees. He yanks off my t-shirt, pulls down my sweat shorts. My dick flops out lewdly and strikes the mattress. Then he wheels around and lands on his stomach. I feel his hot breath on my meat, and then his mouth surrounding me.

“No,” I say, shocked. This is the guy who hadn’t sucked any cock at the party. He’d been total trade, content to let man after man service him. “You don’t have to—“

But he’s not doing it out of obligation. He’s sucking me because he wants to. He’s cramming my whole cock down his throat, even though it’s pushing him to his limits and beyond. When he looks up at me, his eyes are brimming with tears from the effort. His face is red. His hair is spilling over his face and he’s still looking up at me, judging my reaction to his cocksucking.

It’s good. I’m so totally flabbergasted that this sexy brute is sucking my dick—and sucking it well—that I groan and gasp a little. This position isn’t the best, but so long as it keeps my dick in his mouth, I’m not moving. I let him slobber over me for a little bit until he comes up for air. Then he shocks me again.

“Would you ever consider fucking me?” he asks.

I’m not even sure I’ve heard the words right. In fact, I figure what he really said is that he wanted to fuck me. But no, I realize that’s not how it came out. “What?” I say.

“Would you . . . fuck me?” Then, in the softest coda I’ve ever heard, he adds, “Please.”

I’m stunned. “Really?” He nods, almost as if he’s embarrassed to be asking. My cock hardens even more than it was before. A surge of possessiveness and top aggression starts to surge through my veins.

“You want my big dick in you?”

“Yes. I want your big dick in me,” he repeats. He’s speaking so softly that I can barely hear him.
I know when to take advantage of an opportunity, though. I nod. I turn him over. I spread his legs, and pry open his butt. My tongue flicks out. Licks it. Tastes the mixture of sweat and soap smell and the metallic tang of his inner ass. He wraps his arms around the mattress corner and hangs on as I eat harder, deeper. Whether or not I get in there, I’m going to relish eating out this man’s hole.

And I do, for long minutes. Then I reach for my lube, and apply a quarter’s worth onto his hole. Another quarter’s worth goes inside, pushed in by my index finger. I can already tell he’s tight. So fucking tight. Maybe even first time tight.

That realization just makes my dick harder.

I rub the head on his hole. “You like that?” I ask. He grunts. I let my fleshy head bounce in and out of his hole. I’m using the gentlest of fucking motions. Not pushing at all. Very gradual. The fact I’m rock hard at the thought of topping this top, of getting the impossible, is turning me on like crazy. When I’m sliding back and forth now, he’s taking the head and an inch. The head and an inch and a half. The head and two inches.

Bit by bit, increment by increment, he’s opening for me. And he’s loving it. “You okay?” I ask periodically.

“Yeeeees,” he groans out.

“Have you had dick in there before?” I demand to know.

“Not . . . like this,” he pants out. “Not your size.”

Good. The news pleases me. I’m a competitive top. The news should surprise no one.

It’s about four inches in that we start to run into problems. I no longer have to hang onto my dick to make sure it doesn’t splay out at an angle as I fuck; I’m definitely in him. I could even fuck to completion at this depth. I’ve done it with less. But I want to be all the way inside him, and we have to get past that inner ring. I push.

“Whoa,” he says, startling as he realizes what I’m doing.

“Ssshh,” I say, reassuring him with kisses on his shoulders.

“It—“ I know he wants to tell me it hurts. But he doesn’t want to discourage me, either.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just enjoy it.”

He grimaces as I continue to push. There’s a massive amount of resistance. And then I’m through. My final four inches slide into him smoothly, as if they belong. Pete’s head lolls and I hear him take a sharp breath.

“Am I hurting you?” I ask him.

“No,” he says. Then again. “No. Not at all!” There’s a sense of wonder in his voice.

I take that as permission to fuck.

In and out I slide. With every thrust, his hole opens more. Maybe he hasn’t bottomed much. Maybe he hasn’t bottomed at all. But he’s responding like some of the hardened whores I fuck, grunting with pleasure and animal lust when I get all the way in, clamping down on me and refusing to let me out when I piston back. “You like it,” I tell him. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he whispers. His brow is furrowed; his eyes are clamped close. At my question he opens them and looks back at me. “I love it.”

“You love my big dick fucking you.”

“I love your big dick fucking me,” he agrees.

Yeah, he really does. He’s pushing back when I thrust now, trying to move his hips, give it up to me and make it good. The big old top who never gets fucked is my bitch. And he fucking loves it.
He shoots when I position him on his knees and milk the load out of him with my hand. It only takes a few strokes. His guts contract around me and threaten to suck in my junk, nuts and all. Then I pump my load inside him, squirt by squirt. “Thank you,” he murmurs as I breed him. “Thank you. Thank you.”

It’s the sweetest whisper I’ve ever heard.

We collapse to the bed together. “Don’t pull out,” he begs. I remain on top of him, my dick still swollen and wet from lube and sperm. For a few moments we pant and breathe. Then finally he lets out the longest sigh I’ve heard in ages. “So that’s what it’s all about,” he says, sounding half-asleep.

Yup. That’s what it’s all about.

And I’m fucking proud to have shown him.

Man Up and Shut Up

I’m in a hotel that’s only five minutes from my house. It’s the first place I stayed after I discovered I was moving here from the midwest; it’s the first place on that same trip I banged one of the locals. Whenever I get a chance to fuck here, I take it. The parking’s free, the trip’s quick, and by and large, any guy who spends the night in this budget establishment isn’t looking for an everlasting romance. Just for a dick in his slutty hole.

And this guy’s slutty. Hot looking. Muscular. Smooth flesh. He’s wearing nothing but a jock, and he’s assumed the position on the mattress: legs spread, butt high in the air, his nose buried in a bottle of poppers. Just the way I like ‘em. The jock is old and stretched out. When I grab it like a pair of reins and pull his ass to my glistening, lubed-up cock, I can tell the elastic has seen better days.

But fuck. That hole. It’s perfect. It was already greasy with Vaseline when I rubbed some of my own lube into it. The mixture makes my dick slimy as I push into that hole. It’s warm. It’s loose. I can tell this is going to be a hot fuck. I crunch the elastic into a ball in my hand and swat him across the ass a couple of times with the loop of it hanging out the top. He grunts, and groans, and pushes back against my hips to take all my inches.

“You like that?” I growl.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Yes sir. I love it.”

That’s what I want to hear. I started some swivel action with my hips. This one’s going to get the load quickly . . . and since some other top’s on the way, that’s probably a good thing. I put one foot on the bed and start pistoning in and out, sliding my slick meat in and out of his pussy, making it my own.

“You’re big,” he says, taking another hit of the poppers.

“Damn right I am.”

“Fuck!” he says. I take it as a compliment. Then he says it again, in a normal tone of voice. “Fuck. Sorry. I’ve got to pee.”

“What?” My sex trance is shattered when the guy hops off my dick, flips around off the side of the bed, and gets to his feet. He pads into the bathroom and runs the water. And I stand there. Naked. Dick hard, pulsing, and unsatisfied. I figure he’s running the water to get the bladder going. It works for me sometimes, too. But he’s taking fucking forever, while I stand there with a dick that’s leaping up and down. When I peek around the corner into the dark bathroom, I can see him standing over the toilet. So at least I guess he’s not doing anything shady.

But still.

Eventually he comes back. “Feels like I’ve gotta pee, but nothing’s coming out,” he tells me. Flops down on his back. Puts his legs in the air. “Fuck me,” he begs.

I’m back to square one. I slide in that hole, amazed again by its heat and velvet interior. My dick is back to its full stiffness; I start sliding in and out. In this position he’s tighter. He’s clamping down on my dick hard, and gripping onto the head and the last inch for dear life whenever I pull out.

“Fuck!” he says, stopping that scene even before it starts. “I’ve gotta pee!”

Then he’s up again, and I’m holding my dick, and thinking to myself, Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t really care how convenient is the locale. I don’t care how hungry the guy said he was for some dick in his hole. I’m beginning to think I don’t really give a damn that his hole is a hot one. All I know is that being interrupted twice in five minutes because this asshole has to pee is pretty fucking irritating. If he does it again, I’m thinking, I’m just going to leave. While he’s in there standing over the toilet, I’m going to slip on my shorts, put on my sneakers, and walk out that door. What’s he going to do, chase after me down the hall with that ratty jock falling off his ass? I think not.

He’s back again. “Get on your knees,” I say, my brusqueness coming solely from the fact that I’m pissed off at him. He groans slightly when I push into him for the third time. Ticked off as I am, I can’t deny the fact that I like the way his ass feels. I mean, fuck. It’s unfair that I know nice guys with holes that aren’t half as fuckable, while this asshole’s wandering around with the best hole I’ve dicked in ages. And I haven’t even been able to do anything with it yet.

I’m fuming as I fuck. I’m barely concentrating on the sensations at hand, even though from the moment I’ve shoved inside him, my dick’s inching to orgasm. I can hear he’s grunting to himself as if I’m causing him pain. And sure enough, he’s pushing himself up with his hand. “I’ve gotta. . . .”

I’ve got my hands on the reins of his jock. I let go with one to shove him down again. “You can pee all you fucking want after I’ve gone,” I tell him. “Until then, shut up, man up, and take the fuck.” And then I hold him down while I pound.

He must be able to tell how irritated I am with him. He lies there, face in the mattress, whimpering, mouth gaping like he’s developmentally challenged, eyes rolling in the back of his head. Meanwhile, I fuck and fuck and fuck. This is where I get mine. I go in deep, angle my dick to the side on the pull-out, and thrust in again to give my head the maximum sensation. I don’t care if he fucking pisses on the bed. All I know is that he’s not getting up again while I’m there.

“You got something for me?” he asks softly when he hears me breathing harder.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “I’ve got something for you all right.”

I shoot hard. The bed rattles against the wall; the mattress shudders. I dump the load inside his guts, right up that slimy cunt. Then I stand there while he milks my meat with his hole. Fucking slut. I knew his need for cum would override his fucking bladder.

I pull out. Watch my cock slither back and point, still long and half-hard, toward the floor. I grab my sweat shorts and step into them. Slip into my sneakers. It’s only a matter of seconds and I’m ready to go.

I open the hotel door. “Now you can pee,” I call back over my shoulder.

I don’t bother to wait and see if he does.

Cock of the Walk

The sun’s beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the motel parking lot, still damp from the morning’s brief rain shower. There’s a faint metallic air of ozone in the air from its rapid evaporation. I knock at the door—110—and am greeted by the rattle of the chain, and a thunk of metal as someone draws back the deadbolt.

It’s pitch black inside. To my sun-bleached eyes, anyway, it seems as if I’ve stepped into a state of blindness. The door closes behind me. I sense noises from every corner. There’s a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it,” whispers a voice in my ear. I feel the long bristles of the man’s mustache scrape my ear, shiver as the pads of his palms press into my shoulders, massage my neck. “Make yourself at home. You’ll be in demand.”

I let the host guide me to the back of the room, where there’s an open sink by the washroom door. I kick off my flip-flops, slowly remove my shirt. I’m trying to kill time until my eyes adjust to the dimness. By the time I’m down to nothing more than my rubber cock rings, I can see the noises are coming from shadows, and that the shadows are moving all around the small hotel room. There’s a cluster of them in a corner, where I can see the outline of a man bracing himself against the wall while another kneels behind him, licking and snuffling his hole. There are a few on the other side of the washroom door frame, where the sounds of grunting and sucking and the wet squelch of mouth meeting mouth echo on the tiles. And there are many on the bed, which is a mass of writhing naked flesh.

How many men are here? I can’t tell. I’d guess between a dozen and fifteen. I fold my clothes neatly, place the sandals atop them, and store them on the highest shelf in the closet, where I hope they’ll be safe.

Then I move to the bed.

I realize I’m a magnet, and the men are iron filings. At my approach they all move toward me. A hand reaches out to seize my hardening meat. Another hand reaches up, pulls me down by the neck. A tongue invades my mouth. Someone’s standing behind me, rubbing the downward-facing bulge of his cock into my butt crack. There’s a mouth on my nuts, and then another on my hole. I’m pulled down by the current of hungry men seeking to consume me. I sink into the mattress, and find myself drowning in flesh.

It’s the sweetest kind of drowning I can imagine.

I spent a lot of my life hating my appearance; I could go weeks without any but the most cursory glances in a mirror. It’s only been the last half-dozen years that I’ve actually been at peace with my exterior and what it’s become. My gifts are modest, but hey. They’re my gifts. It would be folly not to enjoy them. So I think of myself as foxy, rather than toxic. I dress to present myself to advantage. I use my smile to disarm men, and my eyes to let me know how much I want them. I put my modest gifts to their best possible use.

But here. Fuck. I’ve got too much confidence. Arrogance, even. I know I can have anyone I want in this room. These men are hot, too. The guy sucking my dick and staring up at me gratefully is a compact, bald, muscle stud, smooth all over and with a round bubble butt that twitches and gapes and closes again as he grinds against the bed. There’s a black man demanding my mouth. His body is as hard and muscular as my skin is pale and soft. A guy my age with long, curly hair to his shoulders stands staring at me from the other side of the bed. He’s stroking his cock, and pushing off a tall man trying to play him.

I don’t know where this insane confidence I’m feeling comes from. Maybe it’s the mood of the room. Maybe it’s long experience telling me what I know will happen. I just know that now I’m here, these men are mine to direct. Mine to choose. Mine to fuck and fill.

This is my party. The dark is my territory.

I start with the muscle dude. He’s not letting go of my meat, anyway; he’s determined to be the one who gets the first and best of my inches. I haul him up between my legs as I lay back against the headboard of the rickety bed. I shove my mouth against his and thrust my tongue deep into his mouth. I can taste my own precum inside. He gets angry when another man—short, solid, built, mustached (I find out later that he’s a state trooper)—dives for my cock when I’ve pulled the bald guy off it. He shoves back with his feet, tries to push the trooper away. He wants the monopoly on what I’m offering.

But the trooper is determined. He forces his head beneath the bald guy’s crotch, attaches his mouth to my cock, and sucks like he’s starving. The bald guy breaks away from our prolonged kiss and for a moment, looks like he wants to deck the trooper.

And I’m sitting there, smirking a little bit, and enjoying the near-fight as my just due. Yeah. I deserve this.

The trooper will get his turn before the afternoon’s end. I choose the bald guy first. I just use my hands to turn him around. I pull up my knees so they’re pointing at the ceiling, spread them wide, and let him grapple with finding a comfortable position to sit on it. He’s been popped before I got to him. His hole is slimy and wet and juiced, but it’s also warm and hungry as it slides down on my shaft.

This fucker knows what he’s doing. He’s not messing around with any half-hearted wiggles or coquettish jiggling. Fucker is slamming down to the base. Clutching at my rod with his expert hole. Angling it expertly to give me the maximum friction and sensation. He’s squeezing it, clamping down on it like a vise. Other men are trying to get to me. There’s a mouth on each nipple. Guys take my hands and rub them over their bodies, so I can feel the muscle and the meat. But the bald guy owns my mouth and cock, and he’s determined to get the first load.

He does. I let it out in a loud gush, crying out with mingled joy and need as it arrives. It’s an animal cry muffled by the bald guy’s tongue down my throat. For a moment we stare at each other in the darkness.

He nods. I nod back. Mission accomplished.

Next.

There’s a mouth on my dick, cleaning me off. It’s the black guy who’s been waiting his turn. His mouth completely consumes my dick; his tongue flicks out to lick my balls. Then he’s pushing me into one of the two thin pillows. His hands close around my wrists, locking them up and over my head. I’m hard again at being dominated that way. His dick is thick and nearly as long as mine, but he doesn’t give a shit about it. He just wants to kiss me, softly and tenderly. It’s a style completely different from the bald guy’s. This man is a lovemaker.

A lovemaker on his own terms, though. He refuses to let me up. His wrists still hold my arms. I offer a token resistance; his grasp tightens. He only lets go when he goes down between my legs to suck my dick again. Someone shoves a dick in my mouth. I open up and obediently take it. There are hands pinching my nipples and a mouth at my hole—probably the black guy’s. I don’t care who’s doing what to me. All I know is that on that bed, for the eight or nine men crowding around, I’m the center of attention.

And a cocky part of me, deep inside, sneers and thinks that’s just as it should be.

It takes a while for me to get to the point of orgasm again, but when I do, it’s deep inside the black man’s gut. He’s enticed me onto my knees, so that I can pound it into him while he’s gobbling down the dick of the state trooper. “You married?” the trooper asks, nodding down at my ring. I reply that I am. “Me too,” he says. “Kids?”

I nod.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. Past doubts be damned. At that moment, as I juice up the black guy’s hole, I know it. The tide of red recedes as my pulse slows. My vision returns to shades of black. The men close in around me. I’m a nocturnal beast, surrounded by shadows. This is my home. Like I said: my territory.

I’m in just about every mouth in the room at some point. I fuck eight different asses, shoot in four. Men jostle for their turn between my legs, and I sit there like some kind of god-damned king of the night, relishing every fucking second of it.

Men come and go. Three hours pass. At last it’s just two of us. Me, and the party’s host. He’s a handsome older man, a fine specimen with long wavy hair and a retro mustache like Sam Elliott in Lifeguard. He’s standing at the end of the bed, naked, his dick still hard and angled off to the side. “You think you’re cock of the walk, don’t you?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I say. I’m sitting at the top of the bed again, dead center, like it’s my fucking throne. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms resting on their crowns.

“You just assume everybody wants to worship that thing,” he says, nodding at what’s hanging down, four times spent, between my thighs.

I look him up and down. My dick stirs yet again, coming to life and rising obscenely into the air. It’s still wet from a dozen men’s mouths, still stinking of too many holes to count. “I think you do too,” I tell him, feeling arrogance swell my chest.

He stands stock still, like small prey caught in my sights. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I do.” Then he slides down onto the sheets, and up between my knees to claim his long-awaited prize.

And the nocturnal beast in me roars, satisfied.

Just Like That

“Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”

“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.

“You see me?”

“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.

The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”

“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”

The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.

“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.

“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.

“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.

The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.

Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”

Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.

He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.

“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”

Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.

“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”

He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.

“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”

“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.

“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”

“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”

“You better make him yell,” she says.

“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.

She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”

The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”

“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”

“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”

“If he worth it. If he earn it.”

I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.

“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”

I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”

I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”

So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.

I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.

“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.

Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.

And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.

Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.

After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.

I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”

“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”