The Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated

The third anniversary of my online blog has come and gone. It’s been more than a month since I last wrote about my life. I’ve been licking my wounds during those weeks. I won’t go into the details of why, exactly—but I will say that betrayal has left a very bad taste in my mouth. Even now, it’s difficult for me to muster up any enthusiasm to write.

When I started this blog, it was from a combination of lofty intentions and basic braggadocio. It seemed to me that remarkably few people were talking frankly and unabashedly about real sexual lives. There were a lot of blogs out there tallying loads collected at the bookstores, or that combined unlikely scenarios with cheap porn-movie dialogue. There were a lot of blogs that were simply collections of porn clips, or unerotic erotica based on some black-and-white photo of a shirtless stud. But thoughtful pieces of actual writing about real sex, with its joys and pitfalls and its awkwardnesses and its humorous moments were few and very far between.

I think that’s a pity. Cultures develop narratives about the acceptable lives that individuals can live within its confines, and it’s easy to play out our existences against prefabricated stage sets that have little to do with what our stories actually are at any given moment. Little straight boys and girls grow up with the notion that they’ll maybe lose their virginity at the age of eighteen when it’s perfectly legal and aboveboard, that they’ll have a couple of—but not too many—sexual encounters in their twenties within the context of steady dating, and that they’ll then meet the great love of their lives, with whom they’ll settle down forever in bliss and sexual exclusivity for the rest of their lives.

We all know it doesn’t happen like this. We come from families that are broken, that have divorces and affairs. We have parents who’ve cheated on each other, and brothers and sisters who are total whores before they settle down. We know of marriages with swingers, and couples who are open, or who’ve made their own arrangements that have little to do with antiquated notions of sexual fidelity. We know marriages that don’t last forever, or that dry up sexually, or that just should never have been attempted to begin with. We all know, on some level, that this standardized domestic narrative doesn’t always work. Maybe it doesn’t even often work.

And yet, when it doesn’t work for us, we torture ourselves because we’ve been carefully taught that they ought to. When they don’t, too many people don’t blame the unrealistic expectations of the narrative. We blame ourselves, and our own lacks.

For years gay men and women had to invent their own narratives; we weren’t discussed in the mainstream culture except as monsters, or as invisible creatures dwelling on the margins on society. But look at what’s happening to us now: there’s an expectation (formed just over the last ten years, but now accepted as cultural gospel) that all the gay boys want to settle down forever with a nice boy and adopt a pretty baby to dress up, and that all the gay girls want to find a nice lesbian to move in with after the second date. We’re expected to hold our breaths for every marriage equality debate. On television we used to be silly, sexless fairies. Now we’re silly, sexless married couples with infants. We’re being accommodated into the mainstream—even if it’s a mainstream narrative that doesn’t ring true for so many of us.

What happens to those of us with stories and experiences that in no way conform to the mainstream narrative we tell ourselves as a society is that we’re regarded at best as oddities. We’re exceptions. Freaks. At worst, we’re demons and monsters, trying to tear apart the fabric of polite society. Never mind, mind you, that if a heavenly apocalypse befell the earth and our souls and thoughts and deeds were laid bare by some godly archangel, the number of those who failed to deviate from the mainstream would be vanishingly small, and would consist only of the timid and the unimaginative.

Face it. We’re all freaks. We want to do things with our privates that our parents told us we shouldn’t. We fuck in the dark and pretend we didn’t by daylight. We keep our sex lives—our real sex lives, not the ones we pretend to have for the sake of our families and our reputations—mum. All because we’re too frightened to let anyone think we’re one of those people. A deviant. A freak.

Over the course of the years of my public blogging, I’ve had no problems talking about all kinds of things I’d never seen anywhere else. I’ve discussed my pubescent sexuality, my sexual assault, my love affairs—the ones genuinely involving love, that is. I’ve celebrated my strengths, like my ability to read men and their needs even better than they can sometimes read themselves. Like the sexual fearlessness that’s made my life a great adventure. Like my ability to put men at ease, and to give them not only what they think they want, but what they secretly crave and can’t bring themselves to express.

But among the sexy confidence I sometimes exude, I’ve also been remarkably forthright about my own faults and shortcomings. I’ve discussed incidents in which I flatly fell short of both my own expectations and those of my partners. I’ve talked about times I’ve let down friends, or failed to do the right thing. I’ve explored the times I was a disappointment. Rather than disguise these blemishes with paint or to leave them in the shadows, I’ve put my own imperfections squarely center stage and shone upon them harsh spotlights for my audience of millions—I regularly expose my own arrogance, my competitiveness, my short temper, my selfishness. I don’t pretend to be virtuous, by any means. I know, without need for readers to inform me via emails to my Manhunt or Adam4Adam accounts, that my ‘looks are not all that.’ I’ve never pretended I wasn’t susceptible to flattery, or that my vanity wasn’t the Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors, always demanding to be fed. I know these things. Because I present them to you, you know these things.

In return for rolling over and exposing my white, soft, lard-like underbelly, however, I’ve always assumed there was an implied contract with my readers. I’m offering this to you as a gift, I thought I was telling them. I’m revealing you so much of myself, good and bad, ugly and hot. And all I ask in return is that you treat these offerings, and the men involved, with a little respect, and not to trample upon them. I never expected reverence, or to be showered with compliments and gifts (though I’m craven enough to enjoy that when it happens). I don’t get fortune for it. I don’t get fame.

Over the three years I’ve kept this blog, I’ve found that I’ve gotten repaid sweetly and amply by the friendships I’ve made. There’ve been men I’ve met in person who are dear friends of mine. There are readers whose friendships were like summer wildflowers—blossoming for a time and then fading and blowing away at the end of a season. I’ve had beautiful boys and handsome men and wonderful women reach out to me with their stories and their photos, to let me know that they’re glad to have me in their lives.

That is wonderful. I love that every one of these remarkable people who recognize that everything I present to them is a gift not only from my loins, but from my heart. Thank you all, very deeply and sincerely.

There’s another brand of person, however, for whom everything is never enough. I serve them so much of myself, and they don’t respond with thanks. They don’t push their plate away when I’m done and declare they’re full. Instead, they sit there with knife and fork in hand, napkin tucked in their shirt collar, pounding their fists on the table and demanding more, more, more. It’s not enough to know my sexual secrets, my history, my disappointments and joys. The abundance I give doesn’t satisfy them. They demand more.

They pry. They snoop. They break open doors I’ve locked and root through closets I thought were sealed. And really, it’s not as if they use what they find in order to understand me better. They grub around so that they can find things that give them what they imagine is control over me. Dirty secrets of which they think I’m ashamed. (I’m probably not.) Inconsistencies that they imagine will bring my house of cards a-tumbling. (When basically, I’m just inconsistent.)

I am totally aware that I am displaying the typical grandiose paranoia associated with most of the songs on sophomore albums released by former boy band members, but damn, bitch, when you’re all famous ’n’ shit, everybody want a piece of you, yo.

But seriously. When I encounter situations in which these people to get out of control, I find them draining. They suck my attention, and my energy. For the last month, one situation in particular has just left a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to my blog.

I want to enjoy writing again. I’ve got no bombastic delusions that what I do here is akin to Proust, or alternately is the Lord’s work. But in a landscape in which the frigid gyrations of Fifty Shades of Grey is what passes for wildly erotic, or real bloggers are trying to pass off awkward fantasies as anyone’s actual sex life, I think there’s a need for real voices talking about real sex lives—about real feelings.

If I’ve had a mission statement all along, it’s been to get down to the core of my encounters, past and present, and isolate those elements that make them important. I’ve wanted to preserve those sweet moments, the memories of which make life worth living during dark, cold days. The absurdities, the funny quirks that make an encounter more than just another load. Everything that elevates animal copulation into human intimacy—those are the things that are important to me.

Not caring enough to write about them—which is the pit in which I’ve been nursing my bruises for the last month—has just about killed me.

To those of you who were concerned enough over the last few weeks to reach out and ask if I’m okay, I offer my thanks. I’ll try to respond to those emails personally in the coming days. (Okay, let’s be honest. It’ll be weeks.)

I’m tiptoeing back into the waters, here. I can’t guarantee I’ll have the stomach to resume at the same vigor or frequency as before, but I think that as touch-and-go as it was for a while there, I’ve managed to convince myself that writing here is something I find worthwhile.

Convincing myself, I’ve found, is usually the biggest hurdle.

Storm-Whupped

I wanted to thank my readers for the emails and tweets and Facebook messages of concern that I've been getting, both before and after Hurricane Sandy.

I am in one of those areas severely affected by the storm and managed to see it all—fires, trees crashing down, the Long Island Sound in my front yard (even though I live a mile away from it). I'm without power and without reliable cellular access, but the important thing is that my household is safe. (Cold, but safe. Thank goodness we still have hot water, though.)

I'm hoping to get out some updates when I'm back online at home. Until then, all of you keep safe too, wherever you are.

A Whole Lot of Crazy

I admit to having some ennui lately about my sex blog. Periodically the old Is It All Worth It? blues descend, particularly when the month is busy and even fucking seems like a chore, much less finding the time to write about it afterward.

A lot of it is the usual gripes and complaints. (I know many of you have heard them before. Feel free to chime in on the chorus.) I’ll write an entry of which I’m especially proud and, even though I have nearly 900 followers and between five and six times that in unique visitors to my blog on a daily basis, I’ll get three or four comments from the same three or four people. Which is what, less than one percent of people commenting? Or I’ll write an entry that I think is good and someone will remark, I guess this is okay, but I want to hear more about the Landscaper, like I’m some kind of lounge player who is supposed to be expected to switch to requests on demand.

And I don’t even have a tip jar on my piano!

When I sat down yesterday and did some meditation on the subject, I realized that I’ve been muddling a lot of issues, though. Comments and the like are the least of my issues. I really don’t write my blog for the sake of the comments I get—though don’t get me wrong. I do like them when I get them. But no, what’s been hindering me most is that I’ve been indulging in an old and familiar pattern of behavior into which I fall when I’m trying to avoid confrontation with people who’ve been rubbing me the wrong way. I prefer avoidance over a face-off, every time.

Believe it or not, I really dislike confrontation. I’ve had some notable instances in which I’ve given readers tongue-lashings (not the enjoyable kind) when I’ve felt they’ve crossed the line, but generally I’m not fond of the stress and the mental beating I’ll give myself afterwards, when it happens. And lately I’ve let a few bad apples really poison the brown betty.

I haven’t had anything quite as crazy as when a former prolific blogger decided I was his mortal enemy and bombed my mailbox with schizophrenic emails threatening to expose me to the world, or quite as sinister as the bipolar fellow who’d email me constantly when he slid to the manic end of his scale to tell me that I was Satan. Thank goodness for small mercies, right? But a handful of readers have been indulging in some unpleasant behavior. It’s made frequenting my Twitter account an unpleasant chore. It’s made me avoid logging into my Facebook account. And it’s really made me dread opening my email.

I’m not going to get deep into details, but over the last six weeks I’ve gotten a lot of private messages on these various services that have crossed the line from inquisitive to intrusive. There’ve been folk who don’t seem to understand that just because I appear on their computer screens a few times a week and they accordingly have what they feel to be an intimacy with my life and the way I think, I’m not really their best friend, their husband, their dad, or their therapist. (I definitely am not getting paid enough to be anyone’s therapist.) I’m likely to put up walls when I feel battered and badgered in a way I think is unwarranted, and somehow that incites certain personality types to try even harder to get my attention in ways that aren’t entirely positive.

It’s a bit of a vicious circle, I admit. There are some readers with whom I’ve had to establish rules. I’ll be very clear that I don’t intend to respond to them if they engage in certain negative behaviors—but frankly, if they’ve gotten me to that point, I’ve likely lost any incentive to interact with them at all.
Then I’ve had those who crossed the line from intrusive to abusive. One reader over the weekend decided to send me several messages that were not only derogatory in tone, but accused me of forcing my partners into sex against their will. It was the equivalent of about a gallon of crazy poured into a half-pint container, and the spectacle of the spillover was pretty horrifying.

I’m not trying to hold all my readers at arm’s length. I’ve made friends with many people through my blogging. I’d made real-time physical lovers out of readers. Getting to know people is one of the reasons I share my life—I find that sharing my experiences lets us all compare where we are on the spectrum of sexuality on various issues. It’s okay that we’re not all in the same place. Exploring those differences is what makes my journey amazing.

I guess I’m one of those idealistic people who believes that, despite our differences in opinion, we can all get along. I don’t believe that people who don’t behave as I behave should be shunned. And I really don’t believe I should have to warn readers and people who interact with me that I’m not complacent about receiving libelous emails, or threatening tweets, or insulting comments, or just plain fucking crazy communications that overstep the bounds of reaching out in a friendly manner into clinical sociopathology.

So let’s make a pact. You guys work on that end of things, and I’ll work on finding ways of eliminating the troublemakers from my life in a timely manner, so that they don’t sour me on social networking and most especially on my blogging. The latter is especially too important for me to quit.

How’s that sound?

A Fuck-You List

I’ve been feeling a little scattered this last week and a half. I haven’t been able to concentrate. My libido has been zero. All I’ve really wanted to do was turn on my music and curl up with some of the books I’ve been reading, away from people, isolated. This urge to insulate myself from the world happens late in every March, and I pretend that I don’t understand it.

Then April first rolls around, and I have to confront what’s been getting me down. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death, you see. It’s been eighteen years—Jesus. But it still creeps up on me. Every year I manage to fool myself into thinking I won’t be affected. Every year I find out that I am just kidding myself.

So if my entries haven’t been particularly sexy this last week, I’m explaining why.

My mother was a woman with a deep and perverse sense of humor, and April Fool’s day was one of her favorite holidays. Every year she used to plan her one good trick, weeks in advance; she’d conspire with me on one really good trick to play on my friends. I’m kind of convinced that during her last long illness, she held off on expiring until April first because in a very, very twisted way, she knew it’d be her last and best joke ever.

One of the things my mother used to do, particularly during my teen years, was to make what she called Fuck-You Lists. Now, I’ve known people, particularly those in recovery programs, to make lists of things for which they’re grateful, at the end of every day. These vaguely inspirational lists are always filled with things like I’m grateful for the touch of warm sunshines on my shoulders this afternoon, telling me that spring is on the way, and I’m so grateful for the love of my husband because he keeps me on my path, and other similar sentimental Hallmark sentiments.

I kid. It’s good to be grateful, and to be aware of what’s good in one’s own life. My mother’s Fuck-You Lists, though, were kind of the opposite of these; if she was having a particularly frustrating day, she’d grab a sheet paper, a pencil from one of her crossword puzzle books, and sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. She’d scrawl FUCK YOU at the top of the page, and then jot down the four or five frustrations uppermost at her mind. Then she’d tuck the paper in the napkin holder, or behind the telephone, or beneath a paperweight, and go about her business.

I think the reasoning behind the exercise was that her troubles and irritations didn’t seem so ponderous when they’d been reduced to writing on a coffee-stained slip of paper. She could get them out of her system, then leave them behind and head off to work or to one of her hundred political activities. I think it astonished relatives, neighbors, and my friends when they’d come over, wander into the kitchen, and see hundreds of slips of paper in my mom’s exquisite handwriting labeled FUCK YOU! at the top, but hey. It’s what made our home the popular place to be.

All this preamble is simply in order to say that in honor of my mom and her passing, I’ve decided to come up with a Fuck-You List of my own today, so I can get a few things off my chest and hopefully move on to better things in the coming week. So. Without further ado:


1. Dear Manhunt Guy who hit me up last night begging me to drop everything and drive thirty-nine miles to fuck him: I’ve got about ten public photos on Manhunt, all unlocked. Your only visible photo was a shot roughly the size of a postage stamp of your chest, in which you’ve used some kind of graphic program to scribble out your face with black pen. Given that imbalance, it’s perfectly reasonable for me to ask you if I may see your locked photo before I commit to a drive, and frankly, I was pissed off by your response of lol you haven’t earned that honor yet. I don’t have to ‘earn’ anything from you, kiddo, especially when it was you hitting on me. And thus I say, fuck you.


2. Dear BBRT Guy who unlocked his photos for me very late last night, and who then mocked my grammar when I commented on how good his photos were: Dude, really? On a sex site? I wrote in complete sentences. How often are you getting that on BBRT? And you know what? When it’s two-thirty a.m. and I’ve got insomnia, I really don’t care if I’ve used the subjunctive correctly or not. What’re you getting out of coming at me so aggressively, anyway? I think I’m heartily justified at giving you a hearty fuck you.


3. Dear woman who runs a local artist’s league where I was investigating a teaching opportunity: I should’ve known something weird was up when I mentioned my involvement with three of the biggest professional organizations for our particular craft, and you looked at me blankly and made me explain what the acronyms were. I’ve got more teaching experience than anyone else leading workshops in your podunk little guild. I’ve had more national exposure, and have a longer track record than you or your other instructors. Why you’ve ignored my several polite emails and phone calls suggesting you let me take you out to coffee so we can discuss me perhaps teaching a couple of courses for you is beyond me, but I’m not chasing you any longer. Fuck you, babe.


4. Dear reader who collected our handful of times together like some kind of prize he could brandish before his buddies: I was astonished at by how very hard you chased me, and I am astonished at how very hard you dropped me once you had what you wanted. You know, I’m not even angry about that, in particular. I’m upset because you never bothered to read the lovely entry I wrote about you—not because you were apprehensive about what I might’ve said, but because you were ‘too busy.’ I’d tell you fuck you, but I’ve already fucked you. So I’ll just say this, though I know you’re ‘too busy’ to read it: you let me down.


5. Dear other reader who devoured my blog from start to finish and initiated a real-life friendship with me on the basis of how well you thought you knew me, afterward: Your infatuation with my life was fueled mainly by the fact you read so much of my journal so quickly, in such a short period of time. I knew that when you were attempting to convince me that you could be my new best friend. I knew that your fascination would cool a little when you reached the point that you’d have to read my entries one at a time, when I wrote them. What I didn’t expect was that the start of that friendship would freeze altogether, and that you’d simply stop speaking to me altogether when you were forced to slow down to my everyday mundanity. You don’t read me any longer because of it, so you too won’t see this, but I was hurt by the way you broke stuff off by trying to make it seem like I was the one who was after something unreasonable, just because I’d say hello and ask how you were doing. It’s with regret that I never got to fuck you, but hey, that was never on the agenda anyway.

6. Dear everybody local who feels it necessary to comment about my haircut: I'd totally forgotten how much I absolutely dreaded going to school the day after I got a haircut when I was a kid, because everyone comments on it. Everyone. To the handful of people who say something like, Hey, you got your hair cut—I like it!, I am grateful. However, to everyone who phrases their surprise in a form similar to You cut your hair! It looks SO MUCH BETTER!—and that's a lot of people who simply shouldn't be opening their mouths—I offer a hearty fuck you. You don't see me walking up to you and saying "Ohmygod you look SO MUCH BETTER now that you've lost that extra five pounds you put on eating all those Girl Scout Tagalongs a few weeks back, lard-ass!", do you? No, you don't, because it's fucking rude to tell someone they used to be ugly. Back-handed compliments aren't compliments. Learn it! I liked my hair long. I like my hair short. One way is not better than the other. They're just different. No matter how long my hair is, I still look extra-super-foxy. No matter how long your hair is, you're still an asshole.

Whew! I think that’s all the things that have been bugging me lately. Now they’re off my chest, I hope I can walk away and leave them behind for a little while, to see if it works.

Anyone else have any other Fuck You messages to add to the list? As long as they’re not to me, add ‘em in the comments below, and then we’ll tuck them behind my mom’s avocado-green Princess phone and let someone else stumble on them, down the line.

The Million-Visitor Milestone

Early in the day yesterday, my blog passed the million-visitor mark, with eight hundred people publicly following me through Blogger. That's not page hits—that's unique visitors. It's taken a little less than two years to get there, but hey. That's a lot of people who've made their way through my little back alley on the internet.

Although if you think about it, I've only slept with about eight of my readers during that entire time period. Eight out of one million equals . . . me not getting laid from this blog all that much.

So to remedy that, I'm hosting a special smut celebration. My Latin buddy, The Mover, gave me a copy of the 51 Photos he took of me last month—and I'm sharing some of the highlights here. I hope you guys enjoy.

Happy million!

The Handsomeness Experiment

All last month I kept thinking, Hey, my second blogiversary is coming up. I need to remember to write something about it. Then the week before it happened, I several times thought, Next week’s the second anniversary of my blog! Don’t forget to say something to your readers!


Of course, the day actually rolled around and I was more or less oblivious. Typical.

I’ve thought about several different things I could say about keeping a public sex blog for two years running. I could write up a list of all the readers I’ve had the privilege to meet, and those I’ve had the privilege to get inside. After the mid-year debacle in which a certain other prolific former blogger hate-bombed my email box when I gently suggested in an entry that it’s probably not a good idea for bloggers to chew out their readers en masse on a regular basis, I could’ve written a rather length screed about the unpleasantness of being on the receiving end of the manifestation of someone’s mental illness. I could be writing a grateful and humbled thank-you note to my readers, blessing them for the abundance of fun, fellowship, and kindness they’ve shown me over the last twenty-four months.

This entry that follows is more in the vein of the latter. Because I truly am grateful for everything my readers give me, and because I’d like to have a sense that I’m giving back a little, I have an anecdote to relate.

I made love to someone recently—it was in these pages, but who it was doesn’t matter. While we were fucking, I kept telling him how beautiful he was, and how handsome. I didn’t say the words simply to get into his pants. Those pants had hit the bedroom floor a couple of hours before. I was telling him how deeply attractive I found him because I really felt what I was saying, right at that moment. I wanted him to know how much I wanted him and how good he made me feel. I could’ve gone all day without touching the guy, if he’d granted me the favor of letting me lie there and look at his sweet face, his handsome features, his deep and kind eyes.

There was a moment when we were slowly gyrating against each other, enjoying the slow and deliberate pleasure of it, when he looked up at me in wonder. “I never think of myself this way,” he said. “You make me feel like a completely different person.”

I stared at him for a moment. “So why don’t you allow yourself to be?” I finally asked, before kissing him.

It was one of those moments that could have easily been forgotten. We both could’ve returned to our homes that night sated and stinking of each other, content to let the evening remain a memory. He took it a little further than I expected, though, when I heard from him last week with this email.

You don’t know this, but I fell asleep that night replaying that short conversation in my head. I probably acted like a lovesick fifteen-year-old. You wouldn’t let me go. “Why don’t you allow yourself to be?”, I kept hearing in my head, again and again. 

Did I feel like a completely different person, through your eyes? I did. Did I feel beautiful, and handsome, and desirable, and all the things I always feared I’d never be? I most certainly did. 

The next morning I woke up and I thought, "What if I really am all those things?” 

And I thought, "Why not assume that you are? Why not get up and get through the day assuming you’re all things he said you are?" Handsome. Beautiful. Sexy. Remarkable. Sweet. Hot. 

It felt like I’d woken up in someone else’s bed. I was giddy as I thought to myself, "It won't hurt anyone. It won't break laws. Why not try it? What if you did it as an experiment? Say, a week? One week of thinking of yourself as handsome?” 

It was strange. I really wanted to try it, to listen to this unexpected voice—your voice—urging me on. But then my own voice intruded. “It’d be ridiculous because you’re not handsome at all,” it said. “You’re as far away from handsome as it’s possible to get. That’s why.” 

Your voice spoke up. "Do you think I was just kidding with you? Pitying you? Being kind, in a moment of passion?” 

I wanted to listen to your voice in my head that morning. Not my own. I stepped into the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. I had sex hair. My face looked slept-upon. But I was handsome. I didn’t have to believe it. I didn’t believe it, yet. I just had to say it to myself.
I am handsome. 

I was walking down the street during rush hour on the way to work. "Lift your head up," I told myself. Have you ever noticed you always look down as you walk, to hide your face? Stop looking down. You're handsome." 

I do it. I am handsome. 

In the coffee shop. The server is amazingly cute. He could have anyone he wants. “Don't tilt your head down when he speaks to you. Look him in the eye. You're handsome." 

I look him in the eye. I smile. I wink as I wish him a good day. 

He gives me a free cookie. 

Well, now. 

I decide to let myself be handsome all that day. Then all that week. And I swear to god, it’s working. I haven’t changed physically, but the world is changing around me. People react to me differently—men and women both, and not just in a sexual way. It's not my imagination. The more I say it, the more I believe it. The more my confidence grows, the more inclined the world is to get out of my way–or, better, to help me step aside and admire me as I pass. 

It’s novel, and it’s sweet, and I love myself in a way I haven’t for over thirty years. I am handsome. 

You were the start of this. You did in a few hours what a succession of expensive therapists had never been able to do. You changed the world for me. 

You and your words. 

Thank you.

Now. I have some disagreements with the basic moral my lover has drawn here. It wasn’t me or my words that changed his world. He did that all by himself, by being open to the truth, open to the universe, and showing a willingness to believe in the best parts of himself rather than to run away from them. And if I can get pseudo-mystical for a moment: you can do that, too.

I get so much email from readers who wish their lives were like mine. Or if not exactly like mine, richer and more free, in a direction they perceive mine as being. If there’s anything I wish to have accomplished after two years of blogging about my sex life, it’s to impart a very specific message: your life is not entirely on rails. You are in control of many of the aspects of your existence that make you unhappy. If you’re dismayed with the way things are going, seize the wheel and steer in a direction that’s better for you. Good things can happen to you. You deserve every single one of them.

You are handsome. You are beautiful. You are a wonderful person with an abundance of good qualities. (Well, a couple of you are real shits, but chances are that if you were one of them, you wouldn’t have read this far. You’d already have written your snarky little comment about how I should get a real job, and gone on your merry way.) Good people in your lives have told you these things before; I'm repeating them to you now.

I have encountered so many men in the last two years alone who long to subscribe to these truths about themselves, but are so frightened to believe anything good they hear—or are so used to ignoring the compliments—that they shy away. They cringe, and deflect, and discount.

Anything not to hear what they so desperately wish was reality.

Yet these things are truths. You are beautiful, inside and out. You are handsome. You have a good, sweet soul. Why not believe it for a day? It won’t hurt anyone if you do.

Why not believe it for a week? You won’t break any laws.

Why not act as if it’s true, for good, and watch how the world changes around you? Because it can, and will, if you so much as allow it.

That’s what I wish for each and every one of you. What gift could be sweeter?

Under the Wire: Last-Minute Gripes of 2011

I like to start each year on a positive, uplifting note. That’s why I thought I’d devote today, the final day of 2011 to a bunch of minor crabbiness that doesn’t deserve more than an oblique mention. And thus we have

The Breeder’s Last-Minute Online Gripes of 2011


1. Hey, 18-year-old kid. Believe it or not, I have a lot of teens hitting me up. A whole lot. More than any other demographic, in fact. So when I log onto a cruising site like Adam4Adam and a boy like you looks at my profile not once, not twice, but four or five times within a ten-minute period, every time I come online, I’m going to assume there’s some interest there.

So when I sent you a smile after the fourth or fifth night you’ve pinged on my track list, it was only because I wanted to say, Hey there, kiddo. I acknowledge that I have noticed you looking at my profile over and over, and if you’d like to talk to me, I’m breaking the ice here.


You could’ve said, Thanks for the smile dude! or, if you didn’t want to take it any further, you could’ve just said nothing.

It was not necessary, however, to write back with Sorry you are WAY TOO OLD! LOL!!!!


Because honestly? I might be old, but you ain’t that cute, you’re definitely a dumbass, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that had been the only smile you’d gotten in 2011.

2. Look here, top men. I’m the last guy on earth to sneer at a little bit of topman bravado. I admit I indulge in it. I also confess that, due to experience, I also have a tendency to assume I can flip just about any guy advertising himself as a top.

My approach, however, really never has included emailing a guy out of the blue and asking, So when do I get to pump my load in your butt? I’ll give you points for the direct approach, and I have to confess that the novelty of it makes me a little bit weak at the knees, but you’d be much more likely to drop the swagger and ask, Hey, guy, any chance that you ever give up your butt?


Unless you’ve really got something to back up that entitlement, I’m unlikely to be swayed.

3. Dear friend (I thought) of mine. Social media is supposed to be fun. Let me repeat. Social media is supposed to be fun. Not an obligation, not a chore, not something that makes you upset and angry.
So when I say to you, in the middle of a conversation about Facebook, Hey, why are we not friends on Facebook?, you are not obligated to add me as a Facebook friend.

I certainly didn’t ask the question to make you feel badly about not having friended me before, so you don’t need to email me and say, Man, I can’t believe I let you guilt me into adding you as a Facebook friend!


Nor, five minutes later, did you have to post on my Facebook wall, I guess you’ve noticed I added you as a Facebook friend—I can’t believe you managed to make me feel bad enough to do it!


And you certainly didn’t have to post on my blog, in less than an hour after that, I’m still shocked that I let you guilt me into adding you as a Facebook friend!


Because you know, frankly, after that triple-whammy, I’m kind of getting a certain impression of how you feel about adding me on Facebook, and it’s not all warm fuzzies. Am I right?

So god damn, if clicking Add Friend on my profile is too much of a fucking imposition on your time and good will and takes away from your several hundred other Facebook friends you’ve never met but whom you added as friends because they have round faces covered with fur, do me a fucking favor and unfriend me already, would you?

4. Ahoy there, guys on Skype! Nice to have your on my friends list. However, could you guys do me a favor and not badger me to do a cam show for you? It’s okay to message me and ask if I can get on cam. I don’t mind it—the first time. But when I say something polite (and I’m always polite . . . the first time) like, I’m sorry, I can’t cam right now, take me at face value, would you?

I don’t like the follow-ups you guys throw at me, which always run like:

Are you sure?
Not even for a quick minute?
Come on, just turn on the camera.
I just want to see you. Are you sure you can’t cam?
Why not?
I’ll turn on my cam if you turn on yours, okay?


Dude. If I can’t cam, I can’t cam. Wheedling doesn't change my circumstances at home. And if you keep nagging me, I’m not going to cam for you. Not ever, after I block your ass.

5. Gentle readers. I understand that a handful of you experience infatuations with me. I mean, can anyone blame you? I’m awesome.

No, seriously. I know that reading a person’s journal entries is an incredibly intimate thing. I know that some of you, upon discovering my blog, sit down and gulp down dozens of entries at a stretch. Being inside someone’s head for that length of time, and at the intensity level that usually accompanies sex, can sometimes create a connection that seems . . . I don’t know. Confidential. Romantic, even.
Crushes have been formed on a lot less.

You have to keep in mind, though, that while you know a lot about me, or at least about one aspect of my life, I don’t know as much about you. Chances are that you don’t have a sex journal you update on a regular basis, or any kind of journal at all. That’s fine.

Here’s the thing I’ve noticed in the past year, though. When a man catches up on my entries and is past all that information overload and only has a few entries a week to keep up with, that infatuation vanishes pretty quickly. I wish it weren’t true, but over and over again, experience proves that it is.

So yeah, I’ve had guys hot to meet me while they’re plowing through past entries, who, as soon as they’re done, vanish before I’ve had a chance to return the plowing. I’ve had guys write and announce their massive crushes on me at the conclusion of their extensive catch-up, who never reply when I write back and ask to know more about them. It’s a little disconcerting, receiving these little notes of passion and devotion and never getting to a point of actual conversation with a guy.

So be patient. Pace yourselves. The best way to get to know me is certainly through my blog entries. But let me enjoy the process of learning about you, too, before you abandon me for the next big thing. Otherwise, in the wake of your rush by, I’m just the fool standing by the roadside, murmuring “Huh? Whuh?” as you yell out your speeding car’s window at me.

501

Yesterday was my 500th post, here. I've decided what I'd like to do, in order to celebrate. It won't be a contest, or a video, or me flying to a reader's house for a special in-person appearance (though if you've got the dough and want to make that happen, I'm all ears!).

I've decided I want to record myself reading one of my entries and to post it here. You guys get to pick which one.

If you've got a favorite entry that you'd like to hear read aloud by the author, post its name or the general gist of it (Do that one where that guys shampooed you while you blew him! That was hot!) in the comments here—or, for the many of you who are comment-shy or comment-averse, send me a quick email and let me know which essay would be your choice.

I'm not going to base my selection on a random drawing, or on reader favoritism. I'll just pick the entry that seems to have the most potential. The reader who suggested the one I pick will get some special thanks.

Nothing fancy. Nothing elaborate. And then we'll all keep moving along.

I'll take suggestions until next Friday. Thanks, guys.

Apologies

One of my family pets passed away yesterday—the second in less than a year, unfortunately. I'll be taking a couple of days off and away in order to get my mind off the loss.

If you've got a pet you especially love, or a family member, or just a random friend whom it would pain you to lose . . . give them an extra big hug today and let them know how much you care. And think about me, would you?

An Administrative Note

Earlier this week, I composed an entry on blogging that was inspired by some of the anger and (I thought) misplaced blame that I was seeing from blog writers who were leaving the scene. My intent was not to single out any one blogger; indeed, I had four primary blogs in mind as I wrote the post, and made an effort to indicate when I was speaking about different sites.

I didn't name names, because pointing fingers wasn't the point. I didn't call names, because I wasn't trying to insult anyone. I even discouraged commenters from attempting to treat the entry as if it were some huge blind item. Again, that wasn't the point.

One blogger, however, read the entry—or parts of it—and decided it was a massive attack on him alone. Very late last night, within the space of a little over an hour, he bombarded several of my latest entries with close to two dozen vicious comments attacking my blog, my writing, my family, and my credibility.

I've deleted the comments because I don't tolerate that kind of behavior on my own site.

Because of this little tantrum, I'm moderating all comments until further notice. It's a pain for you, and a bigger pain for me, but I'd rather not let one person's hissy fit spoil the comments section, where there's  generally a civil and interesting sharing of experiences and thoughts.

My policy for the last year and a half has been to accept all comments—unmoderated—and to clean up what tiny bits of ugliness there've been, as needed. The fact that I stated in the post in question that I've only had to delete less than fifty of over seven thousand comments over the journal's life (though as of last night, it's closer to sixty-five) tells me that most of my readers are indeed reasonable, rational people.

So it's a shame when a couple of bad apples try to make spoilage. I'm more than a bit sorry to have to come down like this, but I appreciate you guys understanding the reasons why.

A Quick Apology

I fear I wasn't able to post as much as usual, or as much as I wanted, this last week. Between a trip to the dermatologist and a continuing misery from my affliction, I didn't have a particularly great start to September. It doesn't help that the cure is about as annoying as the symptoms themselves.

Never in my life did I think the highlight of my day would be the showers I took, morning and night, to scald my skin in submission.

The good news is that I'm on the road to recovery, though, and intend to be posting more regularly this upcoming week.

Which brings me to something. I was lying in bed this week at four in the morning, wishing someone would skin me alive like Willow did to Warren on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, feeling itchy and sorry for myself, when it occurred to me how very kind many of my readers are. I've had readers send me emails wishing me well, and readers who've checked up on me on Twitter and Facebook, and readers who've texted me or helped me get through the long nights by chatting to me online, and readers who merely by speaking up with a cheerful word really managed to lift me out of the doldrums.

You guys are great. Thank you for your many kindnesses, and your patience. I've met some amazing people through this blog, and that makes everything worthwhile.

Big thanks

I'd like to thank you guys for the many expressions of sympathy and support you've given over the past couple of days—both in the comments on this journal, and through email and other venues as well.

However, I'd like to say that those of you who sent me nude photos via email to cheer me up totally got an edge over everyone else. Nice work, to you guys!

I'm feeling mostly better today, thanks to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. What I have isn't a summer cold, but although he assured me he was fairly certain it wasn't leprosy, the doctor wasn't exactly certain what's ailing me. However, he also said it wasn't contagious. And it's not anything sexually transmitted, either.

We'll be returning to more regular postings shortly. Thanks for your patience.

Sunday Morning Questions: Relocation Edition

So here's the deal, guys.

At the end of the week, my little household is moving from the middle of the country several hundred miles to its eastern edge. It's a big and stressful undertaking. I know I've been frazzled the last several weeks, but I'm expecting this week, and my current home, to be the epicenter of a stressquake of a magnitude never before encountered. I mean, the last time I moved this far, I was a student and all my possessions could be fit into a car.

Of course, the last time I moved this far I didn't have professional movers handling everything, so who knows? Maybe it'll be a breeze. Fingers crossed.

I'm going to try to make a few entries this week while I can, but they may be erratic. I probably won't have any internet access after midweek save through my phone, and it won't be switched on at the new place until late next week. I'm planning to re-post some very old entries while I'm gone to tide you guys over, and I'll probably also include an old entry that never was published here. I'm not a huge fan of reruns, but I know a lot of my newer readers haven't been exploring the back archive, and some of my older readers might get a kick out of knowing what old entries are my favorites.

Basically, I'm apologizing in advance for how inconsistent it's going to be around here for the next two weeks, and hope you'll stick with me and throw out the odd encouraging comment from time to time. I'd appreciate it.

Let's get to some questions, courtesy of formspring.me.


Would you break up with someone because of his politics?

Absolutely, if I found them abhorrent to me. But more likely I wouldn't get to the point where we'd be involved, if that were the case.


I read your blog all the time, it's smoking hot, but what confuses me is you say you are married but you have guys over quite frequently. I'm wondering what exactly is the arrangement with your spouse? Are you separated? Estranged? Divorced? Or just open?

If you've read my blog for any length of time, you'd know I've answered this question several times before. I have a creative job that allows me to structure most of my days as I please. If it pleases me to invite men over when my house is free, I may do so. I've also spoken several times of the separation I currently have from my family as we attempt to most to the east coast. My family is already there and has been for six months, while I stay behind and attempt to sell my house.

I've also addressed the latter set of questions before . . . by refusing to address it. That matter is private.


Interest post, about fans. Makes me wonder what you'd do if your shit ever hit one. Any thoughts?

Interesting that you assume I have shit that would hit a fan. Doesn't mean that you're right, though.


What is a thing you would never do during sex?

Cross-dress. (I intend no offense to those who enjoy it. It's just not a turn-on for me, personally.)


If you could have sex professionally (in any way you like), would you?

If you mean if I could have sex and get paid for it, I've done that more times that I could really count. Hell, I put a down-payment on my first house using rent-boy money.


You're hungry now! what would you like to eat?

My go-to answer for that question is always Thai noodles or pizza.


What's you favorite porn site?

I don't have a porn site that I visit on a regular or even semi-regular basis. I think that I would have to say that Twitter is my favorite porn site, because my timeline is usually rich with guys posting self-pics and links to photos they think are hot. I'm more inclined to look at those than browse porn sites.


Would you give up everything and leave everything behind to be with the person you love?

Who says I love only one person?


About your view that bottoms far outnumber tops -- do see ED playing a role in guys retiring to bottoming?

I answered this exact question for you several weeks ago. Most bottoms I've played with during my long sexual career have been rock-hard when I fuck them. They're clearly not experiencing erectile dysfunction.


chinese or mexican?

I'd probably pick Mexican. When it comes to going to a strange Chinese or Mexican restaurant, I've had mediocre food at the worst Mexican restaurants, but extraordinarily bad and inedible food at the worst Chinese places.

Wait, we are talking about food, right?


What is your perception of how people see you?

I spent too much time in my teens and twenties worrying about how people saw me, so that I could figure out how to blend in and not attract attention.

What a waste of time. Now I don't really give a rip. The only people I really care about are my loved ones, and they like me just fine.


If you had any one piece of advice for a young guy discovering and exploring his sexuality...what would it be?

You've got a limited amount of time on this planet. Too little time to waste on fear and shame, or to feel ugly and unworthy.

Instead of wasting that time, get out and meet the people you want to meet. Introduce yourself to the men you'd like to get to know, regardless of what other people think of you or them. Have the sex that you want to have, without fretting about what your friends or parents might think. It's your life. Live it.

Only please, do so without trampling on the feelings of others. We've all got to get along, here.

Field Trip Saturday: New Blogs

I'm always excited to discover new blogs I like. Particularly when the blogs are by people I already know and admire.

Two of my younger readers have recently started blogging about their sex lives. I like to fancy it's all my influence, of course. Corrupting the nation's youths through blogging, one at a time, that's me. But won't you give these two fledgling efforts your support and encouragement?

The first is What Cums Next? Its host, Eduard, has appeared in these pages before—most notably (and memorably, in my opinion) in the Reader Asses feature.

The other is Ace's Wild, the sexual exploits of our frequent commenter Ace. He's got several entries up already that are uniformly wild. Though for me it's tough to get past the hot photo of his body he's posted at the top of the page.

The last blog I'd like to recommend is Gay Lens. While it's not explicitly sexual, Gay Lens examines images of homoeroticism in classic movies and television. It's been interesting to see exactly how influential these black-and-white clips have been on generations of gay and bisexual adult males. Every entry's been a fascinating read.

Go. Explore. Have fun. And have a great weekend!

Sunday Morning Questions: Big Blackout Edition

So a few of you may have noticed that my blog was offline for an entire day, this week. Actually, a whole hell of a lot of you noticed. I woke up Thursday morning and, as is my habit, grabbed my iPad and started reading my email through the one eye I could blearily open (while the other, and the rest of my face, remained crushed into my bed pillow). That's when I read an email from about two in the morning, my time, from a reader informing me that he couldn't access my blog—had I removed it for good?

My mailbox contained at least a dozen other emails from concerned readers that had trickled in over the night, I noticed when I looked at the subject headings. More than a little concerned, I hopped on over to this site to see what was happening.

If you looked here, Thursday or early Friday, you saw the same thing I did. Just a blank page with the site name across the top—no entries at all, no followers. Only an indication that the blog was maintained by someone other than me. And, if you looked at that guy's profile, it said that he also ran another blog called 'pussyboicumdump.'

What you couldn't see, however, was that on my end of things, everything appeared to be okay. I could log into Blogger, I could see all my entries in the dashboard listing, I could make a quick backup of my posts to supplement the one I'd made at the beginning of the week. Google's so-called 'help' forums (which I didn't find very helpful, by the way) had a mention that a whole bunch of people were reporting issues with missing blogs after the previous night's maintenance, and that everyone should just sit tight until normal service was resumed 'shortly.'

So basically I just sat tight for a little over twenty-four hours, and the blog was back the following day.

But oh my gosh, the hysteria I got from you guys. Some of it was just plain ugly—the I guess you got caught at last! Hah-hah, sucks to be you! kind of emails, or the several emails I got in which guys said that because now my cover was blown that I wrote something called 'pussyboicumdump' that it was OBVIOUS that I was some kind of SCAM ARTIST and that at last they knew the TRUTH that my blog had been FAKE all along.

Which I guess just goes to show that guys will project any negative fantasy they have, whenever they can.

I'm relieved to say, though, the vast majority of the over two hundred messages that came in—and I'm using that phrase to indicate the emails, the social media messages, and the notes guys left on my various hookup site profiles—that most of you were concerned, and worried about me, and worried about not having the blog around. The outpouring of love and support was very, very sweet.

I cannot make a statement that this blog will be around indefinitely. I'll keep writing in it as long as it's fun, and as long as you guys continue to keep making it worthwhile with your comments and emails. If I did close it down, however, I'd be more likely to post a statement and wish everyone well, than simply snatch it down. Furthermore, my blog doesn't violate Blogger's terms of service—I don't have advertising in my blog, nor do I include a lot of photos of which I don't own the copyright—so it's unlikely that they'd yank it.

If they did, I have backups.

But please know that if something happens again, there are ways to get information from me without panicking. You can follow my Twitter feed—or, if you think that Twitter is for egomaniacs who fart out their every little inane thought (and you'd be right, and I do include myself) at least know that I have a Twitter account and am likely to make statements there in the event of a blog outage.

Or you could add me as a friend on Facebook, where I also made a statement about the outage. I know some of you have been reluctant to add me there for some reason or another. But I'm not going to ask you to join my Mafia family. I'm not going to post something on your wall, like Damn boy I want to get up in your fine ass!, for your family to see. It's okay to add me.

And of course it's okay to email me, the way so many of you did. Just know that when I'm getting a couple of hundred emails, my reply is going to be not much more than a cut-and-pasted quote from Google about the outage. Which is what most of you got.

So that's that. One more housekeeping issue, and then we'll get to this week's roundup of questions from formspring.me. I've kept a link on my blog's sidebar to my wishlist at Amazon for pretty much the entire duration of this blog, and some of you have been indulgent enough on occasion to use it. I'm going to remove it at the end of this week for a short spell, until I'm completely moved and at my new address.

Now, don't trip over each other in your mad race to buy me gift cards. I don't want any broken ankles.



Do you let people underestimate you so that you can do the unexpected and tell everyone else.... now what?

Although I am conscious not to oversell myself or my abilities, I don't hide them under a bushel, either. Such calculation is too much wasted energy, in my opinion. I think it's best to be oneself and let one's light shine.


Who would you rather and why? David Tennant or Matt Smith

Oh, both so cute. Matt Smith, probably, because there's something about his rumpled hair and itty-bitty eyes that makes me think he's absolutely adorable.


This might be a redundant question: What do you do if any of your encounters falls for you...? As in, really falls for you...?

The people who've fallen for me in the past tend to come in two different categories. The first consists of those who fall because they've told themselves some romantic story about what they want out of life and love, and I happen either to be there at a propitious time, or fit the stock character they've always envisioned. I'm usually able to tell when that's happening. They get over it quickly enough, once they realize I'm not really that shadowy figment of their imagination.

The other category consists of men who fall for me because we've become close, and gotten to know each other, flaws and all. Usually I fall for them back. Falling in love with someone doesn't mean I rearrange my life, however. It's a lovely feeling, and it means that person is very special to me, but I live in a very real and practical world, not in a romantic world of television and movies.

I suppose there might be a third category of people who've fallen for me and I've never known. I am not sure what to do, if anything, about them. It seems sad to love and not tell of it. Patience on a monument, smiling at grief, and all that.


Is there a piece of music that you play when you're getting romantic?

No. I really dislike music when I'm getting busy. I find it distracting.


What would you do if your favorite celebrity crush walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, but does this smell like chloroform to you?"

I'd say, "Why, I don't know, let me sniff it!" and then position myself over his lap.


If you were a candy bar what would you be?

Mr. Goodbar. Or possibly Nutrageous.


How important is your partner’s penis size to you? Why?

On the list of things I look for in a sexual partner, dick size is pretty far down toward the bottom. Dick attractiveness, however, is a fairly big consideration. I'd rather pick a beautiful-looking smaller cock than one that is large, but oddly-proportioned, or just plain ugly. And there are a lot of ugly dicks out in the wild.

When I used to bottom, I preferred dicks with girth more than dicks with length. Ultimately, though, I've usually been more interested in the overall sexiness of the man to which the penis is attached, than the meat itself.

Usually. Not always.


I don't know if somebody else ask you that question but, what do you do to stay so fit and looking so young. I have a little bit of weight to loose, not a lotbut the little belly bugs me. Thank you.

I appreciate the compliment. All I really do is watch what I eat. For exercise, I do a lot of walking in warmer months and yoga when it's cold.

But other than bathing in the blood of virgins, that's it.


If you could have anything in the world right now what would it be? and please dont answer "cock in my _____"

I think my answer could be summed up rather simply with these words: less uncertainty. And reunion.


If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?

With my family.


Have you ever been to Felch, Michigan? Has Felch, MI ever been to you?

I've visited Felch a number of times. It just wasn't a city in Michigan.


Have you met with or heard from Topher since your Earl days?

I haven't really finished that story to my satisfaction, but the basic answer is no, I haven't.


Have you seen the pictures from the USC Kappa Sigma Scandal? Do you have any thoughts on them?

I did see those. I found them highly arousing. That guy had a slammin' body.

I'm not sure I get what the scandal is, though. Are we really supposed to be shocked that fraternity guys and sorority gals are having sex? I'm pretty sure the frat boy isn't ashamed of those photos.


What did you want to be when you grew up?

I was very determined to be an Egyptologist at one point. When I took anthropology in college, however, I disliked it and abandoned that dream in a hot second.


Have you ever done anything sexual in front of others? What did you do and where?

Goodness gracious, the very idea! I am a naturally modest soul who would never dare do anything sexual in front of others!

Well, on network TV, anyway. I've probably done it everywhere else at this point.

And the winner is. . . .

Thanks to everyone who entered last week's Follower 500 Jock Giveaway Contest. Between the comments and the guys who entered via email, we had close to seventy-five hot and sweaty guys wrestling for my dirty jock.

Ah. The mental image. I like it.

Now, I've been working on the thing for almost a week now. I didn't wear it over the weekend because the straps were cutting into me after four straight days—but it did see cum rag duty. I've already put the stinking thing back on this morning, and I'm going to wear it a few more days to fill out the week.

There can only be one winner, though. After entering all the names into a lottery application written expressly for purposes like this, I've simulated a random drawing. And the winner is. . .

Gingerbeard!

I swear, guys, his winning has nothing to do with his offer to pay for personal delivery. Nor the part where he said I'd have to pump a few loads into him while I was there. It's kind of a tempting offer, though.

Gingerbeard, hit me up via email with your mailing information and all your naked photos, and at the end of the week I'll send you your prize. (Okay, only one of those two items is necessary. I'll let you sort out which one.)

A Quick Note From Your Cruise Director

Readers,

I got back from my jaunt to the east coast late last night, and have to hit the ground running with some projects today. I might not get around to much of a post until tomorrow. On the plus side, I did return with a few new adventures to share.

And a quick administrative note: for those of you who've sent in butt shots for the Reader's Asses features, don't worry! I'm getting around to you! I'm posting the butt shots not in the order I find them hot or anything. I find them all hot! I'm posting them roughly in the order in which I received them. And since I received a lot of them, and am only posting four or five guys at a time, it might take a couple of weeks for me to get around to posting your ass.

But you know my motto. I will always make time to get around to your ass.

See you guys later!

I Want Your Asses!

It's the last day of January. Tomorrow's February—notable not only for being the shortest month of the year, but for containing my natal day (next weekend, if you're looking to shower me with presents and spankings). And also, toward the end, for being the month I started this blog, a year ago.

I know! Time flies. So to celebrate, I want your asses. All of 'em. Pony up, boys. And what's more, I want to share your asses.

Well, yes. I want them in that way too. But for now, I want photos.

One of the bloggers I admire very much is the inestimable Mr. Gloryholejunkie, whose frank and ribald take on the cultures of sex and public sex are always fascinating and arousing reads. On his blog he has started a feature in which he has invited readers to send in photos of their dicks. He then shares them with his readership.

I know a good thing when I see one. I am blatantly borrowing Mr. Gloryholejunkie's idea and turning it around: I propose, on a periodic basis, to use my blog as a showcase for your glorious asses. All that you need do is send 'em to me. Photos, that is. Of your asses. Your beautiful, big, round asses. I want my email box overflowing with asses. I want it to smell like your asses when you're done shoving your asses in there. I want to be overwhelmed with ass. I want Yahoo to send me administrative mail telling me that my email box has too much ass in it.

If you'd like to participate—and you should—send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASS' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too.

Because yes, I'll be posting the names or handles you give me along with your asses, and a few appreciative comments about each. And so will the readers looking at them. Right, guys?

Q: My ass is too pimply/fat/skinny to appear in such an enticing and drool-worthy project.

A: No, it's not. All asses are welcome. Unkind comments on anyone's ass will not be tolerated.

Q: Do you want just my ass? Or my ass and my dick? Or my ass and my face? Do you want a shot of my hole? Or just my butt cheeks? 

A: The details are totally up to you. Share with my readers whatever you're comfortable sharing.

Q: In what formats should I submit my ass photos?

A: JPGs are nice. But I can work with most formats.

Q: What if I know of a pretty ass I want to show you, but it's not mine?

A: Nooooooo. I want to see and share your ass. Not some porn stars. Unless you are a porn star, of course. (Don't laugh. I have several porn star followers.)

Q: What if I want you to take the photos of my ass?

A: I am totally down for it. (Was there any doubt? Really?)

Please note: When you send in a photo or photos for the project, you are affirming that you are at least 18 years of age and that the photo or photos you are submitting may be published in the very special episodes in which I share your asses with the world.

Of course, if you just want to send me butt pics privately, you can do that too. But where's the fun in that?

I'm hoping we can celebrate my birthday with a good ol' round of ass. So SEND ME YOUR ASS. Get crackin'.

So to speak.

Dogstar's Prize

I announced last week that my reader Dogstar was the lucky winner of the contest I held to celebrate the addition of my four hundredth follower. The lucky chap and I conferred, and we agreed I'd keep his prize over the weekend—a pair of my Jockey shorts covered with several of my loads, inside and out—so I could pump a few more coatings of seed onto them.

Anything for my readers, right?

Since many of you pervs asked, I thought I'd share the end results with you today.

Congratulations, Dogstar! You'll be getting your package in a very few days.

And the winner is. . . .

I had over 40 entries, both by comments on my contest post, and via email, for the spunked-up pair of shorts I was giving away in honor of passing four hundred blog followers. You guys have no shame.

And I love it.

And the winner of this spectacular pair of crusty briefs is . . . Dogstar!

Mr. Dogstar, contact me with your mailing information (my direct email's on the sidebar) so that I can get the winning prize to you as quickly as possible. And if we don't hear from Dogstar by Friday, we'll have another drawing until someone claims the darned things.

Be thinking of contests I might have to celebrate 500 followers. That should be something really special, right?