Face Down. Butt Up.

Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh.

We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.

I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.

His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”

I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.

He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.

I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.

“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.

I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.

“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.

My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.

I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.

I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.

“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”

My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.

“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.

Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.

Got to Be Taught

The small of his back rests on my thigh, just above my knee. His head compresses the pillows. When I twist my fingers inside him—index and middle, plunged into his hole as deep as they can go—his shoulders dig into the mattress. He lets out a wail that’s half animal, half supernatural.

But he’s not in pain. There’s a world of difference between agony and what this man is feeling. I stare him in the face as he writhes and moans and bucks his hips. He can’t see me. His face is screwed up too tight, his eyes clamped shut as he loses himself in the sensations my greased and twisted digits arouse. Once more I twist in the other direction. Like he’s pedaling some invisible bicycle, his hairy legs bend and paw toward the ceiling. “Am I hurting you?” I ask.

He takes a moment to answer. “What? No.” He sighs the words so that they arrive with the scent of his breath, still faintly smelling of the cinnamon gum he’d chewed after dinner. “Please don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” I tell him. Truer words have never been spoken. I made a promise to this man, and I intend to keep it.

I see tears in his eyes as he looks at me. He has to wipe them away with a free hand. Simultaneously, he starts to laugh at himself, as he pictures how he must look to me. “It doesn’t hurt,” he assures me. “I just didn’t know it could feel so good.”

I receive the compliment with a curt nod. No words. But I take my ring finger and, when I withdraw the other two, add it to his hole. The extra girth causes him to squeeze shut his eyes again. His head presses back against the headboard, and his whole body shudders.

“I know it feels good,” I tell him. “I know it’s all new and scary to you. But you wrote me for a reason. Remember?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“What reason is that?”

I can only see the bottom of his chin, his neck is extended so far back. “Because I want you.”

“And why do you want me?”

He’s struggling to make his higher functions work, when his body is wracked with thrill. “Because you’re hot.”

“No.” Not it at all. “Because you trust—“

Now he remembers. “Because I trust you—“

“—to do it right. That’s what you said.”

“Yes.” He nods his head. “Because I trust you to do it right. I want you because I know you’ll do it right.” He’s panting like he’s run a two hundred-meter race.

“That’s right,” I say with approval. Gently I remove my knee from beneath him, and let him settle into the mattress. I shift myself so that I’m between his legs. My cock is rigid. If he looked down, he’d see how red and angry it is as I continue to deny it what it so badly wants.

This isn’t about me, though. It’s about him. When a handsome man has read my blog for two years and gotten up the nerve not only to contact me, but to fly from the west coast to east specifically to visit me, I take my time with him. When he’s booked that long flight and a hotel room in the city for the night and has escorted me to dinner to prove himself a gentleman, he gets everything he wants.
When he’s offering me his anal virginity, I don’t poke at him and go. I set the pace. I maximize his pleasure and erase his doubts and fears. I do it right. I aim to make him remember me. Like I tell guys, I want to fuck him so well that afterward he regrets any cock that’s not mine.

What is he? I can’t remember from his profile. Thirty or thirty-one. Something like that. A professional man. Cool and confident on the exterior, but I know he’s been worried all night about this moment. “Now, I am going to hold your legs up,” I tell him, while still I manipulate the soft, wet flesh with my hand. I’ve spent the last hour and a half making love to this hole…touching it, kissing it, licking and eating and fucking it with my fingers. He’s ready for cock. He might not know it, and he might not believe it, but he’s ready. I know. “And you are going to look into my eyes . . . and you are going to relax . . . and you are going. . . .”

“I’m going to get fucked.” His square-cut jaw trembles slightly.

“You’re going to get fucked,” I agree, in a low and breathy voice. I’ve withdrawn my fingers. I’m pleased to see his hole retaining the gape. I position my cock head at the space I’ve left behind.

“Oh god,” he whispers. His legs start to jerk when I push in. I hold them immobile.

He’s whimpering the entire time my head stretches his hole. “You want this,” I remind him.

“I do,” he says, suddenly worried I might change my mind. “Oh, I do. I do want this.”

“You’ve got to be taught,” I say, “what your hole is for.”

He repeats the words like a hypnotist’s subject. “I’ve got to be taught,” he says. He winces and breathes in a hiss, as I slide a little further in.

“Tell me you want it,” I instruct him.

“I want it so much. Please.”

“You flew a long way for this,” I say. “You picked me out for this moment.”

“I want it,” he says, still in a trance. “I want it to be you.”

I keep him focused on the need. “Look at me,” I instruct. “Look at me.” He opens his eyes and stares into mine. Our faces aren’t too distant. I could lean forward and kiss him, if I wanted. “You feel good. Do you know how good you feel?” He shakes his head. “I am having to do everything in my power to keep from raping your tight little hole right now, because that’s how good it feels. I bet you didn’t know you were a hot little fuck.”

When I crack a smile, he can’t help but return one in kind. “Really?” he asks, struck shy.

“Really,” I tell him. “You are a hot . . . little . . . fuck.” I’ve been sliding in the entire time. My head nudges against something familiar. I’m in. “Now, did that hurt?” I ask him.

“No,” he whispers. He’s in awe, like prophet receiving a revelation. “How . . . how much more is there?”

I don’t answer him directly. Instead, I take his hand and pull it around his hips so that he can feel for himself.

“Oh my god.” His eyes widen as he realizes. “You’re all the way in.” I nod, very slowly. I’m breathing through my mouth, heavy and slow. My heart is pounding like a timpani. “You’re all the way in,” he says, as his hole clamps down on me.

“Sssssh,” I tell him, with a gentle kiss on his lips. “Relax.”

“Am I doing okay? Do I feel all right? I want to be okay for—“

I shake my head. Kiss away the question. “You are wonderful,” I tell him. I burst into a little bit of laughter. “You really don’t know how wonderful you are at this, do you?” My words make him unclench again, enough that I can rock back and forth. I’m not thrusting—not yet. But I’m letting him feel the ebb and flow of my hips, getting him used to the rhythm that will build and grow and sweep us away as I take him to the place he wants to go.

His eyes are very serious as first. Then, as he realizes he can trust me, he exhales a breathy little chuckle. His lips curl into a smile. I nod. Now that I’ve given him permission, he settles into the pillows. He relaxes—really relaxes. My cock can feel the difference. “I want this,” he tells me, meaning it.

I nod with approval once more. “You want this.”

“I’m being fucked,” he whispers. I can see the joy in his expression, when he realizes that the long-held fantasy has finally been made real. “I’m being fucked.”

“Oh, you are definitely being fucked,” I say, rocking my hips in a longer arc.

“It’s. . . .” As my rocking turns into small thrusts, and as the small thrusts broaden into my inches sliding in and out of his slick, hot chute, he struggles to find words. At last he sighs and regards me with the infatuation of the deeply happy. “Amazing.”

I accept the compliment with a slight smile. “You’re a very, very good learner,” I tell him, as I lean in for a deep kiss. I slide my wet rod so deeply in his hole that his hips lift off the bed. He grunts and rises to meet me, as our tongues entwine.

He doesn’t know it yet, but the man is in for a long night. I promised to teach him what his hole is for. And I’ve a lot of lessons to get through.

Supermarket Suck-Off

He comments here fairly frequently. I know he’ll read this entry.

But it’s all good. I’ve got absolutely nothing bad to say about the guy. Quite the contrary. He’s a stud.

There’s a reader of mine who lives fairly close to me. I know this because we’ve exchanged messages on Scruff late at night, when we’re both at home.The GPS locator puts us at a little over a half-mile apart. We’ve talked on a couple of other sites as well. His pics show a handsome, muscular top man. The two of us have traded tips on some of the area bottoms from time to time. Since we live in the same neighborhood, more or less, we’ve talked about some of the local cuties as well—I know about the sexy young guy working the local party store because of his tip, for example. (And he is cute!)

He’s read my blog before I moved here, I think. But we hadn’t gotten together ever, though we’ve known about each other for months and months.

That changed this week.

We were on a website, Monday. I wasn’t planning to stick around indefinitely—I had a few errands I had to run. He said hello, though, so we exchanged a few pleasantries via the site’s messaging system. I’m heading up to the Buy-More, I told him, naming one of the local supermarket chains. Then, semi-jokingly, I added, Come up and find me and I’ll blow you in the parking lot.

As I said, I typed it only semi-jokingly.

So there I was at the market, halfway through my weekly shopping, resting my forearms on my cart in the middle of the dried pasta aisle as I consulted my list to see what else I needed. I looked up, and there was an attractive guy making his way toward me. Wow, I thought to myself, grinning inside. This guy really called my bluff. I like that in a man. “Hey,” I said with a grin, when he came in speaking distance.

“Hey,” he replied. He smiled as well, but kept walking. It was almost as if he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him in public—as if I might say something online like Track me down at the Buy-More and I’ll blow you, but in the flesh I’d just be one of those assholes that only nods and lets him pass by.

I’m not that kind of guy, though.

“I’m glad you came out,” I told him. “It’s great finally to meet you.” We shook hands, and chatted for a minute in the aisle. He said that he’d been between running errands himself when he got my message online, and basically had a reaction of what the hell, let me see if I can find him. I was where I said I’d be, and I look like my online photos, so it wasn’t difficult to track me down.

He was parked at the far end of the lot, he told me. His car was between a line of hedges and a truck. Out of the way, out of sight. I looked at my list. “Give me five or ten minutes,” I told him. “Let me finish getting my groceries and checking out. I’ll meet you down there.”

Easy enough. Ten minutes later I dumped my groceries in my car, drove down to the other end of the lot, and walked around the parked, empty truck to find the guy in his car. We climbed into his back seat and looked at each other. Then my hand went out for his crotch. His dick was hardening beneath the denim. I looked him in the eye. “Take it out,” I told him.

His fingers raced to unbutton his jeans. He tugged them down beneath his nuts, and lifted up his shirt to show me his flat abs and his undeniably sexy body. “Damn,” I said in a whisper. “That is a beautiful dick.”

It was a beauty. I hadn’t seen it clearly erect in his profile photos. In person, though, it was the kind of dick that made me want to suck. His balls eased out and separated as I leaned down to wrap my mouth around the shaft. He sighed softly as my lips made contact. The guy tasted good. He smelled like soap, from the tip of his stiff and dripping prick down to his shaved nuts. He was a lot like me in that he started to pump out the precum almost as soon as his dick started to get attention. Every time he rewarded me with a taste, I’d grunt instinctively, rooting for more like a French pig after truffles.

He had moved the driver’s seat up to give himself leg room. It was broad daylight—just after lunchtime, in fact. While he kept an eye out on the parking lot, I knelt with one leg down on the floor and angled myself so that I was a little more squarely in front of him, and went to work on the dick. I circled it with a couple of fingers and my thumb and let the tight circle slide up and down, following the slickness my spit left behind as I slowly bobbed up and down on his meat. He grunted, and sighed; his fingers riffled through my hair. Then his hand cupped my head and gently pushed me down in a steady rhythm. He wanted it faster. I obliged.

My grip on his dick tightened as I picked up the past. Glob after glob of salty fluid oozed from his dick’s tip as I increased the sensation. Whether or not he realized it, his knees spread further apart to give me more access. “I’m going to come soon,” he told me.

I knew. The man was basically shooting already, with the sheer amount of precum his dick was producing. It only took a few determined strokes of my tight mouth and hand to bring him off, and then he was shooting, pressing down on my skull so that I took him to the base. He held me there as he pumped his load in my mouth. I let it accumulate on my tongue. Then I backed off and swallowed.

And damn. I’ve got to say—that was the best-tasting load I have had in months. The stuff tasted so good that I went down and sucked the remains still dripping out of his slit. Then I kissed his flat stomach, just because it was so pretty.

He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Wow,” he said.

“Was it okay?” I asked.

“More than okay!” he responded, still laughing and recuperating.

“That’s a beautiful dick,” I told him. I watched as he put it away, and wiped off my mouth with the back of my forearm. “I’m hoping you’ll give me more of it, now we’ve formally met.”

He agreed that there’d be more in the future. I adjusted my hard dick in my pants so that it wasn’t quite as visible, and waited as he finished snapping and buckling and getting back to normal. We sat there for a half-second of silence when he was done, then grinned at each other.

“You know I’m going to write about this,” I told him, as we both got out of the back seat.

He knew.

This is exactly how it should be—two guys connect, go at it, and enjoy each other. If nothing else, now my reader knows one thing about me: I don’t bluff. I show up where I say I’m going to show up, and I follow through.

This time with delicious results. And my gallon of ice cream didn’t even have time to melt.

Reader Assets: #25

It's your favorite feature and mine—that time of the week when some of my hottest readers (and considering how hot my readers are, that's a pretty select bunch!) strip down and show off their stuff. And I've got some really good ones this time around, too.

Note that these guys aren't professional models . . . though they should be. They're showing their bare stuff here because they're bold and they're sexy. They should be admired for that—and rewarded with your compliments.

If you'd like to join them, read the instructions in this post and send me your photos!

Vince

Now, I've known Vince for a while; he's one of my longest-term of my long-term readers. I've been fortunate to see several sides of him over the last couple of years, and now it's high time that you did too.

And man, does Vince show off every side here. A juicy front side, a beautiful round back side, and a very sexy side side.

But that's what I've always liked about Vince. This handsome man really loves it all!


Rick

Now Rick will attest to this: When I got his pics in my email, I immediately wrote back and said, "Damn, what a beautiful dick!"

My reaction is the same today, looking at the photos again. Look how shiny it is in the top shot, as if it's just been yanked out of someone's wet hole and is ready to get shoved back in again. It's got a beautiful shape to it, and the proportions are perfect.

Just one question for you, Rick—is that your handprint on the shower door in the last photo, or is it from some hungry cocksucker trying to get at you? After sharing your photos here, I'm willing to bet there are quite a few men who'd claw their way through a glass door to get at that cock.


Dean

Dean has shared just a single shot with us. He's entitled it, My cock being treated the way it should be.

Um, you're not going to get any disagreement with me on that one, Dean.

That's another truly amazing dick there . . . fat, beautifully-proportioned, and glistening with spit. My only complaint about the photo is that it's so hot, it's hard to know where to look—the sexy meat? Or the hungry boy's mouth servicing it?

Either way. I'm willing to bet Dean would share more if you guys gave him enough compliments down below. I know I'd like to see more.


J.

Sigh. So beautiful.

J. is a student who'll be visiting the New York City area next month. Can I ask my readers to start a write-in campaign insisting that he hook up with me while he's here? I'd take photos of us fucking.

This boy is just damned fine, don't you agree? Sexy body. Beautiful ass. Chewable nipples. Scruffy, sexy face. And as a bonus, he has great underwear and definitely knows how to wear it.

As for that locked cage—man. What wouldn't I give to be the man who kept the key.

J., you are one fine, fine piece of ass. I say that as the highest compliment possible.



Let's give this week's participants a hand, and show your appreciation for them down in the comments. I know the guys who've participated have all loved the admiration you've shown them in the past—so let's keep it coming!

Return of Reader Assets: #24

You asked for it! And here it is!

Well, okay. Technically, I asked for it. I begged and cajoled and pleaded for you guys to send in photos of your assets—your butts, your dicks, your chests, your fuck shots. Whatever it is you wanted to show off to other readers. And, ahem, to me.

Thanks to my smooth and somewhat shrill pleas, I got enough entries for a couple of columns. Go you guys! It only goes to show what great sharers you are. And what great-looking guys you are, as well.

A reminder: if you'd like to participate in the feature, just read my instructions in this post and send me your junk! I'd love to see it.

Let's take a peek at a few of you. And as a reminder: if you click on the photos, they'll get bigger. Like so many other things.

Leatherman

Now, I have to confess that Leatherman is a buddy of mine with whom I've swapped photos and stories for quite a long time. He hails from the city of Toronto, one of my favorite metropolises—and don't think I'm not disappointed that he and I never met during my visits there.

What I really love about Leatherman is how perfect that ass of his is. Round. Hairy. Beautifully framed by that black jock, which is one of the few pieces of gear that really turn me on. And in that second photo, he's obviously ready for mounting.

If it can't be me, it should be one of you guys. Any volunteers?

Breedmeup

When I see photos like this one, I just sigh, and sigh.

Now seriously. Isn't that beautiful? Look at how the hole peeks out from that sexy forest of hair. And look at how that hair covers those hot thighs and the small of his back. I mean, you can't get made-to-order guys with hair like that. I've tried.

This ass is one of the most fuckable I've featured in this column. Mr. Breedmeup goes by the same name on BBRT, for those of you who are inclined to get in touch with him to arrange a meeting. (And if you do, let me know the details!)

Shyandquiet

Let me give you guys a little general hint about guys who send me email who happen to have nicknames like Shyandquiet. They usually are anything but.

Or maybe he is the quietest and shyest exhibitionist I've ever had. I don't know. Maybe he blushed several times before he flopped back on the floor next to his computer and remote and lifted his legs to show off his hole to several thousand readers. Maybe he was really, really abashed to flip over and raise his butt in the air as if he were about to be drilled.

Or maybe, like so many of my readers, he's a normal guy—a sexy guy to be sure—who might be a little bashful when he's out in polite company . . . but who turns into a total wildcat slut when his pants drop.

Either way, he's turning me the hell on.

Seph



(If this video isn't showing up for you, follow this link.)

My occasional commenter Seph, with whom I share a delightful correspondence, is a handsome fucker. He suggested that his rear end is perhaps not his best asset. After this video, I'm inclined to agree that he has a hell of a cock.

There's something awesome about watching a guy masturbate, isn't there? It really shows how he likes to receive pleasure, and the types of touches and squeezes that will lead him to orgasm. Seph's hand action isn't at all the straight up-and-down beating motion. He twists his fist around the knob with a slight circular motion that I find really, really sexy. And the deep bass grunting noises he makes when he unloads? Fucking pricesless.

Thanks for sharing this, Seph.


Thanks to all of our exhibitionists, shy and otherwise, today. I hope you guys will let them know in the comments how much they're all appreciated.

Blueprints

While I was taking my blog vacation (which went well, thank you—I survived family, heat, black flies, and a number of other surprise hurdles), I met up with a reader in Manhattan for an afternoon of fun. Nice guy. Sexy ass. Great mouth. And most importantly, on a blistering hot New York City afternoon, working air conditioning.

We’d fucked for a couple of hours and enjoyed ourselves immensely and then, in the casual and comfortable way that two men will, when they’ve enjoyed each other’s bodies and are basking in an afterglow of intimacy and confidence, started swapping stories. We talked a little about some of our old lovers, and griped about the vagaries of guys online. Somehow we started talking about escorts. After listening to one of his stories on that subject, I laughed a little and mentioned that I met up with a guy every few weeks who would drop a whole lot of cash just to watch me jack off in the back of his van.

His eyebrows went up. Not for the reason I thought. “Yeah,” he said. “I read about that.”

“Oh,” I said, laughing again. I’d forgotten that he was one of my readers. I felt kind of dopey, to be honest. It’s very easy for me to forget that when I meet readers, they usually know a hell of a lot more about me than I ever learn about them. Most of the time I forget that we’ve already met, so to speak, on opposite sites of the computer screen. “Sorry.”

“But . . . but that was for real?” he asked. His eyebrows were still sky-high. “I mean, that wasn’t just a story?”

I had to explain that no, it wasn’t just a story. This blog is not fiction. I make that statement right there in the sidebar. But as I gear up again to start sharing some of my more recent experiences, I think it bears repeating. So here goes.

What I write in my journal, and what I post publicly in this blog, is what happens to me in my real-life fiction. It’s not made up; it’s not fabricated. I change some details in order to protect my partners. They don’t ask (usually) to be represented here. They don’t always know that I keep an online record of my sexual encounters, when we meet. So I change their back stories a little, if I put them here. I alter the descriptions of their houses a little, so that other readers don’t say, “Hey! I know that house in the Bronx with the two concrete lions out front!” and immediately know their neighbor’s a big ol’ fist pig. I change the descriptions of their tattoos, or sometimes alter their hair colors or speech patterns, if it would help mark them as one of my sex partners. Those little amendments that have no effect whatsoever on the thrust (so to speak) of the material, I feel free to alter.

That’s all the liberty I take, though. When I write here about my sex life, I share just about everything. The amazing, the rotten, the confusing, the romantic, and the downright nasty. It’s all fair game to me.

We don’t talk about our sex lives honestly enough, I feel. A lot of us have amazing encounters—either with one chosen partner, or with multiple fuck buddies—but we feel compelled not to talk about them openly or honestly, especially not in front of polite audiences. We stick to the polite narrative that we’re all too busy to enjoy carnal relations of the sort we all fantasize constantly; we think ourselves as good boys and good girls who would never have sex with strangers, much less talk about it.

For a lot of us, that’s bullshit.

It’s important for me to discuss one of the most vital and important aspects of my life in an open fashion. I wish more of us did so without fear of being shamed or slighted. Keeping silent about sex is assenting to its oppressors; stepping out into the daylight and saying I am a sexual being, and these are the things I do is, these days, a bold—and yes, liberating—act of assertion that, in the eyes of the more conservative and of politicians, is something akin to civil disobedience.

We live in a culture of must nots and can’ts. We’re a population, increasingly, of want tos and don’t dares. My sex life, and my blog, aims to be a record of yes I cans and why don’t wes and why haven’t yous. My not so secret aim is to change the world, one fuck at a time.

Won’t you join me?

Smooth Balls Wednesday

One of my readers very kindly bought me a gift from my Amazon wishlist last week.

It's a Phillips Norelco Bodygroom Shaver. Or basically, an electric razor for your balls.

I had one of these for years, and it worked really well until it went kaput on me a couple of months ago. A standard beard trimmer just doesn't cut it when it comes to keeping delicate areas smooth—and I don't recommend depilatories, either. For the sweaty summer months, it's nice to feel smooth and clean down below.

Thank you, kind reader! It'll be put to good use!

Reader Assets: #23

You know what? It's been a damned long time since we had a Reader Assets column up in here.

How long, you ask me? Four months! That's way too long!

Let's rectify the situation with some of the photos my butt has been sitting on—pun intended—since then. These photos are of actual readers who've decided to share their naked goods with the rest of you. So let's hear it for them in the comments . . . and see below how you can share you own goods in a future edition.

Marky

Marky's been posted on the Reader Assets page before. He tells me that after all the nice compliments you guys gave him, he found the whole experience so liberating that he's totally reassessed his feelings about his own nudity and his own body. I think that's pretty damned impressive, especially for a guy of the age of fifty-six, don't you?

Of course, if I had a dick and load and ass like his, and the fur to go with it, I'd be reconsidering being nude as much as possible too.


Kellogg

If this were RuPaul's Drag Race, I'd be trying to think up comments for these photos like Ru does during the final runway. In Kellogg's case, they'd be remarks like, "Mmm, dish me up a bowl of that!" or "I'm in the mood for some . . . Special K!"

Or maybe I should've just gone with a simple, "They're grrrrrreat!"

All I know about this gentleman is that he's also in his fifties, that he works out every day, and that he's got some boyfriend at home who's no doubt made very, very happy by having that bowl of Sugar Pops in his bed.

(RuPaul, are you reading this? I'm available for freelance work.)


Jordan

I don't know much about Jordan; he didn't tell me a lot in his letter, other than that he's read my blog for quite a while.

What I do know is that he's a bottom. And he's got quite a bottom! I love the roundness of that ass. And what's that hanging out from between his cheeks? Oh yeah. A big old dildo.

Hard to argue with that.


Pakistani Pussyboi

Our friend Pakistani Pussyboi is a fairly frequent commenter within these pages. I think he's one of my finest, hottest readers; I envy the man who got to empty his load into him between the first two and the last photo here.

He's got the prettiest, firmest, hairiest ass, doesn't he? Damn. His photos get me right where it counts, every damned time.


Let's give all our assets for the day a big round of thanks and applause! If it weren't for them, people would be using the internet for dreary crap like Wikipedia and homework.

Send me your assets! 
If you're interested in participating in this feature, all you need to do is send an email to the address in the blog sidebar with a subject of 'MY ASSETS.' All I ask is that your photos are of you, and not some random porn actor—unless you're a random porn actor, of course. I ask that you be of an age to release such photos, and that you realize that by letting me publish your photos here, there's the vaguest chance that they might be seen by your pastor, your significant other, your boss, and that cute barista you've been flirting with every Tuesday and Friday.

I've basically got no more assets to run through, guys—so unless you start sending me yours, it'll be another long, dry stretch until the next round of porn here. Share with me! It's fun!

Reader Assets: #22

Oh, my trusty readers. How I love you guys. I put out a call for more dirty photos for the Reader Assets feature and what do I get? A whole bunch more photos for the Reader Assets feature.

It's like Christmas in my email box, every day. So long as we all realize that the only the wrapped and under the tree is . . . well, it's all pretty much unwrapped in these photos.

I know you guys like this feature a lot and I'd love to keep it going. If you're interested in participating, all you need to do is send an email to the address in the blog sidebar with a subject of 'MY ASSETS.' All I ask is that your photos are of you, and not some random porn actor—unless you're a random porn actor, of course. I ask that you be of an age to release such photos, and that you realize that by letting me publish your photos here, there's the vaguest chance that they might be seen by your pastor, your significant other, your boss, and that cute barista you've been flirting with every Tuesday and Friday.

I ask you to take a moment to think about the last point (the visibility issue . . . not the barista) because lately I've had a spate of guys sending me photographs and asking to be a part of the feature—then turning around a couple of days later and asking me not to include them, after all. A couple of times it's happened after I've already posted the photos, and that's a little bit annoying. Not just for me, but for the readers who notice they've been pulled.

I think it's highly, highly unlikely that your sister is going to notice your nude ass on my blog. I doubt your boss is going to associate the birthmark on the inside of your pelvis with your weekly progress report. Your wife is probably not cruising the gay sex blogs (though to my married female readers, and I know there's a significant population of you: hi!). So far I haven't broken up any relationships or gotten anyone fired. But if you could think about that little issue before you hit the send button, I'd appreciate it.

Let's go! I have some hot ones this week.

Nick

Nick is one of my oldest readers. We've corresponded pretty basically since I started the blog. And he's a fine, fine man too, isn't he?

His ass is one of those perfect specimens: round, muscular, and of a shape that fills out a pair of jeans really well. What's sweet about Nick is that I don't even think he realized how hot an ass he has; you might not be able to tell from these photos, but he's pretty shy about showing off his goods. Why he's shy, I don't know. That last photo alone is enough to make my laptop start smoking from overheating.

Nick sent me a buttload (excuse the expression) of photos. It was hard to whittle them down to my favorites. I'll have to include more of him in a future round of photos.

Darwin

Our friend Darwin is a top man—so no ass shots in this set. You guys are getting a good look at his fucktool, though.

Darwin wanted me to point out that his legs are one of his best assets. The man jogs 30 or more miles a week. So you know he's got stamina.

It's nice to see one of my hot top readers showing off. We need more of you guys!

Ed

This is Ed. Ed is from the U.K.

It's my opinion that Ed should be in porn. Dirty porn. Nasty porn. The most rough-and-tumble kind of porn there is. And I should be in it with him, as his top.

Ed makes me want to do depraved things to him. Things involving my hard dick, those boots, that jock, and that beefy, furry ass.

Ed is pretty much my wet dream come true.

Readers, thank Ed for the photos and ask him for more. Ask him to star in that porn flick, while you're at it.


That's it for this installment. Remember to thank the contributors and let them know they're appreciated and lusted after!

Thank-You Thursday

A couple of people have been really nice to me by purchasing gifts for me from my Amazon gift list, this last week, and I wanted to thank them.

First off is a gift from someone who very thoughtfully purchased a book by the comics artist Patrick McDonnell, whose Mutts daily strip is the only one I follow.

I love Mutts, and reading through the strips the week after I lost my oldest pet really resonated for me. So thank you, reader. You know who you are. I very much appreciate the kind thought after a big loss.

The second gift was more for my genitals.

Someone anonymous—I truly don't know who, because Amazon doesn't tell me and I didn't get a gift note—purchased for me a pair of Calvin Klein underwear. On their first outing, I met up with fuckboy Franco and stuffed them in his mouth after I'd been wearing them all day, in preparation for mounting him.

He models them well, no?

Thanks to both you guys. I'm a grateful man.

Franco: Part 1

It was close to the end of our first fuck that my hips began moving on their own. In that moment I had no more control over my thrusts than I have control of the planchette of a Ouija board—they took off on their own, speeding up, slowing down, and all I could do was sit back, marvel and wait for the inevitable. When that started happening, I knew Franco was different from typical bottoms. The realization only made me fuck him harder.

In my early teens, sex was everything. It was what I thought about when I went to bed, what'd I'd dreamt about throughout the night, what I yearned for when I woke up mornings, my juvenile hard-on pressed so hard into the mattress that the sheets had left a woven imprint on my dick. It was my food, my drink, my air. My dick grew hard at the sight of a masculine voice, a jaw line, the slightest innuendo. I could look up dirty words in the dictionary and become aroused. Slight mentions of homosexuality in the Bible, even when everyone involved got stoned or shunned or transformed into pillars of salt, were enough to do it for me. Everything about it was novel and endlessly fascinating in the days when it took so very little to make my pulse quicken and my blood race liquid-hot through my veins.

Novelty eventually wears off, though. I spent much of my twenties attempting to recapture those feelings that made my teen years speed by, trailing testosterone-fueled fumes in their wake. What used to burn so hot it was nearly unbearable felt like a late autumn sun, so weak on my it barely reminds me to squint. It wasn't until a decade later, after I'd done it all, seen it all, and been back a few times for more, that I realized it wasn't the acts themselves that provided sensation for me—not the sex itself—but the people I met.

The sheer variety of them. The sweetness of some, unstinting and freely given. The tart and bracing sourness of others. Some months it seems as if the universe thrusts a Whitman's Sampler beneath my nose, daring me to choose. The very breadth of the choices makes me want to keep selecting and tasting, hoping that the next is as good as the one I've just had.

Sometimes, though, I still wish for a faint whiff of that giddy, heady, freshly-unwrapped smell that sex had when I was younger and less jaded.

And sometimes I get it.

Franco opened the door of his walk-up flat so that the first thing I'd see when I walked in was a sign taped to the wall opposite: I want Rob to breed me, it read. It was the sign he'd made for me months before, when he started sending me photos of himself wearing nothing but leather gear, bent over, ass presented to the camera, ready to be mounted. It was the sign with which he'd taunted me all summer.

The door closed; his furry face grinned at me. We might have said some words in greeting; I don't remember. Attractive as he'd been in his photos, in person Franco was really, really cute. His eyes were sparking and fixed on my face; his chin was covered in scruff. All I wanted to do was kiss him. My hands were blocks of ice from the cold, rigid and difficult to move, but they began to thaw as I moved them over his hips, up the sides of his ribs, to the thick hair at the back of his head. His mouth tasted sweet, like peppermints. And he kissed so well, with his eyes closed, sighing softly to himself whenever our lips parted.

It was long minutes before I could really form a coherent sentence. "You are really handsome," I said, as my lips nuzzled my ear.

"So are you!" he replied. "So much more than your photos!"

It was a statement distracting enough to draw me out of the moment, but I made a conscious decision to let it float away. There was too much to enjoy at the moment. The shape of his ass, round and firm beneath my defrosting palms. The way he pressed his body against mine, the way he collapsed into my arms surrounding him, as if being there was something he'd craved. I could overanalyze later.

We moved to the sofa, where I sat down. He straddled me, barely tearing his mouth away from mine for long enough to adjust our positions. I was wearing tight jeans made even more oppressive by the straining of my cock against the denim. It stretched up and to the left, pointing at my rib cage. His thigh rubbed against it, back and forth as we ground together our hips. For long moments we kissed. "Take off my shoes," I at last said, pushing him down.

He fumbled with the laces, then discovered the zippers down the sides. I pulled him back up to me once he'd done. "Now take off your pants," I ordered. He obeyed, shucking them smoothly and kicking them aside. I was three-quarters of the way on my back. Only my shoulders and head were propped up on the pillow behind. Without a word, I twirled my finger in the air. He obeyed the gesture and turned around. The boy had worn a jockstrap beneath his jeans. His cock, thick and erect, shyly poked from the side. His ass was beautiful. Framed by the straps of his jock, the cheeks were round and meaty and perfect.

I sat up and pushed at the small of his spine. He bent over obediently, then used his hands to pull apart his cheeks and expose his hole. One of the the things I liked knowing about Franco is that he wasn't a dedicated bottom; he's pretty versatile, which means that he gets asked to top more often than not. I also knew he hadn't been fucked in a couple of months. It explained his reaction when I leaned forward and let my tongue flick out onto his hole. He gasped. His head jerked back. His legs quivered like plucked harp strings.

Then I lay back again. "Take off your shirt," I commanded.

He obeyed. Beneath the shirt he'd worn a leather halter, hooked around his arms and cutting across his pecs. His chest was hairy. He grinned at me shyly, trying to discern if I liked what I saw.

I nodded. "You are beautiful."

"So are you," he said.

I grabbed the center ring of his halter and pulled him down to me. We kissed again, long and lustily. Finally I whispered in his ear, "This is the last time you're going to see me for a while. I want you to get your hood."

Franco keeps a rack of toys and leather gear by his front door, hanging from pegs, the way someone else would keep a woolen hat and keys. In his bare feet and jock he shuffled over, retrieved what I'd told him to, and brought it back. He handed it to me and knelt between my legs. He bowed his head.

I fastened the blindfold portion over his eyes and nose. A strap held it down over the crown of his head. Another strap, thicker, fastened with velcro around the back of his neck. Blind and blindfolded, he had only his remaining senses to guide him. And my hand, which pushed his mouth against the tented portion of my jeans. Between my lips and my dick, which strained against its denim prison, his mouth traveled at my desire. I pushed him back, then guided his hands to my feet. Without saying a word, I let him know I expected him to remove my socks. His hands moved over my feet, then under the cuffs of my jeans.

I couldn't stand my pants any longer. I moved his hands to the waist. His fingers scrabbled for the button, then the zipper that let them down. I lifted the lower half of my body so that he could pull them off, then felt both the warmth of his lips and chin and the cool, slick surface of the leather blindfold pressed on the inside of my thighs. He made me groan when he licked and chewed at the place where my legs joined my hips. Greedily he pressed his nose against my balls, snuffling through my underwear like a hungry dog. His mouth closed around my cotton-sheathed dick, licking up and down the shaft, pausing to consume the head. My hand directed his head where I wanted it to go, making it pay more attention here, glossing over other parts to get to a pleasure spot more quickly.

My pre-cum was flowing freely through my trunks. My body heat quickly dried it when it reached the surface. It looked like the sticky tracks of a snail. While he licked and rubbed with his mouth, I tweaked his nipples. Soft they were, and pierced. The harder I pinched, the more desperate to please he became.

I couldn't take it any longer. I grabbed the ring of his halter and pulled him to a standing position. Again, I didn't say a word. I led him down the hallway I assumed would take us to his bedroom. I tried leading him by the ring, and then by his hand, but I was afraid he'd bang into the wall or the doorway to his kitchen. So after a few steps I drew him close, and put his arms around my waist, and let him cling to me as I moved us forward.

We stepped into his bedroom. The frame and mattress were at an angle. I vaguely took in the sight of three windows, shaded to the strong afternoon sun, and of a wardrobe, and a dresser, and chest. I sort of noticed candles flickering romantically in strategic spots around the room. But mostly I noticed the signs. There was one on a mirror standing in the corner, and one on the chest, and another taped to the headboard. They were all written in bold, clean, black marker. And they all read, I want Rob to breed me.

I inhaled with surprise. And it was in that moment, surrounded by the boy's arms and by the signs that proclaimed his desire for me, that I caught a whiff of something familiar. It was intoxicating. Staggering. Dizzying, even. It was a glimpse of that old rush of sensation and novelty I used to have as a teen when faced with the prospect of sex, wild and giddy and unhampered by the everyday. It was that rush of blood in my ears, down my spine, and to my throbbing, expanding cock.

And it took me aback, so that for a moment, all I could do was stand, like a pillar of salt, and listen to the sudden, deafening thudding of my heart.

Return of the Attention Seeker

As a lot of you already know, I spent yesterday afternoon nuts-deep in one of my readers. Since I spent all afternoon and a good chunk of the evening with him, I didn't get much of a chance to write an entry for today. I'm hoping you'll all forgive me, though, when I share a few photos of the encounter with you.

For the record, the lucky recipient of my 10-day load was Franco, whom we'd all seen before in the entry entitled Attention Seeker. He definitely will be getting more of my attention in the future. I was pushing these photos out onto Twitter as I was taking them. I never knew that uploading a photo while rimming could be so complicated. That's multitasking for you. And a sign of true devotion to my (piggy) readers, of course.