Sunday Morning Questions: The Big Apology Edition

That's right, readers. I feel as if I owe you guys an apology.

It's been a hell of a week for me—heck, it's been a hell of a month for me. Since I found out three and a half weeks ago that I'm relocating across the country, I've done enormous amounts of home repair, packed up half my belongings to store in the garage, and have managed to get my home on the market. I feel that all the hard work has come at a cost, however, and that's been at the expense of my readers.

I've been really bad about getting around to comments and email—this week especially. I've skipped over comments and hurt feelings. I haven't been as responsive to your instant messages as I could have. It's not because I don't love you guys—I do. But I've been a little harried.

So those of you waiting patiently for emails and personal replies, bear with me a few more days until I'm over the home renovation hump. I promise to get to you!

I'll be catching up on some more questions from formspring.me today. Of course, if you have quick questions, feel free to ask them there—the friskier the better. You can always ask anonymously, if you wish.

Thanks for hanging in there with me, guys.



As an adult what is the longest period of days or weeks that you've ever gone without ejaculating?
About five days. By which time I was ready to bang the stuffing out of someone or anything.


I don't really like to get fucked, but I'd bury my lips and chin between your buttocks to smell and taste you and try to eat you until you go numb. Then you could stroke your erection into my throat until you release into me as I look up into your eyes. 
I would posit that you don't like to be fucked because no one's ever fucked you right. That's where I should come in.


If you treated a guy to dinner & a movie, would you assume that you had earned the right to slam his asshole?
The right? No, I wouldn't think that. But it wouldn't stop me from trying.


When one meets a couple, what are the best clues for who's a top and who's a bottom?
With the couples that seek me out, I find that although one of them is nominally the top and the other the bottom, they both want to bottom for me. In a lot of relationships, the partners tend to fall into roles that they never push, or explore. They don't swap roles, quite often. Bringing in a third gives them an opportunity to shake things up a little, and quite often the top will exercise his opportunity to put his ass in the air.

If you're hoping to find a couple with a top and a bottom, the best way to find out is simply to ask. Even if it's a 'So, what're you guys into?', chances are you'll find out everything you know.

Otherwise, the bottom is the one that hops into the sling first.


just starting to follow you, so sorry if this is a repeat question, but have you ever bred more than one guy in a day? if so, how many guys?
Oh, absolutely. I think my record of the number of guys I left loads in is 7 in a day, at a very big and very long group party. I fucked a lot more asses than seven that day, though.


have you drank/tasted piss before? or is it not your thing
Yes, I have. If I'm on the receiving end, I prefer to be showered, but I've swallowed it before.


have you ever met an All England Wimbledon -qualifying tennis player?
No, nor a football player wearing a Superbowl ring, nor anyone who participated in the World Series. Hell, I haven't even had a competitive curling champion.


Could you cum just from rimming?
I don't know if I could have a traditional orgasm. Two guys have gotten me near a point, with rimming, that I felt as if I were about to encounter what a few bottoms have described to me as an 'anal orgasm.' It was pretty intense.


Which is a bigger turn-on for you...a daddy bear? or an otter bear?
It would entirely depend on the man, not his label.


Are you Happy?
Yes.

I have dissatisfactions in my life and career frustrations. But i have a very good life, and it seems wiser to me to relish the good things rather than to dwell on the bad. Often happiness is a choice we make, and I will consistently choose its path rather than the negative.


Are your orgasms quiet polite ones or are you one for dirty expletives as your toes curl?
It totally varies, depending on the setting, the guy, and the orgasm. When I fuck in public, or when I used to fuck in my office, I trained myself to have very quiet orgasms. If I'm in a bedroom with the windows shut and the guy and I are really going at it, I'll be loud and noisy.

You'll know when it's happening, though.


When you suck a guy off, do you ever kiss his cum from your mouth to his, so that he can swallow & enjoy his own cum?
Sure, I've done that many times.


You're like a vampire. I'm attracted 2 u, yet I'm afraid of u. Tell me something about u that I can relate 2. A flaw that makes u not so perfect.
I have never, ever claimed to be perfect. On the contrary.

I'm really vague about dates. I will forget to pay bills unless my calendar is loaded up with preset reminders. My profession allows me a lot of creative expression and satisfaction, but I'd make more money slinging fries. I never fail to say "I told you so" when I'm proven right, and when I play games I'm competitive to the point of frightening people (though I don't really care who wins). Furthermore, I have no ass. That's just the tip of the iceberg, my friend.

On the plus side, I've never had a parking ticket.


What do you think is your sexiest trait in abstract terms?
My ability to create the kind of quiet, dominant intimacy that a lot of people crave.


That's exactly how I'd like to cum- making out with you while locked in the bend of your embrace. What can I do to please you?
The making out with me would do it.

I am also a tactile person. I love to be touched. If you could work that into your routine, you'd find me very responsive and attentive in return.

In general, I'm fairly easily pleased.



wanna phone bone hot man? Grin
I don't really like phone sex, I have to admit. Feigning sex in any way, whether it's pretending to have it on the phone, or pretending to have it online.

I'd really rather be having the sex itself. Imagining it simply doesn't do it for me.



Are you as hot in the flesh as your blog suggests you to be?
I don't use my blog to exaggerate what physical gifts I have. My journal is not a tool for me to masturbate my ego.

I think I've stated in my blog many times that I am far from the handsomest of men, and that my body is not going to appear on the cover of an men's fitness magazine at any time, ever. I'm all right, in other words. However, even with my modest looks, I've got a good personality and a great sex drive and enough of a dirty imagination to make an encounter memorable, with a participant who wants to help make it good.

The Last Fantasy

Guys ask me about my fantasies a lot. I’m not quite sure what to tell them.

I tend not to fantasize about stuff I’ve done, or especially those things I’ve tried several times and know I’d probably do again given the opportunity. So while many men might reply, I want to get gang-banged! when they’re asked about a favorite fantasy, I’ve done that. Ditto sex while driving, or three-ways, or four-ways, or gyrating masses in a hotel room. I’ve had a lifelong tendency to act upon my sexual whims, instead of think about them and diddle myself. Even that cliched old straight-guy trope of watching two women get it on with each other and then with me? Been there, done that, in my past.

I say these things not as braggadocio (though I fear it sounds that way) but as encouragement to anyone reading. Fantasies are supposed to be calls to action. They're your libido, springing to life. If the desires aren't hurting anyone, why shouldn’t you test the waters and indulge in those you’ve found intriguing? Fantasies are the call of the sexual muse, the spirit of sexual adventure stirring our souls. They should be honored.

Anyway. When men ask about my fantasies, I am sad to say that the things about which I daydream, because I’m unlikely ever to do them, lie outside the sexual realm. Like, sitting down with a bucket of chorizo mixed with melted queso blanco and eating it with a giant wooden spoon. Or finding a sugar daddy who’ll let me run free with his credit card in the Banana Republic. Sigh.

I do have one sexual fantasy, however, to which I admitted on formspring.me a couple of weeks back. It’s something I’ve never attempted. It’s something I probably wouldn’t attempt without the presence of someone familiar. Simply put, I’ve been restrained and used as a bottom, in my distant teen years. However, I’ve never been restrained and used as a top.

I think I’d like to try it.

I’d like to have my wrists and ankles bound and immobile, and my eyes blindfolded, and to find myself totally at the mercy of a hungry bottom. Or bottoms, plural. That issue I have with feeling guilty about receiving a really good rim job? I wouldn’t have much of a choice if I were restrained and being forced to accept it. I wouldn’t be able to control when and for how long he sits on my face and makes me eat his hole, or suck his dick.

I certainly wouldn’t have a say or be able to resist when the bottom uses all his abilities to get me hard, and sucks me for as long as he wants, or gets rough with my nipples and nuts. I couldn’t protest when he sat down on my dick and rode it relentlessly, milking the loads from me.

And quite honestly, I wouldn’t want to protest any of it.

Once I had a fuckbuddy who swore up and down that he was going to make the scenario happen for me—he planned to rent a cheap hotel room, round up a few bottoms, and let them all have a go at me anonymously. For some reason it never happened. Probably too much planning—and I can understand that. I admire those men with the patience to plan hotel gang-bangs, because I’ve given up on organizing them. Guys are way too flaky about it.

So my sole remaining fantasy, sadly, remains just that.

I think the attraction of the scenario lies in a desire to take a short vacation from setting the pace, from taking the lead. It’s a fantasy in which I experience stimulation without responsibility. Not that I mind taking charge of an encounter, mind you. It’s part of my nature to do so. Being prevented from following my natural impulses is what would push me off-center enough that I’d find every sensation arousing and strange, and would leave me both dreading and anticipating more.

Then again, I might find it easier to get lucky with the sugar daddy with the Banana Republic card.

The Fulcrum

I’d seen the number on the restroom wall. On all the restroom walls, actually. The guy who’d scrawled it there in black marker had advertised in the cavernous men’s room in the lowest level of the campus’ largest building, where strangers congregated nightly for the purposes of finding sex. He’d also made his way to every other hot spot where faculty, staff, and male students hooked up—the uppermost levels of the library toward the front as well as the lesser-known tearoom in the periodicals section. The two men’s rooms in the liberal arts building where the afternoon action could be sizzling. The campus center basement. Even the basement of the art building, where men would take their campus center tricks for a quick fuck. Amazing action for young dick, said the scrawls, followed by a phone number.

It was 1987, and I’d just moved to the midwest for school. I was totally on my own, in my own apartment, supporting myself on a full fellowship and through little odd teaching jobs here and there. It was a heady time of independence. If I wanted to date, I could, without questions from roommates or friends or parents. If I wanted to have someone spend the night, all I had to do was ask. I controlled my meals, my finances, my time.

And I didn’t know it, but it was a time in my sexual life when everything would start to swing around and change. The fulcrum around which everything pivoted was the man behind that number. I just didn’t know how much my life would change, when I called.

He gave me a street number to visit the next night, at seven in the evening. I barely knew my way around town, and drove past his place three times without realizing. I’d been looking for an apartment or a house among the tiny little storefronts on that busy east side street, but he’d given me the address of a florist’s shop. As I parked my car, I was slightly leery of that. In my youthful ignorance, I pictured florists as the most stereotypical of all the so-called gay professions. My mind was already imagining some lisping, mincing Charles Nelson Reilly of a queen, complete with a periwinkle-patterned shirt open to the navel. I was a fool. The guy waiting inside was short, trim and muscled, and thoroughly masculine. He was perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. When I stepped in, his blue eyes twinkled and he smiled. “You are a tall one, son,” he said, looking pleased. “Shut the door.” When I followed his instructions, he added, “Now lock it. Come on.”

I followed him to the back of the shop. I’d expected an assault of floral scents, but all the blooms were safely refrigerated for the night. Behind the counter was a room I presumed was used for the creation of arrangements. “So what do you like to do?” he asked. He’d been wearing a canvas apron, but he removed it as he talked. “You like to get sucked?” I nodded. “You like to fuck?”

“I like to get fucked,” I said. I was still a total bottom, pretty much, at that point. Sure, I’d performed with another boy in my teen years under the voyeuristic eye of Earl, the guy who enjoyed watching me. I’d even fucked a few girls at that point, starting at the age of fifteen. They’d all been all right experiences, but I didn’t think they compared to the sensations I enjoyed when I was bent over for another man’s pleasure.

“Oh you do, do you?” The man nodded. I don’t remember his name, which is a shame. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got.” My pants were some baggy green khakis, I recall. He pushed me back against the door as he unfastened them. Beneath, I was wearing white briefs—this was in the days before I discovered that underwear came in different colors. He rubbed first his hand over the hardening bulge underneath, and then his mouth. Some of the bristles of his mustache cut through the cotton and poked at the skin of my dick, making it harder.

At last he sucked me. I remember he knew what he was doing. “Gotta get you slick for this,” he said, though I didn’t pick up on the meaning at the time. His spit slopped over my dick so thickly that my meat was dripping with the stuff when at last he withdrew. He stood. I thought it was my turn to go down on him, but instead he stopped me when I started to kneel, and shook his head. Off came his T-shirt, which he threw on the floor. He unbuckled his belt and let his jeans drop to the floor, so he could kick them into a crumpled ball in the corner. His dick wasn’t impressive, but he wasn’t hard, either.

Up he hopped onto one of the florist’s tables that took up most of the room. I remember that they had stainless steel tops, and the thought of his back meeting that cold surface made me wince. “Come here,” he said, lifting his legs in the air and beckoning me over.

I stepped forward, though I was already shaking my head. “I’m not really a top,” I said. By not really, I meant not ever. I hadn’t stuck my dick in an ass in about six years, at that point.

“Just feel,” he said. He still smiled at me. When he spoke, it was as if he were trying to sweet-talk a little boy into eating his brussels sprouts. He took my fingers and put them on his hole. It was already slick with some kind of lube. “All you’ve got to do is put it in.”

He lunged up a little bit to grab my dick, which admittedly was still hard. He pulled me closer to him, and began rubbing the head against his hole. I gulped a little. I guessed I was going to be fucking him after all. “Shouldn’t we use a rubber?” I asked. Already it was being engrained in us that it was evil to fuck without one, back in the days before barebacking even had a name.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. I remember how intently he stared at me as he spat on his hand and re-lubed my dick, then maneuvered his body so that our parts could connect. His eyes glazed over a little as the head slipped pass his ass lips. “You’ll see. It’s okay.”

Then it happened. That single, life-changing event. My dick slid into his chute, smoothly and cleanly, as if he’d inhaled it somehow. And what I felt was incredible. It was warm, and smooth, and warm, and moist, and so damned warm. The florist’s ass seemed to generate its own heat and electricity, cradling my hard dick tightly and from every conceivable angle. I felt as if I’d been swallowed. I wanted to stay there for the rest of my natural existence.

My florist’s head was resting on the cold metal of his table. “Yeah,” he said from the back of his throat. “Like that.” I’d never had any real instruction in fucking an ass at this angle. I let instinct take over. In and out I moved, not thinking about what I was doing too much. All I wanted is for that wonderful sensation to continue, and never in. “Just like that.”

When my orgasm came it shocked me. I mean, you’d think after a decade of masturbation and fucking I would have learned how it all ended. When I felt my nuts tighten, though, and my legs quake, and when I sensed the beginnings of that old familiar sensation pulsing at the base of my spine, I was totally caught off-guard. My surprise added to the moment, and before I knew it, I found myself shaking and quivering with the hardest and most powerful orgasm I’d ever had. Part of my mind panicked and wondered about the etiquette of what I was doing—did he want me to pull out? Should I have warned him?

It was too late by then, though. My body was shuddering and my cock was spewing out rope after seeming rope of semen deep inside the strange man’s hole. It felt as if I was shooting for hours. I closed my eyes, panted, and tried to swallow, but my ragged breathing had rendered my throat raw.

It was . . . At the time, words failed me. I'd never known, to put it simply. All this time I'd had the capacity for such pleasure, such wonder, such magic, in my own dick. I'd never known. Why hadn't I known? Why had no one told me about this, or about how warm and wonderful asses were? I felt as if I'd been swindled of something I'd never known could be.

At last I came to. My dick still prickled and vibrated. The florist had rested his legs on my shoulders. His blue eyes gleamed with pride. “So you’re a top,” he said.

I laughed weakly and shook my head. “I’m not. That was just. . . .”

“No.” He interrupted me with a firm voice. “You’re a top. You’ve got a top’s dick. That was what you’re supposed to be doing. Couldn’t you tell, boy?”

My dick slopped out of him then, followed by a palmful of white sperm that dripped down onto the table. I looked at my dick, still mostly hard, slick, and shining in what light there was. Then I looked at him, and after a very long time I nodded. Something had changed. I looked the same, I hadn't gone anywhere, but my life had completely turned around. He’d been right. That was exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

“Good,” he said. “Now you’re going to do it again, and this time, you’re going to last longer.”

And we did.

I never saw the florist again. I didn’t call his number, and I never gave him mine. But of all the fucks that truly changed my life, his was the one that set me on a course I’ve followed for the last twenty-three years.

Son

Before Scruffy, there was Joey.

I always seem to encounter certain archetypes in my life. When I moved away from home after college and lost That Intellectual Acquaintance Who’s A Bit Of An Asshole, for example, I quickly picked up another cut from roughly the same cloth—a little bit overweight, bearded, and sardonic to the point at which I couldn’t figure out whether I liked him or not. I’ve always had a Witty Older Female Friend, and though the faces may change, there’s usually an Intense Student With Serious Artistic Aspirations hanging around and asking for advice. Life likes to spice things up from time to time by trotting out one of the Hopeless Straight Woman Who Moons Over Me From Afar, or the Evil Antagonist Determined To Ruin My Reputation. My life has often felt like a giant repertory company, a commedia dell’arte populated with an ever-changing cast playing pretty much the same perpetual roles.

And Joey, like Scruffy, was for a time the Boy Who Loved To Take Daddy’s Loads.

I met Joey several years ago on Manhunt, in the middle of winter. I’d noticed his profile often before, because he viewed me basically every time I came online. I never thought he’d be interested in meeting, for some reason. On a very bleak January day, however, he messaged me and said, Wassup? I’m sitting here in my empty office and could sure use some company. Wanna come over?

I happened to want to, very much. It sounded very grand, going to the office of a kid in his early twenties; I didn’t know quite what to expect. As it turned out, Joey worked part-time in an optometrist’s clinic, doing the books on Wednesdays, when the office was closed. He met me at the door of the medical office building and let me in to the darkened lobby, with its displays of the latest magazines and literature about Lasik surgery. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said, immediately charming me. “I kinda just had to meet you though.”

Joey was a beautiful boy. His eyes were an odd, arresting silvery pale shade—Meg Foster or Kirstie Alley eyes—that took my breath away when I saw them smiling bashfully up at me. His hair was thick and wavy. He face had a square shape that was softened by apple-like cheeks and actual dimples at the corners of his mouth. The kid was fucking adorable, and when he lifted his head to meet my lips, I knew right off that there wasn’t a better kisser.

That day he took me into the back, to one of the exam rooms, where he undressed me, lowered the padded patient chair to a reclining position, and straddled my dick. We fucked all over that office. In the break room. In the office, with him bent over the desk where he’d been working. In the lobby, on the largest of the comfortable sofas. It was almost dark when I finally left him, and it had started snowing. I recall feeling badly that the poor kid was going to have to spend an extra three or four unpaid hours making up the billings to which he hadn’t attended while I’d been dicking him every which way, but them’s the breaks.

I had Joey over to my place after that, three or four times. The sex was always amazingly good. We connected on the same level; he responded to my needs by putting his own plainly on display. He loved to kiss through the entire act. He didn’t care much about his own dick, but every time I took care of him, he was grateful, spent, and fulfilled. In short, he meant a lot to me in the time we saw each other. When he started dating a guy, however, I saw less of him, and then nothing at all. Scruffy took over the role of Boy Who Loved To Take Daddy’s Loads.

I’d heard from Joey a few times since, of course. He kept me posted as first his boyfriend moved in with them, and then when they stopped seeing each other completely. I knew that in recent months he’d scraped together the funds to purchase his first house, and I sent him a little gift on the day he closed. He’d come on to me a few times, naturally, but it always seemed to be at midnight or very late at night, when I wasn’t available simply to take a jaunt out of the house to his place. You need to get at me early in the day, I'd chide. I'd see you then.

Saturday morning he caught me online and messaged me with, Is it early? Am I going to get you to come baptize my new house with your spunk?

And who can really resist a come-on like that?

Joey’s new place is in one of those areas of town traditionally occupied by blue-collar families, in a neighborhood filled with what are kindly called starter homes—tiny little bungalows with miniature floorplans and even smaller bathrooms. I was greeted at the front door not only by Joey, but by two of his three cats as well. “Fuck,” he said, shoving me up against the freshly-painted wall. “It’s been way too long, daddy.”

From many people, the word daddy would make me snort. From Joey, it only stiffened my dick, which was already half-hard and hanging down the left leg of my camo cargos at the sight of him. I hadn’t forgotten how beautiful he was, but the impact of that beauty hit me like a speeding truck. Gone were his wavy locks, replaced by the shortest of buzz cuts. His square jaw was covered with a beard that was as closely-cropped as his head. With all the short fuzz over his face, jaw, and dome, he looked like an especially hunky monkey. Joey wore no clothes save for a pair of 2(x)ist black briefs that I suspected he'd put on to impress me. Save for a few wisps in the middle of his chest and the slightest of trails from his navel to his waistband, he’d never had much body hair above the waist. Below it, I knew he could boast a furry butt and a pair of the hairiest legs I've seen.

And those eyes, those silver eyes, caught me off-guard and took my breath away. “How about you give me a tour?” I said, knowing I wouldn’t get another chance if I didn’t take it then.

He was proud as a puppy who’d just learned to fetch, as he showed me around the tiny little house. The tour ended, of course, in his bedroom. “What do you think, sir?” he asked, obviously hoping for my approval.

“I think you’ve done really well for yourself here, son,” I told him.

He melted at that word, son. I watched as he sighed with happiness and as his posture softened, like clay anticipating the potter’s hands. I hooked my fingers into the waist of his briefs and pulled him in for a kiss, and then another, and another. More and more I demanded from him, until my mouth was devouring his and he relaxed in my arms and let me lay him gently on the bed.

The boy was in heat. They’re all so anxious to be fucked, the young ones. His legs reached into the air and wrapped themselves around me, pulling me into a position of mounting. I didn’t even have anything more than my sandals off at that point, but my cock was hard and dripping in my shorts. I know he could feel it, pressing against his ass, through the three layers of cotton that were our underwear and my shorts. He bucked and ground his hips to make it harder, while his mouth revealed its depths to my tongue.

Already I was sweating, and I hadn’t even begun to fuck. “Flip,” I commanded. He instantly obeyed. I pressed my mouth against the spot where I knew his hole lay, and huffed hot air against his hole. He groaned, and pressed his ass against my mouth. The black fabric began to warm and moisten as I chewed at his little pucker from without. I couldn’t stand it any more. “Do you want daddy’s dick?” I finally asked, leaping up from the bed to shuck my pants.

“I love daddy’s dick,” he replied, looking up at me with those beautiful silver eyes. “I’ve missed my daddy’s dick so fucking much,” he said. “You’ve probably found some other boy to replace me.”

I ran my hand over his newly-shorn hair. I hadn’t expected the cut to suit him so well, but it did. “No,” I told him truthfully. “I haven’t.” Because no matter if Scruffy came along to play the part after Joey and I stopped screwing regularly, Scruffy didn’t replace him. They aren’t the same person. I’ve loved them both in different ways.

But like Scruffy, Joey is all about my dick during our time together. He pushed me back into the covers and licked at my nuts. He sucked me, watching my expression as he did so, smiling to himself whenever I’d bite my lower lip or gasp with pleasure. He deep-throated me so expertly that the sensation of slipping into his gullet seemed more like a pleasure and less like a punishment. He didn’t gag or choke. One moment I’d be prodding against the back of his mouth, and then the next, I would have slipped deeper inside, to find my head and an inch more massaged and caressed by one of the tightest muscles possible. His eyes didn’t even water, or waver from mine, the entire time. “Damn, son,” I finally said, after he’d do it so many times that I felt vaguely guilty. “You’ve been practicing!”

“Not with meat as big as yours,” he said. “I really have wanted this dick.”

He was so sweet and sincere that it was my eyes that watered a little. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he said.

“You’re being very, very good to me.”

“That’s because I want you to keep coming back,” he said. “And keep coming back after that.”

We kissed again. I maneuvered myself behind him, and began licking at his hole until I was able to get two fingers inside. Then I borrowed his lube and began applying it liberally to both his hole and my dick. I wiped my hands on a towel while I positioned myself to enter. Joey clutched his pillow in a hug, with both arms, as he smiled to himself, ready to be plowed.

I couldn’t resist running the flat of my hand over the bristles atop his head once more. I’d seen the Astrologer only the night before, and some of the melancholy of that night still lingered. “You’re a good kid,” I whispered. His chest thrummed with pleasure. “But you know what?” I added.

“What?”

“Your online profile kills me,” I told him, “when you say you’re average.” It’s true: Joey, the kid who turns heads when he walks into a room, has a sex profile that says, I'm just an average-looking guy. Don’t get your expectations too high. If Joey of the pale eyes and the dimples is average, someone is seriously throwing off the class curve. “You are far from average.”

He flushed. “You don’t have to say that.”

“You are beautiful,” I told him. I pushed my dick against his hole and began to work it inside. All I could feel was warmth and wetness, and no resistance or tension whatsoever. “The day I met you in that eye doctor’s office, I said you were the most handsome kid I'd fucked in years. You're a good person too, and you're really making something of yourself. I really wish you knew how special you are, through and through.”

His silvery eyes were half-closed when I finally got all the way inside. “Thank you,” he said, though whether for the praise or for the fuck, I wasn’t sure. “I think you’re my only fan, though.”

“I suspect you’re not looking hard enough.” I lay atop him by this point, with my arms around his chest, and our hands a tangle of fingers and palms. “Just promise me something.” When he grunted in assent, I said, “I don’t want you looking in the mirror in fifteen years’ time and thinking you’re invisible. Just promise me you’ll believe I see you as you really are. I do see you.”

His voice was little more than a sigh when he replied. “I’ve missed you, dad.”

“Promise me,” I urged.

“I promise.” He sighed and relaxed as very slowly I began to slide in and out of his slick chute. “I promise.” I let it go at that. I wanted to say this—that to protect him from the world’s cruel blows I wished I could, but that I wasn’t going to be around forever and it was important for him to know that I sincerely wished him the best life possible. I wished him the truth, and I wished him clear vision. Because it seemed to me that there were too many half-blind souls drifting through their lives and wishing for something that’s all the time within their grasps. The Astrologer. Joey. The boy in the woods months ago, asking me, So am I good enough?

I wish I could fix things. I wish I could mend people whole, and send them away with lasting smiles on their faces and a skip in their step. Changed. Forever made better. I know, though, that the most eloquent of my words, the most lasting of my caresses, can only be the merest salve to these deepest of wounds.

So instead, I only said, “I’ve missed you, too,” and kissed him gently on the brow, as I might a real son.

Invisible

The man illuminated by my front porch light hesitated for a moment as he peered through the entryway. I’d greeted him when he’d started climbing the stairs, and had asked if he’d found my place without trouble. As I held open the screen door, he looked up at me and said, “So it’s okay? You want me to come in?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking that maybe the way I was holding open the handle impeded him. I gestured the man in. Once the door was closed and we were hidden from the neighbors’ prying eyes, I put my hands on his biceps and drew him in close, so that we could make out. The guy had soft lips with just the right amount of give; there was something about the way he kept them puckered that spoiled the kiss a little for me—but just a tiny bit. He regained points for the passion he betrayed when he reached up and put his arms around my neck and pulled me into him, hungrily. We made out for a long, long moment, lit only by the stained glass table lamp in the far corner. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested.

Once in the dark bedroom, I pushed him down onto the mattress and ran my hands up and under his sleeveless T-shirt. My partner for the evening was a short gentleman whose online profile had several photos of his body and nothing more; I knew he had a generally muscular build from those. In person, he was attractive as hell, with wide brown eyes and dark eyebrows set on a masculine, broad brow. Like many Greek men, which is what I guessed he was (and I was right), his short hair was silvering beautifully, with dark, deep undertones.

I undressed him as I ran my jaw and beard over his smooth body. I found out quickly that he liked it when I raked my fuzz over his belly, his hips, the undersides of his rib cage. He sighed softly and gasped when I flicked my tongue over his nipples, and outright groaned when my teeth seized upon them and nipped. “What are you?” he asked into the darkness.

“I beg your pardon?” I said in a normal voice. Because if he was going to ask if I was a Nordic alien. . . .

“What sign?”

I blinked a few times before answering. “Aquarius.”

“I would not have guessed,” he sighed, and relaxed back into the pillows as I lifted and parted his legs.

I can tell when a man is surrendering to me. When it’s a fellow I’ve never met before, he gives in muscle by muscle, starting at the neck and shoulders, then moving down past his pecs and abs. His legs grow weak, calves first and then the thighs. The dick usually never relaxes—and that’s fine. I like it when they’re hard and dripping as I pay attention to other parts of the body. But oddly, it’s always the hole that gives in last. Even as I pulled apart the Astrologer’s ass cheeks, he resisted slightly. My tongue lapped at the little pucker; he shivered and gasped when I blew a stream of cold air directly upon the wet flesh. “Oh man,” he whispered.

While I munched at his ass, he writhed and squirmed. I went at it for a good, long time. My place was free for the entire night. I had nowhere pressing to be, nothing to do save enjoy myself, and make the Astrologer enjoy me. As I licked and sucked and dove in deeper, all tenseness left his cheeks. His hole blossomed and opened, slowly, until I knew it was ready to surrender to me.

I settled him onto a pillow so that his little hips were propped up at a good angle for me, and reached for the lube. “Are you sure you want me?” he asked.

“Oh fuck yes, I want you,” I replied. I slapped a generous amount of lube onto his hole and began to work it in. He groaned, and instinctively ground his hips forward. I used the remainder of the sticky stuff on my dick, stroking it with an overhand motion to get it ready. When I pressed the head against his ass, he pushed back. The guy was tight—he’d warned me about that—but not as tight as he had feared. All my ministrations had relaxed him so that he had no choice but to want me. I’d reduced his options to precisely one, and he was enjoying the hell out of it.

I fucked him slowly at first, with only the top half of my dick. The sensation of my head popping in and out of his outermost ring drove him crazy with pleasure. He clutched at the slats of the headboard so tightly that I worried they’d snap like matchsticks. “Give me more,” he finally rasped out. “Please give it all to me.”

“I can do that,” I said, and agreeably drove in the rest of my inches. I dug in a little harder, just to ensure he felt it. Then, when I was as deep inside him as I could go, I flexed and swelled. His head flew back. His lips parted to release a wordless prayer. Through the very faint light drifting through the wooden blinds, I could see his eyes were open, but he seemed sightless. Whether he saw stars, or simply had given up all his senses so he could relish that feeling of the ultimate in penetration, I could only guess.

With my hands on his shoulders and my body as erect as my dick, I continued to fuck into him for long minutes. He drew up his knees as far as he could, in that position, giving me complete access to his ass. I took advantage of it, driving in long and deep, and occasionally pausing to swell and make him gasp. I only stopped when he started to shake and shudder. “Are you okay?” I asked, checking in.

“Yes,” he said. He sounded almost as if he were close to tears. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

I slipped in deep, then pressed myself against him so that my mouth was against his ear. My arms wrapped around him, and together we rolled onto our right sides. I lifted his left leg into the air and slipped slightly underneath him, so that I could hug him tight as I continued fucking in our new position. His nipples were tight and hard, little erasers beneath my wrists and fingertips. “Is this okay?” I murmured directly into his ear.

“Oh god yes!” he said aloud. “God yes!”

“Good,” I whispered. “I like holding you like this, while I fuck you.”

I’d only been grinding inside him for a good minute or so when my hand drifted down to his dick. It wasn’t a big dick—an average six inches, I’d guess—and I am afraid I hadn’t given it much attention than a few licks when I’d been undressing him. The instant I wrapped my hand around it, though, it began to pulse and throb. He wheezed and jerked. A moment later, I felt warmth and wetness gushing down the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, without missing a beat.

“Ssshh,” I replied, soothing him.

My thrusting was not as hard as it had been on his stomach, but it didn’t matter. I held him tightly in my embrace as I ground gently in, concentrating on rubbing my head against the sweet spot it hit repeatedly. A few moments later, with scarcely any thrusting at all, my dick began to swell in waves as it pumped out its two-day load. It was the quietest orgasm I’ve had in ages. My breathing was jerky, but soft; I didn’t say a word, but I let him hear my tiny gasps as my lips pressed against his ear. His hands clutched at my hips, pulling me into him. As if he could. I was already thrust as deeply inside him as possible.

We lay there in silence for a long while as he savored the sensation of my arms around his chest. His own arms crossed just below mine, our fingers entwined and tight. I stayed hard inside him, but softened enough that I could feel my load slopping out slowly from his chute and down the sides of my nuts. “You’re all right?” I asked again.

“All right!” he said, laughing a little. “I can’t believe you wanted to fuck me.” I didn’t understand. “I mean, a guy of your caliber.”

Suddenly it all made sense to me. The hesitation at the front door, the unbelieving, you want me to come in? The uncertain, are you sure you want me?

I honestly hadn’t put it together until that moment. “Don’t tell me you think you’re not good-looking enough for me,” I said, shocked. He didn’t reply, but I could tell from the way he tensed that I’d hit the mark. “That’s crazy talk. You’re a handsome guy.”

There was a little bit of bitterness behind his answering laugh. “The only other time I’ve had a guy as good-looking as you was when I had sex with a Colt model a few years back, and he was drunk.”

Gentlemen (and ladies), I am no Colt model. Not by a long shot. To be likened to one—well, let’s just say the comparison would be Dewey decimalized as science fiction. As I’ve said, I’m at peace with my looks, but I’m not indulging in false modesty when I proclaim that I’m Not All That. “It kind of baffles me,” I said to the Astrologer, “that someone as masculine and handsome and all-around good looking as you would have some kind of complex about his looks. You should let the rest of us worry about that stuff. You’re the kind who should be bedding whomever you want.” (Yes, sadly, I use whomever in everyday conversation.)

It took a long time for him to answer. “I wish I felt that way.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” I asked, out of curiosity. “Because when I look at you, I see a really handsome guy.”

“When I look in the mirror,” he said, slowly, and it sounded to my ears as if he was being entirely honest and surprised at himself for being so, “I feel as if I’m invisible.”

His admission seemed like the saddest statement in the world.

I held the Astrologist for a long time, and let him talk to me about the stars and their influences on the world, and listened to him talk about his summer vacation. He told me about his job, and the cities where he’d lived, and the boyfriends he’d had and lost. I let him talk and draw a fuller and colorful picture of himself and his life for me, simply so that for that one night, in that one bed, he wouldn’t feel quite so invisible.

When he left an hour or more later, I gave him another hug at the front door. “I hope sometime you see yourself like I did tonight. Mr. Cellophane,” I teased.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his head against my chest. He lingered there a moment and then squeezed me tightly, before I let him out the door and into the muggy night. I watched as he became fainter and less distinct as he walked into the shadows my weak front porch light couldn’t pierce. I only shut the front door once the darkness swallowed him entirely.

Reflection

Over the last few weeks, as I’ve begun to disturb the layers of complacency that have settled into the furniture and cupboards of my house, I’ve run across some photos of myself from my teens and twenties. Usually when I look at old photographs someone has taken of me, I tend to look at everything except for the figure in the snapshot’s center. I’ll scan the background, and bring to my recollection. I’ll study the faces of the other people around me and remember them fondly. But when it has come to my own self, in the past my eyes have automatically glided over anything having to do with my body.

I suppose somewhere around the seventh grade, when boys are at about their least appealing to most—oily-faced, pimply, awkward, clumsy, slump-shouldered, self-conscious, and shy about their bodies—I stopped liking what I saw in the mirror. Though I’ve changed over the years—now, I’m dry-skinned, not-so-pimply, and just as clumsy, though my posture is infinitely better—a part of me has settled on that pimply seventh-grader as my self-image. For thirty years since, whenever I look in the mirror or see a photograph, that’s what I’ve tended to see.

Now, I can’t say that’s the way I feel about myself now. There came a point about four years ago when very suddenly I started to like very much the image in my reflection. I liked the way I looked in clothing. I grew a short beard and unexpectedly found myself liking my face. Instead of avoiding mirrors, I started to preen in them and to check myself out when walking past them in department stores. I liked posing for photographs, instead of hiding my face and trying to ease out of range of the lens.

Here’s the thing, though. Lately, as I’ve been finding old photos scattered around the place and have been collecting them to pack, I’ve realized how really cute I was in my youth. Some of them are embarrassing, admittedly. I’m not my proudest about the really old ones in which I’m sporting horn-rimmed glasses, braces, and a bowl cut. But those taken when I had more control over my appearance in my late teens and after? I’m fucking adorable. Everything I find I like about my face now, I find in those old pictures. I like my smile, my impossible leanness, the tautness of my skin. The things I don’t like . . . well, I know now how little it all matters, in the end. There’s much more to a person than his looks

What bothers me is that it took thirty years to reach peace with my appearance. Over the weekend I had two sexual encounters with men who very obviously were not aware of how very sexy they really were. (I’ll write about those this week.) It bothered me that both deflected the most sincere of my compliments almost without thinking. I know that, when they look into the mirror, they’re not really seeing themselves. They’re seeing some geeky boy, or some fat kid, or the picked-on youth who tried to blend in and become as invisible as possible. Like me, they settled on some vision of themselves formulated by thoughtless children and mean girls and maybe even the people closest to them, and that twisted vision is what they’ve seen ever since.

So much time we waste, with our eyes half-closed, don’t we?

So I’m curious. Readers, what do you see when you look at photographs of yourself, or when you pass the mirror? Is it your thirteen-year-old faults writ large? Is it the faulty and unattractive you from some other portion of your life, carried around as an unchanging burden for much of your life? Or are you blessed with clarity of sight, and appreciate yourself for what you are?

In other words, how different is your actual appearance from the mental image fashioned from your self-doubts and fears?

I’m curious to know, and would appreciate your comments on the matter.

Sunday Morning Questions: Memories of B. Dalton's Edition

I've had a lot of letters from reader/bloggers this week asking me if I still like them. I do!

To reiterate to those of my readers with blogs I follow: I am still following you. I still read your blogs every day. If you hit the link to look at my profile, you will see the list of blogs I follow, and yours is still on it. I swear to god!

For some reason, though, Google screwed up my account last weekend so that I disappeared from everyone's follow lists, and it won't allow me to drop and rejoin your accounts. I'm going to email them this week and ask for some assistance, but rest assured. I am still following everyone I followed before the incident.

As is my Sunday morning custom, I'll be answering some questions asked of me at formspring.me . Breeder's Readers often ask thoughtful questions that I'm glad to address. If you have one, feel free to follow the link and ask—you can even do it anonymously. There's always email, as well. I have it. Please use it.


When you jerk off alone, do you usually eat your ejaculate?
About 75% of the time.



Do you ever wish you had less of a sexual appetite?
There have been periods of my life, particularly during the summers when my hormones tend to rage high, that I wished with longing for the graceful ease of desire that comes with age.

It hasn't happened yet. And when I did go through a three-month period of no desire a while back (an experience unique to my lifetime), I hated it. I was crabby and felt as if I was missing out on life itself.

I'm happy as I am, pretty basically. I don't wish for change.




Are you a shooter or a dribbler? Do you cum very much or all at once, then not much at all? Are you a huge precumer or no?
I'm kind of a spurter. I produce a lot of fluid in three or four major pushes, but I'm not a distance shooter.

I produce so much precum that a lot of people have been turned off by it, sometime. Obviously they're not the kind of people I want to hang with.




Where is the most unusual place you have masturbated?
I would go with the travel section of a mainstream B. Dalton's in the middle of a busy mall at lunchtime, with a total stranger.



the travel section of mainstream B. Dalton's at lunchtime... was his penis pretty?
His penis was the second-biggest I have ever seen, clocking in at 11 inches.



B. Dalton begs the question, who was the largest other than yourself?
I once met a older white man in a university john who had about 13 inches, as thick as a forearm. It was impossible to do anything with. It was so thick I couldn't suck more than the head, and there was no way it was going in my ass.

In the end I helped him whack it off. He wasn't an attractive man, but he was fucking huge.



Have you ever had anal sex with an Orthodox Jew?
No, but I swapped blowjobs with one.




Should we establish a sexual merit badge system?
I have a natural suspicion of authority, particularly in cases in which significance is to be determined; the choices made are always political in motive. I would therefore be loath to allow someone else to decide what sexual acts are and are not of merit.

Unless the deciding body is the two of us. Then it'd be perfectly all right. If everyone did what I say, anyway, the world would be a much better place. (Mostly for me.)



I never cum when I'm with a guy. I get him off then masturbate later. I think I have intimacy issues. Do you mind if a guy doesn't cum? Would you try to make him?
Last night I was with a guy who told me he had difficulty getting hard in front of someone else, and who said he wouldn't come in front of me, most likely. I told him that was fine.

After I'd bred him twice, he lay in my arms and made out with me and relaxed and got hard. Then he splashed a load so far it hit my face.

I like my partners to enjoy themselves. I don't make them shoot. Often, though, the ones who say they probably won't, do.


I like to keep a shirt on cuz I'm on the chubby side. Do you mind that?
You could wear a football uniform and I wouldn't care, so long as it had a patch ripped out so I could access your hole.

Actually, that might be hot.

I like big guys, though. Why be shy?


Do you ever just want to hang out on twitter without everyone talking to you about sex? Does it get old?
I like flirting and being flirted with. So that's fine.

Actually, one of the things I like about Twitter is that it doesn't require me to hang around. I can dip in and out as I choose. Plus, I've talked about all kinda of topics on there, from sex to baking to computers.


I want to meet you just for a good fuck, but I have a feeling that I'll be different afterwards. I'm always in control but I'd like to give that up for a while. When you're fucking, do you feel as if you're providing a public service?
It feels very much as if I'm providing a personal service, sometimes, when I fuck. A lot of guys tell me they feel they've been well sorted out, once I'm done with them. That's highly flattering to me.


How do I see your videos? Are you on xtube? What is your screen name?
You'll find my videos on Xtube under the name of mrsteed64.


Who or what does your voice sound like?
Although many men have complimented my voice, I can't stand the sound of it, save when I'm singing. My speaking voice is soft-spoken and to my ears, kind of lazy-sounding; part of that might be my southern upbringing.


Got any pointers on how to piss after breeding a guy's hole?
I can only do it after fucking a few times; I stay in until I'm about three-quarters or half hard, concentrate, and let loose. Sometimes it doesn't happen, but I don't worry about it too much.

I recommend arriving with a semi-full bladder, but if mine is too full, I find I can't shoot and yet can't get soft enough in the ass to pee. It's something of a balancing act.