I see him first from a distance, against the sunny morning horizon—short and rounded among spear-like trunks shooting toward the sky. Back and forth his silhouette ambles. When I walk through the woods in his direction, my feet shuffling along the dirt trail and kicking up leaves and small branches still wet with dew, he grows more distinct. He has one hand shoved into a pocket. The other presses a cell phone to his ear.
He’s a young man. Twenty. Twenty-one. Something like that. Though the weather is crisp and still waiting to be warmed by the September sun, he wears baggy shorts that expose his hairless legs. He seems skinny, though it’s was tough to tell from the oversized plaid flannel shirt on his back. We’re the only two souls rambling through this out-of-the-way place where men come to meet each other. Still bowing his head as if he’s listening to someone of interest on the line’s other end, he looks me over quickly, covertly, just as I study him.
He’s not talking to anyone at all, I realize with certainty. At most he’s listening to a voice mail; there’s no response, no sign of engagement. He’s just stalling. Waiting.
Waiting for someone like me.
My brisk walk crawls to a slow. When I lean against a tree, the impact of my shoulder against its bark makes the slender sapling’s leaves shudder. My thumbs hook in the pockets of my jeans. The fingertips of my right hand drop low, across the crotch. Casually, slowly, they quest—searching for the mound of spongy flesh. When they find it, they rub across its length. Without hurry, yes, but there’s an urgency in the way they show off the length of the hardening inches beneath the denim.
As I suspect, he’s watching. The kid’s mesmerized. As he stares at my crotch, I take in his tousled blond hair, the green intensity of his hungry eyes, the sharpness of his beak-like face. He lowers the hand holding the phone, and shoves the device into his pocket. Then he looks me in the eyes for the first time, and nods.
I nod back.
He strolls over. Now his left hand is rubbing against a growing protrusion in his own pants. His right hand reaches out. His eyebrows rise, asking permission that I give with another nod, and then I feel his palm cupping me, his fingertips pressing against where the underside of my sac would be.
I jerk my head in a gesture that tells him to follow. Men meet in the central area of this heavily-wooded park, but they don’t usually play here. It’s too open, too exposed to anyone walking in. I lead him over a trail so faint it’s barely distinguishable, a mere spoor made barely visible by leaves lightly trodden by men such as ourselves. Over fallen trees and little rivulets it leads toward the deepest and most inaccessible parts of the woods. There’s a clearing there, large enough for five or six men, screened by evergreens and shadows.
I nod again when we’ve stopped. He unbuttons my jeans, and pulls down the waistband of my Gap trunks. My dick springs out. Even among the sweet-smelling evergreens and the dank, fermenting leaves, I can smell its unmistakable, freshly-washed scent. To the boy it’s irresistible. He puts both knees on the forest ground and cups his left hand around my length as he inhales, and then covers my dick with his wet mouth.
I sigh as he sucks me, and let my pants drop to the ground. My hands shift restlessly over my stomach, my hips, the sides of my balls. I run my hands through his hair and find it stiff and full of product. He looks up at me with short, sideways glances, like a baby bird. I nod again, giving him the approval he wants. Then his eyes close as he savors the sensations of sucking.
While he slurps over my increasingly sloppy dick, he unbuttons and removes his shirt, revealing a sky-blue tank top beneath. He pauses for a moment—but only a moment, no more—to lift his dirty knees and yank down his shorts and kick them off, so that he’s dressed only in his hiking boots, nubbly gray socks, and that impossibly blue tank. His dick is an uncut six inches that drools from the tip. When he settles down again, it curves up into the empty air, rock hard, and juts into his own abdomen as he moves back and forth.
It’s quiet in the woods this morning. A road lies around the park’s perimeter, but no cars make their noisy presence known along its length. We can’t even hear the distant hum of the nearest busy avenue. Just the restless trees, the irregular sounds of the forest, and the slurps of his stretched-out lips over my dick.
I could be satisfied with that perfect moment there in the woods—the silence, the boy, and the pleasure he was giving my dick, but I want more. My hand reaches down and cups him beneath the chin until I’ve pried him off my cock. I lift him to his feet. Not caring whether he’s into it or not, I press my mouth against his. His eyes remain closed, but his mouth opens to receive mine. It’s wet, and tastes sweet like my precum, and of my dick, and of distant, almost forgotten sugared coffee. His eyes only open a moment later, when I remove my mouth from his and look him in the face. Even then, they’re heavy-lidded, and addled from cock.
He’s all sensation, the boy. He’s in the moment, asking for nothing, but ready to receive anything. So I say the only words that will pass between us: “Bend over.”
He obeys.
The animal cry that cuts through the woods a few moments later, as I enter him, seems to bring the forest to a halt. Even the trees pause in their slow gyrations. For a moment, all is silence.
Then, as the cry becomes memory, the sighs and the breath of the woods resume.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Baby-Man
Yesterday I wrote about one of the French professors I bedded in college. With a little bit of pride I should point out that he was not the only French professor I disrobed as an undergraduate; by the time I’d finished my four years at the school, I’d managed to have sex with all three of the professors who comprised the faculté Français. Oh yeah, I collected them all. If the campus had been a Monopoly board, I could’ve built hotels in Romance Languages and Economics.
One of my readers yesterday commented that it was so ‘very me’ to have found a four-year fuckbuddy in my first hour of freedom on my college campus. In a way, I suppose it is. But to squash the illusion that I am some gifted superstud with a supernatural ability to ferret out the good fucks in any situation I’m in, let me assure you that within the first day of arriving at college, I had my first stalker as well.
I wasn’t the most social kid at my college. I was a year younger than most of the freshman, and I’m pretty sure it showed. Tall and gangly though I might have been, I still was an extremely young-looking seventeen when I left for school. I was quiet where the other kids on my dorm hallway were loud and crazy. My roommate was a bit of a lout who, the moment his parents disappeared, began drinking so much beer that he was drunk by 4:30 and had vomited all over his bed, his desk, and out in the hallway before nightfall. The other guys on my hall thought he was hil-ar-ious, and had turned my dorm room into party central.
So I took advantage of my first couple of days at school to find all the places on campus where guys went for sex. There were a few.
I’d already located the basement of the student center with the French professor. I went back after dinner and sucked off an older student in the same place. Then I discovered that the first floor of the campus center had a little action going on itself. I cruised the library and found that the second and third floors in the stacks were a place to find dick even fairly late in the day. I sussed out a toilet in the psych building with some promising graffiti, though I wasn’t sure it would pan out as a sex spot. (It never did.)
And then I found the tourist restroom.
My college, I’ve said before, is one that was adjunct to the tourist spot of Colonial Williamsburg, that quaint living history display of pre-revolutionary America. When one left the modern campus and walked through its most historic buildings to the very front, the tourist attraction sprawled out before one, across the street. First was a buffer of gift shops and restaurants known as Merchant’s Square. A couple of blocks below began the attractions.
Between Merchant’s Square and the historic area proper, however, was a small visitor’s information center. The tour busses stopped there every ten minutes, disgorging dozens of passengers who’d collect maps or buy tickets at the tiny booth within. It was little more than a satellite information booth, of course—the real ticketing and information center was an air-conditioned behemoth of a building a couple of miles away. I spent so much time at the small visitor’s center, however, because of the men’s room. It was perfectly set up for cruising.
In the men’s room were three stalls and three or four urinals. They were set perpendicular to each other in the room so that through the cracks of any of the stalls, one commanded an unobstructed view of men whipping out their dicks and peeing. Or, more often than I thought probable, stroking themselves to hardness and showing them off to the men behind the stall doors. The place sometimes seemed to have as many cruisers as urinators. Handsome tourist daddies free of their families for a few seconds would become hardened perverts, masturbating themselves into the urinals while men watched. Professors from campus would come down, unzip, and find a willing mouth in which to relieve themselves. A couple of the bolder students, myself included, would visit and feast on the buffet of dick presented with every new busload. I’m not exaggerating when I say the place was like a Roman orgy—at all times of day, really, but particularly at night.
I also found out that first night at school how the tiny little park behind the rest center, scarcely more than a handkerchief of grass and two park benches, was where men went to get into activities more involved than practical for a small restroom. When night fell, the only people in the darkness there were guys fucking—sometimes ten to twelve of them, making no more noise than the occasional grunt or sigh of relief when they came. I don’t remember exactly who got me that first night. It was just strange dick to me, and I welcomed several in my mouth and a couple in my ass in that little park before finally I slunk back to my dorm room, where the guys were still drinking in the dorm hall and bullshitting about all the pussy they’d fucked.
Freshmen had about a week of orientation before classes actually started. I found myself with some free time the next day, so back to the visitor center I went. I spent about an hour watching men pee and getting the occasional flash of an erect dick, but at midday the center was too busy to be conducive for action. I wasn’t getting any, in other words. After a while, though, someone came in and sat in the middle stall, next to me. We did the dance of the tapping toes. A moment later, he handed me a note beneath the stall, written on toilet paper and wrapped around a pen. Would you like to go somewhere else? he wrote.
Sure, I wrote back.
I know a spot where we can talk and stuff.
Okay, I scrawled, and waited for him to pull up his pants and go so I could follow him.
But no, he had more to say. Are you really going to follow me?
Yes. Yes, yes, a hundred times yes, I thought to myself. Just get going!
After what seemed an eternity, he finally rebuckled his trousers and left. I followed him out a moment later, and looked around for the guy with the shoes I’d seen once I was outside in Merchant’s Square.
I wasn’t too pleased with what I found, either. The guy was not at all attractive. He was obese, for one thing. While I’d been with big men before (and since) and hadn’t really minded very much, there was something off about the fellow that didn’t make me want to follow him. He couldn’t have been older than thirty or thirty-two, but he dressed like an eighty-year-old in cheap synthetics with elastic at the waistband and snaps instead of buttons; even his dock siders looked as if they’d been extruded in shiny plastic. He was effeminate to the point that his shiny shirt had a not-so-subtle floral print. His eyes were tiny and set far back in the shrunken apple doll head that was his face. He was just an all-over not very attractive man.
But I was young and stupid, and instead of disappearing into the crowd as I should have, I decided to do the polite thing and go through with it, even though every atom of my body was telling me not to.
When he said he knew a place to talk, he wasn’t kidding about talking, whereas I’d been expecting more ‘and stuff.’ He took me to a little green alley by the Governor’s Palace where tourists didn’t really venture—only Williamsburg employees rushing to and from an employee restroom hidden behind a privet hedge nearby. He sat down on the grass with his ankles crossed like a kindergartener, and settled his hands onto his lap and stared at me while I sat across from him, but not too near. He was like a baby and a gross old man, all wrapped up in one unappetizing package. “What’s your name?” he asked. Like a fool, I told him. He addressed me with it. “So you’re a homossssexual,” he said.
I stared at him. I was a restroom cocksucker, and a park slut. I had been bent over picnic tables and thrust up against trees and had my head knocked against urinals. I’d seen more dicks than the average urologist and done it in every conceivable position and variation, but I’d never had anyone who had intentions of banging me sit down and make me identify my sexuality.
“I think it’s best that you admit you have homosexual leanings,” he said, smiling patiently. I was furious. I almost wondered if he was some kind of evangelist who’d infiltrated the restrooms to find gay guys to proselytize. “Well, sugar, you’re lucky you found me,” he said, reaching out to clasp my knee. I scooted back to avoid his touch. “I’ll be gentle your first time, unlike most of the brutes who hang out in that place.”
Now I understood. He thought I was a virgin, cruising the restroom for the first time. “You know, I don’t want to. . . .” I started to mumble.
“Of course you don’t want to be a homosexual,” he said. “It's awful. But you are. You should just admit it.” I wasn’t going to admit anything to this weirdo. If I’d been bolder or more assertive—in short, if I’d been then the man I am now—I would’ve excused myself, or simply said something like, Listen, bub, you’ve got the wrong impression about me. But I was not as adroit then, and unused to maneuvering out of a sticky situation. He used my name again. “Do you want me to tell you the names of famous homosexuals throughout history? Or do you want to hold hands?”
I did not. So I did what I shouldn’t have done, which was to bolt. I mean, I stood up and ran like a wild man, pell-mell down that little gravel alley, kicking up colonial dust in my wake. The entire time it happened, the enormous baby-man yelled out my name in my wake.
The nightmare should’ve been over at that point, but no. When I went back to the visitor center that night, thinking I could get some dick without a hassle, I sat down in one of the stalls and started jacking myself erect when I looked to my right and saw my name scrawled on the partition, in black marker. It makes me sad you can’t admit what you are, it said. My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I yanked up my pants and recomposed myself. Before I left, though, it struck me to check out the other stalls. Sure enough, he’d written in all three. You are a homosexual, it said in the middle one, with my name prominently attached. In the third, beneath my name, it said, Admit the truth.
I have to confess here that what upset me so much wasn't the notion that I was gay. I had kind of figured that out, by this point. It was that he used my name, so publicly. In a panic, I left the men’s room and walked out to the little park where I’d had so much fun the night before. Men were moving in the gray shadows. I couldn’t make out what they were doing, exactly, but I was sure I wanted a part of it. A tall man brushed by me. The tips of his fingers stroked the corduroy of my pants. He looked back over his shoulder and jerked his head for me to follow.
Then I heard a familiar voice from the bench, saying my name loudly and breaking the hushed spell of the park. “Fancy seeing you here,” said the baby-man, in the most meaningful of tones.
I fled again, as he called my accursed name at my back.
In short, I allowed myself to become victim to someone who delighted in making me uncomfortable. These days, I know pretty much how to handle it. Then, I didn’t have the resources or experience. I’d avoid the park and the visitor center for a couple of weeks at a time, then go back for a few days and enjoy myself until I ran into the baby-man again. He would always use my name, very loudly and prissily, as if he took great pleasure in embarrassing the hell out of me. From time to time he would refresh the graffiti, coming up with fresh words to rekindle the hell of my mortification.
It’s hard to believe now that I allowed that shit to go on for three and a half years. It wasn’t until my senior year that I got rid of the guy. I used to meet up with a guy who worked for Williamsburg as a slave—by which I mean he was an actor from Brooklyn who was paid pretty well to strip to the waist, adopt an African accent, and portray a colonial slave, of course—who would change into street clothes and hang out at the park with me on warm nights. He was a muscular man of great comeliness who always made me feel very flattered when we’d make out and swap blowjobs in the bushes. When one night I started to flee because of the baby-man, he made me stop and listened to my complaints. “Oh, that old queen,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Fuck that shit,” he said. “Just pretend he’s not there and do whatever it is you want. That’ll make him stop.”
I was dubious, but I took the advice. And sure enough, once I pretended I didn’t care, the baby-man left me alone. When he’d call out my name and say something insinuating and sly, I’d pretend I didn’t hear. If he wrote on the bathroom walls, I pretended I didn’t see. There were other people with my name, after all. Eventually he got tired of playing a game without a partner, and disappeared for the last semester of my college career.
Fuck that shit was one of the best lessons I learned in school, frankly. I apply it on a daily basis, still. I wish I’d just been a little quicker on the uptake.
One of my readers yesterday commented that it was so ‘very me’ to have found a four-year fuckbuddy in my first hour of freedom on my college campus. In a way, I suppose it is. But to squash the illusion that I am some gifted superstud with a supernatural ability to ferret out the good fucks in any situation I’m in, let me assure you that within the first day of arriving at college, I had my first stalker as well.
I wasn’t the most social kid at my college. I was a year younger than most of the freshman, and I’m pretty sure it showed. Tall and gangly though I might have been, I still was an extremely young-looking seventeen when I left for school. I was quiet where the other kids on my dorm hallway were loud and crazy. My roommate was a bit of a lout who, the moment his parents disappeared, began drinking so much beer that he was drunk by 4:30 and had vomited all over his bed, his desk, and out in the hallway before nightfall. The other guys on my hall thought he was hil-ar-ious, and had turned my dorm room into party central.
So I took advantage of my first couple of days at school to find all the places on campus where guys went for sex. There were a few.
I’d already located the basement of the student center with the French professor. I went back after dinner and sucked off an older student in the same place. Then I discovered that the first floor of the campus center had a little action going on itself. I cruised the library and found that the second and third floors in the stacks were a place to find dick even fairly late in the day. I sussed out a toilet in the psych building with some promising graffiti, though I wasn’t sure it would pan out as a sex spot. (It never did.)
And then I found the tourist restroom.
My college, I’ve said before, is one that was adjunct to the tourist spot of Colonial Williamsburg, that quaint living history display of pre-revolutionary America. When one left the modern campus and walked through its most historic buildings to the very front, the tourist attraction sprawled out before one, across the street. First was a buffer of gift shops and restaurants known as Merchant’s Square. A couple of blocks below began the attractions.
Between Merchant’s Square and the historic area proper, however, was a small visitor’s information center. The tour busses stopped there every ten minutes, disgorging dozens of passengers who’d collect maps or buy tickets at the tiny booth within. It was little more than a satellite information booth, of course—the real ticketing and information center was an air-conditioned behemoth of a building a couple of miles away. I spent so much time at the small visitor’s center, however, because of the men’s room. It was perfectly set up for cruising.
In the men’s room were three stalls and three or four urinals. They were set perpendicular to each other in the room so that through the cracks of any of the stalls, one commanded an unobstructed view of men whipping out their dicks and peeing. Or, more often than I thought probable, stroking themselves to hardness and showing them off to the men behind the stall doors. The place sometimes seemed to have as many cruisers as urinators. Handsome tourist daddies free of their families for a few seconds would become hardened perverts, masturbating themselves into the urinals while men watched. Professors from campus would come down, unzip, and find a willing mouth in which to relieve themselves. A couple of the bolder students, myself included, would visit and feast on the buffet of dick presented with every new busload. I’m not exaggerating when I say the place was like a Roman orgy—at all times of day, really, but particularly at night.
I also found out that first night at school how the tiny little park behind the rest center, scarcely more than a handkerchief of grass and two park benches, was where men went to get into activities more involved than practical for a small restroom. When night fell, the only people in the darkness there were guys fucking—sometimes ten to twelve of them, making no more noise than the occasional grunt or sigh of relief when they came. I don’t remember exactly who got me that first night. It was just strange dick to me, and I welcomed several in my mouth and a couple in my ass in that little park before finally I slunk back to my dorm room, where the guys were still drinking in the dorm hall and bullshitting about all the pussy they’d fucked.
Freshmen had about a week of orientation before classes actually started. I found myself with some free time the next day, so back to the visitor center I went. I spent about an hour watching men pee and getting the occasional flash of an erect dick, but at midday the center was too busy to be conducive for action. I wasn’t getting any, in other words. After a while, though, someone came in and sat in the middle stall, next to me. We did the dance of the tapping toes. A moment later, he handed me a note beneath the stall, written on toilet paper and wrapped around a pen. Would you like to go somewhere else? he wrote.
Sure, I wrote back.
I know a spot where we can talk and stuff.
Okay, I scrawled, and waited for him to pull up his pants and go so I could follow him.
But no, he had more to say. Are you really going to follow me?
Yes. Yes, yes, a hundred times yes, I thought to myself. Just get going!
After what seemed an eternity, he finally rebuckled his trousers and left. I followed him out a moment later, and looked around for the guy with the shoes I’d seen once I was outside in Merchant’s Square.
I wasn’t too pleased with what I found, either. The guy was not at all attractive. He was obese, for one thing. While I’d been with big men before (and since) and hadn’t really minded very much, there was something off about the fellow that didn’t make me want to follow him. He couldn’t have been older than thirty or thirty-two, but he dressed like an eighty-year-old in cheap synthetics with elastic at the waistband and snaps instead of buttons; even his dock siders looked as if they’d been extruded in shiny plastic. He was effeminate to the point that his shiny shirt had a not-so-subtle floral print. His eyes were tiny and set far back in the shrunken apple doll head that was his face. He was just an all-over not very attractive man.
But I was young and stupid, and instead of disappearing into the crowd as I should have, I decided to do the polite thing and go through with it, even though every atom of my body was telling me not to.
When he said he knew a place to talk, he wasn’t kidding about talking, whereas I’d been expecting more ‘and stuff.’ He took me to a little green alley by the Governor’s Palace where tourists didn’t really venture—only Williamsburg employees rushing to and from an employee restroom hidden behind a privet hedge nearby. He sat down on the grass with his ankles crossed like a kindergartener, and settled his hands onto his lap and stared at me while I sat across from him, but not too near. He was like a baby and a gross old man, all wrapped up in one unappetizing package. “What’s your name?” he asked. Like a fool, I told him. He addressed me with it. “So you’re a homossssexual,” he said.
I stared at him. I was a restroom cocksucker, and a park slut. I had been bent over picnic tables and thrust up against trees and had my head knocked against urinals. I’d seen more dicks than the average urologist and done it in every conceivable position and variation, but I’d never had anyone who had intentions of banging me sit down and make me identify my sexuality.
“I think it’s best that you admit you have homosexual leanings,” he said, smiling patiently. I was furious. I almost wondered if he was some kind of evangelist who’d infiltrated the restrooms to find gay guys to proselytize. “Well, sugar, you’re lucky you found me,” he said, reaching out to clasp my knee. I scooted back to avoid his touch. “I’ll be gentle your first time, unlike most of the brutes who hang out in that place.”
Now I understood. He thought I was a virgin, cruising the restroom for the first time. “You know, I don’t want to. . . .” I started to mumble.
“Of course you don’t want to be a homosexual,” he said. “It's awful. But you are. You should just admit it.” I wasn’t going to admit anything to this weirdo. If I’d been bolder or more assertive—in short, if I’d been then the man I am now—I would’ve excused myself, or simply said something like, Listen, bub, you’ve got the wrong impression about me. But I was not as adroit then, and unused to maneuvering out of a sticky situation. He used my name again. “Do you want me to tell you the names of famous homosexuals throughout history? Or do you want to hold hands?”
I did not. So I did what I shouldn’t have done, which was to bolt. I mean, I stood up and ran like a wild man, pell-mell down that little gravel alley, kicking up colonial dust in my wake. The entire time it happened, the enormous baby-man yelled out my name in my wake.
The nightmare should’ve been over at that point, but no. When I went back to the visitor center that night, thinking I could get some dick without a hassle, I sat down in one of the stalls and started jacking myself erect when I looked to my right and saw my name scrawled on the partition, in black marker. It makes me sad you can’t admit what you are, it said. My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I yanked up my pants and recomposed myself. Before I left, though, it struck me to check out the other stalls. Sure enough, he’d written in all three. You are a homosexual, it said in the middle one, with my name prominently attached. In the third, beneath my name, it said, Admit the truth.
I have to confess here that what upset me so much wasn't the notion that I was gay. I had kind of figured that out, by this point. It was that he used my name, so publicly. In a panic, I left the men’s room and walked out to the little park where I’d had so much fun the night before. Men were moving in the gray shadows. I couldn’t make out what they were doing, exactly, but I was sure I wanted a part of it. A tall man brushed by me. The tips of his fingers stroked the corduroy of my pants. He looked back over his shoulder and jerked his head for me to follow.
Then I heard a familiar voice from the bench, saying my name loudly and breaking the hushed spell of the park. “Fancy seeing you here,” said the baby-man, in the most meaningful of tones.
I fled again, as he called my accursed name at my back.
In short, I allowed myself to become victim to someone who delighted in making me uncomfortable. These days, I know pretty much how to handle it. Then, I didn’t have the resources or experience. I’d avoid the park and the visitor center for a couple of weeks at a time, then go back for a few days and enjoy myself until I ran into the baby-man again. He would always use my name, very loudly and prissily, as if he took great pleasure in embarrassing the hell out of me. From time to time he would refresh the graffiti, coming up with fresh words to rekindle the hell of my mortification.
It’s hard to believe now that I allowed that shit to go on for three and a half years. It wasn’t until my senior year that I got rid of the guy. I used to meet up with a guy who worked for Williamsburg as a slave—by which I mean he was an actor from Brooklyn who was paid pretty well to strip to the waist, adopt an African accent, and portray a colonial slave, of course—who would change into street clothes and hang out at the park with me on warm nights. He was a muscular man of great comeliness who always made me feel very flattered when we’d make out and swap blowjobs in the bushes. When one night I started to flee because of the baby-man, he made me stop and listened to my complaints. “Oh, that old queen,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Fuck that shit,” he said. “Just pretend he’s not there and do whatever it is you want. That’ll make him stop.”
I was dubious, but I took the advice. And sure enough, once I pretended I didn’t care, the baby-man left me alone. When he’d call out my name and say something insinuating and sly, I’d pretend I didn’t hear. If he wrote on the bathroom walls, I pretended I didn’t see. There were other people with my name, after all. Eventually he got tired of playing a game without a partner, and disappeared for the last semester of my college career.
Fuck that shit was one of the best lessons I learned in school, frankly. I apply it on a daily basis, still. I wish I’d just been a little quicker on the uptake.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The French Professor
At the little southern college I attended, he was the most senior of the French faculty, yet I never heard him speak the language. He was a tall man, balding, with a fringe of pewter-colored hair around the shiny dome of his head.
When I started college at seventeen, he had one of the largest cocks I’d ever seen.
I met the French professor the first day my parents dropped me off in the hot, humid tourist town that would be my home for four years. I’d arrived at my freshman dormitory early in the morning and had dropped off my books and clothes and meager belongings in the little room I was sharing with a stranger from New Hampshire. I opted to skip out of some kind of pep rally at the stadium to attend an orientation day box-lunch one woman show given by Anne Baxter, who of course played Eve Harrington in All About Eve.
As I sat there in the darkened gymnasium eating a dry ham sandwich and balancing little cups of potato salad and sweet tea, Baxter stood up in front of a slide projector and talked about Bette Davis and the ups and downs of her life. I became conscious of something: this was it. It was the last few moments of my life as an extension of my parents’ household. When that clock reached the top of the hour, the show would be over and my folks would be driving back to Richmond and leaving me on my very own, for the first time in my life. The realization made the minutes fly by quickly. Soon I was out in the hallway with hundreds of parents off to say their final goodbyes to the other fledglings about to fly from the nest.
When I started college at seventeen, he had one of the largest cocks I’d ever seen.
I met the French professor the first day my parents dropped me off in the hot, humid tourist town that would be my home for four years. I’d arrived at my freshman dormitory early in the morning and had dropped off my books and clothes and meager belongings in the little room I was sharing with a stranger from New Hampshire. I opted to skip out of some kind of pep rally at the stadium to attend an orientation day box-lunch one woman show given by Anne Baxter, who of course played Eve Harrington in All About Eve.
As I sat there in the darkened gymnasium eating a dry ham sandwich and balancing little cups of potato salad and sweet tea, Baxter stood up in front of a slide projector and talked about Bette Davis and the ups and downs of her life. I became conscious of something: this was it. It was the last few moments of my life as an extension of my parents’ household. When that clock reached the top of the hour, the show would be over and my folks would be driving back to Richmond and leaving me on my very own, for the first time in my life. The realization made the minutes fly by quickly. Soon I was out in the hallway with hundreds of parents off to say their final goodbyes to the other fledglings about to fly from the nest.
I stood with my own mother and father, hands thrust deep into the pockets of my corduroys, wishing that the whole goodbye thing could be skipped, or at least compacted to as short as possible. “Well, okay then,” I said, and gave them awkward hugs.
After some hugs and suppressed tears, they were off. I had two hours to kill before the mandatory lecture on the school honor system. I could have gone back to the dorm and made friends with my roommate, or headed over to the last of the stadium antics. Instead, I did what any seventeen-year-old on his own for the first time in his life did with the first hour of freedom. I went hunting for dick.
I didn’t actually intend to find any cock that day. I thought it might be a wise thing, however, to check out all the possible cruisy spots on campus so that I’d know where to go when I was ready. Hey, it sounded like an efficient use of my time, in the moment.
But that’s how I found myself in a dark, quiet hallway in the campus center basement. The school’s paper had an office nearby, but other than the quiet sounds of a few people talking from within its open door, this particular corner of the student center was empty. I knew I was onto something right away when I found the men’s room there was vast, cavernous, and shaped like a large U. One entered at the top left of the U, walked past a row of mirrors and sinks, made the hairpin turn, and then found the other half of the room with the urinals and toilet stalls. I settled in the middle of the three stalls with my pants around my ankles, dick in hand, and tried to make out the scratched hieroglyphics of faded graffiti.
I wasn’t waiting long before I heard the outer door creak open and someone make his way to the stalls. I noted with satisfaction that the time between the door opening to the time the footsteps sounded across from my door was a good eight or nine seconds—plenty of time to get settled if I ever was interrupted in the middle of a sex act, there. The guy opened the door to the stall to my left, undid his belt, and let his pants drop with a crash of the buckle. When I looked beneath the marble partition, I could see that he was probably an older man, judging by the tan slacks he wore and the tan suede bucks on his feet. The rightmost foot lifted up and tapped, and shifted in my direction.
I knew the drill. I tapped my sneaker, and brought it close to his. His buck closed the gap between our feet and rubbed up against mine, tapping and nudging me lovingly. I saw the shadows shift in his stall as he knelt down. “Open your door, son,” he whispered at me.
I obeyed. And that’s when I saw the French professor for the first time. Fully erect, he was a monster—I know one of my readers who’s an alumnus of the university could give an estimate of how large the guy really was, but I know it had to be over nine inches. When he was hard, the man was rock hard, too, especially for a guy who had to be in his late fifties at the very least.
“Do you suck?” he wanted to know. I nodded. “Suck me, then.” I thrilled to the order and set to work.
I bobbed back and forth on his dick while he leaned back against the marble partition and watched. He enjoyed looking down at me, I recall, and occasionally brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool. He never said much, but he always managed to make clear exactly what he wanted.
The French Professor knew how to kiss, too. From time to time he’d have me come up for air from his dick. He’d lift me to my feet and we’d stand there in the stall, our heads and shoulders protruding above the tops of the partitions for anyone to see had they come in. His arms would be around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue deep within. I’m six-foot-three, and he somehow managed to make me feel small, and young, and fragile. He’d play with my butt as we kiss; two of his fingers insistently toyed with the outside of my hole.
I don’t know how long I sucked him that first day, but I remember thinking it a miracle we were never interrupted. At last he stood me up a last time, turned me around so that he could sit on the toilet, and took my dick in his mouth.
I came almost immediately. He swallowed my load in a couple of gulps and then pulled up his pants and his hard dick inside them, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Freshman?” he asked. I nodded. “First day?” I nodded again. He really had me pegged. “Welcome to college.”
I saw the French professor all through my college career. If he saw me lingering in the television room at the campus center he’d pause outside the door and gaze in, as if watching MTV with the rest of us. Once our eyes would catch, I’d gather my knapsack and head outside to the first floor men’s room with him. Or, if that was busy, we’d head to either the basement or the second floor. Sometimes he’d see me at the campus library, and we’d retire to one of the men’s rooms there to suck each other off. And sometimes he’d find me studying under a tree somewhere on the picturesque college campus. Every time, in library or classroom or in the outdoors, when I was in earshot, he’d always ask, “Do you have time to take a walk?”
Always polite, always friendly, the French professor. He made me happy to gather my books and belongings and step away with him. Usually we'd make a beeline to the nearest quiet restroom, but sometimes we'd use his office. When he discovered I worked at an ice cream store off campus, he would visit there with his pretty young wife and his grade school children, and buy the family ice cream while talking to me as if I were one of his former students. Then, after he’d paid and I’d be holding out my hand with the change in it, his own large hand would clasp over mine and hold it for a few seconds, with meaning, until at last he’d let me release the coins into his palm.
The last time I saw him was two years after my graduation, when I returned to campus for a retirement party of a favorite old professor. I’d gone looking for him in the little corner where the French department had its offices. His door was locked. I cursed my bad timing and took the staircase outdoors, only to find him entering the building. “Hey,” I said, blushing a little at the sight of him. “I don’t know if you remember me, but. . . .”
“Of course I remember you,” he said, leaning against the wall and smiling. “You graduated.”
“I did.” I’d come prepared with a speech, something about how I thought I’d pop in and say hello for old times’ sake, but the words wouldn't come out.
They didn’t need to. His voice was low and throaty as he leaned close. “So, do you have time to take a walk?”
I always had time for my favorite French professor.
After some hugs and suppressed tears, they were off. I had two hours to kill before the mandatory lecture on the school honor system. I could have gone back to the dorm and made friends with my roommate, or headed over to the last of the stadium antics. Instead, I did what any seventeen-year-old on his own for the first time in his life did with the first hour of freedom. I went hunting for dick.
I didn’t actually intend to find any cock that day. I thought it might be a wise thing, however, to check out all the possible cruisy spots on campus so that I’d know where to go when I was ready. Hey, it sounded like an efficient use of my time, in the moment.
But that’s how I found myself in a dark, quiet hallway in the campus center basement. The school’s paper had an office nearby, but other than the quiet sounds of a few people talking from within its open door, this particular corner of the student center was empty. I knew I was onto something right away when I found the men’s room there was vast, cavernous, and shaped like a large U. One entered at the top left of the U, walked past a row of mirrors and sinks, made the hairpin turn, and then found the other half of the room with the urinals and toilet stalls. I settled in the middle of the three stalls with my pants around my ankles, dick in hand, and tried to make out the scratched hieroglyphics of faded graffiti.
I wasn’t waiting long before I heard the outer door creak open and someone make his way to the stalls. I noted with satisfaction that the time between the door opening to the time the footsteps sounded across from my door was a good eight or nine seconds—plenty of time to get settled if I ever was interrupted in the middle of a sex act, there. The guy opened the door to the stall to my left, undid his belt, and let his pants drop with a crash of the buckle. When I looked beneath the marble partition, I could see that he was probably an older man, judging by the tan slacks he wore and the tan suede bucks on his feet. The rightmost foot lifted up and tapped, and shifted in my direction.
I knew the drill. I tapped my sneaker, and brought it close to his. His buck closed the gap between our feet and rubbed up against mine, tapping and nudging me lovingly. I saw the shadows shift in his stall as he knelt down. “Open your door, son,” he whispered at me.
I obeyed. And that’s when I saw the French professor for the first time. Fully erect, he was a monster—I know one of my readers who’s an alumnus of the university could give an estimate of how large the guy really was, but I know it had to be over nine inches. When he was hard, the man was rock hard, too, especially for a guy who had to be in his late fifties at the very least.
“Do you suck?” he wanted to know. I nodded. “Suck me, then.” I thrilled to the order and set to work.
I bobbed back and forth on his dick while he leaned back against the marble partition and watched. He enjoyed looking down at me, I recall, and occasionally brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool. He never said much, but he always managed to make clear exactly what he wanted.
The French Professor knew how to kiss, too. From time to time he’d have me come up for air from his dick. He’d lift me to my feet and we’d stand there in the stall, our heads and shoulders protruding above the tops of the partitions for anyone to see had they come in. His arms would be around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue deep within. I’m six-foot-three, and he somehow managed to make me feel small, and young, and fragile. He’d play with my butt as we kiss; two of his fingers insistently toyed with the outside of my hole.
I don’t know how long I sucked him that first day, but I remember thinking it a miracle we were never interrupted. At last he stood me up a last time, turned me around so that he could sit on the toilet, and took my dick in his mouth.
I came almost immediately. He swallowed my load in a couple of gulps and then pulled up his pants and his hard dick inside them, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Freshman?” he asked. I nodded. “First day?” I nodded again. He really had me pegged. “Welcome to college.”
I saw the French professor all through my college career. If he saw me lingering in the television room at the campus center he’d pause outside the door and gaze in, as if watching MTV with the rest of us. Once our eyes would catch, I’d gather my knapsack and head outside to the first floor men’s room with him. Or, if that was busy, we’d head to either the basement or the second floor. Sometimes he’d see me at the campus library, and we’d retire to one of the men’s rooms there to suck each other off. And sometimes he’d find me studying under a tree somewhere on the picturesque college campus. Every time, in library or classroom or in the outdoors, when I was in earshot, he’d always ask, “Do you have time to take a walk?”
Always polite, always friendly, the French professor. He made me happy to gather my books and belongings and step away with him. Usually we'd make a beeline to the nearest quiet restroom, but sometimes we'd use his office. When he discovered I worked at an ice cream store off campus, he would visit there with his pretty young wife and his grade school children, and buy the family ice cream while talking to me as if I were one of his former students. Then, after he’d paid and I’d be holding out my hand with the change in it, his own large hand would clasp over mine and hold it for a few seconds, with meaning, until at last he’d let me release the coins into his palm.
The last time I saw him was two years after my graduation, when I returned to campus for a retirement party of a favorite old professor. I’d gone looking for him in the little corner where the French department had its offices. His door was locked. I cursed my bad timing and took the staircase outdoors, only to find him entering the building. “Hey,” I said, blushing a little at the sight of him. “I don’t know if you remember me, but. . . .”
“Of course I remember you,” he said, leaning against the wall and smiling. “You graduated.”
“I did.” I’d come prepared with a speech, something about how I thought I’d pop in and say hello for old times’ sake, but the words wouldn't come out.
They didn’t need to. His voice was low and throaty as he leaned close. “So, do you have time to take a walk?”
I always had time for my favorite French professor.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
An Open Letter to the Hungry Bottoms of the World
Dear Bottoms of the World,
You know I love you guys. I love your round butts, furry or smooth. I love the way you bend over and look back at me with an expectant look in your eyes, or lift up your legs and roll your head back while you close your eyes. The sounds you make excite me—the grunts, the moans, the little whimpers. Sometimes the outright shouts, or the animal noises you’re not even aware you’re making as I slide into you.
I love the way you guys grind and thrust and hump the bed, the way you buck and twitch and thrash as if you’re going to expire, when you shoot with my dick inside you. You guys make my life a pleasure, and for that, this top guy thanks you.
However. May I make one simple request?
If you and I are unacquainted in the flesh—that is, if we’re talking for the first time, whether in some chat room, or via instant messenger, or by email thanks to some personal ad or hookup site—may I ask that one of the first questions out of your mouth not be, “Do you know any other tops?”
I am totally aware that a lot of you guys, if not most, harbor a fantasy of multiple tops invading your hole. Perhaps you dream of a three-way with one guy banging on your back door while the other’s knocking at the front. Maybe you’ve fantasized for a long time about being the guy in the sling in one of those gang-bang videos you’ve watched, where everyone has a turn. That’s all well and good. I think sexual fantasies are healthy. Share them with your partners, absolutely. You should feel free and open with your fuckmates to be able to say whatever comes to mind.
That is, after you’ve met them in person and enjoyed each other. You see, because when we’re in the negotiation phase of things before you and I have met, and you unleash the words “Do you know any other tops,” I’m certain that what you think you’re saying is I have a fantasy of taking multiple dicks—I’m a real nasty boy at heart! But what I’m actually hearing is There’s a high probability I’m a flake whose main objective is to masturbate really quickly while I talk to you. Perhaps it’s my own deep-seated insecurities, but when you persist, I start hearing things like, Your dick isn’t enough for me or even I’m not talking to you because I find you attractive so much as I'm hot at the notion I could meet other people you know.
My suggestion is to throttle it back, tiger.
If you want to mention that you’re open to such things, in the time we’re emailing back and forth, casually mention you’re into groups. If I wanted to invite another top to share your hole for our first meeting, I’d pick up on it at that point. Otherwise, meet me first. See if we’re a good team. Then you can ask your question. It’s only polite.
Also, at that point you’ll have proved a few things to me. You’ll have shown that you show up to an appointed date—which is good to know, because I’ve been left high and dry a couple of times sitting around with a top buddy when a bottom dude I didn’t know chickened out at the last minute. You’ll have shown me that you can take an extended fucking (I hope) and that you won’t be whining for breaks in the action, when you’ve got a group of hard-dicked men all looking to poke you for relief. And finally you’ll have proven that you’re into me, and not just my little black book. Or at least you’ll have feigned it really, really well.
That’s important to me. Because arranging a meeting between you and me is tough enough, sometimes. Getting a third guy involved increases the difficulty. And more guys after that? You’re talking vanishing returns. If you really want me to arrange a three-way for you, I’m more likely to do it after you’ve proved you’re a bottom who can handle it, and for whom I want to go to a certain degree of trouble.
I’ll do it. I’m all for it. I just want to know you’re worth it.
And that’s the kind of thing I’m not likely to know when the only thing you’ve said to me so far is, “Wow dude, amazing dick.”
Until we meet,
The Breeder
You know I love you guys. I love your round butts, furry or smooth. I love the way you bend over and look back at me with an expectant look in your eyes, or lift up your legs and roll your head back while you close your eyes. The sounds you make excite me—the grunts, the moans, the little whimpers. Sometimes the outright shouts, or the animal noises you’re not even aware you’re making as I slide into you.
I love the way you guys grind and thrust and hump the bed, the way you buck and twitch and thrash as if you’re going to expire, when you shoot with my dick inside you. You guys make my life a pleasure, and for that, this top guy thanks you.
However. May I make one simple request?
If you and I are unacquainted in the flesh—that is, if we’re talking for the first time, whether in some chat room, or via instant messenger, or by email thanks to some personal ad or hookup site—may I ask that one of the first questions out of your mouth not be, “Do you know any other tops?”
I am totally aware that a lot of you guys, if not most, harbor a fantasy of multiple tops invading your hole. Perhaps you dream of a three-way with one guy banging on your back door while the other’s knocking at the front. Maybe you’ve fantasized for a long time about being the guy in the sling in one of those gang-bang videos you’ve watched, where everyone has a turn. That’s all well and good. I think sexual fantasies are healthy. Share them with your partners, absolutely. You should feel free and open with your fuckmates to be able to say whatever comes to mind.
That is, after you’ve met them in person and enjoyed each other. You see, because when we’re in the negotiation phase of things before you and I have met, and you unleash the words “Do you know any other tops,” I’m certain that what you think you’re saying is I have a fantasy of taking multiple dicks—I’m a real nasty boy at heart! But what I’m actually hearing is There’s a high probability I’m a flake whose main objective is to masturbate really quickly while I talk to you. Perhaps it’s my own deep-seated insecurities, but when you persist, I start hearing things like, Your dick isn’t enough for me or even I’m not talking to you because I find you attractive so much as I'm hot at the notion I could meet other people you know.
My suggestion is to throttle it back, tiger.
If you want to mention that you’re open to such things, in the time we’re emailing back and forth, casually mention you’re into groups. If I wanted to invite another top to share your hole for our first meeting, I’d pick up on it at that point. Otherwise, meet me first. See if we’re a good team. Then you can ask your question. It’s only polite.
Also, at that point you’ll have proved a few things to me. You’ll have shown that you show up to an appointed date—which is good to know, because I’ve been left high and dry a couple of times sitting around with a top buddy when a bottom dude I didn’t know chickened out at the last minute. You’ll have shown me that you can take an extended fucking (I hope) and that you won’t be whining for breaks in the action, when you’ve got a group of hard-dicked men all looking to poke you for relief. And finally you’ll have proven that you’re into me, and not just my little black book. Or at least you’ll have feigned it really, really well.
That’s important to me. Because arranging a meeting between you and me is tough enough, sometimes. Getting a third guy involved increases the difficulty. And more guys after that? You’re talking vanishing returns. If you really want me to arrange a three-way for you, I’m more likely to do it after you’ve proved you’re a bottom who can handle it, and for whom I want to go to a certain degree of trouble.
I’ll do it. I’m all for it. I just want to know you’re worth it.
And that’s the kind of thing I’m not likely to know when the only thing you’ve said to me so far is, “Wow dude, amazing dick.”
Until we meet,
The Breeder
Monday, September 6, 2010
Labor Day Well-Wishing
Gentle readers,
I'm still a little bit down from the events of the weekend. Judging from the website statistics of the past couple of days, everyone's out of town or at the beach anyway. So in lieu of an entry today, let me just wish all of Breeder's Readers a most happy, warm, and sandy Labor Day, and safe travels to those of you fortunate to be spending the holiday in some nice vacation spot.
Oh, and a click-to-enlarge dirty photo:
I'm still a little bit down from the events of the weekend. Judging from the website statistics of the past couple of days, everyone's out of town or at the beach anyway. So in lieu of an entry today, let me just wish all of Breeder's Readers a most happy, warm, and sandy Labor Day, and safe travels to those of you fortunate to be spending the holiday in some nice vacation spot.
Oh, and a click-to-enlarge dirty photo:
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: Labor Day Weekend Edition
We've had a bit of a sad weekend in the Breeder's household, as one of our pets was taken ill and had to be put to sleep, Saturday. So we're all a little bit more sober and sad—and that's all I really have to say about that. If you have pets yourself, readers, give them an extra treat or hug them a little more closely today.
As is usual for a Sunday, I'll be compiling some of the queries I've lately answered on formspring.me, that curiously addictive service in which one's online acquaintance may ask (anonymously or not) whatever questions come to mind. If you have a question, don't be shy. Submit it through the service, or email me directly through the link in the sidebar.
I am a fan of your blog. Have you ever considered doing a weekly podcast? I know there are a lot of us that would subscribe!
Your suggestion made me chuckle, but I'm laughing with you, not at you. I kind of doubt that anyone wants to hear me pontificating on a podcast. I tend to do my best talking when growling in someone's ear. From behind.
I love the honesty and vulnerability you show in your blog. Would you ever consider retiring as "The Breeder" and just keeping Scruffy as your bottom? I'm very jealous of him by the way. :-)
I'm too much of a horndog to be monogamous that way. I'm also not possessive enough to want to keep someone like Scruffy out of other mens' beds.
Sex to me is a way of connecting with other people. I really enjoy finding out how different men respond to my attentions, and learning more about them through the ways in which our bodies connect. The prospect of not having to learn about other people that way seems almost as perilous as losing another sense, like sight or hearing.
Lots of your readers talk about how much they want to have sex with you. How many actually have?
Three. Two by appointment, and one sprang it on me after I blogged about him.
It should be more, dammit!
Have you ever had sex with a Roman Catholic priest?
Two of them, yes.
While having sex with someone and learning more about them through the ways your bodies connect have you ever learned something you did not want to?
First of all, thank you. This was a really interesting question.
One of the most common things I learn about people through sex is the measure of their sincerity. When I'm inside of someone and they're really in the moment, and responding to the things I'm doing and letting their body relax and tense in entirely natural ways, I can almost guarantee that they're the kind of person with whom I'll get along outside of the bedroom.
When I'm fucking someone and they're doing it in a rote way, or imitating some scene from porn they've seen, or faking their way through it, I'm never surprised when I later discover they bring degrees of insincerity to their everyday lives.
I wish I could tell you some bone-chilling story about making love to someone who was totally soulless and empty and then discovering they were a mass murderer, but I don't have one of those stories. I fully believe, however, that the way someone fucks is a micro-portrait of himself, and often more revealing an introduction than any words can form.
I have a regular bottom who wants to bring in another bottom. Got any advice for what will keep it fun for all?
If you're the only top with two bottoms, do one of two things. Divide your attentions between them, or focus on one at a time.
If you do the former, you'll be fucking one while keeping your hands busy on the other. While you're thrusting, keep your hands fingering the other's hole. Or verbally make him eat your ass, suck your tits, or make out with him. Keep him busy while you're enjoying the bottom of the moment, then switch off and do the same for the other. That way neither will feel neglected.
If you focus on one at a time, put on a damned good show. Make it like porn for the one who's watching--be aware that he's there and make him feel that everything you're doing to his buddy, you're doing for his enjoyment.
Either way, it's a win-win situation for you. Just relax and enjoy it.
How do you answer guys who question you about leading a double life?
I ask why they assume I am leading a double life.
How does it feel to have so many guys want you?
It would be infinitely more flattering if even a small portion acted upon it, that's for sure.
I am always flattered to be desired. Anyone who takes that for granted is a damned fool.
Have you ever had sex with any of your co-workers at your (former)place of gainful employment?
Years ago I had a student assistant who worked for me who would bend over my desk on a regular basis. Good times.
Your a smart person aren't you afraid by bare backing you get hiv or sphyllis?
We all take health risks with which we are comfortable. Yours may be smoking, drinking, poor diet, too much sugar, lack of exercise, too much stress, daredevil sports, living near a power substation, using your cell phone frequently, working with chemicals, driving while talking on the phone or texting, or any other number of life-threatening behaviors.
Merely because my acceptable risks are with sex does not automatically make them worse than yours.
If you could pack up and run away to start a new life right now, where would you go and what would you do?
Well, I am having to pack up and start a new life in a couple of months. But if I had an opportunity to drop all my current responsibilities without regret, leave, and start over again? I wouldn't. I like my life too much to abandon it.
Running away is a romantic notion at times, though. I've sometimes yearned for it when I've met someone I find sweet and companionable.
If you suspected that a stranger & candidate for your physical favors & intercourse might be too young to risk fooling with, have you ever asked to see his driver's license or other proof of age?
I have done just that, yes.
You spent your youth in the South. Did you ever have a drawl/accent? Do you now?
I grew up with a mild accent—enough that on my first visit to New York City in my college years, the taxi cab driver I talked to immediately after deboarding the plane said, "Wow, you're from the South, aren't you?"
Years of having my accent mocked in the midwest has more or less erased it, though it returns when I visit home for an extended period. That's the midwest for you. They surely like to brag about how tolerant and advanced they are, but they love to make fun of accents that aren't their own. And races other than white.
What is Garlic Whip and do you have a recipe you can share for it. It sounds something like Hummus, which I really, really like!
I'm a hummus lover too. Had it for lunch, actually. Garlic whip is an emulsion, like mayonnaise. Here's a recipe I like. Note that it's four bulbs of garlic, not four cloves!
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Lebanese-Garlic-Sauce/Detail.aspx
Mmm, it's a wonder anyone ever makes out with me.
Do you lubricate when you masturbate alone?
Not usually. I produce a lot of pre-cum that renders lubing unnecessary.
I have been a bottom my entire life. My boyfriend wants me to top occasionally but I just can't stay hard. Do you have any advice? I have tried many different things without success.
I have a friend who swears by (and I've recommended this before) a masturbation sleeve like a Fleshjack. Like you, he was primarily a bottom and had problems maintaining an erection when he topped. He swears up and down that practicing on a Fleshjack made him a longer-lasting and rigid top.
If it doesn't work for you, and little blue pills don't help, you might want to consider that you're simply not wired that way. There's no shame in preferring to bottom, after all. You might consider bringing in a third party to fuck your boyfriend. And you. Like me. Just a subtle hint.
As is usual for a Sunday, I'll be compiling some of the queries I've lately answered on formspring.me, that curiously addictive service in which one's online acquaintance may ask (anonymously or not) whatever questions come to mind. If you have a question, don't be shy. Submit it through the service, or email me directly through the link in the sidebar.
I am a fan of your blog. Have you ever considered doing a weekly podcast? I know there are a lot of us that would subscribe!
Your suggestion made me chuckle, but I'm laughing with you, not at you. I kind of doubt that anyone wants to hear me pontificating on a podcast. I tend to do my best talking when growling in someone's ear. From behind.
I love the honesty and vulnerability you show in your blog. Would you ever consider retiring as "The Breeder" and just keeping Scruffy as your bottom? I'm very jealous of him by the way. :-)
I'm too much of a horndog to be monogamous that way. I'm also not possessive enough to want to keep someone like Scruffy out of other mens' beds.
Sex to me is a way of connecting with other people. I really enjoy finding out how different men respond to my attentions, and learning more about them through the ways in which our bodies connect. The prospect of not having to learn about other people that way seems almost as perilous as losing another sense, like sight or hearing.
Lots of your readers talk about how much they want to have sex with you. How many actually have?
Three. Two by appointment, and one sprang it on me after I blogged about him.
It should be more, dammit!
Have you ever had sex with a Roman Catholic priest?
Two of them, yes.
While having sex with someone and learning more about them through the ways your bodies connect have you ever learned something you did not want to?
First of all, thank you. This was a really interesting question.
One of the most common things I learn about people through sex is the measure of their sincerity. When I'm inside of someone and they're really in the moment, and responding to the things I'm doing and letting their body relax and tense in entirely natural ways, I can almost guarantee that they're the kind of person with whom I'll get along outside of the bedroom.
When I'm fucking someone and they're doing it in a rote way, or imitating some scene from porn they've seen, or faking their way through it, I'm never surprised when I later discover they bring degrees of insincerity to their everyday lives.
I wish I could tell you some bone-chilling story about making love to someone who was totally soulless and empty and then discovering they were a mass murderer, but I don't have one of those stories. I fully believe, however, that the way someone fucks is a micro-portrait of himself, and often more revealing an introduction than any words can form.
I have a regular bottom who wants to bring in another bottom. Got any advice for what will keep it fun for all?
If you're the only top with two bottoms, do one of two things. Divide your attentions between them, or focus on one at a time.
If you do the former, you'll be fucking one while keeping your hands busy on the other. While you're thrusting, keep your hands fingering the other's hole. Or verbally make him eat your ass, suck your tits, or make out with him. Keep him busy while you're enjoying the bottom of the moment, then switch off and do the same for the other. That way neither will feel neglected.
If you focus on one at a time, put on a damned good show. Make it like porn for the one who's watching--be aware that he's there and make him feel that everything you're doing to his buddy, you're doing for his enjoyment.
Either way, it's a win-win situation for you. Just relax and enjoy it.
How do you answer guys who question you about leading a double life?
I ask why they assume I am leading a double life.
How does it feel to have so many guys want you?
It would be infinitely more flattering if even a small portion acted upon it, that's for sure.
I am always flattered to be desired. Anyone who takes that for granted is a damned fool.
Have you ever had sex with any of your co-workers at your (former)place of gainful employment?
Years ago I had a student assistant who worked for me who would bend over my desk on a regular basis. Good times.
Your a smart person aren't you afraid by bare backing you get hiv or sphyllis?
We all take health risks with which we are comfortable. Yours may be smoking, drinking, poor diet, too much sugar, lack of exercise, too much stress, daredevil sports, living near a power substation, using your cell phone frequently, working with chemicals, driving while talking on the phone or texting, or any other number of life-threatening behaviors.
Merely because my acceptable risks are with sex does not automatically make them worse than yours.
If you could pack up and run away to start a new life right now, where would you go and what would you do?
Well, I am having to pack up and start a new life in a couple of months. But if I had an opportunity to drop all my current responsibilities without regret, leave, and start over again? I wouldn't. I like my life too much to abandon it.
Running away is a romantic notion at times, though. I've sometimes yearned for it when I've met someone I find sweet and companionable.
If you suspected that a stranger & candidate for your physical favors & intercourse might be too young to risk fooling with, have you ever asked to see his driver's license or other proof of age?
I have done just that, yes.
You spent your youth in the South. Did you ever have a drawl/accent? Do you now?
I grew up with a mild accent—enough that on my first visit to New York City in my college years, the taxi cab driver I talked to immediately after deboarding the plane said, "Wow, you're from the South, aren't you?"
Years of having my accent mocked in the midwest has more or less erased it, though it returns when I visit home for an extended period. That's the midwest for you. They surely like to brag about how tolerant and advanced they are, but they love to make fun of accents that aren't their own. And races other than white.
What is Garlic Whip and do you have a recipe you can share for it. It sounds something like Hummus, which I really, really like!
I'm a hummus lover too. Had it for lunch, actually. Garlic whip is an emulsion, like mayonnaise. Here's a recipe I like. Note that it's four bulbs of garlic, not four cloves!
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Lebanese-Garlic-Sauce/Detail.aspx
Mmm, it's a wonder anyone ever makes out with me.
Do you lubricate when you masturbate alone?
Not usually. I produce a lot of pre-cum that renders lubing unnecessary.
I have been a bottom my entire life. My boyfriend wants me to top occasionally but I just can't stay hard. Do you have any advice? I have tried many different things without success.
I have a friend who swears by (and I've recommended this before) a masturbation sleeve like a Fleshjack. Like you, he was primarily a bottom and had problems maintaining an erection when he topped. He swears up and down that practicing on a Fleshjack made him a longer-lasting and rigid top.
If it doesn't work for you, and little blue pills don't help, you might want to consider that you're simply not wired that way. There's no shame in preferring to bottom, after all. You might consider bringing in a third party to fuck your boyfriend. And you. Like me. Just a subtle hint.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
A Statement of Policy
One of the questions I used to get with frequency—though I haven't received it lately, for some reason—had to do with my blog's veracity. Usually it would be phrased in the form of, Come on, tell the truth, how much of this shit you write about is real? Because apparently if I were making it all up, I'd tumble like a house of cards before the confrontational tone and confess that I was twenty years older than I claim and a neurotic near-virgin with access to a good imagination and a thesaurus.
But no, everything I write about is right out of my life. It's the real, non-fictional deal. The events I describe are encounters I have from week to week—or from my past, if they're clearly indicated as being from previous years. The photos are mine. People who meet me in person will tell you (or at least I hope and think they will) that there's very little dissonance between my online persona and the type of guy I am when I'm sitting across a table from you in a bar or coffee shop, telling a story about my life. I therefore don't have a lot of vested interest in trying to persuade anyone I'm a super-stud, or a beast on the prowl, or a pick-up artist with an unparalleled track record.
I simply am what I am, and I lay that all out here, without apologies.
There are aspects of reality I fiddle with in my entries, I readily admit. One of the most frequent accusations I receive, mostly made in a veiled way, is along the lines of, "Nobody can shoot as many times as you in a single encounter!" I'm afraid I do. Yet I have on a couple of occasions—only two come to mind—fibbed about the number of orgasms I've had, in an entry.
I don't exaggerate them, though. I've cut climaxes out. In the "Cunt" entry, for example, I think I wrote about giving Cunt's hole two loads, when in reality I gave him three. I chopped one out because I was running short on writing time, and because occasional suggestions of exaggeration made me self-conscious about shoe-horning in the third orgasm, even though it took place.
Otherwise, the details I change are circumstantial. The names of individuals, for example, or their professions sometimes. I've altered the descriptions of a couple of people who would've been extremely distinctive otherwise. I eliminate information they might tell me that would give away an identity. In other words, I tend to be pretty protective in a lot of ways of my sexual partners. I don't want anyone harassed, or recognized, or singled out, because of the careless remarks of some random bareback blogger.
The other line of questioning I get most frequently—and as the questions about the 'realness' of my blog have gone down, these have increased—have to do with my family and home life. A lot of men are fascinated by what they imagine my situation must be. If I'm protective of my sexual partners, I'd like to say that I'm even more so of my nearest and dearest. That's why, as open as I tend to be about my picaresque sexual life, I tend not to talk very much about my home life with readers.
I will say this: I ask my readers, however, to check their assumptions at the door when they think about my home life. I've had all kinds of fantasies projected upon me, from treacherous cheat to anything-goes swinger. I'm not really one to conform to those archetypes. Don't assume that my home life is built upon any of them, and most especially don't assume that it's built on a foundation of lies and deceit. Your assumptions are likely to be wrong, if you do.
I'm writing this admission not to discourage people from writing me, or asking questions on formspring.me, or reaching out in any way. Rather, I'm hoping to explain why sometimes I discard or evade a very small handful of questions of the many asked of me. If they overstep that one boundary I try to maintain, you may find me weaselly, and I apologize for it. If the questions are outright aggressively invasive, I will probably ignore them altogether. I recognize and honor your curiosity. I merely reserve the right to keep some things to myself.
I'm also writing this non-sexual entry because I'm fundamentally lazy. It'll be easier in the future to point readers and correspondents here than it would be to type out my reasoning, every single time.
Thanks for bearing with me today, and enjoy your Labor Day weekend!
But no, everything I write about is right out of my life. It's the real, non-fictional deal. The events I describe are encounters I have from week to week—or from my past, if they're clearly indicated as being from previous years. The photos are mine. People who meet me in person will tell you (or at least I hope and think they will) that there's very little dissonance between my online persona and the type of guy I am when I'm sitting across a table from you in a bar or coffee shop, telling a story about my life. I therefore don't have a lot of vested interest in trying to persuade anyone I'm a super-stud, or a beast on the prowl, or a pick-up artist with an unparalleled track record.
I simply am what I am, and I lay that all out here, without apologies.
There are aspects of reality I fiddle with in my entries, I readily admit. One of the most frequent accusations I receive, mostly made in a veiled way, is along the lines of, "Nobody can shoot as many times as you in a single encounter!" I'm afraid I do. Yet I have on a couple of occasions—only two come to mind—fibbed about the number of orgasms I've had, in an entry.
I don't exaggerate them, though. I've cut climaxes out. In the "Cunt" entry, for example, I think I wrote about giving Cunt's hole two loads, when in reality I gave him three. I chopped one out because I was running short on writing time, and because occasional suggestions of exaggeration made me self-conscious about shoe-horning in the third orgasm, even though it took place.
Otherwise, the details I change are circumstantial. The names of individuals, for example, or their professions sometimes. I've altered the descriptions of a couple of people who would've been extremely distinctive otherwise. I eliminate information they might tell me that would give away an identity. In other words, I tend to be pretty protective in a lot of ways of my sexual partners. I don't want anyone harassed, or recognized, or singled out, because of the careless remarks of some random bareback blogger.
The other line of questioning I get most frequently—and as the questions about the 'realness' of my blog have gone down, these have increased—have to do with my family and home life. A lot of men are fascinated by what they imagine my situation must be. If I'm protective of my sexual partners, I'd like to say that I'm even more so of my nearest and dearest. That's why, as open as I tend to be about my picaresque sexual life, I tend not to talk very much about my home life with readers.
I will say this: I ask my readers, however, to check their assumptions at the door when they think about my home life. I've had all kinds of fantasies projected upon me, from treacherous cheat to anything-goes swinger. I'm not really one to conform to those archetypes. Don't assume that my home life is built upon any of them, and most especially don't assume that it's built on a foundation of lies and deceit. Your assumptions are likely to be wrong, if you do.
I'm writing this admission not to discourage people from writing me, or asking questions on formspring.me, or reaching out in any way. Rather, I'm hoping to explain why sometimes I discard or evade a very small handful of questions of the many asked of me. If they overstep that one boundary I try to maintain, you may find me weaselly, and I apologize for it. If the questions are outright aggressively invasive, I will probably ignore them altogether. I recognize and honor your curiosity. I merely reserve the right to keep some things to myself.
I'm also writing this non-sexual entry because I'm fundamentally lazy. It'll be easier in the future to point readers and correspondents here than it would be to type out my reasoning, every single time.
Thanks for bearing with me today, and enjoy your Labor Day weekend!
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