Dear gay and/or bisexual men of the tri-state area with online profiles,
I am a visually-oriented person.
Now, I know what you think that means. You’re assuming I’m telling you I need porn to get off. A hot movie playing on the TV, or a magazine with sticky pages sitting on the side of the bed. Maybe some good old-fashioned homemade nasty photos waiting to be flicked through on your iPhone. Yeah, that. Well, no. Not that at all.
What it really means is that my memory is shot. If you want me to keep track of who you are, I kind of need to know what you look like. That’s it.
I know you’ve got a really memorable profile name fashioned from letters and numbers that may seem random to me—like cbtg432—but make perfect sense to you. Or maybe you’ve chosen a name like nybottom123 to distinguish yourself from the hundred and twenty-two New York bottoms who boldly tread before. You’ve made a lot of effort to keep your profile cryptic, with all your Ask Mes and Not Answereds. I get it. You like that veil of mystery that lures the guys in. You really, really want them to ask you. It’s not just that you overlooked the questions. I understand.
But you know, there’s something about those profiles in which they all start really to run together, somehow. It’s not that after a while all the names start to look like a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of Campbell’s Pornographic Alphabet Soup. It’s not simply that all the Ask Mes begin to mesmerize me into a hypnotic trance. It’s the fact that you’ve left your photos blank—or that you have uploaded them, but locked them all and never offer to unlock them—that drives me around the bend.
I'm old. I'm really old. I'm practically senile. I need a little help here, and you're not giving it to me.
Case in point: the guy with the minimal profile who, by way of seductive technique, unlocks his photos for him in lieu of saying hello. It might be true that I viewed your photos and said, Hey, thanks for unlocking. You’re a handsome dude. And it might be true that I replied in the affirmative when you suggested we get together some time in the future. But when you immediately relock those photos and email me two weeks later to ask if we are ever going to get together, I’m sorry. I’m not going to remember you by your profile name of ctbottom001. I’m not going to clue in on what words we might’ve exchanged from your minimal profile. If you showed me your photos again—ah, yes. Then I would remember. If you left them displayed all the time, certainly I would. I am a visually-oriented person. I need that photo of your face to associate all your Ask Mes with a real person.
Hell, even that blurry photo of your hip that you flashed me might trigger some kind of recall. Because your sorry profile isn’t doing the trick.
Case number two: Mr. BBRT profile without an unlocked photo or description, thanks for informing me that you and I talked on Manhunt. Helpful! Except it’s not, because apparently your cryptic name on BBRT is different from whatever name you chose on Manhunt. If you’d told me the other site’s profile name, or unlocked your photo so I’d recognize it, or given me some kind of clue as to whom you might be, maybe I’d have more patience and actually reply to your emails after you didn’t seem to pick up on the hint I gave you when I responded, I have no idea what you look like. Why would I meet?
Of course, after I ignore you for a solid three weeks, when you finally unlock your photos and I discover you’re the asshole from Manhunt who stood me up not once, but twice, making me wait over an hour each time before I found out you were going to be a no-show, I can kind of understand why you were reluctant to identify yourself.
So gentlemen. Let’s recap. Want me to remember you? Have some kind of photo in your profile—something visible. Don’t make me ask you to unlock, every time. Even a picture of your fucking kneecap is going to be more memorable than a standard icon of a lock. I’m not going to meet you because of that kneecap alone, but at least instead of thinking Huh? Who dat? I’ll think, Well hey, it’s that weirdo who doesn’t show anything more than a kneecap. Howdy, stranger.
And also, if you stand me up twice, don’t be surprised I’m not all that anxious to give you a shot at doing it a third time.
But that’s ancillary to my point. Which is: I am a visually-oriented person.
Yours truly.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Caught
One of the questions I repeatedly get asked is if I’ve ever gotten caught. There must be some kind of ‘getting caught’ fetish out there that taps into a strain of humiliation I’ve never properly appreciated—because for a good portion of my life, getting caught is the last thing I’ve wanted.
I didn’t want it as a kid when I was cruising the restrooms and parks. The one time it happened, it definitely wasn’t a kinky thrill—if anything it made me swear off having sex forever. Or more precisely, for about three or four days, which is an eternity to a pair of teen nuts. I didn’t want it in college, when I was trying very hard to fit in and stay in the closet, so that my Young Republicans governing-board-prominent college boyfriend could protect his reputation. Getting caught doesn’t thrill me in general, I’m afraid, so when I’m in a situation when it might possibly occur, I take precautions. I don’t screw guys by the front door. I leave an escape route, or the door closed, or better yet, closed and locked.
There have been a couple of times when I found myself intruded upon without expectation, though. The worst was during my full-time years at the university.
I was teaching at the time, and had a committee appointment that I absolutely hated. At the time, the university was doing some kind of showy initiative that was designed to make it look like it was busy examining every aspect of its operation from top to bottom, in order to transform it into a more efficient operation. What it really turned out to be was the university throwing a bundle of cash at a corporation to purchase the efficiency package, dick around with it in committees for about six years, and then to abandon it without mention when the next university president stepped in. At that point, though, I was in a committee that was busy designing and collecting pointless surveys that we all knew were going to be ignored when they reached a level higher than ours.
It was pretty thankless. Making the decision to leave that place was a good thing, though it certainly took me long enough to do it.
Anyway. My office was on the top floor of a newer building, directly across from the receptionist for the graduate school. All day I’d have a good view of the grad students and the new prospects going in and out of that office, armed with their applications and their forms for graduation and their course catalogs. A lot of them were quite cute. But I never hit on any of them until I was nearing the second year in that office.
I was walking to the men’s room very late one afternoon, a little bit after five o’clock. All the staff in that place poured out in the direction of the parking decks at 4:59, so I wasn’t surprised that the grad school office door was closed when I stepped into the hallway. A young guy was there, looking up at the door as if staring at it might cause it to open. “They’re gone for the day,” I told him.
He stared at me. He had an application for the grad school in his hand. He couldn’t have been more than 20 or 21 at most. His hair was shaggy and dark, and his eyebrows were like hairbrushes. He had dark slits of eyes that turned down at the ends, giving him the look of a sleepy dreamer. He wasn’t big or thin. Merely a round-shouldered kid in oversized clothes who was cute enough to make me look him up and down a few times before I turned to go. “They won’t be back tonight?”
“Not after five,” I told him, and then nodded before I went on my way.
I was in the restroom, not very far from my office, peeing at the urinal when I heard the door open. Someone stepped up next to me. It was the kid. My dick instantly started to harden, because I could tell from they way he pulled out his mouth into a half-smile and looked at me through those dreamy, droopy eyes that he’d followed me there deliberately. I’d honestly needed to pee, just seconds before, but when he stood there next to me with his fly open, pretending to look down at his own dick but really allowing his eyes to flit over to mine, my sphincter slammed shut. My hand trembled. I moved back a little, and held my hard dick in my hand, so he could see it.
This wasn’t a cruisy restroom. It wasn’t the library on campus, which I hit religiously for undergraduate tail. It wasn’t the basement of the art building, where I used to fuck with students when I wanted to do more than under-the-stall action. This was the restroom that the university president himself used, when he was trying to appear democratic and a man of the people, or if his secretary was using his personal and private toilet. Stuff like this didn’t happen in this particular john. The kid showed off his own dick, which was a respectable pickle of about five inches, blunt and fat and curved. Then he reached out for me.
I heard voices in the hallway. “Not here,” I told the kid. “Back in my office.” I zipped up and thrust my hands into my pockets so that hopefully my erection wouldn’t be plainly seen by any colleagues we happened to pass. He followed at a respectful distance, his backpack slung in front of the bulging part of his body. The halls were dead, though. Everyone had gone home.
In my office, with the doors closed, we went at each other. My mouth was on his, my hands were on his back, his butt, his groin. He was submissive in his kisses, sighing softly and tilting his head back as I ground my mouth against his. His pants hit the floor, and he stepped out of them.. He unbuckled my zipper and let loose the beast from my underwear. His mouth on my dick felt amazing. The kid clearly knew what to do.
I pulled him back to my chair and sat down. He knelt on the carpet with his naked backside poked beneath my steel desk, eyes closed, nursing on my dick. I spread my knees wide apart and settle back for a long and sloppy blow job.
And then I heard the sound of a key in the door.
The next few seconds seemed to take a thousand years to pass. I couldn’t think who the fuck would possibly have a key, other than the custodians—and they came through in the early mornings. My mind began making up a thousand possible explanations as to why I had my pants down and a naked boy on my floor. Then I panicked because the kid’s pants were on the other side of the room, right at the door. Oh, it was terrible.
At the very last moment I yanked my desk chair forward so that my naked lower half rolled beneath the desk. The kid, who had frozen at the sound of the key, folded himself into a ball and shivered there, in the shadows. The door opened, sweeping the pants behind it. And in walked the Vice President of the division. “Oh, hello,” he said, as if he’d almost expected me there. “I thought I’d leave this last batch of surveys on your desk.”
Now, mind you, I had a mail box in the main office, ten steps from this guy’s own door. I had a drop box outside my own office. And yet this guy had to use his master key to barge on in to drop some useless forms onto my desk personally? I just stared at him, ready to drop some useless comment about how I’d, um, been changing into my jeans when he stopped in. Instead, I just said, “Okay, thanks.”
He started to leave. Then, at the door, he paused, and opened his mouth. Oh fuck, I thought to myself. He knows. He’s going to fire me. “Did you see that article in the Chronicle this week about. . . ?”
I didn’t hear much after that. I nodded and stammered and sat stock still and just waited for him to get the fuck out of my office. When he eventually did, he was none the wiser, I’m pretty sure.
I rolled my chair out. The kid was still sitting on the floor, wearing only his shirt, trembling like a leaf.
I think we gave it the old college try after that, but the noise of footsteps in the hall made us both jumpy and nervous, and eventually we gave it up. The chemicals our bodies had been producing during those tense moments didn’t make us want to lunge at each other with abandon. They made us stink like we’d been lifting old tires all afternoon. It was decidedly unsexy. I collected his pants from the flat pancake they’d formed from being shoved between the wall and the door, we both dressed, and we parted.
I never saw that kid again. I kind of imagine he might’ve looked for some other graduate school.
I didn’t want it as a kid when I was cruising the restrooms and parks. The one time it happened, it definitely wasn’t a kinky thrill—if anything it made me swear off having sex forever. Or more precisely, for about three or four days, which is an eternity to a pair of teen nuts. I didn’t want it in college, when I was trying very hard to fit in and stay in the closet, so that my Young Republicans governing-board-prominent college boyfriend could protect his reputation. Getting caught doesn’t thrill me in general, I’m afraid, so when I’m in a situation when it might possibly occur, I take precautions. I don’t screw guys by the front door. I leave an escape route, or the door closed, or better yet, closed and locked.
There have been a couple of times when I found myself intruded upon without expectation, though. The worst was during my full-time years at the university.
I was teaching at the time, and had a committee appointment that I absolutely hated. At the time, the university was doing some kind of showy initiative that was designed to make it look like it was busy examining every aspect of its operation from top to bottom, in order to transform it into a more efficient operation. What it really turned out to be was the university throwing a bundle of cash at a corporation to purchase the efficiency package, dick around with it in committees for about six years, and then to abandon it without mention when the next university president stepped in. At that point, though, I was in a committee that was busy designing and collecting pointless surveys that we all knew were going to be ignored when they reached a level higher than ours.
It was pretty thankless. Making the decision to leave that place was a good thing, though it certainly took me long enough to do it.
Anyway. My office was on the top floor of a newer building, directly across from the receptionist for the graduate school. All day I’d have a good view of the grad students and the new prospects going in and out of that office, armed with their applications and their forms for graduation and their course catalogs. A lot of them were quite cute. But I never hit on any of them until I was nearing the second year in that office.
I was walking to the men’s room very late one afternoon, a little bit after five o’clock. All the staff in that place poured out in the direction of the parking decks at 4:59, so I wasn’t surprised that the grad school office door was closed when I stepped into the hallway. A young guy was there, looking up at the door as if staring at it might cause it to open. “They’re gone for the day,” I told him.
He stared at me. He had an application for the grad school in his hand. He couldn’t have been more than 20 or 21 at most. His hair was shaggy and dark, and his eyebrows were like hairbrushes. He had dark slits of eyes that turned down at the ends, giving him the look of a sleepy dreamer. He wasn’t big or thin. Merely a round-shouldered kid in oversized clothes who was cute enough to make me look him up and down a few times before I turned to go. “They won’t be back tonight?”
“Not after five,” I told him, and then nodded before I went on my way.
I was in the restroom, not very far from my office, peeing at the urinal when I heard the door open. Someone stepped up next to me. It was the kid. My dick instantly started to harden, because I could tell from they way he pulled out his mouth into a half-smile and looked at me through those dreamy, droopy eyes that he’d followed me there deliberately. I’d honestly needed to pee, just seconds before, but when he stood there next to me with his fly open, pretending to look down at his own dick but really allowing his eyes to flit over to mine, my sphincter slammed shut. My hand trembled. I moved back a little, and held my hard dick in my hand, so he could see it.
This wasn’t a cruisy restroom. It wasn’t the library on campus, which I hit religiously for undergraduate tail. It wasn’t the basement of the art building, where I used to fuck with students when I wanted to do more than under-the-stall action. This was the restroom that the university president himself used, when he was trying to appear democratic and a man of the people, or if his secretary was using his personal and private toilet. Stuff like this didn’t happen in this particular john. The kid showed off his own dick, which was a respectable pickle of about five inches, blunt and fat and curved. Then he reached out for me.
I heard voices in the hallway. “Not here,” I told the kid. “Back in my office.” I zipped up and thrust my hands into my pockets so that hopefully my erection wouldn’t be plainly seen by any colleagues we happened to pass. He followed at a respectful distance, his backpack slung in front of the bulging part of his body. The halls were dead, though. Everyone had gone home.
In my office, with the doors closed, we went at each other. My mouth was on his, my hands were on his back, his butt, his groin. He was submissive in his kisses, sighing softly and tilting his head back as I ground my mouth against his. His pants hit the floor, and he stepped out of them.. He unbuckled my zipper and let loose the beast from my underwear. His mouth on my dick felt amazing. The kid clearly knew what to do.
I pulled him back to my chair and sat down. He knelt on the carpet with his naked backside poked beneath my steel desk, eyes closed, nursing on my dick. I spread my knees wide apart and settle back for a long and sloppy blow job.
And then I heard the sound of a key in the door.
The next few seconds seemed to take a thousand years to pass. I couldn’t think who the fuck would possibly have a key, other than the custodians—and they came through in the early mornings. My mind began making up a thousand possible explanations as to why I had my pants down and a naked boy on my floor. Then I panicked because the kid’s pants were on the other side of the room, right at the door. Oh, it was terrible.
At the very last moment I yanked my desk chair forward so that my naked lower half rolled beneath the desk. The kid, who had frozen at the sound of the key, folded himself into a ball and shivered there, in the shadows. The door opened, sweeping the pants behind it. And in walked the Vice President of the division. “Oh, hello,” he said, as if he’d almost expected me there. “I thought I’d leave this last batch of surveys on your desk.”
Now, mind you, I had a mail box in the main office, ten steps from this guy’s own door. I had a drop box outside my own office. And yet this guy had to use his master key to barge on in to drop some useless forms onto my desk personally? I just stared at him, ready to drop some useless comment about how I’d, um, been changing into my jeans when he stopped in. Instead, I just said, “Okay, thanks.”
He started to leave. Then, at the door, he paused, and opened his mouth. Oh fuck, I thought to myself. He knows. He’s going to fire me. “Did you see that article in the Chronicle this week about. . . ?”
I didn’t hear much after that. I nodded and stammered and sat stock still and just waited for him to get the fuck out of my office. When he eventually did, he was none the wiser, I’m pretty sure.
I rolled my chair out. The kid was still sitting on the floor, wearing only his shirt, trembling like a leaf.
I think we gave it the old college try after that, but the noise of footsteps in the hall made us both jumpy and nervous, and eventually we gave it up. The chemicals our bodies had been producing during those tense moments didn’t make us want to lunge at each other with abandon. They made us stink like we’d been lifting old tires all afternoon. It was decidedly unsexy. I collected his pants from the flat pancake they’d formed from being shoved between the wall and the door, we both dressed, and we parted.
I never saw that kid again. I kind of imagine he might’ve looked for some other graduate school.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
A Fucking Rock Star
“It’s your fucking fault!” The man’s face was inches from mine. When he spoke, spittle would fly from his mouth. “You sit there, dressed up all fancy.” I was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a Perry Ellis shirt that I’d picked up for less than ten dollars on a much-pawed-over Macy’s rack, as well as a pair of boots from the deep discount rack of DSW that weighed more in pounds than they cost in dollars. “Smelling so sweet.” I had used soap in the shower, that morning. “And looking so fucking fine.”
Well, I couldn’t argue that one.
The man continued in so strident a voice that everyone in the bar was turning around to look at him. Considering that the little Westchester bar was fairly full, and loud karaoke was going on in the background, he was making a pretty considerable racket “You do all that and it’s no fucking wonder that men like me drink too much. We drink too much because it takes all our fucking nerve to talk to you!” I laughed, because it’s the only thing I could do. “You know what?” he said, leaning in closer. His eyes half-closed, and he stabbed a stubby finger in my face. “You’re smug. You’re real . . . smug.”
It was at that moment I realized I had a problem on my hands. Because when a drunk starts telling you that you’re smug, the next thing he wants to do, always, is to wipe that smug smile right off your mouth.
I’d been at the bar for about an hour by the time this guy had come in. He was tall and had the kind of looks that probably had turned heads for just about all five of his decades. Immediately upon his arrival, he’d gone up and down the bar and lifted guys out of their seats and up into the air in a show of strength and, I guess, a supreme indifference to personal space. I’d watched him out of the corner of my eye while pretending to listen to the karaoke singers, thinking to myself, Man, why couldn’t that guy be hitting on me?
And of course, it turned out to be one of those prime examples in which I should’ve been careful for what I wished for.
When the guy began giving me flirty little glances a few minutes after he walked in, I felt a little bit tingly and vindicated. When he started making his way over, eyes locked with mine, I felt my dick stirring in my jeans. When he leaned forward and rasped at me, “Are you Scandinavian?” and his breath was so flammable that I wanted to move the open tealight candle on my table, I felt pretty certain that he was rip-roaring, stone-cold drunk.
“Uh, my ancestors were mostly from Scotland,” I said to him. Immediately my mood changed from aroused to amused.
“Like Craig Ferguson.” He had one of those accents I recognized as utterly New York. It wasn’t exaggerated, like an old-fashioned wise-cracking cabbie from a movie. It was distinct, though.
“Yes, exactly like Craig Ferguson,” I agreed.
“I have a big dick,” he announced next.
I’d arrived at the bar that evening with a friend of mine who was sitting across the little table from me. I looked in his direction with an appeal for help. He, however, started snickering to himself, pretending he was with the guys at the bar behind him, and recording the conversation for posterity on his Facebook wall. “Wow,” I said, when I realized I wasn’t going to get any assistance from that quarter. “Okay!”
“It’s real big,” he repeated. “It’s really going to hurt when I fuck you.” I was on a high stool; the guy used the outside of his thigh to part my knees and stand between them. When he swooped in to—well, I thought he was going to take a chomp out of my neck, but apparently he only wanted to lick it—I ducked.
“Wow,” I said once more. “You know, I think you really need to work on that sales pitch there.”
He was staring at me as if he’d been hypnotized. “Are you Scandinavian?”
“Scottish.”
“Like Craig Ferguson?”
“Like Craig Ferguson,” I said, pretty openly laughing at his face again.
“I have a big. . . .”
“You kind of covered that.” I gently and discreetly eased him back to a length at which my aged eyes could actually focus on him.
“You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna take you over to the dam, right up to the top. Then I’m going to throw you down to the bottom and fuck you!”
The Kensico Dam is less than a mile from this particular bar. “I’m going to be at the bottom and you’ll fuck me from the very top? Your dick is three hundred feet long?” He blinked slowly at me, not comprehending. “Okay. How big is it?” I didn’t really need an answer to that question, given that I could feel it pressing against my right knee, but I held my flattened palms three inches apart and very slowly drew them apart. “Tell me when to stop.”
It was a very long time before I stopped. “That’s it,” he finally told me.
“Not bad,” I nodded, impressed. “About sixteen inches.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“How old do I look?” I asked. I usually don’t play that game, but I wanted to know what his answer was going to be.
“Thirty-one?”
Across the table, my friend tittered. “YES,” I said with great affirmation. “You are COMPLETELY RIGHT. I am EXACTLY THIRTY-ONE YEARS OLD.”
“Are you Scandinavian?” he wanted to know again.
Across the table, my friend posted more status messages to Facebook. I silently damned him under my breath.
Over the next few minutes, when it became obvious that the guy was not going anywhere, I managed to find out that he drove a city bus up and down Fifth Avenue for a living, and that his soul was empty (his words) from the job. “You’ve never driven inna city before,” he said, sucking down another gin and tonic and somehow managing to unbutton the top three buttons on my shirt. “I can tell. You’re nice. Nice people don’t drive in the city.” Well, that one I could easily believe. “You’re hot. I want to fuck you. Are you gonna give me your number?”
“I will make sure you get my number before you go,” I assured him, knowing that if he couldn’t remember whether or not I was Scandinavian, I wasn’t likely to have to follow through. I buttoned myself back up and glared at my friend, who by this point was just sitting with his back reclined and his hands over his stomach as he enjoyed the show.
“There’s a place five minutes from here?” said the drunk. “It’s an underpass? And the high school kids hang out there during the day?”
“That’s nice,” I said, pulling his hands off my zipper.
“And someone’s painted something in spray paint there and it says, I’m a fucking rock star.” I nodded. “So what does it mean?”
“That someone’s a fucking rock star?”
“No!” He seemed firm on this point. “You say it.”
“I’m a fucking rock star.”
“Mean it.”
“I’m a fucking rock star,” I said, still laughing. “So are you, mister.”
“Damn straight. Two fucking rock stars.” He took another drink. “I’ve got money. I’ve got a 1992 Benz. I’ve got a big dick. And you’re going to get in my car and we’re going to drive there and I’m gonna fuck you in the back seat. But I’m big. So it’s going to hurt.”
“It’s tempting,” I said tactfully, “but it’s really too late and cold to go to some overpass to fuck.” Not to mention he was too drunk and weird.
That’s when he announced, with increasing frustration and anger, “It’s your fucking fault! You sit there, dressed up all fancy. Smelling so sweet. And looking so fucking fine. You do all that and it’s no fucking wonder that men like me drink too much. We drink too much because it takes all our fucking nerve to talk to you!” I probably shouldn’t have chuckled at that moment, but it was my way of trying not to take him too seriously. “You know what? You’re smug. You’re real . . . smug.”
When I realized he was on the borderline between merely inebriated and potentially violent, I immediately did some backpedaling. “Hey,” I told him, holding open my arms. “Give me a hug.” He leaned forward and fell heavily against me. “You’re a good guy,” I told him. “Very handsome. I thought so when you walked into the bar. But I think you’ve had a little too much to drink. Okay?” I held him at arm’s length and looked him in the eyes. I raised my eyebrows and bobbled my head a little. I felt like I was talking to my son, not a fifty-year-old man. “Okay?” I repeated.
At last he nodded. “I do kinda feel like I’ve gotta vomit,” he admitted.
Because, you know, after I have a big dick and it’s really going to hurt you, those are the exact words that will charm my thirty-one-year-old self into the back seat of a guy's 1992 Benz.
Well, I couldn’t argue that one.
The man continued in so strident a voice that everyone in the bar was turning around to look at him. Considering that the little Westchester bar was fairly full, and loud karaoke was going on in the background, he was making a pretty considerable racket “You do all that and it’s no fucking wonder that men like me drink too much. We drink too much because it takes all our fucking nerve to talk to you!” I laughed, because it’s the only thing I could do. “You know what?” he said, leaning in closer. His eyes half-closed, and he stabbed a stubby finger in my face. “You’re smug. You’re real . . . smug.”
It was at that moment I realized I had a problem on my hands. Because when a drunk starts telling you that you’re smug, the next thing he wants to do, always, is to wipe that smug smile right off your mouth.
I’d been at the bar for about an hour by the time this guy had come in. He was tall and had the kind of looks that probably had turned heads for just about all five of his decades. Immediately upon his arrival, he’d gone up and down the bar and lifted guys out of their seats and up into the air in a show of strength and, I guess, a supreme indifference to personal space. I’d watched him out of the corner of my eye while pretending to listen to the karaoke singers, thinking to myself, Man, why couldn’t that guy be hitting on me?
And of course, it turned out to be one of those prime examples in which I should’ve been careful for what I wished for.
When the guy began giving me flirty little glances a few minutes after he walked in, I felt a little bit tingly and vindicated. When he started making his way over, eyes locked with mine, I felt my dick stirring in my jeans. When he leaned forward and rasped at me, “Are you Scandinavian?” and his breath was so flammable that I wanted to move the open tealight candle on my table, I felt pretty certain that he was rip-roaring, stone-cold drunk.
“Uh, my ancestors were mostly from Scotland,” I said to him. Immediately my mood changed from aroused to amused.
“Like Craig Ferguson.” He had one of those accents I recognized as utterly New York. It wasn’t exaggerated, like an old-fashioned wise-cracking cabbie from a movie. It was distinct, though.
“Yes, exactly like Craig Ferguson,” I agreed.
“I have a big dick,” he announced next.
I’d arrived at the bar that evening with a friend of mine who was sitting across the little table from me. I looked in his direction with an appeal for help. He, however, started snickering to himself, pretending he was with the guys at the bar behind him, and recording the conversation for posterity on his Facebook wall. “Wow,” I said, when I realized I wasn’t going to get any assistance from that quarter. “Okay!”
“It’s real big,” he repeated. “It’s really going to hurt when I fuck you.” I was on a high stool; the guy used the outside of his thigh to part my knees and stand between them. When he swooped in to—well, I thought he was going to take a chomp out of my neck, but apparently he only wanted to lick it—I ducked.
“Wow,” I said once more. “You know, I think you really need to work on that sales pitch there.”
He was staring at me as if he’d been hypnotized. “Are you Scandinavian?”
“Scottish.”
“Like Craig Ferguson?”
“Like Craig Ferguson,” I said, pretty openly laughing at his face again.
“I have a big. . . .”
“You kind of covered that.” I gently and discreetly eased him back to a length at which my aged eyes could actually focus on him.
“You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna take you over to the dam, right up to the top. Then I’m going to throw you down to the bottom and fuck you!”
The Kensico Dam is less than a mile from this particular bar. “I’m going to be at the bottom and you’ll fuck me from the very top? Your dick is three hundred feet long?” He blinked slowly at me, not comprehending. “Okay. How big is it?” I didn’t really need an answer to that question, given that I could feel it pressing against my right knee, but I held my flattened palms three inches apart and very slowly drew them apart. “Tell me when to stop.”
It was a very long time before I stopped. “That’s it,” he finally told me.
“Not bad,” I nodded, impressed. “About sixteen inches.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“How old do I look?” I asked. I usually don’t play that game, but I wanted to know what his answer was going to be.
“Thirty-one?”
Across the table, my friend tittered. “YES,” I said with great affirmation. “You are COMPLETELY RIGHT. I am EXACTLY THIRTY-ONE YEARS OLD.”
“Are you Scandinavian?” he wanted to know again.
Across the table, my friend posted more status messages to Facebook. I silently damned him under my breath.
Over the next few minutes, when it became obvious that the guy was not going anywhere, I managed to find out that he drove a city bus up and down Fifth Avenue for a living, and that his soul was empty (his words) from the job. “You’ve never driven inna city before,” he said, sucking down another gin and tonic and somehow managing to unbutton the top three buttons on my shirt. “I can tell. You’re nice. Nice people don’t drive in the city.” Well, that one I could easily believe. “You’re hot. I want to fuck you. Are you gonna give me your number?”
“I will make sure you get my number before you go,” I assured him, knowing that if he couldn’t remember whether or not I was Scandinavian, I wasn’t likely to have to follow through. I buttoned myself back up and glared at my friend, who by this point was just sitting with his back reclined and his hands over his stomach as he enjoyed the show.
“There’s a place five minutes from here?” said the drunk. “It’s an underpass? And the high school kids hang out there during the day?”
“That’s nice,” I said, pulling his hands off my zipper.
“And someone’s painted something in spray paint there and it says, I’m a fucking rock star.” I nodded. “So what does it mean?”
“That someone’s a fucking rock star?”
“No!” He seemed firm on this point. “You say it.”
“I’m a fucking rock star.”
“Mean it.”
“I’m a fucking rock star,” I said, still laughing. “So are you, mister.”
“Damn straight. Two fucking rock stars.” He took another drink. “I’ve got money. I’ve got a 1992 Benz. I’ve got a big dick. And you’re going to get in my car and we’re going to drive there and I’m gonna fuck you in the back seat. But I’m big. So it’s going to hurt.”
“It’s tempting,” I said tactfully, “but it’s really too late and cold to go to some overpass to fuck.” Not to mention he was too drunk and weird.
That’s when he announced, with increasing frustration and anger, “It’s your fucking fault! You sit there, dressed up all fancy. Smelling so sweet. And looking so fucking fine. You do all that and it’s no fucking wonder that men like me drink too much. We drink too much because it takes all our fucking nerve to talk to you!” I probably shouldn’t have chuckled at that moment, but it was my way of trying not to take him too seriously. “You know what? You’re smug. You’re real . . . smug.”
When I realized he was on the borderline between merely inebriated and potentially violent, I immediately did some backpedaling. “Hey,” I told him, holding open my arms. “Give me a hug.” He leaned forward and fell heavily against me. “You’re a good guy,” I told him. “Very handsome. I thought so when you walked into the bar. But I think you’ve had a little too much to drink. Okay?” I held him at arm’s length and looked him in the eyes. I raised my eyebrows and bobbled my head a little. I felt like I was talking to my son, not a fifty-year-old man. “Okay?” I repeated.
At last he nodded. “I do kinda feel like I’ve gotta vomit,” he admitted.
Because, you know, after I have a big dick and it’s really going to hurt you, those are the exact words that will charm my thirty-one-year-old self into the back seat of a guy's 1992 Benz.
Monday, November 21, 2011
An Anniversary
I wasn't necessarily planning to write about this particular topic, but it's been on my mind all weekend. Better to get it out.
Saturday was the anniversary of the night I met Spencer, last year, in my old home state. We'd spoken online a couple of times before that and I'd kind of written him off as a flaky whore. I didn't mind the whore part. Flaky, however, I only like in pie crusts. But I was horny, and he was available, so I issued the invitation.
I was charmed off my feet by him, that Friday. When he came back the next night, I knew I wanted him in my life. Night after night he came back until our emotions were as inextricably intertwined as the impossible sexual poses in which he'd grip me with his strong dancer's legs. I loved him, and told him so. He loved me, and would whisper the words as we'd drift off to sleep together, curled beneath layers of flannel sheets and blankets and his impossible fortresses of extra pillows, while snow fell to blanket the frozen ground outside.
For months we made love and spent all our free time together. I'd like to romanticize the relationship further and say that it was simple and uncomplicated, but it wasn't—we both knew the time was coming when my house would eventually sell and that we'd part ways. That knowledge is what made the relationship difficult for us both. It made him occasionally snippy and prone to verbal digs, as he tried to separate himself from me before we were too rooted together. It made me morose and prone to guilt and doubt. I worried too much that I was doing the wrong thing by allowing him to love me so deeply.
Despite the complications, we ended the relationship on a loving high note. When my house sold after a year and I finally made plans to reunite with my family, already living on the East coast, I worried that he'd pick some kind of fight on the pretext of it being easier to part from me angry than sad. But no, he was sweet and loving and supportive until the very night before I threw my overnight bags and the cats in the car and left Michigan for good. At a going-away party given me by friends that night, he was there, sitting next to me the entire time. He'd been everything to me, that last year. I had the spouse on my right side and Spencer on the left, and it seemed right.
Sad, but right.
I'd thought this month about the anniversary a couple of times in an idle fashion—it occurred to me that it had been in November of 2010 that we'd met, and that I should check on the date at some point. I didn't do anything about it, though, until last week when Spencer messaged me. We met this month a year ago!he said.
I checked my journal on my computer. November 19th. The best day of 2010 I had, I wrote back.
Saturday he messaged me again. You're one of my favorite people. I still treasure the time we had together . . . especially those long snowed-in days. Then he closed with his love.
Well. I couldn't have asked for anything nicer.
I read it and burst into tears that I had to hide and muffle in the bathroom.
And now that I had to look at the message again to copy it, I'm crying again, though I'm having to pretend I'm not, even as fat tears scald my cheeks.
But you know what? That's okay. I said above that the relationship Spencer and I had wasn't pure and uncomplicated, but I was a damned liar. It really was. No matter what the gap in our ages, no matter that we separated, never mind the stupid arguments we sometimes had or the words we both feared to say out of fear of hurting the other—none of that mattered in the end. For a time, a blissful and wine-sweet time, we were two boys in love. We took delight in each other's bodies, in each other's whims and palates. We saw parting on the horizon from the moment we met, and yet we both threw ourselves into the deep with abandon.
There's not much purer or more uncomplicated than that.
Saturday was the anniversary of the night I met Spencer, last year, in my old home state. We'd spoken online a couple of times before that and I'd kind of written him off as a flaky whore. I didn't mind the whore part. Flaky, however, I only like in pie crusts. But I was horny, and he was available, so I issued the invitation.
I was charmed off my feet by him, that Friday. When he came back the next night, I knew I wanted him in my life. Night after night he came back until our emotions were as inextricably intertwined as the impossible sexual poses in which he'd grip me with his strong dancer's legs. I loved him, and told him so. He loved me, and would whisper the words as we'd drift off to sleep together, curled beneath layers of flannel sheets and blankets and his impossible fortresses of extra pillows, while snow fell to blanket the frozen ground outside.
For months we made love and spent all our free time together. I'd like to romanticize the relationship further and say that it was simple and uncomplicated, but it wasn't—we both knew the time was coming when my house would eventually sell and that we'd part ways. That knowledge is what made the relationship difficult for us both. It made him occasionally snippy and prone to verbal digs, as he tried to separate himself from me before we were too rooted together. It made me morose and prone to guilt and doubt. I worried too much that I was doing the wrong thing by allowing him to love me so deeply.
Despite the complications, we ended the relationship on a loving high note. When my house sold after a year and I finally made plans to reunite with my family, already living on the East coast, I worried that he'd pick some kind of fight on the pretext of it being easier to part from me angry than sad. But no, he was sweet and loving and supportive until the very night before I threw my overnight bags and the cats in the car and left Michigan for good. At a going-away party given me by friends that night, he was there, sitting next to me the entire time. He'd been everything to me, that last year. I had the spouse on my right side and Spencer on the left, and it seemed right.
Sad, but right.
I'd thought this month about the anniversary a couple of times in an idle fashion—it occurred to me that it had been in November of 2010 that we'd met, and that I should check on the date at some point. I didn't do anything about it, though, until last week when Spencer messaged me. We met this month a year ago!he said.
I checked my journal on my computer. November 19th. The best day of 2010 I had, I wrote back.
Saturday he messaged me again. You're one of my favorite people. I still treasure the time we had together . . . especially those long snowed-in days. Then he closed with his love.
Well. I couldn't have asked for anything nicer.
I read it and burst into tears that I had to hide and muffle in the bathroom.
And now that I had to look at the message again to copy it, I'm crying again, though I'm having to pretend I'm not, even as fat tears scald my cheeks.
But you know what? That's okay. I said above that the relationship Spencer and I had wasn't pure and uncomplicated, but I was a damned liar. It really was. No matter what the gap in our ages, no matter that we separated, never mind the stupid arguments we sometimes had or the words we both feared to say out of fear of hurting the other—none of that mattered in the end. For a time, a blissful and wine-sweet time, we were two boys in love. We took delight in each other's bodies, in each other's whims and palates. We saw parting on the horizon from the moment we met, and yet we both threw ourselves into the deep with abandon.
There's not much purer or more uncomplicated than that.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Sunday Morning Questions: Little Island Big City Edition
New York City is a small town.
I know you think I'm crazy for saying so, but it seems as if every time I head into the city, I run into someone unexpectedly. I head to a bar for the evening where no one should know me, and a reader will recognize me. I'll spend an afternoon at a museum, and then find later that someone's hit me up on Manhunt with, Think you're hot, were you looking at Venetian paintings earlier this afternoon?
Or, as happened Friday, I ran into a reader without knowing it. I went into the city for a show and went into Uniqlo, a clothing store, before dinner. I was there for about an hour, maybe, and then went on my merry way. Saturday, one of my most long-term readers sent me a message saying he'd seen me at Uniqlo and didn't want to startle me by saying hello. All I could really do was respond in the most predictable manner possible for me: I asked how my hair had been looking.
When the answer came that it had been looking pretty sensational, I was free to chew out the guy for not saying hello.
Because really—if you recognize me out there in the big wide world, the time to say hi is not after I've been away from the Venetian paintings for a few hours. It's not the day after I've been trying on jackets. It's when you see me at the museum or while we're both at Uniqlo.
There's ways to say hello and ways to say hello, of course. I'm not going to appreciate it if a reader yells across the cashmere sweaters, HEY AREN'T YOU THAT SEX BLOGGER?! Walking up to me, shaking my hand, putting a palm on my shoulder and telling me quietly that you're a reader, though? That works.
As a general warning, I'll probably be taking off the latter half of the upcoming week, what with the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S. Feel free to send me nude photos of you and your turkeys, if you dare.
(I'm kind of hoping that someone out there does dare.)
Let's get to some more questions from formspring.me, shall we? And please, feel free to ask your questions of me there—I've opened up the anonymous posting option once more.
Last time you bottomed for a man? How old was he?
The last time I bottomed to completion for a man was about 9 years ago. He was in his fifties.
Is there anything you find your partners are generally inhibited doing, that you wish they did more spontaneously / proactively?
All the damned time.
Oh, you wanted specifics? I think what irritates me most is when men are too inhibited to give me any kind of feedback during the act, whether verbal, physical, or even just a grunt here or there. If a guy's just going to lie there, I might as well bang a corpse or a sack of potatoes. And I'd prefer neither, thank you.
I also wish men were less inhibited about getting out from behind their computer screens and meeting in the flesh. The Internet might be great for porn, but it has created countless homebound prisoners, none of whom have been forced into electronic ankle bracelets.
A serious question from a Kinsey 6: Does the vagina really smell like fish?
No.
A vagina will acquire an odor when it's not washed. But you know, the ol' bait and tackle don't smell that great when not exposed to a shower, either.
My answer to this question will not stop me from yelling, when I feed my fat cat dried mackerel flakes, "It smells like a Korean brothel in here!"
what advice would you give to someone about to try bottoming for the first time?
I'd suggest playing with your hole--at first in a clean environment like the shower, and when you're accustomed to the feelings, perhaps with small toys and multiple fingers. Get used to the sensations, and be aware that a dick is going to stretch you even wider.
I'd suggest cleaning out beforehand, for your peace of mind, and for your partner's hygiene.
Above all, I'd suggest remembering that sex is supposed to be fun. You might not enjoy bottoming the first time--but it will rapidly grow more enjoyable. If it's embarrassing or painful, don't beat yourself up. Move on to another activity, and come back to anal another time.
Hypothetical situation: I have come to visit you and I offer to perform any one act you desire, what can I do for you?
Touch me and rub me all over with your hands, from head to foot, for as long as you can stand it.
It's probably the one thing I crave that I rarely get, and you'd be doing me a big favor.
This may be from an era gone by, but.... Have you ever been to a drive in movie? And if you have, what was the last movie you saw at a drive in? Is there one left in your area?
I distinctly remember seeing my one drive-in movie when I was four or five years old. It had Phyllis Diller in it, and she scared me silly.
There was a large drive-in in Dearborn, when I used to live in Michigan, but I never had the urge or opportunity to go.
What is your favorite flavor of Ice Cream?
I'm really fond of a red velvet cake-flavored frozen yogurt from a dairy store near me, but I found a recent contender for new favorite when I visited Pinkberry and discovered their peanut butter-flavored yogurt. It's nutty and, best of all, salty.
Generally I'm fond of coffee-flavored frozen desserts, too.
Reading your post about the guy whose mind had been overtaken by porn dialog, has porn and the proliferation of its availability been a net plus or minus for guys?
It's a mixed bag with a lot of plusses and minuses.
One plus would be that there's porn out there for everyone—every fetish, every kink, every body type, every combination of age and race and gender. It's also sanitary and means the only thing you have to clean up after is the messy discharge. You won't catch a disease from porn. And perhaps most importantly, it might expose a person to acts they've contemplated and not known how to go about, and it can act as an instruction manual of sorts, and even an encouragement to take action.
The minuses are just as plentiful. Porn often gives people unreasonable expectations not only about what their own bodies should look like, but what they 'deserve' in a partner—the number of men I've met in my lifetime who feel genuinely entitled to 'porn star quality' sex partners is astounding, particularly when they're not exactly porn star material themselves. Porn glosses over the messy and difficult parts of sex, so that when they happen naturally, the people participating can feel like failures unless they're fairly experienced. And the abundance of porn also has created a whole mass of people who stay at home and masturbate for hours on end, instead of meeting people and actually having sex.
As an enhancement to a sex life, I think porn is great. As a replacement for it, not so much.
What is your favourite accent? and why?
My favorite accent is the one I hear when my partner speaks with a pillow in his mouth.
I know you think I'm crazy for saying so, but it seems as if every time I head into the city, I run into someone unexpectedly. I head to a bar for the evening where no one should know me, and a reader will recognize me. I'll spend an afternoon at a museum, and then find later that someone's hit me up on Manhunt with, Think you're hot, were you looking at Venetian paintings earlier this afternoon?
Or, as happened Friday, I ran into a reader without knowing it. I went into the city for a show and went into Uniqlo, a clothing store, before dinner. I was there for about an hour, maybe, and then went on my merry way. Saturday, one of my most long-term readers sent me a message saying he'd seen me at Uniqlo and didn't want to startle me by saying hello. All I could really do was respond in the most predictable manner possible for me: I asked how my hair had been looking.
When the answer came that it had been looking pretty sensational, I was free to chew out the guy for not saying hello.
Because really—if you recognize me out there in the big wide world, the time to say hi is not after I've been away from the Venetian paintings for a few hours. It's not the day after I've been trying on jackets. It's when you see me at the museum or while we're both at Uniqlo.
There's ways to say hello and ways to say hello, of course. I'm not going to appreciate it if a reader yells across the cashmere sweaters, HEY AREN'T YOU THAT SEX BLOGGER?! Walking up to me, shaking my hand, putting a palm on my shoulder and telling me quietly that you're a reader, though? That works.
As a general warning, I'll probably be taking off the latter half of the upcoming week, what with the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S. Feel free to send me nude photos of you and your turkeys, if you dare.
(I'm kind of hoping that someone out there does dare.)
Let's get to some more questions from formspring.me, shall we? And please, feel free to ask your questions of me there—I've opened up the anonymous posting option once more.
Last time you bottomed for a man? How old was he?
The last time I bottomed to completion for a man was about 9 years ago. He was in his fifties.
Is there anything you find your partners are generally inhibited doing, that you wish they did more spontaneously / proactively?
All the damned time.
Oh, you wanted specifics? I think what irritates me most is when men are too inhibited to give me any kind of feedback during the act, whether verbal, physical, or even just a grunt here or there. If a guy's just going to lie there, I might as well bang a corpse or a sack of potatoes. And I'd prefer neither, thank you.
I also wish men were less inhibited about getting out from behind their computer screens and meeting in the flesh. The Internet might be great for porn, but it has created countless homebound prisoners, none of whom have been forced into electronic ankle bracelets.
A serious question from a Kinsey 6: Does the vagina really smell like fish?
No.
A vagina will acquire an odor when it's not washed. But you know, the ol' bait and tackle don't smell that great when not exposed to a shower, either.
My answer to this question will not stop me from yelling, when I feed my fat cat dried mackerel flakes, "It smells like a Korean brothel in here!"
what advice would you give to someone about to try bottoming for the first time?
I'd suggest playing with your hole--at first in a clean environment like the shower, and when you're accustomed to the feelings, perhaps with small toys and multiple fingers. Get used to the sensations, and be aware that a dick is going to stretch you even wider.
I'd suggest cleaning out beforehand, for your peace of mind, and for your partner's hygiene.
Above all, I'd suggest remembering that sex is supposed to be fun. You might not enjoy bottoming the first time--but it will rapidly grow more enjoyable. If it's embarrassing or painful, don't beat yourself up. Move on to another activity, and come back to anal another time.
Hypothetical situation: I have come to visit you and I offer to perform any one act you desire, what can I do for you?
Touch me and rub me all over with your hands, from head to foot, for as long as you can stand it.
It's probably the one thing I crave that I rarely get, and you'd be doing me a big favor.
This may be from an era gone by, but.... Have you ever been to a drive in movie? And if you have, what was the last movie you saw at a drive in? Is there one left in your area?
I distinctly remember seeing my one drive-in movie when I was four or five years old. It had Phyllis Diller in it, and she scared me silly.
There was a large drive-in in Dearborn, when I used to live in Michigan, but I never had the urge or opportunity to go.
What is your favorite flavor of Ice Cream?
I'm really fond of a red velvet cake-flavored frozen yogurt from a dairy store near me, but I found a recent contender for new favorite when I visited Pinkberry and discovered their peanut butter-flavored yogurt. It's nutty and, best of all, salty.
Generally I'm fond of coffee-flavored frozen desserts, too.
Reading your post about the guy whose mind had been overtaken by porn dialog, has porn and the proliferation of its availability been a net plus or minus for guys?
It's a mixed bag with a lot of plusses and minuses.
One plus would be that there's porn out there for everyone—every fetish, every kink, every body type, every combination of age and race and gender. It's also sanitary and means the only thing you have to clean up after is the messy discharge. You won't catch a disease from porn. And perhaps most importantly, it might expose a person to acts they've contemplated and not known how to go about, and it can act as an instruction manual of sorts, and even an encouragement to take action.
The minuses are just as plentiful. Porn often gives people unreasonable expectations not only about what their own bodies should look like, but what they 'deserve' in a partner—the number of men I've met in my lifetime who feel genuinely entitled to 'porn star quality' sex partners is astounding, particularly when they're not exactly porn star material themselves. Porn glosses over the messy and difficult parts of sex, so that when they happen naturally, the people participating can feel like failures unless they're fairly experienced. And the abundance of porn also has created a whole mass of people who stay at home and masturbate for hours on end, instead of meeting people and actually having sex.
As an enhancement to a sex life, I think porn is great. As a replacement for it, not so much.
What is your favourite accent? and why?
My favorite accent is the one I hear when my partner speaks with a pillow in his mouth.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Open Forum Friday: Cleaning Out
I'm going to name-drop, here. Bear with me. It'll pass quickly, and then we'll get to the topic for our open forum.
Yesterday I was on the phone with my friend, porn actor Jayson Park. I've plugged his thoughtful and well-written blog before, and I'll encourage you all to go and vote for him as Best Porn Star in the Cybersocket Surfer's Choice Awards. (If I'm not getting nominated for Best Sex Blog, it'd be nice to have one of Breeder's Readers win something, right?) Anyway. He and I were chatting about various things, and we happened on the subject of cleanliness and anal sex.
"I don't like making big sweeping generalizations about groups of people," he said to me. "Especially tops. But it always seems to me like tops don't have to do as much to prepare for a fuck. Not compared to us bottoms."
"No," I assured him. "You're totally right. I figure if my teeth are brushed and my breath smells nice, the rest of me doesn't stink, all I need to do is rinse off my dick and I'm good to go."
Which is not to say, by the way, that tops aren't without responsibilities and pressures of our own. We have to keep our dicks rigid for the duration, for example—something a bottom doesn't have to worry about. We're expected to know how to handle a bottom guy, which can be off-putting for guys wanting to top but don't have much experience. From some bottoms, we're under pressure to say the right things, hit the right buttons, follow every cue. But cleanliness isn't generally near the top of anyone's list of the tough things about topping.
I expressed to Jayson something that really doesn't get said enough, not by me, not by many tops in general. I truly do recognize and appreciate all the extra effort a bottom goes through in order to prepare for a fuck. The effort the good and thoughtful ones take, anyway.
We've discussed in this blog and in my comments before how the spread of easily-available pornography may have prompted the current taste for squeaky-clean assholes during fucking. Enemas and comprehensive douching certainly weren't the norm when I started having sex in the nineteen-seventies, at least not in the backwater town where I was growing up. I was lucky to have one of those holes that wasn't particularly dirty under most circumstances; the most I had to do in order to prepare for marathon fucks was hop in the shower, soap up the outside of the hole, and maybe insert a wet finger a couple of inches in and wiggle it around a bit. Maybe.
And of course these days, men go to much greater lengths to clean out before a fuck. They buy enema bulbs and install nozzles onto their showers. They go through cleansing rituals that can last for an hour or more. I've been through them myself, from time to time. Oddly, though I never seem to mind the noises and the smells when they're coming from someone else, when I've had to do it, I've found it embarrassing. It's a mortification of the flesh, essentially, and while it's happening I'm usually shuddering and pulling faces and wishing that I was anywhere but in that shower, or on that john, or bent over with my belly full and aching and with water shooting out of my backside.
No, there aren't any pics. Pervs.
So bottoms of the world, trust me. When I say I appreciate what you go through to clean up for me, I mean it. It's the reason I show up when we've made a date in advance, because I know you've built the time to clean out into that day's schedule. It's why I understand and accommodate when you need me to come over in ninety minutes, rather than the fifteen it would actually take me to get there. It's why I understand your massive frustration when you've made a date with another top and he's stood you up—it's not just because you need the dick in your hole, but also because you've made a pretty significant investment of time, effort, and a measure of personal humiliation, even before you found out he wouldn't be coming.
It's why, when I'm presented with a fresh-smelling and soapy ass, I really like to show my appreciation. It's why I love to rim and bite and get in there and make the hole sing before I lube up and thrust my meat deep inside you. You guys flatter me when you take the time and effort to clean up for me like that. I don't take it for granted. I want you to realize that, every time we meet.
I'm curious about the attitudes of others, though. Bottom men—is cleaning embarrassing and unpleasant for you, or is it a no-big-deal kind of thing? Do you find that most tops take your efforts for granted, and if so, how do you feel about it? Or don't you clean out at all?
And tops, how about you guys? Do you think about how clean the bottoms are when you're in them, and the steps they've taken to get that way? Or is cleanliness not quite the issue for you as it is for them?
I'm willing to bet there's a lot about the other side that both perspectives take for granted. It never hurts to open our eyes and think about things, right?
Yesterday I was on the phone with my friend, porn actor Jayson Park. I've plugged his thoughtful and well-written blog before, and I'll encourage you all to go and vote for him as Best Porn Star in the Cybersocket Surfer's Choice Awards. (If I'm not getting nominated for Best Sex Blog, it'd be nice to have one of Breeder's Readers win something, right?) Anyway. He and I were chatting about various things, and we happened on the subject of cleanliness and anal sex.
"I don't like making big sweeping generalizations about groups of people," he said to me. "Especially tops. But it always seems to me like tops don't have to do as much to prepare for a fuck. Not compared to us bottoms."
"No," I assured him. "You're totally right. I figure if my teeth are brushed and my breath smells nice, the rest of me doesn't stink, all I need to do is rinse off my dick and I'm good to go."
Which is not to say, by the way, that tops aren't without responsibilities and pressures of our own. We have to keep our dicks rigid for the duration, for example—something a bottom doesn't have to worry about. We're expected to know how to handle a bottom guy, which can be off-putting for guys wanting to top but don't have much experience. From some bottoms, we're under pressure to say the right things, hit the right buttons, follow every cue. But cleanliness isn't generally near the top of anyone's list of the tough things about topping.
I expressed to Jayson something that really doesn't get said enough, not by me, not by many tops in general. I truly do recognize and appreciate all the extra effort a bottom goes through in order to prepare for a fuck. The effort the good and thoughtful ones take, anyway.
We've discussed in this blog and in my comments before how the spread of easily-available pornography may have prompted the current taste for squeaky-clean assholes during fucking. Enemas and comprehensive douching certainly weren't the norm when I started having sex in the nineteen-seventies, at least not in the backwater town where I was growing up. I was lucky to have one of those holes that wasn't particularly dirty under most circumstances; the most I had to do in order to prepare for marathon fucks was hop in the shower, soap up the outside of the hole, and maybe insert a wet finger a couple of inches in and wiggle it around a bit. Maybe.
And of course these days, men go to much greater lengths to clean out before a fuck. They buy enema bulbs and install nozzles onto their showers. They go through cleansing rituals that can last for an hour or more. I've been through them myself, from time to time. Oddly, though I never seem to mind the noises and the smells when they're coming from someone else, when I've had to do it, I've found it embarrassing. It's a mortification of the flesh, essentially, and while it's happening I'm usually shuddering and pulling faces and wishing that I was anywhere but in that shower, or on that john, or bent over with my belly full and aching and with water shooting out of my backside.
No, there aren't any pics. Pervs.
So bottoms of the world, trust me. When I say I appreciate what you go through to clean up for me, I mean it. It's the reason I show up when we've made a date in advance, because I know you've built the time to clean out into that day's schedule. It's why I understand and accommodate when you need me to come over in ninety minutes, rather than the fifteen it would actually take me to get there. It's why I understand your massive frustration when you've made a date with another top and he's stood you up—it's not just because you need the dick in your hole, but also because you've made a pretty significant investment of time, effort, and a measure of personal humiliation, even before you found out he wouldn't be coming.
It's why, when I'm presented with a fresh-smelling and soapy ass, I really like to show my appreciation. It's why I love to rim and bite and get in there and make the hole sing before I lube up and thrust my meat deep inside you. You guys flatter me when you take the time and effort to clean up for me like that. I don't take it for granted. I want you to realize that, every time we meet.
I'm curious about the attitudes of others, though. Bottom men—is cleaning embarrassing and unpleasant for you, or is it a no-big-deal kind of thing? Do you find that most tops take your efforts for granted, and if so, how do you feel about it? Or don't you clean out at all?
And tops, how about you guys? Do you think about how clean the bottoms are when you're in them, and the steps they've taken to get that way? Or is cleanliness not quite the issue for you as it is for them?
I'm willing to bet there's a lot about the other side that both perspectives take for granted. It never hurts to open our eyes and think about things, right?
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Bound
We've been going at each other for long minutes. Passionate minutes, in which nothing seems as necessary as being next to each other. Not breathing, not the constant pulses of our own hearts. None of it is as important as my lips on his, my hands on his nipples, my cock thrust against the fur of his stomach.
There's a mirror standing in the corner of his bedroom, one that stands as tall as I when I'm on my feet. It's angled in a way that I can't see myself, though. I can't look to see if my lips are as red and swollen as they feel, like cherries ripe to bursting. I can't tell if my face is flushed, if my chest is prickled with the red heat he arouses in me. My dick feels not only engorged, but enlarged, an enormous monster on the loose, needing to devour and be devoured in turn. This is the way it's been for nearly an hour by this point, and we're just coming down the gentle slope of need and urgency into a softer and more restful place. "Will you do something for me?" I feel emboldened to say.
"What do you want?" He's anxious to please. "Anything."
Franco's collection of leather goods is laid out on one side of his large bed. They're for my convenience, my whim. I feel the cold ring of his harness digging into my back, where I lay on my side. His dick is in my hand. "Would you. . . ." I take a deep breath, and will myself to say the words. They don't come. ". . . dress up in a French maid's uniform for me?"
His dick doubles in size in my hand. Then, confused, he asks, "What?"
"Wait a minute," I tell him, stopping the proceedings. "Why's your dick getting so much harder when I ask you to dress up in a French maid's uniform?"
He's a little mortified, and laughs. "I thought you were going to ask me to dress up in my leather. Why are you asking me to wear a French maid's uniform."
"Because I'm using cheap humor to deflect what I really want to ask," I explain. This time it's the truth. He waits patiently for me to continue. He's got beautiful eyes. I don't think he knows how attractive a feature they are. They study me in a way that I find a little embarrassing. I want to remain highly regarded, in that gaze. I take a deep breath and try again. "Would you. . . ?"
It's tough to make this request. He and I have talked about this fantasy before, when we've chatted back and forth online. He knows it's something I crave. He knows the issues I have with asking for it.
It's unfair to make him guess, though. I screw up my courage—and it takes a considerable amount—and say the words aloud. "Would you put your blindfold on me?" I ask. My words sound humbled and quiet, to my own ears. "And would you cuff me?" There's a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Deep inside, those slightest of movements reignite the flames. "And then what?" he wants to know.
"And then make me feel good," I said, in a very small voice.
He fastens the hood around my face. The smell of leather fills my nostrils, sharp and familiar. When he fastens the velcro around the back of my head, it cuts out a portion of the sound I can hear. I feel him, though. The rub of his furry chest against my shoulder as he takes my hand, the reassuring pressure of his arm against mine as he raises my left wrist and wraps a cuff around it. I can't see when he lets it go; it drops like a stone as he reaches for the other hand. Once they're both wrapped, he lays me down gently against the pillows, and pushes up my arms so that they insert themselves through the slats of his head board. I feel a slight pressure, and the sound of a click.
I pull slightly at my restraints. I'm fixed there. I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my lungs inflating and deflating at a slow and regular rate. I'm trying quite hard not to think about the incident that's robbed me of this particular pleasure for the last twenty-five years. After my sexual assault, it's tough enough to admit that I crave this particular form of release. Tougher still to ask for it. Toughest of all to relax enough to enjoy it.
I trust Franco, though. I know he won't betray this exchange of trust. I know he'll use it, and use me.
I feel his hands traveling down the length of my legs. The hair on them riffles out from under his palms. There's warmth around my left ankle, then the scratchy enclosure of another cuff. My right foot trembles as he raises then caresses it, only to wrap it and set it down again. A cold chain traces a path across my thigh. When he tugs at it, it draws my ankles together.
He places the weight of a foot or a knee or some part of his leg on that chain, drawing my legs in as his mouth connects with my skin. He knows my knees are going to attempt to draw apart only to stop short, thanks to the cuffs, that I'm going to gasp with the surprise of it. His hands are on me, but his foot pushes at the chain connecting my ankles again. He's dragging it down toward the bottom of the bed, off the end, forcing my legs to be as close together and immobile as my arms.
I'm a long exclamation point of pleasure, quivering and trembling beneath his touch. I can't tell where his mouth will land next—my nipple, the underside of my rib cage, the softest part of my belly. His fingers rake against my skin. He pinches my nipple, hard, remorseless. He kisses me, making my back arch, my breath rasp.
My eyes are closed beneath the blindfold. I don't even try to cheat, to see beneath where the mask doesn't quite mold to my cheeks. My world is the darkness, the sensations, the touch of his hands, the bite of his teeth, the warmth of his breath and his tongue against my skin. His mouth engulfs my dick. I gasp, loudly and with abandon. I feel this hands on my balls, the nudge of his knuckles against my ass. My body wants to respond—to twist, to turn, to seize his head and point it in the directions I want it to go. When my hands instinctively move to do so, the short bond between them tugs against the headboard. I can't even bring my elbows below my ears.
He keeps his foot on the chain, too, restraining my legs from moving much. He feels me struggling against him, and increases the pressure. He lets me know he's in charge in a hundred ways. The pulls, the tugs, the little laughs to himself as he enjoys me wrestling futilely against him. I can't do anything more than remain hard and hope that he'll keep up that sloppy wet attention on my shaft, that he'll give me what I need.
I wanted this. He's giving it to me.
I can't control my breathing any longer. I'm gasping for air. My legs are shaking uncontrollably. There's a near-pain in my chest from the sharp intakes of air I'm having to take. And still I can't stop the burning where the corners of his pretty mouth meet the root of my cock. I can't control the wrack of the pleasure—almost too much of it—as it overtakes my body. I wanted this, but I didn't take into account how torturous it could be. How painful the pleasure could feel. It's the sweetest pain in the world, though. I want that kind of hurt.
But I realize I'm in trouble. I can't breathe any longer. The mask has slipped to an odd position beneath my nose. I'm recirculating too much air. It's making me dizzy, almost to the point of passing out. "I can't," I manage to wheeze out. "Do you need me to stop?" he asks, all concern. I feel his face near mine.
I need him to stop, yes. I don't want him to.
Still. I let him undo the mask. My face is wet as a newborn chick's, freed from the leather mask. I blink at the shock of the light and the rush of air over my face. My lungs expand and breathe in the fresh, cool oxygen. The dizzy sensation passes in a moment.
"Okay?" he asks, to check.
I look at him, at that handsome face, fuzzy and sweet and concerned. I stretch, my arms still over my head, and look at him lazily from the pillows where he's laid me.
"I'm okay," I tell him.
I am. I really am.
Then he smiles, and continues his attentions.
There's a mirror standing in the corner of his bedroom, one that stands as tall as I when I'm on my feet. It's angled in a way that I can't see myself, though. I can't look to see if my lips are as red and swollen as they feel, like cherries ripe to bursting. I can't tell if my face is flushed, if my chest is prickled with the red heat he arouses in me. My dick feels not only engorged, but enlarged, an enormous monster on the loose, needing to devour and be devoured in turn. This is the way it's been for nearly an hour by this point, and we're just coming down the gentle slope of need and urgency into a softer and more restful place. "Will you do something for me?" I feel emboldened to say.
"What do you want?" He's anxious to please. "Anything."
Franco's collection of leather goods is laid out on one side of his large bed. They're for my convenience, my whim. I feel the cold ring of his harness digging into my back, where I lay on my side. His dick is in my hand. "Would you. . . ." I take a deep breath, and will myself to say the words. They don't come. ". . . dress up in a French maid's uniform for me?"
His dick doubles in size in my hand. Then, confused, he asks, "What?"
"Wait a minute," I tell him, stopping the proceedings. "Why's your dick getting so much harder when I ask you to dress up in a French maid's uniform?"
He's a little mortified, and laughs. "I thought you were going to ask me to dress up in my leather. Why are you asking me to wear a French maid's uniform."
"Because I'm using cheap humor to deflect what I really want to ask," I explain. This time it's the truth. He waits patiently for me to continue. He's got beautiful eyes. I don't think he knows how attractive a feature they are. They study me in a way that I find a little embarrassing. I want to remain highly regarded, in that gaze. I take a deep breath and try again. "Would you. . . ?"
It's tough to make this request. He and I have talked about this fantasy before, when we've chatted back and forth online. He knows it's something I crave. He knows the issues I have with asking for it.
It's unfair to make him guess, though. I screw up my courage—and it takes a considerable amount—and say the words aloud. "Would you put your blindfold on me?" I ask. My words sound humbled and quiet, to my own ears. "And would you cuff me?" There's a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Deep inside, those slightest of movements reignite the flames. "And then what?" he wants to know.
"And then make me feel good," I said, in a very small voice.
He fastens the hood around my face. The smell of leather fills my nostrils, sharp and familiar. When he fastens the velcro around the back of my head, it cuts out a portion of the sound I can hear. I feel him, though. The rub of his furry chest against my shoulder as he takes my hand, the reassuring pressure of his arm against mine as he raises my left wrist and wraps a cuff around it. I can't see when he lets it go; it drops like a stone as he reaches for the other hand. Once they're both wrapped, he lays me down gently against the pillows, and pushes up my arms so that they insert themselves through the slats of his head board. I feel a slight pressure, and the sound of a click.
I pull slightly at my restraints. I'm fixed there. I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my lungs inflating and deflating at a slow and regular rate. I'm trying quite hard not to think about the incident that's robbed me of this particular pleasure for the last twenty-five years. After my sexual assault, it's tough enough to admit that I crave this particular form of release. Tougher still to ask for it. Toughest of all to relax enough to enjoy it.
I trust Franco, though. I know he won't betray this exchange of trust. I know he'll use it, and use me.
I feel his hands traveling down the length of my legs. The hair on them riffles out from under his palms. There's warmth around my left ankle, then the scratchy enclosure of another cuff. My right foot trembles as he raises then caresses it, only to wrap it and set it down again. A cold chain traces a path across my thigh. When he tugs at it, it draws my ankles together.
He places the weight of a foot or a knee or some part of his leg on that chain, drawing my legs in as his mouth connects with my skin. He knows my knees are going to attempt to draw apart only to stop short, thanks to the cuffs, that I'm going to gasp with the surprise of it. His hands are on me, but his foot pushes at the chain connecting my ankles again. He's dragging it down toward the bottom of the bed, off the end, forcing my legs to be as close together and immobile as my arms.
I'm a long exclamation point of pleasure, quivering and trembling beneath his touch. I can't tell where his mouth will land next—my nipple, the underside of my rib cage, the softest part of my belly. His fingers rake against my skin. He pinches my nipple, hard, remorseless. He kisses me, making my back arch, my breath rasp.
My eyes are closed beneath the blindfold. I don't even try to cheat, to see beneath where the mask doesn't quite mold to my cheeks. My world is the darkness, the sensations, the touch of his hands, the bite of his teeth, the warmth of his breath and his tongue against my skin. His mouth engulfs my dick. I gasp, loudly and with abandon. I feel this hands on my balls, the nudge of his knuckles against my ass. My body wants to respond—to twist, to turn, to seize his head and point it in the directions I want it to go. When my hands instinctively move to do so, the short bond between them tugs against the headboard. I can't even bring my elbows below my ears.
He keeps his foot on the chain, too, restraining my legs from moving much. He feels me struggling against him, and increases the pressure. He lets me know he's in charge in a hundred ways. The pulls, the tugs, the little laughs to himself as he enjoys me wrestling futilely against him. I can't do anything more than remain hard and hope that he'll keep up that sloppy wet attention on my shaft, that he'll give me what I need.
I wanted this. He's giving it to me.
I can't control my breathing any longer. I'm gasping for air. My legs are shaking uncontrollably. There's a near-pain in my chest from the sharp intakes of air I'm having to take. And still I can't stop the burning where the corners of his pretty mouth meet the root of my cock. I can't control the wrack of the pleasure—almost too much of it—as it overtakes my body. I wanted this, but I didn't take into account how torturous it could be. How painful the pleasure could feel. It's the sweetest pain in the world, though. I want that kind of hurt.
But I realize I'm in trouble. I can't breathe any longer. The mask has slipped to an odd position beneath my nose. I'm recirculating too much air. It's making me dizzy, almost to the point of passing out. "I can't," I manage to wheeze out. "Do you need me to stop?" he asks, all concern. I feel his face near mine.
I need him to stop, yes. I don't want him to.
Still. I let him undo the mask. My face is wet as a newborn chick's, freed from the leather mask. I blink at the shock of the light and the rush of air over my face. My lungs expand and breathe in the fresh, cool oxygen. The dizzy sensation passes in a moment.
"Okay?" he asks, to check.
I look at him, at that handsome face, fuzzy and sweet and concerned. I stretch, my arms still over my head, and look at him lazily from the pillows where he's laid me.
"I'm okay," I tell him.
I am. I really am.
Then he smiles, and continues his attentions.
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