Sunday Morning Questions: L and R Edition

I have a tendency to meet people and make new friends, when I go out. I also have a tendency—perhaps you’ve noticed—to accumulate new stories all the time. Sometimes the two things go hand in hand. And I guess sometimes they work against each other.

Through another friend, over the summer I made acquaintances with a sexy Asian banker in Manhattan. He’s a nice, down-to-earth guy with a dry sense of humor that matches mine. I’d kind of guessed, from a couple of dropped hints he’d made on our first meeting about slings and leather, that he was perhaps sexually attracted to me. The explicit text bombs he made to my phone, later on, confirmed it. But for whatever reason, we haven’t done anything about it. (Yet.)

We were sitting at a midtown bar last week when he expressed the wish—one I’ve heard many times before from gay guys—that he could sleep with one porn star, once in his life. I suggested it’d be easy enough to pick up a copy of Next and riffle through the escort ads in the back, as they’re nothing but porn actors selling sex, but apparently the notion of having to pay for it didn’t appeal to him. He wanted the porn star to want him for himself. Kind of the way that guys who love strippers and prostitutes and other sex workers want them, but want it to be a freebie.

So I told him that I suspected even with porn actors, he’d find the whole spectrum of sex from good to bad, and that just because they’d fucked on film didn’t make them super-lovers or even spectacular human beings. “You don’t even know any porn stars,” he told me, scornfully.

Oh-ho-ho, but I do. I pulled out my phone and opened up my contacts, which has its own ‘Porn Actors’ section. (Not because I’m bragging, mind you, but because I’m anal about classification.) “Oh my god,” he exclaimed, over the first name alphabetically on the list. “I’ve seen all his movies! How do you know him?”

I didn’t want to say that I write a sex blog and the man in question was a fan, so I just mumbled something about how I’d known him for years. My acquaintance had already pulled out his phone, though, and was looking up some of the other names. “Oh my god!” he’d say after each once, once he’d Googled some photos. “Oh my god! You’ve had sex with all of these guys?”

“No, no,” I said, laughing. “I haven’t had sex with any of them. Well. Almost, with this one.” I pointed to the last name in the list.

“But I know who that one is! I love him! How do you know him?!”

The him in question was a kid who’s been in a lot of scenes lately. I’d met him over the summer at another bar near Grand Central, when he’d been out celebrating his twenty-first birthday. He’s a short, muscular little thing. I’d taken a pee break and he’d followed me into the single-person bathroom. We didn’t have sex (I thought he was too drunk for it, and I do have ethics), but we did make out against the slate walls of the restroom for a good ten minutes (my ethics only go so far). And then I had to listen to him talk to me about what cars he liked for an hour afterward.

Truth be told, I didn’t know he was a porn actor until later in the night when one of the bartenders told me. Then I, like my friend, looked him on my phone and realized that yeah, I’d made out with a porn actor. A twenty-one-year-old-that-night porn actor. I’d thought he was just some dumb kid who liked cars. “And I’m not saying he’s dumb,” I said, with the implication that I was saying exactly that. “But he does have an L and an R tattooed on his feet.”

“Liar,” he snarled.

“No really.” I brought out my phone, googled a couple of images, and sure enough, on a couple of them you could see the fancy L on the kid’s left foot. The shot was of him with his legs over his head, but the right foot was out of frame.

My acquaintance stared at me for a moment. “I think I fucking hate you now,” he said. Then he stood up and stalked away.

I’m still trying to figure out whether or not he was serious.

Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. And if you have questions, please feel free either to ask them through that service, or via the email in the sidebar. (Don’t be offended if I don’t get to yours immediately. I put them in a big backlog and choose them at whim. But I’ll get to them!)

Have you taken part in a "naughty librarian" fantasy/role-play? Would you like to?

No, I've never engaged in that particular kind of roleplay.

One of my grandmothers was a librarian. (Hence my anal tendencies about keeping contacts rigidly classified.) I had a severe crush on a librarian once, and I actually had fun with a naughty librarian several times. Sadly though, with the latter, it was never actually in his library.


What movie is better than the book from which it was made?

The English Patient. Good god, that book is a terrible read. And I usually love that arty literary crap.
Also, the Emma Thompson Sense & Sensibility is a hell of a lot better than the original Jane Austen book. Hey, I’m a Jane Austen lover who picks up Mansfield Park every other year for fun, but Sense & Sensibility is a tiny bit underbaked and a whole lot overwrought.


Did you have a favorite store to visit to buy snacks and pop when you were in grade four?

Johnson's Hardware was the name of the store, and it was a dinky little mom and pop hardware store in Richmond's north side that had what I felt was the most amazing nickel candy display in the world. I bought Wacky Packages and Bottle Caps there almost nightly, after a long bike ride from home. Additionally, the store had a soda machine outside that sold both Grape Nehi (which was my favorite) and Brownie (which Wikipedia describes as a 'whey-based chocolate drink', making it sound as unappetizing as it probably really was).

Plus, two doors down was Willey's Drug Store, where I could buy a chocolate or vanilla cone for a dime.

My, I was a little glutton.


What are (in your opinion) the oddest search terms that have brought people to your blog?

Most of the search phrases that people use to find my blog are pretty straightforward: things like "mrsteed's blog" or "a breeder's blog" or "mr steed sex journal." Those I understand.

What mystifies me every time are the phrases that seem to be very, very specific. So specific, in fact, I can't fathom why or how my blog came up in the Google search. Phrases like "depraved tops who bang out six loads in a row" (well, maybe that one I can figure out!), or "African violet use during sex." I also tend to get a lot of Justin Bieber sex-related searches as well.

However, I think my two oddest search phrases have been "photos of young men having sex in poses of the zodiac", and "spongebob squarepants sucking dick." If I actually had written about those things, my life would be a whole lot more interesting.


How many times do you think your parents have had sex?

My parents had a lot of sex. My parents had a LOT of sex.

They were not shy about it. If they were cuddling on the sofa watching TV, and the cuddling turned into making out, and the making out got them hot and heavy, they would have absolutely no qualms about leading each other to the bedroom and shutting the door. They made absolutely no attempt to pretend they were doing anything other than what they were doing, either.

Growing up I remember being barred from a couple of motel rooms for an hour or so while we were traveling, so they could fuck. Sometimes I was sent to the local store on errands on my bike so they could have the run of the house to themselves. They once did it in the back seat of my dad's 1963 Dodge Dart so that the windows fogged over.

I always accepted it as something natural—which it is, and should be. The only time it bothered me was the night before I moved to Michigan for graduate school, and my parents screwed with their bedroom door open, thinking I was asleep down the hall. That was loud and a little annoying. Not because it was my parents having sex, but because jeez, at least try to keep it down a little, folks!

Revenge #2

We’d fucked like dogs in heat two days before. It had been a session in which Rock Star blew an explosive five-day load all over my chest, face, and his pillows. After that, the pressure’s off for the week. Today’s supposed to be a cuddle day—one of those mornings when he and I get together with no particular sexual agenda.

Sometimes on a cuddle day we lay naked in bed beneath a thin blanket, letting the air conditioner roar over our bodies as we talk. Sometimes we drift into a morning nap that lasts until the noon sun breaks through the skylights above.

Sometimes, like this morning, we make out like kids in a split-level basement party after school. Our dicks grow hard as we hold and paw each other. He tries to climb on top of me; I push him down and suck on his long shaft as he studies me with dark eyes covered by even darker hair. Finally, he swings around to lay his head on my thigh. His mouth wraps around my dick. He comes that way, masturbating with my shaft in his throat while I fondle his balls and gently rub on his nipples.

We’re in a tangle afterward. Sweaty. Smelling of each other. The dog’s curled in furry beige lump at the bed’s head, protecting the toy he’s held in his mouth for the last two hours. “You know what I liked?” says Rock Star, from where he’s using my stomach as a pillow.

“What?” I rumble. My eyes are half-closed. It’s a sleepy, lazy, wonderful moment.

“I liked those photos of you sent to me. The ones of you in college.”

“Oh gawrsh,” I chuckle. I was camera-shy for my first four decades. Of the handful of photos I have from my college years, I only have a few digitized. I’d texted Rock Star three, one day, to lift him out of a bad mood after work. One was of me dancing with a female professor at a costume party. Another was of me on the Jamestown ferry, my eighties Paul Young mullet made even more poofy from the wind. The last is of me drenched and glistening and soaking wet from a storm, laughing like crazy from the exhilaration of the driving rain and the wind.

At the time I thought of myself as a hideous creature that should’ve been living under the bridge the Billy Goats Gruff traveled. Now, with time, I see why so many men wanted me. I’m fresh-faced, and sunny, and smooth-skinned. I was beautiful then, and never once gave myself the credit. “You look so . . . you in them,” he tells me.

And I know just what he means. My hair’s less crazy now, my face bearded—but my smile’s the same, as are my eyes. I still laugh in the same half-self-conscious way. Take a high-speed camera and capture shots of a speeding baseball at two points in its trajectory and you’ll see it from different angles; the markings vary, the stitching transform. But it’s still undeniably the same. “Thank you,” I say, feeling shy. Then, in a more assertive tone, I add, “But I was all bottom then. You wouldn’t have been as crazy about me.”

“Re-ally,” he says, intrigued. I tell him in brief about what a slut I was in college and before, and how it wasn’t until I’d graduated and begun graduate school that I was introduced to topping. He listens with amusement, as if I’m spinning some unlikely fiction. He sits up in the bed and props himself on my naked chest. “Does that mean you want me to fuck that hole of yours?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, snickering a little. “That’s what it means, all right.”

“You want me to flip you over and show you my sex-ay top moves?”

He’s teasing, but I play right along. “Yes sir,” I tell him. “I want you to show me your sex-ay top moves right now.”

He’s shot only a few moments before; there’s no chance he’ll be hard enough actually to do anything. I’m amused, though, as he roughly grabs me by the shoulders and flips me onto my stomach. He straddles my ass and flops his cock against my crack. It’s not turgid, but it still has enough residual blood in it to make it hefty. It spreads my cheeks as he pushes his weight into me. “Well first,” he says into my ear. “I’d make love to you, all sweet and gentle.” His long, long hair hangs down and tickles my bare back. I feel the heat of his breath on my spine, followed by the wet lick of a tongue. He plants kisses on my shoulders that make me sigh. “And then. . . .”

Rock Star gives one of my buttocks a heavy wallop. He waits for my reaction. It’s been years, but I’ve been spanked and paddled by pros. That spank I barely felt. I look over my shoulder and peer at him with one of my eyes. “Was that it?” I ask.

Without warning he grabs the top of my skull. Shoves my head into the pillows so roughly that I exhale and lose my breath. Begins pounding my ass with his pelvis. He’s giving it a real battering, too. His dick flops around heavily, bludgeoning my ass. “Then I say, Take it, little bitch!” He jackhammers me into the mattress while he wrenches my head back and forth by the hair. The dog looks up mournfully from his pillow.

I can barely breathe, but I start laughing. I can’t stop, either. The hilarity of it hits a chord deep inside, and once struck, it won’t stop jangling. “You are crazy,” I tell him.

“Then I’ll pull out and give you some relief,” he says. He pulls his pelvis away from my body. I feel the tip of his dick dangling just above my hole. The air conditioner pushes coolness over our sticky skins. My laughter has subsided into giggles, but they keep on coming. I know it’s not over.

Sure enough, he starts mock-pounding me again. Every thrust brings stars to my eyes. His hipbones are so pronounced and sharp that they have to be bruising my backside as he slams into me, but can’t stop laughing. Full-force, now. I’ve got tears in my eyes. “Yeah, rippin’ into your daddy ass,” he growls. “Your boy gettin’ his own back. Turning daddy into my bitch, bitch!” His mouth is next to my ear, just as mine is when I plow into him. “Maybe I’ll shove you up against the wall, lift up a leg, make you chew on the plaster to muffle your yells while I pound the shit out of your daddy ass!”

“Okay!” I say amenably.

“It’s going to be a fuckin’ bloodbath!”

He pushes himself off and rolls me over. I’m still chuckling, deep from the gut. I can’t tell if I’m breathless from his weight, or from my amusement. “You are a deeply, deeply silly man,” I tell him, trying to sound grave.

“Then I’ll take those sheets, all covered with blood from your daddy hymen, and sell them to a New York art gallery for a buttload of money,” he says. “It’ll be my art installation. I’ll call it. . . .” He pauses to think.

“Revenge,” I suggest. “No, Revenge #2.”

“Revenge #2,” he agrees. “By Daddyfucker.”

He can’t help himself either. A single snort rips through his rough, tough would-be top’s facade. He collapses next to me on the mattress, and tickles my ribs. We both erupt into renewed giggles.

Our arms entwine around each other. Our lips meet. We kiss, still laughing like little kids, and disappear beneath the blanket to enjoy each other while there’s still time.

Runt . . . Cunt

So he’s lying on his mattress, staring at me with those big, helpless eyes, hands clawing at the sheets, feet paddling the air like a kitten. I’m straddling his chest, sitting on his rib cage. My weight’s holding him down, making him breathless. One of my hands is clamped over his mouth, muffling the whimpers and pleas. The other is reaching back to work on his sloppy butt. I’ve got four fingers plugging that gape; my first load has already seeped out onto the rumpled sheets, and into the palm of my hand. My fingers stink of semen and boyhole.

“That hurt?” I ask the Runt. To get the answer I want, I add my thumb to the cone I’m making and jab it in. Harder. Deeper. His eyes widen. His lashes are already fringed with moisture bordering on tears. “I said, does that hurt?”

The sound he makes is smothered by my hand, pushing down so hard on his mouth that his head is disappearing into the pillow. “What?” I snarl. “I can’t fucking understand you. Does it hurt?”

He tries to speak again, then realizes that I’m not going to let up on my grip on his face. Runt looks up at me and nods as best he can. His panicked eyes telling me all I really need to know.

It hurts.

His dick tells me the rest of the tale. He’s shot already during the first fuck, and not that long ago, but it’s hard again and red and glistening across the gentle downward slope of his abdomen. There’s a pool of precum sliding out of his dick’s tip. Sure, it hurts. But the little fucker loves it.

My eyes drill into his as my hand insistently probes his hole. His legs paddle helplessly. As he begins to accept the sensation of being opened wide, their fruitless motions lessen, then cease. His dick leaps up and points to the headboard. I feel breath on the side of my head from his nose, as he sighs deeply. He fucking loves what I do to him. He settles into the mattress and open his legs wider, inviting me in.

The Runt lives with his folks still. His room’s still a boy’s room. There’s a pile of laundry in a corner that carries the vaguely goat-like stink of boys his age. His desk is covered with video game discs and electronic equipment. His closet looks like it’s been used to contain the explosion of a hoodie factory. He doesn’t have an adult’s artwork on the walls; he’s got posters. I don’t fuck him at his home much. I drill his little hole in cars. I bring him to my place and ram the shit out of him. Anyplace I can get the little fuck on his knees, spread his cheeks, wet him up, and slam it deep.

Because when it comes down to it, the penetration is what he craves. Penetration is the defining moment of sex for him. It’s the point of fucking, to be put in his place, spread wide, and violated. There hasn’t been a time we’ve been together when he hasn’t let loose with his load, the moments I’m forcing myself into his hole. The rougher and more humiliating I make it, the harder this boy shoots. Oh, he’s still in it for the fuck. He grinds his ass and begs for my load. He loves cock in his shitter.

But the penetration is what gets him off—that sensation of being ripped into, of being entered, of giving it up to a superior cock. The more painful it is, the harder he climaxes. So I play it up and make sure he fucking feels it, every time.

I let go of his mouth. There’s a red print on his face from the pressure. His lips tremble and work to bring the blood back. “Get up,” I order him, as I swing my knee over his body and release him from my weight. I flop back on his stinky bed, let my head dent the pillows. He scrambles to his feet. Reflexively, his hand touches the collar around his neck. It’s the dog collar we bought together. It’s a talisman for him. He’d wear it 24/7 if I let him. “Fuck, son,” I drawl, letting some of my Southern cadences color my voice. “You’re a sloppy mess.”

He looks up and down his body. He’s covered with silvery dry traces of his own juice. With lube. His moon-white skin is covered with my pawprints. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You look like a fucking whore,” I tell him. “You look like you’re just a cunt. Is that all you are? Just a cunt?”

There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s liking this. His skinny cock is still rock hard, and it’s projecting out in front of him. He nods.

“Go over to your desk,” I tell him. “Get one of those marking pens in that cup there.” He shuffles over his books and manga and pulls out a blue highlighter from the cup. “No,” I say, annoyed. “The black one. There.”

He comes back with a thick-tipped Sharpie, which he offers me.

“Uncap it.” He obeys, his eyes on me unwaveringly. I sit up, take the pen, and turn it so that the tip is facing him. “So you’re just a whore, huh? A little boy-whore?”

He nods. Another bead of pre-cum oozes from his dick and begins to hang down underneath the head. “Yes sir,” he says. It’s barely a murmur.

“Come here.” I reach up and pull him down by the collar. He thinks I’m going to kiss him. I do not. Instead, I hold him at a distance, so I can write on his chest with the Sharpie. His eyes widen as I scrawl a thick W over his right nipple. I put a H on his pectoral, and a O right in the middle of his sternum. An R follows, and then I finish off with an E over the left nipple.

When I release him, he staggers back and looks down at himself. It’s upside and backwards from his perspective, but I know he can read. “What’s that say?” I ask.

“Whore,” he says, faintly. His face is red. He looks mortified that I’ve written the legend on him. But that dick doesn’t lie. He loves it. Loves it.

“Is that what you are?” I ask. He nods. “I didn’t hear you.”

This time, he asserts his answer a little more loudly. “Yes sir.”

“Turn around. Bend over.”

He thinks I’m going to eat his cummy hole. Or maybe shove my fingers back inside. I do neither. “And this,” I say, brandishing the Sharpie, “is what this is.”

On his left cheek I write a large, dark CU. On the right, NT. Right above the crack, I draw an arrow pointing down.

“Look in the mirror,” I tell him.

He turns, and looks at his creamy white butt in the full-length mirror on his door. His cock leaps as he realizes what it says. “What are you?” I ask.

“A cunt, sir,” he says.

“And?”

“A whore.”

“Fucking right. Put this away.” I throw the marker at him. He nearly misses grabbing at it, but he caps it and returns it to the desk. “Now get over here.”

I pull him down onto the bed using his collar. Put him face down. Pull the pillows so they’re under his hips. Yank his ankles apart so that little butthole is exposed. Drive in two fingers. He gasps, and groans. I’ve arranged his dick so that the pillows are pushing it between his thighs. It’s pointing straight down at the mattress, exposed, hard, angry red. “What are you?” I ask.

“A whore,” he moans, into the bed. “A cunt.”

“You’re a fucking cunt,” I tell him. Then I take my cock, aim it at his hole, and shove myself into that warm, tight boyflesh. No mercy. No kindness. I plow all the way in, and and land on the little nub that’s his prostate. I mash my dick’s head against it.

He cries out, loudly. His body shakes. It’s almost as if he’s trying to buck me off, his reaction is so strong. But it’s only the orgasm taking over. His semen squirts down onto the bedclothes . . . one, two, three jets of the thick and sloppy stuff.

“I’m a cunt,” he whimpers. He’s saying it more to himself than to me. It’s a mantra to him now. “I’m a cunt. I’m a fucking cunt. Just a fucking little cunt.”

“Good boy,” I say, letting him hear the pleasure in my voice. “Lesson learned.”

I wait until his body stops shaking. Then I withdraw a few inches, slide in, and begin the real fuck.

Lazy

It's the last week of summer.* I'm feeling remarkably lazy. So here. Here's a photo of my dick, in lieu of an actual entry.

Well, okay, here's another.

Fine. Here's a link to a movie of me banging some whore in a hotel, I finally got around to uploading.

That ought to hold you through the weekend. Have a good Labor Day, everyone!

Sunday Morning Questions: Chew It Edition

I’m not really a candy person. That is, I’m not going to turn up my nose at it. I don’t have a lingering neurotic fear of wrapped candy as the result of a childhood trauma involving a circus clown, a birthday piñata, and a Mexican donkey, or anything. But if you laid down an array of expensive hand-rolled truffles to my right, and a bowl of discount-brand Cheetos snack equivalent on my left, I’d walk away from the table with orange fingertips, fake cheese breath, and the plate on the right untouched. (Well. If there were a coffee-flavored truffle, I’d probably pause to Hoover that down my piehole.)

I make an exception for one particular brand of candy, though. In the last year I’ve become addicted to Chimes Ginger Chews—little sugar-dusted chunks of taffy-like goodness with a strong taste of crystallized ginger. I carry around in my man-bag a little tin with a supply of them; they’re good for satisfying any post-meal sugar cravings, they freshen my breath, and they also come in peanut butter flavor.

Secretly I suspect they’re probably about as healthy as M&Ms, but since they’re ginger flavored, I can pretend they’re all organic and natural and healthy and shit.

Many thanks to the reader who very kindly gifted me with a one-pound supply of the things from my Amazon Wish List! They’ll keep me (and my dentist) happy for months to come!

Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. Or spring.me. Whatever they’re calling themselves these days. If you've got questions you'd like to ask, either email them to me directly with a subject line of 'Sunday Morning Questions,' or use their site to submit them anonymously. I'm always grateful for the chance to talk about myself. Yet again.


Have you ever had music playing while fucking? Is there any kind of music that you find works well with or stimulates fucking? Does any music get you (even more) in the mood to fuck?

I'll come out and say it: I dislike music during fucking.

I am not fond of dance music during fucking. I don't like pop music while I fuck. I don't want to be listening to R&B or country music during a lovemaking session. And I really dislike guys who sing along to the music while we do it.

The only time I personally find music acceptable is if I'm about to bang someone in an apartment with paper-thin walls and I don't want the neighbors to hear the yelling. Then I'll turn that shit up.


What actor would you like to play you in the story of your life?

I'm going with Bradley Cooper. Because we're practically twins.


Did your family eat around a single table when you were little?

Although they were unconventional in a lot of ways, my parents were very strict about having a sit-down dinner at the table, with no television, and polite conversation of a general nature. I can only think of a handful of occasions when we didn't eat all together until I left for college.

Mind you, after about the age of ten, I was cooking about half the meals, since my mom hated preparing dinners and both my parents were often working in the late afternoons. So they weren't THAT old-school.


I was revisiting your Landscaper series and was curious about how you two got in contact, as it's not really revealed in the first piece. Do you still meet up with him and might you right more about him in the future?

Yes, absolutely I still meet with the Landscaper. It's not frequently, exactly, because after each meeting it takes his internal clock a while to reset to a point where he desperately needs the man-to-man contact again. We originally met when I answered an ad of his on Craigslist.

I have not been writing about these encounters, though, for three reasons.

The first, and simplest, is that there's a sameness to what goes on in the meetings. I tend to want to write about encounters that bring a little something new to the table, either sexually or interpersonally. There have been a couple of developments with him of a minor nature that I would write about . . . save for the two reasons below.

The second reason is that when I write about the Landscaper, there's a very small (but VERY vocal) contingent of readers who immediately write in tsk-ing and tut-tut-ing comments that accuse me of 'exploiting this poor man's internalized homophobia' or other similar nonsense.

I've got two responses to that. The first is: FUCK YEAH I AM! That's what makes it hot, bitches.

And the second, more reasoned (but no less sincere) response is that I would posit I'm giving this guy, who obviously has never, ever allowed himself to pursue with men the physical intimacy he so very obviously craves, a safe space to explore his sexuality.

I'm not going to stalk him. I'm not going to blackmail him. I'm not going to endanger his relationship, or beat him up and rob him. I'm not urging him to leave his wife and kids and leap into a relationship for which he's clearly not ready and doesn't want to be pressured. I'm not pushing him to do anything he's not ready to do. In fact, though I'm ostensibly the 'trade' in this situation, I'm letting him call the shots from meeting to meeting. We haven’t verbalized it, but he keeps returning to me because he understands every single one of those things.

I give him an amazing time, and he gets the outlet he wants and needs. If that's exploitation, it's of the very mildest kind. Furthermore, I would ask the moralists who make it their business to pout and throw tantrums whenever I write about the Landscaper: where are you guys when I'm tossing out racial epithets during some in-bed roleplaying with minority bottoms? Or when I'm butching it up with gay guys who are fascinated with my marital status? Or when I’m letting some young guy call me ‘daddy’ as I’m impaling his ass?

The self-appointed critics are, to a man, okay with me treating gay guys as sexual fodder. It seems that once I throw the Landscaper into the mix, however, suddenly well-off white straight men are an endangered species who must be protected from me at all costs. And that disparity strikes me as self-loathing, on their parts.

There's a third reason I've stopped writing about the Landscaper, and that's because at the other extreme, some readers are way too overly vocal about wanting more entries from him. It's not as grating as the second reason, but it's a little tiresome to write a hot entry about some other sexual encounter and the only comments I get are along the lines of "This is hot and all but what happened to the Landscaper?"

The name of this site is not The Landscaper's Blog. I would like to compose more entries about him, but the conditions have to be right.


Hey man . . . gotta tell you, I'm a bit jealous of your scoring record. While I keep drawing a blank. I'm pretty good looking, but don't photograph well, well all the self-pics come out so weird, that I wouldn't fuck myself . . . get the drift? What gives!

I'd suggest that you take the time to figure out how to take better selfies. If you're taking your own photos and they're not turning out well, you've really only got yourself to blame. It's not as if your digital camera or your phone camera is going to run out of film, right?

After the Party #1: Total Trade

He’d arrived late to that party I’d attended, earlier in the summer. The room had been as pitch black as the host could make it, noontime in a cheap hotel room with shabby drapes. Like vampires caught mid-feast, we’d recoiled from the blast of sunlight and froze in a tableau on the bed. When the door opened I was balls-deep inside the state trooper, his legs over my shoulder, my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, while someone or another ate my ass.

Then I saw this guy come in. Pete, I later found out his name was. Thrown into silhouette by the sun, he seemed immediately the most attractive man in the room—and with a bald muscle pup and a built black guy and a state trooper arguing over my dick, that was some pretty stiff competition. He had the build of a construction worker. Broad shouldered. Worked-out arms. Narrow waist. Long surfer’s hair.

The door had closed. He stared at me. Then he’d removed his shorts and his T-shirt, taken his already-hard dick in his hand, and walked over to where I knelt on the bed with my dick shoved up the cop’s hole. Then he’d pulled my head to his, given me a surprisingly soft and gentle kiss, and then maneuvered me down to his dick.

I’d melted at that.

I want Pete, I’d written the host after the party. Give him my email or my profile or something.

You are barking up the wrong tree there, the host wrote back. He’s even more top than you. He’s total trade.

Don’t care, I wrote back. I just want more of his dick.

In his email back the host had given me a written shrug. Okay, but you’re just going to be disappointed if you want to fuck him.

I figured I could live with that disappointment, if it meant getting that man’s hog in my mouth again. I don’t mind servicing trade. Especially handsome trade like that.

He’s married, though. And I’m married. Neither of us can host that often, so hooking up for a second go-round, one-on-one, has been difficult. But here it is, an afternoon when the family’s not due back until midnight, and he’s actually free. I’m reminded of that afternoon in the hotel when he gets out of his car and strides up my walk. I’m sitting on the front porch in a T-shirt and a pair of thin sweat shorts, no underwear, hard at the prospect of seeing him again. And he’s still as burly and handsome as before. His hair is long and curly and hangs down to his shoulders; he’s got on a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of khakis. I push down my boner from inside my pockets, greet him warmly, and lead him into my home.

Once we’re inside, I put a hand on his chest. Through the flannel I can feel his heart beating. He looks at me with his big blue eyes and says his first words to me: “I’m kind of nervous.”

They take me aback. “Why?” I ask. “You know me already.”

“Barely,” he says. We stand still for a moment in my living room. It’s a warm afternoon. A breeze blows through the windows and open door. We stare at each other, and then he reaches up to pull my head down to his again. We kiss.

I go with the assumption he’s not as nervous any longer, after that.

I take him back to the bedroom. Sit down on the bed. Unbuckle his belt, undo the khakis. He’s not wearing any underwear either. His dick is soft, hooded with foreskin. He starts to unbutton his shirt when I bend down to suck him. His hands settle on the back of my head, holding it gently, cradling it. When I back off a half-minute later, he’s rock hard.

I stand up and maneuver him onto the bed. I make sure he has a pillow beneath his head. Then I spread his legs and sprawl between them, so I can go to work on his dick. “I just want to make you feel good,” I tell him before I go down on him again. “Anything you want.” It’s an honor to be taking this man’s cock; he’s just fucking handsome. I want to take him so he’ll be in my system. If he’s in my mouth, down my throat, he’s part of me. Simple as that.

And it’s a great dick. It’s not huge by any means, but I love the ample foreskin, the fatness of it, the generosity of his head and its obscene veininess. It throbs and jumps in my mouth as I fellate him. I know I’m doing well when it releases little tastes of precum on the back of my tongue. “Not yet,” he says suddenly, as he pries my head off of him. When I look up, he’s panting. He’s got a short trigger, this one. I hadn’t realized. I hadn’t been the one to get his load at the party.

Then he gets aggressive. He pushes me back, makes me get on my knees. He yanks off my t-shirt, pulls down my sweat shorts. My dick flops out lewdly and strikes the mattress. Then he wheels around and lands on his stomach. I feel his hot breath on my meat, and then his mouth surrounding me.

“No,” I say, shocked. This is the guy who hadn’t sucked any cock at the party. He’d been total trade, content to let man after man service him. “You don’t have to—“

But he’s not doing it out of obligation. He’s sucking me because he wants to. He’s cramming my whole cock down his throat, even though it’s pushing him to his limits and beyond. When he looks up at me, his eyes are brimming with tears from the effort. His face is red. His hair is spilling over his face and he’s still looking up at me, judging my reaction to his cocksucking.

It’s good. I’m so totally flabbergasted that this sexy brute is sucking my dick—and sucking it well—that I groan and gasp a little. This position isn’t the best, but so long as it keeps my dick in his mouth, I’m not moving. I let him slobber over me for a little bit until he comes up for air. Then he shocks me again.

“Would you ever consider fucking me?” he asks.

I’m not even sure I’ve heard the words right. In fact, I figure what he really said is that he wanted to fuck me. But no, I realize that’s not how it came out. “What?” I say.

“Would you . . . fuck me?” Then, in the softest coda I’ve ever heard, he adds, “Please.”

I’m stunned. “Really?” He nods, almost as if he’s embarrassed to be asking. My cock hardens even more than it was before. A surge of possessiveness and top aggression starts to surge through my veins.

“You want my big dick in you?”

“Yes. I want your big dick in me,” he repeats. He’s speaking so softly that I can barely hear him.
I know when to take advantage of an opportunity, though. I nod. I turn him over. I spread his legs, and pry open his butt. My tongue flicks out. Licks it. Tastes the mixture of sweat and soap smell and the metallic tang of his inner ass. He wraps his arms around the mattress corner and hangs on as I eat harder, deeper. Whether or not I get in there, I’m going to relish eating out this man’s hole.

And I do, for long minutes. Then I reach for my lube, and apply a quarter’s worth onto his hole. Another quarter’s worth goes inside, pushed in by my index finger. I can already tell he’s tight. So fucking tight. Maybe even first time tight.

That realization just makes my dick harder.

I rub the head on his hole. “You like that?” I ask. He grunts. I let my fleshy head bounce in and out of his hole. I’m using the gentlest of fucking motions. Not pushing at all. Very gradual. The fact I’m rock hard at the thought of topping this top, of getting the impossible, is turning me on like crazy. When I’m sliding back and forth now, he’s taking the head and an inch. The head and an inch and a half. The head and two inches.

Bit by bit, increment by increment, he’s opening for me. And he’s loving it. “You okay?” I ask periodically.

“Yeeeees,” he groans out.

“Have you had dick in there before?” I demand to know.

“Not . . . like this,” he pants out. “Not your size.”

Good. The news pleases me. I’m a competitive top. The news should surprise no one.

It’s about four inches in that we start to run into problems. I no longer have to hang onto my dick to make sure it doesn’t splay out at an angle as I fuck; I’m definitely in him. I could even fuck to completion at this depth. I’ve done it with less. But I want to be all the way inside him, and we have to get past that inner ring. I push.

“Whoa,” he says, startling as he realizes what I’m doing.

“Ssshh,” I say, reassuring him with kisses on his shoulders.

“It—“ I know he wants to tell me it hurts. But he doesn’t want to discourage me, either.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just enjoy it.”

He grimaces as I continue to push. There’s a massive amount of resistance. And then I’m through. My final four inches slide into him smoothly, as if they belong. Pete’s head lolls and I hear him take a sharp breath.

“Am I hurting you?” I ask him.

“No,” he says. Then again. “No. Not at all!” There’s a sense of wonder in his voice.

I take that as permission to fuck.

In and out I slide. With every thrust, his hole opens more. Maybe he hasn’t bottomed much. Maybe he hasn’t bottomed at all. But he’s responding like some of the hardened whores I fuck, grunting with pleasure and animal lust when I get all the way in, clamping down on me and refusing to let me out when I piston back. “You like it,” I tell him. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he whispers. His brow is furrowed; his eyes are clamped close. At my question he opens them and looks back at me. “I love it.”

“You love my big dick fucking you.”

“I love your big dick fucking me,” he agrees.

Yeah, he really does. He’s pushing back when I thrust now, trying to move his hips, give it up to me and make it good. The big old top who never gets fucked is my bitch. And he fucking loves it.
He shoots when I position him on his knees and milk the load out of him with my hand. It only takes a few strokes. His guts contract around me and threaten to suck in my junk, nuts and all. Then I pump my load inside him, squirt by squirt. “Thank you,” he murmurs as I breed him. “Thank you. Thank you.”

It’s the sweetest whisper I’ve ever heard.

We collapse to the bed together. “Don’t pull out,” he begs. I remain on top of him, my dick still swollen and wet from lube and sperm. For a few moments we pant and breathe. Then finally he lets out the longest sigh I’ve heard in ages. “So that’s what it’s all about,” he says, sounding half-asleep.

Yup. That’s what it’s all about.

And I’m fucking proud to have shown him.

Home Gloryhole

Do you like gloryholes? he asks me on a sex site.

No, I shoot back. I fucking LOVE gloryholes.

Then you should try my home gloryhole sometime, he writes back. Conveniently located near Times Square.

I look at the clock in my living room. I was just about to leave to catch the train into the city, in fact. Fifty minutes for the ride, a half-hour for a quick lunch, ten minutes for walking. . . . I’m going to be in that area in ninety minutes.

He sends me an address. I copy and paste it into in my contacts. I use Gloryhole for his surname. Home for his first.

So here’s the setup. He’s in a seven-story building on a busy street in the east forties. It’s one of those doorways I wouldn’t even notice if I weren’t looking for it, wedged as it is in between commercial storefronts and restaurants. I ring the bell, he buzzes me in, I walk up to his floor. Each floor has only one apartment; the only door there is ajar.

I step through. Shut it behind me. Let the latch click. There’s a solid wall on my left. An opening to the right that has black fabric tightly stretched across it to keep out intruders. Then, directly across from the doorway, a six-foot stretch of drywall. Right at dick level is the hole. It’s oval, about four inches high. Smooth around the edges.

It’s a professional setup. He’s bolted a long pipe—a plumbing fitting—into the wall right at the level of my forehead. I see a single ring hanging at the far end. I instantly deduct how this stark room with the hole looks when he’s not stripped down, mouth open, behind it. Curtains, probably, to hide the hole and break up the monotony of the wall. Maybe a little table to discourage people from lifting it up and discovering the gaping vacancy right at waist level. Art hanging from the hangers I can discern on the left-hand wall. A proper little foyer for an expensive midtown apartment.

Not an anonymous dick delivery system for a cocksucker.

I’ve already shoved my sunglasses and wallet into my bag. I let it fall to the ground with a thud. I step up to the hole. See him beyond. Squatting. Ready. Even through the narrow hole I can see that his body is beyond muscular. It’s a Men’s Health magazine body. He’s shirtless. His hand is inserted into the fly a pair of madras shorts. I see a shadow approach the hole. He’s looking through. Mouth open.

He’s ready.

I step up. Unbutton. Unzip. Pull down the waistbands of my jeans and shorts simultaneously. I’m wearing the thickest and heaviest of my cock rings. It weighs down my nuts, makes my dick flop out and swing. Then I step up to the hole and insert my junk right through.

There’s a pause. I imagine he’s looking at me, planning his attack. I feel my dick lift. There’s a slight breeze on the top of my balls. Then I feel wetness around my soft cock, and warmth around the base. I’m in.

His mouth is so soft and wet, and his tongue action so gentle that I can’t pinpoint the moment I go from soft to hard. All I know is that suckling sensation all around my meat, insistently nursing it to fullness. When that happens, he starts up and down the shaft. I feel his lips travel, slowly, insistently, deliberately, along every one of my inches. He’s in no hurry; he’s making each trip from base to glans last. He’s savoring the taste of my flesh—flicking in and out of the slit when he reaches the top, nuzzling against my pubes at the bottom.

I can tell I’m in good hands. Or a good mouth, anyway. I grab the bar from beneath, push my body against the wall, and relax.

I don’t know how many minutes I’m there. It seems like an eternity. He does this thing where he clamps his mouth down on my dick, gets me going so hard that my whole body’s shaking. If it weren’t for my grip on the pipe above, I’d probably fall to the floor. I’m trembling, I’m bucking so hard into the wall that my knees make it resound with deep, percussive thuds. “Please,” I croak out.

Then he’ll stop, leaving me gasping for more.

He’s got it down to a science. He knows how to give me enough to make my body shake and quiver. When he stops, my dick is wet and red and angry that the cocksucker’s not finishing me off. He could finish me off so easily. He knows it. That’s why he’s torturing me like this. Fucker.

Two can play at that game. Still hanging onto the bar, I lean back, let my body fall into a long S-shape. My engorged cock is on my side of the hole now. I can see he’s got his pants open. His fat, short dick is out; his forearm is busy beating it. His jaw approaches the hole, rubs against it like a cat marking his territory. It’s a strong chin with a two-day growth of stubble. I’m kind of wondering at this point if it belongs to a face I’ve seen on the screen before, large or small. A personal gloryhole would be a good outlet for someone known to indulge in his favorite sport.

I don’t really care to whom that mouth belongs, though. I just like the look of it, lips protruding and begging for my dick. I give him the tip. He responds hungrily. I pull out. My turn to tease. A little tip more before I swing back again. Then I’m feeding him the head, backing out, and pushing it back in. I’m using his mouth as a fuckhole, and it’s as wet and hungry as most of the boys I drill.

Finally he’s getting it all. He handles my inches like a pro as I drive into the back of his throat. He doesn’t need his hands; he’s got his mouth to get me off. By the time I’m thrust all the way through hole, he’s using his throat like a pussy and getting my body shaking again. I’ve got sweat soaking the back of my head; my armpits are dark spots on the fabric of my shirt. “Please,” I whisper. “Please. Please!”

I don’t know whether or not he hears my begging. Doesn’t matter. I get what I want. My cock erupts almost painfully, tossing ropes of seed down his open throat. I hear him grunt on the other side of the wall, feel his lips widen to take more of me in. Feel his throat swallow around my shaft. For what seems an eternity I blast away into that unseen mouth. When I come to, I’m hanging from the pipe with weak hands and feeling him nurse the very last drops onto his broad, flat tongue.

I withdraw. Take a breath. Try to stuff my still-stiff cock and balls into my pants. Zip it down tightly, and pick up my bag. “Thanks, buddy,” I say to the figure still crouched on the other side of the hole.

No reply.

No worries. I wasn’t there to listen to the guy talk. He’s got better things to do with that mouth. Damn, that mouth. Twenty-four hours later and I’m still thinking about that mouth.