Sunday Morning Questions: Quarter of a Mil Edition

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A reminder

Don't forget I'll be giving away these, come Monday (pun intended):

Oh man, did I get something new on those?!

Click on the link above to see how to enter. (Pun not so intended, that time.)

Another Milestone, Another Contest

Sometime this coming weekend, I'm projecting that A Breeder's Journal will hit a quarter of a million visitors. A quarter million of a unique visitors since I installed my counter in April, that is. No matter how you look at it, that's a whole lot of unique visitors.

To celebrate my trek to a million unique visitors and eventual world domination, I'm having a giveaway. The lucky winner will receive a pair of my underwear that I've been using as a cum rag for the last couple of weeks. They're pictured below. Click on the photos to see the full-sized versions.

Yes, as you can see, the shorts in question—a pair of black bikini Jockeys—are pretty well-frosted with several of my loads, as well as some of my pubic hair (and probably a few stray pet hairs as well). Not all of you will be interested in such an accessory, of course. But I know enough of you are to make the contest interesting.

How do you enter? Glad you asked. All you have to do is leave a comment on this post before 8 a.m. eastern time on Monday, September 20. Be sure you're willing to do the following, though:

- When you comment on the post, make sure you have an easily-identifiable name or handle. Those of you with blogger accounts or some other account that links with blogger are already identified when you post here, but if you don't have such an animal, don't worry. Just sign off with some name or nickname so that I can identify you. I'm trying to avoid saying, "Anonymous #5, you're a winner!", here.

- If you enter, be prepared to check back next Monday or on the couple of days thereafter in order to see if you're the lucky person to get a pair of DNA-encrusted shorts.

- If you win, be prepared to send me your mailing address through email. Do not include it in your comment, for the sake of your own privacy.

All clear? Don't be totally anonymous. Check back. And don't give me your address now, but be ready to do it later. Monday morning I'll use a random number generator to pull a lucky name from the pool, and will announce the winner.

Don't be shy about entering, even if you rarely or never comment here. It's all in the name of fun!

If you don't want other people to know you're entering this sordid grab for my shorts, don't worry. You can enter privately. (That sounds dirty.) Simply send an email to my address, which you'll find in the sidebar of my blog.

And finally, if you want to comment but do not wish to run the risk of receiving a pair of cummy shorts in the mail, let me know in your comment that you're contributing merely for the sake of speaking up.

Now that we've got that over, let's look at some of the Google search phrases with which people have been hitting my journal since the hundred-thousand milestone.

big sweaty mr steed blogspot


Why, thank you. Though I like to think I don't perspire. I glow.

cumming in my shorts thread-bare or skimpy -she -her


I think today's contest is made for you, sir.

"liam cole" photography shoot


Yeah, I have dreams of that myself, sir. If only.

African violet use during sex


You know, I was certain that the person who asked me that particular formspring.me question was doing so in jest, but now that I see not just one but several people on Google have queried variations of this phrase, I'm a little worried.

bj in the bathroom blog


I considered this title for my journal when I created it, you know.

who is that blogger who is the former football player with the big dick


I'm not really sure, but he isn't me.

people who have never been touched


And this definitely isn't me.

guys into fishing tackle sex


Um.

If I don't hoover my mattress should I start to?


I fear some domestic-minded person accidentally got an eyeful of the wrong thing when he or she looked at my journal for bedbug prevention tips.

pictures of young men having sex in poses of the zodiac


All I can say is that there are some people with extremely specialized tastes out there.

Flash Job

I could tell the guy had been trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. While I’d sat with my friends at a table in the far corner of the dark room, he’d sat at the bar, clutching his vodka and tonic and bobbing his head to the thumping beat, his body angled so that he could snatch little glances my way from time to time. When I went to the men’s room to wash my hands, he swiveled around to watch as I passed. I thought he was going to say something when I stood near him, picking up another bottle of water from my bartender crush on the way back. He remained silent, though, while I received my dewy plastic bottle and left my money and a tip on the bar.

It was when I gave him a sunny smile as I turned to leave that he summoned the courage to say something. “You sounded good up there,” he said.

Before my hand-washing, I’d belted out a Duran Duran tune on the bar’s stage. I don’t know how good it had been, but I’d had outstanding breath support. “Thanks,” I told him, grinning more broadly. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Yeah,” he said. The noise of the bar was loud enough that he had to lean in to make himself heard. “And I recognize you, too.” I merely raised my eyebrows. “From online,” he said, meaningfully.

“Ah.” I slapped him playfully on the shoulder with my free hand. “You probably do.”

One of the bloggers I enjoy reading, Untitled Barebacker, just yesterday posted something that made me laugh aloud in total agreement: “Boys, there is a lesson here, please listen up,” he said. “When you use pictures in your profile that look like you, guys can recognize you on the street and you can get lucky just that easy!”

He’s right. Although I have a couple of profiles online in which I keep my mug behind a ‘private photo’ placeholder, on the more high-profile sites I have it all out in the open. Clear face pics, shots of my dick, me sprawled out with my legs in the air and my goods showing, everything. I tend to be scornful of the midwestern attitude that’s ashamed of sex and the men who make a big deal about keeping either their sex photos public and their face photos locked, or the guys who have no problems showing their faces but hide away any evidence of libido—especially the ones who create high drama on the issue of for whom they will and won’t unlock their precious hidden pictures.

My attitude on those sites is pretty much what it is in my blog. Here I am, world! If you like it, say hello. If you don’t, there are plenty of other ways for you to pass your time, but let’s just be civil about it. As a consequence of being one of the minority who lays it all bare, so to speak, I tend to get approached a lot in public. I get recognized. In the mall a couple of months ago, a daddy pushing a stroller sidled up to me while I was in line at Mr. Pita to drop the line, “Hey, buddy. You’re on Manhunt?”, while his wife was twenty feet away, ordering at the Great American Steak and Potato Company. I can think of about four guys in bars in the last month who’ve walked up, raised their eyebrows, and simply uttered one of my hookup site handles as a question. Last year I had a super-handsome muscle stud smile at me disarmingly in a supermarket and call out, over the mangoes, “Hey! I know you!” Various guys have come up to me at art fairs, bars across the city, and even at IML to say, “Aren’t you. . . ?”

Then usually their second statement is, “Man, you have a really big dick in your photos.” Which is exactly what the guy at the bar said the other night. “Is it really that big?” he added.

I’m never really quite sure how to answer that question. I get it a lot. No, it’s all Photoshop and camera angles, I feel like saying, only I worry that they might believe me. I looked him over for a moment while I thought about it. He was a stocky, solid, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early forties, and handsome in the way some men never are until they have a few touches of gray in their hair and a few decades of living etched on their faces. The guy had a cleft in his chin that I found attractive; I wanted to dip my finger in it just to see how deep it went. “Yes,” I finally told him. “It’s really that big.”

He took a swig of his drink and swallowed. Then he swallowed again. I knew what he was going to ask. “So can I see?”

I just laughed. “Well,” I told him. “Maybe. Give me a few.”

I think he assumed maybe meant no. In my head, maybe meant sit for a while with that boner in your shorts and think about it happening, future lucky fucker. I went back to my table, sat down, and drank half my bottle of water. Then ten or fifteen minutes later, I excused myself from my friends and walked back to the guy. He still sat in his position angled away from the bar, spying my way. “Come on,” I told him, as I went to the restroom again.

The restroom of that particular bar is dank and smelly, but fairly clean. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then hooked the waistband of my shorts with my thumbs and pulled it below my nuts. I’d imbibed enough water that a heavy flow of piss immediately came flowing out of the slit. He walked in after I’d started, and stood at the sink next to the urinal, simply watching. I aimed the stream so that it hit the porcelain wall, then squeezed and shook a few times once I’d done. Then I shook a few more times, simply for show.

He licked his lips, nervous.

“So whaddaya think?” Showing off makes me hard very, very quickly. I still had a couple of drops of pee dribbling out even though I was fully erect within a few moments of finishing peeing. “You like it?”

“Yes,” he said in a raspy voice.

I turned from the urinal and faced him directly. The head of my dick was flared out and purple, and shiny from the lone lightbulb overhead. I fisted the lower half of my dick; the upper two-thirds projected out over the top of my clenched index finger. I shook it, then stroked it a few times in as lascivious and self-absorbed a manner as I could. I know what I look like, when I’m masturbating for others. “So,” I said. “Is it as big as the photos?”

At that point I unwrapped my fist from around the shaft , put my thumb and index finger at the very base, and whapped the length of my dick into my other outstretched palm. It hit my hand with a mighty smack. “Yes,” he said, nodding. He was mesmerized at the sight. “Yes, it is.”

“All right then.”

When I whipped up the waistband of my shorts and covered my meat, and then began zipping it back into its denim, the spell was broken. He looked like a little boy deprived of his favorite toy. “I wanted to play with it!” he protested.

But the time wasn’t then, and the place wasn’t there. “You know where to find me,” I said. Then I left the men’s room.

He stayed in there for five minutes after, all during which I wondered exactly what he was doing. When he exited the restroom hastily, though, his hands stuffed down the front of his jeans in the same way I used to try to pull off during that uncomfortable year of constant unexpected erections in sixth grade, I was pretty sure I knew why he’d dawdled. I watched as he dashed to the bar, downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and skittered out the exit at top speed. He gave me one last guilty glance as he went.

I’m pretty sure he’d blown a load in there. Not a bad compliment for a thirty-second flash job. Still. If he’d actually written me and offered his ass since then, it would’ve been better.

“Another broken heart?” asked my friend Tony, watching the guy go.

I rolled my eyes and went back to enjoying my evening.

His Head

His head was what I touched first, after that sweet first moment when our mouths met in the dark room. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. I could feel the bristles bending to tickle the hollow there, then spring back once free of my hand. He shivered, bowing so that I could more easily reach. When I ran my hands over the back of his neck, his lips parted. He sighed, like a kitten about to fall asleep.

“Come down here,” I whispered, pulling him down onto the bed. We sank into the mattress and covers; his face got lost among the rumpled pillows as I continued my relentless stroking of his skull. He would squirm, almost unable to take the soft, invisible paisley shapes I traced from his ears to his lips, from the planes atop his head to the dent of his nape, around his eyebrows and down his cheeks. Then, without warning, he would relax again, releasing another rustle of breath.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, tracing the shape of his jawline.

He nodded, then replied. “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper. “Yes,” he repeated.

His arm crooked around my shoulder, holding me. From time to time his hand would attempt to wander and stroke my arm, but every time I returned it to its resting spot. “Let’s take this off,” I suggested, tugging at the T-shirt he wore, which sported the logo from the tattoo parlor closest to my home. The two sleeves of tattoos on his arms would have been enough to speak of his obvious fondness for ink; the colorful fantasy images were like a second, more colorful skin that wrapped him around, from biceps to wrists.

He paused, dazed, and then nodded. Before I knew what had happened, he’d skimmed off the shirt and buried the front of his torso in the blankets and shadows again, leaving his back exposed. Surely, I thought to myself, someone used to being looked at for having ninety percent of his body covered in ink can’t be shy about showing himself to me.

I didn’t think about it much. Now that I was being given permission to touch him—hell, encouragement—other thoughts didn’t linger. Both my hands moved over the baby-smooth skin of his back, traveling up and down his spine, tickling over his neck, dipping under the waist of his pants and reading his buttocks like braille. I felt shivers ripple over his skin, followed by waves of gooseflesh and more sighs of pleasure. Sometimes I would let my face move down next to his skin, lightly rubbing the bristles of my beard over his sensitive spots to vary the touch.

“Help me help you,” I said at last, tugging at his pants. I couldn’t get them off by myself. He was too deeply pressed into the mattress. Groggily he got to his knees and skinned them down. Beneath, he wore a pair of navy briefs with broad yellow horizontal stripes. It made me think, absurdly, of bees.

I discovered that the backs of his knees were particularly sensitive. I stroked there, then licked, then sucked and bit and ran my beard over the slick flesh. With every new torture he’d gasp and cry out, or try to jerk away, but I was relentless. “You’re really into back-of-the-knee pleasure,” I teased him, buzzing the words in his ear. He only groaned in reply. “I’ve got some nasty back-of-the-knee porn you’d really like. Greased-up backs-of-the-knees bent over stiff dicks. . . .”

“You're a sick back-of-the-knee pervert,” he managed to pant out.

“I’m joking,” I admitted. After a moment more, I pulled at his shorts. “Turn over for me.”

Before I could get him to flip, he pulled himself up and closed the distance between us. Our mouths met again. “You’re still completely dressed,” he murmured. When I looked down, my shirt somehow had become unbuttoned. My elbows pinned it in. Every insecurity I possess came surging to the fore. I was actually frightened for him to see my body. To me this moment, this first impression, really mattered.

Before I could resist, though, he’d turned me around. His own mouth traveled over the length of my neck, sending my body into a shivering convulsion and my mind into oblivion. I felt his hands on my chest, my nipples, moving down to my waist, then tugging at my belt. Like a child too sleepy to be of much help as his father undresses him for bed, my hands tapped helplessly at his own while he loosened my buckles and snaps and zippers. Any reservations I’d had about exposing myself to him evaporated from the heat of his palms. He pulled off my shorts, and then his own, and tossed them both in the direction of the pile of laundry.

We were naked, and alone, and we stared at each other in the flickering candlelight. I relaxed, exhaling slightly, and then settled with him down onto the mattress, never unlocking my gaze from his. Then I reached out to touch him again, for the first time since he’d undressed me.

His head was what I touched first. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. He sighed, and bowed, and then we started all over again.

The Crush

Today’s entry is not about a guy I’ve fucked, I’m sorry to say. It’s about a guy I go goony for, every time I see him.

I remained awake in bed last night trying to remember who were the objects of my first childhood crushes. I remembered a girl named Beth, sometime in the third grade, for whom I nurtured an unspoken passion. There was my intense crush on my absent brother that was more akin to hero worship, starting around the time I was ten. In high school I had a deep unrequited love for the valedictorian of the class ahead of mine, a girl who lived in my neighborhood who proved the age-old complaint of She doesn’t even know who I am! when I got up the nerve to ask her to sign my yearbook at the end of her senior year, and she scrawled someone else’s name before the words, “Have a nice summer!”

In college I had a multi-year crush on a boy I saw from afar during freshman orientation, and hungered for him without a word every time our paths would cross on campus. He too seemed to have a crush on me, but neither of us did anything about it until the night before we graduated, eight semesters later. At the same time I juggled a wild passion for a girl in my sophomore dorm, who in turn burned with passion for a bearded buffoon who treated her like crap while I showered her, unnoticed, with attention and occasional flowers. All I got in return was the dubious privilege of being her confidante, which involved having to listen to her mope about her buffoon while I ached inside.

Early crushes are painful things. One doesn’t have the life experience to know what they are, or to take them philosophically. All one really knows is that there’s desire there, sometimes a desire more frightening and overwhelming than anything one’s ever experienced before. The force is so strong it seems almost like a tidal wave, yet the only thing one can think to do is suppress it and let it go unspoken. Which in itself, is tragic.

I’ve had a rich crush life since my college days, but I learned something about them during that time. A fledgling sprout of a crush is sweet. Its seed is affection—undiluted and pure. It’s delight in the presence of another. It’s joy in its truest form, and it’s supposed to be enjoyed.

The problem I had in my teen and college years is that I’d want so much more from my crushes than what that little sprout could support. When I learned finally to relish the feelings of a crush without hanging excessive expectations on it, or building from it an imaginary future that I expected to come true through sheer force of will, I finally could accept crushes for what they were, and enjoy the people upon whom I had them, without resenting them in the end.

My current crush tends bar once a week, Sunday nights, at a dive I occasionally go to with friends. And he’s so pretty. When I started crushing out on him four or five years ago, the kid was a tiny twink dancer whose only asset was a perky and round little butt on a skinny little body. Now he’s twenty-five, no longer a dancer, and has filled out nicely. He has a man’s shoulders and arms, a slightly furry chest, and a lean, narrow waist. When he’s tending bar, he’ll usually remove his shirt to show off that body (and increase his tips). It’s hard to keep me from turning my chair across the room to face him, when that happens, so I can stare at his jeans hanging low from those slender hips.

Here’s what I love about my bartender: his floppy, jet-black hair, which has gone from short to Jesus-length to shaved to long and shaggy again, over the last five years. I love the dark, haphazard swoops that are his eyebrows. I love the roundness of his face, sometimes covered in scruff or outright beard, sometimes clean-shaven. I love his dark brown eyes. I love the way he stands, stares blankly, and hums to himself when he thinks he has nothing to do, though someone at the bar’s other end is trying to get his attention. And on those occasions when he gets up to sing karaoke, I love how awful he is at it. He’s not so terrible that it’s amazing, but he’s endearing because he’s off-tune and wooden and stiff and doesn’t really seem to give a damn. And because afterward, when the noise ceases and he steps down off the stage, his little smile of relief at being done is so, so cute.

I like all those little things, and appreciate them for what they are. I don’t try to think about nailing the kid, much, or about the little mountain cottage the two of us will share when we’re old and gray. I just like how alive the little things make me feel.

My friends tease me about my bartender boy, because I can’t talk to him. I’m too shy. I know! It’s totally unlike me. When I have to buy a drink from him, I mumble my order and avert my eyes in a way that makes me roll my eyes and shake my head at myself when I think about it at home, after. I’ll gaze from afar, and sigh, and let them tease me, because I know something they don’t. I did attempt to talk to the bartender one time.

It was a Sunday night on which I was there by myself, for a change. Without my friends to hang with, I sat at the bar and let my crush tend to me there. Silently I decided that it would be the night I got to know my bartender boy. We’d strike up a conversation. I’d find out that he was really a serious young veterinary student, or a talented musician waiting for the moment to make his break. He’d want to talk about literature, or he’d intently lean over and give me his opinions on Stanislavsky. We’d have one of those friendships in which I’d add him on Facebook and we’d wave and call out each other’s names when I walked into the bar. That’d show my friends, all right, when the bartender boy and I were best buds.

Then the bartender boy came over and, from beneath the bar, and right at the spot where I was sitting, produced an enormous Tupperware container. I mean, seriously large. It had to be a four-gallon tub, and it was filled with an opaque red-colored liquid studded with chopped carrots, potatoes and noodles. With a plastic Taco Bell spork in one had, he popped open the lid. I could smell the vapor of a slightly-warm tomato-vegetable mixture.

Clutching the tub to his belly with one arm, my crush wrapped his fingers around the plastic utensil, dug it into the tub, and stuffed a dripping sporkful into his mouth. Then he chewed it with bulging cheeks. “I like soup!” he announced to me. Then he stuffed another sporkful into his mouth before he’d finished chewing and swallowing the first. “Soup is good!” he asserted, giving me a good view of the see-food buffet.

All the little fantasies I’d had about the intellectual conversations I’d be having with the bartender boy went flying out the window. “Yay, soup,” I said wanly, and turned around in my seat so that I didn’t have to watch the gruesome scene any more. Since that night, I’ve stayed across the room from the kid, so that I couldn’t let him give me any more reason to stop going moony-eyed over him.

Because that’s the thing about crushes. They’re fragile things. Sometimes you really don’t want to confront the reality behind them too closely. Not if you want to keep them alive for a time.

Sunday Morning Questions: Late Riser Edition

Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I tend to be an early riser. Chipper, even. Yes, one of those annoying guys that sane folk talk about behind his back. Who does he think he is, getting stuff done at seven in the morning? Ass!

Well, today I'm not that person. I crawled out of bed at 9:45 and even now am considering heading back there. It's the weekend. Daddy deserves that, right?

My customary Sunday exercise is to amass questions that some of you guys have been asking on formspring.me. If you have questions you'd like to ask anonymous, feel free to use the service. As long as the questions aren't too invasive, I'd be happy to give them a go. If you have questions you'd like to email me, I'm always good with that too, for the more personal touch.

Ever since I put out a new call for questions a couple of weeks ago, you guys have been coming through with some interesting and challenging queries that I'm still working on—just probably not this morning. Oy. My head.


If you were a voyeur, what one sex act being played out & exhibited before you would give you your most thrilling & memorable woody of the week?
If I have to be the voyeur, I really like it when another top man shows off for me how well the bottom under his control performs for him. I've had many private shows on cam in which a top dad puts his boy through his paces, and it always turns me on.


Are you poz?
I know my HIV status and post it in my online profiles. I don't post it in my blog, because I do not want my blog to have serostatus as its focus.


Would you consider accepting payment for a chance to be bred by you?
Absolutely. I've done it before, too.


Using a cell phone, do you ever photograph yourself?
You've seen my blog and my Xtube page, right?


Have you & another guy ever lain on each other head to foot belly to belly torso to torso thigh to thigh & frotted cocks to mutual orgasm, with no penetration?
No.


Have you ever had a three-way with another dude and a vampire where the three of you shot your loads in a planting of African Violets without getting any on the leaves because they don't like that?
Oh my god, this is the BEST QUESTION EVER.

And oddly enough, yes, I have.


favorite sexual roleplay?
When it comes to roleplay, dad/son is pretty reliable for me. Blindfolded and anonymous is also another favorite.


Dogs or cats?
I've never topped a cat. Oh wait, what were you asking, exactly?


What is the most disappointing sex act you have ever done or had done to you?
I've had my share of disappointing sex, but it's always been because either I or my partner simply wasn't present and connected to the other.

However, when it comes to sexual acts that don't live up to the hype, I'm nominating two.

1) Autofellatio. In my teens I was often paid to suck myself while guys watched. Either they'd jack off and watch, or watch and fuck me after. However, for all the pleasure guys got out of watching me choke down half my dick and then cum on my face, I always thought it was a major chore. It was uncomfortable, it left me with indigestion, and frankly, it didn't really feel that good. There's a huge difference between sucking yourself and getting sucked by someone else. The former never excited me.

2) Double penetration. Two dicks in a single hole looks good in porn. Maybe it's exciting for the bottom. For me, however, as a top, my pleasure in it has been small. The stimulation is marginal, as is the amount of control over the pleasure you're getting. Double-penetrating an ass might be a bit of a mental kick, knowing what you're doing, but it's almost just too much for not a lot of reward.


How long ago was the last Persian? As compliant as this one?
My last Persian guy was a younger buck with a wife and several children and a hunger for dick. He was a fun, fun guy.

I thought I was a reformed English major, but I can't get this out of my head, now:

That's my last Persian painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.


I want to be your Duchess!!
My readers are so literate and filthy. It's a good combo.


Your preference in masturbating: (a) all alone by yourself? or (b) in the company & with the help of someone else?
I always prefer to be with someone rather than masturbate by myself. I do like to show off my stroking skills, however, if I'm turned on by the audience.



most men fucked in one hour?
Probably between seven to eight, at some parties I've been to. I didn't shoot in them all, however. If you wanted to know how many different men I've bred in a single hour, the answer would probably be three.


Do you think flight attendants are disproportionately bottoms?
No, I think 99% of them are bottoms, just as 99% of the general population is bottoms.


Why are you relocating? How do you feel about it?
The relocation is for a new job—not mine, though. I'm looking at the whole thing as a new adventure. To spurn change merely because change is scary is not something I tend to do.

At the same time, I'm finding the process of putting my house up for sale a huge pain in the ass, and I haven't had much time to myself as a result.


I've never fucked a guy in a sling. Have I missed something?
Fucking a guy in a sling is much the same as fucking a guy on a table, or on a bench, or on a bed, or on any surface for which you need to be standing. For the top, the only real advantage to fucking a guy in a sling is that its natural swinging motion can aid and enhance your thrusting.

For the bottom, a sling can be a comfortable resting place for a long and rough fuck. I've always found the advantage rests squarely with the bottom, when it comes to slings. Lucky bastards.


How can I meet you???
Contact me and be in my general vicinity. It's not that difficult. :-)