A Happy Yule

Not all my readers celebrate the holiday, of course, but I think we all need a day in the year like Christmas, when we reunite with loved ones, reflect on the good times past, and hope for better years in the future.

I wish all my readers a most happy holiday.

A Quick Note

My posting may become sporadic over the next few days as the holiday hits. Hits like a giant meteor with a collision course for earth, like some mid-nineties disaster flick.

I'm hoping to be back to a more regular schedule next week!

Sunday Morning Questions: Last-Minute Shopping Edition

By today's title, I don't mean you guys shopping for me. (Though if you want to, by all means, go ahead.) I mean to confess that I am a last-minute present shopper. A very bad one, too.

I'm usually good at looking at a person and seeing some of the things that make them tick. I'm really good at observing personality quirks and seeing how they rise and connect to the person beneath; I'm especially skilled at listening to the stories that people tell, and understanding why they picked out that story and why they tell it in the manner they choose. I'm good at getting to know the people who are close to me.

But how all that translates into whether to buy someone a scarf or a sweater absolutely mystifies me. I wander into a store and don't have a clue of how to pick out an appropriate gift. I blunder around aimlessly, in an increasing panic, until it's Christmas Eve and there I am in the local drug store that's the only place open for last-minute presents, frantically purchasing Chia Pets for everyone on my list.

Well, it's not that bad. But almost.

Take Spencer, for example. I'd like to get him a small token of a present—nothing too elaborate, nothing too grand. But I don't have a clue of what to get the boy. I don't really want anything consumable. Or a shirt of which he'll dispose in a year or two. Just something small by which he could remember me in the future, that's not overly showy or expensive. Any suggestions from the crowd? (No, no studded cock rings.)

It's my Sunday tradition to round up some of the questions I've tackled on formspring.me. Feel free to use the service to ask your own questions of me—I have a bit of a backlog of questions at the moment so don't be offended if I don't get to yours immediately, but I'll eventually answer anything that's not overly invasive, super-repetitive (I know I've answered hundreds of questions at this point, but rest assured that 'How big is your dick?' is indeed among them), or just batshit crazy.


Do you have random anonymous sex/hook ups with strangers? like using craigslist, restareas, cruising spots, public restrooms etc..
Yes. Where do you want to meet?


Is it the case that bottoms in general are desperate for tops or just that there are few who are hitting up every top they encounter for more?
Some bottoms are a little more strident than others. There's kind of a fine line between 'aggressive' and 'desperate' for me. While I appreciate a good 'Hey buddy, I'm horned up and looking for some good dick in my hole. Interested?' as a come-on, I'm turned off immediately when it gets that needy, whiny, accusatory edge, like 'Are we EVER going to fuck or are you just jerking me around?'

If a bottom wants a guy's dick, that's one thing. If he acts as if he's entitled to it and the top is merely standing between the bottom and his intended goal, it's a distinct turn-off.


You said you like to look for how well the bottom performs for the top. What are the ingredients of good performance?
The short list is: attentiveness, hunger, enthusiasm, being in the moment instead of letting other cares overwhelm the encounter, and the ability to finish what one starts.

For me, being a good kisser doesn't hurt, either.


Do you follow back every person who follows you on Twitter? And if you do, do you block all the bots and obvious fakes or do you follow back any way (or just leave them as a follower)?
I follow back people on Twitter if they seem interesting, don't have a timeline filled with nothing but YouTube video links, aren't commercial enterprises, and look like they chat with others.

I tend not to follow people who have set their tweets to private, or speak in a language I don't understand, or who're overly cynical and proud of it, or mistake bitterness for wit. The only people I block are those who are obvious spam bots.

Sometimes I miss following people I'd probably like. I hope they speak up and let me know.


Do you unfollow people on Twitter if they do not follow you back? If you do, why does this matter to you? (I follow people I found interesting, and mostly I don't worry if they follow back, unless I have several @replies back and forth, thats different.)
If I follow someone on Twitter before they follow me, it's because I find them interesting, not because I expect them to follow me back. I don't worry about it.

However, if someone follows me on Twitter and then unfollows me, I unfollow them the moment I find out. I get offended that way.


What's your most effective "pickup" line when testing the waters with a possible closeted candidate. For example, if you meet a cute, married guy, what's a "hook" phrase that has high yield for you?
I am not usually in the habit of trying to get closeted married guys to try to have sex with me. The ones that want to, usually contact me first. I'm also not fond of pickup lines. I usually find that "Hey. You're really attractive, you know?" works just fine.

However, I've been on the hook end of many a fishing expedition. The most common way that guys have attempted to see if I play on their team is to ask where I hang out, followed by the casual mention of a gay or gay-friendly bar or restaurant or two.

If you attempt this method, you might not want to mention the most notorious gay hotspot you know. Saying, "Say, ever hung out at the Manhole?" might scare off your potential interest.


Okay you have a Friend who is dying and they are not your type, but you find out that their dying wish is to make love with you before you die would you do it? and why or why not?
This sounds suspiciously like the question I had asking whether I'd sleep with a reader whose dying wish was to sleep with me, and my answer is pretty much the same: I don't think that anyone appreciates or enjoys pity sex, particularly when the pity arises from that particular situation.

Besides, I think that someone with only a little time to live would have a priority shift of a major kind, and I suspect sex with me wouldn't be on the list.


So Im A Huge Fan With Your Blog How Do I Get To Be A Man In One Of Your Stories?
Thanks very much. I'm willing to meet new guys if there's mutual attraction, but you'd have to be visiting my area, and I'd have to see what you look like, in advance.


Do you find many of the young guys who approach you are hustlers looking for a generous older man with either cash or drugs?
While I have had younger guys hit me up for money, it's happened only a couple of times. Most them just want the dick.

I've had more young guys offer to pay me, than I have had young guys demand I pay them.


Do you ever approach younger guys? Do you often get rude replies?
The younger guys tend to approach me.

Online, at least, usually the younger guys who are predisposed to rudeness are rude in their profile, and almost always have messages stating "NO ONE OVER 35!!!!" or something similar. I wouldn't consider getting with these guys even if they asked me--and they very often do.


i want you to video tape me breeding you and post it on xtube.
You'd really have to be pretty persuasive for that one to happen. I haven't been topped successfully in about eight years.


Can you recomend a blog to follow? i like pics and stuff but i love reading about someones sexual experiences.
My blog's not enough for you? Dang, that's cold! (I'm kidding.)

I've recommended some other sites in my blog in the past--it should be easy enough to find the tags for them. I also recommend looking at the 'blogs I follow' links in my sidebar.

Unfortunately, a couple of the ones I've recommended on the blog haven't had any new material added to them lately, which makes me wonder how real the stories behind them were to begin with. There's one I wouldn't recommend any longer simply because I find the blogger hostile. The rest, however, should be interesting to you.

Not Enough

“How many loads have I given you?” I ask into the dark.

Spencer lies beneath me, on his back. His flexible dancer’s body is doubled over onto itself; his legs aren’t simply helplessly dangling in the air, but are pointed in a direction toward and past the top of his head. Like a monkey’s, his prehensile toes are hooked onto the underside of the bed’s headboard. He’s opening his ass to me, trying to get me in as deeply as humanly possible.

My question’s mostly rhetorical. He’s in no condition to answer, anyway. He’s almost crying. I know he’s long past the capacity for rational thought, with my eight inches hammering away at his hole. I’m not sure I could answer the question myself, even if I sat down with a spreadsheet and calendar to cipher it. Three loads one night, five another, a single one the night I took him to the bar to meet my friends. Two the night before . . . and the one I gave him in the living room. They start to add up, over the weeks we’ve been fucking.

All I really know is that it’s not going to be long before I give him another.

It’s late on Sunday. It’s also the first night that Spencer has agreed to spend the night with me. I’d floated the idea long before, our first week. He had demurred, indicating a certain self-consciousness about spending an entire night sleeping in the same bed with someone. I can get that. He’s young. He hasn’t done it for over two decades, like I have. That’s why I was surprised a little earlier in the evening, when in a very small and shy voice he asked if he might sleep over. Of course I said yes.

He’d dove between the sheets like a little boy, bouncing on his back and flipping over and pronouncing my mattress the most comfortable ever. Beneath the fleece sheets and blanket he snuggled up next to me, grabbing me around my midsection and pulling me to him, relentlessly fingering my dick until I’d stiffened. Once he’d put me into the mood, his lips had locked on mine, spurring on my passions until my fingers had first tickled at, then invaded and plugged his hole.

And now I was in him, making him mine once more. The headboard gives a sharp crack as he pushes back on it. The sheets have fallen from my back and onto my ankles, exposing our skin to the cool nighttime temperatures. Spencer’s big dick is rock hard and drizzling pre-cum onto his furry belly. Mine’s merely slopping up his hole. Every time I thrust in, it squelches with a wet noise that I make certain he can hear. It’s the most erotic of music to his ears. Every sweet note makes him groan all the louder.

We shoot almost simultaneously—he first, with a yell that seems to flake paint from the ceiling. Then me, quietly shuddering as squirt after squirt of my juice leaves me and paints his hole. Time seems frozen for a moment after. We’re both fixed in place, unwilling to move, unwilling to let the moment end. But he shifts, and my dick slides out in a rush. He pulls up the covers again, gently tucking them around me before hoisting them over his own shoulder. Spencer and I spoon, with my arms around him.

Will I be able to sleep with him close by? Part of me worries that I might snore, or that I’ll drool, or that he’ll wake before I in the morning and see my morning hair and flee, yelling. I wonder if he’s thinking about the same things. But he’s not. Already his breathing has deepened and grown more steady. His chest is rising and falling in a regular rhythm. He’s falling asleep. Knowing it makes my own eyes heavy. My head begins to buzz as I come close to unconsciousness myself.

“Not enough,” I hear him murmur, just before sleep takes hold completely.

His words are so soft that they’re barely audible. In the quiet dark, though, they’re enough to rouse me. My eyes open slightly. In the blue-black night I can see the outline of his short, coarse hair and the long sideburns hugging his jaw. “Hmmm?”

“You wanted to know how many loads you’ve given me,” he says, reaching for my hand. His fingers curl around mine, as he hugs it to his chest. There’s another pause, as he falls back into sleep. He repeats the answer again, even more softly than before. “Not . . . enough.”

I love that answer. A smile crosses my lips as together we slip into the depths, not to emerge again until morning.

Spunked Undies Wednesday

As I mentioned a couple of weeks back, one of Breeder's Readers sent me a pair of underwear he wanted decorated with Breeder Seeders. Naturally, I said I'd oblige. And here are the results, which I'll be sending off a little later today:

You can see that, as per reader instruction, I put some on the inside as well as the outside. I'm thorough, that way.

I'm thinking that when I get up to 400 followers, we'll do another random drawing of a similar pair of dirty underwear from my own drawer. That's only eighteen more followers to go, then--so get cracking, guys.

Anal Magazine

A few months back I received an email from an editor who was interested in including some of my erotic prose in an issue of his magazine. Fame and fortune at last!, I thought to myself.

Well, no fortune. And the fame is more like infamy, and it's pretty much limited to Mexico. But hey. It's a country I love, ever since I whored my way through it in my late teens.

Anal Magazine is an upscale, artistic publication celebrating gay erotic culture and expression through photography and the printed word. They have a classy blog and a Facebook page on which they announce their issue launches and their many parties. The magazine is produced in Mexico and is therefore written primarily en español (though all the articles have English-language translations in the back, I'm assured).

If you're a speaker of the language or happen to live south of my country's border, you're going to find issue number two of the magazine a bit more accessible and easy to find. However, the editor assures me that they're trying to set up a Paypal option for people outside of Mexico to purchase copies. They'd run for approximately seven U.S. dollars plus shipping. Which doesn't seem very much for a lot of commentary and glossy photography by a bunch of stellar individuals.

And then a little bit of low-brow smut by me.

If you're among those interested in getting your hot little hands on this hot issue, contact the editorial staff and let them know you'd like to make some arrangements to purchase their second issue. No, I'm not making any money from promoting them. I'm just digging the satisfaction of a whole new audience of sexy Latin men, reading my work.

Piggy Needs to Be Fed

“Piggy needs to be fed,” Spencer said yesterday, around seven in the evening. His hands slapped his stomach. And by ‘stomach,’ I mean that flat section of his body between muscular chest and thin waist where he tucks enormous quantities of food without displaying so much as a ripple.

I gaped at him in amazement. “You’re kidding me, right?”

We’d spent most of the snowy day together. He’d come over shortly after noon and we’d slowly driven through unplowed side streets to an Indian restaurant he’d recommended that had a large lunch buffet. We were the only non-Indian diners there; the entire time of our visit, the staff and cooks kept stopping by our table and treating Spencer as if he were some sort of local celebrity. Apparently he’s a regular there. They asked about his performances, and his health, and inquired after his parents and friends, remembering them by name. The owner was particularly solicitous. Though he quite capably shoveled two big plates of rice and curries into his mouth on his own, she kept bringing over special little tidbits she thought he’d particularly enjoy—a mango/yogurt drink to cool the spices, little fried honey cakes to counter the chickpea stew, seasoned naans they’d made in the kitchens just for him. The food was fantastic, but I was quite full by the time we finished off with lumps of milky, sweet dessert cheese, and knew I wouldn’t be eating again for the rest of the day.

We went to the movies, where we held hands in a crowded theater and where I cringed behind him whenever something gruesome happened involving ballerinas slamming their mothers’ hands in doors or ripping off bloody toenails. And then we went back to my place, where we promptly hopped between the sheets, naked and erect, and went at each other’s bodies like horny teen boys desperate for release. He came before me, his hole clutching and gripping my dick, then relaxing for me to finish pounding him.

We’d watched an hour of an old X-Files episode when he patted his belly. “You can’t be hungry,” I protested.

“It was five hours ago that we ate!” he countered.

“Five hours ago that we ate a fucking enormous meal.”

“I’ll go out and get myself something. You don’t have to go.” It was a gallant offer, considering that a dense, icy snow had been falling all day.

“No,” I told him. “We’ll go out. I’ll just watch you eat. That’s all.”

We ended up at a Chinese restaurant up the street, where I watched him consume a bowl of stir-fry while I toyed with a single scant spring roll. Then it was back to my house again, where we watched another couple of hours of television together, cuddled on the sofa with his legs draped across my lap and his hands warming on the skin beneath my shirt.

At ten, he stood up. “I guess I should get going.”

“You need your sleep,” I agreed.

We stood close. Spencer is nearly as tall as I. I don’t have to bend over in order to meet his mouth. We kissed, sweetly, gently. Our lips connected and intertwined, then softly pulled away from each other, over and over again. His hands pulled my hips against his. I could feel his dick hardening down the right leg of his pants. Spencer never wears underwear. It’s perfectly possible at any given time to spy the outline of his cock head through the khakis he favors. When he’s hard, his big dick fills them out. My nails scratched the ridge through the fabric, making him catch his breath.

My lips traveled over his brow, his cheeks, his neck, the lobe of his ear. He rested his head on my shoulder, still holding me tight. It was obvious he didn’t want to go. I was hard myself—it’s difficult not to be hard around Spencer. We stood there in my brightly-lit den off the back of the house, windows open and the sliding double-doors open to the (admittedly empty) house behind mine, grinding and leaving soft pecks on each other’s faces.

Then I stuck my hand down the back of his pants.

His hips began to grind even harder. My hand probed his crack, questing for the hole I now know so well. The hole was surprisingly slick. My index finger slipped right inside, up to the second knuckle. “You’re still so wet,” I marveled.

He lifted his head then. His eyebrows were raised. His eyes were full of need, and a single question.

I answered it by unbuckling his belt, and turning him away from me.

His pants and then mine hit the floor with soft thuds. Spencer knelt down into the den sofa. He turned his head so that it could rest atop the sofa’s pillowy back. I spit on the head of my dick and went back inside. It had been several hours since I’d loaded him up, but he was still so wet and full of my juice that I didn’t even need the little bit of lube I’d added. I could smell myself mingled with him as I slid inside.

“Oh god,” he said into the cushions. “Oh, god.”

“Your hole is made for my dick,” I said softly, as I slid back and forth in long, deep strokes.

“Yes,” he replied in a deep groan that rattled his rib cage. “I was made for you. Made for you to use. Your dick is perfect for me.”

“And you are so hungry for it,” I commented. He jerked and twitched. “Piggy needs to be fed.”

He let out a short huff of delight at that, but it was quickly consumed by the fire raging through his body. His legs spread as far as his trousers would allow them, and he pushed his ass high into the air. My hands traveled the length of his arched spine, and lingered over the round globes of his butt. It seemed so wrong, fucking like dogs in a bright room when someone from the street behind mine could have walked or driven by and seen it, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. The only thing on my mind was the rhythm of my thrusting, the squelchy wetness of his hole, and the increasing tension in my dick. I hiked his shirt and sweater up so that I could grab underneath him at his nipples, then his stomach, and his dick and bouncing balls. Every tweak and pinch made him groan and clamp down on me.

I shot noisily, pounding so hard that the throw pillows fell onto the floor and the afghan on the sofa’s back slid off as he grasped and buckled and tried to resist me banging his head against the wall. His hole clamped down, trying to get every last drop of sperm. Then I slopped out, and he stood up with a sheepish look.

I sat down on the easy chair opposite, legs spread, hands dangling between them. Then I nodded that he should come over.

I slipped his dick into my mouth. His hands ran through my long hair as he fucked my mouth. I suspect that Spencer would make a wicked top, if his tastes ever ran that way. He likes to control the mouth he’s in when he gets sucked. He held the back of my skull and eased all the way in, penetrating my throat and making me see stars. I gasped for air when he pulled back out again, then prepared myself for the assault I knew would follow.

He fucked my mouth hard as I kept my jaw open and my lips wrapped around my upper teeth. My right hand gently stroked his hairy balls as he pistoned in and out. It didn’t take him long; finally he ripped his meat from my lips and jacked furiously to a conclusion. Semen sprayed from the tip, baptizing my face, my head, and the shoulder of my sweater.

He backed off, seeming shocked at what he’d done. Then, seeing me covered with his load, he laughed a little. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be,” I told him.

I’d liked it. It had been the perfect conclusion to a long and full day.