Some of you may be wondering why I broke out a section from yesterday’s Cruising 101 guide on the gay bathhouse in order to talk about something as effete and nebulous as etiquette.
I’ll tell you why. It’s because last Friday night I decided to hit the local baths when nothing interesting was happening online. For three and a half hours I sat there in my room, or cruised in the steam room, or walked the hallways, while I watched guys engage in all kinds of assholery. It almost seemed as if the men there that night were determined not to connect with each other. I ended up leaving without so much as a hand job.
That’ll happen from time to time. One night, you’re king of the bathhouse and everyone wants a piece of you. Another night, you’ll feel one of the untouchables, a leprous caste shunned by any and all passers-by. Some blame it on the conjunction of the stars, or just the luck of the draw. I, however, tend to suspect these nights happen when a little bad behavior spreads like wildfire and fucks with everyone’s mood.
So I’m presenting a few suggestions for your consideration, so that everyone can have a good time at the baths.
Rule #1: No Means No
The world does not end because someone refuses you. It’s just a minor road bump. Don’t escalate it into a car wreck.
Seriously. If a guy tells you no, whether by saying the word or its equivalent, or by his body language, it means he doesn’t want to have sex with you. Move away, and move on.
If you reach for a man’s junk in the steam room and he gently pushes away your hand, it means he doesn’t want you touching him. It doesn’t mean that he wants you to use both hands to attempt to wrench apart his knees and give it another go.
If you step into a guy’s dark room to ask if he wants some company, and he says no, it means he doesn’t want your company. It doesn’t mean he wants you to shut the door, turn on the light, sit down, and try to talk him into it.
If you’ve been following around a guy and he keeps moving away from you in the movie room, or leaves the steam room when you step in there, or sidles to the other side of the sauna to get away from you, it means he doesn’t want you near him. It doesn’t mean that you should follow him all the more relentlessly in case he eventually changes his mind.
There seems to be a circular logic that comes into play in the lust-fogged minds of men when they’re in the dark halls of a bathhouse. If that guy doesn’t want to have sex with me right now, they seem to think, he’ll definitely want to play with me after I’ve made a thorough nuisance of myself. Or, Maybe if I corner him so he can’t get away, he’ll be forced to play with me.
Just don’t.
Rule #2: Be Polite
This goes for men who do the rejecting, as well as those who have been rejected. Don’t snarl “Fuck off!” at some poor schmoe who’s dared to stick a head in your room. Just look the other direction and close your legs, or simply say, “No thanks” if he asks if you want company. Not “Not in a million fucking years!”, or “Jesus H. Christ, as if!” or “Not on your best day, troll!” (All of which I’ve observed in bathhouses.)
Just “No thanks.”
I know guys who soften the blow by modifying it to “No thanks, I’m waiting for someone.” Or “No thanks, I’m resting.” That’s fine, even though the subtext is clearly I’m waiting for someone who isn’t you and I’m resting until someone better comes by. As long as your tone is pleasant and you’re not offensive, your wishes should be respected.
Likewise, if you’re the one on the receiving end of the no-thank-you, don’t rise to anger. It’s not your opportunity snap, “Well honey, you ain’t that hot!” and flounce off. It’s not an open invitation to observe, “Never mind, the guy in the room across the hall is ten times hotter than you and he has anal warts!” or “I don’t know why you of all people have got such an attitude.” (Again, all of which I’ve observed in bathhouse settings.) Don’t plan elaborate fantasies in your mind about how that asshole is going to be desperate enough in an hour that he’ll be begging you to come into his room and you’ll remind him of what a dick he was and laugh, just laugh right into his face.
Say “Thanks, then,” or something similarly neutral and polite, and move on. If you really had your hopes up, add something like, “Grab me if you change your mind later.” And move on.
Rule #3: Check Your Bad Moods at the Door
If you arrive at the bathhouse mad at the world and spend your time stomping around the place in a high dudgeon, you’re not going to have fun.
If you arrive at the bathhouse and are so fed up with how many old Depends-wearing senior citizens/stupid twinks/ethnic guys/married guys/bar queens/muscle marys/bears who are going to clog up the drains with all that fucking hair they let through the door, and if you find yourself holding your nose in the air and saying things like, “It USED to be fun to come here!”, you’re not going to have a good time.
If you arrive, strip down, and are certain that no one in the establishment is going to want you because you’re overweight, or bald, or old, or too young, or too ugly, or have a weird mole thing, then you’re right. No one is going to want you. But it’s not because of your age or looks. It’s because you’re walking around with a scowl on your face and scaring everyone.
You might be surprised how many people find you attractive in the bathhouse setting, if you’re willing to be pleasant and friendly. I’d throw in what my mom used to say about catching more flies with honey than vinegar, here, only you might think it was corny.
Rule #4: Don’t Be A Stalker
The incivility of the baths is one of its less attractive features. While the vast majority of the men present are friendly and polite, there are always a handful that make the experience exasperating for everyone.
Don’t be one of them.
It’s easy at a bathhouse to get into the mindset that you have to get laid. Now. You’ve paid twenty freakin’ dollars, and dammit, you’re going to get your money’s worth. The notion of getting a return on that investment haunts a lot of men once they’re roaming the hallways. They’re desperate to get action and validation from someone. Anyone.
These are the guys who, instead of letting you enter the steam room, look around, and choose your spot, will immediately stand up and chase you into corner, where they’ll stroke themselves furiously and stare you down. Never mind that you’ve got your legs clenched shut and your arms crossed and your eyes closed to repel them. They’re going to get action from someone, dammit, and it might as well be you.
These are the guys who develop a fixation on an innocent victim and follow him everywhere in the bathhouse until he finally surrenders his towel to the front desk and leaves out of self-preservation.
These are the guys who hang around the check-in counter and follow guys to their rooms even before they’ve gotten their clothes off. And they’re the guys who, upon seeing someone they want leading another man back to his room, will follow and trying to elbow his way in to join them before the door closes.
Don’t be that guy. Recognize the signals. Remember that no means no. Take a deep breath. Getting laid isn’t a life-or-death situation. Getting a bad reputation as a stalker is only going to ruin your chance of having fun.
Rule #5: Guys Want Variety
Most men visit the bathhouse because they know there are going to be a number of men looking for sex. Most men want to experience a number of these guys, while they’re there.
Not all of them, of course. Some guys use the facility to meet a significant other or an arranged date because it’s cheaper and cleaner than a sleazy motel. But most men are practical. They’re not coming to the tubs to meet a soulmate, or find lifelong love. They want several dicks in their holes, or to connect with a few good men and dump a few loads.
If you have good sex with a guy, don’t be offended when he suggests you “take a shower” or “take a break for a little while.” That’s probably his signal that he wants to clean you off of his dick and go out and play with someone else. It may be true that he didn't shoot for you—but don't take it personally. Some men like to prolong their playtime before they finally cum. Don’t mope or whine or talk about the dream you concocted while blowing him of knitting his sweaters and finding a little place in Florida you’d share in your golden years. Thank him for his time, tell him to grab you again later if he wants, and go forth and play some more yourself.
Feel free to offer him your number or your email address—most places have little cards and pens just for that purpose. But don’t try to keep him chained to your side all day.
Rule #6: Avoid Sending Mixed Signals
Part of reason so many men don’t obey the no means no rule is that a lot of guys send out mixed signals when they reject someone. Whether it’s out of fear or over-politeness or an unwillingness to be confrontational by being definite, they’ll do anything except give a clear indication of no thanks.
When you want to say No, you shouldn’t say, Maybe later. It only strings someone along. Don’t wink and say, Check back with me in a few minutes when you don’t want the guy to check back with you at all. It’s not fair to keep them on the hook when you’re too cowardly to turn them down gently.
On a more general level, don’t advertise yourself as available for certain activities that you’re not willing to carry through. If you’re on your hands and knees on your cot in your room with the door open, don’t be offended and surprised when someone assumes you want to be fucked. If you’re sticking your hard dick in the vicinity of a gloryhole, don’t be upset when someone on the other side reaches through to fondle or suck it. And if you’re kneeling in a corner of a piss play/urinal room with your mouth wide open and a blindfold covering your eyes, it’s a little bit disingenuous when someone decides to spray your face and chest with urine to stand up and yell, “Key-rist, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” (Again, all of which I’ve seen in bathhouses.)
Rule #7: Be Clean
Show up with your holes cleaned out, if you want to get fucked or intend to spend time in the sling.
If you use your dick in a mouth or a hole, head to a sink or the showers to rinse it off after, particularly if you’ve gotten covered with lube or other substances.
If you’ve got sour breath or have been sucking a lot of dick, use the mouthwash that some baths provide, or bring your own mints or breath-freshening strips. Sometimes the front desk will sell them, too.
Your partners will thank you for the thoughtfulness.
Rule #8: Obey the House Rules
Most bathhouses have regulations to which they ask members to adhere. Some don’t allow chewing gum, for example (it’s difficult to clean), and some might ask you to sign in before using a hot tub or swimming pool. Some places are pretty plain about the fact that they don’t like people having sex in certain areas, like those in sight of a check-in window where outsiders might glimpse something.
If there are no-smoking regulations, observe them. Don’t bring your controlled substances into the bathhouse. If the establishment asks that you shower all oils from your body before entering the steam room or pool area, please do so, so that nobody slips and cracks open their head from your hubris. Don’t pee in the pool, don’t use the hallways as your personal litter receptacle. Don’t bring in large glass bottles that can shatter and prove deadly to someone who cuts himself.
Chances are that the rules are there for a reason. You are a guest of the establishment. They can, will, and should throw you out if you pose a danger to their operation, or to the safety of other patrons.
And most of all, be nice to the guys working the desks and the mops. They see a lot of thankless patrons pass through the joint.
Rule #9: Slow the Fuck Down and Enjoy Yourself, Already
One of the things I noticed the other night, when I was sitting in my room with a good view of the hallway intersections, is that the guys weren’t connecting with each other because they were caroming around like pinballs in a machine. They would bounce out of the steam room and scuttle down the hallway at top speed, peek into the dark room, then bounce off and trot to the movie room before rebounding and zooming to the steam room again.
It didn’t occur to any of the men beetling from one spot to another to slow down and take advantage of anything. They didn’t linger in the steam room or dark rooms. They didn’t watch the movies, or do anything more than stick their heads in these public play spots to see if anything was going on. When they were jogging down the hallways they didn’t stop to look at any of the men who were sitting there with their doors open. They simply bounced from spot to spot to spot, over and over again in a fast circuit, hoping that they’d see something going on.
Well if everyone’s doing that—and after a while, everyone was, because the sight of several guys running around at top speed convinced everyone they were missing out on something—of course nothing’s going to go on. Everyone’s too busy racing around like Keystone Kops for any sex to happen. And having a dozen or more Roadrunners zooming through every few seconds doesn’t create an environment conducive for public group fucking.
Walk slowly. Linger in the public areas to see what happens there. Step all the way into the dark rooms and wait a bit. Stop and look in open private room doors. Check people out. Chat pleasantly to people, even if every conversation doesn’t lead directly to sex.
It’s a bathhouse. Not a speedway.
And that's it. As always, if you have any questions or helpful observations about your own bathhouse experiences, feel free to share them in the comments below.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Cruising 101: The Bathhouse
Every time I write one of my bathhouse blog posts I get a rush of emails from men who’ve never ventured before to one of these establishments. Almost to a one, they want to know how it works, and if I’ll take them next time I go.
Well, I can’t always do the latter. But I can do my best to demystify what can be a scary place for some guys—and in the second half of the entry, I’ll stress some points of etiquette that even the frequent bathhouse users often seem to have forgotten.. If you’re a guy with an experience of the bathhouse, you might even chip in your own tips in the comments.
What It Is
A bathhouse, simply, is an establishment at which men gather for sex. It may operate under the euphemism of spa; it might be run as a health club. But they’re bathhouses, or in some locales, the tubs. They’re located usually in larger metropolitan areas. Some cities have several. In many cities, there are none.
Some of the facilities offer amenities to get you through the door—gym equipment, hot tubs, tanning or massage services. Some baths have full-sized pools or outdoor sun decks. Many offer entertainment (though you’re not going to find Bette Midler playing at them anymore), special events, or even holiday meals at a reasonable price.
But make no mistake about it, these establishments exist for men to enjoy sex with each other. The number of features designed to facilitate that particular goal far outweigh the others—so from bathhouse to bathhouse you might find dark rooms in which porn is playing on a loop, or steam rooms or saunas for men to cruise in. There are usually showers of some sort. You might find unlit rooms with seemingly no purpose other than to offer the cover of darkness for men to screw, or gloryhole mazes, or slurp ramps in which men stand on a platform several feet off the floor and stick their dicks through gloryholes in the hope of attracting mouths. There may be sling rooms, or rooms with proper drainage dedicated to piss play.
Most traditional bathhouses have corridor after corridor of small locked rooms that can be rented for a price. They’ll quite often occupy the bulk of the building.
Bathhouses will often run specials to attract men through the doors. They may sponsor social gatherings such as bear runs, or host a college night with discounts for guys with student IDs in order to attract young men (and the older men who admire them). They often run leather nights with discounts for men who show up in chaps and harnesses. You might find some establishments offering holiday parties, or white parties, or blackout parties in which all the lights are turned off and men sort each other out solely by glowing wristbands.
Whatever the theme or amenities, bathhouses usually fall into two types: clothed and unclothed. You can probably figure out the essential difference between them: in an unclothed bathhouse, which is the more common of the two, typically most men will leave their duds in a locker and strut around in nothing more than a towel. There’s usually option at the clothed baths to leave your garments somewhere under lock and key, but most people don’t won’t. They’ll simply drop their pants when they find a partner, and go at it.
How to Get In
Most clubs require not only some sort of fee with every visit, but a membership as well.
The membership isn’t a universal thing, but it’s not uncommon; the establishment will give you an option between a shorter-term membership (anywhere from one month to six months) to one that’s good for a year, or even a lifetime. The cost varies by bathhouse, and goes up with duration. The bathhouse will very likely ask to see your driver’s license when you apply for a membership. There’s no real need to worry about it, though. They want your patronage. They’re not going to call you at home and notify your aged grandmother that goodtime-Chucky hasn’t been seen at Club Gusher for the last month, did he get gonorrhea or something? They’re really not.
Some clubs have a day pass, or a special membership for out-of-towners. Ask at the front desk, when you apply.
A few baths require that you be ‘sponsored’ in order to join. Usually the process involves arriving with an existing member who will vouch for you and your future behavior. If the club to which you’re applying is one of these, make your arrangements beforehand. I’ve also been to other bathhouses that ask new members for membership cards to other baths in other cities. It’s okay if you don’t have one; what the establishment is trying to make certain is that you don’t think they’re something they’re not—in other words, that you’re not going to walk in, see two men fondling each other in a dark corner, and then shriek that you were expecting a Russian baths where the hardest and steamiest things going were the hot rocks for the massages. If you don’t have other membership cards, or if you’re challenged, simply and calmly say that you’ve seen their website and it looks like the kind of place you want to be, or what you’ve seen their advertisements in your local gay magazine. That’s all they want to hear.
After you’ve gone through the rigamarole of paying for a membership, you may be issued a membership card. Remember to bring it back with you on repeat visits. The clerk will ask you to pay for some kind of storage and/or room for a pre-determined period of time (usually eight or ten hours). The cheapest option is usually a locker, for which you’ll be issued a key.
The least expensive room is usually a bare-bones changing room that consists of a cot and a locker and perhaps a small table of some sort. The more expensive ones might have televisions with porn playing, or larger and more comfortable beds and bedding, or mirrored walls or ceilings, or a private bathroom. One facility I’ve visited has gloryhole rooms, in which the occupant can open a pair of shutters covering a popular hole in a dark maze, when he wants to play with some anonymous dick.
Choose what makes you comfortable. I usually like having a room to which I can retire, but some establishments have such large and comfortable public spaces that having only a locker doesn’t seem like a punishment at all.
Announce your choice to the clerk, and fork over the cash. You may be asked to surrender your membership card (you’ll get it back when you exit), and to sign a card or form stating what time you entered. You might be asked to sign the same card on your exit.
Collect your key and step through the inner door. You’re in!
What to Bring
Here’s what not to bring: anything valuable. Don’t bring your laptop, your iPad, those rolls of film from your wedding last week that your new wife wanted you to take to Walgreen’s, jewelry, your best expensive leather jacket, or anything you’ll regret losing. You may not want to bring any more cash than is necessary to get through the front door. That’s up to you.
Yes, you have a locker in which to put your valuables, but you know. Stuff happens. You could fall asleep with someone in your room, and they might snitch that key and make off with your wallet. Just be cautious. Be particularly cautious if you're walking around a clothed bathhouse; it's easy for a thief to slip your wallet or cell phone from your jeans while he's blowing you, or for you to lose track of exactly who has access to your pockets in a dark room. In these establishments, it's best to arrive with the bare minimum.
Do bring lube, and breath mints, and your favorite cock ring. If you have toys you enjoy using on yourself or others, bring those along as well. If you use poppers, you’ll find you’re not alone at the bathhouse. If you want to have safe sex, there are usually condoms available and even given out with your room key. Be prepared to ask guys to use them, if you insist on them. I firmly believe that whether or not to engage in safe sex is your choice, but if you're not careful, there could be some asshole who’s going to try to stealth you and make you feel by teaching you a lesson that he did you a favor, after.
I recommend bringing a pair of flip-flops. The kind that are cheap, easily rinsable with water, and which you don’t mind forgetting, losing, or tossing away. Most of the good establishments clean often and regularly, but I’ve been in some dives in which I was afraid to let my feet touch the mold-covered floors.
What Happens
It helps if you think of your bathhouse adventure not as a desperate attempt to get laid, but as a leisurely adventure. In other words, be prepared to spend a lot of time doing nothing, sometimes.
If you have a locker, store your valuables in it and put on your towel. If you have a room, store your stuff away and make your bed. Then go exploring. Check out the bath’s public areas and scope out the people present. See if any of the movies are to your liking. Try out the sling. Investigate the contours of the dark rooms, and relax in the steam room or sauna for a while.
The other men are there for the same reason you are. They want to have sex. They don’t necessarily want to have it with you—which is something everyone needs to keep in mind—but no one is going to be offended if you masturbate while you watch a movie, or let your hand drift between your legs while you’re soaking up the steam. If you want men to make passes at you, let them know you’re open to it with your body language and your availability. If you want to come on to someone, do so. Simply know that rejections are possible, and that all you need to do is move on to another opportunity.
Some baths are kind of strict about sex taking place in public areas, like the lounges near the front door, or the pool. Others don’t give a shit. You’ll find guys fucking just about everywhere, like the last days of Rome. The advantage of having even a small changing room is that if you want privacy, you’ll have somewhere to take the guy. And many guys, myself included, like to use their rooms as a base for cruising. I’ll lower the lights on a dimmer switch, if there is one, sit on my bed, and stroke my dick for passers-by to see. If one of them pauses and I like his looks, I’ll invite him in.
Every open door in a corridor is a potential invitation. If you’re looking for a bottom, step into the rooms of the men who are lying face down on their cots, asses in the air. They’re telling you what they’re looking for. If you want to suck dick or get fucked, check out the guys like me who are showing off their erections. See a handsome guy you like? Stick your head in his door and say hello to him as you pass. The worst that could happen is that he’ll turn you down. Psychically damaging as we all know that can be, it really is nothing more than a refusal. Think of what you could gain if he said yes.
If someone’s left the door open and they’re getting it on with another guy, or two or three guys, they want to be watched. Slow down and watch. Or join in.
Just have some sex. That’s what everyone wants in a bathhouse. Get yourself off, get off other guys, enjoy the darkness and the hours away from the drudgery of your everyday life, and have fun. Think of it as a mini-vacation. A mini-vacation with an ever-present smell of poppers.
How to Leave
My simple rule of thumb is to leave when I get bored, or my balls have run dry. You will know when it’s time to go because your body will tell you. If you stay past the eight hours your twenty bucks bought you and the management has to drag you kicking and protesting out of the glory hole maze and send you home, then you are a big old whore and you ought to be sending me your phone number.
It’s not always apparent what you’re supposed to do when you leave a bathhouse, which is why I mention it. If you have a locker, simply dress and take your key (and lock, if you have to) back to the front desk, along with your towel. If you rented a room, get dressed, make sure you have everything you brought, strip your cot of its sheets and pillowcase, and gather them and your towel and make your way to the front desk. Most baths will have a chute or a rolling container of some sort at the desk where you can deposit your linens. Do that and return the key to your clerk. He will sign you out and return your membership card to you, if the establishment has one. Then you’re free to go.
Tomorrow:
Tomorrow I'll look at some tips on behavior while you’re cruising at the baths. Additionally, I'll address any questions you guys may have on today's entry—so let's hear them in the comments.
Well, I can’t always do the latter. But I can do my best to demystify what can be a scary place for some guys—and in the second half of the entry, I’ll stress some points of etiquette that even the frequent bathhouse users often seem to have forgotten.. If you’re a guy with an experience of the bathhouse, you might even chip in your own tips in the comments.
What It Is
A bathhouse, simply, is an establishment at which men gather for sex. It may operate under the euphemism of spa; it might be run as a health club. But they’re bathhouses, or in some locales, the tubs. They’re located usually in larger metropolitan areas. Some cities have several. In many cities, there are none.
Some of the facilities offer amenities to get you through the door—gym equipment, hot tubs, tanning or massage services. Some baths have full-sized pools or outdoor sun decks. Many offer entertainment (though you’re not going to find Bette Midler playing at them anymore), special events, or even holiday meals at a reasonable price.
But make no mistake about it, these establishments exist for men to enjoy sex with each other. The number of features designed to facilitate that particular goal far outweigh the others—so from bathhouse to bathhouse you might find dark rooms in which porn is playing on a loop, or steam rooms or saunas for men to cruise in. There are usually showers of some sort. You might find unlit rooms with seemingly no purpose other than to offer the cover of darkness for men to screw, or gloryhole mazes, or slurp ramps in which men stand on a platform several feet off the floor and stick their dicks through gloryholes in the hope of attracting mouths. There may be sling rooms, or rooms with proper drainage dedicated to piss play.
Most traditional bathhouses have corridor after corridor of small locked rooms that can be rented for a price. They’ll quite often occupy the bulk of the building.
Bathhouses will often run specials to attract men through the doors. They may sponsor social gatherings such as bear runs, or host a college night with discounts for guys with student IDs in order to attract young men (and the older men who admire them). They often run leather nights with discounts for men who show up in chaps and harnesses. You might find some establishments offering holiday parties, or white parties, or blackout parties in which all the lights are turned off and men sort each other out solely by glowing wristbands.
Whatever the theme or amenities, bathhouses usually fall into two types: clothed and unclothed. You can probably figure out the essential difference between them: in an unclothed bathhouse, which is the more common of the two, typically most men will leave their duds in a locker and strut around in nothing more than a towel. There’s usually option at the clothed baths to leave your garments somewhere under lock and key, but most people don’t won’t. They’ll simply drop their pants when they find a partner, and go at it.
How to Get In
Most clubs require not only some sort of fee with every visit, but a membership as well.
The membership isn’t a universal thing, but it’s not uncommon; the establishment will give you an option between a shorter-term membership (anywhere from one month to six months) to one that’s good for a year, or even a lifetime. The cost varies by bathhouse, and goes up with duration. The bathhouse will very likely ask to see your driver’s license when you apply for a membership. There’s no real need to worry about it, though. They want your patronage. They’re not going to call you at home and notify your aged grandmother that goodtime-Chucky hasn’t been seen at Club Gusher for the last month, did he get gonorrhea or something? They’re really not.
Some clubs have a day pass, or a special membership for out-of-towners. Ask at the front desk, when you apply.
A few baths require that you be ‘sponsored’ in order to join. Usually the process involves arriving with an existing member who will vouch for you and your future behavior. If the club to which you’re applying is one of these, make your arrangements beforehand. I’ve also been to other bathhouses that ask new members for membership cards to other baths in other cities. It’s okay if you don’t have one; what the establishment is trying to make certain is that you don’t think they’re something they’re not—in other words, that you’re not going to walk in, see two men fondling each other in a dark corner, and then shriek that you were expecting a Russian baths where the hardest and steamiest things going were the hot rocks for the massages. If you don’t have other membership cards, or if you’re challenged, simply and calmly say that you’ve seen their website and it looks like the kind of place you want to be, or what you’ve seen their advertisements in your local gay magazine. That’s all they want to hear.
After you’ve gone through the rigamarole of paying for a membership, you may be issued a membership card. Remember to bring it back with you on repeat visits. The clerk will ask you to pay for some kind of storage and/or room for a pre-determined period of time (usually eight or ten hours). The cheapest option is usually a locker, for which you’ll be issued a key.
The least expensive room is usually a bare-bones changing room that consists of a cot and a locker and perhaps a small table of some sort. The more expensive ones might have televisions with porn playing, or larger and more comfortable beds and bedding, or mirrored walls or ceilings, or a private bathroom. One facility I’ve visited has gloryhole rooms, in which the occupant can open a pair of shutters covering a popular hole in a dark maze, when he wants to play with some anonymous dick.
Choose what makes you comfortable. I usually like having a room to which I can retire, but some establishments have such large and comfortable public spaces that having only a locker doesn’t seem like a punishment at all.
Announce your choice to the clerk, and fork over the cash. You may be asked to surrender your membership card (you’ll get it back when you exit), and to sign a card or form stating what time you entered. You might be asked to sign the same card on your exit.
Collect your key and step through the inner door. You’re in!
What to Bring
Here’s what not to bring: anything valuable. Don’t bring your laptop, your iPad, those rolls of film from your wedding last week that your new wife wanted you to take to Walgreen’s, jewelry, your best expensive leather jacket, or anything you’ll regret losing. You may not want to bring any more cash than is necessary to get through the front door. That’s up to you.
Yes, you have a locker in which to put your valuables, but you know. Stuff happens. You could fall asleep with someone in your room, and they might snitch that key and make off with your wallet. Just be cautious. Be particularly cautious if you're walking around a clothed bathhouse; it's easy for a thief to slip your wallet or cell phone from your jeans while he's blowing you, or for you to lose track of exactly who has access to your pockets in a dark room. In these establishments, it's best to arrive with the bare minimum.
Do bring lube, and breath mints, and your favorite cock ring. If you have toys you enjoy using on yourself or others, bring those along as well. If you use poppers, you’ll find you’re not alone at the bathhouse. If you want to have safe sex, there are usually condoms available and even given out with your room key. Be prepared to ask guys to use them, if you insist on them. I firmly believe that whether or not to engage in safe sex is your choice, but if you're not careful, there could be some asshole who’s going to try to stealth you and make you feel by teaching you a lesson that he did you a favor, after.
I recommend bringing a pair of flip-flops. The kind that are cheap, easily rinsable with water, and which you don’t mind forgetting, losing, or tossing away. Most of the good establishments clean often and regularly, but I’ve been in some dives in which I was afraid to let my feet touch the mold-covered floors.
What Happens
It helps if you think of your bathhouse adventure not as a desperate attempt to get laid, but as a leisurely adventure. In other words, be prepared to spend a lot of time doing nothing, sometimes.
If you have a locker, store your valuables in it and put on your towel. If you have a room, store your stuff away and make your bed. Then go exploring. Check out the bath’s public areas and scope out the people present. See if any of the movies are to your liking. Try out the sling. Investigate the contours of the dark rooms, and relax in the steam room or sauna for a while.
The other men are there for the same reason you are. They want to have sex. They don’t necessarily want to have it with you—which is something everyone needs to keep in mind—but no one is going to be offended if you masturbate while you watch a movie, or let your hand drift between your legs while you’re soaking up the steam. If you want men to make passes at you, let them know you’re open to it with your body language and your availability. If you want to come on to someone, do so. Simply know that rejections are possible, and that all you need to do is move on to another opportunity.
Some baths are kind of strict about sex taking place in public areas, like the lounges near the front door, or the pool. Others don’t give a shit. You’ll find guys fucking just about everywhere, like the last days of Rome. The advantage of having even a small changing room is that if you want privacy, you’ll have somewhere to take the guy. And many guys, myself included, like to use their rooms as a base for cruising. I’ll lower the lights on a dimmer switch, if there is one, sit on my bed, and stroke my dick for passers-by to see. If one of them pauses and I like his looks, I’ll invite him in.
Every open door in a corridor is a potential invitation. If you’re looking for a bottom, step into the rooms of the men who are lying face down on their cots, asses in the air. They’re telling you what they’re looking for. If you want to suck dick or get fucked, check out the guys like me who are showing off their erections. See a handsome guy you like? Stick your head in his door and say hello to him as you pass. The worst that could happen is that he’ll turn you down. Psychically damaging as we all know that can be, it really is nothing more than a refusal. Think of what you could gain if he said yes.
If someone’s left the door open and they’re getting it on with another guy, or two or three guys, they want to be watched. Slow down and watch. Or join in.
Just have some sex. That’s what everyone wants in a bathhouse. Get yourself off, get off other guys, enjoy the darkness and the hours away from the drudgery of your everyday life, and have fun. Think of it as a mini-vacation. A mini-vacation with an ever-present smell of poppers.
How to Leave
My simple rule of thumb is to leave when I get bored, or my balls have run dry. You will know when it’s time to go because your body will tell you. If you stay past the eight hours your twenty bucks bought you and the management has to drag you kicking and protesting out of the glory hole maze and send you home, then you are a big old whore and you ought to be sending me your phone number.
It’s not always apparent what you’re supposed to do when you leave a bathhouse, which is why I mention it. If you have a locker, simply dress and take your key (and lock, if you have to) back to the front desk, along with your towel. If you rented a room, get dressed, make sure you have everything you brought, strip your cot of its sheets and pillowcase, and gather them and your towel and make your way to the front desk. Most baths will have a chute or a rolling container of some sort at the desk where you can deposit your linens. Do that and return the key to your clerk. He will sign you out and return your membership card to you, if the establishment has one. Then you’re free to go.
Tomorrow:
Tomorrow I'll look at some tips on behavior while you’re cruising at the baths. Additionally, I'll address any questions you guys may have on today's entry—so let's hear them in the comments.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Old Haunts
My time in this part of the country is limited. I’ve known that fact for almost a year now, but only in the past month have I been able finally to assign a date to the end point. I move in less than two weeks, so if there’s anyone I want to see, any place I want to revisit, the days are running out.
I woke up Saturday to a beautiful spring morning, one of those golden Michigan days in which the sun seemed to caress the new leaves on the trees, and for which the skies had clarified themselves to the intense blue of a child’s paintbox. I didn’t want to spend the day stuck indoors, packing, so I decided to take a nostalgia tour.
I hopped in my car and visited the first house I owned, far on the city’s east side. I’d managed to move out when prices in the area had tripled, yet the area was edging into decline. Driving by the old home, which now has bars on the downstairs windows and a metal gate over the front and side doors, very nearly took the sweet edge from my mood. No matter how valuable it is to be reminded of the bad things we’ve avoided, sometimes, I didn’t want to spend much time in a deteriorating neighborhood. So I went back downtown, to the university for which I’d originally moved, for graduate school.
I snapped photos of my first apartment building, and the classrooms where my department had offices. I revisited the department for which I’d worked temporarily, when I decided to regroup and take my life in a different direction. I snapped a few shots of the buildings where I’d spent evening after evening during the first blush of my off-and-on teaching career, lecturing about the great English novel in front of students who were only there to fulfill a humanities writing credit.
Then I revisited the more interesting spots.
First I revisited the oldest building on campus. Back when I was a student, it had been a run-down, decrepit, and frankly scary place full of twisting hallways that never went where you thought they ought. It was basically the Winchester Mystery House of academia, and an amazing place for sex back then. There was a rumor that the behavioral sciences sciences, during the nineteen-fifties and sixties, had run a decades-long study of men’s cruising behavior in the basement restroom there, and I’d had it on the very good authority of a university building engineer that there was indeed an observation room (long in disuse) on the other side of the wall-long mirrors that hung over the array of urinals. It had been possible to walk in there at any time of day or night, when the building was open, and score dick, when I was a student.
I peeked into the auditorium where one of my tricks, a university psychologist from the counseling office, had taken me after we’d met in the men’s room. He’d locked the doors and fucked me on the lecture table in the dimly-lit room until we’d been interrupted by a janitor who wanted to empty the trash cans.
I checked out the old restrooms where I’d cruised and met the Spaniard who’d earned me the nickname of Beef Boy, and of the romantic actor who’d broken my heart when he didn’t call me as he'd promised, after our mind-blowing fuck. I visited the basement stalls that had been the absolute last hurrah of my career as a bottom, where I was fucked repeatedly by the quarterback of the football team. (And since I know that sounds like a cliche, I’d like to point out that the university had a football team that even the football team members laughed at.)
But mostly I went to the university library, where I’d had more encounters than anywhere else.
The library had as many as four active restrooms over my history there. There had been the secluded, tiny men’s rooms in the periodicals section stairwell, where sometimes the walls had been covered with so much profanity and scribbles of men seeking sex with each other that it was as complicated to comprehend and absorb as a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. There had been the larger restroom on the ground floor before, where for three years men flocked to take advantage of a large, smooth-edged gloryhole that some enterprising fellow had created with a circular router. I’d spend many a lunch hour in there, snacking on dick after dick, or feeding my cum to strangers who were no more than a curious, guarded eye and a mouth to me.
The gloryhole had been bolted over with sheet metal long ago—I could still see the rivets beneath layer after layer of paint that’s been applied since. And no trace of action remained there. In the last of the four restrooms, though, the one in the highest reaches of the library’s main section, I could immediately tell that the place was still used for sex. I hadn’t cruised there in a couple of years, since I haven’t been affiliated with the place in some time. But even though they’d painted the stalls over recently, they couldn’t erase the giant peep hole that someone had made in the metal partition, probably using nothing more than a bolt hole from some previous toilet paper holder, and a sharp, rigid object like a screwdriver.
I’d spent so much time in those stalls, both as a student, then as a staff member. I’d come there almost every lunch hour for weeks at a time, sometimes. I’d anticipate the first day of school with an ungodly glee, because it was the day that all the curious new students looking for action would appear, and I could feast all day long on freshman dick. I’d met long-term fuck buddies there, and relationships that lasted for longer than a restroom trick ought.
Remembering all that, and knowing it was the last time I’d see the place, made me want to spend a little time there. So I slipped into the farthest stall, dropped my shorts, and started to work on the erection that had started growing the moment I’d stepped into the place.
I’d only intended to stay for a moment or two, tops, to smell the smells, to hear the old familiar sound of the old-fashioned urinals being flushed with violent sweeps of water every five minutes. The campus had been nearly empty, on a summer semester Saturday. A few tour groups had been roaming across it, where guides walked backwards followed by nervous-looking youths in shorts and T-shirts. The library itself was even more deserted. To my great surprise, though, I heard the sounds of footsteps in the stone stairwell outside, followed by the swinging of the bathroom door. Someone walked in, paused, and then walked over to occupy the stall next to me.
My boner doubled in size.
I leaned forward and looked through the peephole. Almost immediately I saw a dark eye on the other side, a swoop of black eyebrow, and skin the color of caramel. Both he and I adjusted positions, trying to take in more details. I saw a fringe of dark hair on his upper lip—not thick enough yet to be called a mustache, but obviously a point of pride. There was a young Latin boy on the other side of that peephole, and he was cruising me. I stood up and showed off my dick in profile, stroking it, displaying its length. I could tell from the shadows on the tile that he was watching. Then I sat down again, leaned forward, and waited.
He stood up. The kid wore a striped polo shirt that was clearly too large for his lean, pole-like body. His dick was a dark sausage, the foreskin clustered around its tip giving it the impression of having been pinched off into shape when it had been formed. When he stroked for me, the skin pulled back slightly, displaying the wetness at its tip.
I dropped down my hand, letting it dangle beneath the partition. I would have jerked him gladly, even sucked him some. To my surprise, though, he pulled up his jeans. I heard his stall door open, and then saw his silhouette outside my own. When I opened the latch and let the door swing open, he was standing there, clutching his baggy jeans so they wouldn’t fall to his ankles, his hard dick jutting out over the open fly. His hair was cropped short. His eyes, the color of obsidian and just as shiny, regarded mine, and then he nodded, before staring at my dick once more.
I stood up. Almost immediately he dropped to his knees, right there on the tile. I didn’t know if he’d cruised that particular restroom before, but I made sure that if someone came in, I could close my stall door at a moment’s notice.
No one came in, though.
He sucked me like he’d been denied his favorite treat for far too long. Forgotten was his own dick, though it still jerked and dripped on its own, over the teeth of his zipper. His hands cupped my balls and his mouth consumed me. His eyelids closed in ecstasy, and he moaned and grunted to himself as he used my meat to fulfill the need he had, deep inside.
He was so damned pretty. His lips extended as far as they could to take in all my dick. I could have cum for him, easily.
And then he stood up. “Fuck me,” he said, turning around.
When he dropped his jeans and showed off his caramel-colored ass, I threw all caution to the wind. “Get in here,” I told him, and drew him into the stall.
I shut the door behind me and positioned him over the toilet. I’ve fucked men in toilet stalls before. It’s risky, and if anyone comes in, it requires one guy to perch atop the john while the other sits between his legs, and it requires waiting out whomever’s invaded the restroom. I thought the risk was worth it, this time.
His pants fell around his knees. His hole was hidden beyond a fringe of dark hair. I spat on my fingers and rubbed the impromptu lube over that hidden place, satisfied when he let out a grunt. My cock was angry—beet-red, engorged almost beyond recognition, ready to punch and spit. I entered him roughly, not really caring that he had to bite down and suppress an outright yell. Because I knew that within moments, his hole would start to grip and clutch my dick, pulling it more deeply inside.
My instincts were right. The pain was only momentary. He wedged his shoulder against the low hardware of the toilet and looked behind at me, eyes full of gratitude and—I might even say—love. This is what spur-of-the-moment sex was supposed to be. Spontaneous. Rough. We both wanted to feel it, to remember it, to know that despite the enforced silence and the need for secrecy, that we’d both made our marks in that stall. Just as every other man masturbating there for decades had left trails of sperm drying on the layers of industrial paint, we were leaving sexual psychic residue of our own, forged through heat and need and connection.
My own noises were limited to small grunts and the odd catch of breath; he panted and lifted his ass higher, higher, for me to penetrate and use. The soft sounds of my thighs slapping against that ass echoed across the men’s room. They were soon followed by a soft sigh as I released myself into him, and the rattle of the toilet seat as he too, came across it.
I pulled out, let my dick drop, and was happy to note it didn’t need rinsing. He still knelt on the toilet seat, hole gaping, dick dripping with sperm, his head resting against the cream-colored subway tiles of the wall. I pulled up my pants, tucked my three-quarters-hard dick into my shorts, buttoned, zipped, and stepped out of the stall.
I heard the sound of him ripping toilet paper from the dispenser as I washed my hands. He stepped out, adjusted and back to normal, as I pulled some paper to dry off. Our eyes met for a brief second, and we nodded at each other. Transaction complete.
I wouldn’t see him, or this place again. But we’d remember each other. Of that I was certain.
I woke up Saturday to a beautiful spring morning, one of those golden Michigan days in which the sun seemed to caress the new leaves on the trees, and for which the skies had clarified themselves to the intense blue of a child’s paintbox. I didn’t want to spend the day stuck indoors, packing, so I decided to take a nostalgia tour.
I hopped in my car and visited the first house I owned, far on the city’s east side. I’d managed to move out when prices in the area had tripled, yet the area was edging into decline. Driving by the old home, which now has bars on the downstairs windows and a metal gate over the front and side doors, very nearly took the sweet edge from my mood. No matter how valuable it is to be reminded of the bad things we’ve avoided, sometimes, I didn’t want to spend much time in a deteriorating neighborhood. So I went back downtown, to the university for which I’d originally moved, for graduate school.
I snapped photos of my first apartment building, and the classrooms where my department had offices. I revisited the department for which I’d worked temporarily, when I decided to regroup and take my life in a different direction. I snapped a few shots of the buildings where I’d spent evening after evening during the first blush of my off-and-on teaching career, lecturing about the great English novel in front of students who were only there to fulfill a humanities writing credit.
Then I revisited the more interesting spots.
First I revisited the oldest building on campus. Back when I was a student, it had been a run-down, decrepit, and frankly scary place full of twisting hallways that never went where you thought they ought. It was basically the Winchester Mystery House of academia, and an amazing place for sex back then. There was a rumor that the behavioral sciences sciences, during the nineteen-fifties and sixties, had run a decades-long study of men’s cruising behavior in the basement restroom there, and I’d had it on the very good authority of a university building engineer that there was indeed an observation room (long in disuse) on the other side of the wall-long mirrors that hung over the array of urinals. It had been possible to walk in there at any time of day or night, when the building was open, and score dick, when I was a student.
I peeked into the auditorium where one of my tricks, a university psychologist from the counseling office, had taken me after we’d met in the men’s room. He’d locked the doors and fucked me on the lecture table in the dimly-lit room until we’d been interrupted by a janitor who wanted to empty the trash cans.
I checked out the old restrooms where I’d cruised and met the Spaniard who’d earned me the nickname of Beef Boy, and of the romantic actor who’d broken my heart when he didn’t call me as he'd promised, after our mind-blowing fuck. I visited the basement stalls that had been the absolute last hurrah of my career as a bottom, where I was fucked repeatedly by the quarterback of the football team. (And since I know that sounds like a cliche, I’d like to point out that the university had a football team that even the football team members laughed at.)
But mostly I went to the university library, where I’d had more encounters than anywhere else.
The library had as many as four active restrooms over my history there. There had been the secluded, tiny men’s rooms in the periodicals section stairwell, where sometimes the walls had been covered with so much profanity and scribbles of men seeking sex with each other that it was as complicated to comprehend and absorb as a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. There had been the larger restroom on the ground floor before, where for three years men flocked to take advantage of a large, smooth-edged gloryhole that some enterprising fellow had created with a circular router. I’d spend many a lunch hour in there, snacking on dick after dick, or feeding my cum to strangers who were no more than a curious, guarded eye and a mouth to me.
The gloryhole had been bolted over with sheet metal long ago—I could still see the rivets beneath layer after layer of paint that’s been applied since. And no trace of action remained there. In the last of the four restrooms, though, the one in the highest reaches of the library’s main section, I could immediately tell that the place was still used for sex. I hadn’t cruised there in a couple of years, since I haven’t been affiliated with the place in some time. But even though they’d painted the stalls over recently, they couldn’t erase the giant peep hole that someone had made in the metal partition, probably using nothing more than a bolt hole from some previous toilet paper holder, and a sharp, rigid object like a screwdriver.
I’d spent so much time in those stalls, both as a student, then as a staff member. I’d come there almost every lunch hour for weeks at a time, sometimes. I’d anticipate the first day of school with an ungodly glee, because it was the day that all the curious new students looking for action would appear, and I could feast all day long on freshman dick. I’d met long-term fuck buddies there, and relationships that lasted for longer than a restroom trick ought.
Remembering all that, and knowing it was the last time I’d see the place, made me want to spend a little time there. So I slipped into the farthest stall, dropped my shorts, and started to work on the erection that had started growing the moment I’d stepped into the place.
I’d only intended to stay for a moment or two, tops, to smell the smells, to hear the old familiar sound of the old-fashioned urinals being flushed with violent sweeps of water every five minutes. The campus had been nearly empty, on a summer semester Saturday. A few tour groups had been roaming across it, where guides walked backwards followed by nervous-looking youths in shorts and T-shirts. The library itself was even more deserted. To my great surprise, though, I heard the sounds of footsteps in the stone stairwell outside, followed by the swinging of the bathroom door. Someone walked in, paused, and then walked over to occupy the stall next to me.
My boner doubled in size.
I leaned forward and looked through the peephole. Almost immediately I saw a dark eye on the other side, a swoop of black eyebrow, and skin the color of caramel. Both he and I adjusted positions, trying to take in more details. I saw a fringe of dark hair on his upper lip—not thick enough yet to be called a mustache, but obviously a point of pride. There was a young Latin boy on the other side of that peephole, and he was cruising me. I stood up and showed off my dick in profile, stroking it, displaying its length. I could tell from the shadows on the tile that he was watching. Then I sat down again, leaned forward, and waited.
He stood up. The kid wore a striped polo shirt that was clearly too large for his lean, pole-like body. His dick was a dark sausage, the foreskin clustered around its tip giving it the impression of having been pinched off into shape when it had been formed. When he stroked for me, the skin pulled back slightly, displaying the wetness at its tip.
I dropped down my hand, letting it dangle beneath the partition. I would have jerked him gladly, even sucked him some. To my surprise, though, he pulled up his jeans. I heard his stall door open, and then saw his silhouette outside my own. When I opened the latch and let the door swing open, he was standing there, clutching his baggy jeans so they wouldn’t fall to his ankles, his hard dick jutting out over the open fly. His hair was cropped short. His eyes, the color of obsidian and just as shiny, regarded mine, and then he nodded, before staring at my dick once more.
I stood up. Almost immediately he dropped to his knees, right there on the tile. I didn’t know if he’d cruised that particular restroom before, but I made sure that if someone came in, I could close my stall door at a moment’s notice.
No one came in, though.
He sucked me like he’d been denied his favorite treat for far too long. Forgotten was his own dick, though it still jerked and dripped on its own, over the teeth of his zipper. His hands cupped my balls and his mouth consumed me. His eyelids closed in ecstasy, and he moaned and grunted to himself as he used my meat to fulfill the need he had, deep inside.
He was so damned pretty. His lips extended as far as they could to take in all my dick. I could have cum for him, easily.
And then he stood up. “Fuck me,” he said, turning around.
When he dropped his jeans and showed off his caramel-colored ass, I threw all caution to the wind. “Get in here,” I told him, and drew him into the stall.
I shut the door behind me and positioned him over the toilet. I’ve fucked men in toilet stalls before. It’s risky, and if anyone comes in, it requires one guy to perch atop the john while the other sits between his legs, and it requires waiting out whomever’s invaded the restroom. I thought the risk was worth it, this time.
His pants fell around his knees. His hole was hidden beyond a fringe of dark hair. I spat on my fingers and rubbed the impromptu lube over that hidden place, satisfied when he let out a grunt. My cock was angry—beet-red, engorged almost beyond recognition, ready to punch and spit. I entered him roughly, not really caring that he had to bite down and suppress an outright yell. Because I knew that within moments, his hole would start to grip and clutch my dick, pulling it more deeply inside.
My instincts were right. The pain was only momentary. He wedged his shoulder against the low hardware of the toilet and looked behind at me, eyes full of gratitude and—I might even say—love. This is what spur-of-the-moment sex was supposed to be. Spontaneous. Rough. We both wanted to feel it, to remember it, to know that despite the enforced silence and the need for secrecy, that we’d both made our marks in that stall. Just as every other man masturbating there for decades had left trails of sperm drying on the layers of industrial paint, we were leaving sexual psychic residue of our own, forged through heat and need and connection.
My own noises were limited to small grunts and the odd catch of breath; he panted and lifted his ass higher, higher, for me to penetrate and use. The soft sounds of my thighs slapping against that ass echoed across the men’s room. They were soon followed by a soft sigh as I released myself into him, and the rattle of the toilet seat as he too, came across it.
I pulled out, let my dick drop, and was happy to note it didn’t need rinsing. He still knelt on the toilet seat, hole gaping, dick dripping with sperm, his head resting against the cream-colored subway tiles of the wall. I pulled up my pants, tucked my three-quarters-hard dick into my shorts, buttoned, zipped, and stepped out of the stall.
I heard the sound of him ripping toilet paper from the dispenser as I washed my hands. He stepped out, adjusted and back to normal, as I pulled some paper to dry off. Our eyes met for a brief second, and we nodded at each other. Transaction complete.
I wouldn’t see him, or this place again. But we’d remember each other. Of that I was certain.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Sunday Morning Questions: Haircut Edition
This next is the week in which I have to make a decision about my hair.
I've been having my hair cut by the same guy for the last dozen or so years—a former fuckbuddy (I know, what a shocker!) to whom I kept returning not only because he gave me a half-off fuckbuddy price, but because he knew what suited me and gave it to me despite what I asked for. It's solely because of him that I have been at peace with my hair for the last chunk of my life, instead of at odds with it.
My hair has been the bane of my existence for much of my life. I have my mother's baby book, which has collections of the snippings from my first five haircuts. The stuff inside those envelopes feels like the finest silk threads, between the fingers, and is so shockingly white that I find it impossible to believe I was ever that fair-headed. The color's darkened over the years, but my hair is still wispy and fine. It has a tendency not to be styled and to do whatever the hell it wants. It flops around crazily when I have sex.
In elementary school I was teased about it by squares and the elderly because it made me look like a girl. (Hey. In the nineteen-seventies, we all had Dorothy Hamill bobs.) In middle and high school, it was my shame because it was either too greasy, or just not stylish enough. As a young adult, I despaired every time I looked at it. Eventually, though, I made my peace with my hair, and my barber managed to cut it in a way that made me enjoy its floppiness. It might scare me when I wake up in the morning and find myself looking like a cross between a Bjork video and a mushroom cloud, but in general, it pleases me. I like the way it looks when I hook my sunglasses atop it, this time of year. I like the way it makes me appear like a lost member of ABBA, when it gets full.
Now that I'm moving away, though, I'm losing the one hair stylist who's ever made me happy with my hair. And I really am not looking forward to trying to find a new one in a strange place, where I have no friends to recommend anyone to me. So I'm thinking to myself, should I shave it?
I've put some thought into it. I'd probably buzz it down to about the length of my beard—which is not very long at all. Cutting it short would be a novelty for me; I've never done it before. It'd allow me to go to a new place with a new style and not have to worry about everyone I know teasing me about the big change—because I don't know anybody. It would be a style I could maintain myself if I had to, or easily get a barber to replicate if I didn't want to do it myself. The advantages would be expedience and ease.
Uncertainty is a big disadvantage. I could have one of those heads that just doesn't look good, buzzed. Or I could just dislike it. Of course, I could go through months of terrible haircuts if I don't buzz my head, too.
I don't know. Big decisions. Have you guys ever gone from long hair to very short? Would you recommend it? I know I have friends out there who will shrill No! Don't cut that hair!, but surely there are some who've made the leap and enjoyed it?
I'm babbling. Let's get onto this week's roundup of questions, courtesy of formspring.me.
Want to see how expectations and reality play out. What are you expecting in ease of getting your hands on guys, types of guys, whatever where you're moving to?
I am moving to an utterly strange part of the country where I don't know where anything is, where I have no friends or connections, where i have no network of fuck buddies, and where I will be busy trying to set up a house that's been split apart for a year.
In other words, I don't expect to get laid much.
What three words would you use to best describe your personality?
Thoughtful, considered, and stubborn.
How do you react if a guy has hemorrhoids? Is that a big turnoff? More generally, would you recommend that guys with hemorrhoids abstain from being fucked?
I assume by hemorrhoids—or piles, as they're more technically though even less pleasantly known in the plural—you mean the kind that are actively bleeding? Because I won't play with a guy who has an open wound. I would definitely recommend that the bottom not play in those circumstances, either.
I want to email a guy I knew as a friend briefly, 4 years ago, and try to re-establish a connection, but I'm afraid the email will be too out of the blue. Should I? I guess I'm asking, how would you respond if you got an email like that?
Did you part on good terms? If so, I'd probably welcome the email and would be happy to reconnect.
If you parted with bad feelings between you, or if things were muddled and confused or even angry, you may wish to reconsider. Many people, myself included, aren't willing to reconnect with a past they wish to—and thought they had—left behind. If this is the case, you may wish to tread carefully, attempt to make amends, and concede graciously if they ask you not to intrude in their tranquil present.
Sexual questions on Formspring, titillating or invasive? Hot or over the top?
I like them, generally—but most of the ones I get tend to be kind of rote ("How big is your dick?") or so vague that I kind of wonder about the sex lives of the people who ask them ("What was the best sex you've had?" . . . can anyone really narrow it down like that?).
There are some I simply won't answer, but I don't mind people having asked them.
When anonymous people ask ludicrous questions... do you answer or delete?
If the question has been asked in a sincere manner, no matter how ludicrous the question is, I'll generally answer.
However, there have been some individuals on Formspring who either make a career of crafting stupid, absurd questions, or who else aren't on their meds. I tend to block those people.
What's one lesson can you share with everyone that you abide by?
When I was learning to drive, my father gave me a piece of advice I feel is not only applicable to the road, but to life in general. He told me that although it was important to keep my eyes on what was immediately ahead in the world and to avoid the small obstacles, what really matter was keeping my eye on the direction the road took at the horizon, and to aim for that.
I think it was wise advice, and it's served me well.
Will you tell me about one aspect of your personality you think is unattractive?
I tend to be unforgiving of those whom I feel no longer deserve my friendship. It usually requires a lot of needling and bad behavior to take me to that point, but once someone pushes my buttons and I explode, nothing's growing in that scorched earth again.
Would you date outside your race?
Already have, many, many times.
Related question: all of you guys who answered my question about interracial dating said you would date outside your own race, question is now, why is there such a divide within the gay community?
I think the people to whom you should be addressing your question are the ones who said they'd never date outside their own race.
Not to be racist or anything, but be honest what race do you think is the ugliest? by not giving an answer you would just emphasize you being a hypocrite
You are being racist. I'm not giving you an answer because I don't find it a valid question at all. But you, sir, are the hypocrite. Not I.
Have you ever felted a dude?
Felted? You mean, like a pool table or a piano?
Do you prefer guys to cum on your face or in your mouth?
In my mouth. I'm not sure I understand the point of the facial, from a pleasure perspective.
Do you get annoyed when people confuse bottoming with subbing?
Probably not as much as bottoms or subs do, but it's a shame that people take words with distinct shades of meaning and use them generically.
I get more annoyed when people see that I'm a top and automatically assume that I am a nasty-talkin', cigar-smokin', boot-wearin' S.O.B. who likes to dominate and control his bottoms.
I've been having my hair cut by the same guy for the last dozen or so years—a former fuckbuddy (I know, what a shocker!) to whom I kept returning not only because he gave me a half-off fuckbuddy price, but because he knew what suited me and gave it to me despite what I asked for. It's solely because of him that I have been at peace with my hair for the last chunk of my life, instead of at odds with it.
My hair has been the bane of my existence for much of my life. I have my mother's baby book, which has collections of the snippings from my first five haircuts. The stuff inside those envelopes feels like the finest silk threads, between the fingers, and is so shockingly white that I find it impossible to believe I was ever that fair-headed. The color's darkened over the years, but my hair is still wispy and fine. It has a tendency not to be styled and to do whatever the hell it wants. It flops around crazily when I have sex.
In elementary school I was teased about it by squares and the elderly because it made me look like a girl. (Hey. In the nineteen-seventies, we all had Dorothy Hamill bobs.) In middle and high school, it was my shame because it was either too greasy, or just not stylish enough. As a young adult, I despaired every time I looked at it. Eventually, though, I made my peace with my hair, and my barber managed to cut it in a way that made me enjoy its floppiness. It might scare me when I wake up in the morning and find myself looking like a cross between a Bjork video and a mushroom cloud, but in general, it pleases me. I like the way it looks when I hook my sunglasses atop it, this time of year. I like the way it makes me appear like a lost member of ABBA, when it gets full.
Now that I'm moving away, though, I'm losing the one hair stylist who's ever made me happy with my hair. And I really am not looking forward to trying to find a new one in a strange place, where I have no friends to recommend anyone to me. So I'm thinking to myself, should I shave it?
I've put some thought into it. I'd probably buzz it down to about the length of my beard—which is not very long at all. Cutting it short would be a novelty for me; I've never done it before. It'd allow me to go to a new place with a new style and not have to worry about everyone I know teasing me about the big change—because I don't know anybody. It would be a style I could maintain myself if I had to, or easily get a barber to replicate if I didn't want to do it myself. The advantages would be expedience and ease.
Uncertainty is a big disadvantage. I could have one of those heads that just doesn't look good, buzzed. Or I could just dislike it. Of course, I could go through months of terrible haircuts if I don't buzz my head, too.
I don't know. Big decisions. Have you guys ever gone from long hair to very short? Would you recommend it? I know I have friends out there who will shrill No! Don't cut that hair!, but surely there are some who've made the leap and enjoyed it?
I'm babbling. Let's get onto this week's roundup of questions, courtesy of formspring.me.
Want to see how expectations and reality play out. What are you expecting in ease of getting your hands on guys, types of guys, whatever where you're moving to?
I am moving to an utterly strange part of the country where I don't know where anything is, where I have no friends or connections, where i have no network of fuck buddies, and where I will be busy trying to set up a house that's been split apart for a year.
In other words, I don't expect to get laid much.
What three words would you use to best describe your personality?
Thoughtful, considered, and stubborn.
How do you react if a guy has hemorrhoids? Is that a big turnoff? More generally, would you recommend that guys with hemorrhoids abstain from being fucked?
I assume by hemorrhoids—or piles, as they're more technically though even less pleasantly known in the plural—you mean the kind that are actively bleeding? Because I won't play with a guy who has an open wound. I would definitely recommend that the bottom not play in those circumstances, either.
I want to email a guy I knew as a friend briefly, 4 years ago, and try to re-establish a connection, but I'm afraid the email will be too out of the blue. Should I? I guess I'm asking, how would you respond if you got an email like that?
Did you part on good terms? If so, I'd probably welcome the email and would be happy to reconnect.
If you parted with bad feelings between you, or if things were muddled and confused or even angry, you may wish to reconsider. Many people, myself included, aren't willing to reconnect with a past they wish to—and thought they had—left behind. If this is the case, you may wish to tread carefully, attempt to make amends, and concede graciously if they ask you not to intrude in their tranquil present.
Sexual questions on Formspring, titillating or invasive? Hot or over the top?
I like them, generally—but most of the ones I get tend to be kind of rote ("How big is your dick?") or so vague that I kind of wonder about the sex lives of the people who ask them ("What was the best sex you've had?" . . . can anyone really narrow it down like that?).
There are some I simply won't answer, but I don't mind people having asked them.
When anonymous people ask ludicrous questions... do you answer or delete?
If the question has been asked in a sincere manner, no matter how ludicrous the question is, I'll generally answer.
However, there have been some individuals on Formspring who either make a career of crafting stupid, absurd questions, or who else aren't on their meds. I tend to block those people.
What's one lesson can you share with everyone that you abide by?
When I was learning to drive, my father gave me a piece of advice I feel is not only applicable to the road, but to life in general. He told me that although it was important to keep my eyes on what was immediately ahead in the world and to avoid the small obstacles, what really matter was keeping my eye on the direction the road took at the horizon, and to aim for that.
I think it was wise advice, and it's served me well.
Will you tell me about one aspect of your personality you think is unattractive?
I tend to be unforgiving of those whom I feel no longer deserve my friendship. It usually requires a lot of needling and bad behavior to take me to that point, but once someone pushes my buttons and I explode, nothing's growing in that scorched earth again.
Would you date outside your race?
Already have, many, many times.
Related question: all of you guys who answered my question about interracial dating said you would date outside your own race, question is now, why is there such a divide within the gay community?
I think the people to whom you should be addressing your question are the ones who said they'd never date outside their own race.
Not to be racist or anything, but be honest what race do you think is the ugliest? by not giving an answer you would just emphasize you being a hypocrite
You are being racist. I'm not giving you an answer because I don't find it a valid question at all. But you, sir, are the hypocrite. Not I.
Have you ever felted a dude?
Felted? You mean, like a pool table or a piano?
Do you prefer guys to cum on your face or in your mouth?
In my mouth. I'm not sure I understand the point of the facial, from a pleasure perspective.
Do you get annoyed when people confuse bottoming with subbing?
Probably not as much as bottoms or subs do, but it's a shame that people take words with distinct shades of meaning and use them generically.
I get more annoyed when people see that I'm a top and automatically assume that I am a nasty-talkin', cigar-smokin', boot-wearin' S.O.B. who likes to dominate and control his bottoms.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Field Trip Saturday: New Blogs
I'm always excited to discover new blogs I like. Particularly when the blogs are by people I already know and admire.
Two of my younger readers have recently started blogging about their sex lives. I like to fancy it's all my influence, of course. Corrupting the nation's youths through blogging, one at a time, that's me. But won't you give these two fledgling efforts your support and encouragement?
The first is What Cums Next? Its host, Eduard, has appeared in these pages before—most notably (and memorably, in my opinion) in the Reader Asses feature.
The other is Ace's Wild, the sexual exploits of our frequent commenter Ace. He's got several entries up already that are uniformly wild. Though for me it's tough to get past the hot photo of his body he's posted at the top of the page.
The last blog I'd like to recommend is Gay Lens. While it's not explicitly sexual, Gay Lens examines images of homoeroticism in classic movies and television. It's been interesting to see exactly how influential these black-and-white clips have been on generations of gay and bisexual adult males. Every entry's been a fascinating read.
Go. Explore. Have fun. And have a great weekend!
Two of my younger readers have recently started blogging about their sex lives. I like to fancy it's all my influence, of course. Corrupting the nation's youths through blogging, one at a time, that's me. But won't you give these two fledgling efforts your support and encouragement?
The first is What Cums Next? Its host, Eduard, has appeared in these pages before—most notably (and memorably, in my opinion) in the Reader Asses feature.
The other is Ace's Wild, the sexual exploits of our frequent commenter Ace. He's got several entries up already that are uniformly wild. Though for me it's tough to get past the hot photo of his body he's posted at the top of the page.
The last blog I'd like to recommend is Gay Lens. While it's not explicitly sexual, Gay Lens examines images of homoeroticism in classic movies and television. It's been interesting to see exactly how influential these black-and-white clips have been on generations of gay and bisexual adult males. Every entry's been a fascinating read.
Go. Explore. Have fun. And have a great weekend!
Friday, May 20, 2011
Open Forum Friday: Little Sissies
A couple of weeks back, in one of my Friday open forums, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek entry about The Game—an exercise that some of my gay and lesbian elementary and middle-school teacher friends play in which they predict which kids in their class are going eventually to start showing up to all the local gay bars and pride events. I did mean the entry somewhat facetiously, even if some humorless readers privately accused me of smugness, or worse, of reducing gay behavior into an oversimplified feminine mold.
That wasn’t really my intent. In fact, my friends who play The Game insist that it can’t be reduced to figuring out which boys love Britney and Gaga best, or which little girls are handiest with an allen wrench. Often, they’ll say, it’s a matter of noticing which kids carry a spark of apartness from the others, and which seem to have a sense of self-awareness and self-editing that other kids might not. It’s the youths who already seem aware of how different they are from their peers, they tell me, that become objects of focus in The Game.
But, you know. The kid who’s memorized all the dance moves from “Judas” the day after it hit the internet is probably a candidate, too.
One of the themes that came up in many of the comments, however, mirrors a response I get in real life when I’m discussing the topic with real-life gay friends. There’s usually a moment in which someone shares something so stereotypically gay about his childhood that it causes him to throw up his hands and exclaim, “How could my parents not have known?!”
One dear friend of mine recalls from time to time, with hot cheeks, how fascinated he was with the little vials, tubes, and trays of tint atop his mother’s dresser. He will confide how, on the occasional day when his parents were out, he would secretly experiment, covering his face with makeup, admiring the amateur results, and then scrubbing himself clean before they returned home. He didn’t become a drag queen as an adult. He’s not especially effeminate. The fascination with makeup happened even before he was aware of his own sexuality—or even had a concept of what sexuality was.
I’ve had acquaintances who’ve confessed that they were more interested in their sisters’ Barbies than in their own G.I. Joes, and some who’ve told me how they longed to dress up as a princess for Halloween. When I was growing up, these weren’t mere quirks; crossing the line from approved activities for boys into the the toys and activities for girls would be accompanied not only by taunts from other kids, but from adults as well. I recall very clearly being taken aside by my second-grade teacher during recess and told that if I continued to side in the shade with the girls and make god’s eyes out of yarn and popsicle sticks instead of playing touch football with the boys, that everyone was going to think I was, and these were her exact words, a little sissy.
For the record, I stuck with the god’s eyes, thank you. I shunned competitive sports as a kid. Despite my father’s best attempts to teach me, I never was able to absorb the rules of football. I resisted being put into a Little League team. I hated basketball despite having the height for it. Later on I learned how to play lacrosse, but hated every moment of it—the same with tennis. I enjoyed swimming and biking and hiking and other physical solitary pursuits. But when it came to all the noisy competitive sports that boys were supposed to relish? I would rather have been sitting with the girls on the sidelines, thanks.
I’ll share two other “How could they not have known?!” moments from my childhood. As a five-year-old, I used to like to carry a purse. My mother discarded a black leather handbag when I was a little boy. It was an ugly, boxy thing with rigid metal jaws that opened with a snap at the top, carried with a small hand strap. And I loved it. For several months I carried it with me everywhere (which, for a five-year-old, means around the house and into the playground). Admittedly, it looked more like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag to me than the height of chic accessories. Plus I was mostly using it to transport hoarded cookies, my penny collection, and a massive amount of plastic dinosaurs and miniature Beefeaters, the two armies of which I’d send into battle against each other in the local sandbox.
The second is perhaps more telling. My parents—both of them—were big fans of the musical when I was growing up. There wasn’t any particular shame in it, in the fifties and sixties; the Broadway cast album and the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack was a part of the popular music soundscape, and both my mom and dad loved a good show tune. (As long as it wasn’t from West Side Story, to which they’d both been overexposed in their teens.) I grew up with my mother playing selections from The Fantasticks and Carnival on the piano, while my dad hummed tunes from Bye Bye Birdie and Oliver!
I would’ve been four or five the first time I saw Thoroughly Modern Millie in the movie theater. My parents loved Julie Andrews after My Fair Lady, and I loved her for Mary Poppins, of course. While I didn’t understand a lick of the white slavery subplot and found Beatrice Lillie’s presence in the film frankly as terrifying as Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz, I enjoyed the rest of the movie so much that it’s been a lifelong favorite since. I was especially enchanted by Carol Channing, though. Her characterization of Muzzy van Hossmere in the movie is so bubble-headed, fizzy, and sophisticated that to a little kid like me it was like taking a first hit of champagne.
My parents had bought the Millie soundtrack for themselves, but it was I who wore out the LP on their turntable. I learned—and can still sing—every song. But I also decided, for some reason, that the Carol Channing songs I had to learn in Carol Channing’s own voice. Eccentric diction, broad vibrato, and all. So there I was, before first grade had even commenced, the youngest Carol Channing imitator in existence. I could do a gravel-throated rendition of “Jazz Baby” at the drop of a hat.
I didn’t grow up to be a particularly effeminate guy—or even a guy who particularly cares about effeminacy or masculinity. I still don’t know the rules of football. I still love musicals. I can still do Carol Channing. And I have a certain fondness for my messenger bag. But jeez. Stumbling around the house with a purse full of dinosaurs and beefeaters warbling about how my daddy was a wagtime chombone playah . . . well. How could they not have known?
I’m opening today’s Friday forum to my readers because I’m curious. Did you cross those lines of gender stereotyping in your youth? Were you chastised for it, or did you blaze your own fabulous trail? Did you have any of those “How could they not have known?!” moments?
Share them in the comments. Let’s learn from our pasts.
That wasn’t really my intent. In fact, my friends who play The Game insist that it can’t be reduced to figuring out which boys love Britney and Gaga best, or which little girls are handiest with an allen wrench. Often, they’ll say, it’s a matter of noticing which kids carry a spark of apartness from the others, and which seem to have a sense of self-awareness and self-editing that other kids might not. It’s the youths who already seem aware of how different they are from their peers, they tell me, that become objects of focus in The Game.
But, you know. The kid who’s memorized all the dance moves from “Judas” the day after it hit the internet is probably a candidate, too.
One of the themes that came up in many of the comments, however, mirrors a response I get in real life when I’m discussing the topic with real-life gay friends. There’s usually a moment in which someone shares something so stereotypically gay about his childhood that it causes him to throw up his hands and exclaim, “How could my parents not have known?!”
One dear friend of mine recalls from time to time, with hot cheeks, how fascinated he was with the little vials, tubes, and trays of tint atop his mother’s dresser. He will confide how, on the occasional day when his parents were out, he would secretly experiment, covering his face with makeup, admiring the amateur results, and then scrubbing himself clean before they returned home. He didn’t become a drag queen as an adult. He’s not especially effeminate. The fascination with makeup happened even before he was aware of his own sexuality—or even had a concept of what sexuality was.
I’ve had acquaintances who’ve confessed that they were more interested in their sisters’ Barbies than in their own G.I. Joes, and some who’ve told me how they longed to dress up as a princess for Halloween. When I was growing up, these weren’t mere quirks; crossing the line from approved activities for boys into the the toys and activities for girls would be accompanied not only by taunts from other kids, but from adults as well. I recall very clearly being taken aside by my second-grade teacher during recess and told that if I continued to side in the shade with the girls and make god’s eyes out of yarn and popsicle sticks instead of playing touch football with the boys, that everyone was going to think I was, and these were her exact words, a little sissy.
For the record, I stuck with the god’s eyes, thank you. I shunned competitive sports as a kid. Despite my father’s best attempts to teach me, I never was able to absorb the rules of football. I resisted being put into a Little League team. I hated basketball despite having the height for it. Later on I learned how to play lacrosse, but hated every moment of it—the same with tennis. I enjoyed swimming and biking and hiking and other physical solitary pursuits. But when it came to all the noisy competitive sports that boys were supposed to relish? I would rather have been sitting with the girls on the sidelines, thanks.
I’ll share two other “How could they not have known?!” moments from my childhood. As a five-year-old, I used to like to carry a purse. My mother discarded a black leather handbag when I was a little boy. It was an ugly, boxy thing with rigid metal jaws that opened with a snap at the top, carried with a small hand strap. And I loved it. For several months I carried it with me everywhere (which, for a five-year-old, means around the house and into the playground). Admittedly, it looked more like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag to me than the height of chic accessories. Plus I was mostly using it to transport hoarded cookies, my penny collection, and a massive amount of plastic dinosaurs and miniature Beefeaters, the two armies of which I’d send into battle against each other in the local sandbox.
The second is perhaps more telling. My parents—both of them—were big fans of the musical when I was growing up. There wasn’t any particular shame in it, in the fifties and sixties; the Broadway cast album and the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack was a part of the popular music soundscape, and both my mom and dad loved a good show tune. (As long as it wasn’t from West Side Story, to which they’d both been overexposed in their teens.) I grew up with my mother playing selections from The Fantasticks and Carnival on the piano, while my dad hummed tunes from Bye Bye Birdie and Oliver!
I would’ve been four or five the first time I saw Thoroughly Modern Millie in the movie theater. My parents loved Julie Andrews after My Fair Lady, and I loved her for Mary Poppins, of course. While I didn’t understand a lick of the white slavery subplot and found Beatrice Lillie’s presence in the film frankly as terrifying as Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz, I enjoyed the rest of the movie so much that it’s been a lifelong favorite since. I was especially enchanted by Carol Channing, though. Her characterization of Muzzy van Hossmere in the movie is so bubble-headed, fizzy, and sophisticated that to a little kid like me it was like taking a first hit of champagne.
My parents had bought the Millie soundtrack for themselves, but it was I who wore out the LP on their turntable. I learned—and can still sing—every song. But I also decided, for some reason, that the Carol Channing songs I had to learn in Carol Channing’s own voice. Eccentric diction, broad vibrato, and all. So there I was, before first grade had even commenced, the youngest Carol Channing imitator in existence. I could do a gravel-throated rendition of “Jazz Baby” at the drop of a hat.
I didn’t grow up to be a particularly effeminate guy—or even a guy who particularly cares about effeminacy or masculinity. I still don’t know the rules of football. I still love musicals. I can still do Carol Channing. And I have a certain fondness for my messenger bag. But jeez. Stumbling around the house with a purse full of dinosaurs and beefeaters warbling about how my daddy was a wagtime chombone playah . . . well. How could they not have known?
I’m opening today’s Friday forum to my readers because I’m curious. Did you cross those lines of gender stereotyping in your youth? Were you chastised for it, or did you blaze your own fabulous trail? Did you have any of those “How could they not have known?!” moments?
Share them in the comments. Let’s learn from our pasts.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Reader Asses: #12
I asked for 'em. You sent 'em.
I still want more. So read up, snap up, and hand 'em over.
Nick
My boy Nick snapped these photos for me with his iPhone and then sent them my way, hoping for my approval. He definitely got it. Beautiful as that butt is in its natural, standing state, the last pose is my favorite—back arched, ass in the submissive position, underwear slipping off, and that star tattoo peeking out.
Sigh. It's a good thing my heart's always been strong, because it skips a beat every time I look at that photo.
Chris
Chris is 33 and lives in the Big Apple. And I've got to say, my attention didn't waver for a single damned moment to that lovely exposed brick wall when I saw the sweet furriness of that round butt of his. I'm also a fan of the sideburns, Chris. That fur is really working for you.
Two things you can't tell about Chris from these exposures that he wanted to share with me. He's uncut. (We'll have to take that one on faith.) And he's Peruvian. Chris, you can be Peruvian, antediluvian, or Herbert Hoovian for all I care. I just know you're fine.
Brandon
I'm guessing from his photos that Brandon has a few gear fetishes—socks, sneakers, and jocks being the ones I spotted. (It's like one of those hidden-objects puzzles!) All fine fetishes to have, too.
It's the ass with which I'm most impressed. It's perfectly framed by the elastic of that black jockstrap. I'd love to dive in there face-first and slick it up for you, Brandon. Any time, trust me.
Raul
Am I wrong in thinking that this is the first piercing we've seen in the Reader's Asses series? Certainly the first guiche piercing, anyway. Raul sent in a variety of photos from which I could choose—and in the end I posted most of them, because frankly, I couldn't decide among them all. I love the one of him kneeling on the blue sheets, of course—but you probably could've predicted that, with my fondness for guys assuming the doggie position.
But I also love those pendulous nuts, the greased and spunked-up hole shots, and just generally his whole little Latin package. Damn, Raul. You've got something going on there.
Be sure to give our models today some kudos. They're readers just like you, who've taken the time to send in their shots for everyone to enjoy.
And like I said above, you should do so, too!
I still want more. So read up, snap up, and hand 'em over.
Nick
My boy Nick snapped these photos for me with his iPhone and then sent them my way, hoping for my approval. He definitely got it. Beautiful as that butt is in its natural, standing state, the last pose is my favorite—back arched, ass in the submissive position, underwear slipping off, and that star tattoo peeking out.
Sigh. It's a good thing my heart's always been strong, because it skips a beat every time I look at that photo.
Chris
Chris is 33 and lives in the Big Apple. And I've got to say, my attention didn't waver for a single damned moment to that lovely exposed brick wall when I saw the sweet furriness of that round butt of his. I'm also a fan of the sideburns, Chris. That fur is really working for you.
Two things you can't tell about Chris from these exposures that he wanted to share with me. He's uncut. (We'll have to take that one on faith.) And he's Peruvian. Chris, you can be Peruvian, antediluvian, or Herbert Hoovian for all I care. I just know you're fine.
Brandon
I'm guessing from his photos that Brandon has a few gear fetishes—socks, sneakers, and jocks being the ones I spotted. (It's like one of those hidden-objects puzzles!) All fine fetishes to have, too.
It's the ass with which I'm most impressed. It's perfectly framed by the elastic of that black jockstrap. I'd love to dive in there face-first and slick it up for you, Brandon. Any time, trust me.
Raul
Am I wrong in thinking that this is the first piercing we've seen in the Reader's Asses series? Certainly the first guiche piercing, anyway. Raul sent in a variety of photos from which I could choose—and in the end I posted most of them, because frankly, I couldn't decide among them all. I love the one of him kneeling on the blue sheets, of course—but you probably could've predicted that, with my fondness for guys assuming the doggie position.
But I also love those pendulous nuts, the greased and spunked-up hole shots, and just generally his whole little Latin package. Damn, Raul. You've got something going on there.
Be sure to give our models today some kudos. They're readers just like you, who've taken the time to send in their shots for everyone to enjoy.
And like I said above, you should do so, too!
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