A Sexual Education: The Gloryhole (Vacation Week Repost)

(While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. For Monday through Wednesday, I'm posting the first few of "A Sexual Education" in the order in which they happened, which is completely out of order from the way I actually wrote them.)


My dad taught his classes in a large slab of brick and concrete known as the Business Building. In 1975 it was the newest building on campus, and one of the very few that had centralized air conditioning. In the middle of a muggy southern summer where the sun simultaneously blazed down from overhead and baked the insides of your legs as it reflected from the asphalt streets, the jets of cold air that would blast down as you walked into the building were a godsend.

Both my parents worked, and had worked out a system for the summer. Three times a week my father would pick me up from the daytime band camp I attended in the mornings, and take me to school with him until the late afternoon. My mother would pick up my sister from her morning swimming lessons and settle her in an empty room at the campaign headquarters where she was working. Both of us were easy to keep occupied; we’d simply take a book with us and read the afternoons away.

When I went with my father, I had the choice of either remaining behind in his office—not a bad option, as the converted Victorian townhouse in which his office resided had creaky floors that rang out like gunshots whenever someone would walk across them, and could easily be imagined as haunted—or accompanying him to the Business Building. Attractive as kicking back in his office might have been, I usually went with him to class, because I’d usually be guaranteed a few quarters in spending money for the vending machines, and the opportunity to read and eat candy in air-conditioned comfort in the student lounge.

It was one afternoon in the Business Building that I stumbled into the men’s room on the second floor and heard the sound of door slamming, followed by the rapid sounds of multiple belt buckles slamming against the tiles. I ignored the ruckus, headed to the furthest of the four stalls, and closed the door behind me so I could do my business in private.

Only I didn’t really have privacy. Not until I had my pants down did I noticed that to my left, right in the middle of the partition between my stall and the next, was a large hole, about the size of a softball. On the other side, I could see the curve of a jawline covered with beard, a flash of t-shirt, and then, as the other occupant stood to his feet, a man’s penis. It was curved and rock-hard. A globule of precum-bulged from the slit.

Oddly enough, though I was surprised, I wasn’t at all shocked at the sight. In Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), Dr. Reuben had gone on at curiously-obsessed length about how whenever homosexuals wanted to meet each other, their only recourse was to visit the men’s rooms in bowling alleys and have sex in the stalls. Richmond in the mid-nineteen-seventies had but one bowling alley, and it was on the far side of town, so on some level it seemed perfectly logical for the city’s homosexuals to shift their adventures somewhere more central and (more importantly) cooler in the middle of a hot southern summer. So I watched in fascination as the man next to me turned slightly to point his dick in my direction. The backs of his fingers sported dark tufts of hair that I gazed at as they curled around his stiff meat and traveled its length, back and forth, back and forth. I managed to intuit at once that my pillow and I had gone about masturbating all wrong.

The man sat back down. I saw his beard again as he leaned forward to look through the hole. I leaned back far enough that he couldn’t see my face at his angle, and covered my hands over my genitals. My dick was rock hard; it couldn’t have been any harder. As it had when the man in People’s Drugstore had touched me just a few weeks before, my heart began to thud violently—it pounded with such insistence that I worried I’d have a heart attack and that the paramedics would find me dead with my pants down and my dick hard, shaming myself and my parents forever. Again the man stood up and angled his own cock toward me, poking the round, full head through the hole so that I could see it more closely. He was dripping more, now, and the bead of his pre-cum caught on the top of the glory hole and stretched into a shiny, sticky thread.

When I didn’t do anything, he retreated, and tried to catch another glimpse of me. Maybe he saw how small and slender I was, and realized I was more than half his age at the very least. He didn’t try to urge me to touch him again, though. I watched as he turned his attention to the stall on his other side. After a few seconds, he was down on the ground, his knees spread wide and his feet bound by the trousers around his ankles. He thrust his knees and dick beneath the far partition. I saw a hand from the third stall reach underneath and snake across his hairy buttocks, and the shadow of a head as it lowered itself down between the man’s legs. Then came the loud and undisguised sound of sucking.

The man who’d been showing off to me looked over his shoulder squarely at me, through the hole. He winked at me, knowing I was watching, and then his mouth dropped open as he let out a loud moan. Our eyes locked—mine wide open, his slitted and glittering—as he climaxed. I watched as his hips bucked back and forth, and heard the sounds of appreciative grunting from his invisible partner. When he stood up, his dick was still wet and glistening from the attention it had received. My friend shook the last drop of semen from its tip, then peed into the toilet bowl, shook himself, and began to zip up.

I had a fear that if he left the restroom first, I might emerge and find him waiting outside, and I couldn’t let that happen. I yanked up my pants over my aching erection and dashed outside, then ran down the stairwell and into the lounge chair where my father had left me. He found me there a few minutes later, after his class let out. I’d managed to stop shaking by that point.

Three times a week I went to the Business Building after that, and once the school year started up again, I found excuses to convince my parents to take me with them to their classes. I found relatively quickly that all the upper floors of the Business Building were used for cruising. The action would begin in the second floor restroom, where I’d stumbled that afternoon. Once those stalls filled up, the men would spill up to the third floor, and then the fourth, and all the way up to the tiny two-staller on the seventh floor if it were a busy evening. The two stalls that shared the glory hole were the most coveted of all, though; men would lounge against the walls in the second-floor bathroom, waiting for a chance to take their place.

Sometimes the men would check me out through the hole, realize how young I was, and drape a piece of toilet paper over the gape so that I couldn’t see what they were doing—though that happened extremely rarely. Most of them looked through the hole and licked their lips with invitation, or peered or through the gaps in the stall doors to try to get me to show them my dick. I always refused, and kept my hands over and off my own throbbing cock. I never balked to look at theirs, though, when they’d pull it out for display. Nor did I close my eyes when the men would open their doors and thrust their dicks into a willing mouth, or stop watching when one of the cruisers would prop a foot on the toilet seat, bend over, and offer their asses to the perfect stranger waiting to fuck them.

For several months, from the other side of that small hole I spied, and observed, and learned.

A Sexual Education: First Flush (Vacation Week Repost)

(While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. For Monday through Wednesday, I'm posting the first few of "A Sexual Education" in the order in which they happened, which is completely out of order from the way I actually wrote them.)

The attic of my parents’ home was an unfinished space that lay up a flight of stairs from my bedroom. In the winters, chilly air from outside blew in under the eaves and rendered it the chilliest place in the house. Summers, the sun baked the roof slates and turned the attic into a hotbox. My parents used the room for storing luggage, boxes of Christmas decorations, and old books. Even though the door to it sat in my bedroom, I rarely opened it growing up, except to toss my dirty clothes in the hamper just inside the bottom of the stairwell.

Until one early summer day when I was ten, that is. I remember the day well, because it started with me being restless. I didn’t want to go outside. I didn’t want to ride my bike around the neighborhood. I just wanted to be alone. Like, really alone, away from everybody I knew. I didn’t want anyone to find me. I shut myself in my bedroom with the door closed and either played with toys or more likely read a book or something.

But that wasn’t enough. My bedroom door was always sticky, due to not being fitted properly. It didn’t so much shut, as wedge itself firmly stuck and leave a large crack at points through which one could have slipped a small hand. That day, I needed privacy.

After tossing and turning on my mattress for a while, or trying to get some solitude on the floor on the far side of my little single bed, I eventually turned the knob to the attic door. I pushed past the hamper and up the stairs, which were usually cluttered with objects that my parents meant to take up among the other storage boxes, but had a tendency to sit there for months and years before they remembered. I pulled shut the door behind me.

Upstairs in the attic, the temperature had to be in the nineties. The air was still, hot, and stuffy. A thick layer of dust lay over everything. I sat on the top step and tried to read my book, but I was still restless. My eyes danced over the pages, but absorbed nothing.

I don’t know what it was that called me upstairs that morning, but I knew that the attic was where I had to be. I was totally alone, and unobserved. No one knew where I was. I set down the book, and decided to explore. With my pants and shirt off.

What motivated me to remove my clothes, I didn’t know either. I remember justifying to myself that it was hot up there, and that I’d be more comfortable naked. Perfectly logical, right? Even I knew that the attic was a splintery place where I could cut or jab myself with one wrong move, but for some reason, I really wanted to be naked, and alone.

I was looking for something. I didn’t really understand for what. I picked through old books and wandered around, treading carefully so no one would hear my footsteps below. It was only after several minutes that I happened upon the guitar box. It was a simple scalene triangle of a box, made out of sturdy corrugated cardboard, which once held an acoustic guitar my parents had purchased with S&H Green Stamps. Something about the box appealed to me. I pulled it out and set it on its side, so that the longest side protruded up and away from me, like a ramp, and straddled it.

At first I played as if I was riding the box like a horse. I sat down and held it tight between my legs, and rubbed my groin against the cardboard. The box’s edges dug into my thighs, but I kept going; it felt as if I’d found what I’d been searching for. My dick was hard, though I didn’t connect the erection with any of the feelings that I was experiencing at the moment. A hard-on was something that simply happened from time to time, and usually in the mornings. All I knew is that I wanted to push at the box with my midsection. I wanted to rub against it. Because the rubbing was making me feel good.

Like I said, it was hot in the attic. Perspiration started to dot my brow. My nose was itchy and running from the dust in the attic, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be there with that box, humping and rutting against it. My knees were on the attic floorboards at this point, and my little body’s torso was lying on the upper half of the box, crushing it slightly, but I didn’t notice anything except for the increased beat of my heart and the glorious feelings in my middle. It felt like I tickled all over. It felt like I was waiting for Christmas, with a delicious anticipation I’d never felt before. I was both half-asleep and barely conscious of my surroundings as I humped and squeezed with mounting vigor. And yet I was supremely alive for what felt like the first time, feeling things I didn’t know my body could feel.

My chest start to heave. I remember biting my lip and hissing. Then something happened. Heat seemed to course across my entire body, radiating out in waves. I shivered and shook. It felt like I was blooming like a flower, opening up petal after petal until I was laid wide and bare for the world to see. The flush seemed to last forever. It made me tingle all over, and quiver. For a long, long moment, I felt as if I dissolved away and became nothing, and the universe flowed in to take my place. I’d never felt so beautiful before, or so expansive.

Or so scared. The wonderful feeling subsided. The universe ebbed away, leaving me in its place. I wondered if I’d died. Or come close to it. Once I’d recovered, I found myself standing up with shaking legs that were sore from so tightly clutching the box between them, wondering if maybe I’d experienced a heart attack. Or heat stroke. It had to do with the heat, of that I was convinced.

I felt like I’d peed or something, but nothing had come out of my softening penis—not at that age. Suddenly I was aware of how naked I was. I rushed for my clothes, and put them back on, then grabbed my book and went back down the stairs. Once I was back in my room with the attic door shut behind me, I basked in the cool air and tried to breathe again.

Something momentous had happened, up above. I knew that for sure. I was aware the basic facts of life, but I knew nothing of what I’d just done, for the very first time in my life. I didn’t connect the feelings I’d had up above with my limp penis. I didn’t know if I replicate it again. Or if I even should.

I spent an awful lot of time that summer finding out, though.

Sunday Morning Questions: Away Week Edition

I'm sorry to say it, but I'm going to be away from home and my computer for most of the upcoming week. It's time for one of my trips south to visit my elderly father, who will be sure to assign me chores around my childhood home that involve going out in the August Virginia heat in mid-day to do something strenuous. And I'm sure he'll complain about my underwear.

I don't think I've documented my father's complaints about my underwear in this particular forum. My father and I, however, have conversations about certain topics that are, I fear, as bewildering for him as they are for me. About a year and a half ago, on one of my visits, I was stepping out of his bathroom after a shower wearing a towel and a pair of square-cut trunks, when he spotted me in the upstairs hallway and we had the following conversation:

MY FATHER (peering in my direction as he passes by at the top of the stairs): What in the world?
ME (looking around): What?
MY FATHER (wrinkling his nose with disdain): Are you wearing colored underwear?
ME: I believe the accepted term these days is African-American underwear. Or underwear of color, in a more general sense.
MY FATHER: Hah-hah-hah. Why in the world are you wearing such fancy. . . .
ME: Fancy? They're cotton briefs from the Gap.
MY FATHER: . . . expensive . . .
ME: Expensive!
MY FATHER: . . . decadent underwear?
ME: Decadent? Good god, old man. You make it sound as if I’m wearing a mink jockstrap.
MY FATHER: Didn’t you used to wear white cotton briefs?
ME: When I was twelve.
MY FATHER: I’ve always worn white cotton briefs.
ME: That’s fine. I don't.
MY FATHER: Is it a gay . . . bisexual thing?
ME: Yes, it’s a gay bisexual thing. The reason you see so many pairs of colored underwear when you walk into a store is because the gay bisexuals have taken over Fruit of the Loom and have an evil agenda for the entire world of foundation garments.
MY FATHER: What color are those?
ME: Green, with a white stripe. Listen, they’re not. . . .
MY FATHER (incredulous): Green? I would have said they were olive drab.
ME: Jeez, now who’s gay?
MY FATHER (shaking his head): Well, they’re not white, that’s for sure. You can buy a package of white briefs, three for five dollars, at the drug store. Even at a fancy store like Target I bet they don’t cost a lot.
ME: Well, I’m really not a fan of the white brief.
MY FATHER: No, clearly not. You like these fancy . . . decadent . . . .
ME: They’re a pair of green striped trunks. And they weren't expensive. I think I paid four dollars for them.
MY FATHER: Four dollars! For one pair of colored underwear.
ME: That’s a barg. . . .
MY FATHER: For four dollars, you could have gotten a package of three white briefs at the drug store. Where are you going?
ME (stalking away): To get dressed, thank you.
MY FATHER (after watching me go, calling through the slammed bedroom door): Is colored underwear a symptom of a midlife crisis?

Ah yes. I can't wait to see what the week  brings.

But let's get to some Formspring.me questions for the week, shall we?


Do you ask about peoples sexual health before having sex with them ?

Yes. Don't you?


How much do you weigh now?

Between 160-165 on any given day. I know that's thin, but I obsess about my weight if I go over that.


Favourite bathhouse?

Steamworks, in either Chicago or Toronto.


Is the 64 in your web address your birth year?

Yes it is.


What have you eaten off a partner during sex?

Cum, mostly.

I am not really a fan of using food during sex, and blame the movie "9 1/2 Weeks" for making it look fun and glamorous when really it's just messy, sticky, uncomfortable, and a waste of perfectly good edibles. Perhaps I'm just bitter, though, after an incident in which I had honey in my testicle hair for a week after experimenting.


If we perused your sexual "Toy Chest", what would we find?

You'd find a lot of cock rings—rubber, leather, chrome—one small butt plug, one wide butt plug, one double-headed dildo, some snake-bite suction things for nipple play, some clothespins, some nipple clamps with teeth, several mostly-empty tubes of lube, and a Fleshlight a kindly reader gave to me so that I could try it. I might be leaving out some stuff.

Then I have a lot of porn and jock straps, but I keep them elsewhere.


Have you ever given a blow job (or more) to a guy with a PA or any other kind of cock piercing, and if so, did you like it?

The second guy (third? I think it was second) I ever had sex with had a piercing. It both scared and thrilled the fuck out of me. I'll be reposting it this week for your perusal.


Do you think the internet is making it easier or harder to find anonymous hook ups? Sometimes I wonder if we give away too much in profiles. What are your thoughts?

Easier, in general. Before the internet, men had to go either to a cruising spot like a park or men's room, or to a gay bar in order to make an anonymous hookup. Depending on what decade in which one attempted it, both options could be dangerous and end in arrest or embarrassment. At best, one had to contend with the weather and geography. These days, all one has to do is sit at one's computer, indoors, and look at photos and make a choice.

Unfortunately, I believe that many (if not most) men never get around to making a choice. They'll fantasize about sex and talk about it, but never commit to meeting. And that's a shame.


What's your favorite game (sexual or other)?

Hide the Salami would be my favorite sexual game. Carcassonne would be my favorite non-sexual game, though I have a certain childhood fondness for Clue.

Spooked

The beach was empty, save for the seagulls strutting up and down its length. Their proud chests puffed out as they screeched and cawed at each other as they argued over scraps of torn crab in the sands. The tide was low; the water lapped far out, leaving behind rippled and smooth sands. The air hung over me like a blanket, wet and cool. From inland the prevailing wind blew, warm and comforting. From the direction of Long Island, barely visible beneath the clouds across the Sound where the storms still flickered in the distance, the wind would sometimes shift, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. Every time, it raised goose pimples on my skin.

The woman at the gate had given me a surprised look when I'd pulled up and presented my resident's pass. Apparently she was used to bad weather keeping people home, this late in the day. But I'd been looking forward to going to the beach that evening and had been disappointed when thunderstorms had blown through the area during my dinner. They'd disappated to the south while I was washing up, though. The sand was already wet, I figured. And mostly I enjoy walking up and down in the surf, anyway. That could be done just as easily post-storm as in better weather, right?

I was the only one who seemed to think so. That's why, for a very long time, I had the beach entirely to myself. I squelched in the shallow waters and let the sand and the waters of the Sound gush between my toes. I enjoyed the sensual sensation of the wind and my gooseflesh, and of the giddy, almost naughty feeling of being entirely alone in a place that usually was overrun with people. For the better part of an hour, I walked and enjoyed the solitude.

A few people began to venture out before sunset. One older gentleman with a surfboard and a paddle floated out to the deeper end of the swimming area, stood on his board, and began to row himself around the island. An elderly woman came out onto the sands and began delicately to pick her way across, wrinkling her nose every time we passed at the seaweed and storm flotsam nudging against our ankles.
And there was a blonde boy, preppy and pretty, of nineteen or twenty, who hung around the concession area. He nodded at me the first time we passed, his frank blue eyes staring into mine without fear, or hesitation. I'd just met and fucked the Latin kid in the mall the day before; the sight of his eyes staring so candidly into mine made my dick twitch. I walked down to the rocky end of the public beach and waited for a moment, keeping him in the corner of my eye the entire time. I watched as, hands plunged deep into his oversized trunks, he ambled around the picnic area and kicked up sand with his bare feet. Occasionally it seemed as if he were looking in my direction.

Well, I thought to myself. Nothing ventured. . . .

On any ordinary day at the beach it would've been too crowded and hectic to cruise. There wasn't a soul around, though. The concession stand was closed. Only the boy and the old woman and the paddle-boarder, who was now a speck on the horizon, were around. So I walked back toward the boy and the restroom beyond the concessions, nodding at him and staring him in the eyes as I passed.

Those blue eyes met mine again. He was a pretty boy, with tousled, thick hair and fine, pale features. He stared at me soulfully, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't trust his lips.

I must have had my mojo back.

The men's room at the beach is a decidedly grungy affair. The urinals overflow with every flush, spreading water and waste alike toward a drain in the middle of the floor and leaving the cement enclosure stinky. There's usually so much traffic from the beach, though, slopping in salt water and sand that it's tough to tell where all the wetness is coming from. I walked past the single shower enclosure and over to the urinal, my heart pounding, my dick hardening in my shorts.

Like the day before, I wasn't at all surprised when the boy followed me in. I looked casually over my shoulder and caught his glance. His lips parted slightly.

I was about to swing around and show him my hard-on, when without warning, the door to the shower enclosure opened. I hadn't even realized anyone was in there. An older man stepped out—he had to be somewhere in his sixties, and his physique had taken on the general appearance of a pillar candle left forgotten to slump and bulge, on a hot day in the direct sun. His face was red from too much exposure to weather, and he wore an oversized pair of glasses. I'd turned back around at the first sound he'd made, but when I looked over my shoulder again, the old man was standing with his madras shorts around his knees, hovering over a pair of unfortunate black socks pulled up to his calves, and a pair of sandals. His dick, I had to admit, was pretty impressive. I would've guessed it to be a solid seven inches, and thicker than mine by half. The head was so big and bald (like its owner) that it almost looked as if the old man had been carrying a smaller version of himself in his pocket.

The boy vanished. Like a frightened deer, when the man had stepped out of the shower, he'd bolted out the door.

"I've been trying to get him for a half-hour now," creaked the old man, shaking his head. "Pretty boy, too. Think he'll be back?"

I shrugged. Part of me was annoyed that my sure thing had been ruined by the man's unexpected intrusion. Another part of me realized that in this game, just about anything is fair game, and it's unreasonable to get one's hopes too dashed.

"What you got there?" asked the old man. "You want it sucked?"

I like older men. I wasn't too attracted to this one, though. "Nah," I said, then politely lied, "I'm not really into the public thing."

"Okay," he said, still playing with his mini-me. "Thought I'd ask. Hey, you think that kid will come back in?"

I didn't think he would, no, not with that guy letching after him. I was wrong, though. I'd zipped up and was washing my hands with the boy made a return. He stepped into the men's room and peeked around the corner as if trying to figure out whether I'd hooked up with the older man or not. Our eyes locked once more, and his mouth opened. This time, I was sure he was going to say something.

"Hey kid, you want a blow job?" The old man had withdrawn into the shower stall when I'd started to wash my hand, though he'd left the door ajar. Like a perverted jack-in-the-box, though, he popped out at the sight of the boy. "Let me suck your boy dick off."

And once again, I saw the youth bolt out the door. He wasn't running at top speed toward the parking lot, but he certainly would have blown past all the casual strollers on a usual beach day.

"Damn," said the man. "All I wanted to give him was a blow job. Something spooked him. What do you think it was?"

I shrugged, privately rolled my eyes, and exited.

The kid drove past me in a battered old lime-green Wrangler as I went to rinse the sand from my feet under a spigot at the edge of the parking lot. He stared at me, slowing down a touch, and lifted his left hand from the wheel slightly, in a private wave. He then gunned the accelerator and vanished down the narrow access road and back to town. It was the last I saw of him.

Spooked. I'm pretty sure I know by whom.

Like That

I first saw him in the pit, the odd centerpiece of my new local mall, a deep, steep arrangement of carpeted risers around which three stories of stores and a bank of elevators loom. He was sprawled out on one of the ledges there, young and lean, no more than nineteen or twenty, his knees pointed in impossible opposite angles. One of them, bony and hairy, protruded through the ripped denim of his jeans. His hair was thick and dark, and so glossy that the mall's soft lighting left a blue sheen on its black surface. His eyebrows were broad and arresting, as if a pair of large and confident thumbs had smudged quantities of charcoal in twin lines across his brow. He smiled like a sphinx that knew something the rest of didn't. At nothing in particular he stared. He seemed cocky, and together, and yet slightly vulnerable, in the way that young men sometimes do.

I had my notebook computer under my arm and was on my way to the Apple Store for a little checkup. Even on my best day I find the new mall confusing, with its seven levels and its bewildering, wrap-around parking deck; I've managed to figure out exactly one way to park and enter the place through its very lowest level, and I've stuck to it ever since. As I took the first of several escalators to the floor I needed, I couldn't help but keep my eye on the Latin kid lounging in the mall's center.

When I was leaving, a trio of black nannies in charge of blond toddlers had taken up residence on the ledge. Strollers and diaper bags had taken his place. I supposed it was unreasonable to hope to see him again; I'd been in the store for nearly an hour. I took my escalators back down to the lowest level of the pit, and turned in the direction of the cavernous entrance to the parking deck.

But then there he was again, outside the men's room. He sat on vinyl-padded sofa immediately opposite, his legs spread wide, his arms crossed over his clean, white-and-blue basketball sleeveless basketball shirt. The muscles of his arms were light, but firm.

I diverted from my path. He looked up at me with surprise when I walked past in the direction of the men's room door. He looked me up and down, in my camo shorts and my skimpy blue T-shirt. Our eyes met; his bored into mine.

I was already three-quarters hard when I reached the urinal inside. That hadn't been a casual exchange of glances between two strangers. It had been a look of intent. I wasn't at all surprised when the door opened less than thirty seconds later. I turned my head to see him sauntering in, one slender hand already stuffed down the front of his jeans. He stepped up next to me at the urinal, unbuttoned, and unzipped. Then he stood there, hand still rubbing the dark skin of his flat belly, as the two of us stared at each other.

I stepped back and showed him my hard-on. He turned to display his. When it came to size, I was the winner by a long shot; his cock had skin so dark it was almost black, and a hooded head that was already sticky with pre-cum, but it couldn't have been more than five inches. "Damn, pa," he whispered as he stared at mine. His fingers danced over the length of his own meat. "You got a big white dick."

All I did was nod. He took it as the instruction I intended. His eyes stayed upon mine as he lowered himself to his knees. With a worshipful expression that made me melt, he opened his beautiful lips and wrapped them around my shaft. Only when the head of my dick hit the back of his throat did he close his lids and give in to the pleasure of sucking.

I didn't know for how long he could've been active, or who'd taught him, but the kid sucked dick like he'd been doing it for years. He opened wide and took the entire thing into his mouth and throat, opening his gullet to accept me with absolutely no gag reflex.

We were in what had to be the quietest part of the mall, but I was still very aware that at any moment the door could open and someone would find us like this. "Come on," I told him, motioning in the direction of the toilet stalls. I held open the door to the largest, and the furthest away from the door.

He followed without question. "I need that big dick, pa," he whispered to me. Up close, I could detect a faint trace of mustache on his upper lip.

I closed the stall door behind us. There was enough room for one of us to maneuver our feet out of sight, should someone come in. I'd expected him to sit on the toilet and resume sucking, but instead he had loosened his jeans so that his ass hung out over the dropped waist. It was smooth, and creamy, and fucking beautiful. A faint line of dark hair fringed the crack. "Where do you need it?" I asked him. My hand reached out to stroke his butt.

He gasped, and closed his eyes, then sighed. He didn't have to answer the question. Suddenly it had become rhetorical.

I wasn't planning to linger in that men's room for long. I spat on my hand and rubbed what was there into the warmest part of his butt, already slightly moist from his natural sweat. His head dropped and hung low. I pulled down his jeans and let them drop to his ankle, then spat again to slick up my shaft.

He almost cried out when I entered him. His head jerked up and back and his eyes closed in pain. He bit down on his lower lip and huffed out air through the corners of his mouth. Then he opened his eyes and looked back over his shoulder as if he hated me. When I got all the way in, he let out a groan. "You so big you hurt, pa!" he growled, clawing onto the handicapped rail for support.

I held myself at my deepest point for a moment for him to grow accustomed to the size. He hadn't been fucked much, I could tell. He was too tight. He didn't push me away, though. Nor did he try to wrestle himself off my dick. He bent over and grit his teeth and encouraged me to get on with it.

It was as necessary for him as it was for me.

When I started thrusting, he loosened up. I could tell by the way his body relaxed from hard right angles into soft curves that he was beginning to enjoy it. When he looked back over his shoulder a second time, it wasn't with hate in his eyes, but love. "Yeah," he whispered, his eyes droopy and half-closed with adoration. "Like that. Just like that."

His hairless balls swung low as I plunged in and out of his hole. He straightened his back to pull his face to mine. His pillowy lips met mine in a light kiss; his tongue darted out to taste the inside of my mouth.

"Like that," he breathed again, over and over. "Like that, yeah. Like that." He bit his lower lip, enjoying it now.

I held his slim hips in my hands and pounded. Outside the men's room I could hear voices and footsteps, but no one violated our privacy in the way I was violating his hole.

I came swiftly and smoothly, announcing its arrival with a quickening of breath and a heightening of my thrusts. When I was close, he started jacking furiously at his dick. We shot at the same time, me deep inside his hole, him all over the toilet seat. For one short moment afterward, we both paused as the blood left our dicks and returned to our brains. Then he pulled himself off me, yanked up his jeans in a swift movement, and exited the stall without a look back at me.

I was cleaning up the cum he'd left splattered on the seat with wadded-up toilet paper when I heard him laugh aloud. "Damn," he said, as he yanked open the men's room door to exit. "Now that's the way it's supposed to be laid down!"

It was a last parting gift between two men whose paths crossed at the mall.

Reader Assets: #16

Gentle readers,

Do not forget that for inclusion in the newly-retitled Reader Assets feature I'm soliciting photographs of my stalwart followers—front or back sides. Or both. We would all love to see your dick. Or your ass. Or some combination of the two.

For clarification, let's go over the updated rules.

If you'd like to participate—and you should—send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASSETS' or 'MY ASS' or 'MY COCK' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too.

Because yes, I'll be posting the names or handles you give me along with your asses, and a few appreciative comments about each. And so will the readers looking at them. Right, guys?

Q: I am way too pimply/fat/skinny/young/old to appear in such an enticing and drool-worthy project.

A: No, you're not. All body types, conditions, and  are welcome. I won't tolerate unkind comments, and will delete them immediately.

Q: Do you want just my ass? Or my ass and my dick? Or my ass and my face? Do you want a shot of my hole? Or just my butt cheeks? My foreskin peeled back? Soft, or hard?

A: The details are totally up to you. Share with my readers whatever you're comfortable sharing.

Q: In what formats should I submit my ass and dick photos?

A: JPGs are nice. But I can work with most formats.

Q: What if I know of a pretty ass or dick I want to show you, but it's not mine?

A: Nooooooo. I want to see and share your ass. Not some porn star's. Unless you are a porn star, of course. (Don't laugh. I have several porn star followers.)

Q: What if I want you to take the photos of my ass or my dick?

A: I am totally down for it. (Was there any doubt? Really?)

Q: What if my mother sees my naked photographs in your blog and recognizes me?

A: Your mother is probably not reading my blog. If she is, more power to her.

Q: What if I want to include my email so guys can contact me?

A: Then tell me what email to link and I'll link it.

I've still got a bunch of previously-submitted asses to work through (I hesitated to say 'old asses'), but send me some new material, guys. I know from the web statistics that Ass Day is pretty popular!

Let's get to this week's ass-tacular!

Manholepinellas

Manholepinellas is his nickname on Adam4Adam, Squirt, Manhunt, Asspig, DaddyDater.com, and BBRT, fellows. (There were at least two of those services I'd never heard of.) My correspondent was of the assumption that my readers only like young, pretty asses in their daily diet—but he's proud of his 55-year-old ass and enjoys showing it off.

I can see why. That's a handsome ass at any age. Prove him wrong, readers, and let my new buddy know how attractive that 55-year-old ass is!

Jose

When he submitted his photo, Jose wrote in his email simply, "I wish you were inside."

Jose, you are not the only one who wishes that. That is one beautiful Latin ass . . . and I love the submissive, face-down pose on the bed. That's fucking perfect. I know a lot of my readers are going to be popping boners over this one.

Bttmguy

I am so glad this particular correspondent identified himself as a bottom. Because otherwise I would be cursing the heavens that his jock-framed, lightly furry, perfectly round, munchable butt was being wasted on a top.

I love this shot, and I love the contrast between the black muscle T and the white jock. Great body, Bttmguy. Really lust-inspiring shot there.

Thom

Here we have an illustration of a rule too many of us tend to forget: One doesn't have to pull down one's pants in order to show off a great ass.

Thom has one of those classically round butts that looks absolutely stunning in tight, white cotton. You can tell by what's showing that the rest of his body is equally sexy. A man in white briefs is always a classic look.

Let's have a big round of applause for today's batch of exhibitionists. Hopefully you guys are feeling inspired to share your own photos. We've seen nothing but asses so far—so send me your dicks! And your balls! And your chests! Whatever you're willing to flash! 

I've got the sexiest readers in the world, no matter what the age, shape, or color.

Autofellatio (Part One)

"Dearly beloved. . . ." The minister's words echoed through the church and bounced across the tile floor where I huddled. My knees were clenched together, my heels pressed close to my ass. I hugged my legs, and rested my chin on my knees. At that age of thirteen I already had what seemed like a crazy amount of blond hair beginning to grow from my legs; it tickled my chest and face as I sat there, naked from head to foot and shivering in the chill, in the sacristy.

He had one of those old-fashioned, stentorian preacher's voices, did that old man. He was a good man, a true and upstanding Southern gentleman, gentle and kind and quick with a smile. But his face could dour at the pulpit, his jaw square like a blunt weapon, his eyes the color of cold steel. He never spoke, when he was in the echoing white chamber that was our Presbyterian sanctuary. He declaimed. "I now pronounce you. . . ." he said, letting the words ring out and trail off in the perfect acoustics. "And then, of course, the recessional." I heard the appreciative murmuring of a pair of voices.

It wasn't a real wedding. It wasn't even a rehearsal, in the traditional sense of the word. The minister of the protestant church in which I'd grown up was meeting with a potential bride and groom to show them how many people they might expect to seat, how long the walk down the aisle, how beautifully he enunciated.

And I sat there, nude and alone in that sacristy among the metal trays that held the tiny shot glasses for communion grape juice, and boxes of white candles for the services, and the banners made of felt and glue from other church seasons, wondering how long I might have to be there, and if I dared sneak down the back stairs that led to the Sunday school rooms, and whether I'd have to flee from the emergency exit wrapped in a blue-and-gold felt creation emblazoned with craft chickadees and the words He Made Their Tiny Wings.

I'd done a dumb thing, even for a thirteen-year-old. Every Wednesday, my church sponsored an afternoon of activities for the youth in the congregation. Crafts. Choir. Dinner. Prayer of a low-key, Godspell-inflected sort. For some reason that particular semester, I wasn't participating in the choir. My mom might have been in one of her frequent feuds with the choir master, or I might have had some kind of extracurricular conflict on Sunday mornings. All I really remember is that for that winter and spring, while the rest of my peers trooped dutifully down into the basement beneath the sanctuary for choir rehearsal, I had time on my hands.

Usually I helped out in the kitchens getting dinner ready in the other church building, during that long ninety-minute stretch. The arrangement gave me something to do, and kept my mom's stern eye on me. That night, though, with all the little kids safely in the education building and my peers entombed deep in the church's bowels in the choir room, I'd decided to strip down in the church sanctuary and run around nude. Just for the blasphemous thrill of it.

I'd shucked my sweater and shirt and jeans and tucked them beneath one of the pews, and placed my shoes and tube socks on top, out of sight. In the gray dusk of the shuttered sanctuary, I then proceeded to run around with the chilly air raising gooseflesh on my young skin. I stood at pulpit with my hands on the side, like the minister, and waggled my dick at an imaginary audience. I sat on the altar—tentatively at first, as if my naked ass was really going to offend the Lord, and then with confidence enough to lie across it as if I were either the offering or the communion feast.

Once the thrill of being nude in an unexpected place had worn off, and I'd forgotten that I was still without clothing, I heard the minister and the bride and groom enter. I'd been exploring the rooms behind the altar area, just to see what was back there, when the lights had gone on and I'd heard the voices. It was then, separated from my clothing by a single door and good forty feet, that I realized exactly how dumb I'd been.

The minister and the couple didn't seem as if they were going to be coming back to the sacristy, though if they had, I was prepared to scamper down the stairs and into the basement. Too close for comfort with the choir still rehearsing down the hallway, but a better option than discovery. In the meantime, though, I huddled on the clammy tiles for warmth, and hoped they'd go away.

They didn't, not for a very long time. Whatever business they had at the altar end of the church took only a few minutes, but then they settled into one of the last pews near the exit and proceeded to have a very long, and very serious talk. I couldn't hear whatever the heck they were saying, but it didn't sound like they were going anywhere anytime soon.

So for some reason—I can't really claim my logic here was faultless—I decided to do what any thirteen-year-old boy does when he's naked and alone and bored. I jacked off. And for some reason, I decided to do it a little differently that time.

I remember that session very, very clearly. The back stairs to the basement level dead-ended near the sacristy wall. And for whatever reason, I decided to jerk off upside-down. Because I could, I guess. I did a shoulder-stand of sorts; my legs and hips leaned against the wall, with all my weight concentrated onto my neck and shoulders below. From there it seemed quite natural to let my legs dangle back, over my head, so that my dick was pointed down toward my face. This was before the age of easily-accessible porn, of course, so I'd never seen anyone in this exact position before. It seemed pretty exotic to me. I liked the visual stimulus of seeing my cock head so close to my face; I got a good view of how red and stiff it was as I jacked.

I've always pumped out a lot of precum, ever since I started playing with myself. Watching beads of the stuff form from my slit and then slowly drip out absorbed me. At first I thought to avoid the dripping ooze, but then it occured to me to hold out my tongue and catch it as it fell.

From there, it seemed logical to shoot in my mouth. Again. I don't know how I made that leap. But there it was.

It never took me long to work up a load in those days. I thought about some of the dicks I'd sucked that week, and soon I was panting and working up a good buzz. My head was a little weightless and dizzy from all the blood rushing down. By the time I came, moments later, I was panting and shaking. The conviction that I was doing something naughty and shocking and maybe even vaguely sacrilegious made my orgasm all the better. When the cum came, it splattered my face and hair but mostly landed in my mouth. I gulped it down, aware that I'd found a new way to get myself off.

Then, when the coast was clear and I'd wiped the remains of my sperm onto a paper towel I'd found near the sink, I crept back out, retrieved my clothing, and sauntered into the kitchens in the education building with an expression of pure innocence.

My mind was working overtime at that point, though. My dick had been so close to my mouth, when I'd been jacking myself back there. Would it be possible—? No, surely not. I'd never known of anyone to do such a thing before, jaded little whore I was at that age. Surely no one was physically capable of sucking himself. It didn't seem right. It was almost too good to be true.

That's why I decided, at the very next opportunity, to give it a try.