Reader Assets: #17

Happy Friday, everybody!

I'm still soliciting more photos for the Reader Assets feature (which, for as few comments as it gets, certainly receives a ton of hits whenever I post it). You guys were almost unanimous in your desire to see more dick in addition to the asses I've been posting on a regular basis—and yet I'm getting almost no dick shots!

Don't be shy. We post all body types here, all ages, and all shades of skin. The only thing I ask is that the photographs you send in are of you, and not someone else (or someone you'd like to be).  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.

Let's see what juicy specimens we have this week.

Joe

I can't say I know much about Joe other than the fact he's a fan of the blog  . . . and has a very hot body. Great shoulders, great arms, nice waist, and best of all, a perfect ass.

I mean, seriously. Look at that thing. It looks like two perfect melons in a sack. You can tell it gets stared at when he walks by. I certainly would. Nice work there, Joe.

Strappedguync

My buddy in North Carolina has sent a couple of photos of himself in what everyone, by now, must know as my favorite pose—bent over, ass exposed, and submissive. He's even worn one of my favorite pieces of gear, a black jockstrap, and is doing that move of drawing apart his own ass cheeks that totally drives me crazy.

It's like Strapped here has made a little checklist entitled "Things to Make The Breeder More Likely to Mount Me", and gone down it, tick mark by tick mark. 

The only thing missing from the comprehensive checklist is the little plate of bacon on the small of his back. 

That's a beautiful ass, Strapped!

Mark

At last! Some dick to show you guys!

Mark here has sent me quite a nice collection of self-shots. Not only does he sport a fine and handsome ass, with a nice light coat of fuzz, but he's also provided a couple of dick shots that pretty much show all the goods from start to finish.

I love the soft dick shot with his cock snuggled in a nest of pubic hair. And the cum shot is fantastic. You're going to have a lot of fans out there, Mark . . . if you don't already, that is.

Ethan

My buddy Ethan has sent a veritable cornucopia of beautiful ass shots. I couldn't choose between them, so I figured I'd just include them all.

Do asses get any better? It's a hot round butt, to begin with. Bent over, it's even more saliva-inducing and slobber-worthy. 

But what really makes these photos drive me crazy are those enormous nuts Ethan displays, hanging between his legs. Those are bull-nuts, my friends. Don't you want to reach out and tug 'em? Roughly? Or maybe tie them up with a rough length of hemp and . . . maybe that part's just me.

Ethan, I love your ass, my friend. Everyone else will too, now.

My contributors have been very brave this week. Show them a little appreciation in the comments!

Alma Mater

I hadn't intended to visit my old college campus last week, when I was visiting my dad in Virginia. Considering that the temperature soared up above one hundred every day I was down there, walking around the dusty tourist town in the sun was one of the last things I wanted to do.

My father, who's also an alumnus of the college, wanted to take advantage of my chauffeur services. So I found myself on a Wednesday morning driving along I-64, past the long avenues of trees overgrown with kudzu, in the direction of the little college where we'd both spent a congenial four years of our lives.

Once we were off the tourist tracks, the campus itself was hushed and silent, its bricked walkways empty. Its picturesque buildings radiated heat, its expansive sunken garden baked in the sun. We kept to the shade, walking around the oldest part of campus, ducking into the air conditioned buildings when we could. Some of the dorms were under construction, their approaches cordoned off and inaccessible; it looked as if they were having air conditioning installed before the school year started. At the height of the day, though, there weren't any construction workers around. They were either all indoors, or they'd knocked off early because of the heat.

Toward the end of our circuit we stopped off at what used to be the old campus center, when my father and I were both students. It's an administrative building now, but it's air-conditioned, and provides a convenient cut-through on the way back to the commercial district. As my father stood with his face pressed against the glass of a former cafeteria, reminiscing about days of old, I stood with my arms crossed and enjoyed the cool. The doors from outside opened and a pair of men walked in. They were both dressed in polo shirts. The taller of the two, a goateed middle-aged guy with a former jock's build and an unflattering pair of navy pleated Dockers, caught my eye.

We looked at each other for a moment before he started talking to his colleague. And they were colleagues. I guessed from their dusty clothing and clipboards and holstered cell phones that they were some kind of contractors or construction supervisors, probably connected to the dorm renovations just down the street. My dad continued to peer and talk to me while the goateed guy and I continued to exchange glances. It was pretty obvious he was more interested in me than in the conversation he was pretending to have. At last he and the other guy parted, waving their clipboards in parting.

The colleague headed off toward the back of the building. The dark-haired goateed guy walked down the hallway towards which my father was headed, now that he was finally done telling me about the old days when he'd been a student waiter. As my father rambled on, the man looked over his shoulder several times, catching my eyes with every turn of his head. Then he diverged from his path and entered the men's room.

Now, I'd had so much sex in that men's room when I was an undergrad. I'd gone there lunchtimes to suck dick. I'd hung out there in the evenings, getting laid so I wouldn't have to go back to my dorm room. The last time I visited the college, I'd fucked an undergraduate in there. I wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. "Hey," I told my dad. "Why don't you head to the bookstore?" I gestured in the direction just across the street. "I'll meet you there. I have to hit the bathroom."

"I can wait," said my father.

"I need to poop," I amended. Because there is no information that is private or sacred in my family, you know. My dad, of an age to appreciate the merits of a good poop, nodded with understanding and ambled in the direction of the door and the campus bookstore.

I made sure he was on his way, then nudged open the men's room door with my shoulder, and headed in.

The restroom was always built for play. To get to the urinals and toilets, one has to push open the noisy door and walk a distance through the U-shaped enclosure, past the sinks and waste bins. The noise and distance gives a cruiser plenty of time to assume a less compromising position, if interrupted in the midst of the act. I walked to the urinal and unzipped, then pulled out my dick. The whiff of sexual intrigue had already made me swell. A few strokes brought me to hardness.

He occupied the first of the toilet stalls. It was the only one with a closed door. I could tell by the play of shadows inside that he was bending over to look at my feet, to see if I was the one who'd followed him in. After a moment he stood up casually, as if pulling up his pants to go. Our eyes met over the top of the marble partition. I turned to show him my hard dick.

He stared for a moment. Then he opened his stall door.

I stepped around, still stroking. Those awful Dockers were around his ankles, hanging around a pair of white athletic socks. The clipboard was balanced on the toilet paper dispenser. His dick was short, and fat, and uncut. With his left hand, he peeled back the skin to expose a purple, swollen head. I caught a glimpse of the wedding band he wore, for the first time. "Fuck," he whispered. "You are hung."

I lifted my chin in appreciation of the compliment, still stroking. Instead of saying anything, though, I merely pushed my hips forward. I wasn't there for conversation.

He took the hint and, after sitting down on the toilet seat and looking up at me for approval, he opened his mouth and took my dick in his mouth. The guy had a bushy goatee that rubbed against my balls in a pleasant way. I sighed, leaned back, and let him go down on me.

The man's phone started to go off in its holster as he sucked. His hands left my nuts and shaft to scramble for the switch that would shut it off. He didn't stop sucking, though. When he had the use of his hands back, he lifted my dick and jacked it while he nuzzled my nuts. His tongue darted out and licked beneath my balls; he ground his nose and mouth against my junk as tightly as he could before he started sucking once more.

I was keeping an ear out for the sound of the exterior door, the entire time. I knew I couldn't take long, so luckily the randomness and sudden heat of this encounter was already causing a load to simmer in my nuts. The contractor must have felt the same, because I felt a sudden spray of warm goo over my legs and onto my sandals. He'd shot on me; sperm continued to leak out of that furiously purple head as he grabbed my dick at the root, squeezed hard, and sucked me roughly.

When I came, it was with a violent buckling of my knees. He grabbed my ass to support me, spreading more of his stray seed on my skin. My sperm went into his mouth, though. His face contorted in pleasure, or effort, as he ate every drop. His face was wet with his own spit when finally he pulled off, and let my dick drop and swing between my legs. "Fuck," he said, eyes wide. "I got my stuff all over you."

Again his hands scrambled, this time for some toilet tissue. He dabbed at my legs, my ass, and at the tops of my sandals, murmuring apologies all the while. I didn't listen. I rubbed his hair affectionately after I pulled up my shorts, and went on my way.

My dad was browsing through the T-shirts at the bookstore when I joined him a couple of minutes later. "That didn't take long," he said.

"Nope," I agreed.

"Sometimes when you've got to do it," he said, "you've got to do it."

He was obviously still talking about pooping. "That's the truth," I agreed fervently.

"Feels better after, too."

We meant different things, of course. But I couldn't agree more.

Curtain Call

The man was waiting outside his townhouse the next night, sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street. His legs were spread wide, protruding from enormous, baggy basketball shorts that hung as twin caverns around them. When I stepped from my car and approached, he just nodded.

"What's up?" I asked. The cicadas overhead were infinitely louder in Virginia than Connecticut. I could barely hear myself talk over their clamor.

He'd been toying with something in his hands. "You want that li'l thug to yourself?" he asked.

My dick twitched at the notion. I'd just been with this pair—the black man and his younger lover—the night before. I'd walked away drained and, at the same time, craving more. When he'd left a message for me asking if I was free again that evening, I'd made my excuses at my dad's and driven the short mile to the man's place once more. "Is that an option?" I asked, keeping my voice steady over the quickening of my heart.

He tossed to me the little object with which he'd been toying, in an arc I could see only by the light of the streetlamp overhead. I opened my hand. It was a key, attached to a ring. "How long you need?" he said, pulling himself up.

"I've only got a couple of hours."

"Go on in there then, white boy," he said gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of the door. "Leave him the way you find him when you done." He started strolling down the street, walking slightly bow-legged, though whether from habit or the previous night's session, I didn't know.

The house was quiet when I entered. I left my shoes at the bottom of the steps, along with the multiple pairs of running and basketball shoes that cluttered the lowest treads. The bottom I found in his bedroom, lying on his full-sized bed. The night before we'd played in the older man's room, in his larger and more comfortable mattress. Though this darkened room contained all the playtoy's things, his books and video games and collectible action figures, it almost seemed more like a guest room than the older man's room, where all the action clearly took place.

The bottom lay as he had the night before, gagged and bound, face-down, on the mattress. I could tell he tried to crane his head and look at me over his shoulder at the sound of my footstep. My dick swelled hard at the sight of him there, barely visible in the dark, ankles and wrists helpless and tied. I could've used him any way I wanted, and his owner wouldn't have known. Or minded, for that matter.

I removed my shirt, and unbuckled my jeans. I took off my underwear and my socks, and sat on the bed's edge. My hand moved up to stroke the young man's head, with its covering of stubbly hair. The rest of his body was perfectly smooth. My palm moved down over his narrow shoulders, the curve of his back where it arched up to his ass, the round perfection of his butt. He stirred beneath my touch, like a sleeper in a dream.

Then I reached up with both hands and untied the gag around his head. The knot was difficult to navigate at first, but I managed at last to withdraw the ends from each other and pull the cloth gently from his mouth. I undid his wrists, setting aside the velcro restraints, and then the ankles. He rolled over onto his back, and pulled himself up to the head of the bed. His big, dark eyes regarded me with an expression somewhere between fear and desire. "Don't worry," I told him, my voice quiet in the dark. "You're still going to get my dick."

He let loose one short, sharp nod as he stared between my legs. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"Tonight we do it my way, though," I told him. The room was quiet. I could barely hear the raucous huzz of the August cicadas outside. "You cool with that?" He nodded. "Good."

He was light enough that I could pull him close to me easily. My dick slipped naturally between his legs and prodded at his hole as I held the back of his head and pulled his mouth to mine. He was a natural good kisser, but seemed out of practice, as if he didn't get to do it very often. That may have been the reason why he seemed so hungry for it. Within seconds he transformed from passive recipient to aggressive beast, matching me passion for passion. His body pressed against mine. His small dick, erect, uncut, and rigid as building stone, pressed against the bottom of my ribcage.

"Suck me," I begged, after a while. He didn't need to be ordered, or restrained. He dived between my legs and took as much of my dick in his mouth as he could—a considerable amount. The tightness of his lips around my shaft made me hiss with pleasure and grind my hips into the air. My head hung over the mattress' edge; I let the blood rush to my brain as for long minutes he licked and slurped up and down my meat, my balls, and the inside of my thighs. When his tongue lapped at my hole, I couldn't take any more.

Flipping him over was easy; I've had more problem with slices of frying bacon. "You know I love fucking you when you man lets me," I growled in his head. He nodded. My dick head, swollen like a plum, was poised at his ass. It parted the cheeks and nudged the hole. "You like it when I fuck you?"

A hesitation. Then, he nodded again. "I think you like it," I growled. "I just think you don't like admitting it so much."

Another hesitation. Then another nod.

He wasn't so silent as I drove inside him. Though I'd driven lube inside his hole with my fingers, and though I'd applied it liberally to my cock, he still let out a cry as I worked it slowly but firmly in. "Stop that," I warned him, again worried that someone would hear through the townhouse's shared walls. Then, a moment later, when I was most of the way in and giving him a break, I leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Does it hurt?" He nodded. "I can't fucking hear you."

"Yes," he whimpered. "It hurts." I could hear the tears in his voice.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I withdrew a quarter-inch, as if it were a real possibility. "No," he said at last. The syllable was even more desperate than the three that had come before it. I pulled out a little more. "No!" he protested, genuinely distressed that I might withdraw.

When I pushed in the rest of the way, he grabbed the pillow and let loose his cry of ecstatic agony into one of its corners.

I fucked him on his belly for a while until, like the night before, his ass finally stopped resisting me and relaxed completely. When I was sliding in and out without that extra resistance, I pulled us both into a kneeling position. My arms supported him upright, beneath his armpits; his hands clutched at the back of my head, holding on for dear life as I continued to rabbit in and out of his tight, smooth hole.

From time to time his head would loll back onto my shoulder. His lips would abstractedly reach out to touch mine, but he seemed lost, enraptured, caught up in a private ecstasy from which I and the rest of the world had faded. His tiny nipples hardened; the skin beneath my hands quickened into gooseflesh. Then his breath caught, his back arched, and his body began to shake and quiver on and around my hard dick. My traveling fingers grasped his pulsing dick as his body continued to wrack and shake and convulse. Then he bit his lip, laughed a little, and closed his eyes as I continued to fuck him.

I fucked for most of those two hours. Five times I brought him to orgasm. Each time, he jerked and convulsed and became lost in his own private enjoyment, and then relaxed with closed eyes as I continued to drive into him. We kissed; I growled obscenities in his ear and egged him on with every orgasm.

Then I pulled out. "Eat it," I commanded. My dick was slick with lubes and juices, and had seemed to grow by an inch or two from the long, relentless fucking. The youth got on all fours, grabbed my meat with his hand, and took it into his mouth. Almost immediately, at the sight of him on all fours hungrily gobbling me down, I began to shoot. I held the back of his head to ensure he didn't try to evade the load, and listened to him gag and choke on the enormous load spurting directly down his throat. I let him catch his breath. Without prompting, he went back down on the meat, cleaning it off, sucking out every last drop, until at last it softened and we both lay there, in the dark, in the quiet.

I was sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street when the man returned, smelling of beer. "Left him as I found him," I said, tossing back the keys.

The look on the man's face was satisfied. I could see him imagining what had transpired in his absence. "He give you any trouble?" he asked.

I shook my head. No, he hadn't been any trouble at all.

The Performance

"Damn, this booty missed you." When the man's palms hit his cheeks with a loud slap, it resounds through the small townhouse bedroom like a whipcrack. His ass is a model of perfection, round as a basketball, smooth, and shiny, even in the dim light of the low-watt bulb in the hallway. It jiggles and bounces. The performance has begun.

He's a small man who comes up only to my nipples, but he's strong enough to crack me in half. Small, but powerful. The first time I met him, four years ago, he greeted me at his door shirtless, his chest a blueprint of homebrewed muscles and barely-visible tattoos that sloped down to a flat, flat abdomen punctuated by an outie of a navel. His hips were so narrow that it didn't seem at all affected that the waist of his jeans hung around the bottom of that round, protruding ass, inches below his cheap red checkered boxers. It was as if they could have fallen off when he'd risen to answer the door.

I'd marveled at his body then, even as I marveled at it now. "You gotta visit that daddy of yours more often, baby," he half-whispers, in a seductive pose on the bed. Like girders, his arms are, his biceps sinew and steel. He grinds his hips into the mattress. "'Cause I know when you visit your daddy, this nigga get what he need."

I'm still completely clothed. I make a show of unbuckling my belt, of kicking off my shoes, of slithering out of the denim sheathing my legs. "What do you need?" I ask him, once I'm naked.

"That big hard dick." He reaches out and grabs it. His lips open, his mouth gapes to accommodate my meat. Scarcely has he ingested it than he chokes and backs off. When he looks at me, it's with affront written clearly over his face. "Can't even get that shit in my mouth," he complains.

"Try again," I suggest, nodding at him. He's putting on an act, of course. The fucker knows how to suck me. I visit my dad's home town two or three times a year, and usually see this guy once or twice each visit. By now, his mouth knows its way up and down my inches. His throat has felt the spray of my load against its backmost corners.

But he likes to put on the performance. He likes to pretend it's too big. His eyes bulge and water as he spears me into his throat once more. He sucks, and grunts to himself as he rubs his privates against the bed, humping the corner obscenely. His thrusting only makes his ass cheeks gleam in the light. They part, revealing the dark cleft within. "Yeah," I said, utterly turned on. "Just like that."

"You want this booty," he tells me after a while. He's still putting on a show. "C'mon. Take it. Take what you own."

He's already in position on the bed, his hidden rod pressing hard against the mattress' rounded corner, his ass parted and ready. It smells like a man's sweat, and of his private places. He hisses loudly when I lick it for a few moments. "Put it on in," he begs. His eyes are half-closed, heavily lidded. "Put what you got all up inside."

When I slide in, he playacts again. "Damn!" he yells, so loudly that I worry his neighbors might hear. His hands clutch the bedsheets, creasing them where he tugs and pulls. His eyes are wide open, now, unnaturally white against the dark. He's reacting as if I've shoved a red-hot poker up his fundament. "You tearing me up!" he protests, writhing in mock pain. When he rises to his knees, to lift his ass up, his massive cock swings down onto the bed. He's easily ten inches, maybe eleven. Most of the time, though, it's almost as if his dick's not there. All he really cares about is his hole. He shakes his head as if to clear it of the pain.

Then he turns to the figure lying motionless at the head of the bed. "You gonna yell when it your turn," he warns.

I, too, stare at the bottom as I fuck. It's for that sole audience member we're putting on the show, for the bound figure watching us both. The younger man's wrists and ankles have been restrained with velcro cuffs before I arrived; his mouth is split by a white cloth fastened tightly at the back of his head. The man's playtoy is always there when I arrive, sometimes bound, sometimes simply lying on the bed they've shared for years. He's not new to me—not at all. But every time I roll into town, we play out this scene as if it's new.

"You so big, baby!" cries out the man, gritting his teeth in exaggerated pain. The half-fiction to which we all subscribe is that if my dick's huge enough to make a muscular, strong man like this struggle, it's going to be sheer hell for his younger lover. "You hurt this ass so good. So good," he repeats, drawling out the last word.

I fuck him loud and hard, keeping my eyes steadily on the bound plaything. You're next, says my gaze.

I pull out of his older partner before I shoot. My dick slides out, covered with juice and spit and lube. The man lets out a long groan, as if he couldn't have stood it for another moment. Saying nothing, I stride to the head of the bed and yank at the bottom's arm. He slides across the bed like a sack of potatoes, his head lolling with every jerk. He's already been lubed—fucked, even?—when I finger him. I don't bother with preliminaries. I yank him into position, grab my dick, and aim it at the tight hole.

"You're in for it now, boy," says the man, shaking his head. He's still making a show of recovering from my fuck. He pulls himself onto his side as if he can't stand. "Better you than me. That's what I say. Better you than me!"

When I shove inside, the bottom's eyes fly open, just as his lover's had. "Yeah," says the older man, observing. "Take that big white dick."

The bottom makes a pretense of struggling, just for a moment, as I pass the halfway mark. But then it's in, sinking home, opening him wide. I yank him to his knees. The man thrusts his broad hand between his legs. His fingertips brush against my hard meat as I start to slide in and out of that impossibly tight hole. Impossible, in that his lover's dick should have stretched him sloppy long before now. "Look how hard he is," says the man, as he yanks my hand underneath his playtoy.

The dick there is rock hard. It always is. It responds to entry, to being opened wide. He can't help it. "He likes it," I shrug, as if it's no big deal.

"Oh yeah, he liking it," repeats the older man, staring.

This is the meat of the performance. While the bound bottom grunts and attempts to grapple with my fierce penetrations, his lover grinds his jaw and watches with obvious relish. "You feel that, don't you?" he asks, his face close to his partner's. "I know you feeling that. You can't help but feeling that. You want it? You want him to fuck harder?" He's growling the words in his lover's ear so insistently that the younger man can't do anything but whimper and acquiesce. Through the gag he forces some helpless words, all unintelligible. "Fuck him," says the man. "Do what you want."

What I want is what he wants, roughly. I grapple with the bottom as he tries to squirm away once more. It's for show, at this point. As badly as the older man wants the younger to fear my dick, the younger wants the older to think I'm too much for him. I'm just a bit actor in the drama between them, the strolling actor-for-hire who runs through his part, takes his bow, and leaves. I pry his ass apart, shoving my dick deeper inside. He takes all but the last inch, and I work in the last bit of flesh while the man watches in satisfaction. He clucks when I'm all the way in. His own dick, heavy and log-like, drips with pre-cum. He strokes it laciviously while he watches me.

For long minutes I nail the bottom into the mattress. His grunts are automatic, less a product of will than of physiology. His hole deepens and loosens with every thrust. Sometimes, when I go in at a certain angle, he yelps out through the gag in what sounds like genuine surprise and distress. The occasional cries only heighten the man's arousal. He's next to me, now, stroking his dick over his lover's head, planting small kisses on my neck and twisting my nipples. He's doing what it takes to get me off, and it's working.

I shoot hard. My hips buckle forward, propelling me inside the bottom to his deepest recesses. He attempts to clamber forward on his elbows and knees, but it's too late; my weight pins him down as my dick pulses and swells, over and over. I unload in the tight hole, breathing heavily, my blood rushing so hard in my head that I can barely hear the older man's obscenities as he unloads all over his younger lover.

His cum flies everywhere, covering the bottom with the thick, creamy fluid. "Damn!" he yells. "Damn! Day-um!" He pushes me off the bottom's ass so that my dick slides out with a plop, then roughly shoves his own fingers inside. When he withdraws them, they're coated with my seed. He baptizes himself with the stuff, on his nipples, chest, and then finally on his lips. "Damn!"

I stand up and nod. It’s my bow, my curtain call. But then the man says, "Let me get you some water, so you can do it again."

Then I know there's a second act to come.

Sunday Morning Questions: The Big Homecoming Edition

Many thanks to all you guys for being so nice while I was away, this last week. In answer to the several emails and tweets I've received, yes, my trip went well. My dad is fine. No, we didn't have any contretemps over my underwear, again. I did have to teach my elderly dad how, for the very first time in his life, to use an ATM. It was an experience that required over twenty minutes—approximately nineteen and a half minutes longer than it really needed to have—but we got it taken care of in the end.

I think. I'm still anticipating the phone call in which he plaintively calls to ask why the ATM screen is entirely in Spanish, or why it ate his card, or some such technological failure as only my dad can really pull off with style. I suspect I'll get there, sooner or later.

Let's get to some formspring.me questions, so I can go type up some of the week's encounters for you guys. Again, thanks for hanging in there. And I'm glad to be back.



Writer's block. How to fight/get past it?

Sit down at your computer--or tablet, or notebook, or whatever. Turn off your internet. Ignore your emails and significant others. Keep pounding away at the keys or stare into space until you're bored enough that writing seems like a lot better alternative.

If you're seriously blocked, you might have some false starts and head in the wrong direction with your writing several times, but you'll at least be typing, and that's what's important. Keep going until the creaky pipes are flowing smoothly again.


When you write, do you do most of your research before you start or as you go along?

It depends on what I'm writing. If it's a non-fictional piece in which research plays a major role, I'll perform it and organize it well beforehand. If I'm just writing something off-the-cuff in which I'll need to check a fact or two as I go, I'll wing it.


How long do you wait before you give up on a trick coming over? And you've said before you double or even triple book tricks when you think there is a high possibility of flaking. Has this ever backfired and they all show up?

I wait a half-hour, generally. Sometimes an hour, max. I lose self-respect if I wait longer than that.

And no. I've never had multiple tricks show up, even when I've triple-booked a block of time in advance. Other guys have told me the same. There are many more flake-outs than follow-throughs.


Do you think men out east groom/preen themselves better than in the midwest?

I think they dress better in Manhattan. I also think they wear way too much cologne. In the suburbs where I live, though, everyone looks as if they've stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog. I'm not really sure it's 'better'. Especially when the fashion involves grown men in flannel pants imprinted with mallards.

Men in the Midwest have a tendency to follow trends that are about five years gone for the east coast guys. They also tend to hang on to some old trends (goatees, for example) that are even older. Southern men are still wearing prepwear from the mid-eighties, though, so the Midwest guys should be congratulating themselves for staying ahead of that curve.


Did you get to say good bye to Scruffy before you moved?

Only via email. I know he got a new job he liked, and was happy about that, even as he was sad about me going. He's a good kid.


So what file are you on?

What?


If you weigh 165 and I weigh 220, are you able to pin me down?

It ain't all about weight, son. I can pin you down.


Have you checked out local bathhouses in your new geography yet? I find the ones in NY very attitude-y but wanted to see your opinion

No, I haven't yet been to any of the NY spots (or really know where they are). I'll be happy to share my opinion once I go, but I'd be interested to know which you recommend and why.



Does anyone out east drive an American-made car?

No! Well, I do. So yes. But no! And it drives me crazy! My parents were union supporters when I was growing up, and I lived subsequently in Detroit long enough, that buying a foreign car is out of the question for me. Apparently here, people have no such qualms.

One Encounter (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. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.)




When I first started keeping A Breeder’s Journal, I wrote about the comprehensive list I kept in my youth of all the men I had sex with—no matter how briefly, or how many times. If we kissed, sucked, fucked, or so much as groped, I’d scurry home, pull my ever-growing record out of its hiding place (in the recess behind the drawer of the old dining room table that served as my desk, in my room), and scribble down the latest fucks.

Here is another encounter from that expansive list, from 1976.



Mustache and eyebrows 2nd fl Hibbs basement Hibbs metal + - @

It wasn’t the fact that the stranger was in possession of eyebrows that was so astonishing. It was the fact that his eyebrows were equally thick and uniform as his mustache. It was as if three enormous caterpillars had wandered onto his face and decided to nap there.

I was sitting in the middle stall of the men’s room on the second floor of a classroom building on the campus where my parents both taught. The doors to the student cafeteria, such as it was, were twenty feet away, but at night they were closed and this part of the building tended to be deserted. Which made it perfect for horny students to cruise each other. The gray marble walls were covered with inked graffiti advertising times to meet.

I wasn’t a student, of course. I was a horny kid who’d just been fucked for the first time a week and two days before and several times since, all by the same dick. I’d also sucked off a stranger I’d picked up in the Richmond Public Library basement restroom two days before that night. Two notches on my belt, and I thought I knew it all.

My jeans were around my ankles. I had my T-shirt hiked up my skinny little chest to my nipples. And my little dick was in my hand. I’d been watching two guys sucking through the peephole in the marble partition earlier, but I’m fairly certain I wasn’t shooting cum at this point—my dick would have been merely red and angry from all the stroking I’d done. My heart beat a little faster when I heard the outer door swing open and a pair of slow, deliberate footsteps enter the room.

The fellow who’d entered the empty restroom stopped at the urinal across from my stall. I listened to him fumble with the fabric of his fly, unzip, and then pause. No sound of urine followed.

I’d cruised enough restrooms at that young age to know the drill. My dick in my hand, I leaned to the right and peered through the crack in the door. I saw the guy at the urinal turn his head and look over his shoulder. Our eyes met.

Inch by inch, I opened up my stall door so he could see the painfully skinny blond kid beating off in the heat of a summer night. Though he was nothing more than an average-looking guy, all I could see was that enormous Fuller Brush of a mustache, matched and maybe even rivaled by the bristly eyebrows. The man couldn’t have been any older than twenty-four or twenty-five, but to me, he was a real man, seasoned and ancient. He blinked at the sight of me. Then, in the flash of an instant, he pulled up his zipper and turned. I thought he was going to leave.

Instead, he strode over to the stall and planted himself in front of the door. His arm shot out to prevent me closing it. “You’re coming with me,” he said at last. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips.

I didn’t dare disobey. I wanted to suck dick.

He took me down a back stairway into a basement bathroom at the bottom of a stairwell, next to the closed campus bookstore. It was even more deserted than the men’s room near the cafeteria. The minute we were both in the smaller enclosure, his hands were reaching for his oversized belt buckle. “You’re a mighty little cocksucker,” he said in a rush, undoing it with a clank. “I bet your mouth feels real good too. You a good cocksucker? You a real good cocksucker, boy? Take your pants off.” He kicked open the restroom’s one stall and pushed me into it as he pulled down his green slacks.

My dick had been painfully stiff from the moment I’d attempted to stuff it into my tight jeans until the second it met its release again in that dimly-lit restroom. He didn’t give a shit about my dick, though. “Turn around,” he said. Though he kept his voice quiet, he didn’t dampen it entirely to a whisper; he was loud enough to carry considerable force. “Let me see that butt. Fuck. Fuck!” I flushed. Passive as I was at that moment, I still had considerable pride about being able to recognize arousal and even to enflame it. I was a newborn Circe playing with nascent powers I barely understood. “I bet I’ve got something you never seen before,” the man said. Although his slacks were unbuckled and unbuttoned and lay open around his thighs, he hadn’t yet pulled down his white briefs. He rubbed his hand over the bulge of them then, showing me the fat dick they barely restrained. “You wanna see it? Look at this.”

His dick flopped out of his drawers. It was short, thick as a forearm, and ugly as fuck. When I saw the flash of metal at its tip, I knew I wanted it badly. “It’s called a Prince Albert,” he said, showing it off. His dick might have been as hard as mine at that point. The round piercing must have been one of the bigger gauges, heavy and wicked looking as it was. He tugged at it with his forefinger. His dick was so hard that it barely moved in response. “So. You ever seen one of these, cocksucker?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know such monstrosity was possible.

“Suck it.”

The metal ring forced open my lips and teeth before I was able to open wide enough to accept it. Instinctively I knew better than to let it chip my teeth; from the sucking I’d already done on Mikey’s dick and the bearded redhead from the library restroom, I knew to open my mouth wide, let my lips curl to the underside of my incisors, and let him do all the work. He tasted not filthy, exactly, but not clean. It was the taste of a cock that hadn’t been cleaned since the morning, on a hot day when everything got easily sticky. The metal ring battered my molars, but eventually the guy figured out where he was going the deepest. His stubby flesh battered my throat for a few moments, bringing tears to my eyes.

The shock of it was nothing compared to that of having my teeth rattled to the roots when he ripped his dick out of my mouth, however. My lower lip started to sting, as if he’d bruised it on the way out. “Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, and leaned my chest and forearms against the wall where he pushed me. His left hand reached for my hole and felt it. The tip of his thumb invaded me, making me jump.

“You been fucked yet?” he asked. I nodded, while I watched him spit on his dick. “Well, you ain’t been fucked like this.”

I thought my first time had hurt. The three minutes that followed were brutal. I was in heat, though, and stayed hard throughout. He was too overexcited to last long; it seemed that barely had he managed to get his pierced dick in me that he started shaking and pushing me so hard against the tile walls that I thought he might crack a rib.

“Not bad,” was his remark, after he pulled out and yanked up his slacks. He couldn’t stop sniffing, as if the orgasm had set off his nasal drip. His hands were trembling hard. It took him much longer to manage his belt buckle than it should have. Then as quickly as he could, he dashed for the exit and left, saying only, “Keep on truckin’.”

Which I think was out of date even in 1976.

The man with the P.A. had been the second man to fuck me. I had to clean his semen off of my jeans and underwear, where it had fallen. Then I carefully wiped my raw and sore hole, and checked my lip in the mirror. It was bleeding slightly from where he’d bruised it, but it would heal quickly enough.

Once I was reasonably clean, I closed the stall door, sat down, and beat myself to a climax. Then I did it twice again, before leaving the building and going dutifully to sit outside my father’s classroom until he’d finished his lecture.

I've Never Been Touched . . . Down There (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. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.)


In the South, cruising is an art. It wasn’t until I moved to the midwest, twenty-five years ago, that I understood how much for granted I took the glances two men, strangers, can exchange at the beginning of sexual courtship. The bold stares, the slow appraisals, the drop of the hand to one’s own jeans pocket so that the fingers can dance casually across the denim enclosing the cock . . . there’s a certain excitement to such raw expressions of desire.

Here and where I live now, however, men barely cruise. They scarcely look at each other. When they do, their eyes flick nervously over the object of their interest and dance away. I had a friend from the area who never believed my stories of growing up with easy sexual pickings. Until, that is, he accompanied me on a drive down to Virginia. On I-95, a studly fellow with whom I’d flirted at the welcome center candy machine caught up in his car with our own. He stared and stroked himself through his pants, then passed so we could catch up. When we did, he’d repeat the performance again. For ninety miles we passed each other over and over and smiled and stared and flirted, until finally we waved goodbye to him and got off our exit. My buddy was absolutely astounded, the entire time, at how blatant it had been. And that encounter turned out to be only the first of several similar.

Cruising served me well when I was a teen. I had a yen for men older than myself—I would particularly welcome men over thirty-five. I would exchange hot, meaningful glances with men on the city busses, with school teachers, with guys at the YMCA, with men I’d pass on the street, with guys browsing at the Waldenbooks downtown. I learned where to sit on the campus of my parents’ college, so that I could be displayed to best advantage. When I'd cruise the local parks, I'd recline against a tree with a book and the men would drive by, looking at me. There were times I’d simply walk the dog and find cars following, their drivers staring out and licking their lips in invitation.

Because I was easy and willing and horny and—from my current viewpoint—somewhat stupid, I’d accept just about any offer. I was at that point a total bottom. I liked older guys. I’d do it anywhere.

Believe me, I wasn’t wanting for action.

When I look back on my sexual history, I often can’t decide whether I was an odious little game-player or a thoughtful kid who just liked to enhance his partner’s pleasure. Maybe a little of both. My favorite game for the first couple of years of my sexual activity was to pretend that I was a virgin. Guys loved a teen virgin, I found out within a week after my first experience, when a man groping me reached between my legs and fingered my butt. “Have you ever been touched down there?” he whispered.

I had. I’d been touched down there so thoroughly and deeply for the very first time just a few days before that I’d barely been able to sit, since. But I shook my head, and saw his irises widen with excitement just as I'd felt his dick expand in my hands. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered as he eased me down and spread my legs, spurred to the challenge.

No one can accuse me of being a slow learner. After that I knew exactly what to do. During the groping phase, I’d maneuver the man’s hand between my legs, encouraging him to explore me. The moment he’d make contact with my hole, I’d gasp a little and pull back—not enough to lose contact with him, but enough to stop the proceedings. With a vulnerable look on my face that I’d perfected during more extracurricular creative dramatics classes than were probably good for me, I’d say, “I’ve never been touched . . . down there!”

Eight times out of ten I was rewarded by an instant hiss of satisfaction and a look of lust, followed by being flipped over on my belly. Sometimes, however, with the men who were already a little nervous about seducing someone my age, I’d have to take it a little further. “Will it, you know, hurt?” Usually I’d receive an assurance that it didn’t (or from some honest souls, the truth that it would hurt the first time, but that if I relaxed, it would be more tolerable). Rarely did I have to take the third step, which involved puppy dog eyes and a writhing of the hips, while shyly asking, “Would you . . . show me?”

Maybe I was an odious little game-player. It’s difficult for me to outline the techniques I used to keep up the illusion I was being deflowered without sounding calculating. I had my little palette of groans and cries of “It’s so big!” and “Oh wow, oh wow, is it all in?” down pat, followed by the genuine winces and groans of pleasure. I really enjoyed the look of desire and pleasure in the men’s eyes when they were inside me. I got off on when they’d tell me I was doing a good job, or when they’d just lose themselves completely in the moment and pound away, eyes closed. I just loved that.

By the time I was into my second year of sexual activity, I’d lost my virginity several dozen times.

It all came to an end one afternoon when I lay there after one performance, sweat dripping from my pores and other fluids dripping from other cavities. A handsome man in his forties pulled out of me and hugged me close. “God, that was great!” he murmured at me.

“Was I okay?” I asked him. It was my standard post-virginity-loss line, a blatant hook in the water for compliments.

“Oh yeah! Fuck yeah! That was great!” I glowed in the praise until he added, “It was even better than the first time I got your cherry!”

He was chuckling at that point. I turned and peered at his face and recognized him, finally, as someone I’d been with a few months before. After I realized he wasn’t mad, I couldn’t help but join in the laughter with him, knowing that the minute I got onto my wobbly legs, my career as a professional virgin had come to an abrupt end.