“Which one?” he asks. “That one?”
He’s pointing to the waitress, a woman of about forty who’s trying to shave fifteen years off her appearance by wearing about five pounds of hair extensions, and nearly as much makeup. She’s got on a flimsy camisole top and skimpy short shorts. As a forty-year-old in normal clothing, she’d probably look fairly attractive. Dressed up like an extra in a Katy Perry video, it’s comic that anyone would think so.
I watch the waitress balance two large plates of mussels on her forearms, while her hands clutch a pair of lobster rolls. These aren’t the cheap-ass kind of lobster rolls they serve in lesser dives, with mayonnaise. No, the lobster’s steeped in melted butter, here, and are served with little bowls with even more butter, ready to be slopped on. I didn’t know a thing about lobster rolls until I moved to this state. It’s all the locals talk about, sometimes—and I’d gotten an extensive talk about them from the tattooed and muscled bartender, on an earlier visit. The Landscaper is watching me watch her get her payload to the table of rowdy, beer-drinking locals. “You like her?”
I roll my eyes. Get serious, the look says.
“Which one, then?”
He and I are sitting side by side at the bar, our backs against the railing. He’s got a gin and tonic in his hand. I’ve been nursing a beer for a while. I don’t like beer, but he’d ordered it for me when he’d seen me walk in. It’s the same bar where we’ve met a couple of times before. I think he gets off on the idea of being seen in public with me; he probably goes home and masturbates furiously at the notion of being out in public with a pussyhound like me. On one level it’s ridiculous. The Landscaper is a handsome man on his own merits—far better-looking than I am. If he were so inclined, he could attract just about any woman he wanted.
At the same time, I know that the reality of the situation isn’t so much what matters here. It’s the story he’s told himself, over and over again, in his fantasies. He’s told himself that I’m some big-time player, a straight guy fallen on slightly hard times who’s allowing the Landscaper the smallest of sexual favors in exchange for cash. He’s told himself I only do that stuff because I really need the dough. He’s made himself believe that he’s lucky that I’m willing to hang out with him once in a while.
And you know, it’s odd, but when I hang out with the Landscaper at this dive, this little restaurant/bar that skulks on the Saugatuck river beneath the shadow of an I-95 overpass, I really kind of am a pussy magnet. While I ponder his question, one of the married women sitting at a nearby table pauses to talk to me as she stumbles on her way to the restroom. She’s blond and pretty, though her skin is coarse from the sun. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the loud music coming from the bar’s far end, “I love your singing.”
“What?” I ask. I could hear her perfectly, but I cocked my head as if I couldn’t.
The woman moves in closer, as I thought she would. She touches me on the shoulder with her right hand. Her other hand drops; her fingertips touch the top of my leg three inches above the knee. She’s standing between my god-damned legs, a detail that’s not lost on the Landscaper. “I love your singing,” she said. “I love Duran Duran.”
I always sing Duran Duran on karaoke nights at this place. It reduces all the cougars to their fifteen-year-old selves. I touch her on the arm. “Thanks!” I say. And that’s all I’ve got to say. She wavers for a minute, undocks from the port between my thighs, and sails away, a little unsteadily.
“Fuck,” says the Landscaper as he watches her go. “You could’ve had her. She was hot for you!”
I shrug. I don’t point out that she was also extremely inebriated and smelled like a distillery.
“You could’ve been all up in that. You want to finger her? You want to lick her out?” He’s actually pretty loud, but he can’t be heard over the singing and the noise by anyone but me. Maybe by the bartender standing nearby, but he’s probably heard it all at this point. “You could get that killer dick of yours up in her, man. She’d ride you like a fucking bitch. Fuck. I bet some nights you go home smelling like strange pussy.”
I shrug again, and smile, and act like I’m flattered and not in disagreement with him. And I think to myself, is this really the way straight guys talk to each other?
We sit there for a while. “That one?” he’ll ask, every time a pretty woman comes into the bar.
“Eh,” I’ll say. Every time I’ll have an excuse. Too old. The tits are too big. The tits aren’t big enough. Too nasty. Too uptight. Sometimes he provides the answer for me: Too skanky. Too damned skinny. Too fucking fat.
He likes this routine of sitting in this bar and checking out the chicks, before we do anything together. It gives him a sense of security. We’d been there about an hour when he’s had enough gin and tonics to ask, “How about me?”
“What about you,” I grunt back. My eyes are half-closed.
“How about me?” he asks again. “You want me?”
I snort. “You’re a guy.”
“Come out to the van,” he says. “Did I tell you how much I like your short hair? It looks amazing.” I look at my second beer, appearing embarrassed to be given a compliment by a dude. “Come out to the van.” This time it’s a plea. There’s a note of neediness in his voice.
I sit there, and say nothing. I sit there, and let him wonder if I heard him. I sit there, and I look at the waitress, who’s cleaning up all the mussel shells and a huge amount of wadded-up paper napkins covered in dried butter, and I let him wait for the answer.
Then I stand up, adjust the hang of my jeans, and walk out of the place. He’s only two steps behind me.
He’s parked in the commuter lot of the train station, in a dark corner. There are other cars around, but they’re all there for the Westport nightlife, such as it is. We don’t even bother to pretend to get in through the front doors; he unlocks the back and we crawl onto the carpet.
He’s grabbing for the button on my jeans even before I’m settled against the back of the seats. “Whoa, whoa!” I tell him, sounding alarmed. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “Sorry, man. Just got a little excited.” When I’m with the Landscaper, I’m good at looking disgusted at the notion some dude would put his hands on another dude. Exploitative sure. But you know what? It’s what he wants from me. I give him what he wants in a way no one else has. That’s why he keeps seeing me.
“You know—“
“I know, I know,” he says. He’s trying to placate me in the dramatic, overacted way that the inebriated assume. “Ssshhh. Besides, we should take care of this, right?”
He reaches into his back pocket. He’s already got some fifties ready for me. Six of them, rolled up and squashed into a long rectangle from having been sat on. I count them out, nod, and stick them into my shirt pocket. “All right,” I say.
“Can I take them off?” he asks, crouching over me. His fingers want to go back to my jeans button.
This is the concession I’ve made for him in the last couple of months; I let him take off my pants. “Shoes first,” I order.
Lovingly, he removes my sneakers. He places them side by side at the van’s edge. Then my ankle-high socks. Those he folds and puts into the mouths of my shoes. Grudgingly I lift my hips up as he undoes the jeans and pulls them off. I’m deliberately not wearing shorts. He’s staring at my erect dick as he folds my jeans leg over leg, then in half, then in quarters, and lays them atop my shoes.
“Can I?”
I pause for a moment. I like to let him think there’s a doubt. Then I spread my legs so that he can position himself between them.
He lies on his belly. I can feel his breath on my nuts as I begin to stroke. He wants to do more. He’s asked to do more. He’s offered me double my going rate just to suck me off, the last couple of times. Each time he’s proposed the deal, I’ve let him see me wrestle with the offer. I think he can tell the money’s attractive—and six hundred bucks just to get head? Fuck yes it is. But part of me—the sadistic part of me—enjoys fucking with him more than I’d enjoy the flow.
On some level, I know he’d respect me less if I’d accepted right away. That’s why we haven’t gone there.
This part of the transaction is pretty straightforward. I stroke myself, putting on a show for him while I make a big pretense of him not being present. I jerk with both hands, I tug at my nuts. I double-fist the shaft so that the head and a good two inches are sticking out at the top. I play with the precum, though I don’t eat it, the way I might in my own private masturbation sessions.
He’s going crazy the entire time. “Yeah,” he’s whispering. “You’re thinking about pile-drivin’ that pussy, aren’t you. Getting that big dick all up inside that whore and fucking her until she’s got a pussyful of seed. Banging the shit out of her, man.” Crap like that.
He thinks it’s exciting me to think about fucking some housewife out on a Monday-night spree, and doesn’t realize I’m getting my pleasure from dragging him down into the depths of his own private world. He’s showing me the parts of himself that his wife and kiddy never glimpse, the parts that none of his bluff and hearty buddies ever guess, the parts that he might not even want to admit to himself. That’s the payload for me.
And for him, the payload’s when I shoot. He always gets his mouth on my nuts right before I come—I allow that, and pretend it’s not happening, though the hot and wet slide of his tongue over my smooth sac is what really gets me off in the end. Then there’s cum jetting out of my slit, and down the shaft.
My eyes are totally closed as I let him clean it up. My hands are around my meat, protecting it from the man’s touch, but he licks it off my fingers, off my wrist where it’s flown. He’d fucking lick it off the van carpet if I shot it there.
Some day I might.
When he’s stopped and it’s safe for me to open my eyes without seeing some dude on my seed, I do so. “Gotta jet,” I say, reaching for my pants.
He watches me dress again. I look like a mess, but my car’s not too far away. “Gonna fuck the wife?” he asks. He sounds hopeful. “Gonna give it to her?”
I shrug. “Later, dude,” I tell him.
“Gonna give her what she needs? I bet you give her what she really needs,” he says, as he opens the van doors. There’s a distinct and pronounced bulge in his pants that I’m sure he’ll be taking care of, the moment he’s alone. “I bet you do. I bet you always give all your fucks what they need, huh?”
I smile. That’s a bet he should know he’d definitely win.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Sunday Morning Questions: Retrograde Edition
Whenever something weird is going on in my life, I can count on my big brother to explain it for me. Of course, his explanation is always astrological. If all my friends are contentious with me, or if everyone seems to be in a bad mood, my first instinct is to look at myself and wonder what I'm doing to get that kind of reaction—maybe I'm being a real bonehead in the first case, or maybe I'm the one with the bad mood in the second, and I'm just projecting it on others. For him, though, the causes are pretty cut-and-dried. Mercury's in retrograde, or Uranus is in the moon's third house.
Or something like that. I have another friend who blames everything on the full moon—the obvious blame for all manner of lunacy. If things are particularly crazy in his life, he'll throw up his hands and say, "Well, it's only a few days before the full moon." Or, "Whaddaya expect? The full moon was just last week." Once when he said "It's gotta be the full moon!" when some drivers were acting particularly strange on the freeways and we'd almost gotten into our third collision of the day, I yelled (with my fingernails clawing the dashboard) "It's a NEW MOON TONIGHT!" And of course he blamed my crankiness on that.
So I don't know whether it's a full moon or Mercury in retrograde in what this week, but dang, the internets have been weird. There were the usual ho-hum rude comments in the blog—those I'm used to, and even the commenters didn't seem particularly inspired to say anything interesting or even that sensical. But the guy who wrote me three emails to chew me out for being a race traitor? That took some seriously inspired craziness to pull off. Plus I don't think I've ever heard the offensive phrase (and excuse my use of it) 'nigger-lover' outside of To Kill a Mockingbird before . . . and I was raised in the South.)
I'm not sure how to explain except by the phases of the moon the guy who sent me two emails asking me if I was into chubby guys wearing pink bunny outfits. Because the answer is that of all the many things I have been into in my lifetime, that simply is not one of them.
The guy who went on a email tirade about me using my blog as self-validation might have had a point, but it'd have been a point I'd take better if he hadn't preceded them with a dozen needy, attention-grubbing, stalkery emails demanding that I validate him instead. Or maybe it was the constellations, driving him batty.
And as for the strange coincidence of no less than seven guys hitting me up Friday for sex, all of whom had in their online profiles some variation of the phrase, I am not looking for hook-ups so be classy and don't ask me!, well, it has to be some occult juxtaposition of the stars making it happen. Why else would men so staunch in their resolve weaken and ask for that they so firmly insist will never take place?
All I'm asking is for my astrologically-inclined readers to use what sway they have and shove those planets back in their proper houses next week, because I am not sure I can cope with too much more crazy. I've got enough of it in my real life without it crawling out of every USB port. Okay?
Edited to add: I posted this entry this morning, then almost immediately had this email exchange with someone:
Now, let's get to some questions from formspring.me.
do you have anal sex with women & if u do are the sensations different from arse banging a man
I've noticed that while men will often shoot without touching when they get butt-fucked, women often (it's not a universal, but it is definitely a trend) climax harder anally than vaginally.
For the guys, it's a physiological thing that comes from having the prostate hammered in just the right way. For the women, I suspect there's a bit of a taboo coming into play mentally, but they also tend to get a lot more direct manual clitoral stimulation than when there's a dick in the way.
Gamer that you are, and an apparent science fiction fan (if I may use the word,) have you ever played EVE Online?
I have not. I like the idea of SF-based games; Traveller and Gamma World were the only RPGs I played in my pre-video-game-era teens, and I used to love the Escape Velocity space trader games on my Mac. The only MMOs I've ever played were World of Warcraft (for six years) and Lord of the Rings Online (for one month), and I was such a WoW fanatic for a while there that I didn't think I had the room in my life for another MMO such as EVE Online.
The main reason I never attempted to get into EVE is that it has—and don't try to convince me otherwise, because it's a consistent bragging point for its players—a pretty steep learning curve. I'm also enough of a carebear that I don't like the sound of losing a ton of assets and invested time playing because of some asshole blowing up my ship.
You'd probably guess from that statement I didn't like the WoW PvP servers. You'd be right. I got a warlock to level 60 on one of them in the pre-expansion days, then abandoned it because I was tired of Alliance making me kill them when I was trying to collect herbs in the Eastern Plaguelands.
And besides, I can't start EVE now. I'm too busy playing Diablo 3.
You're a sexy funny man,please tell me you find horny slim dark haired women ok,cos you surely broke the mould when you were born
You are right on all points, one hundred percent. I'm so glad to appeal to you, baby.
Now what penis cream or herbal pills are you trying to sell me?
When you go out, what do you usually wear?
When I go out of the house, you mean?
Usually it's something of a novelty if I wear actual clothing.
When do you find yourself most inspired to write?
I have always tended to do my writings in the early mornings. I don't often find myself 'inspired,' though. I treat it as a task to be done, and I pay full attention to it. I'm more of a believer in perspiration than inspiration.
I recently began talking to a man who has children and likes being called sir. He was emphatic that he should be called daddy. Has having offspring influenced how you connect with others on an intimate level?
'Daddy' is a word that guys start using when you reach a certain age. In porn, it's when you hit thirty. In real life, it's a decade later. And it happens whether you like it or not. I've known men who were truly, truly offended when someone used it on them.
Some guys get really turned on when they find out a guy's sired children, though. In those cases, the use of 'daddy' gets a little more literal. And it's exciting to turn a guy on who loves consuming daddy dick.
Or something like that. I have another friend who blames everything on the full moon—the obvious blame for all manner of lunacy. If things are particularly crazy in his life, he'll throw up his hands and say, "Well, it's only a few days before the full moon." Or, "Whaddaya expect? The full moon was just last week." Once when he said "It's gotta be the full moon!" when some drivers were acting particularly strange on the freeways and we'd almost gotten into our third collision of the day, I yelled (with my fingernails clawing the dashboard) "It's a NEW MOON TONIGHT!" And of course he blamed my crankiness on that.
So I don't know whether it's a full moon or Mercury in retrograde in what this week, but dang, the internets have been weird. There were the usual ho-hum rude comments in the blog—those I'm used to, and even the commenters didn't seem particularly inspired to say anything interesting or even that sensical. But the guy who wrote me three emails to chew me out for being a race traitor? That took some seriously inspired craziness to pull off. Plus I don't think I've ever heard the offensive phrase (and excuse my use of it) 'nigger-lover' outside of To Kill a Mockingbird before . . . and I was raised in the South.)
I'm not sure how to explain except by the phases of the moon the guy who sent me two emails asking me if I was into chubby guys wearing pink bunny outfits. Because the answer is that of all the many things I have been into in my lifetime, that simply is not one of them.
The guy who went on a email tirade about me using my blog as self-validation might have had a point, but it'd have been a point I'd take better if he hadn't preceded them with a dozen needy, attention-grubbing, stalkery emails demanding that I validate him instead. Or maybe it was the constellations, driving him batty.
And as for the strange coincidence of no less than seven guys hitting me up Friday for sex, all of whom had in their online profiles some variation of the phrase, I am not looking for hook-ups so be classy and don't ask me!, well, it has to be some occult juxtaposition of the stars making it happen. Why else would men so staunch in their resolve weaken and ask for that they so firmly insist will never take place?
All I'm asking is for my astrologically-inclined readers to use what sway they have and shove those planets back in their proper houses next week, because I am not sure I can cope with too much more crazy. I've got enough of it in my real life without it crawling out of every USB port. Okay?
Edited to add: I posted this entry this morning, then almost immediately had this email exchange with someone:
HIM: DO U WANT ME 2 POST UR NAKED PICS ON FACEBOOKApparently the stars are still out of whack, to say the least.
ME: No.
HIM: U ASHAMED????
ME: No. But I don't give you permission to repost pics that are mine.
HIM: 2 LATE LOL!!!
Now, let's get to some questions from formspring.me.
do you have anal sex with women & if u do are the sensations different from arse banging a man
I've noticed that while men will often shoot without touching when they get butt-fucked, women often (it's not a universal, but it is definitely a trend) climax harder anally than vaginally.
For the guys, it's a physiological thing that comes from having the prostate hammered in just the right way. For the women, I suspect there's a bit of a taboo coming into play mentally, but they also tend to get a lot more direct manual clitoral stimulation than when there's a dick in the way.
Gamer that you are, and an apparent science fiction fan (if I may use the word,) have you ever played EVE Online?
I have not. I like the idea of SF-based games; Traveller and Gamma World were the only RPGs I played in my pre-video-game-era teens, and I used to love the Escape Velocity space trader games on my Mac. The only MMOs I've ever played were World of Warcraft (for six years) and Lord of the Rings Online (for one month), and I was such a WoW fanatic for a while there that I didn't think I had the room in my life for another MMO such as EVE Online.
The main reason I never attempted to get into EVE is that it has—and don't try to convince me otherwise, because it's a consistent bragging point for its players—a pretty steep learning curve. I'm also enough of a carebear that I don't like the sound of losing a ton of assets and invested time playing because of some asshole blowing up my ship.
You'd probably guess from that statement I didn't like the WoW PvP servers. You'd be right. I got a warlock to level 60 on one of them in the pre-expansion days, then abandoned it because I was tired of Alliance making me kill them when I was trying to collect herbs in the Eastern Plaguelands.
And besides, I can't start EVE now. I'm too busy playing Diablo 3.
You're a sexy funny man,please tell me you find horny slim dark haired women ok,cos you surely broke the mould when you were born
You are right on all points, one hundred percent. I'm so glad to appeal to you, baby.
Now what penis cream or herbal pills are you trying to sell me?
When you go out, what do you usually wear?
When I go out of the house, you mean?
Usually it's something of a novelty if I wear actual clothing.
When do you find yourself most inspired to write?
I have always tended to do my writings in the early mornings. I don't often find myself 'inspired,' though. I treat it as a task to be done, and I pay full attention to it. I'm more of a believer in perspiration than inspiration.
I recently began talking to a man who has children and likes being called sir. He was emphatic that he should be called daddy. Has having offspring influenced how you connect with others on an intimate level?
'Daddy' is a word that guys start using when you reach a certain age. In porn, it's when you hit thirty. In real life, it's a decade later. And it happens whether you like it or not. I've known men who were truly, truly offended when someone used it on them.
Some guys get really turned on when they find out a guy's sired children, though. In those cases, the use of 'daddy' gets a little more literal. And it's exciting to turn a guy on who loves consuming daddy dick.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Dangerous to Know
Like so many of the couples I meet, the top guy is the older. He’s in his late twenties, vaguely scruffy, wears a pair of thick-framed glasses that lend him an air of nerdiness until he takes them off along with the rest of his clothes to reveal a pair of metal blue eyes and a dick of steel. He’s Clark god-damned Kent.
The bottom guy is younger. He’s lean, and pale, and sandy-haired. Smooth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter their studio apartment on the upper west side, wearing nothing but briefs. His leg is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer, from nervousness.
They’ve never been with a third before. I’m the guy they asked to get the job done.
Most couples, when they decide to bring in another man to join them, have a strict agenda in mind. They set up their limits; they decide with what they’re comfortable. Some have long discussions about expectations beforehand. Some of them just have a driving partner who drags the less aggressive into it. Many have a very long list of what they will and won’t do with with the third. Some of them come up with safe words, for chrissakes.
But when they pick me, they don’t do it to play safe. They approach me because they know on some deep level that I’m dangerous. That I’ll push them past their limits and into new territory. It’s an unspoken contract, and I’ve rarely been wrong.
These two, for example. They think they’ve worked it out. Sweet and playful fun is the catchphrase they’ve decided on. We just want to have sweet and playful fun with a big-dicked guy! Definitely no anal! Making out. Licking. Sucking. Smooching and giggling.
Let’s be honest . . . there are dozens and dozens of men they could’ve chosen with much more vanilla intent. Yet they’ve decided upon me, and have gone to the trouble to invite me to their place. They picked me from my profile, with its photos of my big dick shown off to best advantage, my broad list of likes, my narrow list of dislikes. They don’t look at the photo of my erect cock and think, Gosh, he must be nice.
They’ve picked me, and let’s be frank, because I play hard and I know what the fuck I’m doing. It might be sweet and playful to begin, but by the time I’m done, we’ve had my kind of fun. They know it, deep down. But they might not admit it, not even to themselves.
We exchange introductions and nervous greetings. I sit on the bed’s edge, joining them. “He’s pretty,” I tell the top, running my fingers through the bottom’s hair. He’s got blue eyes, too. Nervous as he is about a strange top in their apartment, I can tell he likes to be admired. Some bottoms thrive on that. “Very pretty,” I said. With my hand cupping his chin, I lift up his face. His lips purse slightly to reach for my own. When they meet, the kiss qualifies as sweet. He’s eager to try another man than the one he sees day in and day out. He’s anxious to taste me. I rub my hands over his scrawny body, his rib cage, the little cold pencil erasers that are his nipples. He’s hard as a rock through the cotton of his briefs. He’s not just bulging, he’s got a tentpole down there.
My eyes remain open enough to see his partner rubbing his back, letting him know he’s there, encouraging him to give in to me. While we make out, my mouth completely surrounding the bottom’s, the older guy strips down. He’s got a sexy enough body beneath the baggy clothing, and a patch of sparse hair in the middle of his chest. Like his lover, his dick is probably the stiffest it’s ever been.
I pull away from the kiss and look into the boy’s eyes. “Undress me,” I tell him.
Obediently he drops down to unbutton my jeans, remove my sneakers, and pull down the denim until it tangles around my ankles for him to tug off. He stares at my dick, breathless at the sight. I’m only three-quarters hard and it’s already much bigger than the boyfriend’s. The boyfriend is looking at me too, while he absently runs his fingers up and down the length of his shaft.
The bottom’s taking too long. I kick off my socks, pull off my shirt. “Let me see that little butt,” I tell him, as I sit back down again.
It’s perfect. Round. Smooth. The palest white I’ve ever seen. I pull down the elastic of his waistband to expose it. Where I breathe over his skin, goosepimples rise. He and his lover and looking at each other. There’s an unspoken question in the bottom’s face. The older man nods back in reply. Yes, he’s saying to his partner. Yes. This is okay.
What they really want is someone else to do the dirty work. Someone else to insist on the things they can’t ask of each other out of politeness, out of familiarity. I’m not supposed to be touching this ass so openly. It’s not sweet. It’s not fun. It wasn’t on the approved curriculum. But here I am, running the flat of my hand over it, and the bottom is responding by bending forward and letting out a low exhalation. The top isn’t even protesting. “You need to get up on my lap,” I tell the bottom boy. “Lie over it,” I correct, when he thinks he’s going to sit on my knees. “Face down.”
He obeys, reluctantly. It’s a humiliating position. He’s like a little kid about to be punished. I’ve got his briefs pulled down and his butt exposed. “Is he a good boy or a bad boy?” I ask his partner.
The man’s got a rasp in his voice when he replies. There’s the tiniest ball of precum at the tip of his dick. “Bad boy,” he grunts.
“Bad boy, huh?” Without warning, I raise my hand and smack the bottom’s right buttock. Loud. Hard. It resounds through the sex-charged silence, and it’s followed by a loud bellow of protest from the bottom. This isn’t nice. This isn’t sweet. That spank had to sting like crazy. But the bottom’s not in charge here. I raise my hand again.
The top’s eyes are locked with mine. “Yeah,” he says. It’s not the voice I’d heard over the phone, friendly and approachable. It’s not even the voice that greeted me minutes before. It’s a voice made deeper by the scarlet emotions coursing through his mind, by the hormones causing his heart to race. It’s ragged with need. His hand is clenching his meat now, so tight the head’s purple. “He’s a real bad boy.”
My hand comes down again. I’m not being playful. This hurts. The bottom’s got tears in his voice when he protests. His lover reaches down, lifts his head. “Keep it down,” he says. My hand comes down again. Another howl. “Shut the fuck up.” Another slap on the rear. The skin there is reddening painfully. This time, there’s only a whimper and a clamped-down sob.
“Yeah,” says the top, as I continue to spank. “Bad boy. You don’t know what a fuckin’ bad boy I got.”
I smile to myself. I’ve only been there what, ten minutes? Already I’ve breached the fortress. Fuck sweet.
Couples like this bring in men like me because they want someone to take charge and take from them what he wants—without either of them having to take responsibility. If an outsider goes beyond their timid prearranged limits, everything that happens is his fault. He’s the bad one, not the innocent couple.
Fault, right. The pair might both walk away with their wildest fantasies put to rest for a while. Neither of them have to speak up and confess to their partner how dirty they like it. Neither of them has to lose face in front of the other. But everyone gets what he wants.
And what I want is the hole.
It’s an hour later, and the top and I have been sitting next to each other at the head of the bed for a while. Our knees are lifted, our legs are spread. The bottom’s been moving back and forth between our dicks, sucking them, while the top and I have been talking and making out. The talk’s been pretty perfunctory. Shit like, Your boy’s got a great mouth, or You like the way he sucks, huh? Nothing deep. But then I say, “You mind if I look at his ass again?”
The bottom lifts his head, alert, almost frightened of another spanking.
I can feel the top’s dick harden and flex against my thigh. “Do it,” he says.
So I’ve got the bottom with his face in the pillow. My mouth’s all over that hole, slobbering it up, making him gasp and moan. It’s muffled by a thick layer of goose down, but it’s still loud. The top’s on his hands and knees watching up close, like I’m some kind of live porn star with a hole he wants so see used. I pay him no nevermind while I haul the bottom’s ass into the air and chew on his hole.
There’s a gasp of a different kind as I push my thumb in there. I’m looking at the top. He doesn’t protest. I’m spreading the bottom’s cheeks with my hands, exposing the hole. I don’t know whether the bottom’s really prepared for this happening, and I really don’t care. He’s clean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done some extra cleaning down there in the hope that I’d be doing exactly this to him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I say, pulling myself to my knees. I make it look like I’m just repositioning myself, but really it to get my dick up there, next to the ass.
The guy grunts.
“You’ve really got a pretty boyfriend,” I tell him. “Great ass.” I pause. “Beautiful ass.”
I pull apart the cheeks even further. Then I let my dick rest on the cheek. The top is mesmerized. I move back and forth. My dick slides up and down, flesh on flesh. It naturally glides along the crack. I pause when the head’s pointed at the little pucker.
“Whaddaya think?” I ask.
There’s a pregnant pause. The bottom looks around wildly. He's not saying now, but he doesn’t want to be the one to say yes. The top grinds his jaw. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, the words of permission and encouragement. I rub my precum around the head of my meat, add a little spit to it. I nudge it against the hole.
Then I look at the top. After a moment, he nods.
Then I push. There’s a lot of resistance, but I get in there. There’s a hell of a lot of noise, but none of it is No.
This is what they want. Both of them. It’s not sweet. It’s not playful. It’s nasty and raw and they both knew it was going to happen all along. That’s why they picked me, instead of some nice guy who’d play along with what they said they wanted. Their real desire was this, right here—the sight of big dick stretching a tight hole, of a dicking-down neither would confess to the other he wanted to happen.
They wanted someone willing to be dangerous, and that’s exactly what they got.
The bottom guy is younger. He’s lean, and pale, and sandy-haired. Smooth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter their studio apartment on the upper west side, wearing nothing but briefs. His leg is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer, from nervousness.
They’ve never been with a third before. I’m the guy they asked to get the job done.
Most couples, when they decide to bring in another man to join them, have a strict agenda in mind. They set up their limits; they decide with what they’re comfortable. Some have long discussions about expectations beforehand. Some of them just have a driving partner who drags the less aggressive into it. Many have a very long list of what they will and won’t do with with the third. Some of them come up with safe words, for chrissakes.
But when they pick me, they don’t do it to play safe. They approach me because they know on some deep level that I’m dangerous. That I’ll push them past their limits and into new territory. It’s an unspoken contract, and I’ve rarely been wrong.
These two, for example. They think they’ve worked it out. Sweet and playful fun is the catchphrase they’ve decided on. We just want to have sweet and playful fun with a big-dicked guy! Definitely no anal! Making out. Licking. Sucking. Smooching and giggling.
Let’s be honest . . . there are dozens and dozens of men they could’ve chosen with much more vanilla intent. Yet they’ve decided upon me, and have gone to the trouble to invite me to their place. They picked me from my profile, with its photos of my big dick shown off to best advantage, my broad list of likes, my narrow list of dislikes. They don’t look at the photo of my erect cock and think, Gosh, he must be nice.
They’ve picked me, and let’s be frank, because I play hard and I know what the fuck I’m doing. It might be sweet and playful to begin, but by the time I’m done, we’ve had my kind of fun. They know it, deep down. But they might not admit it, not even to themselves.
We exchange introductions and nervous greetings. I sit on the bed’s edge, joining them. “He’s pretty,” I tell the top, running my fingers through the bottom’s hair. He’s got blue eyes, too. Nervous as he is about a strange top in their apartment, I can tell he likes to be admired. Some bottoms thrive on that. “Very pretty,” I said. With my hand cupping his chin, I lift up his face. His lips purse slightly to reach for my own. When they meet, the kiss qualifies as sweet. He’s eager to try another man than the one he sees day in and day out. He’s anxious to taste me. I rub my hands over his scrawny body, his rib cage, the little cold pencil erasers that are his nipples. He’s hard as a rock through the cotton of his briefs. He’s not just bulging, he’s got a tentpole down there.
My eyes remain open enough to see his partner rubbing his back, letting him know he’s there, encouraging him to give in to me. While we make out, my mouth completely surrounding the bottom’s, the older guy strips down. He’s got a sexy enough body beneath the baggy clothing, and a patch of sparse hair in the middle of his chest. Like his lover, his dick is probably the stiffest it’s ever been.
I pull away from the kiss and look into the boy’s eyes. “Undress me,” I tell him.
Obediently he drops down to unbutton my jeans, remove my sneakers, and pull down the denim until it tangles around my ankles for him to tug off. He stares at my dick, breathless at the sight. I’m only three-quarters hard and it’s already much bigger than the boyfriend’s. The boyfriend is looking at me too, while he absently runs his fingers up and down the length of his shaft.
The bottom’s taking too long. I kick off my socks, pull off my shirt. “Let me see that little butt,” I tell him, as I sit back down again.
It’s perfect. Round. Smooth. The palest white I’ve ever seen. I pull down the elastic of his waistband to expose it. Where I breathe over his skin, goosepimples rise. He and his lover and looking at each other. There’s an unspoken question in the bottom’s face. The older man nods back in reply. Yes, he’s saying to his partner. Yes. This is okay.
What they really want is someone else to do the dirty work. Someone else to insist on the things they can’t ask of each other out of politeness, out of familiarity. I’m not supposed to be touching this ass so openly. It’s not sweet. It’s not fun. It wasn’t on the approved curriculum. But here I am, running the flat of my hand over it, and the bottom is responding by bending forward and letting out a low exhalation. The top isn’t even protesting. “You need to get up on my lap,” I tell the bottom boy. “Lie over it,” I correct, when he thinks he’s going to sit on my knees. “Face down.”
He obeys, reluctantly. It’s a humiliating position. He’s like a little kid about to be punished. I’ve got his briefs pulled down and his butt exposed. “Is he a good boy or a bad boy?” I ask his partner.
The man’s got a rasp in his voice when he replies. There’s the tiniest ball of precum at the tip of his dick. “Bad boy,” he grunts.
“Bad boy, huh?” Without warning, I raise my hand and smack the bottom’s right buttock. Loud. Hard. It resounds through the sex-charged silence, and it’s followed by a loud bellow of protest from the bottom. This isn’t nice. This isn’t sweet. That spank had to sting like crazy. But the bottom’s not in charge here. I raise my hand again.
The top’s eyes are locked with mine. “Yeah,” he says. It’s not the voice I’d heard over the phone, friendly and approachable. It’s not even the voice that greeted me minutes before. It’s a voice made deeper by the scarlet emotions coursing through his mind, by the hormones causing his heart to race. It’s ragged with need. His hand is clenching his meat now, so tight the head’s purple. “He’s a real bad boy.”
My hand comes down again. I’m not being playful. This hurts. The bottom’s got tears in his voice when he protests. His lover reaches down, lifts his head. “Keep it down,” he says. My hand comes down again. Another howl. “Shut the fuck up.” Another slap on the rear. The skin there is reddening painfully. This time, there’s only a whimper and a clamped-down sob.
“Yeah,” says the top, as I continue to spank. “Bad boy. You don’t know what a fuckin’ bad boy I got.”
I smile to myself. I’ve only been there what, ten minutes? Already I’ve breached the fortress. Fuck sweet.
Couples like this bring in men like me because they want someone to take charge and take from them what he wants—without either of them having to take responsibility. If an outsider goes beyond their timid prearranged limits, everything that happens is his fault. He’s the bad one, not the innocent couple.
Fault, right. The pair might both walk away with their wildest fantasies put to rest for a while. Neither of them have to speak up and confess to their partner how dirty they like it. Neither of them has to lose face in front of the other. But everyone gets what he wants.
And what I want is the hole.
It’s an hour later, and the top and I have been sitting next to each other at the head of the bed for a while. Our knees are lifted, our legs are spread. The bottom’s been moving back and forth between our dicks, sucking them, while the top and I have been talking and making out. The talk’s been pretty perfunctory. Shit like, Your boy’s got a great mouth, or You like the way he sucks, huh? Nothing deep. But then I say, “You mind if I look at his ass again?”
The bottom lifts his head, alert, almost frightened of another spanking.
I can feel the top’s dick harden and flex against my thigh. “Do it,” he says.
So I’ve got the bottom with his face in the pillow. My mouth’s all over that hole, slobbering it up, making him gasp and moan. It’s muffled by a thick layer of goose down, but it’s still loud. The top’s on his hands and knees watching up close, like I’m some kind of live porn star with a hole he wants so see used. I pay him no nevermind while I haul the bottom’s ass into the air and chew on his hole.
There’s a gasp of a different kind as I push my thumb in there. I’m looking at the top. He doesn’t protest. I’m spreading the bottom’s cheeks with my hands, exposing the hole. I don’t know whether the bottom’s really prepared for this happening, and I really don’t care. He’s clean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done some extra cleaning down there in the hope that I’d be doing exactly this to him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I say, pulling myself to my knees. I make it look like I’m just repositioning myself, but really it to get my dick up there, next to the ass.
The guy grunts.
“You’ve really got a pretty boyfriend,” I tell him. “Great ass.” I pause. “Beautiful ass.”
I pull apart the cheeks even further. Then I let my dick rest on the cheek. The top is mesmerized. I move back and forth. My dick slides up and down, flesh on flesh. It naturally glides along the crack. I pause when the head’s pointed at the little pucker.
“Whaddaya think?” I ask.
There’s a pregnant pause. The bottom looks around wildly. He's not saying now, but he doesn’t want to be the one to say yes. The top grinds his jaw. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, the words of permission and encouragement. I rub my precum around the head of my meat, add a little spit to it. I nudge it against the hole.
Then I look at the top. After a moment, he nods.
Then I push. There’s a lot of resistance, but I get in there. There’s a hell of a lot of noise, but none of it is No.
This is what they want. Both of them. It’s not sweet. It’s not playful. It’s nasty and raw and they both knew it was going to happen all along. That’s why they picked me, instead of some nice guy who’d play along with what they said they wanted. Their real desire was this, right here—the sight of big dick stretching a tight hole, of a dicking-down neither would confess to the other he wanted to happen.
They wanted someone willing to be dangerous, and that’s exactly what they got.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Smooth Balls Wednesday
One of my readers very kindly bought me a gift from my Amazon wishlist last week.
It's a Phillips Norelco Bodygroom Shaver. Or basically, an electric razor for your balls.
I had one of these for years, and it worked really well until it went kaput on me a couple of months ago. A standard beard trimmer just doesn't cut it when it comes to keeping delicate areas smooth—and I don't recommend depilatories, either. For the sweaty summer months, it's nice to feel smooth and clean down below.
Thank you, kind reader! It'll be put to good use!
It's a Phillips Norelco Bodygroom Shaver. Or basically, an electric razor for your balls.
I had one of these for years, and it worked really well until it went kaput on me a couple of months ago. A standard beard trimmer just doesn't cut it when it comes to keeping delicate areas smooth—and I don't recommend depilatories, either. For the sweaty summer months, it's nice to feel smooth and clean down below.
Thank you, kind reader! It'll be put to good use!
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Sunday Morning Questions: Pride Edition
It's Pride Sunday here in this part of the country, and later today I'll be joining the hundreds of thousands in New York City to watch the parade, get a little sunburnt, and get a little giddy.
Not all my readers are gay men, here. Nor are all of you men! Some of you are bisexual, some straight. Some of you are probably most comfortable without feeling attracted to anyone at all. And you know, all those things are pretty darned good things to be.
This time of year I see so many tired whines from men embarrassed to be seen in the company of drag queens and leather men at the parades, who claim that they give the rest of the population the 'wrong idea' about what gays are. You know what I'm going to have to say about such sentiments: screw that! Playing good boys and girls in the hope of getting a pat on the head and a dab of praise here and there has never gotten anything accomplished. I'm personally proud to be part of such a diverse, widespread, and amazingly creative population. If you want to celebrate with me—welcome!
Whether or not you celebrate the event, and whether or not you're gay, straight, or somewhere in between, what's important to take away from this time of year is a sense of joy and acceptance of your own sexuality, whatever wondrous forms it takes. Sex is an amazing gift. Too many people are afraid to take out that gift and actually use it, so that it molders away like some weird wedding gift, still in its original box, tarnishing and growing dimmer and less attractive by the year. Whip it out, polish it up, and don't be afraid to get it dirty. That's my motto.
(I have a hundred mottos. You may have noticed.)
If you're not proud of your sexuality, you're ashamed of it. It's possible to waste a lot of time on shame and fear. That is time you're never going to get back. So celebrate your sexuality—not just today. Every day.
And take photos of yourself doing it and send them to me.
Let's get to some questions, courtesy of formspring.me . . . and many thanks to those of you who wrote in with some especially provocative questions this last week, which will appear here in a few more installments.
what is one question that will piss you off
I believe that there's more than one question that will piss me off and set me on one of my infamous rants. It wouldn't take a lot of reading back in my archives to discover them, trust me.
Any chance you'll move back to the Midwest?
I never say never, but I have no intentions of moving again for many years to come.
(I should note that I do intend to change houses later this year, but I'm not moving to a completely different area, this time. Just down the street. That's bad enough.)
Hi Rob, Does your submissive bottom offer assertiveness training? Unfortunately, hesitancy seems to be the nature of the submissive beast. the best, Linda
Submission is very much an act of trust. It's a gift from you to the one you're allowing to dominate you.
It's not going to work, however, if you don't completely trust your partner. If you're hesitant, or holding back, or setting endless limits, or interrupting the flow of the play to modify his or her expectations, it's a little bit like giving a gift with a lot of annoying strings attached. Like saying, "Here's a hundred bucks. Spend it any way you want! As long as it's at Macy's. In the women's perfume department. At counter three. And oh, don't go without me to approve the purchase. And I want a thank you note afterward. Every three months. At least four pages long."
If you're not prepared to give wholly, and to give willingly, either you're not ready for submissive play, or you're not playing with the right partner. It's up to you to examine yourself, and your situation, and decide which. Then you need to do something about it—either modify your own need to play in this area, or find someone you do trust and to whom you will offer your submission.
I will say this: if you feel that you're holding back because of a lack of trust, don't automatically assume it's all coming from you. Your partner might not be giving you the support you need in order to surrender your last traces of hesitancy. Talk about it with him or her and see what can be done to make you feel more comfortable.
If you crave this experience, the work will be worth it for you.
have you ever gotten it wrong meaning have you ever thought a man was coming on to you only to be mistaken
Quite often.
The last time was at lunch a couple of months ago when I was checking my email and the handsome middle-eastern guy next to kept staring at me and smiling. I smiled and did my sexy-eyes thing back, and got him to smile at me with beautiful, white, perfect teeth. Just as my loins were stirring and I was about to say something provocative, he leaned over and wanted to know where I'd gotten my iPhone case.
Sigh.
Did you ever get off on the daddy/son fantasy that you provide for others today, when you were younger? Was being called son, and calling him dad, ever a turn-on for you?
Absolutely. One hundred percent.
I still remember the forbidden thrill I got the first time a guy referred to himself as 'dad' while I was servicing him, and I'm sure he got off on that hesitation and subsequent vigor that I gave the task at hand, because he kept on doing it, over and over again, calling himself dad and me 'son' or 'boy.'
Even though most of us don't really lust for our own biological fathers, the dad/son fantasy is very much something that resonates very deeply for a lot of gay men.
Are you jealous or turned on by hearing of your boy's hook-ups?
I don't know what boy you mean, exactly. However, I'm not really a jealous guy. Listening to accounts of someone else's hookups doesn't generally inspire me to that angry kind of possessiveness that makes me want to track down the trick and kick his sorry ass for ever having god-damned touched my god-damned keep-your-fucking-hands-off property.
That kind of thing used to be something I'd experience a long time ago, when I thought it was the appropriate reaction, but even then I couldn't invest a lot of vigor into it. I learned to follow my own instincts, which was simply to let my loved ones enjoy their fun.
Sex is supposed to be giving and joyful. I might be envious that someone else gets to experience something of which I'm not a part, but in general I think it's great when two (or more) people—neither of whom has to be me—get together and have an enjoyable time. That's what it's supposed to be about.
So when someone I like a lot hooks up and I hear about it, I'm generally happy for him. If the trick treats my buddy badly, though—that's when I'll track him down and kick his sorry ass, or at least threaten it.
Not all my readers are gay men, here. Nor are all of you men! Some of you are bisexual, some straight. Some of you are probably most comfortable without feeling attracted to anyone at all. And you know, all those things are pretty darned good things to be.
This time of year I see so many tired whines from men embarrassed to be seen in the company of drag queens and leather men at the parades, who claim that they give the rest of the population the 'wrong idea' about what gays are. You know what I'm going to have to say about such sentiments: screw that! Playing good boys and girls in the hope of getting a pat on the head and a dab of praise here and there has never gotten anything accomplished. I'm personally proud to be part of such a diverse, widespread, and amazingly creative population. If you want to celebrate with me—welcome!
Whether or not you celebrate the event, and whether or not you're gay, straight, or somewhere in between, what's important to take away from this time of year is a sense of joy and acceptance of your own sexuality, whatever wondrous forms it takes. Sex is an amazing gift. Too many people are afraid to take out that gift and actually use it, so that it molders away like some weird wedding gift, still in its original box, tarnishing and growing dimmer and less attractive by the year. Whip it out, polish it up, and don't be afraid to get it dirty. That's my motto.
(I have a hundred mottos. You may have noticed.)
If you're not proud of your sexuality, you're ashamed of it. It's possible to waste a lot of time on shame and fear. That is time you're never going to get back. So celebrate your sexuality—not just today. Every day.
And take photos of yourself doing it and send them to me.
Let's get to some questions, courtesy of formspring.me . . . and many thanks to those of you who wrote in with some especially provocative questions this last week, which will appear here in a few more installments.
what is one question that will piss you off
I believe that there's more than one question that will piss me off and set me on one of my infamous rants. It wouldn't take a lot of reading back in my archives to discover them, trust me.
Any chance you'll move back to the Midwest?
I never say never, but I have no intentions of moving again for many years to come.
(I should note that I do intend to change houses later this year, but I'm not moving to a completely different area, this time. Just down the street. That's bad enough.)
Hi Rob, Does your submissive bottom offer assertiveness training? Unfortunately, hesitancy seems to be the nature of the submissive beast. the best, Linda
Submission is very much an act of trust. It's a gift from you to the one you're allowing to dominate you.
It's not going to work, however, if you don't completely trust your partner. If you're hesitant, or holding back, or setting endless limits, or interrupting the flow of the play to modify his or her expectations, it's a little bit like giving a gift with a lot of annoying strings attached. Like saying, "Here's a hundred bucks. Spend it any way you want! As long as it's at Macy's. In the women's perfume department. At counter three. And oh, don't go without me to approve the purchase. And I want a thank you note afterward. Every three months. At least four pages long."
If you're not prepared to give wholly, and to give willingly, either you're not ready for submissive play, or you're not playing with the right partner. It's up to you to examine yourself, and your situation, and decide which. Then you need to do something about it—either modify your own need to play in this area, or find someone you do trust and to whom you will offer your submission.
I will say this: if you feel that you're holding back because of a lack of trust, don't automatically assume it's all coming from you. Your partner might not be giving you the support you need in order to surrender your last traces of hesitancy. Talk about it with him or her and see what can be done to make you feel more comfortable.
If you crave this experience, the work will be worth it for you.
have you ever gotten it wrong meaning have you ever thought a man was coming on to you only to be mistaken
Quite often.
The last time was at lunch a couple of months ago when I was checking my email and the handsome middle-eastern guy next to kept staring at me and smiling. I smiled and did my sexy-eyes thing back, and got him to smile at me with beautiful, white, perfect teeth. Just as my loins were stirring and I was about to say something provocative, he leaned over and wanted to know where I'd gotten my iPhone case.
Sigh.
Did you ever get off on the daddy/son fantasy that you provide for others today, when you were younger? Was being called son, and calling him dad, ever a turn-on for you?
Absolutely. One hundred percent.
I still remember the forbidden thrill I got the first time a guy referred to himself as 'dad' while I was servicing him, and I'm sure he got off on that hesitation and subsequent vigor that I gave the task at hand, because he kept on doing it, over and over again, calling himself dad and me 'son' or 'boy.'
Even though most of us don't really lust for our own biological fathers, the dad/son fantasy is very much something that resonates very deeply for a lot of gay men.
Are you jealous or turned on by hearing of your boy's hook-ups?
I don't know what boy you mean, exactly. However, I'm not really a jealous guy. Listening to accounts of someone else's hookups doesn't generally inspire me to that angry kind of possessiveness that makes me want to track down the trick and kick his sorry ass for ever having god-damned touched my god-damned keep-your-fucking-hands-off property.
That kind of thing used to be something I'd experience a long time ago, when I thought it was the appropriate reaction, but even then I couldn't invest a lot of vigor into it. I learned to follow my own instincts, which was simply to let my loved ones enjoy their fun.
Sex is supposed to be giving and joyful. I might be envious that someone else gets to experience something of which I'm not a part, but in general I think it's great when two (or more) people—neither of whom has to be me—get together and have an enjoyable time. That's what it's supposed to be about.
So when someone I like a lot hooks up and I hear about it, I'm generally happy for him. If the trick treats my buddy badly, though—that's when I'll track him down and kick his sorry ass, or at least threaten it.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Pornstache
The thirty-year-old had sent me many photos before we met, all of them so different they might as well have been of different men. There was a shot of him in fishing boots, brandishing a large and glistening catch at the end of a hook, facial hair trimmed into wild-man mutton chops. There was another in party boy attire, sparkling and spangled, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, hair cropped and slicked down, holding aloft a colorful cocktail. There was one of him staring soulfully at a grainy, light-deprived camera in some kind of classic MySpace pose, staring up at the ceiling, his hair long and cascading down to his shoulders, scruff on his face. There was one of him in business attire, almost parodying some kind of Sears Catalog action pose. There were others of him in various stages of undress, showing off his sexy, built body, his handsome face, his round ass. All of them had his hair at various lengths, his facial hair in every configuration, his locale from snowy to summery, in every kind of archetypal pose there is.
He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock.
The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip.
He had a pornstache.
I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face.
Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild.
The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012.
Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?”
Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb.
“I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?”
“Look and see,” I suggested.
I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.”
He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts.
“How bad you want it?”
The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.”
As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted.
He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again.
“Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft.
I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment.
I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him.
Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment.
It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss.
He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock.
The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip.
He had a pornstache.
I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face.
Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild.
The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012.
Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?”
Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb.
“I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?”
“Look and see,” I suggested.
I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.”
He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts.
“How bad you want it?”
The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.”
As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted.
He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again.
“Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft.
I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment.
I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him.
Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment.
It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Sunday Morning Question: Bingo! Edition
From time to time, my sets of blog friends and real life friends overlap and collide. There was one memorable instance after I first started blogging here, a couple of years back, when I got a fan letter from someone who said some very nice things, and then enclosed a few photos of himself.
He looked familiar. Very familiar, in fact. He was a professor at Yale with whom I'm friends. I wrote him back to say, Um, we know each other, you know.
I know to a lot of my readers that sounds like an absolute nightmare. One of the recurring phobias that a lot of readers present me is their fear that someone might recognize them here—they're afraid to post a comment because someone might recognize it as theirs. They're afraid to send in a photo for publication in case their boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/sister/grandmother/spouse might identify them by a microscopic pimple on their backside.
In my case, though, it just led to the two of us becoming even better friends. Saturday morning, my buddy stopped through town so we could catch up and have breakfast together. We'd been talking for a couple of hours when, in a gently-affronted manner, he mentioned someone we both knew who had used him as a reference on a job application, without asking.
"Well," I said. "You have to admit. It sounds impressive as a reference. Yale Professor!" I neglected to remind him that when I'd sent around some teaching resumes last autumn, I'd included him as a reference for just that reason. (I asked first!) "It just sounds good. I touched a Yale Professor." I poked him across the table, on the arm. "I'll never wash this fingertip again!" Then I coyly stuck it in my mouth and sucked it.
My friend kind of rolled his eyes at me.
But I was on a roll. "Yale Professor is like a space on the Sexual Bingo card," I riffed. "Right next to, I don't know. Astronaut, and College Quarterback. Only two more in a row to go for Sexual Bingo!"
He cocked his head and regarded like a particularly curious exhibit in a museum. "You're making a blog entry about this in your head even as you speak, aren't you?"
Guilty as charged.
But my point remains. Sexual Bingo could be a pretty damned fun game, for the sport fucker. There are all kinds of professions and archetypes to fuck one's way through. Corporate Lawyer. Computer Nerd. Hotel Desk Manager. Catholic Priest. Protestant Minister. Rabbi. Tax Preparation Guy. Student. Semi-Hot Homeless Person. Waiter. Airline Attendant. Hairdresser. Republican Congressman.
And of course, for the center space on every card, Sex Blogger. Because we're so easy to score, we might as well be the free space.
Let's get to some questions from formspring.me.
ok wat can we do to get your sexy arse to australia maate
I'm thinking that taking up a collection and buying me a plane ticket, then finding me a host or two while I'm there, would be a very good thing.
Have you ever fallen in love with someone who was supposed to be just a casual hook-up?
Yes. Several times, through the years.
I don't believe that people are 'supposed to be' any one role in our lives. If you want to live right, and stay aligned with the universe and its purpose, you have to take people and the many gifts they bring, for what they are. It's when we begin to ignore the reality of others, and impose our own wills and desires upon them, that we run into troubles.
you are awesome and sooo hot i masturbate to your pictures
Thanks! I might masturbate to yours if you sent me some. But you haven't. So it's kind of one-sided that way.
So, I've been thinking of starting to blog about my sexuality and my deep appreciation and adoration for the male physique. Any pointers, tips on how to do this - especially anonymously, considering that you've done is so well, and successfully.
I think writing about one's sexuality is a valuable experience. When one does it, does it regularly, and does it honestly, it's a valuable record of a subject that gets very little frank and honest attention.
Doing it publicly, or blogging about it, can be valuable for others; they get to see that someone else has the same impulses or affiliations or thoughts or fetishes. Even if they have completely different experiences and desires, it still can open up the eyes of a reader with an open mind. So if you decide to turn your writings into blogging, I advise a few things.
Be aware that blogging also has its down side. If you're trying not to be discovered, know that there are people out there who will do ANYTHING to try to figure out who you are. (And they might succeed.) Be prepared for that. Know that some of your readers will be fucking crazy. Be aware that the fantasies some readers impose on you will not at all resemble anything you do in your everyday life. And know that readers and haters alike can wreck the pure and noble desire you have right now with just a few words.
If you're not afraid of adversity or, more importantly, honesty, by all means. Blog away.
do you have a tattoo
I do not! I love inked skin, but apparently I am too wishy-washy about what to choose for a tattoo design, and where to place it.
When is your birthday? Just the day, not the year
My birthday is on the sixth of February, but you can buy me presents year-round!
Do you get guys you've never met in person, writing to you and telling you their sexual fantasy of you were to meet in person?
All the time. Absolutely. And I've met more than a few of them.
One of the unexpected benefits of being a sex blogger (at least, I was naive enough not to expect it) is that the occupation gives one a little bit of swagger; guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger.
And of course, one of the unexpected drawbacks of being a sex blogger is that guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger. So there's a brand of sexual collector who will say just about anything to sweet-talk me into it, and then drop me like a hot potato after.
He looked familiar. Very familiar, in fact. He was a professor at Yale with whom I'm friends. I wrote him back to say, Um, we know each other, you know.
I know to a lot of my readers that sounds like an absolute nightmare. One of the recurring phobias that a lot of readers present me is their fear that someone might recognize them here—they're afraid to post a comment because someone might recognize it as theirs. They're afraid to send in a photo for publication in case their boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/sister/grandmother/spouse might identify them by a microscopic pimple on their backside.
In my case, though, it just led to the two of us becoming even better friends. Saturday morning, my buddy stopped through town so we could catch up and have breakfast together. We'd been talking for a couple of hours when, in a gently-affronted manner, he mentioned someone we both knew who had used him as a reference on a job application, without asking.
"Well," I said. "You have to admit. It sounds impressive as a reference. Yale Professor!" I neglected to remind him that when I'd sent around some teaching resumes last autumn, I'd included him as a reference for just that reason. (I asked first!) "It just sounds good. I touched a Yale Professor." I poked him across the table, on the arm. "I'll never wash this fingertip again!" Then I coyly stuck it in my mouth and sucked it.
My friend kind of rolled his eyes at me.
But I was on a roll. "Yale Professor is like a space on the Sexual Bingo card," I riffed. "Right next to, I don't know. Astronaut, and College Quarterback. Only two more in a row to go for Sexual Bingo!"
He cocked his head and regarded like a particularly curious exhibit in a museum. "You're making a blog entry about this in your head even as you speak, aren't you?"
Guilty as charged.
But my point remains. Sexual Bingo could be a pretty damned fun game, for the sport fucker. There are all kinds of professions and archetypes to fuck one's way through. Corporate Lawyer. Computer Nerd. Hotel Desk Manager. Catholic Priest. Protestant Minister. Rabbi. Tax Preparation Guy. Student. Semi-Hot Homeless Person. Waiter. Airline Attendant. Hairdresser. Republican Congressman.
And of course, for the center space on every card, Sex Blogger. Because we're so easy to score, we might as well be the free space.
Let's get to some questions from formspring.me.
ok wat can we do to get your sexy arse to australia maate
I'm thinking that taking up a collection and buying me a plane ticket, then finding me a host or two while I'm there, would be a very good thing.
Have you ever fallen in love with someone who was supposed to be just a casual hook-up?
Yes. Several times, through the years.
I don't believe that people are 'supposed to be' any one role in our lives. If you want to live right, and stay aligned with the universe and its purpose, you have to take people and the many gifts they bring, for what they are. It's when we begin to ignore the reality of others, and impose our own wills and desires upon them, that we run into troubles.
you are awesome and sooo hot i masturbate to your pictures
Thanks! I might masturbate to yours if you sent me some. But you haven't. So it's kind of one-sided that way.
So, I've been thinking of starting to blog about my sexuality and my deep appreciation and adoration for the male physique. Any pointers, tips on how to do this - especially anonymously, considering that you've done is so well, and successfully.
I think writing about one's sexuality is a valuable experience. When one does it, does it regularly, and does it honestly, it's a valuable record of a subject that gets very little frank and honest attention.
Doing it publicly, or blogging about it, can be valuable for others; they get to see that someone else has the same impulses or affiliations or thoughts or fetishes. Even if they have completely different experiences and desires, it still can open up the eyes of a reader with an open mind. So if you decide to turn your writings into blogging, I advise a few things.
1) Write regularly.
2) Write honestly.
3) Make a commitment to your blog, in the same way you'd commit to a weekly choir rehearsal or play practice. Decide on a schedule that's good for you and stick to it.
4) Treat your readers well, when they're courteous and nicely-behaved.
5) Don't blog because you want the approval of your readers. Don't blog because you want my approval. Don't blog because you want to be notorious, or famous. Write about your life and your experiences because you have something interesting to say, and because you want to share it on a regular basis.
Be aware that blogging also has its down side. If you're trying not to be discovered, know that there are people out there who will do ANYTHING to try to figure out who you are. (And they might succeed.) Be prepared for that. Know that some of your readers will be fucking crazy. Be aware that the fantasies some readers impose on you will not at all resemble anything you do in your everyday life. And know that readers and haters alike can wreck the pure and noble desire you have right now with just a few words.
If you're not afraid of adversity or, more importantly, honesty, by all means. Blog away.
do you have a tattoo
I do not! I love inked skin, but apparently I am too wishy-washy about what to choose for a tattoo design, and where to place it.
When is your birthday? Just the day, not the year
My birthday is on the sixth of February, but you can buy me presents year-round!
Do you get guys you've never met in person, writing to you and telling you their sexual fantasy of you were to meet in person?
All the time. Absolutely. And I've met more than a few of them.
One of the unexpected benefits of being a sex blogger (at least, I was naive enough not to expect it) is that the occupation gives one a little bit of swagger; guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger.
And of course, one of the unexpected drawbacks of being a sex blogger is that guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger. So there's a brand of sexual collector who will say just about anything to sweet-talk me into it, and then drop me like a hot potato after.
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