Monday, July 13, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done
So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
Get.
It.
Done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
Get.
It.
Done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Sunday Morning Questions: Bluto Edition
Every once in a while I’ll write a blog post that seems to touch a nerve. My recent entry about giving head to a man in his seventies opened up a floodgate of private emails—I’m still getting them, in fact. Most of the notes I received were of a celebratory nature, either from older gentlemen happily involved with younger guys: “I’m older than the man you sucked and I have a thirty-three-year-old boyfriend and I couldn’t have a better sex life!”, or “I’m in my late sixties and involved with a guy who’s twenty, and most of the time I’m the one wearing him out!”
Congrats on that, guys. I think it’s awesome when an intergenerational relationship blossoms so fragrantly.
A minority of my correspondence, though, came from men who seemed to have a good thing, but didn’t understand why—or felt that they were unworthy of it. “I’m seventy-four and seeing a young man in his late twenties,” wrote one. “He gets aroused with me, that’s for sure, and he always leaves me satisfied . . . and then some! But I can’t understand what he sees in me. I’m not anywhere near as attractive as him. I’m only of average size. I know I’m being stupid, but every time we meet I’m not enjoying myself fully because I’m thinking more about why in the world he associates with a guy like me instead of with hot guys his own age.”
Another wrote, “I’m just an average-looking college guy who loves, loves, loves daddies. The older the better. If I see a sexy older man all I can think of is the kinky sexual shit I want to do with him. But if I try to talk to one I freeze up because I know they’re not going to take me seriously. Older guys have their shit together. I don’t even know what classes I’m taking next semester. I don’t want to be attractive just because I’m young. What are they going to see in me? I want to be able to bring something to the table.”
I think all of us have experienced these inadequacies at times. Haven’t we? I’ve always been upfront about my own feelings of unworthiness—the multiple times I’ve felt that guys are out of my league, the times I’ve felt I’m not sexy enough, not wealthy enough, not muscular enough. When I was younger, I felt that I was too young for the older guys I desired. At my current age, I sometimes worry I’m too old for anyone who still has his own teeth.
The thing is, though, that it’s fruitless to try to micromanage other people’s desires. If a man of any age tells you that he finds you attractive, why question it? What’s the profit, there? If he’s seen you in a bar or in a social situation, he’s had plenty of time to size you up and decide that the two of you should spend time together. If you’ve communicated online or on an app, and the photos he’s seen are good representations of you (and genuinely are of you and not your favorite porn star), why waste your time trying to pick apart his professed attraction?
Ultimately doubting someone because he’s into you is an insult to the guy in question. You’re not only doubting his taste, but you’re giving him no credit whatsoever to make his own adult decisions. Let him be the one to decide if you’re the one right for him. Don’t dump him because you’ve decided you’re not right for him. Don’t distance yourself in case you suspect he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t refuse to meet him because you worry he’s not got a clear perception of who you really are. Let the guy choose. He might surprise you.
I think it’s always important to keep in mind that when we’re meeting a man for sex, we’re not just meeting his penis. We’re meeting all his insecurities, all the vulnerabilities he’s been carrying around, all the doubt he’s had in the last two hours when he’s readied himself in the mirror just to meet you. That’s one of the reasons a little kindness goes a long way—it’s a salve to all the stings and hurts in our lives. If someone’s being kind to you . . . please allow him.
Let’s get to a few reader questions, shall we? (And if you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, feel free to email me.)
Would you rather fuck the Fellowship of the Ring in an orgy, or hit them all one at a time, or (with your penchant for 'ugly-sexy') just pass over the whole lot and make your way through Sauron's army?
That’s quite the question, there. If you’d asked me before those Peter Jackson movies had come out, my answer would’ve been quite different. I would’ve gone with Sauron’s army all the way, because bad boys are always more fun.
After sitting through the movies though? Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the only thing that got me through it was having some man-on-hobbit fantasies involving some Sam on my dick. Oh, that’s right. I said it, my precious. Breeder and Samwise Gamgee, gettin’ it on. Girls, you can keep your Orlando Blooms, your Viggos, your Elijahs. I’ve got my eye on something a little tastier, and together we’re going to put the ‘mount’ in Mount Doom.
Please notice that I did manage to avoid a joke about ‘one cock ring to rule them all.’ You’re welcome.
Do you have any real conception of how many people you help with your blog? I’ve been reading you for several years and it’s remarkable how much you’ve changed my own perceptions about sex in general and my own sexual desires in particular, but I don’t get the impression that you understand how you affect people. I would have hung up my hat and retired from sex a long time ago, but you’ve helped me understand that I can have fun the way I want without apologizing for who I am and what I desire.
Thank you. I am honored, and genuinely touched, by your compliment.
I get people writing in a lot to tell me how much reading me has changed their lives. It’s not such an everyday occurrence that I’m blasé about it. In fact, every time someone shows me his appreciation in that way, I hug it to myself for a while because it’s such a blessing. Really.
The thing is, I don’t write to affect lives. It’s not my primary purpose. I write to share my sexual experiences with the world—the encounters I have, the bulletins I have from the leading edge of the sexual frontier, the reflections I have on my past. I’m just one guy sharing a solitary perspective on sex. If occasionally I hit a universal theme that resonates with another person, it’s simply a fortunate byproduct. I’m too modest a person in my everyday life to perceive myself as a life-changing guru.
I’m happy when it happens, though.
I’ve noticed you haven’t been writing as much lately. Is everything okay?
Everything’s good. I’ve been very happy the last several months, honest!
There have been a few times in the last couple of years when I’ve had to contemplate whether or not I wanted to continue writing this blog. Although I’ve gotten a lot of joy out of it in the more than five years I’ve kept it, and although I’ve met a hell of a lot of incredibly great guys because of it, sometimes the hassles seem to overshadow the fun parts.
I’ve had stalkers, troublemakers, psychos, name-callers, game-players, and guys who feel because I share parts of my life freely that they don’t have to observe any of my boundaries whatsoever. I’ve had men whose need for validation and attention is so great that they don’t really seem to care that there’s a real person behind the blogger. Even this last week I had someone whose need for attention was so great that he stayed up for hours one night leaving potty-mouthed comments on dozens of entries across my blog.
The compromise I’ve had to make with myself to keep writing is that I write when I want to. I write when I have a story that I really want to share. I’m not obligating myself to interact when the impulse isn’t there; I’m not trying to force myself to write a given number of times a week, just to keep the posts coming. If I share a story, it’s because I really, really want to.
I know that means I’m writing less this year than in previous years. I’m sorry for those of you who wish I’d post more frequently. But I think you can concede it’s better that I post once in a while, because I want to, than it is that I post multiple half-hearted entries . . . or post none at all.
I always laugh when you post about the losers you encounter. Any good ones lately? Thanks for the posts!
Well, I did have one who managed to flabbergast me with the sheer size of his ego, not that long ago.
There’s a local guy—name and profile link provided upon request, because he managed to piss me off so badly by being such an fuckwad!—who’s lived several places in my vicinity over the past four years. He started out a good few dozen miles west down the highway, then migrated closer and closer until he lived right in my town. I’m not going to deny his profile is hot. I mean, the guy’s a stud, judging from his photos. He’s one of those hairy muscle-ass types whom bears like to claim as being of their own tribe . . . he looks a bit as if Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto (or Brutus, depending on your generation) were a furry bareback porn star who’d not only eaten his spinach every day and grown muscles all over, but had knocked over Popeye to steal his spinach so that his muscles could grow muscles of his own.
He’d been hitting me up ever since I moved here. The problem, however, wasn’t distance. I was willing to drive out to see him in the days he lived a good hour away, and I’ve certainly been willing to drive the eight or nine miles to his current home ever since he took up residence here. The problem is that he would come online, hit me up strong and hungry, and then disappear for fucking months at a time.
The other problem is that we’d make a date to connect, and he’d never keep it. Every time he’d show up online, after being AWOL for an entire season, he’d tell me that we’d have to fuck man, fuck, man, we have to fuck! I’d leave him ways to contact me—my email, my phone number. I’d ask if he was free on Thursday—I had all Thursday off and was willing to come see him. Sure, man, he’d call me Thursday, sounds good, it’s definite . . . he promised he wouldn’t flake, man. Then Thursday would roll around. No call.
This happened so many times that I gave up on the guy. What’s more, he did it to several other guys I know in the area. My best friend attempted to hook up with him several times. “He’s going to tell you he’ll keep a certain day clear just for you,” I warned him. “But then that day will come and he won’t be around.” My friend, I think, was convinced that I was too cynical and this hairy muscle-ass guy wouldn’t disappoint him the way he’d consistently disappointed me.
When my friend was inevitably ditched and dismayed, though, it managed to piss me off even more than the multiple times when the guy had done it to me.
So I was done with him. I just ignored the guy when he’d log on. I’d read his mails, but not respond. I didn’t want to play the game any longer.
One day in April, though, after I declined to interact with the asshole, I got this email from him:
I confess my jaw dropped. Really, this guy was lumping everyone else into the category of ‘the less fortunates’ just because he thinks he’s the hottest bottom in the room? Damn. That takes some gall. I wrote back the following response, waited until he’d read it, and then blocked him:
Somehow I’ve managed to get by, all these years, without being the recipient solely of pity fucks or charity sex. Sometimes I find the ‘less fortunates’ to be better lovers—and better people—than those who can only bring muscle to the table.
Sometimes I’ve even the hottest top in the room. But I manage not to be an asshole about it.
Congrats on that, guys. I think it’s awesome when an intergenerational relationship blossoms so fragrantly.
A minority of my correspondence, though, came from men who seemed to have a good thing, but didn’t understand why—or felt that they were unworthy of it. “I’m seventy-four and seeing a young man in his late twenties,” wrote one. “He gets aroused with me, that’s for sure, and he always leaves me satisfied . . . and then some! But I can’t understand what he sees in me. I’m not anywhere near as attractive as him. I’m only of average size. I know I’m being stupid, but every time we meet I’m not enjoying myself fully because I’m thinking more about why in the world he associates with a guy like me instead of with hot guys his own age.”
Another wrote, “I’m just an average-looking college guy who loves, loves, loves daddies. The older the better. If I see a sexy older man all I can think of is the kinky sexual shit I want to do with him. But if I try to talk to one I freeze up because I know they’re not going to take me seriously. Older guys have their shit together. I don’t even know what classes I’m taking next semester. I don’t want to be attractive just because I’m young. What are they going to see in me? I want to be able to bring something to the table.”
I think all of us have experienced these inadequacies at times. Haven’t we? I’ve always been upfront about my own feelings of unworthiness—the multiple times I’ve felt that guys are out of my league, the times I’ve felt I’m not sexy enough, not wealthy enough, not muscular enough. When I was younger, I felt that I was too young for the older guys I desired. At my current age, I sometimes worry I’m too old for anyone who still has his own teeth.
The thing is, though, that it’s fruitless to try to micromanage other people’s desires. If a man of any age tells you that he finds you attractive, why question it? What’s the profit, there? If he’s seen you in a bar or in a social situation, he’s had plenty of time to size you up and decide that the two of you should spend time together. If you’ve communicated online or on an app, and the photos he’s seen are good representations of you (and genuinely are of you and not your favorite porn star), why waste your time trying to pick apart his professed attraction?
Ultimately doubting someone because he’s into you is an insult to the guy in question. You’re not only doubting his taste, but you’re giving him no credit whatsoever to make his own adult decisions. Let him be the one to decide if you’re the one right for him. Don’t dump him because you’ve decided you’re not right for him. Don’t distance yourself in case you suspect he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t refuse to meet him because you worry he’s not got a clear perception of who you really are. Let the guy choose. He might surprise you.
I think it’s always important to keep in mind that when we’re meeting a man for sex, we’re not just meeting his penis. We’re meeting all his insecurities, all the vulnerabilities he’s been carrying around, all the doubt he’s had in the last two hours when he’s readied himself in the mirror just to meet you. That’s one of the reasons a little kindness goes a long way—it’s a salve to all the stings and hurts in our lives. If someone’s being kind to you . . . please allow him.
Let’s get to a few reader questions, shall we? (And if you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, feel free to email me.)
Would you rather fuck the Fellowship of the Ring in an orgy, or hit them all one at a time, or (with your penchant for 'ugly-sexy') just pass over the whole lot and make your way through Sauron's army?
That’s quite the question, there. If you’d asked me before those Peter Jackson movies had come out, my answer would’ve been quite different. I would’ve gone with Sauron’s army all the way, because bad boys are always more fun.
After sitting through the movies though? Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the only thing that got me through it was having some man-on-hobbit fantasies involving some Sam on my dick. Oh, that’s right. I said it, my precious. Breeder and Samwise Gamgee, gettin’ it on. Girls, you can keep your Orlando Blooms, your Viggos, your Elijahs. I’ve got my eye on something a little tastier, and together we’re going to put the ‘mount’ in Mount Doom.
Please notice that I did manage to avoid a joke about ‘one cock ring to rule them all.’ You’re welcome.
Do you have any real conception of how many people you help with your blog? I’ve been reading you for several years and it’s remarkable how much you’ve changed my own perceptions about sex in general and my own sexual desires in particular, but I don’t get the impression that you understand how you affect people. I would have hung up my hat and retired from sex a long time ago, but you’ve helped me understand that I can have fun the way I want without apologizing for who I am and what I desire.
Thank you. I am honored, and genuinely touched, by your compliment.
I get people writing in a lot to tell me how much reading me has changed their lives. It’s not such an everyday occurrence that I’m blasé about it. In fact, every time someone shows me his appreciation in that way, I hug it to myself for a while because it’s such a blessing. Really.
The thing is, I don’t write to affect lives. It’s not my primary purpose. I write to share my sexual experiences with the world—the encounters I have, the bulletins I have from the leading edge of the sexual frontier, the reflections I have on my past. I’m just one guy sharing a solitary perspective on sex. If occasionally I hit a universal theme that resonates with another person, it’s simply a fortunate byproduct. I’m too modest a person in my everyday life to perceive myself as a life-changing guru.
I’m happy when it happens, though.
I’ve noticed you haven’t been writing as much lately. Is everything okay?
Everything’s good. I’ve been very happy the last several months, honest!
There have been a few times in the last couple of years when I’ve had to contemplate whether or not I wanted to continue writing this blog. Although I’ve gotten a lot of joy out of it in the more than five years I’ve kept it, and although I’ve met a hell of a lot of incredibly great guys because of it, sometimes the hassles seem to overshadow the fun parts.
I’ve had stalkers, troublemakers, psychos, name-callers, game-players, and guys who feel because I share parts of my life freely that they don’t have to observe any of my boundaries whatsoever. I’ve had men whose need for validation and attention is so great that they don’t really seem to care that there’s a real person behind the blogger. Even this last week I had someone whose need for attention was so great that he stayed up for hours one night leaving potty-mouthed comments on dozens of entries across my blog.
The compromise I’ve had to make with myself to keep writing is that I write when I want to. I write when I have a story that I really want to share. I’m not obligating myself to interact when the impulse isn’t there; I’m not trying to force myself to write a given number of times a week, just to keep the posts coming. If I share a story, it’s because I really, really want to.
I know that means I’m writing less this year than in previous years. I’m sorry for those of you who wish I’d post more frequently. But I think you can concede it’s better that I post once in a while, because I want to, than it is that I post multiple half-hearted entries . . . or post none at all.
I always laugh when you post about the losers you encounter. Any good ones lately? Thanks for the posts!
Well, I did have one who managed to flabbergast me with the sheer size of his ego, not that long ago.
There’s a local guy—name and profile link provided upon request, because he managed to piss me off so badly by being such an fuckwad!—who’s lived several places in my vicinity over the past four years. He started out a good few dozen miles west down the highway, then migrated closer and closer until he lived right in my town. I’m not going to deny his profile is hot. I mean, the guy’s a stud, judging from his photos. He’s one of those hairy muscle-ass types whom bears like to claim as being of their own tribe . . . he looks a bit as if Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto (or Brutus, depending on your generation) were a furry bareback porn star who’d not only eaten his spinach every day and grown muscles all over, but had knocked over Popeye to steal his spinach so that his muscles could grow muscles of his own.
He’d been hitting me up ever since I moved here. The problem, however, wasn’t distance. I was willing to drive out to see him in the days he lived a good hour away, and I’ve certainly been willing to drive the eight or nine miles to his current home ever since he took up residence here. The problem is that he would come online, hit me up strong and hungry, and then disappear for fucking months at a time.
The other problem is that we’d make a date to connect, and he’d never keep it. Every time he’d show up online, after being AWOL for an entire season, he’d tell me that we’d have to fuck man, fuck, man, we have to fuck! I’d leave him ways to contact me—my email, my phone number. I’d ask if he was free on Thursday—I had all Thursday off and was willing to come see him. Sure, man, he’d call me Thursday, sounds good, it’s definite . . . he promised he wouldn’t flake, man. Then Thursday would roll around. No call.
This happened so many times that I gave up on the guy. What’s more, he did it to several other guys I know in the area. My best friend attempted to hook up with him several times. “He’s going to tell you he’ll keep a certain day clear just for you,” I warned him. “But then that day will come and he won’t be around.” My friend, I think, was convinced that I was too cynical and this hairy muscle-ass guy wouldn’t disappoint him the way he’d consistently disappointed me.
When my friend was inevitably ditched and dismayed, though, it managed to piss me off even more than the multiple times when the guy had done it to me.
So I was done with him. I just ignored the guy when he’d log on. I’d read his mails, but not respond. I didn’t want to play the game any longer.
One day in April, though, after I declined to interact with the asshole, I got this email from him:
Okay man.... When the hottest Bottom in the room offers someone like yourself his ass, you are clearly intimidated (for good reason) or you are clearly not a Top. Confessing your a bottom certainly doesn't make you less of a Man, Look at me... Fortunately there are a lot of less fortunates in the room to for you to play with. Cheers...
I confess my jaw dropped. Really, this guy was lumping everyone else into the category of ‘the less fortunates’ just because he thinks he’s the hottest bottom in the room? Damn. That takes some gall. I wrote back the following response, waited until he’d read it, and then blocked him:
I have given you both my email and phone number in the past. You've never used either. When we've talked before and I've given you times I'm available, you've claimed you would hit me up....and never did. Multiple times.
You're attractive. Sure. But assuming that you're the hottest bottom 'someone like myself' could pull is both egotistical and wildly incorrect.
I'm glad you consider yourself fortunate. I hope your good fortune continues. Perhaps in the future you'll also be fortunate enough to realize that your looks aren't always going to compensate for poor behavior.
Somehow I’ve managed to get by, all these years, without being the recipient solely of pity fucks or charity sex. Sometimes I find the ‘less fortunates’ to be better lovers—and better people—than those who can only bring muscle to the table.
Sometimes I’ve even the hottest top in the room. But I manage not to be an asshole about it.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Monday, April 27, 2015
You Need to Know
You need to know what I go through, leaving you.
There hasn’t been a time you haven’t offered me your shower, after we fuck for hours. I always decline. It’s because I want to step out of your apartment knowing that I smell of you. I stride down the tiles of your hallway, out the first security door and then the second, and finally onto the street. Only there in the fresh air do I curl my lip and inhale the scent of you, fresh and pungent as any aromatic. I savor it as I pass the bodega two streets down from you. Your bouquet is my private pleasure on my train rides home—that sweet musk lingers on my face with my own, and becomes part of me.
As it fades, bit by bit, I start counting the days until I can see you again. Until I can eat your hole again, and cover my face with the tang of your most private place. Until I can press my chest against yours after you shoot your load, and pull apart after I’m glued to you, covered with your essence.
I count the days until I can fuck you again, and leave part of myself inside.
You know what you do to me when we meet. You can see it in my face; you read it in the tensing and easing of my muscles. You measure it directly by the stiffness of my dick. There are a hundred secret things you know about me from our meetings.
But you need to know what I go through when I don’t see you.
I wake in the middle of the night beneath the blankets, warm and drowsy. My dick, though, is wide awake and raging. It shoves against the mattress and hopes to find the warm mounds of your ass, but is only frustrated to find cotton and foam. I sleep with a small pillow between my knees. Caught between dreaming and waking, I can imagine too easily that it’s your legs my own wrap around, that the body sleeping next to me is yours. Then my eyelids flutter, and the unblinking cold light of my clock illuminates the contours of my bedroom, and it’s with regret that I have to concede that you’re not there. But still my cock demands. The head swell, my nuts tighten, and I drift back into sleep thinking of how tight and warm, how wet you feel when I push insistently inside.
I think of texting you, during the day. I wonder how you are, and what you’re doing at work. I wonder if you’d think it creepy if some dude old enough to be your dad were to text you and tell you about the dream he had the night before of your presence next to his, and how much he craved to be within you. Too often I fear I err on the side of caution. I don’t want you to feel obligated to give yourself to me; I don’t want the knowledge of my desire to be a burden.
But you’re what I think about, when I think about fucking.
You need to know how it is for me when I save up for you. When the days pass and turn into weeks, when the weeks sometimes pass to turn into a month. When finally I learn you’ll have the place to yourself and I’ll be with you again. I save up. Every time. I do it in part for you, because I know you love the sensation of my big load gushing into your deepest recesses. Mostly, though, I do it for me. I do it because the self-denial is pleasurable.
Writing those last words brought a little smile to my face. Pleasurable. Torturous. I’m finding it tough to tell the difference.
The first two days I scarcely notice. I masturbate less than I fuck anyway; I can go two days, even three without spotting the difference.
Day four, though, I find myself growing hard at the slightest provocation. A pretty face, a memory of something sexual, a growl in a voice or a look of longing in my direction makes me want to unbuckle and have at it. Day five, and sex starts to be all I can think about. I know I shouldn’t whip it out. I know I shouldn’t scratch this itch. But oh, do I want to.
By the sixth and seventh day of my abstinence, I’m in a frenzy. My middle-of-the-night boners are hard as cement; they rage and demand and insist, keeping me awake more than I like to admit. My dick wrenches me from my sleep abruptly, the head wet with precum from some dream of you that’s vanishing too quickly. I’m trapped in a sexual purgatory with no sign of relief. Every hour seems longer than the last. I endure my day’s work thinking about you, about how sore I want your hole when I’m done with it. I look at the photos you’ve sent, re-read your texts, go over your stories in my mind. I revisit the map of your body I keep locked away—the rolling mountains of your ass, the valley between your thighs, the sounds of the oceans made by your sighs.
My brain’s besotted with you, the last couple of days before we meet again. What’s worse is that the boys can smell my desperation on the wind, like hounds smell a bitch in heat. Out of the woodwork they crawl, insinuating that we should get together, that I should fuck them. It’d be so easy, too. You wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have to be accountable. I could slip inside them, fill their little holes with cum, and hook up with you not long after. I’d still have load enough for you.
But it’s not right. It’s not the reason for which I go through this torture.
You need to know: I save up my load because it’s you that deserves it. It’s you that I want to blast with my sperm—only you. I’ll accept no lesser applicants, no substitutes. I want to turn you over and bury your face in the pillow, and lift your hips with my hands and pull that sweet, muscular ass to my face so I can eat it and relax it. I want to chew on your hole both to make it yearn for me, and as revenge for making me wait so long. I want to turn you onto your back, and wedge that pillow of yours beneath the small of your spine, and drive into you with the cock that’s been waiting for days and weeks and months. I want to make it sweet, just the way you crave; I want to make it hurt, so you’ll remember me with every twinge and pang.
I want to fuck you so hard and so relentlessly, that when I climax in a series of shudders and soft moans, in jerky thrusts and the swelling and release of the inches between my legs, you and I both know that this is right—that the sperm that’s been boiling in my nuts for the last week or more has been simmering for you. Not for some hungry little Latin boy looking for a papi to fuck him. Not for some cum whore eager to score. Just for you. I want that big load, and the loads that follow, to seep from your hole and onto your mattress all night. I want you to be able to reach down there and behind, to touch the parts I’ve left moist and puffy and sore, and remember I was there, and that I took the pains to make it special.
Maybe you do it when you’re alone that night, remembering what passed before. Maybe you do it while I’m still in your apartment building, while I’m walking down that tiled hallway and smelling you on my upper lip, while I’m letting myself out and walking with regret back to the train.
You need to know: even sated and walking down the street mere heartbeats away, stinking sweetly of your hole and your juice, I’m already thinking of our next time.
I’m already thinking of you.
There hasn’t been a time you haven’t offered me your shower, after we fuck for hours. I always decline. It’s because I want to step out of your apartment knowing that I smell of you. I stride down the tiles of your hallway, out the first security door and then the second, and finally onto the street. Only there in the fresh air do I curl my lip and inhale the scent of you, fresh and pungent as any aromatic. I savor it as I pass the bodega two streets down from you. Your bouquet is my private pleasure on my train rides home—that sweet musk lingers on my face with my own, and becomes part of me.
As it fades, bit by bit, I start counting the days until I can see you again. Until I can eat your hole again, and cover my face with the tang of your most private place. Until I can press my chest against yours after you shoot your load, and pull apart after I’m glued to you, covered with your essence.
I count the days until I can fuck you again, and leave part of myself inside.
You know what you do to me when we meet. You can see it in my face; you read it in the tensing and easing of my muscles. You measure it directly by the stiffness of my dick. There are a hundred secret things you know about me from our meetings.
But you need to know what I go through when I don’t see you.
I wake in the middle of the night beneath the blankets, warm and drowsy. My dick, though, is wide awake and raging. It shoves against the mattress and hopes to find the warm mounds of your ass, but is only frustrated to find cotton and foam. I sleep with a small pillow between my knees. Caught between dreaming and waking, I can imagine too easily that it’s your legs my own wrap around, that the body sleeping next to me is yours. Then my eyelids flutter, and the unblinking cold light of my clock illuminates the contours of my bedroom, and it’s with regret that I have to concede that you’re not there. But still my cock demands. The head swell, my nuts tighten, and I drift back into sleep thinking of how tight and warm, how wet you feel when I push insistently inside.
I think of texting you, during the day. I wonder how you are, and what you’re doing at work. I wonder if you’d think it creepy if some dude old enough to be your dad were to text you and tell you about the dream he had the night before of your presence next to his, and how much he craved to be within you. Too often I fear I err on the side of caution. I don’t want you to feel obligated to give yourself to me; I don’t want the knowledge of my desire to be a burden.
But you’re what I think about, when I think about fucking.
You need to know how it is for me when I save up for you. When the days pass and turn into weeks, when the weeks sometimes pass to turn into a month. When finally I learn you’ll have the place to yourself and I’ll be with you again. I save up. Every time. I do it in part for you, because I know you love the sensation of my big load gushing into your deepest recesses. Mostly, though, I do it for me. I do it because the self-denial is pleasurable.
Writing those last words brought a little smile to my face. Pleasurable. Torturous. I’m finding it tough to tell the difference.
The first two days I scarcely notice. I masturbate less than I fuck anyway; I can go two days, even three without spotting the difference.
Day four, though, I find myself growing hard at the slightest provocation. A pretty face, a memory of something sexual, a growl in a voice or a look of longing in my direction makes me want to unbuckle and have at it. Day five, and sex starts to be all I can think about. I know I shouldn’t whip it out. I know I shouldn’t scratch this itch. But oh, do I want to.
By the sixth and seventh day of my abstinence, I’m in a frenzy. My middle-of-the-night boners are hard as cement; they rage and demand and insist, keeping me awake more than I like to admit. My dick wrenches me from my sleep abruptly, the head wet with precum from some dream of you that’s vanishing too quickly. I’m trapped in a sexual purgatory with no sign of relief. Every hour seems longer than the last. I endure my day’s work thinking about you, about how sore I want your hole when I’m done with it. I look at the photos you’ve sent, re-read your texts, go over your stories in my mind. I revisit the map of your body I keep locked away—the rolling mountains of your ass, the valley between your thighs, the sounds of the oceans made by your sighs.
My brain’s besotted with you, the last couple of days before we meet again. What’s worse is that the boys can smell my desperation on the wind, like hounds smell a bitch in heat. Out of the woodwork they crawl, insinuating that we should get together, that I should fuck them. It’d be so easy, too. You wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have to be accountable. I could slip inside them, fill their little holes with cum, and hook up with you not long after. I’d still have load enough for you.
But it’s not right. It’s not the reason for which I go through this torture.
You need to know: I save up my load because it’s you that deserves it. It’s you that I want to blast with my sperm—only you. I’ll accept no lesser applicants, no substitutes. I want to turn you over and bury your face in the pillow, and lift your hips with my hands and pull that sweet, muscular ass to my face so I can eat it and relax it. I want to chew on your hole both to make it yearn for me, and as revenge for making me wait so long. I want to turn you onto your back, and wedge that pillow of yours beneath the small of your spine, and drive into you with the cock that’s been waiting for days and weeks and months. I want to make it sweet, just the way you crave; I want to make it hurt, so you’ll remember me with every twinge and pang.
I want to fuck you so hard and so relentlessly, that when I climax in a series of shudders and soft moans, in jerky thrusts and the swelling and release of the inches between my legs, you and I both know that this is right—that the sperm that’s been boiling in my nuts for the last week or more has been simmering for you. Not for some hungry little Latin boy looking for a papi to fuck him. Not for some cum whore eager to score. Just for you. I want that big load, and the loads that follow, to seep from your hole and onto your mattress all night. I want you to be able to reach down there and behind, to touch the parts I’ve left moist and puffy and sore, and remember I was there, and that I took the pains to make it special.
Maybe you do it when you’re alone that night, remembering what passed before. Maybe you do it while I’m still in your apartment building, while I’m walking down that tiled hallway and smelling you on my upper lip, while I’m letting myself out and walking with regret back to the train.
You need to know: even sated and walking down the street mere heartbeats away, stinking sweetly of your hole and your juice, I’m already thinking of our next time.
I’m already thinking of you.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Pedestal
There’s a party going on in the distance. Spotlights flail to the beat of a thudding drum and bass, sending their columns of light criss-crossing into the night sky. Orion rules the black night sky; one of the jewels of his belt blinks more brightly than the others. There’s a scent of ocean water on the breeze.
I’m in the darkness, hidden away from the party lights, the video screens, the brightly-illuminated dance floor where hundreds of men gyrate in skimpy outfits. I can hear it all. The raucous laughter, the shouts, the whoops of happiness when the song changes to something familiar. No, where I am is shadowed, unlit by any light that’s not reflected multiple times before finally easing the last, weak parts of itself at the nether end of nowhere where I roam.
There are a handful of men here. Our eyes flash and glint, locked on each other, as we pass. I’m in no hurry to pick. I’ve got time. My hands are stuck deep in the pockets of my shorts as I stroll along the dark, open spaces. In a corner, behind where the staff have piled a stack of lounge chairs, someone is noisily sucking cock. A crowd is gathering, one or two men at a time, where the action is. I stroll by and glance at the man on his knees, his mouth wrapped around the shaft of an older guy in board shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. The man’s shirt is open. Someone’s hand reaches out to run over the velvety texture of silver chest hair. Another reaches out to tweak his nipples.
Men crowd around to try to get in on the action; they hope they’ll have some of the sexual good fortune rub off on themselves. Failing that, they hope to cop a feel, to see something hot, to get service themselves from the cocksucker. It would be easy for me to crowd in and partake.
I don’t, though. I’m cocky enough to believe that I don’t have to go to the action. I prefer it come to me.
So I stand at a distance, leaning against a rail by the walkway. For a few minutes I watch the men come and go. They nod at me, take their measure of my height, judge the bulge in my shorts where my fingers idly drum. More men crowd in the area where the cocksucker’s working. None of them are getting more than a handful of chest hair, but they crowd in, hopeful. I maintain my stance, keep my place, and wait.
I don’t wait long. A short man wearing a full leather uniform strides by slowly. His skin is as dark as the night itself; he’s wearing Ray-Bans that he grasps by the temple and tips down so he can stare at me as he passes. The guy’s gone to some trouble to deck himself out in gear. He’s got the cap, the halter, the collar, the leather pants. Armbands squeeze his big biceps so tightly they look like they might burst. He’s musclebound—that’s the word for him. No taller than five-foot-four. Bulges in all the right places—and in some places I didn’t know could bulge. The guy doesn’t just work out daily. He works out around the clock.
He nods. Raises his sunglasses once more. Saunters down further and leans against the same railing as I. When I look over, he’s looking back. Of course he is. And he’s got his hand resting on his crotch. When he squeezes, I stand up and stroll to his side.
“C’mon over here,” he murmurs, jerking his head in the opposite direction as the small crowd. No preamble. No conversation. He just cuts right to the chase.
I like that in a man.
There’s another stack of deck chairs in another corner of this darkened area. It’s easily three, maybe four feet high. The chairs are laid flat upon each other to make a barrier of sorts. When he takes me by the hand to lead me behind the enclosure, I’m surprised. Not at the fact he’s taking me somewhere private. I’m surprised at the gentleness of his touch, of the intimacy of his soft fingers wrapped around mine.
We’re alone now. He drops my hand reluctantly, then reaches out and rests his palms on my shoulder. I feel his touch, warm and steady, as it travels down my chest, my stomach. They stop at my waist and grasp it firmly. He kneels before me.
I think I know what he wants. My hands reached down to unbutton my shorts for him. My dick’s already hard and trying to burst out. But before I can undo them, I feel myself losing my balance. Suddenly I’m aloft as he uses his grip on my waist and his position to hoist me in the air. For several moments I’m confused, but I try not to wiggle; it looks like an awfully long way down.
It’s only a second or two later that he deposits me atop the stack of deck chairs. Then, and only then, do his hands release me and go for my button and zipper. He yanks down savagely to free my cock. It flops out. The zipper’s teeth bite, not too painfully, into my scrotum. Then he leans forward, almost at mouth level for him, and engulfs my rigid cock between his lips.
“Fuck,” I say aloud, forgetting for a moment I’m supposed to be in a dark and quiet corner. But the position he’s put me in is the opposite of private. I’m visible to everyone in these secluded shadows. I’m higher than them all, on a pedestal of deck chairs, with a leather-geared black man going at my meat like a starving dog. What are people going to crowd around, that kind of scene, or an everyday cocksucker on his knees? The crowd begins to come to me.
From time to time the leather man grabs my face and pulls it down and forward so he can kiss me. The men who are beginning to gravitate to us start growling and making grunts of approval when we kiss. The man’s tongue invades my mouth, reaches its very recesses. He’s not the gentlest kisser . . . but he’s thorough. A couple of bolder individuals try to step up and take a handful of my dick, or run their hands over the black man’s body. He’s not having any of it. He’s not rude when he pushes them away, but he’s firm about it; I’m his territory, and he’s not intending to cede it in the least.
His determination to keep his space erects an invisible wall, like glass, three feet on either side of us. Two dozen men crowd around to watch the action, but they don’t move in any further than that. The muscle man makes a show of sucking my cock. His hands are small in size, so when he grips my meat and squeezes, it looks enormous in comparison. My cock is engorged, its mushroom head flushed and ballooned to capacity. The man lewdly tongues the slit for thick, sweet globs of my precum, using it for lip balm. Then he runs those lips up and down the shaft, making certain that the crowd can see the white cock he’s claimed for his prize.
I’m turned on as much by the voyeurs as I am the blow job. I let my head loll back. I groan. I take off the stud’s cap and wear it for my own, tipped to the side. Then I run my palms over his shaved head, enjoying the sand-like sensation of the faintest stubble beneath them.
When I shoot, it’s loud and noisy. He feels my body heaving and perhaps hears the quickening of my breath. He gets enough warning to back off and wrap his right hand around my shaft, so that he can beat me to orgasm. The load splatters across his face. He nods at me, then reaches up and wipes it off his face. Making certain the crowd is watching, he then licks it off from between his fingers. Finally he wipes his hands on his chest. I can hear the men watching us murmur in approval.
Like a gentleman, he helps me down from the stack of chairs. Once again he grabs me around the waist as I lift myself up, then with dancer-like grace, he deposits me lightly on my feet. I’ve never felt so manhandled in my life. He reaches up, removes his cap from my head, and places it back on his own. He’d hooked his sunglasses onto his pants pocket at some point during the head job. They go back onto his face and make him look mean. Impassive. But before he leaves, he flashes me a quick grin.
The crowd disappears around us as we ease our way out from behind the stack of chairs. The show’s over. I saunter back over to the railing slowly, aware that men are looking at me with speculation. But I’m not ready to play again. Not yet.
Will I recognize the man among the others in the daylight? I don’t know. But I know I’ll be looking. I know I’ll be hoping that our glances lock with recognition—validation of a few minutes in a dark corner with every eye upon us.
I’m in the darkness, hidden away from the party lights, the video screens, the brightly-illuminated dance floor where hundreds of men gyrate in skimpy outfits. I can hear it all. The raucous laughter, the shouts, the whoops of happiness when the song changes to something familiar. No, where I am is shadowed, unlit by any light that’s not reflected multiple times before finally easing the last, weak parts of itself at the nether end of nowhere where I roam.
There are a handful of men here. Our eyes flash and glint, locked on each other, as we pass. I’m in no hurry to pick. I’ve got time. My hands are stuck deep in the pockets of my shorts as I stroll along the dark, open spaces. In a corner, behind where the staff have piled a stack of lounge chairs, someone is noisily sucking cock. A crowd is gathering, one or two men at a time, where the action is. I stroll by and glance at the man on his knees, his mouth wrapped around the shaft of an older guy in board shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. The man’s shirt is open. Someone’s hand reaches out to run over the velvety texture of silver chest hair. Another reaches out to tweak his nipples.
Men crowd around to try to get in on the action; they hope they’ll have some of the sexual good fortune rub off on themselves. Failing that, they hope to cop a feel, to see something hot, to get service themselves from the cocksucker. It would be easy for me to crowd in and partake.
I don’t, though. I’m cocky enough to believe that I don’t have to go to the action. I prefer it come to me.
So I stand at a distance, leaning against a rail by the walkway. For a few minutes I watch the men come and go. They nod at me, take their measure of my height, judge the bulge in my shorts where my fingers idly drum. More men crowd in the area where the cocksucker’s working. None of them are getting more than a handful of chest hair, but they crowd in, hopeful. I maintain my stance, keep my place, and wait.
I don’t wait long. A short man wearing a full leather uniform strides by slowly. His skin is as dark as the night itself; he’s wearing Ray-Bans that he grasps by the temple and tips down so he can stare at me as he passes. The guy’s gone to some trouble to deck himself out in gear. He’s got the cap, the halter, the collar, the leather pants. Armbands squeeze his big biceps so tightly they look like they might burst. He’s musclebound—that’s the word for him. No taller than five-foot-four. Bulges in all the right places—and in some places I didn’t know could bulge. The guy doesn’t just work out daily. He works out around the clock.
He nods. Raises his sunglasses once more. Saunters down further and leans against the same railing as I. When I look over, he’s looking back. Of course he is. And he’s got his hand resting on his crotch. When he squeezes, I stand up and stroll to his side.
“C’mon over here,” he murmurs, jerking his head in the opposite direction as the small crowd. No preamble. No conversation. He just cuts right to the chase.
I like that in a man.
There’s another stack of deck chairs in another corner of this darkened area. It’s easily three, maybe four feet high. The chairs are laid flat upon each other to make a barrier of sorts. When he takes me by the hand to lead me behind the enclosure, I’m surprised. Not at the fact he’s taking me somewhere private. I’m surprised at the gentleness of his touch, of the intimacy of his soft fingers wrapped around mine.
We’re alone now. He drops my hand reluctantly, then reaches out and rests his palms on my shoulder. I feel his touch, warm and steady, as it travels down my chest, my stomach. They stop at my waist and grasp it firmly. He kneels before me.
I think I know what he wants. My hands reached down to unbutton my shorts for him. My dick’s already hard and trying to burst out. But before I can undo them, I feel myself losing my balance. Suddenly I’m aloft as he uses his grip on my waist and his position to hoist me in the air. For several moments I’m confused, but I try not to wiggle; it looks like an awfully long way down.
It’s only a second or two later that he deposits me atop the stack of deck chairs. Then, and only then, do his hands release me and go for my button and zipper. He yanks down savagely to free my cock. It flops out. The zipper’s teeth bite, not too painfully, into my scrotum. Then he leans forward, almost at mouth level for him, and engulfs my rigid cock between his lips.
“Fuck,” I say aloud, forgetting for a moment I’m supposed to be in a dark and quiet corner. But the position he’s put me in is the opposite of private. I’m visible to everyone in these secluded shadows. I’m higher than them all, on a pedestal of deck chairs, with a leather-geared black man going at my meat like a starving dog. What are people going to crowd around, that kind of scene, or an everyday cocksucker on his knees? The crowd begins to come to me.
From time to time the leather man grabs my face and pulls it down and forward so he can kiss me. The men who are beginning to gravitate to us start growling and making grunts of approval when we kiss. The man’s tongue invades my mouth, reaches its very recesses. He’s not the gentlest kisser . . . but he’s thorough. A couple of bolder individuals try to step up and take a handful of my dick, or run their hands over the black man’s body. He’s not having any of it. He’s not rude when he pushes them away, but he’s firm about it; I’m his territory, and he’s not intending to cede it in the least.
His determination to keep his space erects an invisible wall, like glass, three feet on either side of us. Two dozen men crowd around to watch the action, but they don’t move in any further than that. The muscle man makes a show of sucking my cock. His hands are small in size, so when he grips my meat and squeezes, it looks enormous in comparison. My cock is engorged, its mushroom head flushed and ballooned to capacity. The man lewdly tongues the slit for thick, sweet globs of my precum, using it for lip balm. Then he runs those lips up and down the shaft, making certain that the crowd can see the white cock he’s claimed for his prize.
I’m turned on as much by the voyeurs as I am the blow job. I let my head loll back. I groan. I take off the stud’s cap and wear it for my own, tipped to the side. Then I run my palms over his shaved head, enjoying the sand-like sensation of the faintest stubble beneath them.
When I shoot, it’s loud and noisy. He feels my body heaving and perhaps hears the quickening of my breath. He gets enough warning to back off and wrap his right hand around my shaft, so that he can beat me to orgasm. The load splatters across his face. He nods at me, then reaches up and wipes it off his face. Making certain the crowd is watching, he then licks it off from between his fingers. Finally he wipes his hands on his chest. I can hear the men watching us murmur in approval.
Like a gentleman, he helps me down from the stack of chairs. Once again he grabs me around the waist as I lift myself up, then with dancer-like grace, he deposits me lightly on my feet. I’ve never felt so manhandled in my life. He reaches up, removes his cap from my head, and places it back on his own. He’d hooked his sunglasses onto his pants pocket at some point during the head job. They go back onto his face and make him look mean. Impassive. But before he leaves, he flashes me a quick grin.
The crowd disappears around us as we ease our way out from behind the stack of chairs. The show’s over. I saunter back over to the railing slowly, aware that men are looking at me with speculation. But I’m not ready to play again. Not yet.
Will I recognize the man among the others in the daylight? I don’t know. But I know I’ll be looking. I know I’ll be hoping that our glances lock with recognition—validation of a few minutes in a dark corner with every eye upon us.
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