In the Stall

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Losing My Mojo

I don't know what's been up this last week. I haven't had either a chance to play, or a partner to play with, since Scruffy last Monday. That's a whole week without fucking, people. That's like, the equivalent of ten months in horndog years.

Sunday morning I woke up early with the knowledge that I had until noon to play around. Almost immediately I was hit up online by a twink who's been chasing me hard for the last month. He's had one of those fantasies in which he's blindfolded and waiting ass-up in a dark room, and wanted me to come in and find him and take care of his young butt; the problem we've had was of finding a time we were both free. Yesterday seemed to be that time. He was horny and ready, he told me. I could leave my place at eight and be there at eight-thirty. Awesome, dude, he replied. Call or text me and I'll give you directions. Then he signed out.

I texted, and got into the shower. When I got out, there was no response. I called. No response. He'd signed off his profile, on the website where we'd connected. I knew I had the phone number right, because he'd given it to me before.

So after an hour I wrote the little fucker off. I'd already lined up another guy who seemed eager to meet, a hairy, beefy stud of a man who lived across town and sported a body covered with ink—something I find very sexy. I liked the fact that his chat was direct and to-the-point, and that we went from greeting each other to him inviting me over to fuck him within the space of a couple of minutes. I gave him my phone number. I'm going to log out and hop in the shower, he told me. I'll call you with directions when I get out.


Great, I messaged back. He logged out. And of course I never heard from the guy again.

By the time I manage to arrange a third hookup, even I wasn't expecting the guy to show. After waiting about forty-five minutes from the point he said he was out the door, I realized he wasn't going to.

I don't know what led to my bad luck, yesterday. Maybe it was Mother's Day. Maybe it was the cold weather, or the state of the moon. Maybe I just had the stink of bad sexual mojo about me. I whacked off, and then spent from noon until midnight away from the house, without a computer.

Which is really my long-winded way of saying that I didn't get a chance to write an entry for today. I hereby hope that in recompense, you, the readers, will accept from me, the blogger, these two photos of my goofy grin:

(An image has been removed to comply with Blogger's

draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

(An image has been removed to comply with Blogger's

draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

And that maybe one of you will sex me up today. For real. Ten months! (In horndog years!)

Sunday Morning Questions

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Saturdays Suck

In honor of hitting my hundredth follower yesterday, this morning I'm posting a photo of myself in action.

(An image has been removed to comply with Blogger's

draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

That bearded face is mine, if you wonder. What'll happen when I hit 200 followers? I'll have to find something to top this, won't I?

Ranting: Exceptions

Whenever I create an online profile at a hookup site, I’m always cautious to warn guys that I don’t fit into any of the traditional gay types. I might be lean, but I’m not muscled enough to fit the ideal of athletic. I’m forty-six, but not silver-haired enough and too young-looking to fit most people’s idea of daddy. I’m not a twink, I’m not a partier, not a leather man, not a cowboy, not an Indian or construction worker. I’m bearded, but too skinny and hairless otherwise for most bears to go for me, much as I love them.

I’m fine with falling between the cracks when it comes to type, though often it feels as if I’m apologizing to guys when they contact me. I’m not built like you, I feel obliged to warn the muscular guys with the model-quality bodies. Or, You’ve seen my face pics, right? I’ll ask the beautiful. When the bears start to grrrr and woof! at me, I feel as if I need to warn them that my body’s pink and smooth beneath the clothing.

Everyone wants what they want. I get that. But it’s always seemed to me as if the guys who categorize men into types don’t want those of us who ooze outside the clear coloring lines. Men who invest a lot of time and money into A&F shirts and baseball caps don’t usually seem to want someone who scorns the logos. Leathermen don’t often want to pick up someone who doesn’t own any gear. Bears, for all their talk about being dismissive of traditional gay stereotypes, have become a traditional gay stereotype who tend to ignore guys who don’t look like carbon copies of the burly bear blueprint.

It’s always seemed to me that a lot of men want men who are exactly like themselves, only two degrees hotter. And it’s for that reason that I spend too much time online warning guys what I’m not.

Of course there are plenty of men who will go to great lengths to explain in their profiles what they don’t want. No fats. No fems. No one over 30, over 35, over 40. 35+ ONLY. No one old enuf 2 b my dad lol. You must be fit. No one over 200 pounds. No blacks (sorry it’s just a preference). Brothas only no whites!!! No poz. Poz only! I have standards!

One of my biggest pet peeves is with gentlemen who structure their profiles so that they read like a list of prohibitions. I, as a type-defying sort, am often approached by this sort of guy for reasons I can't fathom. I’ll receive an email from a kid who’s written that he is interest in men under 35 ONLY, fit ONLY, and who lists himself as a top. Cum fuck me lol! he'll say. Or I’ll be on Adam4Adam and get an email from a black guy who says, pretty explicitly, that under no circumstances is he interested in being with a white man.

Every time I write back and point out that I don’t fit their criterion. I always get the same response: I’m willing to make an exception.

And every time I do, my own reaction is the same: Well thank you very goddamned much, but don’t do me any favors.

People, if you’re going going to devote so much energy in your online profile to excluding guys, don’t be surprised when they react badly to suddenly being propositioned. What you’re telling me, essentially, is that none of the men meeting your rigid standards are online or want to hook up with you, and that out of boredom or horniness, you’ve decided that I’ll do. I'm your Plan B. Or Plan C, even.

I really don’t want to be anyone’s exception any more than I want to be anyone’s pity fuck. For one thing, I don’t have to be either. I’m not desperate, or unattractive, or in need of pity. I do just fine, thanks. If you want to have sex with me, don’t do it with the proviso of you’re not my type, but. . . . or I’m going outside my usual restrictions for you. I’m not going to feel grateful. I’m not even going to take you up on the grudging offer. I’m simply going to say, Thanks, but I see you’re not into guys my age [or height, or weight, or color, or whatever]. Good luck finding what you want.

And then I’ll never reply to you again.

I know, it’s kind of harsh. I could be missing out on some good times. But at the same time, I enjoy having sex with men who are really there, who are in the moment and enjoying themselves. I’m not likely to get that with someone who is lying there thinking, Jeez, I wish this guy were under 30. Or, I’d surely rather be naked with someone who looked different from you. I don't want to be with someone who's slumming.

That might not be what the guy thought to himself as we romped, certainly. But it would be what I’d be projecting on him, and that’d be enough to yank me out of it.

You like what you like. As I said, I get that. I don’t expect all guys to like me.

Just want me for what I am, that’s all I ask. Don’t make me your exception.

Fucking Scruffy: Some Video

I wrote yesterday of taking some video footage with my phone of fucking Scruffy.

Here's the video (and here's a link to it at XTube). Enjoy!

(An image has been removed to comply with Blogger's

draconian new censorship policies: 2/26/15)

Return of Scruffy

When Scruffy bounced through my back door Monday afternoon, he sported a short beard like mine. “Well hel-lo!” I said, looking him up and down. “You look adorable.”

He flushed, and his hands immediately went to his face. “I haven’t shaved in a while.”

“I like it a lot. It suits you.” I pushed him against the wall, and grabbed his T-shirt with both fists. The legend written on it, If I throw this stick will you run away?, crumpled between my fingers as his back hit the plaster with a thud. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

“I missed you too,” he said, with his lids half-closed. Then I pressed my lips to his, and for long moments we kissed. “I’ve missed you so much.”

I took him upstairs, and laid him on the bed, and made out with him some more. I love the way Scruffy kisses. His eyes close, his head thrusts forward, and his lips grab hungrily for whatever they can—my lips, my tongue, the hair on my chin. It’s as if he wants to devour me, one greedy slurp at a time.

My mouth can be hungry too. “I am going to make you feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. I kissed down the line of his furry jaw, across his neck, and down to his nipples, poking out from beneath his upraised shirt. Like the rest of him, they’re pink and sensitive, so when I nipped at them with my front teeth, he would hiss and groan. Once I had his body writhing, I dragged my own hairy jaw down the inside of his rib cage to his soft stomach, his navel, his hip bone.

“Was there a memo?” I asked, as I pulled down his camouflage cargo shorts. I was wearing a similar pair. And like me, he wore black underwear and a green T-shirt. He laughed, but didn’t respond, because my nose nudged his pretty pink dick and his smooth, shaved nuts. I sucked him to hardness while he propped himself on his elbows and watched. A smirk covered his lips. Off came the shorts, and then the briefs. I forced him onto his back when I pushed his legs into the air to expose his pretty boy butthole.

I’d seen a slick move in a Dan Fisk movie in which my favorite top had grabbed his bottom around the middle, stood up straight, and rimmed the boy in a standing position while the kid hung suspended upside down and propped on his shoulders. This seemed just as good a place as any to try it; Scruffy yelped when I hauled him up and into the air and buried my mouth between his cheeks. He stared up at me as I watched him, over the top of his hanging sac and stiff dick. With every slurp or bite he twitched and thrashed around. I’d been at it for about five minutes when at last he gasped out, “I can’t—my neck.”

That was fine. I could make him jerk and shudder the old-fashioned way, too. Once he was face-down and in the pillows, I stretched his butt cheeks apart as far as they’d go, slapping them until they turned a bright cherry red while I continued munching on and spitting in his hole. I held his fat cock in my hand and milked it while I worked. Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Your turn,” he said, and flipped me onto my back. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing at that point, so he undid my cargo shorts and pulled off my trunks and threw them across the room. Then he did that thing he does to my nuts.

I don’t know how to describe the technique he uses on my balls. He lies down between my legs and takes them both into his mouth at the same time. Then he fellates them. Back and forth his mouth goes, in and out, in almost the same manner as if he was working up and down my cock’s shaft. He never lets my balls pop out, but the sensation of his tongue and lips and teeth around them, and the rhythmic stretching of my sac always drives me nuts. It feels like edging during masturbation; there’s a low-level feeling of ecstasy that plays around the base of my spine that widens and narrows, and the softest of tickles at the back of my neck. I feel as if I’m close to orgasm, or even having it, but it’s the most gentle and sweet of orgasms ever, and lasts for so much longer. Whenever Scruffy goes for my balls and nuzzles them in his mouth, I know I’m in for a good fifteen or twenty minutes of grabbing at the the headboard and hanging on for dear life.

“I don’t know how the hell you do that,” I told him, once he was done. I was actually sweating, despite the ceiling fan. I’d shut the windows before he’d come over.

“I like making you feel good,” he said. “Now fuck me.”

I obliged.

I’ve never shot less than three times on any of Scruffy’s visits. He always milks out the first load expertly, demanding that I shoot in him to juice him up. Then, once my first set of shudders and quiverings subside, he’s relentlessly squeezing and nursing my dick with his hole to keep me hard and interested. “I love your cum,” he told me yesterday, while I was working up load number two. He reached down to the point where we connected, which was slick with my first sperm deposit. His fingers swiped some of the excess from his hole, and he sucked it off. “Whenever you’re in me, it feels like home.”

“You feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. We were lying on our sides, and I had my arms around him while I swiveled and ground my hips.

“I want to be home for you, too, daddy,” he said. Scruffy is a sensual boy. He responds to every stroke of my fingertips, every lick, every swipe of my beard. When I ran the flat of my palm down his side, his skin shivered and erupted in gooseflesh.

“You are home,” I assured him. “You are a beautiful boy, and every time I’m inside you, I am home.”

“I want to keep doing this forever and ever,” he said. His hand was working over his dick, which was wet with precum and the juices he kept slapping on from our fucking. “Please say you’ll keep seeing me.”

“Of course I will!” I said, surprised that he’d even say such a thing. “I love seeing you. You know that!”

“I just worry you’ll find another boy you like better. I want to be your boy.”

I couldn’t answer that one, right away. At last I said, quite honestly, “I’m here. I’m in you. It’s just you and me, and every time I shoot inside you, you’re more and more my boy.”

“Yes,” he said, groaning. I was saying exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Every time you take my sperm, you’re more and more clearly marked as mine. All mine.”

“Daddy’s boy,” he whispered.

“Daddy’s boy,” I agreed.

When he came, it was softly and almost as if he didn’t realize it was happening. Sperm gushed from the slit of his dick and spread over his abdomen and dripped onto the bed. The warm gush of it covered the back of my hand and turned me on so much that I followed shortly after, shooting a second load deep inside.

For my third time I fucked him on his back. “I wish I had pictures of this,” he said. “Or a video. Just so I could see what it looked like.”

Though I didn’t stop fucking, I held up a finger. “Just a second.” I leaned back and grabbed my phone from the table nearby, without pulling out. While I continued stroking in and out, I turned on the video capture, let it run for a minute, and then replayed it. “Too dark,” I said, handing the phone over so he could see the results.

“Still hot,” he murmured, licking his fingers and then reaching down to his swollen hole.

I pulled on the ceiling fan light and tried again. This time, the video was more cooperative. You could see my wet dick going in and out, and my red cock head pausing right before every thrust. I filmed for a while, then handed over the video again.

“Oh god,” he groaned. The sight of his own hole being fucked made him tighten up and clench at me. His excitement contributed to my excitement. Soon I was pumping load number three deep into his guts. “Every time,” he yelled at top volume, thrashing around even as my own orgasm subsided. This is why I’d closed the windows before he’d arrived. When he’s excited, Scruffy is a loud, loud boy. “You do this every god-damned time! How do you fuck out so many loads? I’ve gotta—!”

What he had to do was throw me down onto the bed, where he buried his face between my butt cheeks. Scruffy likes to eat my ass as he shoots. It didn’t take him long before he was grunting and buckling. He shoved me down onto the bed and brought his cock to my mouth just as it started to explode. I reached forward with my lips and greedily sucked down the cum, every drop.

“So good,” he said, lying back afterward, panting. Then he started laughing. Outright laughter, deep belly rumbles, as if he’d just heard the funniest fart joke in the world.

I sat upright. “What?” I asked, genuinely curious. I couldn’t help but laugh too, though I didn’t feel like I knew why.

“Just—I’m just so happy right this minute,” he said. “Laughing seems like the right thing to do.”

He was right. Laughing seemed perfect for that moment. So I lay there with him and laughed, just happy to be well and alive and enjoying his company.