Sunday Morning Questions: Sucker Punch Edition

Apparently I never learn.

There was a guy last year (I was looking for the entry so I could link it, but I didn't find it) who stood me up in a pretty spectacular way when he'd contacted me on BBRT and begged me—begged—to meet him. He detailed how he wanted to service me. Told me he'd do anything for my dick. Said he'd move heaven and earth for a chance to work on my knob.

So I gave the guy my address. He told me he'd be over in half an hour, after he showered. It was a late weekend night, and I was horny as fuck and could host, so after a half-hour I sat by the front window and waited for the guy. And waited. And waited. I ended up waiting for something like over an hour for the guy, who didn't return my text messages or the one phone call I tried making. After a half-hour of chat, a half-hour of showering, and over an hour of waiting, the guy had effectively killed my evening and I went to bed frustrated and horny and mad.

Well. I guess I'm just a sucker. I didn't talk to the dude for about three months after that. When out of the blue he contacted me to ask how I was doing. I'm one of those guys who carries a grudge for-fucking-ever, sadly; it takes a good deal of assholery to get me to that point, but once I'm there . . . hoo boy. Even though an entire season had passed, I was still angry enough at the guy to blast him with the full impact of the anger I still felt at him. Surprisingly, he took it like a man. He said he'd been wrong, and then he apologized. He told me his head had been in a weird space at that time, and that there was really no excuse for what he'd done, and he wished he could make it up to me.

I didn't capitulate immediately. I still felt burned. I told the guy I appreciated his being up front with me about it, though, and thanked him for the apology. It felt a little like trying to heal a leg amputation with an application of some Chapstick, but still, it was an apology.

So last night the guy hits me up again. Asks if I'm looking for sex. Promises he won't flake out on me this time. I shrug and say, sure, come on over. I give him the address and remind him of my cell number. He says he wants to make it up to me in a big way, and asks what I want him to wear. I tell him I'm not picky, but that I like fucking guys in jocks, if he's really wanting to make me happy. Other than that, I say, surprise me. The guy tells me he's going to hop in the shower—quickly, this time—and text me when he's leaving the house to head over.

All proceeds according to plan. A few minutes pass, and then I get a text telling me he's on the way. He's in my zip code, and only about ten minutes away, so I take my computer into the office and wait.

And I wait. And I wait. And I wait for the guy who stands me up once again, in the exact same way.

This time, the waiting wasn't so annoying. I was chatting online with a couple of my readers—hi guys!—so the time passed relatively quickly. After 45 minutes, though, I texted the guy and said, So you're flaking on me again, huh? And then after an hour, I turned off the porch light and sent another message to the guy never to contact me again.

I'm a sucker, I guess. But he was so convincing. And I was so horny!

Let's get to today's roundup of questions from formspring.me. If you've got questions for me, ask them there.



Is there hottest guy you've ever had sex with? Or are some of them like comparing apples and oranges?

There have been as many hottest guys in my life as there are definitions of 'hot'. I've had guys of average looks who gave me the hottest sex, and guys of extremely good looks who'd given porn stars a run for their money. I've been with guys with untraditional looks who are hotter than sin, and men who, just from working hard in bed to keep things interesting, have been much hotter than some muscle studs that every guy seems to think should be the gay ideal.

My strategy in life is to have fun with the guys I'm with, and to make every encounter hot.


Have you ever called someone "Daddy" (or "Papi") when he was fucking you?

Yes, but more often I'm called daddy than the reverse.


Advice Needed: What type of a filing system do you use for your home office and how do you link your hard copy file folders in your filing cabinet with that of the files on your computer and or emails?

I have a file folder named 'household', a file folder named 'contracts,' and then everything else goes into a folder named '2011'. That's about as organized as I get.

None of my computer files correspond to my simple filing system.


Do you and your spouse have cute pet names for each other? Do you use them in public too lol?

I'm a southern boy. Therefore, "honey" for is a multi-purpose word applicable to all ages and genders, equally suitable for new relationships and old.


Clearly, I've seen your dick, and I must say (if I haven't before), impressive ;) My question(s): 1. Most risque thing you've ever done sexually? 2. Kinkiest thing you've ever done? 3. Do you like dirty talk in bed? 4. What DO you like in bed?

Thanks. Asking me what the most risque or kinkiest sexual act in which I've ever indulged, however, is like asking Lady Gaga to pick her most outrageous outfit. After a while, you shrug and say, "Oh, she's just out there."

I do talk dirty in bed, but I don't imitate porn movie talk.

I like to be spoiled in bed. I don't get a lot of that, though.


You mentioned in one of your posts that Jim may have hurt you in some way? Not sure if I missed that post or not, but will you be talking about that anytime soon? Thanks twitter follower

There will be more posts in the future finishing off that long and dreadful chapter of my history. I don't think you've missed any, but on my blog you can always find my list of keywords and click on 'Earl' to see that particular series of entries.


Would you prefer to comfort a friend/lover or be comforted?

I've discovered over the last twenty-odd years that my primary instincts are to take care of other people, to provide comfort in times of stress and need. It's instinctive, and a reflex in my nature.

Sometimes, however, I wish that I were comforted more.


Have you ever in some not-gay-friendly public place ever held hands with a man? kissed him? put your arm around his waist? laid your arm across his shoulder?

I've held hands with guys in a movie theater, in the dark, but that's about it. It's a shame that Iv'e edited simple expressions of male-to-male affection from my unthinking repertoire.


Have you or your brother ever shared the same fuck? Or better yet has caught you in action?

My brother and I have many times been with the same guy.

There was never an option to be 'caught', however, given that our age difference is wide enough that he had already long left home by the time I was hitting my teens.


Would you be willing to reduce your life expectancy by 5 years to become extremely attractive?

My beauty is already nearly unbearable. How about I take another five years of life expectancy just to dim my pulchritude down to merely extremely attractive?

Open Forum Friday: Art of the Insult

Several years ago on one of the instant messaging systems, I ran across a kid I vaguely knew. He was a twenty-four-year-old Mexican boy on a bowling league with friends of mine. I’d seen him at the alleys once or twice, but I couldn’t remember having ever talked to him. He had a reputation of being something of a twit. I thought you looked like a good guy to get to know, he messaged.

I think I’m a good guy to get to know, myself, but naturally I wanted to know in what way he was talking. He responded that he was talking about getting to know me sexually. Oh yeah? I wrote back. Why is that?


I know you’re an old guy and really not a GQ type, he wrote. I was in my late thirties at the time. I’m okay with that.


Knowing that my ego was not going to like the answer, I asked, And why is that okay?


He typed out, Because it means you don’t get to have sex all that much. While I absorbed that one, he added, So you won’t give me any diseases.


So let me get this right, I asked him. You’re messaging a perfect stranger to tell him that because you think he’s old and unattractive, he’s a good candidate for sex because no one in his right mind is going to have sex with him and give him diseases to pass on to you.


Yeah I guess so. Pretty much, he wrote back.

Jesus fucking christ. At the time, I wracked my brain all day today wondering if there was ever a time in my youth I ever told a guy he was old or ugly. If I had, I’d probably have understood why I was getting bit on the butt with karmic retribution. I’m positive I was never that unkind, though.

Listen, I told the kid. So you know. I’m sure you thought you meant well, but that kind of approach is really pretty hurtful. Then I gave him a quick thanks, but hell-no thanks. I suppose there are men out there desperate enough to accept the come-ons of a twenty-four-year-old who thinks it’s okay to insult his potential sex partners, but I’m certainly not one of them.

It was a little strange. I ran across this incident in my old journals yesterday when I was poring through some old entries, looking for something specific. Then within five minutes, I had two more encounters of the exact same type. They happened simultaneously, and both left me in a foul mood after.

The first (by mere seconds) came from another Latin twenty-something-year-old—a guy with a misleading profile name that included the word ‘nice’ combined with the year of his birth. He wasn’t so nice. Hey sexy how ru, he messaged me on Adam4Adam.

Hi there, I wrote back. I like your pics. He was a large-framed guy, but fairly good-looking, and had a good smile. A smile goes a long way toward making any man look attractive, particularly in a sea of profile photos taken by scowling at one’s own camera phone.

I rly like urs, he wrote back. U got a hot dick.


Thanks, I said. You should let me fuck you with it sometime.


Then things got rapidly and mysteriously sour. Go fuck urself asshole!!!!! he wrote back. I wouldnt let u touch me!!!


My reaction: What the fuck? So I wrote the kid back saying something like, you know, when you respond to someone’s expression of admiration with that kind of shit, don’t expect to have a real big circle of friends.

It was probably milder than he deserved. Then I blocked him.

Immediately after I sent that off, a message from some other Adam4Adam guy appeared. The guy was scruffy in a homeless way and only mildly attractive; most of his photos showed him swathed in huge hipster-ironic puffy winter coats or wildly-rumpled clothing, so that it was tough to tell whether he was skinny and trendy, or merely fucking enormous. Here’s his message, which I am reproducing in its entirety: you seem creepy - not entirely in a bad way.


And again, I was like, what the fuck?

In what universe, I wrote back to the guy, is it really acceptable to tell a perfect stranger that he looks creepy?


Put your ego in check, asshole! he wrote back. Yes, really. It was a fucking compliment.

In the future, I pounded back on the keys, my cheeks flaming and smoke issuing out of my ears like Elmer Fudd in some Looney Tunes short, perhaps you’d find that a genuine compliment would serve you better than the shit you’re serving up.


Then I blocked the fuckwad.

I’m really not sure I understand how people can be so rude on these sites. Sure, I get snippy when provoked. But are there actually people—outside of a certain subset of guys who maybe are really, really into flasher-in-the-park roleplay—who think it’s acceptable behavior to start off by telling a guy he looks creepy? Even if it’s modified with the damning faint praise of ‘not entirely’? I imagine any guy who’d use that as his opener and then would admonish me to keep my ego in check has some serious issues of his own, but jeez. Why do I have to be the lucky recipient?

So I’m turning it over to you guys. I know we’ve all been on the receiving end of bad treatment before, both online and in person. But have you ever had someone come at you right from the get-go with insults? And if so, how did you handle it?

The Switch

My parents only owned one electric fan, when I was growing up. It was monstrous. No window in the house could accommodate it. Constructed of industrial-grade metals and older than Satan, it was almost too heavy to be picked up by a single person. On hot nights when we needed the air circulated, my father and I would lug it to the top of the second story stairs attach an extension cord or two to its oddly-short plug, and string the line into one of the bathrooms. Once plugged in, it only took a single flick of the metal switch to turn the thing on.

I don’t see switches like that very much these days—the old fashioned kind, an exclamation point of rounded metal angled into a circular base. Despite the hulk of the fan itself, all it really took to turn it on was the slightest of pressures, the stroke of an index finger, the slightest of rubs. Instantly the fan would roar into life, shuddering and shaking and blasting air down the stairwell. It was like the testing wind tunnel for a military base. Anything that happened to come into the path of that furious stream was simply wafted away. We couldn’t hold conversations once the thing was going. It was simply impossible to be heard over that wild, crazy thundering. Somehow, though, it managed to make the house a little cooler. And we slept through it.

These days I tend to think of my sexuality as on a constant low temperature, a stew kept on the simmer setting of a stove’s back burner, ready to be brought to a boil at a moment’s notice. Back in my late teens, though, I used to think of my sexual urges like I thought of that tiny metal switch. One slight, even inadvertent flick, and it would come roaring to life.

I can’t think of a better example than after my freshman year of college. I spent most of my college career working in an ice cream store off the beaten path in the tourist town surrounding my school, but in the summer after my freshman year I returned home and lived with my parents and worked at a large amusement park a few miles north of the city. It wasn’t a bad minimum wage job, on the whole, especially as I’d chosen to work in a shop, operating on the logic that there would be air conditioning inside them. There were regular nights after the park shut down, when the management would feed the kids working there pizza and pop and keep a couple of the roller coasters running until the wee hours of the morning. And of course, my admission was free on my days off.

But there were certain indignities as well. The regular lie detector tests were a bitch. We were treated like interchangeable cogs in a vast machine, and could find ourselves pressed into sudden service as a Hanna-Barbera character in a mascot costume, or slinging Belgian waffles with chocolate sauce, without much warning (or experience). And chief among those disgraces were the uniforms we had to wear. As a shop boy on International Street, as my section of the park was named because it lay at the bottom of a scale replica of the Eiffel Tower, mine wasn’t so bad. I wore a pair of khaki slacks, a day-glo yellow shirt, and a khaki-colored vest. The material was a solid, itchy, one-hundred-percent polyester, though. Itchy, and on a hot Virginia day, very much like wearing from ankles to neck an outfit made out of a plastic painting tarp.

Nothing could have been more calculated to make me feel less sexy. True, I got to work in air conditioning some of the time, but with our doors constantly opening and closing, it wasn’t that cool. I had to be pleasant to customers who would’ve made Mother Theresa snappish. My shifts sometimes started at eight in the morning and didn’t end until after eleven. The entire time I was in that park, I felt sweaty, annoyed, and bedraggled. The last thing I was ever thinking about, believe it or not, was sex.

One night I was working a late shift in the dreaded mug room—a chamber of the Spanish Shop filled with decidedly un-Iberian coffee mugs printed either with roses or old Model T cars, that sported names at the top. Keeping the mug room alphabetized and stocked could be a nightmare at the best of times. It was also weirdly popular with the park visitors, particularly those who needed a last-minute gift or souvenir.

For hours I’d been ringing up mug after damned mug, along with the occasional T-shirt or hand-crafted pewter replica statue of the Eiffel Tower, at my register. It was dark outside. My eyes were bleary. My feet hurt. The curve at the base of my spine ached. I wanted to sit down, or lie down, or crawl back to my car and sleep in the back seat. Most of the back part of the park had closed by this point, and the remaining park-goers had crowded into International Street to finish their shopping and wait for the fireworks over the Tower. It was a little hectic, and I was wearing thing.

“Enjoy the rest of your stay,” I kept saying automatically, over and over, with every purchase. I didn’t really mean it. I said it because I was supposed to. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” I’d mutter to the little kids spending their allowance on something cheap and tacky. I said it to the women who bought Model T mugs for their husbands, brothers, and uncles and explain to me which was for whom. I said it to the tired, and to those who genuinely seemed to have enjoyed their day in the park. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” I said.

“I will,” said a deep voice, as I handed the man his bag. And then his hand closed over mine.
Usually when people took their bags from me, they didn’t make contact. Occasionally I’d feel the brush of a finger, or the side of my hand might collide with a customer’s. This man, however, didn’t collide. His big, masculine fingers closed over the top of where my hand gripped his package. They squeezed. Startled, I looked up into his eyes. “Hi,” he said.

I hadn’t looked at him at all during the transaction—not when he’d brought me his purchase, not when he’d paid. I looked at him now, though, and found myself staring into his brown eyes, taking in his floppy hair, his thick, almost handlebar mustache. He was in his late thirties or early forties, and sported a wedding ring on his finger, but he was definitely an attractive man.

Just like that, no matter how unsexy I was feeling at that very moment, he flipped that little switch in me. Like my parents’ enormous fan, my libido roared to life, loud and clattering and impossible to ignore. Every ache I had vanished. Every complaint of the day evaporated. I didn’t feel tired, or annoyed. I’d gone from one end of the spectrum to the other, from frumpy to fuck-me in a second flat.

“Hi,” he repeated.

“Hi,” I said bad, aware that I was staring.

I hadn’t been aware, however, that his hand was still over mine. After a quick application of pressure, he let go of my fingers and took his package. “The family’s waiting for the fireworks,” he said. “I hear they’re good?” I asserted in a stammering way that they were. “I don’t suppose you get a break anytime soon,” he said, cool as could be.

My shift was actually at an end the moment our doors closed and the fireworks began. I still had several minutes and customers to get through before then, though. “There,” I said, pointing to a gate right outside the shop door. “If you wait there, until ten. . . .”

He nodded, then let loose a conspiratorial smile that crinkled his eyes, making me want him even more.

I don’t know how I made it through the last twenty minutes of my shift, boner stretching down the right leg of my polyester slacks as it was, and sexual energy making the hairs on my arms stand on end. My mind had been numb all day, a heavy gray sponge distended and soggy. Now I was alert, alive, and raring to go. When the ten o’clock chimes rang through the streets and the Spanish Shop doors closed, I grabbed my cash drawer and ran back to my managers to cash out. Then I exited through the back, and made my way around the building.

Most of the markets on International Street were in two-story buildings, though only the bottom floors contained shops. Upstairs, behind gaily-painted balconies and iron trellises decorated to look European, was mostly stock storage. The gate where I’d told the man to wait for me had a door in it that allowed access to a stairwell that led to a room where our shop kept a massive warehouse of tissue-paper flowers made by church craft clubs across the state for three cents apiece, that we resold for six dollars. Since no one in his right mind would ever want to steal tissue-paper flowers, that room was always kept locked. Occasionally one of us would use it to eat lunch (but, given the flammable nature of the merchandise within, never smoke). Usually, though, it was simply too oppressively hot up there to linger long.

But it was quiet, and relatively safe, and dark. That’s all I needed, for a few minutes.

My friend was waiting by the fence, arms crossed, hips slanted to the side. I unlatched the gate from the inside and beckoned him in. After taking a quick look around the crowd, he slipped through the fence and into the shadows with me. The fireworks show was pretty spectacular, but it wasn’t very lengthy. Since the guards would begin ushering people out the moment they were done, I knew we didn’t have much time.

By the time we were in the paper flower warehouse, my dick was not only back to being rock hard, but had left a puddle of cum on my thigh. So was the man. Without a word he dropped his bag onto the cement floor and immediately began unbuckling his shorts. I was on the knees of my polyester khakis in a hot second, gobbling down the meat behind his zipper before it was even completely unleashed. I remember he smelled of sweat and a hot day in the park, but I didn’t care. That switch he’d flipped a few minutes before had turned me into such a voracious slut for his dick that he could’ve been covered in cheese and I would have cleaned it off gladly.

He was clearly unused to having a boy my age between his legs—or at least that’s what I gathered by the way he kept running his fingers through my very long hair and murmuring, “I can’t believe we’re doing this . . . you’re young enough to be my kid . . . I can’t believe. . . .” Outside, beyond the cracked door that was admitting the only breath of cool air into the musty storeroom, the fireworks had started. I could hear their fanfare in the distance, beyond the Eiffel Tower. They were second in volume, it seemed, to the thundering of my heart within my ribcage. It pounded for escape, seeming to grow louder with every passing second.

My dick felt so hard that it might burst; I didn’t dare touch myself for shooting too quickly. I didn’t know what this man had done in his sexual career. I didn’t know what he was into. I didn’t care. I wanted him in my ass. While I sucked, I worked fingers into my mouth and rubbed the spare saliva on my ass. I’d always been a naturally clean bottom, in my teens and twenties; I was counting on that to make sure I kept his dick relatively speck-free. When I could taste copious amounts of pre-cum flowing from the tip of his short, fat cock, I got back up to my feet and turned around to brace myself on one of the triangular easels holding the flowers.

He knew what to do. I’d never found many men in Virginia who needed instructions, when they saw my seventeen-year-old ass up and poised for cock. He spat on his dick and shoved in me roughly, not really caring whether I was enjoying it or not. I was, for the record. I was in heat. He was, too. I didn’t know what had possessed me to hold my hand like that, in the middle of the Spanish Shop. I didn’t care. The only thing I knew was the sound of fireworks in the distance, the razor-sharp thrust of his dick inside me, and a heat so heavy and thick it was like a fiberglass blanket. My own dick swung and raked against the wooden brace of the easel as he banged into me, fucking me like a dog.

Neither of us lasted long. I came first, my semen landing on one of the paper flowers and through the chicken wire holding it onto the easel, then down to the floor. He shot shortly after, loading my guts with his seed. We both paused for a moment. We both panted.

Then he was yanking up his shorts and stuffing his dick back inside, in a hurried panic. The fireworks were reaching their loud and explosive climax, moments after we’d already had ours, and my married stranger had to get back to his family before it was all over. Once he was arranged, he grabbed his bag and pulled open the door that led back down to the little side yard behind the fence. “Wait a couple of minutes before you come out,” was all he said in parting. He seemed guarded. Maybe even embarrassed that he'd fucked some strange shop boy in a fit of excitement. Then he disappeared without a word more.

I had rivulets of sweat running down my face and into my eyes. He didn’t hear my grunt of agreement, as he left. I pulled up my pants and tried to clean myself up a bit. My clothes were soaked with sweat; it felt as if I’d fallen into the fountains in the middle of International Street. I waited a couple of minutes, exited the building, and took a very long and slow walk back to the employee quarters so I could change and hand over my uniform to be cleaned.

I drove home with a big, goofy grin on my face. Drained and hot as I’d been in that sweatbox, I still felt energized. Alive. Vibrating and still thrumming with life, in fact.

And all it had taken was one slight flick of that switch.

Stinking

I arrived at the bar stinking of dick, the other night.

Now, normally I’m not a slob. I have something of a uniform of jeans and a T-shirt when I’m running around town, and I’ll wear even less when I’m at home. On a night out, however, when I’m in a bar or club among the judgmental eyes of my fellow homosexuals, I’ll clean up a bit. I’m not really concerned with looking trendy. I don’t feel the urge to pull on a tight sports shirt printed with some oversized, off-center fleur-de-lis or other grainy, heraldic emblazonment. But I will make sure my pants aren’t raggedy, and that my top isn’t covered with more cat hair than the cats themselves are wearing. I’ll pull on one of my good pairs of leather shoes—or at least one of the better and snazzier pairs of my sneakers. I’ll even iron.

I was all dressed up and ready to head out for a night of drinking (Diet Coke, if you must know) and the occasional dip into karaoke waters when I got a text from Urlipsmypole, the fellow in my neighborhood with his own private gloryhole. You got time? he wanted to know. I’ve got a boner that won’t quit and dude, you know I like your sweet mouth.


I looked at my watch. It was 7:50. I told my friends I’d meet them at the bar at 8:30. Yeah, I had time.
My buddy’s gloryhole must be a cinch to install, because when I walked through his back door and into the little mud room at the top of the back steps, his kitchen was already dim and the plywood partition blocking it from view was already in place, as were the towels and padding he always throws down at the foot of it. I should write an email to the guy before I move, asking him exactly how he’s constructed the thing—it’d be handy to have one of my own, some day. I suspect it’s simply a piece of thick sheeting with a routed hole at the appropriate height, cut to fit the door and fitted with hinges and a safety bolt or two, so that all he need do is remove the regular kitchen door from its hinges (if he has one there at all) and replace it with the gloryhole partition.

I always tell myself I’m going to inspect it more closely, when I’m driving over to his place. When I hit the mud room and see the door, however, my next trip to Home Depot is the last thing on my mind. His dick is number one. I shucked off my jacket, unbuckled my belt, dropped my pressed slacks and my trunks to my ankles, and fell to my knees. Through the hole I saw a shadow, and then movement. The curves of his muscular thighs appeared first, followed by the silhouette of his trim waist. I couldn’t see his dick until it appeared through the gloryhole. It hung in a perfect arc over his full, shapely nuts, soft, but twitching at the feel of my breathing.

My own meat stiffened in the palm of my left hand. My lips parted, and my tongue licked out to guide his knob into my mouth. I felt him lean against the partition, pushing his hips forward to make available as much of his dick as possible. Gratefully I took him to the root, and found my eagerness rewarded as his cock grew in one mighty shot, like a javelin, and speared the back of my throat. He groaned, the deep grunt plainly audible through the three-quarters of an inch of wood, and seven inches of rock hard flesh.

But I wasn’t ready to go to town on him, yet. Now that he was hard, I took my left hand and wrapped it around his meat, while my right fingers brought his nuts to my lips. He groaned again as I sucked them into my mouth and very gently ran my teeth over the firm globes. One at a time I worked on them, and then both together. Finally, when I had him banging his forehead gently against the partition, my tongue snaked out and licked his hairy taint as far back as I could. He cooperated by spreading his legs and pushing forward even farther. I half-hoped he might turn around and offer me his butt to eat through the hole, but that didn’t seem to be his focus. He wanted his dick sucked.

Suck I did, as expertly as ever. I know how to get this guy off. From a soft, unfocused slurping I picked up the pace and began working his shaft with a tight jaw and my lips stretched over my teeth to provide some tension. A minute after that, I added my encircled thumb and forefinger. I used my left hand to cup his balls; my left index finger stretched out as far as it could and buried itself in his flesh, somewhere near his butthole. He parted his legs to accommodate me.

His dick started to produce precum; I could feel his hips thrusting back and forth more quickly, in the slightest of motions. I added another finger to the tight circle I was making around his shaft as I sucked. I’d slobbered enough saliva over his balls that his sac was completely slick. My finger withdrew from his hole and pressed hard at the underside of his nuts, right at the back, where I could feel his heart and cock pulsing in unison. The pressure elicited from him a mighty groan, and the partition shuddered from where some part of his body struck it.

Faster and faster my mouth moved back and forth over the shaft. My own dick was neglected, but hard nonetheless. His pleasure was what mattered, at this juncture. He began to batter the board with his body, trying to drive his dick deeper into my willing mouth.

Then he came. I could tell it was nearing a mile away. He yelled, and shouted its arrival, then thrust forward as far as he could. I wrapped my mouth tightly onto his shaft, and felt it pulse and shake as the head released pulse after pulse of fluid onto the back of my tongue. Only when it was quiescent once more did I pull back a little and swallow the mouthful of salty fluid.

Then, finally I went back to my dick. My right hand jerked myself furiously, while my left cradled and tugged at my balls. My mouth remained on his dick, nursing out the last sweet drops as I jerked myself to orgasm. I shot the fiery load into my left palm, jerking and convulsing with his meat still between my lips. He pulled out when I was done, and I lifted the cupped palm to my mouth and ate the generous amount of nacreous liquid it contained.

Like I said I stunk of cum. I knew it when I pulled up my pants and escaped with my coat out the back door. I knew it when I got into my car and drove straight to the bar. And I definitely knew it when the bar’s owner and several of my friends tried to close in for a hug and a peck on the lips, upon my arrival. I deftly squirmed out of their embrace before they could sense the telltale scent lingering on my beard, lips and face.

It’s a scent I love—dick and spit and cum, all mingled into one of the sweetest perfumes there is. After a few minutes of savoring it, though, I ducked into the men’s room and washed the lower half of my face. There was no telling who might have to smell me, that evening.

Detente

Spencer stayed the night, this last week. We spent the evening cuddled on the sofa, eating a gluten-free almond cake I’d baked for him and watching Doctor Who on DVD. Naked he came into the dark bedroom after his shower, carrying the iPod I’d given him for his birthday in one hand. Lines of white plastic ran from it to his head. He grinned at me self-consciously as he sang along to the song playing in his ears. I just laughed, shook my head, and reached over to shut off the light.

While I’d been waiting for him to join me, I’d been reading on my tablet. I set it down onto my pillow as he dove between the covers. Like a little boy, he pulled them over his head and continued to sing loudly, before finally curling onto his left side, facing away from me. “Oh crap,” I muttered. I slid out from the bed, grabbed my T-shirt, and slipped it on. “I didn’t lock the back door,” I said.

In bed, Spencer continued singing. He hadn’t even noticed I’d left. Well, I’d be back soon enough, I reasoned. I trotted downstairs, locked the errant door, and then stopped to refill the cat’s water dish and perform a couple of other tasks. It was a good five minutes before I returned to the bedroom upstairs. When I did, I found Spencer in the darkness, midway through a happy babble about a movie he’d seen on cable the previous weekend.

“Um, do you know you’ve been talking to my iPad this entire time?” I announced, as I lifted the blanket and slid in next to his naked body.

Obviously he hadn’t. He flipped around, surprised. “Maybe that’s what I wanted,” he retorted.

“Did you, now?”

“Maybe your iPad is better company than you!”

“Uh-huh,” I laughed, not buying it. I put the device on the table and plugged it in to charge. “You like snuggling up to a computer, huh? I always knew you fantasized about being with an android.”

“Oh yes,” he snickered, warming to the silliness. “Android sex is the best!”

“I knew it. You ride human dick, but secretly you wish it were C-3PO.”

“Oh, C-3PO! So hot! Boop-beep-beep-boop-bleep-bleep-booooop!” Apparently in the dark he couldn’t see my raised eyebrows. He could, however, hear the total lack of response I had for a few seconds, followed by the jiggling of the bed from my laughter. “Wait, which one is the little trash can?”

“R2-D2,” I supplied.

“Which one is C-3PO,” then?

“The one that’s not R2-D2. R2-D2 is the one who goes boop-beep-beep. C-3PO is the gold faggy one who sounds like Roddy McDowell.”

“Who?” he wanted to know.

“Oh, god,” I muttered, pulling the sheets over my shoulders.

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m not old like you!” he protested.

“Uh-huh.”

“Who is he? Who is he? Which one is C-3PO?” he begged, shaking me and pouncing on me beneath the sheets as if we were kids at a pajama party. Then we giggled and laughed like little boys until, not very long after, we fell asleep, warm and safe in each other’s arms.

This is the sweet, safe routine in which lately Spencer and I have fallen. He’s over here five or six nights week, occupying space on my sofa and eating large chunks from my refrigerator and pantry. We share meals together. He does he laundry here, and keeps his soaps and special foods and herbal teas in my cupboards. We watch television, and look at DVDs of dance, and play video games together. We go to the movies, and out to dinner, and to the bookstore together. He brings me weird desserts from the local vegan restaurant. I buy him socks, when I see his are full of holes.

What we don’t do anymore—and this is difficult for me to admit, a difficult entry for me to write, in fact—is have sex.

I’ve been reluctant to write about this shift in my relationship with Spencer for a couple of reasons. One is the simple reason that writing things down always makes them more real, for me. I’m unwilling to codify in writing some of my own weaknesses and failures, that way.

The other has to do with my blog readers. I only have a couple of detractors who are going to be filled with glee at the news, but there are going to be many who read the words I’ve typed above and think it’s the end of the world. What Spencer and I had was wonderful, they’re going to tell me. It was special, it was romantic and hot and it should have lasted and what the hell happened that it didn’t?

To allay those responses, let me say the following, with all heartfelt sincerity. What Spencer and I have is wonderful. And special. It has been romantic and hot. We both knew from the very, very beginning that it wasn’t going to last, however.

As for what happened—well, I’m going to be as honest about it as possible, though the narrative isn’t going to show me in necessarily the best light.

I wrote once about a night I spent with Spencer in which we both seemed not to be connecting. The sex we enjoyed a couple of times after that rebounded back to normal. But then we had an evening in which neither he nor I seemed to be at our best. We’d been out to a bar with my friends the night before, where he’d performed a couple of karaoke songs. Over dinner, Spencer told me that my bar nemesis, a short rotund little dwarf who keeps stealing and butchering my songs, had hit him up online that morning, feeding Spencer lines about how beautifully he’d sung and asking him out on a date sometime.

“Why, that little. . . !” I growled.

“You aren’t my boyfriend.” Spencer announced loftily. “We didn’t pick out china patterns together. You don’t get to be jealous. Ever.”

“No?” I asked, jealous despite him.

“No. You’ve got no hold on me,” he said, spearing his sushi and dipping it in in his little plate of wasabi and soy sauce. “You’ve got no hold on me whatsoever, married man.”

It felt like a slap in the face, frankly, but I couldn’t argue with it.

That night, he came to bed, luminous by moonlight in the dark. “You really are so beautiful,” I told him, in all honest admiration.

“Uh-huh,” he snapped. Then he said, “I know you only say stuff like that because you just want to stick it in.”

You know, if I had to direct the scene for a movie that followed, it’d be like a cheesy episode of some family show—Blossom or The Brady Bunch—in which the hero keeps hearing the echos of the day as he tries to get his job done. There I was in bed that night, with Spencer’s beautiful ass in my mouth, munching away, and all I could see was the memory of his face, lip curled and sneering. You’ve got no hold on me. And then, over his other butt cheek, another vision of him, disdainful. You only say stuff like that because you just want to stick it in.

Was that really what he believed? Was that really the way he felt about me? Try as I might, I couldn’t get my head into the business at hand. When the time came for me to do something, my dick didn’t cooperate. For the first time in my life, I honestly couldn’t get it up.

I KNOW.

Somehow I played it off. I made it an ‘All About Spencer’ night and thought I did a fairly good job of covering up my inability to get an erection. The next night, though we were in bed again. While we were making out, my dick swelled to its usual proportions. Well, that’s all right then, I thought to myself. Everything’s back to normal. With a gladsome heart I began pushing all of his usual buttons—butt eating, dirty talking, and nipple stroking. My dick was still rock-hard when I growled at him, “You know I’m gonna fuck you with this big dick tonight.”

I remember the moment well. He was on his back, legs in the air, when he replied in quite a normal voice, “I wouldn’t call your dick big.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“Well, it’s slightly above average, maybe,” he said. “A little. But it’s not big. You could say, you know I’m gonna fuck you with my slightly above average-sized dick tonight, but I wouldn’t push it with big.”

I settled back on my heels, confused. Why in the world was he ruining the moment with this shit? “Do you want it or don't you?” I said, trying to keep the same lusty spirit.

“Oh yes, sir, fuck me with your slightly above average cock. No wait, give me your toy-sized cock.” He seemed mightily amused by that phrase, and started laughing uproariously. “I crave your toy-sized cock.”

It was then I realized that I’d totally lost my hard-on again. And nothing I tried brought it back.

I honestly thought something was wrong with me. When I tried to masturbate, after that night, I found myself thinking about my two erection failures—the only ones I’ve ever had in my life—and hearing all Spencer’s hurtful words in my head. (And yes, they were hurtful. Even if they’d been jokingly intended.) Then I’d find myself losing whatever sexual arousal I’d been able to muster. And I was afraid—deathly afraid—to attempt to engage in sex with Spencer, just in case all I encountered were more reasons to think that something was very, very wrong with me. I wasn’t even having erections in my sleep.

There was a period of about two weeks when I thought something physiological had gone awry in my body. I thought my time as a top man was over, kaput, finished. The second of those two weeks coincided with my trip to New York at the beginning of February. And all that time I had this battle warring in my head. Half of it was simply convinced I’d never fuck again, that I was sick and impotent. The other half was more rational and tried to reason it all away. I was tired, and stressed. I was over-thinking my failure and letting it fuck with my dick.

By the end of the week, I had gathered up enough nerve, and courage—it took both—to meet with that muscle man in his Manhattan apartment. I banged his ass just fine. No erection problems there. When I returned home, I reconnected with Scruffy and fucked four loads into his hole. Definitely no issues with hydraulics with him.

The next night, confidence riding on the crest of a wave, I responded with fervor when Spencer kissed me for the first time in bed, since the last time I hadn’t been able to get it up. When our lips met, my dick was rock hard. Oh yeah, I thought to myself. This is going to happen. And again, everything was going right . . . until the moment he whispered, “I want your dick in me. Your toy-sized dick.”

And poof. It was gone, yet again.

I broke down that night in frustration and anger. Spencer held me while I raged. When I was done, he said, very softly, “I like you for more than just your dick.”

Since then, the issue of sex together hasn’t come up. We cuddle. We sit on the sofa and watch TV with our feet or heads in each other’s laps. We sleep naked together. We just don’t fuck. As an option, it doesn’t come up.

If I’d attempted to write this entry at the time it was happening, it would have come across a huge mess of self-recrimination and fear. I haven’t had, I’d like to say, a single instance of erection failure with any other person I’ve been with, since. Or by myself.

I think the distance has given me a lot of time to evaluate exactly what factors were in play. For weeks and weeks—the entire time I was sexually active with Spencer—I slept with no one else. He was everything to me, sexually. I masturbated only twice during that entire time period; every other load, every erection, was for him. I poured all my sexual energy into one receptacle. I was deeply in love with him. I still love him very deeply. I know that Spencer was doing the same. He masturbated on his own, but all the sex he had was with me.

And frankly, I think it scared the crap out of him.

I know that Spencer has been very frightened of losing me when I eventually move away, from the first night we met; I know that even more, he feared loving me to the point he’d find me an indispensable fixture in his life. Every time we fucked—every time we made love so beautifully and so well—he was more and more at risk of needing me to a point at which he feared he could never let go.

I think I am the very first person in his young life of whom he’s known that he would eventually have to let go. And instead of doing philosophically, or giving in and going through worse suffering, he began to push me away.

I’m not entirely free of blame, here. We both conspired in the sabotage of my confidence—he pricked at my vanity and distanced himself with words. I deflated myself with my old enemies, worry and overanalyzing. I elevated him to a point in my emotional well-being that simply jibes had the power to leave me impotent. My instinct would have been to talk it out endlessly, to lay all the issues on the table and let him know exactly what was bothering me. But you know, I didn’t. I won’t. He was right about something: we aren’t boyfriends. We didn’t pick out china patterns together. One of the great things about a casual relationship such as ours is that we aren’t required to have the great big talks that tie us together further. He’s free of that obligation. I’ve got no hold on him.

Which is what he wants.

My philosophy would be balls-to-the-wall, all-in, no holds barred. If he’d let me, I’d love that boy as hard as deeply as I could, all the way to the moment I had eventually to tell him goodbye. It would hurt like fuck when we separated, but it would have been worth it.

My philosophy is not Spencer’s philosophy. He’s never experienced with anyone what we shared. He’s frightened. He wants reassurance that in two months, or three months, or six months, or a year, when I finally move out of this state, that our parting will be as painless as possible. He doesn’t want to live his life with a story that begins, Once I knew a man with whom I was very much in love, and he had to leave. The story he wants to tell himself begins, Once I had a friend. . . .

I know that he will still hurt when I go. But if a polite lie is what he wants, I will give it to him.

I love having Spencer in my life. I like our evenings together, the cooking I do for him, the meals and the entertainment we take. I love our conversations, and nights out. I like having his warm body in my bed, next to mine. These things are all great and good and wonderful. They don’t speak of any kind of failure whatsoever. Nothing positive is ever a waste. It’s all to be relished when it’s happening, and cherished to heart when it’s gone.

Yet when I think of how passionate, and how sweet, our union used to be, my heart aches. For his sake, I pretend not to notice that void I dreadfully miss. If this detente makes it any easier for him in the long run, though, I will give it to him freely, and gladly.

And he will never know how much, sometimes, it kills me.

Sunday Morning Questions: Yes I Have Dirty Photos On The Internet Edition

As a warning, I have family visiting for most of the upcoming week. Usually that cuts down on my playtime a little (though rarely completely), but the barrage of familiar faces and the prospect of a house filled with voices again may prevent me from writing as much as I'm accustomed.

On the other hand, trying to escape from all those voices and faces might just make me plug in my headphones and write more. You never know how these things work out.

For those of you who've written to ask about the Earl series—there are still more memories from that era to come. The Topher story isn't quite finished, either. Perhaps I'll work on moving that chapter of my memoirs ahead, sometime this week.

In the meantime, I've got the usual round-up of questions from formspring.me for your Sunday entertainment. As always, I welcome your questions—so feel free to head over there and ask them of me.


How old were you when you first wore a thong?
I still have never worn a thong. It's unlikely to happen at this point.


If there's no bottom to breed and you're jacking off, do you eat your own cum?
Yes, I eat my own cum more often than not, if I masturbate solo. I've always enjoyed doing that, and love the taste of my own load.


Enjoyed your xtube videos. Just wanted to let you know :)
Why thank you. Would you like to make one with me?


I would like to see your cock...can i?
Jeez. It's all over the net. I think most people say 'that ol' thing?' when they run across it, at this point.

Check my blog for links to profiles with X-rated photos, or check out my Xtube profile (mrsteed64) for photos and videos.


Hey.Rob;You are on XTUBE ? How about TUMBLR ? Love to see you on one of those red hot blogs. Is that a possible site for your readers to follow your sexual encounters !!
I do have both Xtube and Tumblr accounts. I use the former to post the occasional video I capture with my phone, and the latter to post the occasional dirty self-photo to my Twitter stream. My user name on both services is mrsteed64.


Rob--where's your cock???
Between my legs, last time I looked. Goddammit, has it gone wandering off again?


Have you been with any men you would consider "dangerous"? not just a bad boy image, but actually someone you thought twice about being alone with for some reason?
I used to see a guy who later, I found out in the newspaper, was arrested and sentenced for dealing illegal guns out of the very apartment in which we banged. He had crates of illegal arms in that apartment (that I never noticed!), but it was the crates in his storage cage in the building's basement that led to his eventual incarceration.

At the time, he seemed slightly intense, but not dangerous. When I learned about it afterward, though, my reaction was of having had a close call.


Love your blog - read it daily, get hard pretty much every day. Question - about to host a 3some with my bf and a good friend of ours who is a top. I want to bring some toys/equipment to spice things up - any suggestions?
I don't know any of you guys, so it's difficult for me to speculate what toys might be best. Your top friend might enjoy some restraint gear, if you have any—but unless he knows you well, I wouldn't go bringing out the hardcore stuff, unless you really want to frighten him off.

For the most part I'd stick to some dildos, some cock rings, and some lube. Bringing too many dildos, however, might give your top buddy an indication that you don't think his dick is enough for you guys . . . just be sensitive.

I always appreciate it when guys provide me with bottled water and plenty of hand towels, myself.


Is there anything hotter than fucking a guy who already has cum from other dudes in his ass? Doesn't the thought of your dick being bathed in the cum of other guys while inside the bottom's rectum turn you on?
There really isn't anything much hotter than that. I've known many guys who will bring me their asses with loads already in them, just because they know I like to fuck in a pre-lubed hole. Yes, it's one of my major turn-ons, whether the loads belong to me or someone else.



What is your cock length and girth?
I've answered this a few times before, but it's about eight inches long and five and a half inches around.


If you had unlimited wealth, what's the first thing on your 'to do' list?
Pay off my mortgage. And buy some new socks.


Have you ever received a gift that was surprisingly, totally you? If so, what was it?
Not one that I haven't specifically asked for or hinted strongly to receive. People say I'm difficult to shop for. I don't really think so. Plus gift cards always work for me.


What's it like being a breeder?
I think I've been writing about the experience in depth for a year in my blog. Read it, and you'll see.


If we can love someone so much, how will we be able to handle it the one day we are separated?
And, if being separated is a part of life, and you know about separation well, is it possible that we can love someone and never be afraid of losing them?
At the same time, I was also wondering, is it possible that we can live our entire life without loving anyone at all?
I think it's important in life to love things knowing we will lose them.

Because we will. If you stay in a relationship for the long haul, life will intervene in your perfect plans. Your loved one will die, or he'll change, or his feelings will grow and you won't be a part of them any longer—or you'll change and grow and rearrange your own priorities.

Life will intervene to separate you for months or years. Illness could cause you both to reevaluate what is important in your lives. You may discover that the person you thought you loved turned out to have an inner life that makes you question whether you knew him at all.

To me, love is all the more beautiful for having gone through a battering. It's like an old metal—it might not shine as brightly, but it has picked up a lovely and unique patina of its very own, with time and weather. It's not perfect. But it's not cherished any the less, because of that.

Loving someone with all these things in mind—the knowledge that it could be lost on the turn of a dime—will keep you appreciative of what you have. Being mindful of the prospect of loss, separation, and change will not inoculate you to their dire effects. That mindfulness, however, will keep you from taking that love for granted, or believing yourself entitled to it.

The lesson the universe tries to teach us, over and over again in its cycles, is not that we should shut ourselves off from the world because inevitably it will disappoint us. It is that we should revel all more more, during its times of bounty, knowing that it will not last forever.

Get Me to the Greek

I’d seen him once before, in a gay bar, a few years back. He’d strutted in like he’d owned the club, hips jutted forward, thumbs hooked in the denim of his pockets, shirt open to the base of his rib cage. I recognized him immediately.

The Greek’s online profile photo had been shot from about knee level, giving his sun-bathed, shirtless torso the false stature of a giant statue, a monument of clean lines, flat planes, and lovingly-sculpted muscle. In reality, he was quite short—a solid five-foor-four, maybe. In person, that golden physique was just as attractive. Even beneath his shiny shirt, it was obvious that he was broad of shoulder and tiny of waist, and that every limb and expanse had been gym-tuned and tightened. Once I studied him from the other side of the bar, I knew that he was one of those ugly-sexy men; individually, his features were not attractive. On its own, his eyes were too large and too round, and set too deeply in his skull. His nose was a hook—a beak, even. His lips were too plain and too straight, his head too small. His eyebrows were overgrown, bushy, too coarse and too dark. His body was perfection, but someone in a cruel mood could’ve drawn a cartoon caricature of a comic, droopy-eyed bald eagle, and it would’ve looked like him.

Taken altogether, though, the effect was drop-dead sexy. Every eye in the place was on him. While guys watched, I walked up, introduced myself as the man he’d been talking to for a while. He gave me the once-over, shook my hand, patted me on the back, and told me we’d have to fuck, soon. And when he left later that evening, he made sure to come over and give me a kiss on the mouth before he vanished. I was on the receiving end of no small amount of jealous from strangers, that evening.

And then, nothing.

From time to time I’d heard from him—was I free? Could I host? He needed a load. Or, he was having lunch in a McDonald’s in my city . . . could I could load him up in the restroom there, if I couldn’t host? One Sunday we’d made arrangements to meet and then his mom had an emergency, so that he had to cancel. Another time, I’d had to cancel an appointment on him, because of something at work.

This last Sunday, though, we finally connected. He hit me up on Adam4Adam and asked if I was looking. I told him to come over. He did. And we fucked like dogs.

He arrived with a load already in his hole, and told me frankly that he’d already lined up a progression of tricks throughout the day. He’d let some college kid mount him early in the morning, before he’d hauled ass over to my side of town. He had plans to meet with a buddy in my neighborhood after he left, and then was going to meet with another partnered couple in the vicinity at noon. And his boyfriend was bringing someone home to share with him that night.

“We’d better get to it, then,“ was my only remark.

He’d arrived wearing only a pair of silky sweatpants, a T-shirt, athletic shoes, and a light jacket; it took him only moments to shuck them onto my bedroom floor. He hopped up on the bed and sucked my dick to hardness, then immediately flopped around so that his ass was rubbing up against me. It was a perfect ass, too, thanks to the routines of squats he’d obviously been doing for years. I shoved right into that already-moist hole, and drove home without much resistance. For someone whose life mission was to take as much dick as possible, he was remarkably tight once he clamped down around me. And I admit that the sight of my big dick splitting his small frame turned me on. His Mediterranean skin was so much darker than mine, as well. The contrasts were stirring.

The Greek kept his knees spread as far apart as possible as I plowed in and out. His own dick, surrounded by a thick chrome cock ring, swung back and forth, hard and heavy, as I pounded away. This wasn’t a romantic fuck. It wasn’t the kind of sex in which I try to get into the guy’s head and please him from the inside out. This was a sheer utility fuck, the kind of sex two guys have when one of them wants the load and the other one wants to leave it. It lasted long enough that his knees began to give out, so I flipped him over onto his back, hooked his ankles over my shoulders, and finished off that way.

My dick was still pulsing and oozing inside him when it was over. “God damn!” he said, panting and playing with his own meat. “Why the hell haven’t we done this before?”

“I don’t know,” I said, after clearing my throat enough to speak. “But we need to be doing it more often.”

“I’ll fucking say!”

I pulled out of him, then, and flopped onto my back onto the bed. I had to—my legs were still shaking. Playfully, he straddled my hips and let his ass rest on my dick. Then he leaned down, and put his mouth to mine.

The kiss was hot. I mean, hot. I hadn’t known that making out was an option with this guy. He seemed more the utilitarian fuck-and-go kind of fellow. But when we started to kiss, my dick raged again. He felt it, and reached around to guide it inside him once more. I slipped in to the channel already lubed by my own load and that of another man, and began to gyrate my hips once more.

He was as good about finding my pleasure spots as I tend to be with other men. When he found out I love to kiss, he kept his mouth on mine pretty much for the rest of the hour he was there. When it wasn’t locked with mine, he’d ask me questions—questions about my relationship, and information about how he loved to collect loads for his boyfriend to fuck in. Questions about what kinds of bottoms I liked, and what other action I could be into. We fucked the entire time, slapping our sloppy, cum-covered parts against each other in a perfect tempo.

By the time he left my place, he had loads two, three, and four squirted deep inside. What turned me on about the Greek, though, was that throughout the rest of the day he kept me updated on how many loads he’d collected and where he was going next. He messaged me after his local friend had deposited inside him, and then sent me photographs of his ass and hole from the bathroom of the couple who added to the internal mess.

He managed to sneak me a photo from the park near his home, where a black guy savaged both his holes. And late at night, after his eleventh load of the day from the boyfriend and the random trick the boyfriend had brought home, he texted me a shot of his ragged hole, red and gaping and dripping with with the DNA of multiple men.

Yeah, that’s definitely the kind of buddy I like having. Sexy man, sexy ass, perfect degree of hunger.