Sunday Morning Questions: Great Leaps in Technology Edition

Sometimes it strikes me that in the last thirty-five years I've gone from this:

To this:

The former photo, for those of you who were not born during the years of the Black Plague, is not some old phone handset. It's a Parker Brothers Merlin, an electronic toy that was popular during my early teen years. The Merlin played a whopping six games—trust me, that was a lot in those days. I remember there was a weird version of blackjack that went to thirteen instead of twenty-one, a tone and musical matching game like Merlin's archrival, Simon, a crude version of tic-tac-toe, and a magic square game that kept me occupied for long periods of time.

I used Merlin in at least one similar way I use my iPhone at home; I carried it around with me and at night would crawl into bed and play its games until I fell asleep. Or at least until I was ready to masturbate and fall asleep. Times haven't changed.

The one advantage of today's modern gadgetry, of course, is that it plays more than six games—and can run apps like Grindr. Not that I've installed Grindr yet, mind you. I've had a distinct aversion to it since its release—not because I'm morally opposed to it, or any such high-minded reason. Mostly I never installed it because in my old home, it was considered sport in most of the bars I'd visit to whip out one's smartphone, fire up Grindr, and laugh at the pictures and profiles of the poor sods who happened to be nearby.

I always thought the sport was mean, and refused to join in. After all, these guys were putting their photos out there in good faith, not because they wanted to be roundly mocked (by guys afraid to do the same, no less!) for their sartorial choices or their facial expressions.

Grindr is something of a necessary tool in the good gay man's arsenal up here in the northeast, though, so I'm working my way around to not flinching at the mention of it. And as a step in its direction, I've installed the app Scruff instead. Scruff works similarly—it tracks the GPS locations of its users when they log in, and then presents each with a list of the geographically-closest. I think the original intent of Scruff was to be an alternative Grindr for bears and other gay guys who aren't close to some smooth, cologne-model ideal . . . and there are a lot of fun and funky furry fellows on its rolls.

I've had some nice conversations with guys on Scruff—and hello to you guys out there who've seen me (all over the country, no less) and recognized me and given me a shout-out—and may, emphasis on may, have even found someone there with whom I might be breaking my dry spell. We'll see on that one. If you see me Scruffin' around, though, sure sure to say hi.

Let's get to some Formspring questions—and if you have any to ask me yourself, please do at their website.



How old were you when you started barebacking? Also, how does it feel to be double penetrated, can you describe the experience?

I started having sex in in the mid-nineteen-seventies, almost a decade before condoms started to become widely recommended for gay anal sex. So basically when I began having sex, it was all unprotected.

I've never been on the bottom of a double penetration. I can say that I don't find it all that enjoyable as a top. I don't get much of a range of motion out of it, and since I'm almost always on the bottom of the pile, the only sensation I really get is of three hundred or more pounds of flesh on top of me.

I will say that the guys who like being double-penetrated, really like it.



Which do you prefer, public or private hookups?

They both enjoyable. I'm apt to be more relaxed in private, however.



What do you do when you're sad or angry?

In a word, mope.

Then I get a night's sleep and am usually back on my feet, after that.



Are you fashion conscious? If you are, what labels or designers do you own the most of and what would you LIKE to own more of?

I'm very fashion conscious in the sense that I tend to be very careful and knowledgable about the types of garments that flatter me best. I'm anti-advertising, however, and refuse to be a walking billboard for the brands that insist on affixing logos or their brand name on the exterior of every piece of clothing I own.

When it comes to designers, most of my dress shirts tend to be Calvin Klein; most of my other clothing tends to be Banana Republic. They suit me. My shoes tend to be Converse Chucks, or Kenneth Coles.


Do you believe in THE ONE?

I believe that every person has multiple opportunities within his or her lifetime to find a great deal of happiness with another person. I believe it's possible to choose one of them and attempt to make a lifetime of it. I also believe it's possible to establish many strong relationships over the course of the years.

So no, I don't believe in the one, singular. I believe in the abundance of life's opportunities.


What are some good things that come with your move?

It's easy, once you're in an established routine, to wish from time to time for a blank slate. Some new beginnings. Not everyone gets that opportunity, but I will. I'm especially happy about the thought of making new friends.

I'll also have more access to New York City in my new home, which is also exciting.


When hooking up, how old is too old?

I've encountered men over sixty-five who are very hot, virile, and highly attractive. And I've encountered men of the same age who are run-down and not that attractive to me. It's not simply the number of days one's lived that make a good sexual partner. There are other factors as well.


Sexiest part of the body to be kissed?

For me, it's the back of my neck and my shoulders, or anywhere on my upper back. It's a sensitive zone for me, and the sensation of being touched, licked, or kissed there makes me melt.


What underwear turn you on the the most?

The underwear that some guy has shucked off onto my bedroom floor.



Do you like eating another guy's cum?

Absolutely I do—unless he has foul-tasting semen. Then I'm not so wild about it. There are certain things that make cum taste really foul, like smoking, or excessive coffee drinking, or not enough hydration in the system.




Are you the beneficiary of a trust fund?

God, no. I make less money than a McDonald's clerk, doing what I do.



Are you cut or uncut and are you happy about that? Do you feel parents should wait so the boy can decide for himself whether he wants to be cut?

I'm cut, and don't mind it--but I don't really know what it's like from the other side.

I don't necessarily understand the justifications for circumcision in general, however, and would never subject any of my male children to it. It's genital mutilation, plain and simple. The objections of cleanliness strike me as overrated; there are all kinds of places on the body that can filled with gunk. If a kid can be trained to keep his belly button clean, he can clean out his foreskin.

Will: Perfect

(This post is a continuation of Getting a Room, and will itself be continued.)

“Hi.” Will stood before me bare-footed. One of his compact, fleshy hands was thrust deep into the pocket of his athletic shorts. The other lingered on the knob of his front door. He wore a red T-shirt. Red was one of his colors. It suited his dark skin; it directed the eyes to his body, his ass, his face. Will was a full head shorter than I, and he looked up at me with long, scared eyes. “I’m really glad you came.” In afterthought, he added, “Welcome to my home.”

It sounded like the kind of line he’d been taught by a parent, as a child, oddly formal in the face of what I’d come for. “Thanks,” I said, stepping inside. It was not a fancy place. The apartment complex might as well have been named The By-the-Highway Hideaway for Newly-Divorced Men. The rent here was cheap, the apartments cramped and dark, their windows occluded by hulking air conditioning units and the despair of the single. I had to edge my way in through the narrow hallway and into the cramped living room, where on the second-best furniture from his marriage Will had strewn newspapers and framed photographs of his sons. There wasn’t much in the way of decor, or frills. Everything was functional, and sparse, and obviously salvaged.

“So,” he said. His dark eyes rested on me, mournful. “I hope you didn’t have any problems getting away.”

I hadn’t. I swallowed, and licked my lips, slightly nervous. “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

“And you can . . . stay all night?”

I nodded. It was the year 2000 and I’d been in my relationship for a good decade by that point. I’d never once broken the first and foremost of my own rules; that is, I’d never spent the night, the entire night, with anyone else. I’d had a few encounters from which I’d stumbled home at one or two in the morning. When I’d gone traveling, I’d stayed out mighty late, or had people back to my hotel room until well after midnight. But never before had I ever intentionally slept over with anyone, all night long, in a premeditated fashion. (Not until Spencer would I do it again.)

“You don’t have to,” he said. “We can mess around, then you can leave if you need to. I don’t know what you told—“

“Will?” I interrupted. He blinked, and stopped mid-sentence. “Shut up.”

I pulled him to me, tipped my head so I wouldn’t collide with his baseball cap, and then kissed him deeply.

We went upstairs to his bedroom. When he opened the doors, I was taken aback by the heat inside. At some point before my arrival, Will had collected every candle he’d owned, and probably had picked up a few at the dollar store, lit them, and placed them around the room. Tea lights shone from the dresser in massed bunches. Fat chunky pillars adorned the television. On the nightstands were an assortment of white, waxen lights burning at different heights. The bed itself was adorned with a coverlet that was turned down to expose its homespun border of periwinkles.

I blinked in astonishment. It was really one of the loveliest things that anyone had done for me. “Oh my gosh,” I said, turning to him.

He looked sheepish. For such a handsome and buff guy, Will honestly had very little in the way of self-confidence. “Is it okay?” he asked. “I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

I melted. “It’s very okay!” I told him.

In some ways, it was difficult to believe he was fifteen years my senior at that point. Case in point: his next statement was, “I’ve just never . . . you know. Had intercourse with a man before. Like we did last week. And I was hoping this time I could . . . do it right.”

I swallowed, hard. My stomach seemed to have hatched hummingbirds. “I want you inside me again,” I told him at last, once I could speak. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Do you want me to put on a condom this time?” He’d probably gone out and bought them in all sizes, colors, and varieties, if I knew him.

“No,” I said. “I want to feel you in me. Nothing between us.”

He nodded. Obviously he wanted that, too.

I’d hosed out earlier, and made myself sweet-smelling. He lay me down on the bed and undressed me, his short and strong fingers tugging at my buttons, pulling down the zipper, gently unlacing my boots. Then it was his turn to remove his clothing. He did it both with a charming self-consciousness, knowing my eyes were upon him, and the grace of a stripper.

His body was beautiful. His dick was angry and hard, and already laced with pre-cum. When he climbed between my legs, they automatically parted for him. He kissed me deeply, as his hips pushed against mine, raising them up so that my hole was exposed for him. He didn’t bother to eat me out. He didn’t know how, probably. He’d told me that his experience with guys had been limited to a couple of blow jobs and a lot of fantasy; he hadn’t even watched any porn, at that point.

Married men, though—divorced men too—know how to fuck. He didn’t need me to teach him.
I’m not usually fond of Vaseline as a lube, but it was all he had. I’m not usually able to relax enough to be fucked without being eaten and loosened slowly. That night, though, his desire and mine were enough. The candlelight was enough. My ass rose to meet his cock, once I was face-down on the bed and he had gently arranged the pillows to support my chest and head. He pushed his red and angry flesh against my hole. It parted, and he slid inside without effort, and without any pain for me.

I remember that night vividly. I felt as if my hole were afire with him in it. He penetrated deeply and without any of the awkwardness or pain we’d had during the aborted fuck at Mark’s place the week before. Because we had the entire night, neither of us was in a hurry. He fucked me slowly, pausing between thrusts, his cock rigid and insistent inside a hole that miraculously responded as if it were fucked regularly.

We didn’t talk much. I let out small, contented sighs. He would kiss my neck and grunt to himself with every thrust. From time to time he’d pause to wipe away the sweat from my forehead, caused by the heat of the massed candles and our bodies. Never did he completely stop the rhythm of in and out, in and out, deeply in and slowly out.

For close to an hour he fucked me, several times bringing me close to orgasm without touching myself. I’d seem to get there, and cry out to beg for him to make it happen, but then that delicious sensation of dissolving and dissipating would ebb away until his dick brought me to that point yet again with another dozen or so sharp thrusts. “I’m getting close,” he finally told me. I could have told him that. No longer was he taking his time. He was battering away at my hole, holding himself up by the forearms and using his hips as a jackhammer. “I’ll pull out,” he promised.

“Please don’t,” I begged him, genuinely afraid he might.

“I really should,” he whispered. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

This was from the man whose sexual experience outside his marriage had been on the receiving end of two blow jobs. I could live with that level of risk. “I want you to stay in,” I begged him. “I want you to shoot in me.”

“Really?” he asked. I knew that if I looked over my shoulder, I’d see surprise in those large eyes. But I was too much the cunt at the moment to turn. I wanted his release as much as he did. I buried my forehead in the pillow and waited for it. My ass clenched at his dick, willing it to shoot.

I could tell the moment he was on the verge. My hole ached as his dick swelled and buried itself to its deepest point. I had to catch my breath, because he seemed to grow to twice his previous size as the first blast of semen erupted from him. “I think I’m in love with you,” he blurted out as he came, and then followed it up with an anguished cry. It was a howl of pain and pleasure, of need unleashed after so long. It was the first orgasm he’d ever had from fucking a man. I knew he’d remember it for the rest of his life.

I would, too.

“Don’t pull out,” I begged him, when he was quiet and still atop me. I felt him nod against my shoulder blades.

It was a few moments before he answered, “I’m sorry that I—“

“I love you too,” I told him, shushing the apology before it came. I didn’t want to hear he was sorry for saying that. “Don’t. Just don’t.” I sighed, contented, knowing that his cock was softening inside me. “There’s never enough love in this world. Don’t regret having it for anyone.”

“Okay,” said the strong and built man in a very small and quiet voice. Then, after a moment more, he reached for my hands, to hold them tight. His voice was sleepy when he asked, “Did I do all right?”
“Oh god,” I whispered back, squeezing his fingers. “More than that.”

He rumbled, happy to hear it. A few moments later, he was asleep, his dick and sperm still in me.
I lay like that, with a hundred and seventy pounds of fur and muscle atop and in me, for what seemed like an eternity. The room was stuffy and their heat and the human blanket were making me sweat again. My ass was beginning to ache; it hadn’t been used like that in an awfully long time. I had difficulty breathing, and was being pulverized into the mattress.

But you know what? It was perfect, and I was perfectly happy.

Will: Getting A Room

(This is a continuation of Will, from yesterday.)

“Holy cow,” growled Matt in my ear, in the middle of Detroit’s Gold Coast bar. “Get a fucking room already.” It was over a decade ago, and nominally a bunch of us who’d met at the gay.com social had gone out on this particular Saturday night to watch the strippers. I didn’t even notice the beefy boys aimlessly gyrating from the poles onstage, clad in nothing but their socks and underwear.

It was the vogue in the Detroit male strip circuit back then for the strippers to stuff their shorts with a dildo, at both ends of which they would occasionally wrap their hands and expose a latex inch or two. The more nearsighted (or beer-sighted) among the crowd would think they were getting a flash of dick, the strippers were keeping it legal, and everyone was happy. Will and I, however, weren’t looking at the strippers. We weren’t hoping for flashes of their faux dicks. We were pressed up against the wall, lips locked and tongues so tangled they felt like the crazy roots of water-thirsty swamp trees, grown in a twist.

Almost more guys were watching us than the bored strippers.

Will’s dick was rock-hard. I hadn’t seen it yet, but my hand rubbed up and down its length beneath his jeans. He, likewise, fondled mine. His fingers tickled at the underside, and tweaked the head, poking and prodding to find all every outline, every ridge, almost every vein. Our bodies were so pressed together that our sweat had turned to glue.

Without affection, Matt yanked me away from Will. I was dazed. We both were, We’d had eyes only for each other when we’d met at the bar that night. Two weeks had passed since the night he and I had made out at the Eagle. We’d met to make out in between the previous Friday night, at another of the local bars. On the weeknights, after we both got home from work, we’d meet on gay.com and talk and flirt. The talking we saved for online. In person, we just wanted to mack on each other. Matt shook me until I look at him. “Go to my place,” he said, almost angrily. He took the keys and pressed them in my hands. “Get him to drive you there. I’ll drive your car back when I’m done here so you don’t have to worry about it. Just get it out of your fucking system already.”

The implication was that everyone was sick of watching me make out with the man I thought was the handsomest in the room. I thought it over for about five seconds, agreed, and ran out with Will to the parking lot.

Back at the house we stripped down almost immediately. Will’s body was even more perfect than I could have imagined. His pecs were enormous, his stomach flat and ridged with definition, his waist narrow. He was a massive slab of muscle frosted with dark, thick hair—like one of those athletes from the Jockey underwear ads over which I used to masturbate as a kid. His dick jutted out angrily, like some kind of rock projection from the flat face of an ancient mountain. It wasn’t large—a good solid six inches—but it was beautiful. It was his. And I was seeing it for the first time.

Will looked at me with something in his eyes almost akin to fear. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Is it okay?”

“Oh god,” I told him. “It’s more than okay.” He was beautiful, and I wanted him more than anything.

The only clothing he had left were a pair of ankle-high white socks that he removed, and his baseball cap. I reached up and took it from his head. He tried to stop me for a moment, then let me. Beneath the baseball cap he was balding. Not just a little thin spot. He had a pretty advanced case of male pattern baldness, and it was obvious it mortified him. Again he looked at me with fear in his eyes, as if afraid I might run off because his only remaining hair was a short dark black fringe around his head.
I looked him in the eye. “You are so fucking beautiful,” I told him.

To show him how I felt, I got down in the middle of that strange bedroom and sucked his dick, taking it in my throat to the base and letting my tongue and cheeks cling to its slick skin as I moved back and forth over it. I loved the taste of him, and the scent of his sweat and pubes and of the powder he would apply to his skin after a workout. I made love to his dick to make him gasp with pleasure, and every sharp intake of his breath was my reward. Somehow we moved to the bed, where I continued to suck him. I alternated my lips between his mouth and his dick, making him groan with every new pleasure I invented for him. I tweaked his nipples, and rubbed his thighs, tugged at his nuts, and even let my fingertips glide across the forest of hair growing on his hole. “I want to do something,” he finally said, pushing me away. He looked me in the eye. “I want to do something with you, and I don’t know if I can.”

“What?” I asked. I would’ve worshipped his feet, shaved myself for him, crawled across gravel on my knees if it meant I could make him feel good, at that moment.

“I want to . . . to . . . .” He couldn’t say the words. I urged him on. “I want to be inside you. Anally.” He almost whispered the last word.

I hadn’t been fucked in a while at that point, but it was a damned sight closer on the horizon than it is now. My last bottom experience had been maybe a year and a half before. I didn’t care. I wanted it. “Yes,” I told him.

“But I don’t know how,” he said. I didn’t understand, so he explained. “I haven’t done it before.”

“You haven’t fucked a guy before?” He shook his head at my question. “Have you been fucked?”

“No. I don’t think I’d like that. I think I’d like to fuck, though. I know I want to fuck you.”

He had a way of talking that was simple. He wasn't stupid, but any means. His sentences were direct, and honest, and sometimes sounded as if they should have been spoken by a child. If I hadn't already been naked, he would have charmed off my pants. We looked at each other on that stranger’s bed. I took his hand. “You know how to do it,” I told him. “You’ll know, once you’re inside.”

I pulled him to me, and kissed him. I maneuvered myself onto my back and managed to get him on top of me, so that my hole was teasing his dick. His meat hardened even more, if that was possible. Precum was flowing liberally from the tip. When he seemed anxious to begin, I opened the bedside table and was lucky to find some lube in there. Together we spread it over his dick and into my hole, and I flipped over on my stomach. “Just go in slow,” I asked him. “We’ll make it work.”

I think Will tried to follow my instructions, but I saw stars before my eyes when he jabbed his way into the hole. “Too fast!” I gasped, holding him still. I panted and began to sweat a little as I attempted to accommodate him. Eventually the sharp pain receded. “Just go in and out,” I begged him. “Just a little bit. Then you can start to go deeper.”

I’m not sure whether it was the angle, or the fact I hadn’t been fucked in a while, or whether he was simply too hard and too aroused to be gentle, but every thrust felt like a knife up my ass. I bit my lip and grunted, trying to relax but finding it difficult. “I’m doing it wrong,” he said. But his hips didn’t stop.

“No,” I said. “It’s me. Don’t stop. We’ll get it.”

“I’m doing it wrong,” he repeated. He sounded mournful.

I didn’t give a fuck about the pain. I just wanted him. “Just fuck me,” I whispered. “Fuck me. Please.” He picked up the pace, thrusting faster and harder. “Do you like it? Do you like my ass?” I wanted to know.

“Yes,” he whispered. He sounded as if he were in church. “I love it. I love your ass. Don’t make me stop.”

“You don’t have to stop,” I told him, glad at what he’d said. “Don’t stop.”

It still hurt, but he fucked me on and on for several minutes. I’d just started to relax and enjoy the ride when I saw a flash of light. The bedroom was mostly dark, and I’d though that perhaps there was lightning outside. But then I saw the flash again, and heard a whirring. I turned my head, blearily looked up through the bedroom door, and saw Matt standing there with a digital camera in his hand. He snapped another photo.

“What are you doing?” I asked. The flash and the camera, the sudden and unexpected presence of another man in the room, broke the spell. Will stopped what he was doing and peered up as well. His hips stopped their sweet motion.

“You guys look hot,” he said. He held out the camera. “Want to see?” Will rolled off. Embarrassed, he started to look for his socks and underwear. “You guys want a three-way?”

I still have those photos from that night. I dislike them, because I was carrying more weight back then, and because with Will on top of me, my mid-section is distended and squashed to grotesque proportions. He looks hairy and muscular and tan and compact; I look like an oversized, albino gummy bear that some giant thumb has poked in the belly, forced to a bloated extreme.

I hated Matt for taking the photos at that moment and interrupting what was a very hot fuck. But I’m grateful to have those only pictures of Will and I together, so I can remember the moment we first connected, with him deep inside my hole.

Will

(This is the first in a shorter series of entries. Shorter than the Earl series, anyway.)

I’d like to take advantage of my down time to write out the story of Will. He was an important lover of mine. A gentle man and a gentleman both. Will was a man with whom I was in love very deeply, and who for a time was even a party of my family. And despite all that, our relationship was a bittersweet comedy of bad timing and misunderstandings that ended, if not horribly, at least not well.

There was a time about a dozen years ago when gay.com was not the blueberry-colored atrocity it is now. Now I find it a slow, empty wasteland in which all but a few rooms are empty, and in which no one chats save through private messages. Around the turn of the millennium, however, the service was new, and young, and full of energy. The local and state rooms were often doubled up on capacity.

Users could make their own special interests rooms, and those were full of usual and funky fetishes. The chat bots were spamming people to follow links and buy natural Viagra at well below pharmaceutical rates, and there were any number of gay.com-appointed room monitors lurking about to bounce out guys who abused the site’s rules.

I loved the local rooms not for cruising . . . though admittedly I did some of that . . . but for the socializing. I actually made friends in those rooms. Friends who were my social companions for most of the following decade. One of the more active chatters in the local room organized a gay.com party within a couple of months of my establishing a presence there. It was held in the basement of a local bar. Guys brought potluck appetizers, wore nametags, associated screen names with faces, and had a great time socializing and getting to know each other. There were a few weirdo types who lurked at the bar’s periphery, refusing to don a tag although it was clear they were hoping to see who was whom, but even a few of those eventually warmed up to the social fun and joined in.

The party was such a success that we held a second one a few weeks later, at a larger and busier bar.It was there that I met Will for the first time. He was introduced to me as part of a pack of people, and he stood at its back, hands in the pockets of his tight jeans. He was older than me—about fifty-three at the time, though I would never have guessed his age. To me he was astonishingly handsome. His eyes were the first feature of his I noticed. They were large and dark, almost perfectly round. Anime-character eyes set deep in his face, of a clear and uncomplicated brown that was almost like toffee. His body was astonishingly fit. His waist was narrow and snugly contained in denim. His chest was buff and muscular. His arms were perfect specimens of ropy muscle, and his forearms were taut and covered in fur. He wore a baseball cap and a T-shirt that hugged tightly every curve and definition of his chest, and stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. When we were introduced, he just nodded at me, and averted his eyes.

I thought to myself, Stuck up. Then I tried to think no more about it, though I found myself looking at him from across the room and wishing. Just wishing that I had a chance.

I remembered him by his screen name, though, and when I was on gay.com in the evenings sometimes I’d see him there. His profile didn’t say much about him beyond his stats and his age, and I never saw him speak in the room. I assumed he was too busy having cyber sex with some other jock stud and tried to dismiss all thoughts of him from my mind.

He was so good looking, though. And those eyes. It was a little difficult not to think back at the sight of him, so easy to rest my eyes upon.

I saw him next at the Detroit Eagle, which locals referred to as the leather bar, though it was rarely any such thing. More of a denim bar with the occasional flash of leather. It was a slow Friday night, and my new friends were crowded downstairs, in the middle, ordering drinks. I was sitting at a bar stool, sipping on a Diet Coke, when I saw him. He was wearing another of those clinging, elastic T-shirts of his that hugged his pecs, and a pair of shorts that gave him the appearance of just having stepped out of the gym, or some porn flick nominally set at a gym. A Detroit Tigers baseball cap covered his brow; its brim curved along the same arc as his thick eyebrows. When he was reintroduced to me, he pulled his hand from his right pocket, thrust it at me, then buried back in its warm depth once he’d done.

Silly as it sounds, I was almost afraid to look at him. He was so handsome in a way that appealed deep down to my core. It warmed my heart simply to look at the guy, to let my eyes trip over the handsome chin, the blunt nose. I looked at his brawn and cool, conscious good looks and immediately thought, way out of your league, dude.

But he was still so pretty to think about.

My friends liked to move around the Eagle at that time. I’d learned that it was pointless to drift to the patio unless there were a crowd, or to stand in the balcony where no one went. So I stuck to my bar stool. I was surprised that Will lingered in the vicinity. He stood with his back against the railing a few feet away, sipping on a rum and Coke, while I occasionally cast sidelong glances at him and mentally kicked myself for being so bashful and plain.

I was even more surprised when Will sat down in the chair next to mine. “So, Rob, what does your screen name mean?”

I was surprised he even remembered my actual name. Astonished, even. He looked at me sideways from those toffee-brown eyes, studying me. He was a quiet man, I realized. Here was I, who had been accused throughout my life of stand-offishness more than anyone I knew simply because I was quiet and observant, thinking the same of someone with similar traits. Immediately I felt awkward, and guilty.

I told him that my gay.com screen name was a minor character from a Shakespearean play. “Shakespeare,” he said, nodding. For a moment I feared he was going to be derisive, or say something that proved he wasn’t as high-fallutin’ as I. Instead, in a soft, deep voice, he launched into a story about how, when he’d been still married a few years before, he’d carried his two kids to a production of Shakespeare in a local park, and how he’d been the only one of the three of them who’d remained awake. “So what do you do?” he asked.

I was still working full-time in education at the time; I hadn’t yet begun my artistic career. I told him my job. “Do you like it?” he asked.

He was so serious in his question that for the first time in a very long time, I was taken aback. “Not really,” I admitted.

He nodded, as if he’d known it all along. “So why do you keep doing it?”

“I need the money.”

“What would you be doing if money wasn’t the issue?”

He was so interesting, and his questions kept me so off-guard, that I couldn’t help but respond with the absolute truth instead of something polite and circumstantial. I told him of my artistic ambitions, which I’d been deferring because of my career in education. “Are you meant to do that?” he asked. I said that I thought I was. “It seems to me that you should be doing what you’re meant to do, plain and simple.”

He said it with such conviction that I began to believe it myself. “Are you doing what you're meant to do?” I asked. He was facing me by then. He’d left his drink on the bar. His knees were open and almost touching mine. It was tough not to look down and stare at the hairy, muscular calves blossoming from the tops of his sneakers. He let loose the first real smile I'd ever seen from him, exposing his slightly crooked teeth, and he shook his head. "What are you meant to do, then?"

We were close enough that I could smell the rum on his breath. “I might be a little drunk right now,” he said. “But only a little. And you are very, very cute, and I really want to kiss you very badly.” I was stunned enough by his words that I couldn’t move. “May I?”

I had enough presence of mind to nod. It was a slight thing, a bare tilt of the head, but it was permission enough for him. He leaned forward and cupped the back of my head with his hand, and pulled me close to him. His lip was covered with a five o’clock stubble that ground into my then-clean-shaven upper lip. He kissed me hard, his lips pulling mine, his teeth nipping gently at the flesh, his tongue dancing through the opening and into me.

In my memory it lives on as one of those movie kisses, one of those romance novel kisses that set my body afire. What it mostly did, however, was give me a massive boner in my pants. I leaned into the kiss and returned it. Soon we were making out at the bar, not caring who watched. “Come here,” he said at last, pulling me to my feet. He tugged me toward what the Eagle called their dance floor, a part of the first floor that was dark and had a few flashing lights to impart a sense of conviviality over what was really a gloomy area covered by the balcony. It was dark, though, and we could stand body against body, boner against boner, my scrawny ribcage against his manly, muscular chest, making out like our lives depended on it. I didn’t think. I didn’t over-consider what was happening. I just kissed him, and enjoyed every fucking minute of it.

Our friends came back in at some point to look for us, then saw us making out on the dance floor, and left us alone. Or really, they sat across the bar and talked about us, but at least it was out of earshot. For a half hour or more we locked lips and let our tongues get acquainted, until at last, out of breath and thirsty, we came up for air.

He held my hands and looked up at me. “You wanted to know what I’m meant to do?” he asked. I nodded. “Well. I’m finalizing plans to leave the country, and move, so that I can become a priest.”

After the unexpected make-out session, it seemed so completely random a thing to say that I could only blink. “Really?” I finally asked.

“Really.” He licked his lips and looked at me. “Does that put you off?”

“I’m not single,” I blurted out. “Does that put you off?”

He shook his head.

I shook mine.

Then, after a moment of looking in each other’s eyes, we started to make out again.

Sunday Morning Questions: Trolling for Fun & Profit Edition

I really hate to have to write this particular edition of the off-the-cuff Sunday remarks I make before I get to a roundup of questions of formspring.me. But some stuff this week has made me decide I need to draw a line.

One of the reasons I keep making my journal entries available on a public blog is that I like the interaction with the readers. I enjoy hearing from the guys for whom some of my stories resonate, or who get a measure of strength or even guidance from some of the advice asked of me. Guys write me to tell me their stories, and share information with me that they feel they can't tell anyone else. That's a fucking honor. I love that.

What I don't particular love are the nutballs who come out of the woodwork and make things a misery. I'm used to them personally, with the nasty little comments they make in the middle of the night—none of which make much sense on any logical level, but apparently serve as some kind of outlet for the clinically mentally ill to release some of their anger and frustration, trolling for some kind of reaction.

Where I've got to draw the line, though, is when the trolls start emailing others of my readers and harassing them. I've had it happen twice this month—once around the time I was moving, when someone started targeting commenters who had provided links to profiles with addresses, asking them all kinds of questions—had they met me? Did they know if I was for real? Why were they commenting on my blog if they hadn't met me? I took care of that matter privately.

Then this week, another fellow with the email address of dudebud_@hotmail.com started sending some pretty vile emails to one of my readers I'd met. He said that it sickened him how I cheated on my wife and how I was lying about my serostatus, was HIV-positive, and probably had infected my reader. The writer went on to imply that I had infected him. Then he stated, in a way that made no sense whatsoever based on the previous statement, that he really wanted to sleep with me. Then he pumped the reader for personal information about me.

Let's overlook the fact that the guy is making a lot of assumptions about me that say more about his fantasy life than my actual, real life that I chronicle in my blog. Let's just move on to the fact that the vast majority of my readers are going to have more allegiance to me than to some random poison pen. My reader naturally forwarded on the correspondence to me with a what the fuck? attached. I wrote the freak and asked him to desist, at which point he backtracked and attempted to convince me that he hadn't been talking about me, but the behavior of gay men in general.

No, sir. You were pretty specific. You just didn't like to be called out.

So here's a general statement I ask all my readers to consider. If you are a reader of this blog who has an issue with it, or with my behavior, simply don't read me any longer. It really is that easy. Unfollow me. Remove me from your feed and bookmarks. Go somewhere else you find more pleasing. Or if you wish to engage in a dialogue about it, write me. Don't go bugging my readers, whose only crime is reading and writing the occasional comment.

Furthermore, what really upsets me is how obsessed this individual—and other such individuals who've targeted me before—is with my serostatus. The fact that he stigmatizes persons living with HIV really disturbs me more than anything personal he has to say about me (he might as well say I have cooties, for all I care). The mentality of Mr. Dudebud_ is the same as that as the fellow who wrote in a question demanding a vial of my semen to test it for HIV (and I suspect they may well be the same person). The intent to shame someone based on their HIV status betrays small-mindedness and a huge degree of ignorance. It demeans the experiences of people living with HIV and AIDS worldwide. It demeans the experiences of many of my friends, lovers, readers, and family. More than anything else, that makes me angry.

I won't tolerate such small-mindedness in my comments or in emails to me. And I definitely won't sit still when someone goes out of his way to harass my readers with it. I have a new basic rule for interactions here in the future that won't affect more than ninety-nine percent of you, but here it is, stated for all to see: Don't be a dick. Simple as that.

Some of you will probably disagree with my decision to print the guy's email address here. But here's what my late mother used to say: if you don't want your dirty laundry hanging for everyone to see, don't come over and shit on my sheets.

Now, let's get to some questions.


How often are you tested for stds? (no malicious intent)

Regularly. Beyond that is only the business of myself and my immediate sexual partners.


You've talked in the past about concerns over men who don't or can't see how attractive they are. It seems to be a common thread, even in your more recent entries. Do you have any suggestions on how men should go about recovering their self-esteem?

If I had the answer, I'd have overcome my own self-esteem issues!

A lot of my personal frustration with men who don't understand the gifts they have to offer the word arises from the persistent way in which they deflect compliments or attention to their positive attributes. Reflexive it might be, but it's a rude instinct that not only dishonors the compliment, but both the person who gave it, and the gifts that the guy has been given in his life.

Basically I'd like to shake some people and tell them to take the fucking compliment. Acknowledge it. Say thank you for it, politely. Don't try to explain why one doesn't deserve it, or why it's misapplied, or why the giver of the compliment is misinformed or too ignorant to appreciate why the compliment was wrong, wrong, wrong. Instead, try to understand what the person admired to begin with, and accept that perhaps it really does apply.

And yes, I include myself in the list of guys I want to shake, from time to time.


LOL@ Steve Buscemi playing Jim. What did Earl see in Jim? He sounds awful.

It's difficult for an outsider to speculate what makes someone's relationship last. It could have been habit. Earl might have stayed with him out of fear that Jim would blab about his activities. He might have kept Jim on out of obligation, or guilt of what he'd made of him.

Or they might've actually loved each other on some level. If that were indeed the case, I wasn't astute enough really to see it, but I was only a kid at the time.


if i was tied up, naked and left on your doorstep.... what would you do :)

Throw a blanket over you and notify the local authorities, most likely.


The hairier the better?

Not necessarily. I like hairy men. I like smooth men, too. I don't limit my attraction to a guy based solely on a genetic inheritance over which he has no control.


Is there anyone, famous or not, that you would consider switching teams for? If so, who?

The question in which I'm more interested is who, celebrity or not, is considering switching teams for me.


Do you have any piercings? If so, above or below the neck?

I do not. I've considered it below the neck, though. But needles frighten me.


Have you ever regretted anything you ever posted online?

Not photos or anything of that sort. There've been a few times I've gotten upset and regretted posting angry words in various places—but not so much because of what I've said, as for letting myself get that upset to begin with.


I really want to see a pic of your ass. Not spread eagle or anything, just a nice pic. Do you have that sexy little patch of hair on your lower back? -J

No, I don't believe I have that patch of hair. My butt--what there is of it--is nothing special, trust me.


What's that one food you hate so much that its very sight or smell makes you sick?

Cooked liver makes me queasy. I overthink where it's been.

Mikey's Wisdom

I’m going to be talking about my dry stretch, again. You’ve been warned.

My experience trying to meet guys here in my new state has been, at the very least, frustrating. I’m in the most populous county of Connecticut, and I can’t find a damned guy with whom to hook up. And it’s been making me lose faith a little. In my mojo. In my modest looks. In the god who would strand me here for such a trial.

It really hasn’t been for lack of trying, honestly. The area has no gay bars, and I don’t have a firm enough grasp of geography here so I haven’t gone to any of the bookstores. So I’ve been limited to online interactions, and they’ve all been disappointments. My profiles get plenty of attention. But the follow-through is zilch.

I made a morning date with a married guy who wanted badly to be fucked, for example. Oh, his emails to me were case studies of boner-inducing promises of untold sensuality. He seemed sincere, which is something that most cybersexers never manage. I logged on at our appointed date time the next morning, saw him online, dropped him a note and waited for him to tell me what time he wanted to come over. I have a stomach ache, he wrote back. Sorry.

Then I never heard from him again.

I had a guy who asked if I was looking. Yes, I told him. I was looking and available then. Did I want to come over, he wanted to know? His place was free and he had all morning to fuck. Yes, I replied. I wanted to come over. He wrote back immediately with, Sorry, I can’t host.


I went back to his previous emails to make certain I hadn't misread him. No, he said he was able to have me over. I’m still trying to figure out that one.

Another guy said he was driving a truck out of one of the boroughs up through Connecticut along 95, and wanted me breed him. Was I available to fuck him in his truck? Yes, I told him. I was available all afternoon from twelve-thirty up until about six, and was more than willing to drive to one of the rest stops along I-95 in order to meet him. I gave him my cell number and got an enthusiastic response from the guy.

Never heard from him.

I agreed to meet with an older guy from Manhunt who invited me over after he asked if I was free. I told him I was free all morning, and would love to meet. I’d brushed my teeth and dressed and had my sandals on in anticipation of getting his address when he messaged me back: Sorry, my boyfriend just woke up. Guess we can’t meet now.

That’s another one I’m still trying to figure out.

I’ve had guys from BBRT—including two of my readers—tell me they’d be available and when I’d set aside a block of time for them, they wouldn’t call or surface online. I’ve given out my address and cell number to a couple of men who said they were on the way over, and who never showed. I had one guy message me on Adam4Adam asking how I was doing, and I replied with Good morning. How are you?, only to have him sent me a hostile rant a half-hour later about how rude I was and how he was going to unfollow me on Twitter. Why, I still can't figure out.

These examples are just the tip of the iceberg. I kind of figured I wasn’t going to be playing around with guys the week before and perhaps the week after my move. I’ve been in Connecticut a solid month now, though, and I still haven’t met anyone. No, I take that back. One guy who was explicit and lurid about wanting me to fuck and fist him online insisted on meeting for coffee before hooking up. I met him at a Starbucks and watched in amazement as he squirmed and avoided any mention aloud of why we were meeting. The guy was as incapable of having a frank adult discussion of sex as he would’ve been of lifting a twenty-ton tank. He was barely able to carry on a conversation with me, and it limped along until I suggested we call it a day—and then he ran to his phone and began to send me all manner of messages about how hot I was and how he wanted me to do countless nasty things to him.

Probably won’t be happening.

I’ve done precious little about the situation than dip my toe in the waters again and again. And complain. I’ve honestly tried not to be tiresome about it, but holy crap. This place is either crazy, or I am seriously out of step.

It was yesterday, though, that I was complaining to Mikey about how long it had been since I’d gotten to fool around. Because if you can’t complain to your big brother, who else can you complain to, right? And here’s what he had to say:

Here's what I think about the not getting laid issue. Please don't be offended little brother ....... I have never seen YOU not be able to get laid .. you just have that going on .. you have charm and you have all the right stuff. I think it has more to do with your choice being taken away about being in your element here in Michigan .. I have a feeling that you still have some anger about that and as much as you love your mate you were on solid, secure, stable and yes popular ground here! I think you're still a little pissed and hurt that your choice was taken away over reasons that .. Yes .. monetarily things maybe a little more secure but it's still tied to the relationship and not your independence. So .. how does that show up .. no sex ... indecision ... fear .. does that make sense???

Mikey has the ability to make me really think, sometimes. I disagreed with him on one point, though, and wrote back to say that I had absolutely no fear about meeting anyone here, and certainly wasn’t the indecisive one.

No not fear and indecision about fucking little brother ... fear and indecision about letting yourself settle there .. like giving in to something that you didn't really want and feeling like if things were a little more balanced that it is a decision you would have never gone along with.

That’s when his point really hit home. There’ve been other times I’ve had dry stretches, whether by chance or by choice, that didn’t bother me quite so much. I’ve been letting this one rule my mood. It’s been getting me angry to the point of tearfulness. It’s fueled a lot of resentment, and obsession. Mikey managed to put his finger on a matter more central to the issue: I was using the dry spell to fuel some latent upset about having to move at all. He was totally right about that.

The metropolitan New York City area was the absolute last place in the country I wanted to move. I can’t think of anywhere save for maybe San Francisco that’s more expensive, and don’t know anyplace more congested. I always try to regard things in the best possible light and acted more than happy when the spouse’s job offer came through. I was a trouper through the long separation and all the work on the house and on packing and moving that I had to do myself.

Now I’m here, and like Mikey said, perhaps on a certain unconscious level, I’ve been pissed about it. Pissed to have to leave behind my network, my friends, my sweet friendship with Spencer. If popularity is what I had, I’m pissed at having to start over. Perhaps very deeply, I’m pissed that my choices in the matter were stomping all over a loved one’s dream job, versus moving to an area of the country in which I never wanted to live.

And somehow all those resentments are manifesting in my dry spell. I honestly haven’t been aware that I’m sabotaging myself, but perhaps I am in subtle ways—perpetuating a state of sexlessness for myself so that I can exercise my petulance so that it comes out as a grudge against this new place and the men who dwell in it. Mikey makes me sound like a child having a tantrum for something silly and random, but he’s right. I’ve been channeling all my frustrations and worry and fear and anger into this one obsession—the dry spell—and letting it overwhelm my waking moments. I can endure a few weeks without a hookup. The bigger issues underneath, like my apparent grudge at being uprooted, I need to work out at home.

Awareness, though, is the first step to recovery. I’ve decided to keep my big brother’s wisdom in mind as I face the drought. On a certain level I still think the men of Connecticut are crazy fuckers, but I’m going to start observing how the drought might be of my own making. I’m going to relax, to enjoy the season, and to stop letting a fruitless hunt rule my mood. Likewise, I’m going to refuse to let fester any unhappinesses related to the move. Once I’ve set those things right, my sex life will resume as normal.

If there’s anything I’ve tried to put across in this blog, which I’ve always presented to you guys with warts and blemishes and all, it’s that sex is not a simple matter of inserting object A into slot B. It’s not hydraulics and mechanics. It’s a messy amalgam of emotions and motivations and fears and desire that often results in something joyous, and just as often into something odd or messy. I’m no more proficient of steering away from the latter as anyone else; I’ve never pretended otherwise.

So thank you, Mikey. You little brother is grateful for the insight. And it’s nice to know that when my head’s a little muddled and my feelings in a mess, I’ve got a big brother to help straighten me out.

Reader Asses: #14

Oh, I've been liking this series of entries. Anything that gets me a steady supply of pretty asses (in my in-box, anyway) gets my enthusiastic support.

But a question for you guys—do you want to continue to see the asses? Or should I be asking guys to send in photos of their junk as well? Let me know what you think.

In the meantime, we have. . . .

Swimbikerun

I'm telling you guys something. All that exercise this guy is doing is really working out. Jesus. Look at that perfectly round, furry crack. I want to mount and fuck the hell out of it.

Nathan

Nathan's been not only good enough to include some photos of his hot butt, but of a guy deep-dicking it as well. For a moment, by the pubes alone, I thought that was me topping him.

I only WISH. That is a hot, hot ass, Nathan. It looks even better with a dick stuffed in it. Thanks for sharing the photos!


SeattleBottom

You know, every now and then I get a set of photos that tells a story. And what I really admire about SeattleBottom's series, here, is the pacing of them. They start off small and modest, with a small photo of him gulping down a dildo, rectally. Then he picks up the pace by bending over and assuming the position. By the end, though, he's on his back, legs lifted to heaven, hole exposed for everyone to admire . . . and use.

Gawd, Mr. SeattleBottom. You really know how to tease a horny guy, don'tcha? I love it.


Mike

Oh, Mike. I love your meaty, round ass. I would write a poem to it if I had enough synonyms to describe how perfect and round it is. And it would be a dirty poem, too.

I also love the way you steady your phone on your hip to keep it steady for the shot. That is the sign of a truly dedicated Ansel Adams of ass self-photography.

Let's give these guys a nice round of applause for sharing today, readers—and as always, if you'd like to participate, read the original entry for details on what to do.

I WANT YOUR ASSES!