Sunday Morning Questions: Boxing Day Edition

Christmas of 2010 has passed. Did everyone get what they wanted? I'd love to know what your best gifts were--let me know in the comments!

My own holiday was spent in a pleasurable manner. I picked up the visiting family members from the airport in the afternoon, made dinner for everyone, ate happily, and spent the evening watching Doctor Who like the big geek that I am. I did receive a couple of really nice gifts from readers that I'll be sure to showcase, once I have the privacy to take some photos again.

But as I ever do on Sundays, I'll be recapping some of the questions I've been asked on formspring.me, that free service that allows one's friends (and strangers) to make inquiries, and neatly collects the results onto a single page. Feel free to use the service to ask me whatever you'd like--or simply email me with your questions and I'll get around to them. Eventually. Honest, I swear. (My goal is to have a clean mailbox by year's end!)


Is there anything sexier than confidence?
A cocky grin and a scruffy face go a long way.


Do you know who Beverly Strassmann is?
Only by Googling the name. Why?


Should your followers start a fund to relocate Scruffy to Connecticut? An apartment and maybe a job at a place like Eastern Mountain Sports. What do you think?
I think it would be the greatest charitable act ever known to mankind. Will there be a telethon?


"Move Scruffy!" Fund: For your sake and Scruffy's, within what sort of radius (in miles) should Scruffy's still-to-be-found-and-furnished-apartment be from your new home, in Connecticut? It's time to get granular, right?
I think I need to sell the old home, first. Then find a new one.

Before Scruffy moved back in with his folks, he only lived a mile from me.


It's KARAOKE night! What's your Grammy winning performance song?
"Private Dancer." Tell me, do you wanna see me do the shimmy again?


Would you rather eat a load or wear it?
Loads are for inside a hole. They're not accessories.


If I met you right now, what do you think my first impression of you would be?
That I need to put on some damned clothes.


Do you believe in fate?
When a pebble drops into water, it sets off ripples in every direction. I believe that's what we do with every decision we make and every action we take.

If you watch the way ripples interact, though, you'll see that they don't simply vanish into the horizon. Sometimes they rebound—whether from the edges of a container, or from the ripples that other people have set off. Sometimes they collide, and become larger, less predictable waves.

I believe that sometimes in our lives, the ripples we've set off might bring back to us little souvenirs we can cherish, just as the sea waves bring in shells and stones and other keepsakes. Or they can bring trash upon their swells—or even bear disaster. If that's fate, then yes, I believe in it. However, to me it all starts with the pebbles we drop into the waters ourselves.


Have you ever been in a relationship with someone & now looking back saying to yourself "What the f*ck was I thinking?"
I've fallen for certain guys whom, years later, I'll look at and think, "Good god, what was that all about?"

I think we tell ourselves certain stories about people in order to incorporate them into our lives, and sometimes we overemphasize certain attributes. We tell ourselves the guy's more handsome than he is, or smarter than he ever could be, or has winning personality traits that he obviously doesn't have. We overlook the obvious faults.

It's only later on, when there's more perspective, that we can see the truth we ignored earlier.


I'm a natural bottom, love taking it in both holes, cum the easiest when I'm stuffed. But I'm an ok top, not great. Plus, while I love both rough & gentle tops, my inner top waiting to be set free is a nasty boy. Any hints on improving my topping skills?
I'd suggest topping more often. There's no shortage of guys out there who are looking for tops. Any tops. Even okay-but-not-great tops. You could easily have your pick.

I suspect that your self-assessment of being merely adequate is fairly modest. If you want to get better, fuck a lot. Pay attention to your partners and how they respond to certain things you do; make sure to do the things they enjoy more often, and perhaps even more intensely.

And if your inner top is a nasty boy, let him loose. The wilder you fuck, the more you'll enjoy yourself. And the more you enjoy yourself, the more your partner will have a good time.

A Happy Yule

Not all my readers celebrate the holiday, of course, but I think we all need a day in the year like Christmas, when we reunite with loved ones, reflect on the good times past, and hope for better years in the future.

I wish all my readers a most happy holiday.

A Quick Note

My posting may become sporadic over the next few days as the holiday hits. Hits like a giant meteor with a collision course for earth, like some mid-nineties disaster flick.

I'm hoping to be back to a more regular schedule next week!

Sunday Morning Questions: Last-Minute Shopping Edition

By today's title, I don't mean you guys shopping for me. (Though if you want to, by all means, go ahead.) I mean to confess that I am a last-minute present shopper. A very bad one, too.

I'm usually good at looking at a person and seeing some of the things that make them tick. I'm really good at observing personality quirks and seeing how they rise and connect to the person beneath; I'm especially skilled at listening to the stories that people tell, and understanding why they picked out that story and why they tell it in the manner they choose. I'm good at getting to know the people who are close to me.

But how all that translates into whether to buy someone a scarf or a sweater absolutely mystifies me. I wander into a store and don't have a clue of how to pick out an appropriate gift. I blunder around aimlessly, in an increasing panic, until it's Christmas Eve and there I am in the local drug store that's the only place open for last-minute presents, frantically purchasing Chia Pets for everyone on my list.

Well, it's not that bad. But almost.

Take Spencer, for example. I'd like to get him a small token of a present—nothing too elaborate, nothing too grand. But I don't have a clue of what to get the boy. I don't really want anything consumable. Or a shirt of which he'll dispose in a year or two. Just something small by which he could remember me in the future, that's not overly showy or expensive. Any suggestions from the crowd? (No, no studded cock rings.)

It's my Sunday tradition to round up some of the questions I've tackled on formspring.me. Feel free to use the service to ask your own questions of me—I have a bit of a backlog of questions at the moment so don't be offended if I don't get to yours immediately, but I'll eventually answer anything that's not overly invasive, super-repetitive (I know I've answered hundreds of questions at this point, but rest assured that 'How big is your dick?' is indeed among them), or just batshit crazy.


Do you have random anonymous sex/hook ups with strangers? like using craigslist, restareas, cruising spots, public restrooms etc..
Yes. Where do you want to meet?


Is it the case that bottoms in general are desperate for tops or just that there are few who are hitting up every top they encounter for more?
Some bottoms are a little more strident than others. There's kind of a fine line between 'aggressive' and 'desperate' for me. While I appreciate a good 'Hey buddy, I'm horned up and looking for some good dick in my hole. Interested?' as a come-on, I'm turned off immediately when it gets that needy, whiny, accusatory edge, like 'Are we EVER going to fuck or are you just jerking me around?'

If a bottom wants a guy's dick, that's one thing. If he acts as if he's entitled to it and the top is merely standing between the bottom and his intended goal, it's a distinct turn-off.


You said you like to look for how well the bottom performs for the top. What are the ingredients of good performance?
The short list is: attentiveness, hunger, enthusiasm, being in the moment instead of letting other cares overwhelm the encounter, and the ability to finish what one starts.

For me, being a good kisser doesn't hurt, either.


Do you follow back every person who follows you on Twitter? And if you do, do you block all the bots and obvious fakes or do you follow back any way (or just leave them as a follower)?
I follow back people on Twitter if they seem interesting, don't have a timeline filled with nothing but YouTube video links, aren't commercial enterprises, and look like they chat with others.

I tend not to follow people who have set their tweets to private, or speak in a language I don't understand, or who're overly cynical and proud of it, or mistake bitterness for wit. The only people I block are those who are obvious spam bots.

Sometimes I miss following people I'd probably like. I hope they speak up and let me know.


Do you unfollow people on Twitter if they do not follow you back? If you do, why does this matter to you? (I follow people I found interesting, and mostly I don't worry if they follow back, unless I have several @replies back and forth, thats different.)
If I follow someone on Twitter before they follow me, it's because I find them interesting, not because I expect them to follow me back. I don't worry about it.

However, if someone follows me on Twitter and then unfollows me, I unfollow them the moment I find out. I get offended that way.


What's your most effective "pickup" line when testing the waters with a possible closeted candidate. For example, if you meet a cute, married guy, what's a "hook" phrase that has high yield for you?
I am not usually in the habit of trying to get closeted married guys to try to have sex with me. The ones that want to, usually contact me first. I'm also not fond of pickup lines. I usually find that "Hey. You're really attractive, you know?" works just fine.

However, I've been on the hook end of many a fishing expedition. The most common way that guys have attempted to see if I play on their team is to ask where I hang out, followed by the casual mention of a gay or gay-friendly bar or restaurant or two.

If you attempt this method, you might not want to mention the most notorious gay hotspot you know. Saying, "Say, ever hung out at the Manhole?" might scare off your potential interest.


Okay you have a Friend who is dying and they are not your type, but you find out that their dying wish is to make love with you before you die would you do it? and why or why not?
This sounds suspiciously like the question I had asking whether I'd sleep with a reader whose dying wish was to sleep with me, and my answer is pretty much the same: I don't think that anyone appreciates or enjoys pity sex, particularly when the pity arises from that particular situation.

Besides, I think that someone with only a little time to live would have a priority shift of a major kind, and I suspect sex with me wouldn't be on the list.


So Im A Huge Fan With Your Blog How Do I Get To Be A Man In One Of Your Stories?
Thanks very much. I'm willing to meet new guys if there's mutual attraction, but you'd have to be visiting my area, and I'd have to see what you look like, in advance.


Do you find many of the young guys who approach you are hustlers looking for a generous older man with either cash or drugs?
While I have had younger guys hit me up for money, it's happened only a couple of times. Most them just want the dick.

I've had more young guys offer to pay me, than I have had young guys demand I pay them.


Do you ever approach younger guys? Do you often get rude replies?
The younger guys tend to approach me.

Online, at least, usually the younger guys who are predisposed to rudeness are rude in their profile, and almost always have messages stating "NO ONE OVER 35!!!!" or something similar. I wouldn't consider getting with these guys even if they asked me--and they very often do.


i want you to video tape me breeding you and post it on xtube.
You'd really have to be pretty persuasive for that one to happen. I haven't been topped successfully in about eight years.


Can you recomend a blog to follow? i like pics and stuff but i love reading about someones sexual experiences.
My blog's not enough for you? Dang, that's cold! (I'm kidding.)

I've recommended some other sites in my blog in the past--it should be easy enough to find the tags for them. I also recommend looking at the 'blogs I follow' links in my sidebar.

Unfortunately, a couple of the ones I've recommended on the blog haven't had any new material added to them lately, which makes me wonder how real the stories behind them were to begin with. There's one I wouldn't recommend any longer simply because I find the blogger hostile. The rest, however, should be interesting to you.

Not Enough

“How many loads have I given you?” I ask into the dark.

Spencer lies beneath me, on his back. His flexible dancer’s body is doubled over onto itself; his legs aren’t simply helplessly dangling in the air, but are pointed in a direction toward and past the top of his head. Like a monkey’s, his prehensile toes are hooked onto the underside of the bed’s headboard. He’s opening his ass to me, trying to get me in as deeply as humanly possible.

My question’s mostly rhetorical. He’s in no condition to answer, anyway. He’s almost crying. I know he’s long past the capacity for rational thought, with my eight inches hammering away at his hole. I’m not sure I could answer the question myself, even if I sat down with a spreadsheet and calendar to cipher it. Three loads one night, five another, a single one the night I took him to the bar to meet my friends. Two the night before . . . and the one I gave him in the living room. They start to add up, over the weeks we’ve been fucking.

All I really know is that it’s not going to be long before I give him another.

It’s late on Sunday. It’s also the first night that Spencer has agreed to spend the night with me. I’d floated the idea long before, our first week. He had demurred, indicating a certain self-consciousness about spending an entire night sleeping in the same bed with someone. I can get that. He’s young. He hasn’t done it for over two decades, like I have. That’s why I was surprised a little earlier in the evening, when in a very small and shy voice he asked if he might sleep over. Of course I said yes.

He’d dove between the sheets like a little boy, bouncing on his back and flipping over and pronouncing my mattress the most comfortable ever. Beneath the fleece sheets and blanket he snuggled up next to me, grabbing me around my midsection and pulling me to him, relentlessly fingering my dick until I’d stiffened. Once he’d put me into the mood, his lips had locked on mine, spurring on my passions until my fingers had first tickled at, then invaded and plugged his hole.

And now I was in him, making him mine once more. The headboard gives a sharp crack as he pushes back on it. The sheets have fallen from my back and onto my ankles, exposing our skin to the cool nighttime temperatures. Spencer’s big dick is rock hard and drizzling pre-cum onto his furry belly. Mine’s merely slopping up his hole. Every time I thrust in, it squelches with a wet noise that I make certain he can hear. It’s the most erotic of music to his ears. Every sweet note makes him groan all the louder.

We shoot almost simultaneously—he first, with a yell that seems to flake paint from the ceiling. Then me, quietly shuddering as squirt after squirt of my juice leaves me and paints his hole. Time seems frozen for a moment after. We’re both fixed in place, unwilling to move, unwilling to let the moment end. But he shifts, and my dick slides out in a rush. He pulls up the covers again, gently tucking them around me before hoisting them over his own shoulder. Spencer and I spoon, with my arms around him.

Will I be able to sleep with him close by? Part of me worries that I might snore, or that I’ll drool, or that he’ll wake before I in the morning and see my morning hair and flee, yelling. I wonder if he’s thinking about the same things. But he’s not. Already his breathing has deepened and grown more steady. His chest is rising and falling in a regular rhythm. He’s falling asleep. Knowing it makes my own eyes heavy. My head begins to buzz as I come close to unconsciousness myself.

“Not enough,” I hear him murmur, just before sleep takes hold completely.

His words are so soft that they’re barely audible. In the quiet dark, though, they’re enough to rouse me. My eyes open slightly. In the blue-black night I can see the outline of his short, coarse hair and the long sideburns hugging his jaw. “Hmmm?”

“You wanted to know how many loads you’ve given me,” he says, reaching for my hand. His fingers curl around mine, as he hugs it to his chest. There’s another pause, as he falls back into sleep. He repeats the answer again, even more softly than before. “Not . . . enough.”

I love that answer. A smile crosses my lips as together we slip into the depths, not to emerge again until morning.

Spunked Undies Wednesday

As I mentioned a couple of weeks back, one of Breeder's Readers sent me a pair of underwear he wanted decorated with Breeder Seeders. Naturally, I said I'd oblige. And here are the results, which I'll be sending off a little later today:

You can see that, as per reader instruction, I put some on the inside as well as the outside. I'm thorough, that way.

I'm thinking that when I get up to 400 followers, we'll do another random drawing of a similar pair of dirty underwear from my own drawer. That's only eighteen more followers to go, then--so get cracking, guys.

Anal Magazine

A few months back I received an email from an editor who was interested in including some of my erotic prose in an issue of his magazine. Fame and fortune at last!, I thought to myself.

Well, no fortune. And the fame is more like infamy, and it's pretty much limited to Mexico. But hey. It's a country I love, ever since I whored my way through it in my late teens.

Anal Magazine is an upscale, artistic publication celebrating gay erotic culture and expression through photography and the printed word. They have a classy blog and a Facebook page on which they announce their issue launches and their many parties. The magazine is produced in Mexico and is therefore written primarily en español (though all the articles have English-language translations in the back, I'm assured).

If you're a speaker of the language or happen to live south of my country's border, you're going to find issue number two of the magazine a bit more accessible and easy to find. However, the editor assures me that they're trying to set up a Paypal option for people outside of Mexico to purchase copies. They'd run for approximately seven U.S. dollars plus shipping. Which doesn't seem very much for a lot of commentary and glossy photography by a bunch of stellar individuals.

And then a little bit of low-brow smut by me.

If you're among those interested in getting your hot little hands on this hot issue, contact the editorial staff and let them know you'd like to make some arrangements to purchase their second issue. No, I'm not making any money from promoting them. I'm just digging the satisfaction of a whole new audience of sexy Latin men, reading my work.

Piggy Needs to Be Fed

“Piggy needs to be fed,” Spencer said yesterday, around seven in the evening. His hands slapped his stomach. And by ‘stomach,’ I mean that flat section of his body between muscular chest and thin waist where he tucks enormous quantities of food without displaying so much as a ripple.

I gaped at him in amazement. “You’re kidding me, right?”

We’d spent most of the snowy day together. He’d come over shortly after noon and we’d slowly driven through unplowed side streets to an Indian restaurant he’d recommended that had a large lunch buffet. We were the only non-Indian diners there; the entire time of our visit, the staff and cooks kept stopping by our table and treating Spencer as if he were some sort of local celebrity. Apparently he’s a regular there. They asked about his performances, and his health, and inquired after his parents and friends, remembering them by name. The owner was particularly solicitous. Though he quite capably shoveled two big plates of rice and curries into his mouth on his own, she kept bringing over special little tidbits she thought he’d particularly enjoy—a mango/yogurt drink to cool the spices, little fried honey cakes to counter the chickpea stew, seasoned naans they’d made in the kitchens just for him. The food was fantastic, but I was quite full by the time we finished off with lumps of milky, sweet dessert cheese, and knew I wouldn’t be eating again for the rest of the day.

We went to the movies, where we held hands in a crowded theater and where I cringed behind him whenever something gruesome happened involving ballerinas slamming their mothers’ hands in doors or ripping off bloody toenails. And then we went back to my place, where we promptly hopped between the sheets, naked and erect, and went at each other’s bodies like horny teen boys desperate for release. He came before me, his hole clutching and gripping my dick, then relaxing for me to finish pounding him.

We’d watched an hour of an old X-Files episode when he patted his belly. “You can’t be hungry,” I protested.

“It was five hours ago that we ate!” he countered.

“Five hours ago that we ate a fucking enormous meal.”

“I’ll go out and get myself something. You don’t have to go.” It was a gallant offer, considering that a dense, icy snow had been falling all day.

“No,” I told him. “We’ll go out. I’ll just watch you eat. That’s all.”

We ended up at a Chinese restaurant up the street, where I watched him consume a bowl of stir-fry while I toyed with a single scant spring roll. Then it was back to my house again, where we watched another couple of hours of television together, cuddled on the sofa with his legs draped across my lap and his hands warming on the skin beneath my shirt.

At ten, he stood up. “I guess I should get going.”

“You need your sleep,” I agreed.

We stood close. Spencer is nearly as tall as I. I don’t have to bend over in order to meet his mouth. We kissed, sweetly, gently. Our lips connected and intertwined, then softly pulled away from each other, over and over again. His hands pulled my hips against his. I could feel his dick hardening down the right leg of his pants. Spencer never wears underwear. It’s perfectly possible at any given time to spy the outline of his cock head through the khakis he favors. When he’s hard, his big dick fills them out. My nails scratched the ridge through the fabric, making him catch his breath.

My lips traveled over his brow, his cheeks, his neck, the lobe of his ear. He rested his head on my shoulder, still holding me tight. It was obvious he didn’t want to go. I was hard myself—it’s difficult not to be hard around Spencer. We stood there in my brightly-lit den off the back of the house, windows open and the sliding double-doors open to the (admittedly empty) house behind mine, grinding and leaving soft pecks on each other’s faces.

Then I stuck my hand down the back of his pants.

His hips began to grind even harder. My hand probed his crack, questing for the hole I now know so well. The hole was surprisingly slick. My index finger slipped right inside, up to the second knuckle. “You’re still so wet,” I marveled.

He lifted his head then. His eyebrows were raised. His eyes were full of need, and a single question.

I answered it by unbuckling his belt, and turning him away from me.

His pants and then mine hit the floor with soft thuds. Spencer knelt down into the den sofa. He turned his head so that it could rest atop the sofa’s pillowy back. I spit on the head of my dick and went back inside. It had been several hours since I’d loaded him up, but he was still so wet and full of my juice that I didn’t even need the little bit of lube I’d added. I could smell myself mingled with him as I slid inside.

“Oh god,” he said into the cushions. “Oh, god.”

“Your hole is made for my dick,” I said softly, as I slid back and forth in long, deep strokes.

“Yes,” he replied in a deep groan that rattled his rib cage. “I was made for you. Made for you to use. Your dick is perfect for me.”

“And you are so hungry for it,” I commented. He jerked and twitched. “Piggy needs to be fed.”

He let out a short huff of delight at that, but it was quickly consumed by the fire raging through his body. His legs spread as far as his trousers would allow them, and he pushed his ass high into the air. My hands traveled the length of his arched spine, and lingered over the round globes of his butt. It seemed so wrong, fucking like dogs in a bright room when someone from the street behind mine could have walked or driven by and seen it, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. The only thing on my mind was the rhythm of my thrusting, the squelchy wetness of his hole, and the increasing tension in my dick. I hiked his shirt and sweater up so that I could grab underneath him at his nipples, then his stomach, and his dick and bouncing balls. Every tweak and pinch made him groan and clamp down on me.

I shot noisily, pounding so hard that the throw pillows fell onto the floor and the afghan on the sofa’s back slid off as he grasped and buckled and tried to resist me banging his head against the wall. His hole clamped down, trying to get every last drop of sperm. Then I slopped out, and he stood up with a sheepish look.

I sat down on the easy chair opposite, legs spread, hands dangling between them. Then I nodded that he should come over.

I slipped his dick into my mouth. His hands ran through my long hair as he fucked my mouth. I suspect that Spencer would make a wicked top, if his tastes ever ran that way. He likes to control the mouth he’s in when he gets sucked. He held the back of my skull and eased all the way in, penetrating my throat and making me see stars. I gasped for air when he pulled back out again, then prepared myself for the assault I knew would follow.

He fucked my mouth hard as I kept my jaw open and my lips wrapped around my upper teeth. My right hand gently stroked his hairy balls as he pistoned in and out. It didn’t take him long; finally he ripped his meat from my lips and jacked furiously to a conclusion. Semen sprayed from the tip, baptizing my face, my head, and the shoulder of my sweater.

He backed off, seeming shocked at what he’d done. Then, seeing me covered with his load, he laughed a little. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be,” I told him.

I’d liked it. It had been the perfect conclusion to a long and full day.

Sunday Morning Questions: Christmas Card Edition

One of the reasons I have enjoyed living here is that there's always been a likelihood of a white Christmas. Though Michigan falls can be spectacularly beautiful, there's a point after Thanksgiving in which autumn simply shrugs, packs its bags, and lets winter move in a few weeks early. The snow starts falling almost immediately after that, giving the world outside my window an old, Victorian Christmas-card appearance. Tree branches lie heavy with with the stuff. Every barren patch of ground, every harsh edge, gets smoothed over and erased by a blanket of white. It can be beautiful.

And of course, one of the reasons I dislike living here so much is the likelihood of a white Christmas. And a white January. And a white February, March, and part of April. The stuff never goes away. Eight inches of snow (the worst eight inches any guy could ever get) will fall, and just as I've cleared it away from the walks and driveway, another eight will descend. There's a point in late winter or what's technically early spring in which there's simply no place left to throw the stuff I'm shoveling.

And today seems to be the day it's all starting, here. At least it's pretty—for a while.

As ever on Sundays, I field questions I've gotten through formspring.me, the service that allows you to send me anonymous queries about my life and opinions. You guys know how I like to talk about myself—feel free to ask your questions at their website. I'll answer just about anything that's not bat-shit crazy, super-repetitive, or overly abusive. Unfortunately, lately I've been getting a lot of numbers one and three from those choices.


How old were you when you had your first kiss?
A sexual/romantic kiss? Making out? With tongue 'n' stuff? Eleven.


I think it's time for another crusty underwear give-away! Can you make that happen soon??
You do, do you? Maybe for the next big milestone on my blog . . . perhaps when I reach 400 followers, we'll do it. I have sold a couple of pairs, in the meantime.


Do you honestly believe everything a gay guy tells you (more specifically about HIV status)?
I don't and cannot have a mindset in which I distrust everyone from the get-go. Would anyone honestly want to live that kind of life? People do, but I'm not one of them.

If the question behind your question is intended to be, "Are you aware that some men lie about their HIV status?", the answer is yes, I do. People are dishonest about all kinds of things, including that.


Have you ever received pitysex from someone? why did you do it? why did they pity you? Did it make you feel better?
One of the worst depressions of my life occurred when I discovered that someone had been about to bestow pity sex upon me. He assumed I couldn't get laid because of my age, but at the last minute couldn't go through with it because the age difference was too great between us.

Mind you, at the time he was 25 and I was 32. He was a fucking idiot.


Is every interior decorator a bottom?
I will have to have a larger sample size in order to answer the question with authority. However, given that the general population consists mostly of bottoms, all indicators point to 'yes'.


So: after many months of alternating reading you and MrGloryHoleJunkie in the same session, I'll let the questions flow. Just two this time! 1) Given the excitement you get whenever anyone happens to moan "Dad" when you're up their ass--did you ever ge
Your question flowed right out of the text box there, sport. You might want to try again.


Have you ever sent a sexy email or emailed sexy photos of yourself to someone?
No, never. I am too shy and private a soul ever to take disgusting X-rated photos of myself and post them in public spots on the internet or send them via email with the intention of luring innocents into my bed! Gloriosky!


Is twink a euphemism for bottom?
'Twink' usually refers to a very young gay guy, ideally between the ages of 18-22. Often it's used to refer to hairless thin young men. Although a lot of this particular population tends to be bottom, the word 'twink' does not specifically connote a preference in position, only an age and body type.


If I gave you my name/contact info, would *we* be Facebook friends?
In theory it could, but in practice I tend to keep my blogging/tweeting identity separate from my personal and professional profiles.


Regarding your "twitter/formspring" self compared to your "real world" self, are there differeces between them? Can you put your finger on one or two differences and why you express yourself differently?
There is very little difference between how I express myself online—whether in my blog or on Twitter or elsewhere—and how I express myself in real life. It's a point of pride, actually.


Your most recent blog entries are beautifully written (and I am a commercial writer, so I know). Does your sex life feed your creative life?
Thank you for the compliments. I'd enjoy seeing your work sometime.

Absolutely my sex life feeds my creative life. Not only does it give me material to blog and journal, but meeting people and hearing their stories and observing them gives me all kinds of inspiration for my creative work.


Spit or swallow.???
Swallow. Every time.

The Now of It

I’m nuts-deep inside him, pounding away at his hole, sloppy hole. He’s a loud fuck. By now I’m so intimate with Spencer that I know the angle that make him yell the loudest. I like hearing him bellow, long and heartfelt and from the depths of his diaphragm. It almost sounds like I’m hurting him, though I’m not. The more volume he generates, the harder and more girthy becomes my meat.

We’ll never fuck outdoors, or with the windows open. I can guarantee that.

Then he lets out a roar of which I’ve never heard the like. It seems unending. The pitch climbs up the sexual scale in quarter-tones, half tones, whole steps, then fourths, until both it and he reach their climax at the same time. Finally the noise ebbs away, subsiding into nothing but ragged breathing and trails of tears on his face. I brace my hands on the back of his knees, pressing the caps against his shoulders as I fuck savagely into him. He doesn’t make me stop. His hole is softer and more relaxed, now that he’s come. His eyes glitter in the dark as he stares into my face.

It doesn’t take long for me to finish. His own intensity brought me close to the edge. It only takes a little friction to push me over. My eyes close. All my feelings focus on two sensations—contract and release. Contract and release. I almost feel as if I’m pumping him full of lava, so intense is the heat. My own breathing returns to normal, slowly, as I hold my dick deep inside, letting the last of my seed trickle out.

At last he reaches for my hands and links his fingers to mine. My dick slops out, followed by my sperm. He pulls me down to him and holds me tight, gluing our chests together with the pools of his cooling cum. “Oh my god,” I whisper in his ear. The words could be an exclamation of surprise. But after I utter them, instead I suspect they’re a prayer of thanksgiving.

“I haven’t taken any other dick than yours,” he says after a while. “It’s been all you. I haven’t even used my toys.” Spencer has a lot of toys, he tells me. Monster-sized dildos that some thing are for comic relief, or to gawk at in the adult novelty store. “I’m not saying it because I’m expecting to go out and pick out china patterns with you. You’ve just been . . . giving me all I need.”

“I wouldn’t think any less of you if you were taking other dicks,” I whisper in his ear. “I really wouldn’t. But damn, I am so flattered.” Even in the dark, I can tell by the catch in his chest he’s pleased that I’m pleased. I make a confession as well. “I haven’t seen anyone else since the night I met you, either. I’ve masturbated once—that week you were gone, over Thanksgiving. I’ve been saving up all my sperm for you. For your hole.”

He stares at me, trying to think of some way to respond. Finally, his lips dart for mine. Words just seem inadequate. The intimacy of that moment, and of our twin confessions, begins to make me hard again.

It’s surprising, but true. Ever since I met Spencer three and a half weeks ago, I haven’t had the urge to hunt for sex elsewhere. Part of it is the frequency with which we’ve been meeting—for the last week, he’s been over here every night. We fuck. Sometimes we go out for dinner. We watch old X-Files episodes curled up on the sofa. He’s gone out to the bar with me and my friends, once. We make out like teens and fuck some more, before he drives home at the end of the evening. “I like being your pretend boyfriend,” he’s said to me, more than once.

I haven’t been serial fucking because I haven’t needed to. The sex is mind-blowing. It’s better than I’m likely to get from some random lay. I get great pleasure saving up my loads for him. I enjoy toying with the notion in my head that resisting a quick masturbatory session now will result in a great deal of loud and sweaty sex in a not-too-distant point in the future. I think we both feel as if we’re spinning a plate on the tip of a stick, here. For how long how can we keep it rotating madly? How many days or weeks can it last?

We both know that one day it’ll fall to the floor with a clatter. I know myself well enough to be aware I’m no monogamist—physically or intellectually it’s not in my nature. Nor in his, I know. We’re both realists. Fake boyfriends or not, we don’t develop false expectations. Not for a relationship that has a built-in expiration date.

If I fuck around elsewhere, as someday I will, or if he grabs a toy or another man’s dick and shoves it up his hungry ass, the world won’t come to an end. Neither of us will think less of the other. We’ll just pick up that plate, give it a good whirl, and see how long it stays spinning a second time.

For now, though, we’re both enjoying the pleasure of each other. For him, that involves letting me dictate what his hole needs. For me, it’s about letting him exert control on where my seed goes.

And the now of it is what matters.

In the Wings

Under the spotlight, he draws the eye. It’s impossible not to look at him, even with a stage full of people. His posture is erect—shoulders back, chest puffed out and thrust forward, arms drawn back in an arc that points to the floor. One pointed foot delineates an invisible line before him. The other is thrust sideways, toward the audience. I don’t know enough about dance to know how good Spencer is, but he commands attention. He has stage presence. When he flies across the boards on nimble, quick feet and propels himself into the air, every head turns to follow him.

It’s an impossible leap that seems to crawl to slow motion. His costume cape flies out behind, a geometric curve of velvet and embroidery, scarlet and glinting gold. When he lands, it’s with a light foot. Time moves normally again as he spins and turns to raise his arms menacingly to the hero. The cloak spirals with him, wrapping around his waist and exposing his lower half. I’ve never seen his parts so tightly bound before. The dance belt makes him seem almost sexless, a Ken doll of a figure with broad shoulders and a deep chest, a narrower waist, a perfectly round butt, and a genderless mound where his genitals should be.

I know better, though. I’ve seen the man naked, on his knees, with his generous helping of dick erect and swinging between his legs. I’ve been inside that boy more times that I can easily count, at this point. Over and over I’ve shot seed into him. I’ve told Spencer that every load makes him more and more mine, and he’s agreed with me in cries and grunts and whispered pleas.

An object flies from the heroine’s hands; it strikes my dancer in the head. The hero’s weapon finishes him off. Spencer falls onto the ground gracefully, his body a curlicue of anguish and death. To great applause, the company carries him into the wings.

I’m curiously proud of him for the performance. The pleasure it gives me to see the smiles on the faces nearby is like a furnace in my chest, glowing and bright. I haven’t had any part in the production, or in Spencer’s training, but somehow I still take personally the approbation, the applause, the murmured whispers of praise. You’ve picked really well, they seem to tell me, maybe.

His part is done, but I can still see him. Beyond the first tormentor that hides the wings from the audience, he’s struggling to remove the bulkier parts of his costume. The last-minute seat for the performance I purchased ended being close to the stage, but to the extreme left of the house. I have a straight view into the left stage wing that others in the audience don’t. He hands his sword to a waiting hand nearby. Two others help him struggle out of the tunic he’s been wearing.

For a moment, he’s shirtless. That muscled body I’ve been getting to know is exposed and naked beneath the wing lighting. I’m close enough to spot the trail of hair that leads down his abdomen and past his waistband. When he turns and bends for something on the floor, I get a glimpse of the very tops of his buttocks squeezing out of his tights. There’s almost too much bounty there to be accommodated. I can even see the corresponding line of light fur that leads to the hole I’ve spent so much time and effort making mine.

He’s beautiful. So beautiful. My lips part. I almost gasp.

Then he stands, turns, and pulls on a tight-fitting black T-shirt that hugs every curve and bulge. Arms crossed, he stands with legs stretching to either side, and a hand rubbing his mouth. He’s lost in thought as he watches the other dancers on the stage.

I’d forgotten there was any other performance than his.

That Sprinkler Guy

In a couple of spectacularly unsuccessful entries a few weeks back I attempted to track the genesis of my acquaintance with Topher, who became my partner in crime at some point later in my adolescence. Talking about Topher was going to be my gateway to addressing my complex and involved relationship with a man named Earl, whose attentions and mentoring shaped pretty much my entire sexual career.

I’d still like to talk about Earl. It’ll take several entries to do it. However, because whenever I write entries about the sex I had thirty or more years ago I have a vocal minority of readers who feel obliged to express their displeasure about the concept of a teen having sex with adult men, I’d like to stress an important point. I’m writing about things that happened a very long time ago. I can’t change my past. Admittedly, I could pretend it didn’t happen, or not write about it and leave it shrouded in silence, to avoid offending tender sensibilities.

I choose not to do that, however. I think some experiences are worth recording and exploring in an honest manner. If you’re going to be one of those people who don’t appreciate that, I advise you to skip these particular entries.

To get to Earl, I need to first to talk about That Sprinkler Guy, who introduced us.

It would have been in 1979 that I met That Sprinkler Guy. It was not very long after the events of my A Very Bad Day entry, when I’d been caught screwing around in the park restroom by the police and taken home in shame to my father. It was still summer, but at least a month after that incident. I remember being so frightened by it all that I’d sworn off whoring around altogether—a resolution that I kept for perhaps all of two weeks. After that, my summer hornies reasserted themselves, and I accommodated them by fooling around first only in my usual restroom haunts in the Richmond public library and on the campus where my parents both taught. The next week I added the park near the carillon into my cruising. Then a couple of weeks after that, I was back to Bryan Park, the scene of my shame, and the closest cruising spot to home.

I was reluctant ever to let myself get cornered again in the restrooms there, though. I might have used them to meet guys, but rarely would I do much in there, where I couldn’t see who might be approaching. I’d ask guys to take me into the woods. Or if it was evening, we’d play in the picnic shelters that hosted all manner of couplings and group sex.

It was a lazy and slow summer morning when I met That Sprinkler Guy. I remember it being one of those gorgeous, sun-drenched Virginia summer days on which the rolling park baked in the glare and haze. It was one of those mornings when the cicadas had already started their unending huzz before breakfast was over, giving warning that by the late afternoon you’d probably hear nothing in most of the quiet Richmond neighborhoods save for the hum of air conditioning condensers and the soft rhythm of sprinklers showering thirsty lawns. I loved the heat, and the sun, though usually it discouraged all but the most hard-core sex seekers from hitting the parks.

I’d been sitting beneath a tree near the road that led to the shelters and restrooms for some time, bike propped against the trunk, as I read a paperback I’d stuck in my pocket. Then I saw a white pick-up truck turn from the neighborhood street flanking the park onto its drive, kicking up clouds of dust with its big wheels as it turned. As the trunk neared, it slowed down. That Sprinkler Guy, commercial lettering announced on its side. Commercial/Residential Sprinkler Installation. A phone number graced the bottom of the ad. I saw the curly-headed driver lean over as he approached and passed to check me out.

I knew I was in business. I let the truck continue up the road, waiting a moment before I stuck my paperback into my pocket, stood, and kicked up the stand of my bike so that I could follow. He was waiting inside, standing at the solitary urinal, a cap somehow pulled atop that head of thick, bristling black curls. That Sprinkler Guy was a stocky bulldog of a man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. The T-shirt he wore with his business’s logo bulged from his beefy arms and shoulders. With his thick lips and pug nose he wasn’t handsome, but he sure as hell was sexy. His dirty jeans hung low beneath a slight belly, unzipped to display a long, thick, slab of hard dick. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was peeing; when I pushed inside the door and looked him over from in front of the sink, he took a step back to display his meat. With a grin on his lips, he showed off how his angled foreskin slipped back and forth over the greasy knob.

I stepped up to feel its warm length in my hand. “Well damn,” he said, his mouth lop-sided and pleased. When I was close, he reached up and ran his fingers through my long blond hair. “You are a cute one, son!”

I was going to suggest we take our activity elsewhere, but he already had the same idea. He stuffed his enormous dick down his pants leg, pulled up the frayed waistband of his white briefs, fastened his pants, and caught my neck in the crook of his arm. Out of the restroom we strolled, instant buddies. My bike was already locked up, so I accepted an invitation to hop in the guy’s truck and take a little ride with him.

In those days Bryan Park was divided roughly into two sections. The back half, accessible through a separate road in the nearby neighborhood, was where cruisers lurked. Rednecks in trucks hung with Confederate flags in their back windows would take the main arched entry into the larger, front half of the park. The two groups rarely mixed. (Though I loved when they did.) That Sprinkler Guy drove from the park’s cruisy side to redneck territory, where even in the morning there were good ol’ boys and their girlfriends listening to Creedence on their radios and drinking from cans of beer wrapped in brown paper. We drove past them to an area deep within the park, closer to where we’d met in the restroom, but inaccessible through the back road. I let him walk me from the truck into the woods, which grew thick and dense upon the rolling hills. After a few minutes on a barely-distinguishable trail, we ended up in a clearing where the sun shone brightly. The park ran alongside I-95, so there was a constant whoosh of traffic as it swept by, but that faint noise was all we could hear, so isolated we were.

“Now’s the part where you strip,” he said, and crossed his arms.

I didn’t know the guy and was aware I was throwing caution to the winds, but I didn’t care. I wanted that dick. I crossed my arms and skimmed off my T-shirt, and dropped my OP shorts to the ground and stepped out of them.

“Kneel,” he said.

I obeyed, planting my knees onto the ground. There I was, nude and exposed, barely able to keep my eyes open from the bright intensity of the sunshine.

“You ever taken a shower before?” he wanted to know, as the logs that were his fingers deftly undid his jeans.

Of course I’d taken a shower before. I took a shower every day. Sometimes two, if I came home from the parks especially cum-covered and stinky. “Sure,” I said.

“Nice. Someone trained you right.” His dick was exposed now. Even soft it was a monster that spilled from the split in his jeans at an impressive angle. Once again he pulled back the foreskin to expose that shiny, thick head. “You ready for it, then?”

Barely had I a chance to nod before a fat stream of urine shot in my direction. I was naive enough not to know what he’d been talking about, when he’d asked if I’d taken a shower. The spray hit me squarely on my closed mouth; I barely had enough time to shut my eyes. I felt the warmth of it cascade down my chin and onto my chest, then drip down my skinny body until it tickled around the base of my dick and balls. He raised his meat so that the arc of liquid baptized the top of my head and trickled down my spine. I was so surprised that I didn’t move.

After a moment, I realized that I didn’t mind that I didn’t mind. Part of me recoiled at the notion he was pissing on me like I was some kind of urinal, true. But at the same time, it felt just like warm water, and the actual physical sensations were pretty pleasant. A twisted part of me deep inside kicked in and liked the degradation of it. This is what I deserved, it felt like; this was what I was made for. I bowed my head and submitted.

The stream of piss seemed endless. That Sprinkler Guy had a bladder like the city reservoir. When he was finally done and the last few drops of pee were dribbling from his dick onto the ground, I knelt in a puddle. Dirt was sticking to my knees and shins; my hair hung in wet strands around my head. Already the heat and the sun was drying the fluid, though, making me skin feel crusted and tight. “And now’s the part where you stand up and bend over, son,” said the man in a gruff voice.

I yelled when he entered me. He lubed, but only just. I would’ve been hard-pressed to take him under normal circumstances, large as he was. I couldn’t even contemplate it these days. The foreskin helped some—I always preferred getting fucked raw by uncut guys in my bottoming days. But it was a fuck I took with my bottom lip firmly between my clenched teeth, as I attempted not to cry and let him know how very close he was to making me cry uncle. Which was a pretty rare thing in those days.

Though honestly, I think he would’ve loved to hear me cry. That Sprinkler Guy was a pounder. When we met for the three years that followed it was always the same routine—the same place, the same procedure, followed by a very long and brutal assault on my hole that would end with him pushing me against the ground or into a tree trunk as he forced an enormous cum load into me.

Every single time I would stumble back down that path in the woods and to his truck, where he would give me a solicitous boost back into the passenger seat so he could drop me back to wherever I’d chained my bike. I’d wash up as best I could either in the park’s restroom or from one of the spigots in the picnic shelter, and let the breezes dry me on my ride home. My dick would always spring to attention when I’d see that battered pickup truck driving into the park, because I knew I was guaranteed to be put into my place.

The clearing, the sun, the piss, and the slamming. I loved them all.

Sunday Morning Questions: Way Behind Edition

Oh jeez. How'd it get to be December already? I haven't even managed to clean up from Thanksgiving!

Now that my head cold has settled to my chest, leaving me sounding like a bronchial Harvey Fierstein, I'm feeling a little less strung-out on the drugs I'd been taking. Hopefully that means getting back to a more disciplined writing schedule instead of staring at the keyboard and admiring the decongestant-inspired pretty purple dots lulling me to sleep.

But for Sunday, as is my custom, I'll be fielding some of the questions you guys have been leaving me on formspring.me, that service that allows you anonymously to query others of all the things you've been dying to know. I'll answer just about anything on there that's not abusive, outrageously repetitive, or mean in spirit. Sadly, ever since the beginning of the month I've had a lot of the latter.

And of course, if you have questions you'd rather email, feel free. I'll take care of you that way.


If you bottomed frequently, how selective/careful would you be re: your partners? I read that you'd only BB - would you take an openly poz guy's load?
It's kind of a moot point, because I don't bottom frequently. However, if I were a frequent bottom, negative, and concerned about staying that way, I would be extremely selective about my partners.

On the whole, in that situation, I'd rather play with a guys with an undetectable viral load than a guy who assumes he's neg but doesn't keep on top of his status.


Are you planning any more trips to toronto before moving to Maine? If so, how about a hint where you plan your sexcapades !I'm a regular reader and you have called me "my friend" after my anonymous #3 comment !!!
I don't have any trips to Toronto planned at the moment. However, that doesn't mean I couldn't take one, given the proper invitation. And a host.

(And it's not Maine to which I'm moving!)



Married guy, looking to get bottomed. What advice do you have to do this discreetly, yet have a fun, unrushed experience? And yes, I'd like to make this repeatable!!
Well, for starters, I suggest finding a guy with his own place.

If you're cruising online for a buddy, pick someone that you not only find attractive, but who's looking for the same things you are. Picking someone simply because they're available at the same time as you won't lead to a compatible experience, most likely. If you state up front that you would like it to be relaxed and exploratory, hopefully you'll find a considerate partner who'll give you those things.

As for repeatable, you'll be more likely to get it if you're pleasant to the guy, communicate well, and are considerate about his needs too. I wish you the best of luck!


You've spoken about loving to be massaged. Could you please describe an ideal massage? Where would it start, what parts of the body would it cover (any particular order?), how much pressure do you like, would it have a "happy ending," and so on?
I really just like to be touched. That can range from a simple trailing of fingers over my skin, or a flat-out professional massage. For which I've only paid twice, because I'm a poor artist.

When I've had a real massage, either from a professional or an enthusiastic amateur, it's usually been all over. Hands, fingers, toes, feet, legs, back, shoulders, even the temples. I've had a considerable amount of pressure applied, and painful though it might have been a couple of times, I appreciated it after. I let the person giving the massage set the tempo and the order.

A happy ending isn't necessary. I'm not usually likely to get off from a simple hand job, for the most part.


Do you recommend anything other than clear water as an effective douche for bottoms?
I'm not the expert on douching, since as a top I rarely have to do it. (Although I do, from time to time.)

I've always used clear warm water. I believe most of my best-cleaned bottoms do as well. I would suggest avoiding any substance with a laxative in it, like a standard Fleet enema bag. It'll give you the runs.


have you been bullied? was it in school? as an adult? would you share what happened here in this answer?
I was occasionally threatened verbally in school when I was growing up, but it was because of my race and not my sexuality. I never had a hand laid on me.


How could I make you cum
Easy. Meet me. Bend over for me. Let me fuck your holes.


what's your manhunt handle?
It's the same as my Adam4Adam or BBRT handles, which you can find in a link on the sidebar of my blog.


What do you think is more important to bottoms: the cum, the sense of being done, the sensation, or what?
I am curious about the answer to this one myself. In my bottoming days I enjoyed the sense of being used more than I did the sensation of it. However, I think that was an indication of the fact that perhaps bottoming was not my true calling, though I did it for an entire decade of my early life.

Many of my bottoms do enjoy the sensations of it, and even ejaculate or enjoy ass-orgasms from the stimulation. I have always been curious about how that might feel to them.

Bottoms, what say you to the question?


What does your ass smell like when cleaned? I guess the better question is what kind of soap do you use?
I think you should assay it yourself to be certain. I use a Dove Body bar, I think. It's green.


When do you get out the riding crop and tit clamps?
Sadly, I don't have any tit clamps. Perhaps you'd like to share some with me. I do have a riding crop--I discovered it in the back of a shelf of the first apartment I moved into.


Given your wonderful "feel" for the texture of language, your appreciation for the "telling details" that make stories/memories come alive on the page, I'm wondering: Who are your favorite writers? Among the classics? Among contemporary writers?
Thank you for the compliment. I would love to give you some high-brow response that would justify the many expensive years I spent on my education, and leave you with the impression that my bookshelves at home look like they've been populated with recommended selections of the New York Review of Books, but the fact is that I read a lot of pretty cheesy stuff.

I would say that from the classics, I'm heavily influenced by Dickens--but also by Romantic authors, particularly those novelists who wrote of protagonists venturing out into the world on their own and making a place for themselves. Satirists play an important role in both my reading and output. Both the social satirists of Great Britain in the early twentieth century, and their descendants in the U.S. of the fifties and sixties are fairly important to me.

Although I'm devoted to contemporary writers like Atwood and A.S. Byatt and Anne Tyler, a lot of what I read is science fiction and fantasy. I like adventure in my recreational reading.


Do you find any cultural/sexual difference between bottoms from different parts of the country? Any region where they're more slutty, uptight, etc.
It has always seemed to me as if guys from the southern U.S. are generally the most likely to indulge themselves when it comes to sex. There may be religious hangups in their backgrounds, but in the end, a lot of those boys just want to get down and dirty.

Midwestern guys tend to be very secretive about their urges, in my experience. They want their sexual experiences, but they also want to distance themselves from them as far as possible. For example, they have a tendency to call other men sluts while pretending not to do the exact same things in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Or they'll post their faces on an online profile, but not pictures of their body parts, or vice versa. When it comes to wholesome exteriors and sexual urges, midwestern boys are reluctant to let the twain meet.

And my experience with west coast guys is that they would very much like to have sex. Maybe even with you. But they'd like to put you off for a half hour in case someone better comes along. And at the end of that half-hour, add a half-hour more, just in case.

I don't have much experience with New Englanders. I guess that's coming.

Without Words

When Spencer pads into the bedroom, his body is still steaming from the shower. With the hall light behind him, throwing his body into silhouette, I can see trails of vapor rising from his skin. He stands there for a moment, a faceless shadow with its weight shifted to its right hip, as he waits for instruction.

I say nothing.

After a moment he takes a step forward, and then another. He lifts his right knee to rest it on the mattress, next to where I lie. Then his hands press down on the bed, next to my shoulders. He leans in, and brings his mouth to mine. “Hi,” he says.

I haven’t seen him in a week. I’d driven him to the airport before the Thanksgiving holiday; he’d only arrived back home this afternoon. It’s been a long week of saving up my juice for him, all for this reunion. When he kisses me, softly and sweetly, my dick begins to harden. I lift my neck to reach him all the more easily, and use my hands to pull him in for a kiss that’s deeper and harder. “I missed you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, and say nothing.

He notices this time. “What’s the matter?” When I don’t reply, he brings his other leg onto the bed and straddles my body. “Did I do something wrong?”

I’ve already decided not to use words for the fuck. They seem too easy for this evening. He’s susceptible to what I say to him. I show him instead, by pushing him around, down onto his back. Simultaneously I roll so that I’m on top. Across the bed we tumble. His legs rise into the air and wrap themselves below my shoulder blades. I can feel him hook his heels over my spine. My prick is stiff and swollen now. The head nudges against the boy’s hole. His own dick leaps and spasms against my sternum as now I kiss him. My tongue drives into his mouth; my hands hold down his thick biceps. Helplessly he squirms beneath me, trying to press his dick harder against me, to give it the relief it craves.

“Say something,” he begs, when I lift my weight from him.

I don’t obey him, though. Instead, I push his legs up and rest his knees on his shoulders. My middle finger probes his lips, then forces its way into his mouth. He sucks on it instinctively, like a baby. When I remove it, slick and cool with his spit, immediately I use it to toy with his ass lips. His hole is hot and moist from the shower he’s just taken. The tip and first two joints slip in easily, causing him to gasp. I could fuck him so easily, right now.

But not quite yet. I kneel down beside the bed and let my mouth dive in to that sweet gap between his legs. From bottom to top I lick the hole, letting the scruff of my beard rasp against the exposed tenderness with every lap. To punctuate the pleasure, I alternately nip his cheeks with my incisors, or blow a column of cool air onto the wet skin. Every time, they bring him hushed little thrills.

I’ve been denied the ass too long for much foreplay. He’s not sucked me; I’ve barely eaten him out at all. My dick demands, though, and my dick gets. I rub some moisture on it with my fingers, and thrust forward. Instinctively the head finds the hole. He opens up, craving me. I don’t hesitate to sink all the way in.

He’s warm, and wet, and his hole is as smooth as I remember. His hips grind at the depth of me, and then he sighs, content. “This is what I wanted,” he says. “Didn’t you?” I still don’t answer. Instead, I pull out. He protests. Even in the twilight darkness of the dimly-lit room I can see his eyebrows furrow, concerned that he’d perhaps said or done the wrong thing. “What?” he asks. “What do you want?”

I show him what I want. I yank him to his feet and I shove him against the wall. His hands reach high and press hard against the plaster, as if he’s holding up the entire second story. In this position, his dancer’s ass pushes out, full and heavy, two meaty handfuls that I separate as I push back into him. He slumps forward; his head and body hit the wall with a heavy thump. “Fuck,” he moans. Then, “Fuck me.”

That’s one command I’ll obey. I was going to do it anyway. I thrust deep into him and pull out again, over and over, relentlessly assaulting his hole. I’ve been in need the entire time he’s been gone. I’m not pausing for niceties now. I don’t even think the boy has a sense of time, or place as I pound his ass. He’s lost in some private ecstasy. The side of his face presses against the wall. His eyes are closed. Though he lets out little animal moans, he seems barely conscious. If I turned on the lights, I wouldn’t be surprised to see drool running from the corner of his mouth.

When I reach around for Spencer’s dick, it’s a stiff wet stub jammed against the plaster at an uncomfortable angle. I wrap my hand around it, and the thick inches respond. I spit into my hand once more and spread it along his dick’s length, jacking him as hard as I’m fucking. It only takes him thirty seconds before he’s rasping like every breath hurts. His back aches. I feel his dick throb in my palm as he shoots. He leaves his load on the wall, where it begins to drip onto the floor in multiple wet tracks.

I rip out of him, making him yelp. Then I shove the boy onto the bed so that his hips hang over the edge, and push his legs into the air before I shove in again. He loves to be fucked after he shoots; if anything, he’s more open and relaxed after the tension in his dick is dispensed with. The angle at which I’m fucking him makes him tighter than I’ve ever felt before. It feels as if I’m entering in a way that pounds the very root of his dick and keeps him hard even after he’s blown. His jaw drops. He roars. The sound he makes is long and unending and seemingly without breath or pause. It’s the sound of a tornado at full volume, or of a train’s horn as it approaches down the tracks at top speed. He yells. And yells. I’m glad the windows are tightly shut.

Whatever spot I’m hitting does it for him. Although he’s still leaking stray semen from the load he blew onto the wall, he’s hard again. I use his dick as a handle as I continue to pound that internal pleasure button. I’m getting close myself, just listening to his pleasure.

When I shoot, it’s with a mighty grunt. I drive into him and hold it there, silently spasming. He knows me, though. He knows when I’m coming, and holds me in him, his hands clutching at my hips. He wants it deeper, and then deeper still. “Please breed me,” he begs. “Please. I’ve wanted it so much. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Please give it to me.”

The load’s large. I haven’t shot since the last time I saw him. I can feel it oozing out around my meat and dribbling down both his crack and my nuts, shortly after I’ve finished jerking and shaking. He sighs, and whimpers, and sounds for a moment as if he might cry. Then we both negotiate our way onto the mattress and rest there, still connected, dick-to-ass. “Amazing,” he whispers, running his fingertips through my beard. “God, that’s amazing.”

I still say nothing. I pull his fingers onto my lips, however, so that beneath he can feel the smile I’m wearing.

Wednesday Thanks

I've been a little under the weather since the weekend, and spent most of yesterday in bed (not in the good way). From there I didn't really have the energy to get much accomplished, I'm sad to say.

However, today I wanted to thank the kind reader who sent me the gift of underwear. You know who you are. I'll be thinking about you every time I pull these on. Many thanks!

Samir

Samir had been born in Mumbai, though he’d spent half his life in the U.S. His parents had arranged for him to live with an uncle in a small Michigan city by the time he was nine, so he could get a good education. He attended college at the institution where I was teaching at the time, and worked in my department as a student assistant. I got to know Samir first in the copy room, where the department secretaries seemed to have sent him to live on a more or less permanent basis; the kid was in there from nine in the morning until he left for his classes in the mid-afternoon. He was always super-friendly and never failed to be polite. No matter how much copying of course packs and grad school applications he had, he’d greet me with a smile and ask how I was, or inquire about my classes.

A good kid, like so many that passed through our offices. He was more than eighteen or nineteen when first I met him, and gifted with broad, masculine features and skin the color of dried tobacco leaves.

I got to know Samir a little better a semester after he started working for us, when I ran across him in the cruisy university library men’s room. I’d entered after lunch one day, hoping to find some teacher-on-student action. The door creaked enough to give anyone playing within plenty of notice to compose themselves; by the time I appeared around the bend into the restroom proper, the two guys who’d been playing with each other had separated and stood at the urinals, with a innocent space between them.

One of them was another staff member I recognized as a regular haunt of the place. He zipped up, nodded, and scampered out without washing his hands. The other was Samir. He stammered at the sight of me. That smile, which he’d always offered so freely at the copier, faltered for the first time since I’d known him. I was a little shocked myself. I’d run across students I knew and other faculty with whom I’d interact at the restrooms before, but I’d never thought I’d be running into the department’s student assistant. Briefly I considered pretending to pee and simply leaving, sparing us both any potential embarrassment.

But you know me. I don’t do that.

I stepped up to the spot the other guy had vacated, unzipped, and hauled out both my dick and my nuts. While I maintained eye contact with Samir and kept him talking, I got myself hard. Then I stepped back slightly and displayed my hard dick.

He stopped talking at the sight of it. His eyes traveled from my meat to my face. When I nodded, giving him permission, he knelt right there on the tile and sucked me. I enjoyed his mouth for a couple of minutes, but when we separated at the sound of footsteps in the stairwell outside, I suggested we take it back to my office.

And that’s where we had sex for three years after. Lunchtimes, two or three times a week, Samir would timidly knock at my office door. Always he had some kind of excuse to be there—he was bringing me the copies I’d (never) asked him to make, or he was bringing me my departmental mail, or handing me some blank slips of pink paper and pretending they were phone messages. I’d invite him in. He’d shut the door, and without saying a word, he’d pull off his shirt and drop his pants around his ankles. While I admired his lean, hard brown body, I’d let my pants drop and groan when he’d drop to the carpet to suck me.

Samir liked to be fucked best of all. I found that out from day one. He’d suck my dick until it was sloppy with his spit while he greased up his hole with the bottle of lube I kept in my desk’s top drawer. Once he knew where it was, he’d fetch it himself, so that by the time he was ready for me to enter him, he’d be slick and open. He always let as little time pass as possible, from the moment my dick left his mouth and before it pushed against the pink-rimmed edges of his brown little pucker.

It was the entry that Samir liked best. His dick would be at its hardest, as I pushed my way in. While he leaned over my desk and let his torso rest on its flat expanse, his tiny uncut dick would hang over the desktop’s edge. Pre-cum would drip from his foreskin and down the desk’s side, where it would dry into visible tracks if I didn’t remember to wipe it clean after. Once I’d shoved my inches all the way into him, his dick would soften slightly, but still remain turgid. His face would contort so that his eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes shut. The entire time I fucked, he always looked as if he were trying to sort out a problem while he slept, or was caught on that knife’s edge between extreme pain and pleasure. I loved that face on him.

He must have gotten some pleasure from it. Every time I fucked him, he’d wait until I’d filled his ass with cum before he’d touch himself. Then he’d give his dick a few quick little strokes, and he’d shoot an enormous load on my desk. He’d use Kleenex to wipe off himself, my dick, and the office furniture, and then he’d slip out with a smile and a slightly embarrassed look.

It was an ideal situation. We never discussed the arrangement, or never talked about anything weighty or serious. If I’d encounter him in the copier room or the departmental office, he never betrayed that we shared anything beyond a mild interest in movies or whatever was on TV the night before.

Until he graduated, that was. A week before he was due to receive his diploma, Samir appeared in my office. After shutting the door as usual, he stood in place for a long time. He didn’t remove his clothing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, finally catching on that all was not right with him.

He burst into tears. The kid was inconsolable. I sat him down in one of the chairs I used for visitors and wept with his face in his hands. Piece by piece, little by little, I got the story out of him. Samir had intended to attend grad school at the university and live in the U.S. after graduation—he’d even already been accepted and made plans to keep his room in the little apartment that he shared with four other Indian students. His parents, however, had other ideas. They’d picked out a bride for Samir, a girl he’d never seen or heard of. He was expected to return home to marry the girl, live with her in his family’s home, and start a family of his own.

“You have choices,” I told him, over and over again. But no, he insisted he didn’t. His family had footed the bill for his foreign education, and now they were calling in the debt. I sat there and let him lean against me while I kept my arms around him as he cried and cried. By the time he was finally done, I was late to leave, and he had been missing from his office duties for a couple of hours. I wiped off his face with a damp cloth, straightened out his rumpled clothing, and told him everything would be all right.

Even though I knew it probably wouldn’t, for a long time.

I never fucked Samir again. During that last week before his graduation, he’d regard me with a stricken expression whenever I’d encounter him on the department floor. I didn’t push it—it seemed cruel, to me, that prospect of giving up for a lifetime what he clearly craved. Then a day after the graduation, he was gone. Off the department’s employment roster. I’d hoped he’d at least stop by for a farewell before he left, but I never got that closure.

I wonder about Samir now. He’d be in his early thirties, married to some plump, pretty girl who was probably terrified as much by his parents as he clearly had been. They would have had time to produce babies with skin the shade of dried tobacco, exactly as his own parents had expected. I mourn a little to think he assumed he never had choices. He did. He might not have wanted to face those choices or their consequences, but they were always there.

Most of all, I hope he’s found something approximating happiness. That’s what I wish for him.

The Fuck-Up

I fucked it up.

Plain and simple, that’s what I did with Spencer.

It was that second night we spent together, toward the end of our time. I’d promised I would send him home at a reasonable hour so that he could get some sleep; he had a rehearsal the next day for which he needed to be nimble. We lay there, exhausted and pleasantly sweaty, our limbs knotted around each other. He played with the band of metal encircling my ring finger. “So tell me about this,” he said.

“What do you want to know?” I asked. I hadn’t hid my ring. I hadn’t stuck it in my pocket when we’d met, or left it on the bedside table so that there wouldn’t be any questions. When I’d taken him out to dinner earlier that night, I hadn’t kept my left hand beneath the table, or concealed it with my napkin.

“Where is she? Or is it a he? Out of town for the weekend?”

“Halfway across the country,” I said. “Indefinitely.” My heart was beating fast as I painted my situation in brief strokes.

“And you’re planning to move?” I nodded. “When?”

I explained that it could be two months from now, or six, or a year. I simply don’t know.

He continued to toy with my ring as we lay there in the silence. I felt I should say something to fix things. I didn’t know what, though. I’m usually good with words. On this night, they failed me utterly. I wanted to say, “But we can still have fun!”, but that sounded callow. I wanted to say that it didn’t matter, but it would have been a lie, and it would have denied his own feelings. It mattered.

“I’d better go,” he said at last. Together we dressed in silence, sorting out our belongings from the pile of clothing at the bed’s foot. It was worse than awkward. It felt as if I’d wounded him.

Downstairs, I sat next to him on the sofa as he pulled on his shoes, feeling like a knock-kneed, clumsy teenager desperate for approval. “I’d like to see you again, if you want to come back,” I said at last.

He sat with his hands between his legs, his limbs limp and askew. “Against my better judgment, I probably will,” was all he said. Then he sighed, gave me a quick hug, and left. I watched him drive off from the front window.

It felt like I’d been slapped. And worse, that I’d deserved it.

I screwed it up, I wrote to one of my better friends. I feel like such a damned fool.

There have been many times in my life when I’ve met someone for whom I have feelings. There’s always a sensation of inevitability when I run into these people. I know them right away. They make my heart race and grow soft. They are men for whom I’ll do anything to get to know. They’re men I’ve loved deeply. Over the years I’ve managed relationships with a few—they became lovers that still live in my heart, though our paths followed side-by-side for only a short time.

And when I think of these individuals now, sometimes it’s with a sense of sadness. There was the last man I loved, a poet with whom I exchanged verses and fluids, until he grew frightened and closed himself away. There was the man to whom I gave up my ass without effort, a decade ago, because he’d never before fucked and knew the right words to whisper into my ear to get me to show him—and I loved the nights we shared until he chose a vocation that involved a vow of celibacy. There was the timid boy I loved years ago who feared his family more than he loved himself, and who allowed himself to be trapped in a traditional marriage that drove him to an early death.

Then there are men I think of with nothing but fondness and a grin, like the clown from Australia who treated me like some kid of sidekick, or the everyday hero who celebrated my kinks as much as I appreciated his. There’s Scruffy, whom I love unabashedly.

Because this is my philosophy in life. We don’t get everything we want. We pick and choose the paths we trod. Sometimes we can choose the people with whom we travel. It’s up to us to relish the journey, any way we can. As sorrowful as parting from someone can be, especially when they’ve been close, the good times with someone for whom you care are too few and too beautiful to pass up. They’re the fruits plucked from orchards along the road, wonderful and full of zest and sweetness. I believe it’s far better to have those times together, those experiences, than it is to pass them by merely because of the potential for hurt later.

That’s what I feel, anyway. I know others aren’t the same. My friend wrote me back, saying, Your relationship and your move are pre-existing conditions, so technically you’re off the hook. He made sense. But I went to bed that night with a heavy head, and guilt in my heart.

Spencer agreed to come over the next night. It was his suggestion, actually. I was reluctant to put it forth, after I’d plainly let him down. While he was in the shower, I lay on my bed with my fingers intertwined, trying to think of what to say—because it was plain I needed to say something. Eventually he wandered in, completely dressed, damp, and padding for my side on bare feet. “Can we talk?” I asked.

He bit his lip and nodded. I could tell he was still thinking about the night before.

Once he’d finally laid his wet head on the pillow, I opened my mouth, and decided to be as plain and simple as possible. “First of all, I want to say I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t make friends easily. Not real friends. I find those very rarely. When I do, I want to see more of them. I like you. I like you a lot. I’ve been very selfish about wanting to see more of you, and for that I apologize.”

“I think I’ve been selfish too, then,” he said in a subdued voice.

So far, so good. “Second, I’m sorry for the awkwardness last night. It’s a little tough for me to realize we’ve only known each other a couple of days. I do know this, though: I like you a lot. I feel highly protective of you. I would never, ever do anything to hurt you, or cause you distress. Believe me on that.” He nodded. “I really want to your friend, if nothing else.” It hurt to say those words, because I wanted to be so much more than a friend. But I forced them out. “I’ll be here for you however you can stand it, if you’ll have me.”

That was it. I’d laid my heart out on the table with the bare essentials. He took a moment to consider what I’d said. “I think I was weird last night because it hit me that this won’t be going anywhere.”

“Don’t say that,” I said, a little stung, but recognizing the truth of it. “Don’t ever say that. Does your art go anywhere?” He shook his head a little, not understanding. “You practice the most ephemeral of art forms. Your life goes into a performance that’s beautiful while it lasts, and then. . . .” I gestured with my fingers to indicate the thin air into which the performance vanished.

“You can notate the moves,” he said, moving his head up and down. “You can record the performance. But it’s not the same,” he agreed.

“But you can’t say it doesn’t go anywhere, just because it has a finite life.” I looked into his eyes. “It’s worthwhile. It’s worthwhile because it exists, even if for a short time.”

His lips parted, as if to say something. Our eyes lingered on each other for a long, silent moment. Then, he decided to remain quiet. His head raised, though, and his hand sought the back of my neck. We kissed softly at first. Unsurely. Then, he grew hungry. After a long moment I leaned over to switch off the light, and then I lay atop him, our bodies buckling and moving in soundless rhythm.

Our lips remained locked while we ripped the clothes from each others’ bodies. When I entered him a very few minutes later, we were still kissing. He cried out, not from pain, but from the shock of having me force myself in him so violently and without much lubrication. Then he clung to me as if he hoped we’d never part.

I fucked it up. And then I patched it, by being as simple and honest as I could.

I’m lucky to have him walking alongside me, even if for a brief while.

Sunday Morning Questions: Guilty Edition

I wish all my readers a happy post-Thanksgiving recovery. And yes, it's true, I did take a couple of days off, this week. It was the first time all my family's been home in over a month, and I was determined to make it count. Because that's what it's all about, right? Making it count?

At any rate, I hope to heck you guys had a great holiday. I confess to having braved the shopping madness on that retail hell known as Black Friday—though I did it safely in the late afternoon, when the fervor of it had died down a little bit, if not the crowds. What can I say? I'm a fan of that elusive beast known as The Good Bargain.

For those of you doing a little Cyber Monday shopping tomorrow, don't forget your favorite bloggers! (Subtle, right?)

As always on Sundays, today I'll be rounding up a few responses from formspring.me for your enjoyment. If you have any questions you'd like to ask, always feel free to address me anonymously there, or via my email. As long as it's not abrasively obnoxious or horribly repetitive, I'll answer. One way or another.



you are fucking someone, pull out and realize he is not clean, what do you do?
This is one of those circumstantial questions. If it's a one-on-one at my place, I might keep fucking until we're done if he's only giving off flecks of stuff. If he's runny or producing a strong smell, I'm likely to suggest he shower up or simply leave.

It's the smell that gets to me, really. The stronger the smell, the more likely I am to terminate the proceedings.


Do you ever think what your (fucking) life will be like 10 ... 20 ... 30 years from now?
I do. I keep hoping that all the sex I performed on older guys in my youth will be paid forward and that I'll continue to have a lot of fucking to do as a senior.

On the other hand, worrying too much can distract from an enjoyment of fucking in the present day. Present enjoyment should always be the first priority.



How long does it take for something new & hot to get old & stale?
I firmly believe that if you approach something with wonder and awe every time, and let that inner kid in you revel in it, it'll never get stale.

On the other hand, letting your inner cynic triumph with a "Oh, not THIS again" will make you sick of something even before you've started.


I am an avid reader of your blog and am really curious about your encounters with women. I was wondering if you would ever write about them in your blog. Sorry if this question has already come up. Thanks for sharing a part of your life with your readers.
I would if there were an interest, yes.

I used to enjoy a lot of sex with married couples, but after a weird and somewhat upsetting series of events with a particular local married couple a couple of years back, I took a step away from that particular scene. It's a shame, because I enjoyed those scenes quite a lot.


enjoy your blog.... just thought i recognized your chin.... on the piano player in the glee skits in the music room!! do you look like him!?
Not in the least.


I'm newly out -- a masculine, formerly married man in my 50s. I get a fair amount o of attention at certain bars, and guys often want me to be a top. Not sure I am, in this kid-in-candystore period. Any thoughts?
Because there are so many bottoms out there craving a good fucking, a lot of them are going to want you to be the top guy. Maybe you're not sure if that's for you--but since you're relatively new to the scene, give it a try with some of the guys you find attractive. You may find you like it.

At the same time, if you want to be topped yourself, let guys know it fairly early on in the negotiation phase. Tell men you're versatile, and looking for a totally versatile experience with them. Or let it be known that you'd like to bottom that evening.

At this stage--hell, at any stage--you should be simply enjoying yourself instead of tying yourself to one particular role and not deviating from it. Explore your options. Don't let others manipulate you into topping if you don't care to; decide for yourself what works best for you.


I never see you on Yahoo messenger anymore - it makes me sad. What gives?
I get on Yahoo all the time and nobody talks to me. That doesn't really encourage me to stick around.

I haven't been on messenger on such a regular schedule lately because I've been busy, but I've definitely been on it.


In "Fulcrum," your florist talks about "a top cock." Is dick size really destiny, in that regard?
I dont believe so. I think a lot of bottoms look at a big dick, however, and think to themselves, "That should be in me." The extrapolation, naturally, being "That guy should be a top."


I am intensely word-sensitive man, whose EARS are hardwired to my dick. "Verbal" makes me insanely hot, and you seem to be quite good at it. Any advice?
Are you trying to become verbal yourself? Or encourage your partners to become more verbal? I'm not sure which.

If the former, keep in mind that the things you say during sex should be about as much a turn-on for you as they are for the guy you're with; be sensitive to the way he's responding to your words, and mentally note what's working and what's not. The stuff that's working can be repeated, or uttered with variations, to keep up his interest.

If the latter, the direct approach might be best. Tell your partners you like a guy who talks. If it's someone you're seeing often, show him porn that typifies the kind of thing you like.


You like to rim. Do you like the scent and taste of a guy's pits, his crotch, etc. as well?
I do, very much. I like a natural scent on a guy. All I ask is that his ass is clean.


How many countries have you had sex in?
Five so far. I'm aiming for more.


Would you ever be willing to tweet a heads-up before you get on cam4? It would help me cross something off my bucket list...
Sure. I should've thought of it this morning. Or last night.


A lot of the recaps of your adventures seem to involve bottoms that like to be debased or spoken to in a derogatory manner. Rough guess at the percentage of guys that get into that?
The number of guys who don't like to be talked to during sex is pretty low. I know some men who prefer a nice, gentle quiet, or silent lovemaking, but they're in the minority. (Or sometimes we're just having sex while their wives are sleeping upstairs.)

Of the guys who enjoy being talked to during sex, there are a lot of them who enjoy being made to feel more submissive through the use of dirty language. Sometimes it can be mildly demeaning. I'd say the percentage of men who enjoy being told that they're a hot little bitch who like to give it up for daddy's big cock is pretty high--in the 80%-90% range.

Those who like their abuse more vivid and even more demeaning--sexually derogatory terms like 'faggot' or 'queer' or racial insults--are a smaller percentage of the overall pie, but it's not uncommon at all. I'd guess in the 20% range out of the total population of men I meet.

However, of the racial minorities, a larger percentage ask for and relish the abusive language than do your standard-issue white guys. I'd estimate about 40% hint at an interest in it.

Happy Turkey!

Thanksgiving is one of those U.S. holidays that I've always taken for granted. It's usually one of those days I simply endure—the endless food preparation, the clunkiness of the parades, the chilly and damp weather, the football, the overstuffed feelings afterward. It's all been crap I have to get through in order to return to a more normal life after.

This year, though, I've been through a lot I hadn't expected. Separation from family, losses, the stress of preparing to change households and scenery. All of the anxiety has thrown into sharp relief those things that are important to me. I've been grateful for every single blessing. Not just today, but every day.

And among those unexpected delights are the friendships and interactions I've had with the readers of my blog. For all of you I'm thankful—from the frequent commenters to those who peek in every once in a while, and those who read silently and keep coming back. To all of you I wish the best on this holiday.

If you're celebrating today, Happy Thanksgiving! If you're outside the country or if this is an ordinary Thursday for you, still know I'm grateful to have you around.

Conundrum

It’s the second night that Spencer has come to stay the evening. “Did you dress up pretty just for me?” I ask him in the bedroom, casting an appraising eye over his trim vest, his shirt printed with flowers, his pressed but still-rumpled khakis.

Immediately he lets loose with one of those grins that stretch his chin and cheeks into an impossible triangle. “I’m wearing clothes,” he said. I could tell by his sheepish reaction that he had indeed dressed to make an effect. Those were date clothes. Not the kind of clothes meant to land on someone’s bedroom floor. “I wear clothes when I leave the house!”

“Not for long, you won’t,” I murmur into his ear. I turn off the bedside lamp then, and push him into the bed.

We kiss for a long while. From time to time he pulls back and looks at me. In the light of the nearly-full moon in which we bathe atop the mattress, his dark eyes glitter. My hand is beneath his shirt, running over the valleys and crests of his rib cage, enjoying the warmth of his skin, before we speak again. “Why are you a conundrum?”

He blinks several times before realizing why I’d asked. Our first night I’d noticed the tattoo running down his right leg, beneath the knee—that single word, conundrum, traced out into block letters that wouldn’t have been out of place on a Sesame Street sketch. “I’ve always been out of step with everyone,” he says at last. His forehead pushed against my shoulder. “My best friend growing up was my grandmother. Not the kids at school, not anyone I knew from church or anything, but my freakin’ grandmother. Later on, in school, I would hang out with the teachers instead of going to recess with everyone else. I was a little adult from the time I was a kid. No one could ever figure me out. So that’s me. Out of step. A puzzle to everyone. A conundrum.”

By his hushed tone, I guess I’ve hit on something important to him. I sit him up and remove his sweater vest, drawing his hands up over his head as I might undress a sleepy child. “That’s sweet.”

He butts his head against me. “Most people my age have to ask me the definition.”

His flowered shirt is next. I snap open the buttons and expose his chest, his shoulders. He shivers a little at the sudden breath of cold air on his back from the cracked window. I fold the garment and place it atop his sweater on my dresser. Then I help him out of his pants, and add them to the neatly-stacked pile. He wears nothing beneath the khakis. His thick hard-on flops against his abdomen, already twitching. Spencer plops back against the pillows with his arms hugging his chest, conserving his warmth. He seems shy to be looked at.

“You truly have a beautiful body,” I tell him in a whisper.

“Thank you for thinking so,” is his automatic response back. I’m going to have to break him of that. Before I can say anything, though, he sits up with a rush and begins to remove my shirt.

What follows is a long and passionate exchange of pleasure. We kiss and neck like teenagers in the back seat of our father’s jalopy. I gently suck his nipples, and he chews on mine. He straddles my chest and lets me suck on his dick while he lodges mine deep into his throat. And then I rim him for a long, wordless time that’s punctuated only by his appreciative sighs and my own animal grunts as I try to wedge my tongue in more and more deeply. When he’s slick and wet from my mouth, I rise and enter him—but only for a few moments.

He whimpers when I withdraw. “Lie down,” I tell him, turning him onto his side. “Relax.”

I think Spencer knows what’s coming. We’d discussed it the night before, as a part of his sexual diet. “What are you doing?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

I don’t answer. He already knows what I intend. From the nightstand I withdraw a tub of lube I’d set inside earlier. I unscrew the top and take a dollop of the creamy gel and apply it to his hole, teasing it in with my middle finger.

Spencer’s left leg extends into a straight line with a dancer’s pointed toe; his right curls up to his chest, stretching his ass cheeks wide. He groans. In the meantime I’ve taken another glob of goo and pushed it into his hole with my middle and index finger together, enjoying the slick wetness within.

“What’s it like?” he asks, as a third finger joins the other two, then a fourth. I ease them around, slowly, deliberately teasing him.

“Like dipping my hand into warm water.”

There’s a note of teasing in his voice. “Or an apple pie?”

“I’ve never put my hand into an apple pie.” Before he can say anything smart—and I can tell he’s about to—I add, “Or fucked one.”

Any rejoinder he might have had is silenced when my thumb joins the others. He inhales sharply; his head raises into the air. Then it’s down in the pillows as he buries his face in the cool sheets.

I’m at the point at which I can feel his body speaking to me, rather than his mouth. His spine is a perfect concavity. Those beautiful cheeks of his are open. His hole pulses and throbs around the forefront of my hand. Hungrily it backs up and onto me, trying to take the rest in.

After I apply more of the lube around the perimeter of where my hand meets his hole, I let him have it. The thickest portion of my right hand, south of the thumb’s joint, slips in. His open hole closes around my wrist. The moan he lets out is long and slow, a perfect wave of pure vibration that seems endless. When he begins to move again after the shock of taking something so wide in his ass, I know it’s all right to twist. I keep my fist in a ball as slowly I rotate it in his ass. My thumb moves from the noon position to nine o’clock, and then to three, before slowly moving backward again.

“Oh,” he finally says. “You’re . . . amazing.”

“I absolutely am,” I tell him. I’m sitting upright beside him, wrist-deep in the boy’s hole. My left hand rests on his abdomen, judging the rise and fall as he breathes. Whenever he speaks or groans, my palm tingles. I feel him chuckle slightly, but in his sensation-dazed state, it’s almost too much effort.

“I have goosebumps,” he whispers.

Gently I pat him to let him know it’s all right to enjoy the feelings without feeling obligated to tell me. The forest of raised follicles springing from his body already told me what I needed to know.

“I like knowing . . . you're inside me,” he breathes out. Then he follows it up with, “I like . . . knowing it’s you inside me like this.”

It seems almost a shame to spoil this quiet and sacred moment with words, but I’m touched by his. “That’s what I like the most about fisting,” I tell him. “The intimacy. You and me. Connected. Reach down and touch,” I tell him.

Immediately his hand searches for where my hand is disappearing inside him. I feel his fingers around my forearm. “Oh, fuck,” he says.

“Connected,” I repeat. “You and me.”

My fist remains inside him only for a few more moments. He’s reached the end of his tolerance; his legs are shaking. After I give my lube-covered hand a rinse in the bathroom and he hops into the shower to get the remainder from his hole, we join each other in bed once more. “You’re incredible,” he repeated, happily content.

“Thank you,” I said this time, meaning it most sincerely. “It’s an honor.”

I’m playing with his flaccid dick. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It short-circuits after I’m fisted like that.”

I don’t want to hear apologies. Side by side, we rest our heads on the pillow and kiss, softly and sweetly. After a mere moment of making out, his dick begins to swell in my grasp. A bead of pre-cum oozes into my palm. He barely protests when I push him onto his other side and, after moistening the head and first three inches with a glob of spit, shove into him. The moment I hit bottom, his dick blossoms into full hardness. I spit into my right hand and apply the slippery liquid to his meat, then wrap my hand around it and begin to beat. Just as it had for my fist inside him, his body reacts to both my cock grinding at his hole and my hand around his inches. “I just want to bring you as much pleasure as you can stand,” I whisper into his ear. “That’s all I want.”

“Oh god, you do,” he rasps out. My words have pushed him over the edge. Spencer’s body buckles and jerks. I feel a warm jet of semen cross the sides of my fingers and spray onto the blankets. Over and over he thrashes and shoots, until at last I clutch his cock still and tight and hold him to me.

It’s a very long time before he can say anything. When he does, it’s with a voice made weak from exertion. “I’ve never had a man—not a single man—who could, A), make me shoot by sucking me, or B), make me shoot by jerking me off. You’re the first. The very first. . . .” His words trail off, as if he’s drifting to sleep in my arms.

“So what you’re basically telling me is that I have work to do on part A,” I say in a normal voice.

He laughs. “You’re amazing,” he says once again.

“Mmm,” I concede.

But what I’m really thinking is that one of these days, I’m going to have to knock that other item off his list.