Ten minutes before, the room had been spotless. I’ve been keeping the house tidy, ready for a realtor showing with virtually no notice at all. The bedroom floors had been swept clean, the rugs there rolled up and stowed away to show off the hardwood planks. The bed had been made. All personal effects had been put away.
And here was Darryl, my married dad buddy, crouching on the floor in the bedroom closet, digging through the laundry hamper inside like a determined pig rooting for truffles. He was totally naked. His hairy haunches were spread as he squatted down on the floor, shorn balls dangling low between his legs, his dick solid and wet at the tip. He’s a lean and rangy man, and on his spare frame it jutted out so rigidly—so hard and implacable—that his prick seemed permanent, like architecture fashioned of crude, thick stone, than anything of mere flesh.
His thin lips were set in an expression of concentration as he searched through the basket. Pants and socks and board shorts from the days it was warm, not so long ago, lay in random piles around him. They weren’t what he wanted. Every now and again he’d lift one of the articles of clothing to his nose and give it a sniff, and then reach down with his left hand to squeeze his dick. Then he’d toss it aside and move on. I watched from my position on the narrow bed. I was sitting on my rear, legs spread, arms resting on my bent knees, watching.
For a moment Darryl seemed frustrated; he ran his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed. I realized then however, that his upset came not from not finding what he wanted, but having too much of an abundance of choice. He picked up some of the briefs he’d set into a pile and examined them again, then gave them the sniff test. “This pair,” he said at last, grunting, as if the week-old funk of dirty laundry had been a potent hit of poppers.
“You sure?” I asked. I recognized the briefs. I’d bought them myself at the Gap. They were plain white cotton. The inside front of the waistband was slightly dirty from handling. I could see a few faint pee stains on them.
“Yeah,” he told me. This time he used both hands to lift them to his face. He inhaled deeply. His eyelids flickered, then settled to half-mast. Finally, in a hormone-induced haze, he straightened up and strode to join me on the bed. “These are the ones.”
Darryl and I don’t fuck. We talk, and we stroke, and sometimes we suck. If we make that far, that is. For months we’ve been swapping two pairs of underwear back and forth, slopping them up with our spilled loads and then trading off whenever we meet. This time he wanted something new. “These are real nice,” he said, taking another hit.
The sheets we knelt on already smelled somewhat; they hadn’t been washed in a week. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, but it was definitely noticeable. I couldn’t imagine how much stronger the briefs must have been. I reached down and took his steel-hard dick in my hand, running the palms beneath the rigid rod, collecting a glob of his pre-cum, and then using it to slick up the stiff shaft. “You want ‘em?” I asked.
His lids flew open. Beneath them, his eyes were hard and cold and full of focused lust. “Yes,” he growled. It was the kind of feral snarl some men make as they fuck, only neither my nor Darryl’s dicks were shoved into a hole. “I want these.”
“They're yours. You bring me anything?”
He seemed reluctant to end the trance the shorts had induced, but he reluctantly got to his feet and pulled his jeans from the floor. From the back pocket Darryl unfolded a flimsy pair of cotton panties. They weren’t male underwear. He held them out to me.
I raised my eyebrows at the married man, the husband, the good provider. “These are hers?”
He nodded. “Put your dick through them. I want to see your dick in there.”
“Hold them for me,” I instructed.
He did as I told, stretching out the flower-printed panties in his hands. I pulled down on the crotch and let my dick slide between the layers of cotton, penetrating the spot where pussy would have been. Back and forth I moved, stimulated by nothing but the wispy edges, thrusting into the hole in his imagination. His mouth twitched again. I was arousing him even more, if that was possible. “You want to see me fuck her?” I asked. He didn’t say anything. “You’ve thought about it. You think about me in her.” He nodded slowly, acknowledging that it was so. “You’re going to be thinking about it when you go home to her after this. When you see her across the dining table. When she gets into bed, while you watch, you’re going to be thinking about me mounting her. Shoving my tongue down her throat. Forcing my rock-hard dick inside her. Aren’t you?”
When he let out the little “Yes!”, it arrived as a sob. He thrust the Gap briefs into his mouth and grabbed his dick. That’s all it took—one grasp with his fist around that engorged meat and suddenly he was shooting, pumping out squirt after squirt of juice over the backs of my hands and the flowery panties they held. His moans and cries were muffled by the shorts in his mouth as he came.
His orgasm put me over the edge. My own dick unloaded everywhere—on him, on the panties, on the bed, on my own hands. We were both covered with semen. I recovered more quickly than he. Darryl gripped the headboard as if he might topple over, so strong had his climax been. I took the briefs from his mouth and used them to mop up what sperm I could see or feel on my skin. “There,” I said. “A new starter pair.”
His only thanks was a curt nod. “I kinda need those back,” he said, gesturing to the other pair. “The wife'll notice they’re missing.”
“Gonna wash ‘em?” I wanted to know, since they were wet with my cum stains.
He shrugged, then stood up, his head finally clear. At last he grinned at me. “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”
Ten minutes later, the room was spic and span again, the windows open to clear the strong smell of spunk. A prospective buyer would never have been able to tell two daddies had been going at it in there.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Stereopticon
I’ve mentioned before that it’s tempting to think of the people in my life as some sort of traveling commedia del’arte troupe in which the actual actors may change, while the roles stay the same. Just as there’s always a Pagliaccio, always a Harlequin and a Scaramouche, my life always seems always to have people playing the same archetypes over and over again.
Zanies. Schemers. Lovers. Heroes. Confidants. Tempting, as I said, to think of people I know only as their roles. When I see people I know walking through life with the same gait and taking the same paths as those I knew before them, I try to concentrate on their differences. We’re all similar to others in many ways, after all, yet it’s those differences that most of us should be prizing.
Still, sometimes the parallels are spooky.
I mentioned last week that in college I had a mild crush on a boy named Jefferson. Jefferson was in my college class year and lived in the next dorm over. I noticed him the very first week on campus. Like me, he was tall and extremely lean. His hair was like a light auburn cloud; it smelled of mousse whenever he’d walk by. He wasn’t exactly handsome, by any means. His eyes were too small and beady. There was an irregularity to his jawline that made him keep his chin close to his chest in self-consciousness. His profile wasn’t effeminate, but it was almost feminine in its delicacy; I remember him being something like a character from Japanese anime, with his nose and chin coming to little points as if drawn with single, delicate strokes from a pen.
Whenever I passed Jefferson, he’d look at me. Most of the time when I saw him on campus, he’d be loping along the pathways with his head down, his lumpy jawline concealed, eyes on the ground. It was as if he was attempting not to be seen. When he noticed me, though, his eyes would fix on mine. They’d remain locked until we’d pass. I would always smile at him, but he’d leave his face blank and without expression. Or what he thought was without expression, anyway, because I could tell that Jefferson’s stares were laden with yearning—and sadness. I was experienced enough to suspect that he didn’t know, however, exactly what he yearned for.
During my sophomore year I found out Jefferson’s surname and boldly sent him an email through the campus system. I simply asked him if he’d like to get together and have dinner at the student center or play Ms. Pac-Man at the Tinee Giant. We’d never met, never talked face-to-face. In his reply he seemed to know who I was, though, and didn’t say no. Why would we want to do that? he asked.
I didn’t have a smooth answer. You looked like you might need a friend, I finally said.
For my last three years of college, I’d send an email every couple of months. Casual notes, saying nothing, but offering companionship. We certainly never mentioned anything naughty, but the looks we’d exchange as we passed on campus grew more and more heated. Still we never spoke.
Until the last night I was in Williamsburg, that is. The night before graduation, I received an email message from Jefferson asking if he could visit me in my dorm room. I lived in a single, then, all alone. My clothes and books and belongings were packed in boxes and stuffed into paper bags, ready to be loaded into my parents’ car trunk after the ceremony the next day. The room was down to bed and cinder block walls and a stack of movables in the middle of the floor when he finally arrived, nervous to the point of trembling.
I closed the door, and invited him to sit on the bed. He obeyed, and stared straight ahead, his legs together, his hands resting on the mattress. I reached out and covered his hand with mine. Almost immediately he jerked it away. “I don’t like anyone touching my hands,” he said, and showed them to me. They were covered with the ghosts of past incisions. I learned that the dent in his jawline had been the result of a tumor, in high school. The skin of his chest and hands and arms was a white tracery of scars from the dozens and dozens of cysts and tumors that had grown and been removed all his life.
“I don’t care,” I told him. “I like you. I’ve liked you since the first time I saw you. I thought you might like me too.” He nodded, and looked at me with his tiny eyes.
That was when I kissed him.
We made love that night. I undressed him, and made out with him, and sucked him off, and let him touch me in the places he had always wanted. I could tell he wasn't experienced, by his clumsiness and passivity. It was only his second time ever, he told me, after. He stayed until early in the morning, when he collected his shirt and his white briefs and sat on the edge of the bed with his head hung low. “This isn’t who I am,” he said. I was puzzled. Did he mean the one-night stand? The scars? “I’m supposed to get married and have kids and be normal. Sorry, but this isn’t who I am.”
Oh. The homosexuality.
He pulled on his clothes and went back home without a word, exiting stage left from the theater of my life. I didn’t see him at the graduation ceremony.
There’s another kid I know these days—Jason’s his name. He’s twenty-five, married, a father of four already, and secretly gay. He’s an expert at compartmentalization, and manages to justify to himself that his secret quests for cock and cum are just him ‘cutting loose’ when the wife is out of town or busy for the evening. He’s always treated it like some kind of hobby he can give up at will, like wood-burning or model railroading. He’s one of those young men whom you know will age quickly. Already his hair is thin, and his small eyes are rimmed with dark, tired circles.
I used to fuck Jason a year or so ago. I stopped because he wasn’t always reliable about showing up, though we’ve remained on friendly terms. He’s constantly prowling online under various vaguely sinister-sounding nicknames, changed every six weeks to keep his wife off his track. He’ll message me and tell me about his latest cocksucking escapades or complain about his life. His wife’s the bread-winner of the family; he works a part-time job stocking fruit at a local market. He finds a lot to complain about.
Jason’s always full of plans. Sometimes he wants to go back to school. Other days, he wants to start his own business, if he could get the money. He’s wanted to join the Peace Corps, even. He won’t admit it, but all his plans amount to the same end: he wants to get out. Every time I talk to him, he wants to unburden himself of the wife and the children and the responsibilities he assumed too young.
“You know anywhere a guy can go to get a quick circumcision?” he phoned me earlier this week.
“Huh?” I replied. It’s just one of those questions one never really expects to be asked.
He repeated himself, then added, “I’m thinking about joining the army tomorrow.”
“Why in the world would you join the army?” I asked him. I’d never known him to be particularly patriotic.
“Because if I waited any more there won’t be any damned Arabs left to kill,” he replied. While I was trying to think up a stern, tactful, fatherly reply to that one, he messaged, “Kidding, dude. I need to be doing something important with my life.”
“I don’t think they require circumcision in the Army.”
“I heard they do.”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t,” I said, “Adult circumcision is painful.”
“I’ll get over it. I just need to make a change.”
“That’s just a weird change,” I told him. “Are you talking shit so you can run away from your family? You’re a father and a caregiver. Isn’t that an important thing to do with your life?”
“That’s not who I am,” he said, and for the first time since I’d known him, he sounded sad.
It was at that moment I realized that Jason reminded me of Jefferson. The thin and air-dried hair. The small, dark eyes that looked more often at the ground or the horizon than at other people. His skinny frame. Even the paleness of his skin. It was as if I’d been given a glimpse into Jefferson at the age of twenty-five, four years after the night we spent together, having done the acceptable thing with his life. Having learned that the married life wasn’t really him, after all.
I know Jason’s not Jefferson. Those weren’t even Jefferson’s words in his mouth—they were the words of thousands of men and women who’ve found themselves yearning for a life other than the one they lead. Yet it still felt as if I had placed an old-fashioned stereopticon to my face. Two slightly different pictures seen from slightly different angles, converged into one three-dimensional portrait, rich and strange in its vividness.
Then the moment passed, and the two went back to being their individual selves once more.
Zanies. Schemers. Lovers. Heroes. Confidants. Tempting, as I said, to think of people I know only as their roles. When I see people I know walking through life with the same gait and taking the same paths as those I knew before them, I try to concentrate on their differences. We’re all similar to others in many ways, after all, yet it’s those differences that most of us should be prizing.
Still, sometimes the parallels are spooky.
I mentioned last week that in college I had a mild crush on a boy named Jefferson. Jefferson was in my college class year and lived in the next dorm over. I noticed him the very first week on campus. Like me, he was tall and extremely lean. His hair was like a light auburn cloud; it smelled of mousse whenever he’d walk by. He wasn’t exactly handsome, by any means. His eyes were too small and beady. There was an irregularity to his jawline that made him keep his chin close to his chest in self-consciousness. His profile wasn’t effeminate, but it was almost feminine in its delicacy; I remember him being something like a character from Japanese anime, with his nose and chin coming to little points as if drawn with single, delicate strokes from a pen.
Whenever I passed Jefferson, he’d look at me. Most of the time when I saw him on campus, he’d be loping along the pathways with his head down, his lumpy jawline concealed, eyes on the ground. It was as if he was attempting not to be seen. When he noticed me, though, his eyes would fix on mine. They’d remain locked until we’d pass. I would always smile at him, but he’d leave his face blank and without expression. Or what he thought was without expression, anyway, because I could tell that Jefferson’s stares were laden with yearning—and sadness. I was experienced enough to suspect that he didn’t know, however, exactly what he yearned for.
During my sophomore year I found out Jefferson’s surname and boldly sent him an email through the campus system. I simply asked him if he’d like to get together and have dinner at the student center or play Ms. Pac-Man at the Tinee Giant. We’d never met, never talked face-to-face. In his reply he seemed to know who I was, though, and didn’t say no. Why would we want to do that? he asked.
I didn’t have a smooth answer. You looked like you might need a friend, I finally said.
For my last three years of college, I’d send an email every couple of months. Casual notes, saying nothing, but offering companionship. We certainly never mentioned anything naughty, but the looks we’d exchange as we passed on campus grew more and more heated. Still we never spoke.
Until the last night I was in Williamsburg, that is. The night before graduation, I received an email message from Jefferson asking if he could visit me in my dorm room. I lived in a single, then, all alone. My clothes and books and belongings were packed in boxes and stuffed into paper bags, ready to be loaded into my parents’ car trunk after the ceremony the next day. The room was down to bed and cinder block walls and a stack of movables in the middle of the floor when he finally arrived, nervous to the point of trembling.
I closed the door, and invited him to sit on the bed. He obeyed, and stared straight ahead, his legs together, his hands resting on the mattress. I reached out and covered his hand with mine. Almost immediately he jerked it away. “I don’t like anyone touching my hands,” he said, and showed them to me. They were covered with the ghosts of past incisions. I learned that the dent in his jawline had been the result of a tumor, in high school. The skin of his chest and hands and arms was a white tracery of scars from the dozens and dozens of cysts and tumors that had grown and been removed all his life.
“I don’t care,” I told him. “I like you. I’ve liked you since the first time I saw you. I thought you might like me too.” He nodded, and looked at me with his tiny eyes.
That was when I kissed him.
We made love that night. I undressed him, and made out with him, and sucked him off, and let him touch me in the places he had always wanted. I could tell he wasn't experienced, by his clumsiness and passivity. It was only his second time ever, he told me, after. He stayed until early in the morning, when he collected his shirt and his white briefs and sat on the edge of the bed with his head hung low. “This isn’t who I am,” he said. I was puzzled. Did he mean the one-night stand? The scars? “I’m supposed to get married and have kids and be normal. Sorry, but this isn’t who I am.”
Oh. The homosexuality.
He pulled on his clothes and went back home without a word, exiting stage left from the theater of my life. I didn’t see him at the graduation ceremony.
There’s another kid I know these days—Jason’s his name. He’s twenty-five, married, a father of four already, and secretly gay. He’s an expert at compartmentalization, and manages to justify to himself that his secret quests for cock and cum are just him ‘cutting loose’ when the wife is out of town or busy for the evening. He’s always treated it like some kind of hobby he can give up at will, like wood-burning or model railroading. He’s one of those young men whom you know will age quickly. Already his hair is thin, and his small eyes are rimmed with dark, tired circles.
I used to fuck Jason a year or so ago. I stopped because he wasn’t always reliable about showing up, though we’ve remained on friendly terms. He’s constantly prowling online under various vaguely sinister-sounding nicknames, changed every six weeks to keep his wife off his track. He’ll message me and tell me about his latest cocksucking escapades or complain about his life. His wife’s the bread-winner of the family; he works a part-time job stocking fruit at a local market. He finds a lot to complain about.
Jason’s always full of plans. Sometimes he wants to go back to school. Other days, he wants to start his own business, if he could get the money. He’s wanted to join the Peace Corps, even. He won’t admit it, but all his plans amount to the same end: he wants to get out. Every time I talk to him, he wants to unburden himself of the wife and the children and the responsibilities he assumed too young.
“You know anywhere a guy can go to get a quick circumcision?” he phoned me earlier this week.
“Huh?” I replied. It’s just one of those questions one never really expects to be asked.
He repeated himself, then added, “I’m thinking about joining the army tomorrow.”
“Why in the world would you join the army?” I asked him. I’d never known him to be particularly patriotic.
“Because if I waited any more there won’t be any damned Arabs left to kill,” he replied. While I was trying to think up a stern, tactful, fatherly reply to that one, he messaged, “Kidding, dude. I need to be doing something important with my life.”
“I don’t think they require circumcision in the Army.”
“I heard they do.”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t,” I said, “Adult circumcision is painful.”
“I’ll get over it. I just need to make a change.”
“That’s just a weird change,” I told him. “Are you talking shit so you can run away from your family? You’re a father and a caregiver. Isn’t that an important thing to do with your life?”
“That’s not who I am,” he said, and for the first time since I’d known him, he sounded sad.
It was at that moment I realized that Jason reminded me of Jefferson. The thin and air-dried hair. The small, dark eyes that looked more often at the ground or the horizon than at other people. His skinny frame. Even the paleness of his skin. It was as if I’d been given a glimpse into Jefferson at the age of twenty-five, four years after the night we spent together, having done the acceptable thing with his life. Having learned that the married life wasn’t really him, after all.
I know Jason’s not Jefferson. Those weren’t even Jefferson’s words in his mouth—they were the words of thousands of men and women who’ve found themselves yearning for a life other than the one they lead. Yet it still felt as if I had placed an old-fashioned stereopticon to my face. Two slightly different pictures seen from slightly different angles, converged into one three-dimensional portrait, rich and strange in its vividness.
Then the moment passed, and the two went back to being their individual selves once more.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Professor
The room attendants for the little hotel by the freeway’s side were busy when I stepped out of the elevator onto the second floor. Carts laden with towels and toilet paper and little disposable bottles of shampoo blocked the hallways at regular intervals. I passed by several rooms in which the doors and blind were wide open, and where maids in uniform wrestled to lay bedsheets flat against the mattresses.
The door to room 222, however, was cracked, its security bar holding it open. I took the knob in my hand and pushed. For the briefest of moments I saw the fellow I’d come to meet, framed by the doorway’s light. He was stocky and broad, a muscular English bulldog of a man. He was naked, and sitting on the corner of the bed, legs spread, exposing himself.
I shut the door. The two of us were blanketed by almost complete darkness. He stood up and approached me as I kicked off my sneakers. When his arms went around mine, I placed my hands on his chest, and our lips met. I could tell from the start that he was a very, very good kisser. “Hi,” he said, sounding shy.
I said nothing, and instead kissed him more deeply, and harder.
When I think about it for any length of time, I’m always a little bit astounded that my foray into the world of sex blogging hasn’t resulted in more actual action. I get offers and attention from a lot of readers, to be sure, but they all seem to be out of the state, or else they haven’t yet followed through with their promises of doing all kinds of unholy things to my dick. After months of blogging, I’ve only met two readers who were so turned on by my more-or-less daily entries that they’ve made arrangements with me to meet—my good friend in Kentucky, and a local reader who sucked me off in a mall restroom a couple of months ago.
About six weeks ago, I’d gotten an email from someone who said he was a reader of mine, and who wanted to offer me something unusual. He was the chair of the history department at a prestigious southern university; since he had to visit the Detroit area in order to consult with the Henry Ford Museum for one of their exhibits, he asked if I might like to go along with him so that he could give me a private tour of the displays there. I was so charmed by the off-the-wall offer and found it flattering to both my libido and my brain cells that I began swapping emails with the fellow. Quite quickly we got down to his admission that he really wanted me to fuck his brains out, but that the museum tour would still be on the table if I wanted. Interested as I might have been, I was definitely up more for the fucking. We arranged a day to meet, the following week, when he was due in down.
The day of his arrival, though, he left me a panicked phone message. He’d missed his plane, he said, and he’d have to reschedule. I’d talked to the guy on the phone a couple of times and never got the impression he was any kind of player, so I took the postponement at face value. At the same time, though, a little part of me in the back of my head kept wondering, who misses a plane? Because I’m anal about that kind of thing. Was I being suckered?
I didn’t worry about it overmuch, though—and good thing, because my academic got in touch with me week before last and told me he’d rescheduled his museum visit. We agreed to meet Wednesday morning, when I knew I’d have several uninterrupted hours to play. And when he sent me his location and room number, and was sitting naked on his bed just as I’d told him, I knew that he was going to be the third of my readers to get bred by the Breeder’s dick.
We didn’t really come up for air until we were both on the bed, making out like teenagers at a party in somebody’s mom’s basement. “Well hey there, professor,” I said to him.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, looking at me with something akin to marvel. “You’re so handsome, too.” From time to time he would regard me as if I were some kind of legend sprung to life, a figure of myth or a religious icon that had stripped down in his room and decided to get dirty with him. The sensation of awe was palpable, and a little unsettling at times. “I want to give you so much pleasure today. It’s all about you today. If you let me,” he said, sounding hopeful and tentative all at the same time.
Of course, if being regarded with a little bit of awe resulted in that kind of offer, I was down with it.
The professor did give me pleasure—immense amounts of it. Wave upon wave of it, in fact, as he settled my naked body back against a bank of pillows and sucked my dick. I didn’t protest or feel guilty about the attention. It was what I’d come for. Sometimes he’d break contact with my meat and reach up to kiss me, still hungry for my mouth. I’d hold his face with my hands and we’d kiss more, which would only make me harder for him. He turned me over and ate my ass for what seemed like hours, without me having to betray my anxiety about asking for it; he nibbled at my nuts and chewed at my nipples in just the right amount. After an hour of being showered with attention, though, I couldn’t take any more. “I have to fuck you,” I told him. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He gulped audibly. “Good god yes.”
The professor didn’t protest at all when I flipped him onto his stomach and began licking at his ass. He groaned, and quivered, and began thrusting his hips into the mattress with very tiny motions, as if impatient for me to enter. I positioned my dick against his hole and stretched up so that I could whisper in his ear. At the same time, I spat in my hand and worked it onto my knob for lube. “You came to town just to have this dick,” I growled. He whimpered, agreeing. “Are you ready for it?”
“I want it so bad,” he said, clutching the pillows. “Please.”
I swear, I hadn’t meant to enter him right away. I’d only wanted to tease his underused hole with the tip of my dick and to get him yearning for it. When I pushed forward a little to find the hole’s edge, though, I found myself sliding in, and not meeting any resistance whatsoever. Just warmth, and a slight moisture, and the depths of his hole. The guy was wide open for me. “Oh my god,” I said, marveling at how easily I’d slipped all the way in. “When was the last time you were fucked?”
“To be totally honest, the last time was the day after Christmas, last year,” said the professor, chuckling nervously. Ruefully, he added, “Boxing day.” I wouldn’t have been able to tell it had been ten months, to be honest. “But I’ve been practicing with my Jeff Stryker dildo, to be ready for you.”
“I’m no Jeff Stryker,” I told him.
“No. You’re more handsome. And you’re bigger.”
Well, there was no way to respond to that one save for with a kiss to shush his nonsense.
I haven’t shot so much cum lately as I did last Wednesday afternoon. Load number one I shot directly into his hole after fucking him slowly and in a number of positions; number two arrived quickly afterwards, when I was still dicking him in my own load and getting a little overexcited at the sensations. “Are you going to write about me?” he asked, while we were relaxing a little after that.
“Of course” I said. “I write about just about all the sex I have.”
“Be kind,” he joked. I make a noise expressing derision of that. “You have no idea how I love reading about your adventures. You’re like a Quixotic, picaresque hero of an eighteenth-century novel. I picture you in a broad-rimmed hat, and knee-high leather boots, and a poofy shirt, with a saber at your side, bedding your way across the western world in a series of comic and erotic scenarios.” I rather liked that vision of myself, and told him so. “You’re so accessible, though,” he said as a follow-up. “I love your Byronic hair.” Which I took to mean messy, and floppy, and mostly in his mouth. “I kind of find it amazing that an A-Lister like yourself would even have sex with a B-Lister like m—”
I stopped that train of discussion immediately. “For someone so highly educated,” I told him sternly, “you couldn’t say anything dumber.” I am on nobody’s A List, truth be told. And if someone does have an A List, they’re likely not the sort of person I’m interested in meeting or hanging around. I’m ready to like the people I meet, period. No matter what their size or shape or length or girth, they either all bring something to the table, in which case I glow about them, or they bring little to nothing at all, in which case I walk away disappointed.
With the professor, there was no chance of disappointment. I went back in him for a third load, and then to my surprise, pumped a fourth in his hole. There was something about the way his ass felt against my hips and thighs that made penetration very pleasurable in a way that the guys who are all hipbone and skin don’t manage. When he wheedled, “Can I feel you in me one more time?” when I was getting ready to go, I couldn’t help myself. Nothing against you twinky guys—you know I love you to death, too. But often nothing’s better a hot, beefy man with a little meat of his bones. There ain’t nothing B-List about that.
And that’s how the professor was the first person I’ve been with in over a year got five loads out of me in less than three hours, all of them deep into his hungry hole.
Who’s stepping up to be reader number four?
The door to room 222, however, was cracked, its security bar holding it open. I took the knob in my hand and pushed. For the briefest of moments I saw the fellow I’d come to meet, framed by the doorway’s light. He was stocky and broad, a muscular English bulldog of a man. He was naked, and sitting on the corner of the bed, legs spread, exposing himself.
I shut the door. The two of us were blanketed by almost complete darkness. He stood up and approached me as I kicked off my sneakers. When his arms went around mine, I placed my hands on his chest, and our lips met. I could tell from the start that he was a very, very good kisser. “Hi,” he said, sounding shy.
I said nothing, and instead kissed him more deeply, and harder.
When I think about it for any length of time, I’m always a little bit astounded that my foray into the world of sex blogging hasn’t resulted in more actual action. I get offers and attention from a lot of readers, to be sure, but they all seem to be out of the state, or else they haven’t yet followed through with their promises of doing all kinds of unholy things to my dick. After months of blogging, I’ve only met two readers who were so turned on by my more-or-less daily entries that they’ve made arrangements with me to meet—my good friend in Kentucky, and a local reader who sucked me off in a mall restroom a couple of months ago.
About six weeks ago, I’d gotten an email from someone who said he was a reader of mine, and who wanted to offer me something unusual. He was the chair of the history department at a prestigious southern university; since he had to visit the Detroit area in order to consult with the Henry Ford Museum for one of their exhibits, he asked if I might like to go along with him so that he could give me a private tour of the displays there. I was so charmed by the off-the-wall offer and found it flattering to both my libido and my brain cells that I began swapping emails with the fellow. Quite quickly we got down to his admission that he really wanted me to fuck his brains out, but that the museum tour would still be on the table if I wanted. Interested as I might have been, I was definitely up more for the fucking. We arranged a day to meet, the following week, when he was due in down.
The day of his arrival, though, he left me a panicked phone message. He’d missed his plane, he said, and he’d have to reschedule. I’d talked to the guy on the phone a couple of times and never got the impression he was any kind of player, so I took the postponement at face value. At the same time, though, a little part of me in the back of my head kept wondering, who misses a plane? Because I’m anal about that kind of thing. Was I being suckered?
I didn’t worry about it overmuch, though—and good thing, because my academic got in touch with me week before last and told me he’d rescheduled his museum visit. We agreed to meet Wednesday morning, when I knew I’d have several uninterrupted hours to play. And when he sent me his location and room number, and was sitting naked on his bed just as I’d told him, I knew that he was going to be the third of my readers to get bred by the Breeder’s dick.
We didn’t really come up for air until we were both on the bed, making out like teenagers at a party in somebody’s mom’s basement. “Well hey there, professor,” I said to him.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, looking at me with something akin to marvel. “You’re so handsome, too.” From time to time he would regard me as if I were some kind of legend sprung to life, a figure of myth or a religious icon that had stripped down in his room and decided to get dirty with him. The sensation of awe was palpable, and a little unsettling at times. “I want to give you so much pleasure today. It’s all about you today. If you let me,” he said, sounding hopeful and tentative all at the same time.
Of course, if being regarded with a little bit of awe resulted in that kind of offer, I was down with it.
The professor did give me pleasure—immense amounts of it. Wave upon wave of it, in fact, as he settled my naked body back against a bank of pillows and sucked my dick. I didn’t protest or feel guilty about the attention. It was what I’d come for. Sometimes he’d break contact with my meat and reach up to kiss me, still hungry for my mouth. I’d hold his face with my hands and we’d kiss more, which would only make me harder for him. He turned me over and ate my ass for what seemed like hours, without me having to betray my anxiety about asking for it; he nibbled at my nuts and chewed at my nipples in just the right amount. After an hour of being showered with attention, though, I couldn’t take any more. “I have to fuck you,” I told him. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He gulped audibly. “Good god yes.”
The professor didn’t protest at all when I flipped him onto his stomach and began licking at his ass. He groaned, and quivered, and began thrusting his hips into the mattress with very tiny motions, as if impatient for me to enter. I positioned my dick against his hole and stretched up so that I could whisper in his ear. At the same time, I spat in my hand and worked it onto my knob for lube. “You came to town just to have this dick,” I growled. He whimpered, agreeing. “Are you ready for it?”
“I want it so bad,” he said, clutching the pillows. “Please.”
I swear, I hadn’t meant to enter him right away. I’d only wanted to tease his underused hole with the tip of my dick and to get him yearning for it. When I pushed forward a little to find the hole’s edge, though, I found myself sliding in, and not meeting any resistance whatsoever. Just warmth, and a slight moisture, and the depths of his hole. The guy was wide open for me. “Oh my god,” I said, marveling at how easily I’d slipped all the way in. “When was the last time you were fucked?”
“To be totally honest, the last time was the day after Christmas, last year,” said the professor, chuckling nervously. Ruefully, he added, “Boxing day.” I wouldn’t have been able to tell it had been ten months, to be honest. “But I’ve been practicing with my Jeff Stryker dildo, to be ready for you.”
“I’m no Jeff Stryker,” I told him.
“No. You’re more handsome. And you’re bigger.”
Well, there was no way to respond to that one save for with a kiss to shush his nonsense.
I haven’t shot so much cum lately as I did last Wednesday afternoon. Load number one I shot directly into his hole after fucking him slowly and in a number of positions; number two arrived quickly afterwards, when I was still dicking him in my own load and getting a little overexcited at the sensations. “Are you going to write about me?” he asked, while we were relaxing a little after that.
“Of course” I said. “I write about just about all the sex I have.”
“Be kind,” he joked. I make a noise expressing derision of that. “You have no idea how I love reading about your adventures. You’re like a Quixotic, picaresque hero of an eighteenth-century novel. I picture you in a broad-rimmed hat, and knee-high leather boots, and a poofy shirt, with a saber at your side, bedding your way across the western world in a series of comic and erotic scenarios.” I rather liked that vision of myself, and told him so. “You’re so accessible, though,” he said as a follow-up. “I love your Byronic hair.” Which I took to mean messy, and floppy, and mostly in his mouth. “I kind of find it amazing that an A-Lister like yourself would even have sex with a B-Lister like m—”
I stopped that train of discussion immediately. “For someone so highly educated,” I told him sternly, “you couldn’t say anything dumber.” I am on nobody’s A List, truth be told. And if someone does have an A List, they’re likely not the sort of person I’m interested in meeting or hanging around. I’m ready to like the people I meet, period. No matter what their size or shape or length or girth, they either all bring something to the table, in which case I glow about them, or they bring little to nothing at all, in which case I walk away disappointed.
With the professor, there was no chance of disappointment. I went back in him for a third load, and then to my surprise, pumped a fourth in his hole. There was something about the way his ass felt against my hips and thighs that made penetration very pleasurable in a way that the guys who are all hipbone and skin don’t manage. When he wheedled, “Can I feel you in me one more time?” when I was getting ready to go, I couldn’t help myself. Nothing against you twinky guys—you know I love you to death, too. But often nothing’s better a hot, beefy man with a little meat of his bones. There ain’t nothing B-List about that.
And that’s how the professor was the first person I’ve been with in over a year got five loads out of me in less than three hours, all of them deep into his hungry hole.
Who’s stepping up to be reader number four?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: 7-13 Edition
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Saturday, September 25, 2010
Your Scribe for the Day
Google Scribe. Heard of it? It's one of Google's experimental projects that projects what one is about to write, as one writes it. Well heck. That certainly sounded relaxing to me. I could do with a good day off in which all I had to do was punch a button here or there while some invisible Google pixies did the smut-writing for me.
So in the interests of experimentation—and let's face it, the gleaming, lazy prospect of not having to think about all those pesky color words and adjectives and watching my adverbs and subject-verb agreements (not that it stops me most of the time)—I took some of my more popular recent entries, typed in a few words from them, and let the invisible pixies finish the rest.
Here's our alternate version of this week's Restroom Lunch (as always, click on the images to enlarge them):
Nice! I like it! Those American Chemical Society boys are the biggest sluts I've ever met.
And remember Boy in the Woods? I could've saved myself a whole couple of hours if I'd just gone with the Google Scribe flow:
I'm not exactly sure how cats and small enterprise development connect, but I'm sure it would've been hot!
Charming Accent was one of my more popular entries in the last couple of months.
Oh, if only I'd thought of taking a rip-roaring fuck in that direction. Well, live and learn.
And finally, An Open Letter to the Hungry Bottoms of the World takes on an entirely new tone, thanks to Scribe:
Dear people of the mighty Google corporation—I'd like to thank you for your new tool. I'll be using it all the time for my entries from now on, so I can spend less time thinking of proper English and trying to summon up images and metaphors and all that mess, and utilize my newly-free time in some new hobby. Like Farmville, maybe, or macrame.
So in the interests of experimentation—and let's face it, the gleaming, lazy prospect of not having to think about all those pesky color words and adjectives and watching my adverbs and subject-verb agreements (not that it stops me most of the time)—I took some of my more popular recent entries, typed in a few words from them, and let the invisible pixies finish the rest.
Here's our alternate version of this week's Restroom Lunch (as always, click on the images to enlarge them):
Nice! I like it! Those American Chemical Society boys are the biggest sluts I've ever met.
And remember Boy in the Woods? I could've saved myself a whole couple of hours if I'd just gone with the Google Scribe flow:
I'm not exactly sure how cats and small enterprise development connect, but I'm sure it would've been hot!
Charming Accent was one of my more popular entries in the last couple of months.
And finally, An Open Letter to the Hungry Bottoms of the World takes on an entirely new tone, thanks to Scribe:
Dear people of the mighty Google corporation—I'd like to thank you for your new tool. I'll be using it all the time for my entries from now on, so I can spend less time thinking of proper English and trying to summon up images and metaphors and all that mess, and utilize my newly-free time in some new hobby. Like Farmville, maybe, or macrame.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Restroom Lunch
The only thing I knew about the guy was that his online name was SexInPublic, that he had a couple of photos showing a beefy, hairy body and a nice mouth fringed with fur, and that judging by his profile, we both liked to cruise the same places. Would love to run into you at the mall restroom, he emailed me out of the blue earlier this week, naming the mall where I do most of my hooking up when I’m in that kind of mood. Damn nice cock—bet you deliver a hell of a load, too.
It does. Want to suck it tomorrow at 11? I wrote him back. Upstairs or down?
Upstairs, he decided. Can’t wait to wrap my lips and throat around that dick of yours.
Short, simple, and to the point, was the correspondence. If only it were all that easy. There was something direct and honest about it, too—at least to the point that I didn’t feel the need to doubt that he’d show. I left my house twenty minutes early, drove several miles north to the mall, parked outside, and walked in. When I pushed open the men’s room door in the quiet corner behind the coffee shop, it was precisely eleven o’clock.
And he was waiting in the handicapped stall next to the one I chose. When I dropped my shorts and looked beneath the partition, I saw a pair of long, shiny square-tipped leather shoes protruding from a pair of frayed designer jeans. On the tiles I saw a shadow lurch forward, as if the guy next to me were bending over and down.
I tapped my left foot. Immediately in response he tapped his own toe, several times, up and down, moving it closer to mine. I leaned down and looked under the partition and saw a man’s head craning down to do the same; I could tell his hair was short and dark. Our eyes met briefly, but when someone invaded the quiet sanctity of the men’s room from outside, we both sat up and resumed more normal postures.
While the intruder pissed in a urinal, I stroked myself hard while looking around the back of the partition, using the shiny marble tiles as a reflective mirror. My buddy was also stroking himself, I judged by his arm motions. I watched as he removed his eyeglasses and set them on the box holding rolls of toilet paper. The guy at the urinal stepped back, triggering the auto-flush. We listened as he washed and dried his hands.
The moment the room was clear again, the guy next to me was on all fours. I could tell he wore a crisply-pressed cotton baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; an expensive gold watch adorned his furry right wrist. I knelt down on the tiles, my dick stiffening as his left hand grabbed for my dick. His wedding ring was thick, gold, and sported a large stone in its flat face.
I suspected that, when he yanked my dick under the stall and stuffed it in his mouth, he wasn’t thinking about his pretty wife.
My left hand gripped the toilet seat, and my right the top of the roll dispenser as I pivoted my knees beneath the partition. The cold metal pressed into the top of my pelvis as he pulled as much of me as possible underneath, gobbling down on my dick. I was ready to withdraw, silently and swiftly, in the case of another intruder, but at the same time, he had total and complete access to the parts he wanted so badly.
And he went to town on them, too. I could feel slobber cascading down my shaved nuts and tickling the underside of my asshole before dripping on the floor. He would deep-throat my meat like a starving man and try not to gag on my length, then surface for air and gasp before going down again faster than a drowning man with bricks in his pockets. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, as he did all the right stuff to my dick.
Someone came in. With practiced calm I levered my hips out and up, and then settled onto the toilet seat. My friend did the same, lifting himself from his huddled position on the floor without any sound more than a few shifting clothes. We both waited for the new intruder to leave; I put some more spit on my dick and ran my fist up and down the shaft while the guy peed, knowing that my buddy was watching me through the crack behind the partition.
When the second intruder left, my buddy was back on the floor again, not even bothering to keep his pristine shirt off the grubby tiles. He stuck his head all the way beneath the partition and looked up at me. I could see now that he was a good-looking man—perhaps older than he advertised in his profile, but an attractive guy nonetheless. “That’s the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,” he whispered at me. His hand reached out to run his hands over my hairy legs.
I just nodded. I had the heels of my sneakers together, with my camo shorts bunched around them. My knees were spread as far as they’d go, and I double-fisted my big dick while he watched. I used all the same techniques I employ during my cam shows—using my full fist at different angles, grabbing my nuts with one hand and pulling them as far as they’d go, and pursing my lips like I was close to orgasm—which I honestly was, showing off. “I want it in my ass,” he said.
“Now?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Next time,” he promised. I just grunted and nodded, and then stuffed the tip of my right index finger into my slit. I withdrew a heavy bead of precum that left a long, sticky tail as I pulled it away and shoved it in my mouth.
I thought he was about to faint when he saw that. “Fuck,” he said. “I’ve gotta come.”
I leaned forward and offered my left hand. Immediately he straightened up and thrust his knees beneath the partition. With my right hand still slicking my own dick, I spat into my left and got his little member wet and hard. Then I jacked at it.
It didn’t take long. He was groaning almost immediately, and then thrusting his hips against my hand shortly thereafter. The partition vibrated with every shove; my own stall door came unlocked and drifted open to bang against my knee, but I didn’t bother to close it. We were still quietly undisturbed.
When he came, it was with a violent grunt. Little droplets of semen puddled in my hand and then onto the floor underneath. I waited until his spasms subsided, then grabbed a wad of toilet paper so that I could clean off first my hands and then the floor itself. Then I did a quick possessions check—phone, keys, wallet—and left the stall so I could wash my hands.
I saw him walking to his own car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. The man was driving a BMW parked next to mine. Out in the wild he looked like any other upper-middle-class suburbanite dad hitting the mall for a quick shopping trip.
No one save me would’ve guessed him to have been on all fours, only moments before, pants around his ankles and ass high in the air as he’d nursed some stranger’s big dick in his mouth on a dirty restroom floor. I’m sure that’s just the way he wanted it.
It does. Want to suck it tomorrow at 11? I wrote him back. Upstairs or down?
Upstairs, he decided. Can’t wait to wrap my lips and throat around that dick of yours.
Short, simple, and to the point, was the correspondence. If only it were all that easy. There was something direct and honest about it, too—at least to the point that I didn’t feel the need to doubt that he’d show. I left my house twenty minutes early, drove several miles north to the mall, parked outside, and walked in. When I pushed open the men’s room door in the quiet corner behind the coffee shop, it was precisely eleven o’clock.
And he was waiting in the handicapped stall next to the one I chose. When I dropped my shorts and looked beneath the partition, I saw a pair of long, shiny square-tipped leather shoes protruding from a pair of frayed designer jeans. On the tiles I saw a shadow lurch forward, as if the guy next to me were bending over and down.
I tapped my left foot. Immediately in response he tapped his own toe, several times, up and down, moving it closer to mine. I leaned down and looked under the partition and saw a man’s head craning down to do the same; I could tell his hair was short and dark. Our eyes met briefly, but when someone invaded the quiet sanctity of the men’s room from outside, we both sat up and resumed more normal postures.
While the intruder pissed in a urinal, I stroked myself hard while looking around the back of the partition, using the shiny marble tiles as a reflective mirror. My buddy was also stroking himself, I judged by his arm motions. I watched as he removed his eyeglasses and set them on the box holding rolls of toilet paper. The guy at the urinal stepped back, triggering the auto-flush. We listened as he washed and dried his hands.
The moment the room was clear again, the guy next to me was on all fours. I could tell he wore a crisply-pressed cotton baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; an expensive gold watch adorned his furry right wrist. I knelt down on the tiles, my dick stiffening as his left hand grabbed for my dick. His wedding ring was thick, gold, and sported a large stone in its flat face.
I suspected that, when he yanked my dick under the stall and stuffed it in his mouth, he wasn’t thinking about his pretty wife.
My left hand gripped the toilet seat, and my right the top of the roll dispenser as I pivoted my knees beneath the partition. The cold metal pressed into the top of my pelvis as he pulled as much of me as possible underneath, gobbling down on my dick. I was ready to withdraw, silently and swiftly, in the case of another intruder, but at the same time, he had total and complete access to the parts he wanted so badly.
And he went to town on them, too. I could feel slobber cascading down my shaved nuts and tickling the underside of my asshole before dripping on the floor. He would deep-throat my meat like a starving man and try not to gag on my length, then surface for air and gasp before going down again faster than a drowning man with bricks in his pockets. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, as he did all the right stuff to my dick.
Someone came in. With practiced calm I levered my hips out and up, and then settled onto the toilet seat. My friend did the same, lifting himself from his huddled position on the floor without any sound more than a few shifting clothes. We both waited for the new intruder to leave; I put some more spit on my dick and ran my fist up and down the shaft while the guy peed, knowing that my buddy was watching me through the crack behind the partition.
When the second intruder left, my buddy was back on the floor again, not even bothering to keep his pristine shirt off the grubby tiles. He stuck his head all the way beneath the partition and looked up at me. I could see now that he was a good-looking man—perhaps older than he advertised in his profile, but an attractive guy nonetheless. “That’s the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,” he whispered at me. His hand reached out to run his hands over my hairy legs.
I just nodded. I had the heels of my sneakers together, with my camo shorts bunched around them. My knees were spread as far as they’d go, and I double-fisted my big dick while he watched. I used all the same techniques I employ during my cam shows—using my full fist at different angles, grabbing my nuts with one hand and pulling them as far as they’d go, and pursing my lips like I was close to orgasm—which I honestly was, showing off. “I want it in my ass,” he said.
“Now?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Next time,” he promised. I just grunted and nodded, and then stuffed the tip of my right index finger into my slit. I withdrew a heavy bead of precum that left a long, sticky tail as I pulled it away and shoved it in my mouth.
I thought he was about to faint when he saw that. “Fuck,” he said. “I’ve gotta come.”
I leaned forward and offered my left hand. Immediately he straightened up and thrust his knees beneath the partition. With my right hand still slicking my own dick, I spat into my left and got his little member wet and hard. Then I jacked at it.
It didn’t take long. He was groaning almost immediately, and then thrusting his hips against my hand shortly thereafter. The partition vibrated with every shove; my own stall door came unlocked and drifted open to bang against my knee, but I didn’t bother to close it. We were still quietly undisturbed.
When he came, it was with a violent grunt. Little droplets of semen puddled in my hand and then onto the floor underneath. I waited until his spasms subsided, then grabbed a wad of toilet paper so that I could clean off first my hands and then the floor itself. Then I did a quick possessions check—phone, keys, wallet—and left the stall so I could wash my hands.
I saw him walking to his own car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. The man was driving a BMW parked next to mine. Out in the wild he looked like any other upper-middle-class suburbanite dad hitting the mall for a quick shopping trip.
No one save me would’ve guessed him to have been on all fours, only moments before, pants around his ankles and ass high in the air as he’d nursed some stranger’s big dick in his mouth on a dirty restroom floor. I’m sure that’s just the way he wanted it.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Not Gonna Reach My Telephone
The guy had it all—on my computer screen, anyway. His Manhunt profile pics showed him to be a scruffy guy of about thirty. His arms curved and bulged in all the right places. His chest was muscular, defined, and shaved smooth. His stomach was flat, his waist narrow. All of his photos showed a side view off his round little butt, a perky mound of flesh as cute as a bunny’s. They’d all been taken from the same angle—left side presented to the camera lens, head tilted up, eyebrows raised and arched as he pulled the exact same smile time after time—as if someone had once told him he looked really hot from that particular stance and he’d decided never to vary from it.
He was hot, in short, and our online correspondence had been pretty much to the point. You're hot. I want you to fuck the bejesus out of me, he’d said. You free?
Free and ready, I wrote back.
I really need to be fucked. I can come over now if you’re hosting.
I was hosting, so I suggested he call so I could give him directions. My phone rang; I picked it up, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a deep, sexy voice at the other end. “I’m only like ten minutes from you, man,” he growled, sounding in my right ear like testosterone and pure sex. “Give me your address, fucker.”
I told him the cross-streets I was closest to, then launched into my MapQuest routine. “It’ll be easiest if you take the freeway until you reach my exit,” I started.
I continued in that vein for a moment. “Uh-huh,” he said, breathing heavily into the receiver. “Uh-huh.” Then, as I was telling him my street address, he let out this nasal, driven grunt. “Unhhhh!”
The noise was strange enough to arrest me in mid-sentence. “What was that?”
“You know what?” he said. I had to blink a few times at my end of the conversation. The guy’s voice had completely changed. Before it had been heavy, deep, sex-laden. Now it was light and casual, the voice of a guy making light chit-chat at a bar before he excused himself for a smoke. “Something just kind of came up, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. So. . . .”
“Did you just come?” I asked, unable to believe what I was hearing. The fucker had just shot his wad while I’d been giving him my god-damned street number.
“Um.”
“You just came,” I said. “You blew your load while I was telling you my address.”
He at least had the decency to sound sheepish about it, slightly. “I didn’t mean to, dude.”
“You had your hand on it or something, dude,” I repeated, emphasizing the familiarity in an annoyed way. “You seriously couldn’t keep your hands off yourself for ten fucking minutes?”
“Hey, don’t be annoyed,” he said, sounding impatient with me—as if it were my fault the back of his hand was covered with spunk.
It was too late for that, though. I shook my head and hung up on the guy, then logged back on Manhunt. Guys are always curious why my ignore list there seems to be so much longer than my list of buddies. All I can say is that every guy on that page has a little story. Just like the guy who had it all—on my computer screen, anyway.
He was hot, in short, and our online correspondence had been pretty much to the point. You're hot. I want you to fuck the bejesus out of me, he’d said. You free?
Free and ready, I wrote back.
I really need to be fucked. I can come over now if you’re hosting.
I was hosting, so I suggested he call so I could give him directions. My phone rang; I picked it up, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a deep, sexy voice at the other end. “I’m only like ten minutes from you, man,” he growled, sounding in my right ear like testosterone and pure sex. “Give me your address, fucker.”
I told him the cross-streets I was closest to, then launched into my MapQuest routine. “It’ll be easiest if you take the freeway until you reach my exit,” I started.
I continued in that vein for a moment. “Uh-huh,” he said, breathing heavily into the receiver. “Uh-huh.” Then, as I was telling him my street address, he let out this nasal, driven grunt. “Unhhhh!”
The noise was strange enough to arrest me in mid-sentence. “What was that?”
“You know what?” he said. I had to blink a few times at my end of the conversation. The guy’s voice had completely changed. Before it had been heavy, deep, sex-laden. Now it was light and casual, the voice of a guy making light chit-chat at a bar before he excused himself for a smoke. “Something just kind of came up, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. So. . . .”
“Did you just come?” I asked, unable to believe what I was hearing. The fucker had just shot his wad while I’d been giving him my god-damned street number.
“Um.”
“You just came,” I said. “You blew your load while I was telling you my address.”
He at least had the decency to sound sheepish about it, slightly. “I didn’t mean to, dude.”
“You had your hand on it or something, dude,” I repeated, emphasizing the familiarity in an annoyed way. “You seriously couldn’t keep your hands off yourself for ten fucking minutes?”
“Hey, don’t be annoyed,” he said, sounding impatient with me—as if it were my fault the back of his hand was covered with spunk.
It was too late for that, though. I shook my head and hung up on the guy, then logged back on Manhunt. Guys are always curious why my ignore list there seems to be so much longer than my list of buddies. All I can say is that every guy on that page has a little story. Just like the guy who had it all—on my computer screen, anyway.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Another Sunday at the Hole
I spent much of Sunday morning at the mercy of friends. When finally I got some alone time at around five-thirty, I flipped up the lid of my notebook and logged onto Manhunt. My buddy with the private gloryhole, Urlipsmypole, was online. I opened up and looked at his profile. I knew that’s all it would take. My name would appear on the list of who viewed him, and if he wanted me, he’d let me know.
It didn’t take thirty seconds for my menubar to flash that I had mailing waiting. Haven’t seen you in a while, he wrote. It had been all of three weeks, really. Let me know when we can meet again.
My reply was more direct. How about now? I wrote. I can be there in 10 minutes. All I need to do is pull on my pants.
You put yours on and I’ll take mine off, he said. See you in 10.
I love it when hookups are that simple.
The guy lives in my neighborhood; all I have to do is drive a few blocks east, head north, and cross one semi-major road to get to his house. As always, his back yard was immaculate. I wasn’t admiring his even clumps of cornflowers or his freshly-painted birdhouses, though, when I opened the latch to his gate and let myself onto his back porch. I was too busily thrusting my hands deep in my jeans to conceal the erection snaking down one pants leg. Once I’d closed the door behind me, though, my hands scrambled to loosen the buttons of my fly. I dropped my jeans below my knees, and knelt down on the pillows set before the wooden partition, dick in hand.
The hole was at face level before me, shadowed by the form in the kitchen beyond. Both that room and the porch lay in the artificial twilight of drawn shades and blinds and shutters; it was possible for me to see the outlines of forms, but little else. When the man’s dick eased out through the hole, though, I could see it well enough. I sighed, and touched it, and brought it to my mouth.
It had occurred to me on my short drive over that perhaps I could get some photos, or maybe even a video while I nursed on my buddy’s dick through the hole. Secretly, of course—I didn’t want the flash going off during the experience, giving the game away. I’d brought up my phone’s camera application while driving, and turned off the phone’s volume so there wouldn’t be any of those giveaway clicking noises.
As I began to suck my anonymous friend’s meat, angling my head so that it could accommodate its downward curve, I fished in my pocket and withdrew the device and turned it on by feel. As I still sucked, getting his rod slick with my spit and letting him enjoy the warmth of his mouth, out of the corner of my eyes I peered at the camera and tried to adjust the settings. Then I positioned my finger over what I hoped was the on-screen shutter button, pointed it in the general direction of my face, and pressed.
Then I repeated it a couple of more times, hoping something would take.
I wasn’t there with the goal only of taking photos of myself sucking dick, though; that wasn’t my primary purpose. I had a cock to please. So I put the camera back in my pocket and got back to the matter at hand. I squeezed the guy’s shaft with the palm of my right hand, took both of his nuts in my mouth and sucked on them, and then returned my attention to my buddy’s engorged, dripping cock head.
I’m not sure if the camera inspired my cocksucking, Sunday afternoon, or whether he or I were just unusually horny, but I had the man close to orgasm in almost no time flat. Usually I work him to a climax slowly, using first my mouth alone and then using my fingers, one by one, for more stimulation. Sunday, however, I didn’t need any of that. I had stuck the first joint of my left index finger into my mouth as I sucked and gotten it wet. Then I simply applied its tip to his taint, right at the area directly behind his sack. Something about the slippery stimulus right at that spot pushed my friend to the edge very closely. I heard him gasp; his started thrusting through the cutout hole and banging his hips into the plywood so that it rattled with every grind. “Oh, fuck,” I heard him say on the other side.
I slipped my finger back into my mouth and gently stroked it along the underside of his tightening nut sack, using the same motion I might to tell someone to come closer. He did come closer, and closer. His breath came in ragged pulses, and before I knew it, I felt his dick force itself forward, deeper down my mouth until the tip was lodged in my throat. Then he started to unload.
Gush after gush came, out, collecting in the back of my mouth and in my throat. I forced my windpipe to stay open, and willed myself not to choke on the volume of sperm he was pushing out. Finally, though, it subsided. I opened my mouth and my throat, collected as much of it as I could, and swallowed in one gulp. I savored the salty fluid as it went down. Then I clamped my mouth around his dick again, as I fisted myself to my own climax.
He always waits for me to finish, when I suck him. His pleasure comes first, then mine. I came noisily, my grunts and cries muffled by the cock plugging my mouth, the harsh huffs of air from my nose cooling the top of his dick. My semen went all over the floor—the pillow, the towels covering it, the stairs leading up to the kitchen, the plywood. I shuddered, and closed my eyes.
Then he withdrew, knowing I was done. “Damn!” I heard him call out in the darkness. “I needed that, boy!” I could see his lean form stride away from the partition between us, as he padded off in search of clothing. That was my cue to pull up my jeans, button up, and get the hell out.
Some of his cum was still on my lips at that point. I didn’t want to wipe it away quite yet. “Thank you,” I whispered through the hole, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me, and that he wasn’t listening. “Thank you so much.”
I don’t get to indulge that side of my desires very often. The opportunity always deserves thanks.
(For a dark video of part of the experience, please visit my Xtube page. The things I do for you guys!)
It didn’t take thirty seconds for my menubar to flash that I had mailing waiting. Haven’t seen you in a while, he wrote. It had been all of three weeks, really. Let me know when we can meet again.
My reply was more direct. How about now? I wrote. I can be there in 10 minutes. All I need to do is pull on my pants.
You put yours on and I’ll take mine off, he said. See you in 10.
I love it when hookups are that simple.
The guy lives in my neighborhood; all I have to do is drive a few blocks east, head north, and cross one semi-major road to get to his house. As always, his back yard was immaculate. I wasn’t admiring his even clumps of cornflowers or his freshly-painted birdhouses, though, when I opened the latch to his gate and let myself onto his back porch. I was too busily thrusting my hands deep in my jeans to conceal the erection snaking down one pants leg. Once I’d closed the door behind me, though, my hands scrambled to loosen the buttons of my fly. I dropped my jeans below my knees, and knelt down on the pillows set before the wooden partition, dick in hand.
The hole was at face level before me, shadowed by the form in the kitchen beyond. Both that room and the porch lay in the artificial twilight of drawn shades and blinds and shutters; it was possible for me to see the outlines of forms, but little else. When the man’s dick eased out through the hole, though, I could see it well enough. I sighed, and touched it, and brought it to my mouth.
It had occurred to me on my short drive over that perhaps I could get some photos, or maybe even a video while I nursed on my buddy’s dick through the hole. Secretly, of course—I didn’t want the flash going off during the experience, giving the game away. I’d brought up my phone’s camera application while driving, and turned off the phone’s volume so there wouldn’t be any of those giveaway clicking noises.
As I began to suck my anonymous friend’s meat, angling my head so that it could accommodate its downward curve, I fished in my pocket and withdrew the device and turned it on by feel. As I still sucked, getting his rod slick with my spit and letting him enjoy the warmth of his mouth, out of the corner of my eyes I peered at the camera and tried to adjust the settings. Then I positioned my finger over what I hoped was the on-screen shutter button, pointed it in the general direction of my face, and pressed.
Then I repeated it a couple of more times, hoping something would take.
I wasn’t there with the goal only of taking photos of myself sucking dick, though; that wasn’t my primary purpose. I had a cock to please. So I put the camera back in my pocket and got back to the matter at hand. I squeezed the guy’s shaft with the palm of my right hand, took both of his nuts in my mouth and sucked on them, and then returned my attention to my buddy’s engorged, dripping cock head.
I’m not sure if the camera inspired my cocksucking, Sunday afternoon, or whether he or I were just unusually horny, but I had the man close to orgasm in almost no time flat. Usually I work him to a climax slowly, using first my mouth alone and then using my fingers, one by one, for more stimulation. Sunday, however, I didn’t need any of that. I had stuck the first joint of my left index finger into my mouth as I sucked and gotten it wet. Then I simply applied its tip to his taint, right at the area directly behind his sack. Something about the slippery stimulus right at that spot pushed my friend to the edge very closely. I heard him gasp; his started thrusting through the cutout hole and banging his hips into the plywood so that it rattled with every grind. “Oh, fuck,” I heard him say on the other side.
I slipped my finger back into my mouth and gently stroked it along the underside of his tightening nut sack, using the same motion I might to tell someone to come closer. He did come closer, and closer. His breath came in ragged pulses, and before I knew it, I felt his dick force itself forward, deeper down my mouth until the tip was lodged in my throat. Then he started to unload.
Gush after gush came, out, collecting in the back of my mouth and in my throat. I forced my windpipe to stay open, and willed myself not to choke on the volume of sperm he was pushing out. Finally, though, it subsided. I opened my mouth and my throat, collected as much of it as I could, and swallowed in one gulp. I savored the salty fluid as it went down. Then I clamped my mouth around his dick again, as I fisted myself to my own climax.
He always waits for me to finish, when I suck him. His pleasure comes first, then mine. I came noisily, my grunts and cries muffled by the cock plugging my mouth, the harsh huffs of air from my nose cooling the top of his dick. My semen went all over the floor—the pillow, the towels covering it, the stairs leading up to the kitchen, the plywood. I shuddered, and closed my eyes.
Then he withdrew, knowing I was done. “Damn!” I heard him call out in the darkness. “I needed that, boy!” I could see his lean form stride away from the partition between us, as he padded off in search of clothing. That was my cue to pull up my jeans, button up, and get the hell out.
Some of his cum was still on my lips at that point. I didn’t want to wipe it away quite yet. “Thank you,” I whispered through the hole, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me, and that he wasn’t listening. “Thank you so much.”
I don’t get to indulge that side of my desires very often. The opportunity always deserves thanks.
(For a dark video of part of the experience, please visit my Xtube page. The things I do for you guys!)
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Maybe
I wanted to make his hole hurt. It was that simple.
The man was sprawled out on my mattress, clutching one of my pillows between his hands so that he could bury his face in its depths. His ass was in the air, as perfectly round as a melon. His knees were spread to the cracking point at the nine and the three of an imaginary clock. His thinning hair was tousled and messy; he clasped his hands over the back of his neck and locked them. The posture couldn’t have been any more submissive.
And I wanted to make his hole hurt.
I don’t know why the man brought out that vicious top side of me. He was just some fuck from the internet who’d promised to be available in the morning, and who’d actually followed through—which is something of a rarity. When he’d showed up to my place at the appointed time, he’d proven to be much smaller in frame and stature than I’d imagined. He couldn’t have been any more than five-four, or weighed more than a buck-ten. His shoulders were narrow, and his waist tinier than that. The dick that swung limp and useless between his legs with every one of my thrusts was like my pinky finger.
Perhaps it was his tininess bringing out my savage side. Unlike the large men I have to mount and ride, this guy I could really manhandle. Moving him into positive felt like lifting him up and spearing his hole onto my red, angry dick. Every time I pulled it out of his greased-up hole and let it throb and vibrate outside that little hairy brown pucker, the contrast between my size and his made me want to drive back into him without consideration, without restraint. Without thought, almost.
Maybe it was the noises he made. When I would plow into him, he’d grunt. Or whimper. Or catch his breath and groan. His wasn’t the porn-flick dirty-talk, or the practiced, melodious moan of a slut pretending to enjoy himself. No, the noises he made were beyond words, beyond thought. Whether of pleasure or pain, they were the sounds an animal would make. I took an enormous pride in reducing him to that.
I wanted to make his hole hurt. I wanted to make him remember me. I moved to the left so that my hips were no longer in perfect alignment with his own. When I thrust in, hard, my cement-hard dick went in at an oblique angle, driving toward his right hipbone. His head flew back. His eyes opened, his jaw went slack. The noise he made was almost more engine than human—the slow whine of his gears grinding to a screeching halt. I withdrew, and moved slightly to his right. When I went in again, my dick popped a painful curve to the left, stretching his chute in an entirely new direction. The little fuck’s head dropped. His forehead collided with the pillow with an audible thud. He said something.
I reached out with my hand and seized the scruff on the back of his head, so I could yank it up. “What?” I asked.
“Stretch me,” he whispered. I couldn’t even make out the words at first. I was already eight inches deep, but it felt I slipped in another inch or three as I pushed my weight onto his little body and moved my head closer to his mouth so I could hear. “Stretch me,” he said, soft as the patter of snow falling against a frozen pane of glass. “Stretch me open. Ruin it. Use it. Stretch me.”
“Is that what you want?” I twisted his head so that he had to look at me through squinted eyes. His head nodded, very, very slightly. “All right then, fucker.”
When I drove in the next time, this time pointing my dick in the general direction of the mattress, his knees buckled. He let out another animal noise. Not agony, this time. Not entirely. Mostly it was pleasure.
Maybe it wasn’t the size of him, or the barely human sounds he made. Maybe, I thought, as I began to savage his hole and build up to the load that would be filling him very, very soon, maybe it was his hunger that fed my angry lusts. Maybe it was that he’d given me permission to fuck as two men really could, but not often do.
When I sent him home, two loads and an hour later, he walked with the crab-legged gait of a man who’d be having a hard time sitting down for the rest of the day.
He thanked me for it, of course.
The man was sprawled out on my mattress, clutching one of my pillows between his hands so that he could bury his face in its depths. His ass was in the air, as perfectly round as a melon. His knees were spread to the cracking point at the nine and the three of an imaginary clock. His thinning hair was tousled and messy; he clasped his hands over the back of his neck and locked them. The posture couldn’t have been any more submissive.
And I wanted to make his hole hurt.
I don’t know why the man brought out that vicious top side of me. He was just some fuck from the internet who’d promised to be available in the morning, and who’d actually followed through—which is something of a rarity. When he’d showed up to my place at the appointed time, he’d proven to be much smaller in frame and stature than I’d imagined. He couldn’t have been any more than five-four, or weighed more than a buck-ten. His shoulders were narrow, and his waist tinier than that. The dick that swung limp and useless between his legs with every one of my thrusts was like my pinky finger.
Perhaps it was his tininess bringing out my savage side. Unlike the large men I have to mount and ride, this guy I could really manhandle. Moving him into positive felt like lifting him up and spearing his hole onto my red, angry dick. Every time I pulled it out of his greased-up hole and let it throb and vibrate outside that little hairy brown pucker, the contrast between my size and his made me want to drive back into him without consideration, without restraint. Without thought, almost.
Maybe it was the noises he made. When I would plow into him, he’d grunt. Or whimper. Or catch his breath and groan. His wasn’t the porn-flick dirty-talk, or the practiced, melodious moan of a slut pretending to enjoy himself. No, the noises he made were beyond words, beyond thought. Whether of pleasure or pain, they were the sounds an animal would make. I took an enormous pride in reducing him to that.
I wanted to make his hole hurt. I wanted to make him remember me. I moved to the left so that my hips were no longer in perfect alignment with his own. When I thrust in, hard, my cement-hard dick went in at an oblique angle, driving toward his right hipbone. His head flew back. His eyes opened, his jaw went slack. The noise he made was almost more engine than human—the slow whine of his gears grinding to a screeching halt. I withdrew, and moved slightly to his right. When I went in again, my dick popped a painful curve to the left, stretching his chute in an entirely new direction. The little fuck’s head dropped. His forehead collided with the pillow with an audible thud. He said something.
I reached out with my hand and seized the scruff on the back of his head, so I could yank it up. “What?” I asked.
“Stretch me,” he whispered. I couldn’t even make out the words at first. I was already eight inches deep, but it felt I slipped in another inch or three as I pushed my weight onto his little body and moved my head closer to his mouth so I could hear. “Stretch me,” he said, soft as the patter of snow falling against a frozen pane of glass. “Stretch me open. Ruin it. Use it. Stretch me.”
“Is that what you want?” I twisted his head so that he had to look at me through squinted eyes. His head nodded, very, very slightly. “All right then, fucker.”
When I drove in the next time, this time pointing my dick in the general direction of the mattress, his knees buckled. He let out another animal noise. Not agony, this time. Not entirely. Mostly it was pleasure.
Maybe it wasn’t the size of him, or the barely human sounds he made. Maybe, I thought, as I began to savage his hole and build up to the load that would be filling him very, very soon, maybe it was his hunger that fed my angry lusts. Maybe it was that he’d given me permission to fuck as two men really could, but not often do.
When I sent him home, two loads and an hour later, he walked with the crab-legged gait of a man who’d be having a hard time sitting down for the rest of the day.
He thanked me for it, of course.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: Quarter of a Mil Edition
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Saturday, September 18, 2010
A reminder
Don't forget I'll be giving away these, come Monday (pun intended):
Oh man, did I get something new on those?!
Click on the link above to see how to enter. (Pun not so intended, that time.)
Oh man, did I get something new on those?!
Click on the link above to see how to enter. (Pun not so intended, that time.)
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Another Milestone, Another Contest
Sometime this coming weekend, I'm projecting that A Breeder's Journal will hit a quarter of a million visitors. A quarter million of a unique visitors since I installed my counter in April, that is. No matter how you look at it, that's a whole lot of unique visitors.
To celebrate my trek to a million unique visitors and eventual world domination, I'm having a giveaway. The lucky winner will receive a pair of my underwear that I've been using as a cum rag for the last couple of weeks. They're pictured below. Click on the photos to see the full-sized versions.
Yes, as you can see, the shorts in question—a pair of black bikini Jockeys—are pretty well-frosted with several of my loads, as well as some of my pubic hair (and probably a few stray pet hairs as well). Not all of you will be interested in such an accessory, of course. But I know enough of you are to make the contest interesting.
How do you enter? Glad you asked. All you have to do is leave a comment on this post before 8 a.m. eastern time on Monday, September 20. Be sure you're willing to do the following, though:
- When you comment on the post, make sure you have an easily-identifiable name or handle. Those of you with blogger accounts or some other account that links with blogger are already identified when you post here, but if you don't have such an animal, don't worry. Just sign off with some name or nickname so that I can identify you. I'm trying to avoid saying, "Anonymous #5, you're a winner!", here.
- If you enter, be prepared to check back next Monday or on the couple of days thereafter in order to see if you're the lucky person to get a pair of DNA-encrusted shorts.
- If you win, be prepared to send me your mailing address through email. Do not include it in your comment, for the sake of your own privacy.
All clear? Don't be totally anonymous. Check back. And don't give me your address now, but be ready to do it later. Monday morning I'll use a random number generator to pull a lucky name from the pool, and will announce the winner.
Don't be shy about entering, even if you rarely or never comment here. It's all in the name of fun!
If you don't want other people to know you're entering this sordid grab for my shorts, don't worry. You can enter privately. (That sounds dirty.) Simply send an email to my address, which you'll find in the sidebar of my blog.
And finally, if you want to comment but do not wish to run the risk of receiving a pair of cummy shorts in the mail, let me know in your comment that you're contributing merely for the sake of speaking up.
Now that we've got that over, let's look at some of the Google search phrases with which people have been hitting my journal since the hundred-thousand milestone.
To celebrate my trek to a million unique visitors and eventual world domination, I'm having a giveaway. The lucky winner will receive a pair of my underwear that I've been using as a cum rag for the last couple of weeks. They're pictured below. Click on the photos to see the full-sized versions.
Yes, as you can see, the shorts in question—a pair of black bikini Jockeys—are pretty well-frosted with several of my loads, as well as some of my pubic hair (and probably a few stray pet hairs as well). Not all of you will be interested in such an accessory, of course. But I know enough of you are to make the contest interesting.
How do you enter? Glad you asked. All you have to do is leave a comment on this post before 8 a.m. eastern time on Monday, September 20. Be sure you're willing to do the following, though:
- When you comment on the post, make sure you have an easily-identifiable name or handle. Those of you with blogger accounts or some other account that links with blogger are already identified when you post here, but if you don't have such an animal, don't worry. Just sign off with some name or nickname so that I can identify you. I'm trying to avoid saying, "Anonymous #5, you're a winner!", here.
- If you enter, be prepared to check back next Monday or on the couple of days thereafter in order to see if you're the lucky person to get a pair of DNA-encrusted shorts.
- If you win, be prepared to send me your mailing address through email. Do not include it in your comment, for the sake of your own privacy.
All clear? Don't be totally anonymous. Check back. And don't give me your address now, but be ready to do it later. Monday morning I'll use a random number generator to pull a lucky name from the pool, and will announce the winner.
Don't be shy about entering, even if you rarely or never comment here. It's all in the name of fun!
If you don't want other people to know you're entering this sordid grab for my shorts, don't worry. You can enter privately. (That sounds dirty.) Simply send an email to my address, which you'll find in the sidebar of my blog.
And finally, if you want to comment but do not wish to run the risk of receiving a pair of cummy shorts in the mail, let me know in your comment that you're contributing merely for the sake of speaking up.
Now that we've got that over, let's look at some of the Google search phrases with which people have been hitting my journal since the hundred-thousand milestone.
big sweaty mr steed blogspot
Why, thank you. Though I like to think I don't perspire. I glow.
cumming in my shorts thread-bare or skimpy -she -her
I think today's contest is made for you, sir.
"liam cole" photography shoot
Yeah, I have dreams of that myself, sir. If only.
African violet use during sex
You know, I was certain that the person who asked me that particular formspring.me question was doing so in jest, but now that I see not just one but several people on Google have queried variations of this phrase, I'm a little worried.
bj in the bathroom blog
I considered this title for my journal when I created it, you know.
who is that blogger who is the former football player with the big dick
I'm not really sure, but he isn't me.
people who have never been touched
And this definitely isn't me.
guys into fishing tackle sex
Um.
If I don't hoover my mattress should I start to?
I fear some domestic-minded person accidentally got an eyeful of the wrong thing when he or she looked at my journal for bedbug prevention tips.
pictures of young men having sex in poses of the zodiac
All I can say is that there are some people with extremely specialized tastes out there.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Flash Job
I could tell the guy had been trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. While I’d sat with my friends at a table in the far corner of the dark room, he’d sat at the bar, clutching his vodka and tonic and bobbing his head to the thumping beat, his body angled so that he could snatch little glances my way from time to time. When I went to the men’s room to wash my hands, he swiveled around to watch as I passed. I thought he was going to say something when I stood near him, picking up another bottle of water from my bartender crush on the way back. He remained silent, though, while I received my dewy plastic bottle and left my money and a tip on the bar.
It was when I gave him a sunny smile as I turned to leave that he summoned the courage to say something. “You sounded good up there,” he said.
Before my hand-washing, I’d belted out a Duran Duran tune on the bar’s stage. I don’t know how good it had been, but I’d had outstanding breath support. “Thanks,” I told him, grinning more broadly. “That’s nice to hear.”
“Yeah,” he said. The noise of the bar was loud enough that he had to lean in to make himself heard. “And I recognize you, too.” I merely raised my eyebrows. “From online,” he said, meaningfully.
“Ah.” I slapped him playfully on the shoulder with my free hand. “You probably do.”
One of the bloggers I enjoy reading, Untitled Barebacker, just yesterday posted something that made me laugh aloud in total agreement: “Boys, there is a lesson here, please listen up,” he said. “When you use pictures in your profile that look like you, guys can recognize you on the street and you can get lucky just that easy!”
He’s right. Although I have a couple of profiles online in which I keep my mug behind a ‘private photo’ placeholder, on the more high-profile sites I have it all out in the open. Clear face pics, shots of my dick, me sprawled out with my legs in the air and my goods showing, everything. I tend to be scornful of the midwestern attitude that’s ashamed of sex and the men who make a big deal about keeping either their sex photos public and their face photos locked, or the guys who have no problems showing their faces but hide away any evidence of libido—especially the ones who create high drama on the issue of for whom they will and won’t unlock their precious hidden pictures.
My attitude on those sites is pretty much what it is in my blog. Here I am, world! If you like it, say hello. If you don’t, there are plenty of other ways for you to pass your time, but let’s just be civil about it. As a consequence of being one of the minority who lays it all bare, so to speak, I tend to get approached a lot in public. I get recognized. In the mall a couple of months ago, a daddy pushing a stroller sidled up to me while I was in line at Mr. Pita to drop the line, “Hey, buddy. You’re on Manhunt?”, while his wife was twenty feet away, ordering at the Great American Steak and Potato Company. I can think of about four guys in bars in the last month who’ve walked up, raised their eyebrows, and simply uttered one of my hookup site handles as a question. Last year I had a super-handsome muscle stud smile at me disarmingly in a supermarket and call out, over the mangoes, “Hey! I know you!” Various guys have come up to me at art fairs, bars across the city, and even at IML to say, “Aren’t you. . . ?”
Then usually their second statement is, “Man, you have a really big dick in your photos.” Which is exactly what the guy at the bar said the other night. “Is it really that big?” he added.
I’m never really quite sure how to answer that question. I get it a lot. No, it’s all Photoshop and camera angles, I feel like saying, only I worry that they might believe me. I looked him over for a moment while I thought about it. He was a stocky, solid, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early forties, and handsome in the way some men never are until they have a few touches of gray in their hair and a few decades of living etched on their faces. The guy had a cleft in his chin that I found attractive; I wanted to dip my finger in it just to see how deep it went. “Yes,” I finally told him. “It’s really that big.”
He took a swig of his drink and swallowed. Then he swallowed again. I knew what he was going to ask. “So can I see?”
I just laughed. “Well,” I told him. “Maybe. Give me a few.”
I think he assumed maybe meant no. In my head, maybe meant sit for a while with that boner in your shorts and think about it happening, future lucky fucker. I went back to my table, sat down, and drank half my bottle of water. Then ten or fifteen minutes later, I excused myself from my friends and walked back to the guy. He still sat in his position angled away from the bar, spying my way. “Come on,” I told him, as I went to the restroom again.
The restroom of that particular bar is dank and smelly, but fairly clean. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then hooked the waistband of my shorts with my thumbs and pulled it below my nuts. I’d imbibed enough water that a heavy flow of piss immediately came flowing out of the slit. He walked in after I’d started, and stood at the sink next to the urinal, simply watching. I aimed the stream so that it hit the porcelain wall, then squeezed and shook a few times once I’d done. Then I shook a few more times, simply for show.
He licked his lips, nervous.
“So whaddaya think?” Showing off makes me hard very, very quickly. I still had a couple of drops of pee dribbling out even though I was fully erect within a few moments of finishing peeing. “You like it?”
“Yes,” he said in a raspy voice.
I turned from the urinal and faced him directly. The head of my dick was flared out and purple, and shiny from the lone lightbulb overhead. I fisted the lower half of my dick; the upper two-thirds projected out over the top of my clenched index finger. I shook it, then stroked it a few times in as lascivious and self-absorbed a manner as I could. I know what I look like, when I’m masturbating for others. “So,” I said. “Is it as big as the photos?”
At that point I unwrapped my fist from around the shaft , put my thumb and index finger at the very base, and whapped the length of my dick into my other outstretched palm. It hit my hand with a mighty smack. “Yes,” he said, nodding. He was mesmerized at the sight. “Yes, it is.”
“All right then.”
When I whipped up the waistband of my shorts and covered my meat, and then began zipping it back into its denim, the spell was broken. He looked like a little boy deprived of his favorite toy. “I wanted to play with it!” he protested.
But the time wasn’t then, and the place wasn’t there. “You know where to find me,” I said. Then I left the men’s room.
He stayed in there for five minutes after, all during which I wondered exactly what he was doing. When he exited the restroom hastily, though, his hands stuffed down the front of his jeans in the same way I used to try to pull off during that uncomfortable year of constant unexpected erections in sixth grade, I was pretty sure I knew why he’d dawdled. I watched as he dashed to the bar, downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and skittered out the exit at top speed. He gave me one last guilty glance as he went.
I’m pretty sure he’d blown a load in there. Not a bad compliment for a thirty-second flash job. Still. If he’d actually written me and offered his ass since then, it would’ve been better.
“Another broken heart?” asked my friend Tony, watching the guy go.
I rolled my eyes and went back to enjoying my evening.
It was when I gave him a sunny smile as I turned to leave that he summoned the courage to say something. “You sounded good up there,” he said.
Before my hand-washing, I’d belted out a Duran Duran tune on the bar’s stage. I don’t know how good it had been, but I’d had outstanding breath support. “Thanks,” I told him, grinning more broadly. “That’s nice to hear.”
“Yeah,” he said. The noise of the bar was loud enough that he had to lean in to make himself heard. “And I recognize you, too.” I merely raised my eyebrows. “From online,” he said, meaningfully.
“Ah.” I slapped him playfully on the shoulder with my free hand. “You probably do.”
One of the bloggers I enjoy reading, Untitled Barebacker, just yesterday posted something that made me laugh aloud in total agreement: “Boys, there is a lesson here, please listen up,” he said. “When you use pictures in your profile that look like you, guys can recognize you on the street and you can get lucky just that easy!”
He’s right. Although I have a couple of profiles online in which I keep my mug behind a ‘private photo’ placeholder, on the more high-profile sites I have it all out in the open. Clear face pics, shots of my dick, me sprawled out with my legs in the air and my goods showing, everything. I tend to be scornful of the midwestern attitude that’s ashamed of sex and the men who make a big deal about keeping either their sex photos public and their face photos locked, or the guys who have no problems showing their faces but hide away any evidence of libido—especially the ones who create high drama on the issue of for whom they will and won’t unlock their precious hidden pictures.
My attitude on those sites is pretty much what it is in my blog. Here I am, world! If you like it, say hello. If you don’t, there are plenty of other ways for you to pass your time, but let’s just be civil about it. As a consequence of being one of the minority who lays it all bare, so to speak, I tend to get approached a lot in public. I get recognized. In the mall a couple of months ago, a daddy pushing a stroller sidled up to me while I was in line at Mr. Pita to drop the line, “Hey, buddy. You’re on Manhunt?”, while his wife was twenty feet away, ordering at the Great American Steak and Potato Company. I can think of about four guys in bars in the last month who’ve walked up, raised their eyebrows, and simply uttered one of my hookup site handles as a question. Last year I had a super-handsome muscle stud smile at me disarmingly in a supermarket and call out, over the mangoes, “Hey! I know you!” Various guys have come up to me at art fairs, bars across the city, and even at IML to say, “Aren’t you. . . ?”
Then usually their second statement is, “Man, you have a really big dick in your photos.” Which is exactly what the guy at the bar said the other night. “Is it really that big?” he added.
I’m never really quite sure how to answer that question. I get it a lot. No, it’s all Photoshop and camera angles, I feel like saying, only I worry that they might believe me. I looked him over for a moment while I thought about it. He was a stocky, solid, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early forties, and handsome in the way some men never are until they have a few touches of gray in their hair and a few decades of living etched on their faces. The guy had a cleft in his chin that I found attractive; I wanted to dip my finger in it just to see how deep it went. “Yes,” I finally told him. “It’s really that big.”
He took a swig of his drink and swallowed. Then he swallowed again. I knew what he was going to ask. “So can I see?”
I just laughed. “Well,” I told him. “Maybe. Give me a few.”
I think he assumed maybe meant no. In my head, maybe meant sit for a while with that boner in your shorts and think about it happening, future lucky fucker. I went back to my table, sat down, and drank half my bottle of water. Then ten or fifteen minutes later, I excused myself from my friends and walked back to the guy. He still sat in his position angled away from the bar, spying my way. “Come on,” I told him, as I went to the restroom again.
The restroom of that particular bar is dank and smelly, but fairly clean. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then hooked the waistband of my shorts with my thumbs and pulled it below my nuts. I’d imbibed enough water that a heavy flow of piss immediately came flowing out of the slit. He walked in after I’d started, and stood at the sink next to the urinal, simply watching. I aimed the stream so that it hit the porcelain wall, then squeezed and shook a few times once I’d done. Then I shook a few more times, simply for show.
He licked his lips, nervous.
“So whaddaya think?” Showing off makes me hard very, very quickly. I still had a couple of drops of pee dribbling out even though I was fully erect within a few moments of finishing peeing. “You like it?”
“Yes,” he said in a raspy voice.
I turned from the urinal and faced him directly. The head of my dick was flared out and purple, and shiny from the lone lightbulb overhead. I fisted the lower half of my dick; the upper two-thirds projected out over the top of my clenched index finger. I shook it, then stroked it a few times in as lascivious and self-absorbed a manner as I could. I know what I look like, when I’m masturbating for others. “So,” I said. “Is it as big as the photos?”
At that point I unwrapped my fist from around the shaft , put my thumb and index finger at the very base, and whapped the length of my dick into my other outstretched palm. It hit my hand with a mighty smack. “Yes,” he said, nodding. He was mesmerized at the sight. “Yes, it is.”
“All right then.”
When I whipped up the waistband of my shorts and covered my meat, and then began zipping it back into its denim, the spell was broken. He looked like a little boy deprived of his favorite toy. “I wanted to play with it!” he protested.
But the time wasn’t then, and the place wasn’t there. “You know where to find me,” I said. Then I left the men’s room.
He stayed in there for five minutes after, all during which I wondered exactly what he was doing. When he exited the restroom hastily, though, his hands stuffed down the front of his jeans in the same way I used to try to pull off during that uncomfortable year of constant unexpected erections in sixth grade, I was pretty sure I knew why he’d dawdled. I watched as he dashed to the bar, downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and skittered out the exit at top speed. He gave me one last guilty glance as he went.
I’m pretty sure he’d blown a load in there. Not a bad compliment for a thirty-second flash job. Still. If he’d actually written me and offered his ass since then, it would’ve been better.
“Another broken heart?” asked my friend Tony, watching the guy go.
I rolled my eyes and went back to enjoying my evening.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
His Head
His head was what I touched first, after that sweet first moment when our mouths met in the dark room. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. I could feel the bristles bending to tickle the hollow there, then spring back once free of my hand. He shivered, bowing so that I could more easily reach. When I ran my hands over the back of his neck, his lips parted. He sighed, like a kitten about to fall asleep.
“Come down here,” I whispered, pulling him down onto the bed. We sank into the mattress and covers; his face got lost among the rumpled pillows as I continued my relentless stroking of his skull. He would squirm, almost unable to take the soft, invisible paisley shapes I traced from his ears to his lips, from the planes atop his head to the dent of his nape, around his eyebrows and down his cheeks. Then, without warning, he would relax again, releasing another rustle of breath.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, tracing the shape of his jawline.
He nodded, then replied. “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper. “Yes,” he repeated.
His arm crooked around my shoulder, holding me. From time to time his hand would attempt to wander and stroke my arm, but every time I returned it to its resting spot. “Let’s take this off,” I suggested, tugging at the T-shirt he wore, which sported the logo from the tattoo parlor closest to my home. The two sleeves of tattoos on his arms would have been enough to speak of his obvious fondness for ink; the colorful fantasy images were like a second, more colorful skin that wrapped him around, from biceps to wrists.
He paused, dazed, and then nodded. Before I knew what had happened, he’d skimmed off the shirt and buried the front of his torso in the blankets and shadows again, leaving his back exposed. Surely, I thought to myself, someone used to being looked at for having ninety percent of his body covered in ink can’t be shy about showing himself to me.
I didn’t think about it much. Now that I was being given permission to touch him—hell, encouragement—other thoughts didn’t linger. Both my hands moved over the baby-smooth skin of his back, traveling up and down his spine, tickling over his neck, dipping under the waist of his pants and reading his buttocks like braille. I felt shivers ripple over his skin, followed by waves of gooseflesh and more sighs of pleasure. Sometimes I would let my face move down next to his skin, lightly rubbing the bristles of my beard over his sensitive spots to vary the touch.
“Help me help you,” I said at last, tugging at his pants. I couldn’t get them off by myself. He was too deeply pressed into the mattress. Groggily he got to his knees and skinned them down. Beneath, he wore a pair of navy briefs with broad yellow horizontal stripes. It made me think, absurdly, of bees.
I discovered that the backs of his knees were particularly sensitive. I stroked there, then licked, then sucked and bit and ran my beard over the slick flesh. With every new torture he’d gasp and cry out, or try to jerk away, but I was relentless. “You’re really into back-of-the-knee pleasure,” I teased him, buzzing the words in his ear. He only groaned in reply. “I’ve got some nasty back-of-the-knee porn you’d really like. Greased-up backs-of-the-knees bent over stiff dicks. . . .”
“You're a sick back-of-the-knee pervert,” he managed to pant out.
“I’m joking,” I admitted. After a moment more, I pulled at his shorts. “Turn over for me.”
Before I could get him to flip, he pulled himself up and closed the distance between us. Our mouths met again. “You’re still completely dressed,” he murmured. When I looked down, my shirt somehow had become unbuttoned. My elbows pinned it in. Every insecurity I possess came surging to the fore. I was actually frightened for him to see my body. To me this moment, this first impression, really mattered.
Before I could resist, though, he’d turned me around. His own mouth traveled over the length of my neck, sending my body into a shivering convulsion and my mind into oblivion. I felt his hands on my chest, my nipples, moving down to my waist, then tugging at my belt. Like a child too sleepy to be of much help as his father undresses him for bed, my hands tapped helplessly at his own while he loosened my buckles and snaps and zippers. Any reservations I’d had about exposing myself to him evaporated from the heat of his palms. He pulled off my shorts, and then his own, and tossed them both in the direction of the pile of laundry.
We were naked, and alone, and we stared at each other in the flickering candlelight. I relaxed, exhaling slightly, and then settled with him down onto the mattress, never unlocking my gaze from his. Then I reached out to touch him again, for the first time since he’d undressed me.
His head was what I touched first. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. He sighed, and bowed, and then we started all over again.
“Come down here,” I whispered, pulling him down onto the bed. We sank into the mattress and covers; his face got lost among the rumpled pillows as I continued my relentless stroking of his skull. He would squirm, almost unable to take the soft, invisible paisley shapes I traced from his ears to his lips, from the planes atop his head to the dent of his nape, around his eyebrows and down his cheeks. Then, without warning, he would relax again, releasing another rustle of breath.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, tracing the shape of his jawline.
He nodded, then replied. “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper. “Yes,” he repeated.
His arm crooked around my shoulder, holding me. From time to time his hand would attempt to wander and stroke my arm, but every time I returned it to its resting spot. “Let’s take this off,” I suggested, tugging at the T-shirt he wore, which sported the logo from the tattoo parlor closest to my home. The two sleeves of tattoos on his arms would have been enough to speak of his obvious fondness for ink; the colorful fantasy images were like a second, more colorful skin that wrapped him around, from biceps to wrists.
He paused, dazed, and then nodded. Before I knew what had happened, he’d skimmed off the shirt and buried the front of his torso in the blankets and shadows again, leaving his back exposed. Surely, I thought to myself, someone used to being looked at for having ninety percent of his body covered in ink can’t be shy about showing himself to me.
I didn’t think about it much. Now that I was being given permission to touch him—hell, encouragement—other thoughts didn’t linger. Both my hands moved over the baby-smooth skin of his back, traveling up and down his spine, tickling over his neck, dipping under the waist of his pants and reading his buttocks like braille. I felt shivers ripple over his skin, followed by waves of gooseflesh and more sighs of pleasure. Sometimes I would let my face move down next to his skin, lightly rubbing the bristles of my beard over his sensitive spots to vary the touch.
“Help me help you,” I said at last, tugging at his pants. I couldn’t get them off by myself. He was too deeply pressed into the mattress. Groggily he got to his knees and skinned them down. Beneath, he wore a pair of navy briefs with broad yellow horizontal stripes. It made me think, absurdly, of bees.
I discovered that the backs of his knees were particularly sensitive. I stroked there, then licked, then sucked and bit and ran my beard over the slick flesh. With every new torture he’d gasp and cry out, or try to jerk away, but I was relentless. “You’re really into back-of-the-knee pleasure,” I teased him, buzzing the words in his ear. He only groaned in reply. “I’ve got some nasty back-of-the-knee porn you’d really like. Greased-up backs-of-the-knees bent over stiff dicks. . . .”
“You're a sick back-of-the-knee pervert,” he managed to pant out.
“I’m joking,” I admitted. After a moment more, I pulled at his shorts. “Turn over for me.”
Before I could get him to flip, he pulled himself up and closed the distance between us. Our mouths met again. “You’re still completely dressed,” he murmured. When I looked down, my shirt somehow had become unbuttoned. My elbows pinned it in. Every insecurity I possess came surging to the fore. I was actually frightened for him to see my body. To me this moment, this first impression, really mattered.
Before I could resist, though, he’d turned me around. His own mouth traveled over the length of my neck, sending my body into a shivering convulsion and my mind into oblivion. I felt his hands on my chest, my nipples, moving down to my waist, then tugging at my belt. Like a child too sleepy to be of much help as his father undresses him for bed, my hands tapped helplessly at his own while he loosened my buckles and snaps and zippers. Any reservations I’d had about exposing myself to him evaporated from the heat of his palms. He pulled off my shorts, and then his own, and tossed them both in the direction of the pile of laundry.
We were naked, and alone, and we stared at each other in the flickering candlelight. I relaxed, exhaling slightly, and then settled with him down onto the mattress, never unlocking my gaze from his. Then I reached out to touch him again, for the first time since he’d undressed me.
His head was what I touched first. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. He sighed, and bowed, and then we started all over again.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Crush
Today’s entry is not about a guy I’ve fucked, I’m sorry to say. It’s about a guy I go goony for, every time I see him.
I remained awake in bed last night trying to remember who were the objects of my first childhood crushes. I remembered a girl named Beth, sometime in the third grade, for whom I nurtured an unspoken passion. There was my intense crush on my absent brother that was more akin to hero worship, starting around the time I was ten. In high school I had a deep unrequited love for the valedictorian of the class ahead of mine, a girl who lived in my neighborhood who proved the age-old complaint of She doesn’t even know who I am! when I got up the nerve to ask her to sign my yearbook at the end of her senior year, and she scrawled someone else’s name before the words, “Have a nice summer!”
In college I had a multi-year crush on a boy I saw from afar during freshman orientation, and hungered for him without a word every time our paths would cross on campus. He too seemed to have a crush on me, but neither of us did anything about it until the night before we graduated, eight semesters later. At the same time I juggled a wild passion for a girl in my sophomore dorm, who in turn burned with passion for a bearded buffoon who treated her like crap while I showered her, unnoticed, with attention and occasional flowers. All I got in return was the dubious privilege of being her confidante, which involved having to listen to her mope about her buffoon while I ached inside.
Early crushes are painful things. One doesn’t have the life experience to know what they are, or to take them philosophically. All one really knows is that there’s desire there, sometimes a desire more frightening and overwhelming than anything one’s ever experienced before. The force is so strong it seems almost like a tidal wave, yet the only thing one can think to do is suppress it and let it go unspoken. Which in itself, is tragic.
I’ve had a rich crush life since my college days, but I learned something about them during that time. A fledgling sprout of a crush is sweet. Its seed is affection—undiluted and pure. It’s delight in the presence of another. It’s joy in its truest form, and it’s supposed to be enjoyed.
The problem I had in my teen and college years is that I’d want so much more from my crushes than what that little sprout could support. When I learned finally to relish the feelings of a crush without hanging excessive expectations on it, or building from it an imaginary future that I expected to come true through sheer force of will, I finally could accept crushes for what they were, and enjoy the people upon whom I had them, without resenting them in the end.
My current crush tends bar once a week, Sunday nights, at a dive I occasionally go to with friends. And he’s so pretty. When I started crushing out on him four or five years ago, the kid was a tiny twink dancer whose only asset was a perky and round little butt on a skinny little body. Now he’s twenty-five, no longer a dancer, and has filled out nicely. He has a man’s shoulders and arms, a slightly furry chest, and a lean, narrow waist. When he’s tending bar, he’ll usually remove his shirt to show off that body (and increase his tips). It’s hard to keep me from turning my chair across the room to face him, when that happens, so I can stare at his jeans hanging low from those slender hips.
Here’s what I love about my bartender: his floppy, jet-black hair, which has gone from short to Jesus-length to shaved to long and shaggy again, over the last five years. I love the dark, haphazard swoops that are his eyebrows. I love the roundness of his face, sometimes covered in scruff or outright beard, sometimes clean-shaven. I love his dark brown eyes. I love the way he stands, stares blankly, and hums to himself when he thinks he has nothing to do, though someone at the bar’s other end is trying to get his attention. And on those occasions when he gets up to sing karaoke, I love how awful he is at it. He’s not so terrible that it’s amazing, but he’s endearing because he’s off-tune and wooden and stiff and doesn’t really seem to give a damn. And because afterward, when the noise ceases and he steps down off the stage, his little smile of relief at being done is so, so cute.
I like all those little things, and appreciate them for what they are. I don’t try to think about nailing the kid, much, or about the little mountain cottage the two of us will share when we’re old and gray. I just like how alive the little things make me feel.
My friends tease me about my bartender boy, because I can’t talk to him. I’m too shy. I know! It’s totally unlike me. When I have to buy a drink from him, I mumble my order and avert my eyes in a way that makes me roll my eyes and shake my head at myself when I think about it at home, after. I’ll gaze from afar, and sigh, and let them tease me, because I know something they don’t. I did attempt to talk to the bartender one time.
It was a Sunday night on which I was there by myself, for a change. Without my friends to hang with, I sat at the bar and let my crush tend to me there. Silently I decided that it would be the night I got to know my bartender boy. We’d strike up a conversation. I’d find out that he was really a serious young veterinary student, or a talented musician waiting for the moment to make his break. He’d want to talk about literature, or he’d intently lean over and give me his opinions on Stanislavsky. We’d have one of those friendships in which I’d add him on Facebook and we’d wave and call out each other’s names when I walked into the bar. That’d show my friends, all right, when the bartender boy and I were best buds.
Then the bartender boy came over and, from beneath the bar, and right at the spot where I was sitting, produced an enormous Tupperware container. I mean, seriously large. It had to be a four-gallon tub, and it was filled with an opaque red-colored liquid studded with chopped carrots, potatoes and noodles. With a plastic Taco Bell spork in one had, he popped open the lid. I could smell the vapor of a slightly-warm tomato-vegetable mixture.
Clutching the tub to his belly with one arm, my crush wrapped his fingers around the plastic utensil, dug it into the tub, and stuffed a dripping sporkful into his mouth. Then he chewed it with bulging cheeks. “I like soup!” he announced to me. Then he stuffed another sporkful into his mouth before he’d finished chewing and swallowing the first. “Soup is good!” he asserted, giving me a good view of the see-food buffet.
All the little fantasies I’d had about the intellectual conversations I’d be having with the bartender boy went flying out the window. “Yay, soup,” I said wanly, and turned around in my seat so that I didn’t have to watch the gruesome scene any more. Since that night, I’ve stayed across the room from the kid, so that I couldn’t let him give me any more reason to stop going moony-eyed over him.
Because that’s the thing about crushes. They’re fragile things. Sometimes you really don’t want to confront the reality behind them too closely. Not if you want to keep them alive for a time.
I remained awake in bed last night trying to remember who were the objects of my first childhood crushes. I remembered a girl named Beth, sometime in the third grade, for whom I nurtured an unspoken passion. There was my intense crush on my absent brother that was more akin to hero worship, starting around the time I was ten. In high school I had a deep unrequited love for the valedictorian of the class ahead of mine, a girl who lived in my neighborhood who proved the age-old complaint of She doesn’t even know who I am! when I got up the nerve to ask her to sign my yearbook at the end of her senior year, and she scrawled someone else’s name before the words, “Have a nice summer!”
In college I had a multi-year crush on a boy I saw from afar during freshman orientation, and hungered for him without a word every time our paths would cross on campus. He too seemed to have a crush on me, but neither of us did anything about it until the night before we graduated, eight semesters later. At the same time I juggled a wild passion for a girl in my sophomore dorm, who in turn burned with passion for a bearded buffoon who treated her like crap while I showered her, unnoticed, with attention and occasional flowers. All I got in return was the dubious privilege of being her confidante, which involved having to listen to her mope about her buffoon while I ached inside.
Early crushes are painful things. One doesn’t have the life experience to know what they are, or to take them philosophically. All one really knows is that there’s desire there, sometimes a desire more frightening and overwhelming than anything one’s ever experienced before. The force is so strong it seems almost like a tidal wave, yet the only thing one can think to do is suppress it and let it go unspoken. Which in itself, is tragic.
I’ve had a rich crush life since my college days, but I learned something about them during that time. A fledgling sprout of a crush is sweet. Its seed is affection—undiluted and pure. It’s delight in the presence of another. It’s joy in its truest form, and it’s supposed to be enjoyed.
The problem I had in my teen and college years is that I’d want so much more from my crushes than what that little sprout could support. When I learned finally to relish the feelings of a crush without hanging excessive expectations on it, or building from it an imaginary future that I expected to come true through sheer force of will, I finally could accept crushes for what they were, and enjoy the people upon whom I had them, without resenting them in the end.
My current crush tends bar once a week, Sunday nights, at a dive I occasionally go to with friends. And he’s so pretty. When I started crushing out on him four or five years ago, the kid was a tiny twink dancer whose only asset was a perky and round little butt on a skinny little body. Now he’s twenty-five, no longer a dancer, and has filled out nicely. He has a man’s shoulders and arms, a slightly furry chest, and a lean, narrow waist. When he’s tending bar, he’ll usually remove his shirt to show off that body (and increase his tips). It’s hard to keep me from turning my chair across the room to face him, when that happens, so I can stare at his jeans hanging low from those slender hips.
Here’s what I love about my bartender: his floppy, jet-black hair, which has gone from short to Jesus-length to shaved to long and shaggy again, over the last five years. I love the dark, haphazard swoops that are his eyebrows. I love the roundness of his face, sometimes covered in scruff or outright beard, sometimes clean-shaven. I love his dark brown eyes. I love the way he stands, stares blankly, and hums to himself when he thinks he has nothing to do, though someone at the bar’s other end is trying to get his attention. And on those occasions when he gets up to sing karaoke, I love how awful he is at it. He’s not so terrible that it’s amazing, but he’s endearing because he’s off-tune and wooden and stiff and doesn’t really seem to give a damn. And because afterward, when the noise ceases and he steps down off the stage, his little smile of relief at being done is so, so cute.
I like all those little things, and appreciate them for what they are. I don’t try to think about nailing the kid, much, or about the little mountain cottage the two of us will share when we’re old and gray. I just like how alive the little things make me feel.
My friends tease me about my bartender boy, because I can’t talk to him. I’m too shy. I know! It’s totally unlike me. When I have to buy a drink from him, I mumble my order and avert my eyes in a way that makes me roll my eyes and shake my head at myself when I think about it at home, after. I’ll gaze from afar, and sigh, and let them tease me, because I know something they don’t. I did attempt to talk to the bartender one time.
It was a Sunday night on which I was there by myself, for a change. Without my friends to hang with, I sat at the bar and let my crush tend to me there. Silently I decided that it would be the night I got to know my bartender boy. We’d strike up a conversation. I’d find out that he was really a serious young veterinary student, or a talented musician waiting for the moment to make his break. He’d want to talk about literature, or he’d intently lean over and give me his opinions on Stanislavsky. We’d have one of those friendships in which I’d add him on Facebook and we’d wave and call out each other’s names when I walked into the bar. That’d show my friends, all right, when the bartender boy and I were best buds.
Then the bartender boy came over and, from beneath the bar, and right at the spot where I was sitting, produced an enormous Tupperware container. I mean, seriously large. It had to be a four-gallon tub, and it was filled with an opaque red-colored liquid studded with chopped carrots, potatoes and noodles. With a plastic Taco Bell spork in one had, he popped open the lid. I could smell the vapor of a slightly-warm tomato-vegetable mixture.
Clutching the tub to his belly with one arm, my crush wrapped his fingers around the plastic utensil, dug it into the tub, and stuffed a dripping sporkful into his mouth. Then he chewed it with bulging cheeks. “I like soup!” he announced to me. Then he stuffed another sporkful into his mouth before he’d finished chewing and swallowing the first. “Soup is good!” he asserted, giving me a good view of the see-food buffet.
All the little fantasies I’d had about the intellectual conversations I’d be having with the bartender boy went flying out the window. “Yay, soup,” I said wanly, and turned around in my seat so that I didn’t have to watch the gruesome scene any more. Since that night, I’ve stayed across the room from the kid, so that I couldn’t let him give me any more reason to stop going moony-eyed over him.
Because that’s the thing about crushes. They’re fragile things. Sometimes you really don’t want to confront the reality behind them too closely. Not if you want to keep them alive for a time.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: Late Riser Edition
Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I tend to be an early riser. Chipper, even. Yes, one of those annoying guys that sane folk talk about behind his back. Who does he think he is, getting stuff done at seven in the morning? Ass!
Well, today I'm not that person. I crawled out of bed at 9:45 and even now am considering heading back there. It's the weekend. Daddy deserves that, right?
My customary Sunday exercise is to amass questions that some of you guys have been asking on formspring.me. If you have questions you'd like to ask anonymous, feel free to use the service. As long as the questions aren't too invasive, I'd be happy to give them a go. If you have questions you'd like to email me, I'm always good with that too, for the more personal touch.
Ever since I put out a new call for questions a couple of weeks ago, you guys have been coming through with some interesting and challenging queries that I'm still working on—just probably not this morning. Oy. My head.
If you were a voyeur, what one sex act being played out & exhibited before you would give you your most thrilling & memorable woody of the week?
If I have to be the voyeur, I really like it when another top man shows off for me how well the bottom under his control performs for him. I've had many private shows on cam in which a top dad puts his boy through his paces, and it always turns me on.
Are you poz?
I know my HIV status and post it in my online profiles. I don't post it in my blog, because I do not want my blog to have serostatus as its focus.
Would you consider accepting payment for a chance to be bred by you?
Absolutely. I've done it before, too.
Using a cell phone, do you ever photograph yourself?
You've seen my blog and my Xtube page, right?
Have you & another guy ever lain on each other head to foot belly to belly torso to torso thigh to thigh & frotted cocks to mutual orgasm, with no penetration?
No.
Have you ever had a three-way with another dude and a vampire where the three of you shot your loads in a planting of African Violets without getting any on the leaves because they don't like that?
Oh my god, this is the BEST QUESTION EVER.
And oddly enough, yes, I have.
favorite sexual roleplay?
When it comes to roleplay, dad/son is pretty reliable for me. Blindfolded and anonymous is also another favorite.
Dogs or cats?
I've never topped a cat. Oh wait, what were you asking, exactly?
What is the most disappointing sex act you have ever done or had done to you?
I've had my share of disappointing sex, but it's always been because either I or my partner simply wasn't present and connected to the other.
However, when it comes to sexual acts that don't live up to the hype, I'm nominating two.
1) Autofellatio. In my teens I was often paid to suck myself while guys watched. Either they'd jack off and watch, or watch and fuck me after. However, for all the pleasure guys got out of watching me choke down half my dick and then cum on my face, I always thought it was a major chore. It was uncomfortable, it left me with indigestion, and frankly, it didn't really feel that good. There's a huge difference between sucking yourself and getting sucked by someone else. The former never excited me.
2) Double penetration. Two dicks in a single hole looks good in porn. Maybe it's exciting for the bottom. For me, however, as a top, my pleasure in it has been small. The stimulation is marginal, as is the amount of control over the pleasure you're getting. Double-penetrating an ass might be a bit of a mental kick, knowing what you're doing, but it's almost just too much for not a lot of reward.
How long ago was the last Persian? As compliant as this one?
My last Persian guy was a younger buck with a wife and several children and a hunger for dick. He was a fun, fun guy.
I thought I was a reformed English major, but I can't get this out of my head, now:
That's my last Persian painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.
I want to be your Duchess!!
My readers are so literate and filthy. It's a good combo.
Your preference in masturbating: (a) all alone by yourself? or (b) in the company & with the help of someone else?
I always prefer to be with someone rather than masturbate by myself. I do like to show off my stroking skills, however, if I'm turned on by the audience.
most men fucked in one hour?
Probably between seven to eight, at some parties I've been to. I didn't shoot in them all, however. If you wanted to know how many different men I've bred in a single hour, the answer would probably be three.
Do you think flight attendants are disproportionately bottoms?
No, I think 99% of them are bottoms, just as 99% of the general population is bottoms.
Why are you relocating? How do you feel about it?
The relocation is for a new job—not mine, though. I'm looking at the whole thing as a new adventure. To spurn change merely because change is scary is not something I tend to do.
At the same time, I'm finding the process of putting my house up for sale a huge pain in the ass, and I haven't had much time to myself as a result.
I've never fucked a guy in a sling. Have I missed something?
Fucking a guy in a sling is much the same as fucking a guy on a table, or on a bench, or on a bed, or on any surface for which you need to be standing. For the top, the only real advantage to fucking a guy in a sling is that its natural swinging motion can aid and enhance your thrusting.
For the bottom, a sling can be a comfortable resting place for a long and rough fuck. I've always found the advantage rests squarely with the bottom, when it comes to slings. Lucky bastards.
How can I meet you???
Contact me and be in my general vicinity. It's not that difficult. :-)
Well, today I'm not that person. I crawled out of bed at 9:45 and even now am considering heading back there. It's the weekend. Daddy deserves that, right?
My customary Sunday exercise is to amass questions that some of you guys have been asking on formspring.me. If you have questions you'd like to ask anonymous, feel free to use the service. As long as the questions aren't too invasive, I'd be happy to give them a go. If you have questions you'd like to email me, I'm always good with that too, for the more personal touch.
Ever since I put out a new call for questions a couple of weeks ago, you guys have been coming through with some interesting and challenging queries that I'm still working on—just probably not this morning. Oy. My head.
If you were a voyeur, what one sex act being played out & exhibited before you would give you your most thrilling & memorable woody of the week?
If I have to be the voyeur, I really like it when another top man shows off for me how well the bottom under his control performs for him. I've had many private shows on cam in which a top dad puts his boy through his paces, and it always turns me on.
Are you poz?
I know my HIV status and post it in my online profiles. I don't post it in my blog, because I do not want my blog to have serostatus as its focus.
Would you consider accepting payment for a chance to be bred by you?
Absolutely. I've done it before, too.
Using a cell phone, do you ever photograph yourself?
You've seen my blog and my Xtube page, right?
Have you & another guy ever lain on each other head to foot belly to belly torso to torso thigh to thigh & frotted cocks to mutual orgasm, with no penetration?
No.
Have you ever had a three-way with another dude and a vampire where the three of you shot your loads in a planting of African Violets without getting any on the leaves because they don't like that?
Oh my god, this is the BEST QUESTION EVER.
And oddly enough, yes, I have.
favorite sexual roleplay?
When it comes to roleplay, dad/son is pretty reliable for me. Blindfolded and anonymous is also another favorite.
Dogs or cats?
I've never topped a cat. Oh wait, what were you asking, exactly?
What is the most disappointing sex act you have ever done or had done to you?
I've had my share of disappointing sex, but it's always been because either I or my partner simply wasn't present and connected to the other.
However, when it comes to sexual acts that don't live up to the hype, I'm nominating two.
1) Autofellatio. In my teens I was often paid to suck myself while guys watched. Either they'd jack off and watch, or watch and fuck me after. However, for all the pleasure guys got out of watching me choke down half my dick and then cum on my face, I always thought it was a major chore. It was uncomfortable, it left me with indigestion, and frankly, it didn't really feel that good. There's a huge difference between sucking yourself and getting sucked by someone else. The former never excited me.
2) Double penetration. Two dicks in a single hole looks good in porn. Maybe it's exciting for the bottom. For me, however, as a top, my pleasure in it has been small. The stimulation is marginal, as is the amount of control over the pleasure you're getting. Double-penetrating an ass might be a bit of a mental kick, knowing what you're doing, but it's almost just too much for not a lot of reward.
How long ago was the last Persian? As compliant as this one?
My last Persian guy was a younger buck with a wife and several children and a hunger for dick. He was a fun, fun guy.
I thought I was a reformed English major, but I can't get this out of my head, now:
That's my last Persian painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.
I want to be your Duchess!!
My readers are so literate and filthy. It's a good combo.
Your preference in masturbating: (a) all alone by yourself? or (b) in the company & with the help of someone else?
I always prefer to be with someone rather than masturbate by myself. I do like to show off my stroking skills, however, if I'm turned on by the audience.
most men fucked in one hour?
Probably between seven to eight, at some parties I've been to. I didn't shoot in them all, however. If you wanted to know how many different men I've bred in a single hour, the answer would probably be three.
Do you think flight attendants are disproportionately bottoms?
No, I think 99% of them are bottoms, just as 99% of the general population is bottoms.
Why are you relocating? How do you feel about it?
The relocation is for a new job—not mine, though. I'm looking at the whole thing as a new adventure. To spurn change merely because change is scary is not something I tend to do.
At the same time, I'm finding the process of putting my house up for sale a huge pain in the ass, and I haven't had much time to myself as a result.
I've never fucked a guy in a sling. Have I missed something?
Fucking a guy in a sling is much the same as fucking a guy on a table, or on a bench, or on a bed, or on any surface for which you need to be standing. For the top, the only real advantage to fucking a guy in a sling is that its natural swinging motion can aid and enhance your thrusting.
For the bottom, a sling can be a comfortable resting place for a long and rough fuck. I've always found the advantage rests squarely with the bottom, when it comes to slings. Lucky bastards.
How can I meet you???
Contact me and be in my general vicinity. It's not that difficult. :-)
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