Blogiversary

It was on February 27, 2010, that I made my first entry in A Breeder’s Journal. Exactly one year and three hundred posts later, and here we are.

It’s been an interesting journey, as I’ve scrambled up the ranks from an audience of basically myself alone, to almost half a million unique visitors. The site now gets between five and six thousand different readers a day, more or less. The numbers humble me. They’re not record-breaking by any stretch of the imagination, but when I consider how very modest an audience I expected when I started writing, they’re pretty amazing.

Keeping a record of my daily life, even a record of my sex life, wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision for me, last February. I’ve been doing it for years. I first started keeping a journal when I was seventeen. Call it a thirty-year habit or call it discipline, but I’ve been scribbling down my thoughts on a more-or-less daily basis ever since. Over the decades it has been rare for me to go for more a couple of days without running to my notebooks to record my experiences and thoughts.

I’ve also posted in my blog about the obsessive, coded records about my sex partners I used to scribble in my teens. (Apparently there’s some kind of bookkeeping gene in my ancestry.) Sometime after I started keeping a diary, the two activities merged. I began to write, in very veiled language, about a few of my encounters. As I grew older and more confident in my abilities, both in and out of the bed, the accounts of my sexual exploits grew less mawkish and more accomplished. And I started to realize something. Not many people write about sex as it actually exists, out here in the wilds of the real world. In my journal I felt like an anthropologist charting a culture previously unrecorded, and it somehow struck me that such a record should be shared and given voice.

Culturally, we tend to find expressions of sex that are often so far removed from the reality that it’s remarkable we recognize it at all. On television and in the movies, sex is something that the beautiful leads get to do, under exquisite lighting, on expensive sets, accompanied by sexy saxophone music. We like our beautiful people to be deeply in love with each other. If they’re fucking, our pop culture likes them committed, or soon to marry, and unlikely to stray. It’s about as erotic as the sanitized for your protection strip on a hotel toilet seat.

Conversely, our society likes to punish those who enjoy sex. As a culture we brand celebrities who have extramarital affairs, or who enjoy the company of more than one partner, with the spurious label of ‘sex addict’—and do the same for men who hope to enjoy sex on a daily basis with a partner or spouse, or who masturbate to work off their normal, excess horniness. We slap the Scarlet Letter on those who transgress; we envision them justly riddled with both disease and regrets.

I don’t buy into either end of that cultural dichotomy. I’m not a sinner, nor a saint. Nor do I find my own experiences belong to the narratives of porn culture, where everyone is pretty and super-fit and in which people are reduced to a series of interlocking body parts. Sometimes my sex feels like that. But quite often with my partners—partners like Spencer, or Scruffy—there’s a genuine connection and emotionality one doesn’t find in outright porn. There’s a tenderness that one doesn’t find in a skin flick or a nifty archive story. And there’s a carnality based in the real world that one doesn’t find in a traditional romance.

Even when there’s no emotional connection between me and the partners I describe in here, there’s always something very real that I make as my focus. It might be a moment in which my partner opens up to me with a story or a moment of unexpected closeness. It might be something as simple as a gesture, or a sensation I want to remember. It might be a moment of awkwardness, of embarrassment, or even of insecurity and shame. It might simply be a funny story with a punchline, or a laugh shared during the sex act itself.

The sex I have is often good, and hot, and connected, and intimate. Sometimes it’s bad, or messy, or unpleasant. Sometimes the guys with whom I hook up are weird, or turn out to be assholes. Sometimes the sex is inappropriate but hot nonetheless. My point is that I really haven’t seen much writing about the kind of sex that I have on a very regular basis. Sex had by someone who was reflective, and self-aware, and honest—by someone whose agenda was not to promote himself as the ultimate sex god. Sex from the point of view of a simple, (sometimes) humble man who enjoyed his life and took advantage of its opportunities.

I already wrote from that perspective in my personal diary. Sharing those entries, and giving voice to that perspective to a wider audience, was my original goal. I simply didn’t expect it to become as popular a destination as it has become.

Beginning tomorrow, with your collective indulgence, I’ll be talking about some of the lessons I’ve learned over the last year: the good, the weird, and the ugly.

Sunday Morning Questions: Pity the Invalid Edition

First of all, let me apologize for the brief hiatus I had to take, the last couple of days. I came down with a chest cold in the middle of a week of snow. Nothing to exacerbate a cough than having to shovel the driveway in the frigid air every couple of hours, let me tell you.

I seem to be on the road to recovery, though. Thanks to those on Twitter who've been sending me good wishes and virtual chicken soup, all week.

Secondly, I'd like to thank those of you who added my special profile as a friend on Facebook over the course of the week. I went from zero buddies to over eighty of them in no time flat. I usually post special notices as well as notifications of blog updates on my account, so if you haven't added me yet . . . you know what to do.

Once again I'll be rounding up some of the questions I've answered over at formspring.me, this Sunday. If you've got questions you'd like answered—something personal about me, or advice you'd like to hear, or just some oddball query about my personal habits—bop on over to my profile there and let loose with your queries. I'm always happy to answer them as long as they're not abusive or super-repetitive. (I've told everyone how big my dick is, several times, thanks!)


With Earl you mentioned being bound and gagged and fucked in his sling. Do you do any of that to your bottoms?
I don't own a sling. I have bound bottoms, yes. And I've fucked restrained bottoms in other men's slings.



Do you think your wisdom could be effective in moving our race forward?
I think the amount of wisdom I possess could probably fit into a good-sized thimble and would barely be effective in moving forward a potato sack race. But thanks for your confidence in me.


Do you have any issues with body image? (Looks, weight, features, or anything else) if yes, what is it and have you done anything to deal with it?
Yes, often. I have issues with my looks (they suck!), my weight (I'm huge!), my features (they turn the unwary to stone!), and just about everything else (it's all tragic!). And I more or less have had them all through my life.

What I basically do to cope is to recognize that any spiraling negative thoughts I might have are overcritical and, in the end, not really relevant to the quality of my life as it now stands. Then I try to be a little kinder to myself.

For the most part, when I manage to do that, I'm happy with myself as I am.


Does your friend Felchingpisser have a blog i can follow?
Nope. That's why I let him post his experiences in mine.

He'll be posting a new escapade later this week, in fact.


Hmm... if legality wasn't an issue what's the youngest age you'd have as a bottom?
Legality is always an issue in these types of questions. From my own history, I can state that I was happy to have started when I started. I recognize, however, that my precociousness doesn't suit everyone--and there are men of double the legal age who are still not suited to be having sex.


Have you ever had someone who totally worshipped you physically? What special things did he do to show you, or was it more for his own enjoyment that he did it?
The men I've met into cock and body worship have varied in talent and skill, but I've had a couple who were very, very good at what they call worshipping. Usually it involved total oral and manual attention to every inch of my body for very long periods of time, alternated with a lot of outright piggy sex.

I like those men.


Do you still swim and play tennis? What else do you do to stay slim?
Thank you for thinking I'm slim. My ego appreciates the strokes.

Despite my father's best efforts to turn me into a killer tennis partner and college tennis player, I always hated the game. So no, I no longer play tennis and never will.

I enjoy swimming. I walk a lot in good weather, and occasionally do yoga. Mostly, however, I watch what I eat.


What would it take for a guy to get to top you?
1. A lot of attraction on my part.
2. He'd have to inspire me to trust him.
3. He'd have to be willing to take it easy on me. It's been a while. And most importantly (and maybe even contradicting #3),
4. There'd probably be a point at which he'd simply have to hold me down and just do it.


What if a guy wanted to lose his virginity to you, topping and bottoming? Would you let him?
Since I haven't had the opportunity to do that before, I find that idea very attractive.


i need to be fisted now, never had it before, help me in Atlanta.
I know that in Hotlanta, that partyin' town, there are plenty of fisting tops who'd be more than anxious to help you out. You need to find one who's worked with first-timers before, however, and you need to communicate with him your experiences and limitations so that he can work with you.

Fisting's not always a 'now' activity. It's one that requires some experience and training, and a lot of preparation. If you're willing to put in the effort, however, I know that there are men who are willing to work with you.


Would you lick my feet while you fuck me?
I have done that with guys, yes.


If your sex life is normal, why would 400,000+ read you? Your writing may be OK, but so are too many other gay sex blogs to count.
I believe people read me because I'm relatable, approachable, and because I help them put their own sexual experiences into some kind of perspective--at the very least, they know that their impulses and desires aren't unique. They know that it's possible for someone to appreciate them for their sexual desires. It's precisely because I communicate the normality of my experiences, while celebrating the unique moments that make them, that keeps my readers coming back.

And above all, they read me because I write about these things well. My writing is much better than OK. I know my strengths. Don't be such a Bitter Betty.

Domestic

In all my life, I’ve only spent the night with four people—and I’m talking about the entire night, sleeping in the same bed, not some late-night screwing followed by a pre-dawn scurrying home. There’s my spouse, of course. There was a man a little over a decade ago for whom I had deep feelings, and with whom I spent a romantic night in which he lost his virginity . . . as a top. There was a reader of mine who offered me shelter on a long drive home. And then there’s Spencer.

There’s only me rattling around my house these days, so I couldn’t begin to count the number of times Spencer has stayed overnight. He knows he’s welcome anytime; all he has to do is announce his intentions.

We have a rhythm to our evenings, now. Most nights of the week he’ll drop by after he’s finished for the day at the studio. I’ll leave the side light on and the door unlocked for him. He’ll park in front, let himself in, kick off his shoes, and come find me wherever I might be. It’s always a genuine pleasure for me to see him. Even in his winter coat and his head half-covered by one of his outlandish hats, the sight of that square, dimpled chin and scruffy jaw, those tea-brown eyes, always sets my heart thumping. He’ll shoot me one of those slow, easy smiles, and we’ll embrace, and kiss.

He’ll make himself something to drink as we talk about our days, or he’ll head to the pantry and help himself to some of the snacks stockpiled there. Some nights I prepare dinner for the both of us. I miss cooking for others. Having someone to take care of comforts me as much as it does him. I’ll stir-fry some curry noodles with vegetables and chicken and crushed peanuts on top, or I’ll grill some salmon and vegetables, or a chicken breast with rice. Or we’ll simply grab a bag of chips, a tub of hummus, and head for the den.

We watch television on the sofa, him at one end and me at the other, our legs entwined. Over the course of the night we’ll swap positions several times. Sometimes he’ll have his head in my lap, and I’ll absently stroke his hair while we watch the screen. Or he’ll pull me down so that I’m reclining on him with his big arms around me. We’ve watched our way through seven seasons of The X-Files this way, and all of Full Metal Alchemist and several seasons of silly sitcoms from Comedy Central. Lately I’ve gotten him hooked on Doctor Who. We’ll pause the playback frequently to discuss what’s on the screen, or go off on a tangent together, talking, snacking, and companionably spending the evening hours.

It’s cozy and warm, like napping beneath a warm blanket on a winter’s night. It’s a domesticity with Spencer that I know I can’t always have, but is still as sweet as honey upon my tongue. Even as it’s happening, I know that I should be storing up the sensations and the memories, saving them for lonely nights in places I don’t know.

Then ten or ten-thirty will roll around. Either he’ll stand up and stretch and announce that he should get home, or he’ll turn, give me a smile, and say, “Want a sleepover?”

My answer to that question is always yes.

This is the part of the night I like best. He’ll put his cups and glasses and plates in the dishwasher while I turn off lights. Up the stairs he’ll climb. He leaves his clothes in a trail to the bathroom—a shirt on the bedroom dresser, his jeans draped over the upstairs hall railing. Socks on the bathroom floor. Save for the one time I saw him in long johns, he doesn’t ever don underwear. He’ll turn on the shower and collect his things—he has his own face wash, his own soap and shampoo. The toothbrush I’ve given him, he’ll into the stall with him, and disappear into the clouds of vapor billowing over the shower door.

It only takes a few moments for me to ready myself for bed. I brush my teeth and take out my contacts, then leave the bathroom and slip into bed. I sleep naked. One of the great pleasures of winter for me is feeling my nude body against the soft flannel sheets, contrasted by the cool cotton weave of the pillows. In the low light I’ll wait as I listen to the sound of splashing water. It’s followed by the rush of the faucet as he turns it, and then the roll of the shower door on its rails. Through the heating vent between the bedroom and bath I can hear the soft noises he makes as he towels himself.

Then he’ll pad into the bedroom, cocking his head as he walks and giving me a goofy grin. Sometimes he’ll be wearing an athletic tank top with straps that accent his pecs and strong shoulders, and show off his big arms to their best advantage. It’ll cut off just above his round, pert dancer’s butt, which gyrates cheek by cheek as he pads to the bed. Sometimes he’ll come out of the bathroom still steaming, naked and unashamed of his body. He’ll pop his iPod into my clock radio, and start his sleepytime playlist.

Into the sheets he’ll slide, his butt snuggling firmly against my dick. We spoon together well, Spencer and I. I’ll insert my left arm beneath his pillow and let my arm hold him tightly around his chest. I’ll slip my hand beneath his tank top and run it over the firmness of his abdomen, the broad muscles of his chest, the soft planes of his nipples. Then he’ll turn his head and kiss me over his shoulder, long, slow and deeply.

“I like sleeping with you,” he’ll always say, in the softest of voices.

“I like you being here,” I’ll tell him, as I run my hand down his side, past his knife-sharp hipbone and around the soft peach-like globes of his ass. Often at this point we’ll make love. Sometimes we won’t; we’ll just cuddle, and talk in low voices.

But this is what’s vital, on the nights he sleeps over, what I really want to remember: the warmth of his damp skin against mine, like a stoked furnace. The smell of him, all soap and shampoo and astringent. The unguardedness of his voice, as we murmur in the darkness. The cat, settled between our two sets of feet. His mouth against my ear, his hands on the back of my neck. The gentle strains of music from the speakers, playing a lullaby. And finally, the heavy breathing coming from between his lips as the motion of the day slows to a standstill, and he falls asleep, protected in my arms.

It’s not fucking. But it’s important. I want to store up as many of these nights as I can, while they last. And I want to remember them in all their simplicity and beauty.

Reader Asses: #4

A couple of weeks back I requested that my readers send me photos of their beautiful asses, so I could share them with the world. You guys responded with an avalanche of ass. I got—and still continue to get—so much ass that for the first time in my life I can almost say I have too much ass. I had to designate a special email box to hold it all!

This week we've got another four asses on display. Beautiful butts, all of them. I hope you guys will share your enthusiasm for them in the comments.

And if you've sent in your ass and we haven't gotten around to it yet . . . don't worry! It's not because I haven't found your ass worthy of inclusion. All ass photos I receive will get included in here, eventually. I'm merely displaying them in roughly the order in which I've received them, so don't feel slighted.

E.

Young Master E. is a southern boy whose ability to handle a vibrating dildo is unparalleled. (Either that, or he has all of the business end of a garden hose up his rear.) I've seen his other photos and guys, this young man is a looker. Definitely an Ass I'd Like To Fuck.

Lucas

There's just something about those asses with a just-paddled look, isn't there? The redness just makes me kind of want to get in there and add to the damage. Or fuck the hell out of the butt. Or something. Lucas' beautiful butt already makes me horny, but that red welt is the cherry on the cake.


BtmBeef

BtmBeef is one of those brave readers willing to share his email (which I've linked to his name above), for those readers who'd like to contact him directly. I'm also proud to say he's a fellow blogger. Follow his perfect ass at the iSuck uFuck blog (and do...because he's good).


Versatile RAW Piggy Bottom

Last, but definitely not least, we have frequent commenter Versatile RAW Piggy Bottom showing off his assets. It's hard to tell how versatile he is exactly, from these those, but I'm definitely getting the raw bottom vibe, somehow! That's a beautiful ass, Vers RAW, and I'm proud to have you visiting here.


Let's have a round of applause for all these fine butts!

A Visit from Scruffy

“No one else makes me feel the way you do.” Scruffy looked up at me from only inches away as I drove my dick deeper inside him. The sensation of my hardness parting his hole and popping open the next ring made his neck drop. He stared through the slats of the blinds for a moment, jaw slack, the legs hooked over my shoulders the only thing separating our chests. Then he raised his head again and, with great effort, looked me in the eyes. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.”

It’s the kind of thing every top wants to hear. Hell, it’s the kind of thing any man wants to hear, as he’s slamming his third load into a quivering, helpless hole.

I’d heard from Scruffy earlier in the week. It’s been almost four months since I saw the kid last; we’d had a brief exchange of text messages around Christmas and the new year, but the trip never materialized that he’d planned to my area from middle of the state, where he’s currently living with his mom. He told me Wednesday that he was planning to visit his ex in my city while he checked out a couple of job opportunities. My Saturday was his, I’d told him.

He showed up around five, after a day of visiting with the ex and driving to various potential employers. Scarcely was he in the side door when he bolted into my arms. Our mouths devoured each other. His teeth raked against my lips, my jaw, my chin, as he tried to inhale me all at once. I shoved him against the stairwell wall, causing his breath to huff out in a rush. For long, long minutes we made out in the dusk without saying a word.

“I missed you,” he finally said. “Fuck, did I miss you.”

“I did too, kid,” I replied. His face was clean-shaven. Without the layer of scruff and fuzz he normally wears, he looked like an all-American kid—curly-haired and blond, freckled, and blue-eyed, the kind of boy every suburban moms dreams her son will grow up to be.

We kissed some more until he pushed me away and gasped for air. Those Delft-blue eyes bored into mine. “Am I still your boy?” he wanted to know.

“Yes,” I answered. “Of course. You’re still my boy.”

He responded by melting into my arms.

Once we were upstairs, we rolled around on the bed for long minutes, kissing and grinding our denimed crotches against each other. He didn’t want to talk much. He didn’t want to catchup, or tell me about his job hunt. He wanted my mouth on his, my beard on his neck, my hot breath on his ears. He wanted me pushing my hardness into his own, and my hands down his pants with my fingers teasing and probing at his hole.

When I pushed him against the pillows and yanked up his shirt to rake my face against his tender, white skin, he smelled of soap and body spray. I knew he’d sprayed himself with that stuff because he’d known I’d smell it it on him, and tell him how nicely scented he was. He flushed with pleasure when I did, and I had a sudden mental picture of him in his ex’s bathroom, showering for me, washing his most private places. Spraying himself with Axe where he knew my face and lips would travel. Primping in the mirror. Selecting his clothing, knowing that I’d remove every piece. The care he’d taken flattered me.

I repaid it by undressing him. He obediently lifted his hands over his head while I removed his shirt like I was undressing a little boy, then raised his hips for me when I unfastened and slowly pulled off his jeans and shorts. He murmured with pleasure when I laid my clothed body atop him, roughing up his soft, pale skin with my denim and my stubble. My nails raked across his nipples, causing him to gasp. And then I sucked him, slowly and carefully, savoring every drop of pre-cum that began to ooze from the tip of his thick meat.

Scruffy managed to gather enough force of will to roll out from under me. I allowed him to unbutton my jeans and to pull them off. On his knees, he removed my socks and rolled them together. Then he settled back onto the mattress and took my dick in his mouth. “Did you miss that dick?” I wanted to know.

“So much,” he gasped, releasing it momentarily. “Fuck. I needed this dick. It was made for me. Your dick was made for my holes.”

“Good boy,” I whispered, and placed my hand gently on the back of his neck. Over the year and more we’ve known each other, Scruffy has learned how to suck me—long, slurping strokes with a minimum of teeth and just the right amount of pressure. He’s had me close to coming many times, with his blow jobs. That’s more than most men can say.

Saturday he was doing something different from before, however. Like most guys, Scruffy can get most my dick in his mouth, but the last two inches are a little bit of a challenge. Saturday he decided to try out some newly-acquired deep-throating skills. He would take as much of my dick in his mouth as possible, then push down onto my fuckspear to impale his own throat. Every time he did it, I’d feel the effort it would take him. Then I’d feel the delicious tightness of his deepest muscles around the head of my dick, and the feeling of his lips around the lowermost base of my shaft. For a moment, he’d struggle to control his choking. Then he’d back off, breath in heavily through his nose, and try it again.

I let him deep-throat me for a long, intense few minutes, and then I pulled him off my dick. He stared at me with what I could only interpret as adoration. Tears were streaming from both eyes; his face was streaked, wet, and red. “You okay, boy?” I asked him.

“I want to make you feel good,” he rasped out.

“You are.” I cupped his chin in my hand. “But are you okay?”

“Yes.”

My dick couldn’t have been harder if it had been carved from diamond. There was great need in his expression. I released his chin and let him go back to deep-throating me.

“Show me your ass,” I said a few minutes later. He let my rigid tool drop from between his lips. If his face had been red before, it was now bright scarlet from exertion. The tears he’d cried had made him look like a beautiful mess. I slapped his butt once he’d knelt on the mattress and turned around. The impact made him shout, then groan. I could see the vaguest of imprints from the impact on his white skin, darkening where I’d struck. When I parted his cheeks and let the tip of my tongue flick out, his gasped; his back arched, and his dick stiffened and pointed toward the wall. I ate his hole like a starving dog, gnawing at the cheeks and leaving behind reddened flesh and bite marks. I didn’t care.

When at last I had him ready, I lubed my meat and drove in the first two inches. I wanted to shove it all inside, but I paused, and instead threw back the question he’d asked me upon greeting. “Are you still my boy?”

He whispered in the half-dark, “I’m always your boy.”

“How bad do you want this dick?”

“I love your big dick,” he whimpered into the pillow. “I’ll do anything for your dick. Please. Please, just give me your dick, sir.”

He sounded sincere. I drove it home, causing him to yell, to grasp at the pillows, and to clench his teeth and hiss with pleasure.

We fucked for a long hour or more. I topped him slowly and deliberately, humping on top of him with long and slow strokes while he craned his neck over his shoulder so that our lips might meet. He received my first load with thanks and tears. My second load I pounded in from behind again, but had him kneel on the bed’s edge as he shoved his butt in the air. And the third load, long in coming, arrived as I fucked him face to face, with his knees hooked atop my shoulders. It was in that position that he made his astonishing confession. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.”

I stopped for a moment. “Do you mean that?” I asked. It’s the kind of thing guys say in the heat of the moment, to keep the action hot, to make the moment seem more real and romantic than it might really be.

The tears on his face might have been left over from the deep-throating he’d attempted an hour before, but I suspected they weren’t. “You know, the first time I came over here, my legs were shaking so bad that I could barely walk to the door, I was so excited about getting you. You give me exactly what I need,” he whispered in a rush. “Nobody else does that.”

Again, he was sincere. “Thank you,” I told him. I stared into his eyes. I’ve known Scruffy a long time. I can’t say I know him well. He doesn’t open up to me in the same way Spencer has. We don’t have a lot of long, in-depth conversations about his thoughts, his hopes, or his likes and dislikes. What I do know about him is very little, outside of what we do in bed. But when we are in bed, and when we are connected dick to hole, I know he’s giving his all. He’s right there in the moment with me. And that’s rare. “Thank you for saying that.”

“It’s true,” he said, his beautiful eyes open and wide. “I wish it could go on forever.”

My hand brushed the hair from his eyes. “And I wish I could make everything bad go away from your life.” He stared at me, then blinked. His mouth raised to offer me the sweetness of his red lips.

My hips took over. I couldn’t help myself. That moment of perfect intimacy swelled my desire, and I fucked him hard and without restraint. When I came, it was almost painful—as if I slammed into a wall of sensation with such force that it wracked my entire body with sensation.

We weren’t done, though. Not by a long shot. While Scruffy played with himself, I positioned him so that his head hung over the bottom of the mattress. Then, my forearms resting on the bedroom dresser, I squatted over his mouth with my ass, and lowered it up and down on his face. I talked dirty to him and told him to eat his daddy’s hole while he gulped and grunted and groaned. When he came, I was basically wiping my ass crack over his face, moving back and forth to as my dick and balls dragged over the kid’s forehead and nose.

His orgasm was noisy, and explosive, and seemed to last for long minutes. Then he subsided, and on trembling legs I lowered myself to the bed beside him. We lay curled up next to each other for several minutes, not talking, but holding and touching each other as the last of the sunlight faded.

Then he stumbled to his feet and we both dressed in the dark.

“Sorry I’ve gotta go,” he told me, as he pulled on his shoes at the back door. “I’m supposed to go out to dinner with a couple of friends and the ex.”

“Where does he think you are?” I wanted to know. Scruffy always stays with his ex while he’s in town; they seem to have a good relationship as friends, though no longer as lovers.

“Oh, he knows where I am,” Scruffy laughed. “I’ve shown him your photos.”

My eyebrows raised. “Really!”

“Oh hells yeah.” Impulsively, Scruffy pulled my face down to his. “No way I’m not going to brag about getting you. Are you shitting me?”

When he left, I had the biggest grin on my face. He’d flattered and surprised me yet again.

Sunday Morning Questions: Facebook Edition

You guys kept asking. Because I don't already sink enough hours of my day into my blog and into Twitter, or into answering your emails, I've gone ahead and this week created a Facebook account for my readers to befriend. And please, feel free to do so. You won't find me playing Farmville on there, and I promise I will never ask you to join my Mafia family. You might get the occasional hello or update, though!

I'd like to say I appreciate everyone's patience last week, when I was out of town for several days. And I very much enjoyed reading your comments on this week's open forum. The topic of age difference seemed to strike a chord with a lot of people. One of the things I've been liking about my open forum topics is that although it sometimes seems as if we've all had different experiences, most of us can still come to a mutual appreciation of where we've been and how we've gotten there. To me, that's golden.

As usual, I'm taking this Sunday morning to round up some of the questions I've addressed over on formspring.me, that website where you can address anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) questions to your favorite (or not-so-favorite) people. If you've got questions, please feel free to ask them. I'll answer anything that's not super-repetitive or outright obnoxious.

Do you only play with guys or have you been with other women as a married man?
While I find it easier to hook up with men, enjoy the simplicity of a no-strings man-on-man encounter, and am more attracted to men in general, I have many times been with women in the last twenty years--primarily with married couples. Just not lately.


If you started dating someone, and later found out that he had an extensive sexual history (only from before he was with you) would this end the relationship for you? under what circumstances would this be a problem or ok?
Jeez, I'd hope he would have a history. The guys who do are usually much better in bed.


When you lost your virginity did you bareback?
Indeed I did.


Have you ever fucked a guy as agile as Spencer?
If I have, he didn't use that agility during sex.

He should have. I like it.


Dude, I love your blog, is that your cock in the pic?
If you mean the photo at the top of the screen, yes, that's me.


On your blogs banner picture (which is pretty friggin hot, btw), is your wedding-band-hand showing on purpose?
I'm not sure about on purpose, but it is showing. I don't usually remove it, but that's about the height of mental calculation that went into its inclusion in that photo.


do you wanna lick christiano ronaldo's body? all of his body?
I had to look him up, I'm afraid. No, not really.


I want to get fucked for the first time, any advice?
I would suggest that you look for a guy who's going to sensitive to your virginity, for one thing. The first time's always different from how you might imagine it, and someone who's going to be aware of your needs, and who'll also do what's necessary to get the job done, is probably going to give you your experience.

I would also suggest playing with toys, if you aren't already, in order to get used to the strange sensations.

And finally, make sure you're clean for your first experience, so that it's pleasant for everyone.


Of the $530 you deposited (The Bank Book - 12/9/10) - what was your average take and/or how many men did that represent? And how long did this pimping of your services go on? I know I'm looking forward to more stories.
That initial deposit was from the first couple of parties I worked for Earl. I'd usually be in a dark bedroom, available for use; there was a tip jar by the bed for men to drop bills into after they'd dropped loads into me.

I'd guess that the initial amount would've been from parties attended by a total of about 15-20 guys--some of whom tipped more than others.

The pimping of my services by Earl lasted until I went away to college when I was 17. The pimping of my services in general still happens, from time to time. :-)


How do I add an 'ask me' box like this on my blog?
If you go to 'settings' on the formspring site, then select 'widgets,' you'll get instructions how.



On average, how long do you spend writing a blog entry? Are they written on the fly, or days before you post them? Do you have any writing "routines" i.e. Favorite place to write, time of day, etc...?
The only time I've written blog entries days before I post them is when I've known I'll be on the road for a solid week. Usually I write the posts the afternoon or the evening before they appear, and post them so that they appear in the early morning.

I try to take no more than an hour to write a blog entry, but some of them have taken considerably more than that. I usually write in my den, on my notebook computer, earbuds in, music loud.


You mentioned you like Treasure Island videos. Do you have a favorite video? Which TIM bottom would you like to fuck?
"Breeding Mike O'Neill" is my favorite TIM flick. From start to finish, an excellent film. If I had to bottom for any guy in the TIM stable, it'd be Jesse O'Toole. He'd make me yell, I know, but his fuck technique is highly attractive.

"Breeding Ian Jay" is a close second in my favorites. Ian Jay and Christian would be the top TIM stars I'd enjoy fucking.


Have you ever had sex in your room at home? Did you worry mom would hear?
When I was younger? Yes. During my college years and the couple of years after when I was in graduate school, my room in my parents' house was in the basement. It had a separate entrance. At night, after my parents were asleep, I'd sneak guys in through the cellar entrance and very very quietly let them bang me in my bed.

It was a naughty thrill, and a big turn-on for many of the men.

Open Forum Friday: The Age Thing

I’ve seen them online as long as there’s been an online to cruise—those guys with handles like lookin4yung or boilovindaddy. You have, too. You know exactly what those profiles are going to say even before they read them. Successful older gentleman looking for younger companionship. My birth certificate might say I’m a certain age, but I sure don’t feel it! YOU: Should be under 25, slim/swimmer’s build to muscular, no overweight. VGL only.

And of course, they’re accompanied by a photo of a gray-haired chubby guy with unkempt facial hair, and bad teeth. In his pill-covered cardigan, he’s got an appearance roughly as stimulating as that creepy elderly uncle of yours who drinks too much at family holiday gatherings and farts secretly into the den sofa.

I look at these profiles and think to myself: Sad. Ever since I’ve been in my twenties myself, I’ve always told myself I wouldn’t be one of those men. I didn’t think there was ever a chance of it happening, for one thing. When I started having sex, all the guys were older than me. (When you’re thirteen, everyone’s older than you.) In my college and grad school days, I was every sugar daddy’s boy. In my mid-twenties I was still chasing after men in their forties and fifties. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I really even chose to have sex with other guys my age—and frankly, they never scored that well on my post-coital report cards.

The moment I turned thirty, something curious happened. I became invisible to a vast percentage of the gay population. Older guys who liked getting banged by young stuff overlooked me when that first digit changed from a 2 to a 3. And younger guys didn’t even seem to see me. I remember on several occasions accompanying grad students in my department at the time out to a club or bar, and noticing that when their peers would come over to chat and introduce themselves, they’d shake hands and introduce themselves to all the other twenty-odd-year-olds, and completely skip over me. It didn’t even seem a deliberate omission; it really was as if I was invisible, a ghost, a phantom occupying no space, over whom their eyes could glide without notice.

At the time, it was a bit of a shocker. I thought to myself that if I’d ever wanted to make it with younger guys, well, that time had passed.

And then I hit my forties.

There’s something about a man of moderate good looks in his forties that has proven to be irresistible to a lot of guys in their late teens and early twenties. I honestly can’t explain it. One of my favorite young correspondents recently commented that he was in a ‘daddy phase’—and maybe that’s simply what it is. I’m not going to question the phenomenon. I’m just going to revel in it.

The problem is that I when I think about how many pretty young things who’ve slipped between my sheets since I turned forty, I think I might as well stop trimming my nose hairs and get out that pill-covered cardigan. Because I suddenly feel like that guy. You know. The creepy one. I feel like I should be assuring people reading my profile that I don’t look forty-seven, and that what is age but a number, anyway?

Look at the facts. A boy half my age has been occupying most of my time of late; he sleeps over half the time. Scruffy was even younger. Most of the guys with whom I hook up online are under the age of twenty-one. If I strip down and show off on a web cam, most of the guys cheering me weren’t even born when Marisa Tomei won the Academy Award.

The only saving grace, I think—and trust me, I cling to it—is that I’ve never been one of those you must be 25 or under! chappies. I take ‘em as they come, pretty much, and still like a variety in my sexual diet. Older men I find very attractive. Younger guys (and when you’re forty-seven, everyone’s younger than you) I also enjoy meeting. I have great encounters with men around my own age, for the first time in my life. It’s not that I can’t afford to be picky. I’ve just learned that discrimination based on specious criteria is silly.

Secretly, though, when I go out at night with Spencer to a restaurant where other gay couples are eating, I see them look at us and size us up. And though on a certain level I think they’re admiring Spencer and then regarding me with envy and thinking, Lucky dog, part of me worries if mentally they’re consigning me to that corner of the sofa with the creepy, farting uncle who paws the boys and is a general embarrassment to all.

So in this edition of the open forum, I ask my readers: what’s your opinion on the issue of age difference? Do younger men have a daddy phase? Are older guys automatically creepy because they have a parade of younger studs in their bedroom? Or in these free-for-all days, am I being super-sensitive about it?

I’m honestly curious to hear your opinions.

Nighttime at the Rest Stop

When I step into the men’s room, Monday night, the familiar scent of urine and floor cleaner assaults my nostrils. I breath it in, letting it fill my lungs, and inflate my dick. I’m already half-hard by the time I’m unzipped, and pissing into the closely-spaced floor-to-waist urinal. Once I’m done, I shake, and stroke, and wait. It doesn’t take long until I hear the tentative creak of the door leading to the parking lot, and the sound of footsteps.

New York City had been buffeted with high winds earlier that afternoon. I’d spent most of my Valentine’s Day sitting in LaGuardia, which had shut down all but one runway. My flight had been delayed by about three hours. I spent most of the long day planted in my seat in a super-crowded waiting area, afraid that if I’d gotten up to piss or grab some food that I’d lose the rare commodity that was my chair. By the time I hit my car, it’s late at night. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Common sense tells me to drive on home.

My dick tell me to drive to the rest stop on the way home, and take a break.

When the man walks into the room on soft leather soles, I’m glad I listened to my dick. He’s a short fucker—maybe all of five-foot-six, thirty-five or so. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested in a way that’s like a former muscle stud gone slightly soft. There’s some narrowing between his chest and his round, bulging ass, but not much. He’s wearing a pressed cotton shirt printed with broad stripes in aquatic colors, and a pair of dress slacks fastened by a glinting monogrammed belt buckle. His shaved head is as shiny as his expensive shoes. He’s a businessman, cruising the rest stop at nine-thirty at night.

He stands at the furthest urinal from me and hauls out his dick. It sprays a thick stream of piss against the porcelain. When I glance over, casually working over my hard meat in the recess of the urinal, I can see his thick mushroom head, his hairy nuts. I want that dick in my mouth.

He flips his meat when he’s done, gives me a look, and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands. I stuff my hard dick into my pants, zip up, and follow him there. We look at each other in mirror as we clean up. Our eyes are locked, save for the moments when they dip down to look at our bulges. He stands at a hand dryer across from the toilet stalls; I lounge by the one at the room’s other side. We rub our hands together, over and over, as if we’re both plotting Machiavellian schemes.

Then his machine shuts off. Still staring at me, he walks over to the toilet stall and disappears inside. I hear the clink of his belt buckle as it slams against the tiles.

I wait until my hands are dry. Casually I stroll over. His toilet stall door is open. He’s sitting on the john, legs spread, little hand wrapped around his short, thick meat. He’s whipped his tie up and over one shoulder, to keep it out of the way. One of his knees is propping open the door. He looks back at me, spread his legs more widely, and nods.

I look toward the men’s room entrance, then step forward.

His hands lunge for the snap of my jeans. He yanks down the denim and roughly tugs down my trunks. When my cock springs out, unleashed, his mouth envelops it. He’s hungry. He doesn’t give a shit who I am, or where I’m going. I’m some stranger in a rest stop with a big dick—a dick he wants. A dick he needs. He uses more teeth than I usually like, but from him it almost feels good. The gentle scraping gets me harder.

His eyes are closed as he sucks. Occasionally he’ll open them to look up at me, checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Mostly, though, they’re shut tight. His face looks almost pained as he slurps up and down my shaft. It’s obviously how badly he’s wanted to suck.

Up and down his stubby shaft flies his fist. The two eggs below bounce up and down, flying furiously. The guy is seriously loving my dick. He gulps the shaft, then rubs his smooth face against it , eyes shut, mouth open and drooling.

There’s a sound outside. The door opens and shuts. I pull up my pants and prepare to bolt into the adjoining stall, but what I hear is the sound of tapping heels. He half-stands, fingers poised at the waistband of the pants around his ankles. But when we hear the women’s room door open, we relax. His eyes close again as he nurses at my dick.

My hand reaches for his ass. It’s a muscular, sexy round butt of a type I really like. When we connect, he turns around. He knows I want to see. He bends over the toilet, his hands on the wall. For the first time I notice the ring on his left hand. The tips of my fingers dip into his smooth, warm cleft. They nudge against his hole. My dick follows, nosing its way into the flesh and rubbing against the entrance. He groans, more loudly than he probably should for a public restroom. Somehow it only turns me on.

“You fuck bare?” he whispers.

I don’t reply. He already knows the answer. Instead I put a glob of spit on his hole and rub the head against the slickness, working it into the hole. He braces himself, and pushes back.

“I shouldn’t do it raw,” he whispers.

Again, I say nothing. I’m halfway in him now and not doing a damned thing save stand there. He’s the one backing up on it, taking the stranger’s raw dick more and more deeply into his most private place. He reaches the bottom of the shaft. There’s no more to take.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn.” His breathing is shallow and labored. “You’re so big.”

When he starts to shake and shudder, I think it’s because he’s trying to deal with my length and girth. But no, he’s shooting. All over the toilet seat lands his seed. Onto the floor it spills as it flys from the tip of his dick. His wedding ring is covered with the stuff, a fact I note and find hot. Almost immediately my dick starts to slide from his hole as he pulls off me. It doesn’t matter. I’m shooting myself, onto his round butt, down his thighs. A hefty squirt lands into the wells of his pant legs, on the floor.

We can hear the tapping heels again as the stranger leaves the woman’s room. The noise brings us back to reality. I pull up my pants and button them before visiting the sinks again. He shuffles in the privacy of the stall for a moment before he emerges. His slacks have a large splotch of a wet stain in the back, where I shot. We watch each other as we wash up. When we leave, I’m walking ahead of him, but we exit at roughly the same time.

I watch him wander back to his SUV as I return to my own car. Our lights flick on in unison. He gives me a quick salute as he passes behind me on his way back to the freeway. A moment later, and he’s nothing more than a memory and a flash of lights across the horizon.

Then I’m off, back into the inky night, and homeward bound.

Wealth and Muscles

Two things intimidate me: wealth and muscles. This man had both.

His apartment building at a good, recognizable address had an actual doorman—a stout, bearded fellow who, when I supplied a first name and an apartment number, nodded me on my way to the elevator. The eighteenth-floor lobby of the older building contained a lacquered table that sported out-of-season flowers exotic enough that I didn’t recognize them. I rubbed their cold and rubbery petals between my fingers to see if they might be real. They were.

I always feel outclassed by displays of wealth because, frankly, I don’t make that kind of money myself. Nor, in my professional capacity as a working artist, am I likely to. Whether it’s displayed as real estate or tasteful and expensive decor, or whether as a flashy car or tailored clothing, money always throws into sharp relief my imagined shortcomings. When I walked down that hallway, with its plaster carvings along the walls, trimmed in gold enamel, I could feel myself shrinking inch by inch.

I respond similarly to men with muscles and looks. When they approach me online, as this one had, my initial reaction is always a confused, Why? In the harsh exposure of ripped pecs and defined abs, what self-confidence I have withers like a night-blooming flower in the sun. A man with the beauty of a model, when he asks if I’d be interested in having sex with him, doesn’t validate me; he makes me want to cringe and beg off with timid excuses, and makes me hope that any passing—probably drunk and/or hallucinogenic-inspired—interest he might have in me evaporates.

It’s stupid, I know. Even as I have those initial reactions, I’m already telling myself the same things I’ve told myself time after time, for years now. People with money need dick just as badly as the rest of us. And guys with porn star looks can sometimes be attracted to me. I can’t always prevent my instinctual, knee-jerk reactions, but I can mitigate the extent to which I let them rule my thoughts and behavior. So as I walked down that hallway and pushed open the cracked doorway, I threw back my shoulders, held my posture high, and regained the height I’d seemed to have lost in that long walk down the expensive runner.

I almost lost that stature the moment I stepped into the room, though. The door awkwardly bounced for a moment against the long latch that had held it open. As I slid it shut, the first thing I could see what his ass. That beautiful ass, rounded by hours of squats, pointed directly at the door. The man’s living room was lit only by candles and the lights of Manhattan filtering through the gauzy blinds of the many windows. It was enough for me to see him clearly, however, bent over the low-backed, richly-upholstered sofa. He knelt on the parquet floor, knees separated to expose his hole to the air, thick thighs spread, narrow waist bent. The elaborate tattoos running down one side of his back ran parallel to the ceiling above. His hands and head rested on a chenille spread he’d thrown down to protect the sofa’s fabric. Four of his fingers sported rings. All gold. All heavy. All studded with precious stones.

He was a stunning sight.

He looked back over his prone shoulder to look at me through the darkness. I took off my jacket and let it slide to the floor. In my jeans and Converse and my cheap Old Navy zip-up sweater with the racing stripes, I felt decidedly low-rent. Yet when he said “I want you, buddy. I wanted you since I saw that dick of yours,” his voice betrayed his need. At that moment, he didn’t give a shit how many gold cards I carried in my wallet, or what I drove, or how often I worked out. He knew what he wanted. I had it.

All I had to do was deliver.

I kicked off my sneakers as at the same time I unzipped the sweater and let it fall into a heap. I shimmied out of my jeans and shorts. By the time I reached him, I was naked. My dick was three-quarters hard, squeezed and full by the chrome cock ring in which I’d stuffed my junk. He eyed it hungrily. “Fuck,” he said. Then he repeated the word. “Fuck. That’s gonna be in me?”

I nodded.

“Fuck.” Without hesitation he swiveled from his spread-eagled kneeling position over the sofa to face me. I’d thought he’d intended to gobble down my dick, but instead his brawny forearm reached up and a massive hand curled around the back of my head as easily as a grapefruit. He pulled my face down to his, and drowned me in a deep, sloppy kiss. I’m a man of six feet and three inches. Although this man lacked a full half-foot on me, he outweighed me by a good four pounds of sheer muscle and looked as if he could bench-press a bus. He made me feel tiny. No small feat.

When his enormous lips finally released mine, I had to resist the impulse to wipe my face with the back of my arm. His dark eyes glittered in the night as he stared at me. His face was as handsome as it had been in the photographs—even more so, perhaps. His body was perfect. Sculpted in a way achieved only by men who make their looks their life’s mission. He’d poured a huge chunk of his life into creating that body. Soon he’d be giving it to me.

“You kiss good,” he growled. “Damned good.” I thanked him. “You fuck as good as you kiss?”

I inclined my head to the side and nodded. My dick had been hard the moment our mouths connected. I spread some spit on it and let it slide through my fingers with a slow, overhand stroke.

“Show me.”

I positioned myself behind him, both of us on our knees. I’d already discovered during our make-out session that his hole was pre-lubed so heavily that two of my fingers slid in without resistance. I knew I wasn’t going to have any problem entering, but he clutched the back of the sofa with such grit and determination that one would’ve thought he was bracing himself for a Civil War battlefield amputation without benefit of anesthetic. He certainly made enough noise as the tip of my meat pressed against his hole and drove home. On my side it felt like slipping between warm, wet curtains. He made it sound as if I was popping his virgin cherry.

He grunted, and groaned; he dug the top of his head into the cushions and let out a roar into the seat. I felt him adjust his legs and spread his knees further apart. I didn’t bother going slowly at first. He didn’t need it. I fucked with a deep and steady rhythm, pulling nearly all the way out and then plunging back in again. I let him feel the ridge of my cock’s head stretch and rip at his ass lips with every stroke. The repeated sensation made him tense his shoulders. His back muscles flexed, rigid and defined.

Absolutely stunning.

I picked up the pace and fucked him more vigorously. My nuts slapped against his skin until he reached down between his legs and grabbed them, manhandling them as if trying to coax out the load. With another deep, chest-vibrating grunt, he lunged off me and landed on his back on the throw. He lifted his tree-trunk legs into the air, inviting me to continue, and urging me to do it quickly. I thrust myself back into the warmth, the wet depth of him, and felt his heels dick into my shoulder. He slapped his pecs and pinched the dark smudges that were his nipples as he stared into my eyes. The man wasn’t just porn-star quality. He acted like a porn star, the porn star of his own apartment, his own film currently shooting in his mind. He bit down on his lower lip and clamped down me.

From time to time he muttered the word fuck to himself, his eyes half-shuttered and his face increasingly taut. Mostly, though, he communicated in growls and grunts and with an insistent bucking of his hips. If he’d not been still grabbing onto the sofa’s back as if fearful of falling, and if he’d had an extra pair of hands, I know he would’ve pulled me in deeper and deeper still.

He hadn’t touched his dick the entire time we’d been playing. It wasn’t the biggest dick. It didn’t need to be. It was a good five inches of thick meat that slapped against his flat belly as I fucked. And just as I began rounding the corner and getting close to shooting, it began to unload. My eyebrows rose as it began to spew out rope after rope of sticky fluid that decorated his sculpted chest. He watched first his dick with a smirk of satisfaction, and then my face as as watched his cock jump and spit. His tongue darted out obscenely, as if trying to snatch some of the sperm on his pecs. He then licked his lips and urged me on.

I didn’t need much urging. The sight of him shooting without touching was stimulus enough. I grabbed hold of the marble pillars that were his thighs, and attempted to yank myself deeper into him. My cock shuddered and twitched. I unloaded into him, feeling his prostate nudge against my head with every shot.

“Fucker,” he growled, still running his fingertips over his nipples. “You fuckin’ fucker. You know how to fuck, don’t you? Yeah. You do.”

I nodded, trying to gather breath and senses alike. I knew how to fuck even wealth and muscles like him.

When I exited the building another load and forty-five minutes later, the doorman’s fingers brushed the front of his cap as I smiled and nodded in his direction. I stepped out into the city street and for a moment didn’t notice its clamor at all. Then I turned and walked in the direction of the train, feeling three inches higher.

A Quick Note From Your Cruise Director

Readers,

I got back from my jaunt to the east coast late last night, and have to hit the ground running with some projects today. I might not get around to much of a post until tomorrow. On the plus side, I did return with a few new adventures to share.

And a quick administrative note: for those of you who've sent in butt shots for the Reader's Asses features, don't worry! I'm getting around to you! I'm posting the butt shots not in the order I find them hot or anything. I find them all hot! I'm posting them roughly in the order in which I received them. And since I received a lot of them, and am only posting four or five guys at a time, it might take a couple of weeks for me to get around to posting your ass.

But you know my motto. I will always make time to get around to your ass.

See you guys later!

Reader Asses: #3

I hope you guys don't mind, while I'm out of town to visit the family, that I'll be sharing a Valentine's Day round of reader asses with you. What's that? You like asses, too? See, I didn't think anyone minded overmuch.

My reader ass feature, of course, is when I take the photographs my readers have sent me of their beautiful rear ends and share them with the world. If you'd like to participate—and I hope you do!—please read my original post and send me your photos as instructed within.

And of course, please let the men who've been brave enough to share their dirty photos with us know how much you appreciate each and every one of them. Because I surely do!

Christopher

Christopher, Christopher, Christopher. This photo is designed from the ground up to incite a top man to do damage to your hole. The submissive posture over the unmade bed, the towel, the nuts dangling between your legs . . . mmmm. What the Breeder would do to you!


Lucky

My new friend Lucky is 25 and lives in Wisconsin. Apparently they make other fine things than cheese, there. Actually, after viewing these photos, I'm not really sure who's lucky--me, the 25-year-old, or the guy dicking him? Amazing photos, Lucky!


Spaniard

Spaniard, under another nickname, is one of my frequent commenters. English is not his native language, he tells me, but then he writes comments with a fluent command of the language that outshines mine. And then he has the nerve to have a PERFECT ass—meaty, lightly hairy, and slightly red from my handprints. Okay, that last part was my imagination working overtime. But you can see how the photographs inspire it to do so.


Eddie

Eddie is another reader who's spoken to me off the blog, on my Adam4Adam profile. He gets a lot of compliments on his ass, he tells me. Gee, I wonder why? It's just one of those typical round bubble butts that makes me lose control of my salivary glands, right? But then he had to go and dash my hopes by telling me he wasn't much of a bottom. Eddie, my friend, you might not be much of a bottom. But you've sure got a hell of a butt.


Many thanks to all my readers for their butts, in this latest edition of the Reader Butts project. We'll have another installment next week, sometime. Happy Valentine's Day, guys!

Sunday Morning Questions: Road Trip Edition

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Open Forum Friday: Nudity & the Home

A recent posting in the always-provocative Mr. Gloryholejunkie’s blog got me thinking over the weekend about nudity around the house. And it got me thinking, as Mr. Gloryholejunkie’s posts often do, about my own stance on the subject.

I’ve mentioned several times that my parents were proud liberals, politically, and pretty progressive sexually. My dad proved to be a pretty cool cat when faced with irrefutable evidence of my teenaged whoring, and a decade ago was the prime force in getting his mainstream protestant church officially to become one of those rebel congregations that dared to welcome gays and lesbians into its pews. My mother, when she was alive, was enormously popular with my college friends because of her frank advice about contraception. The day I walked into a female friend’s dorm room and found my mother there, surrounded by a gaggle of sophomore women, with a cervical cap in one hand and a contraceptive sponge in the other, is one that’s going to be difficult to erase from my memory.

Together my parents were kind of an unstoppable homespun Masters and Johnson who developed a Sunday school curriculum examining sexuality and the Bible. I remember sitting in the corner, wishing myself invisible, while they relentlessly examined everything from ancient circumcision rites to masturbation to homosexuality to prostitution. This was for a high school Sunday school class, mind you. Apparently no one in the church knew what was going on until toward the end of the year, when a minor scandal arose because my parents had refused to adopt a stance of The Bible says DON’T DO IT on all the good stuff. But by then, the class was almost over.

When it came to nudity, my parents’ approach reflected the sexual liberation of the late nineteen-sixties and early nineteen-seventies. Nudity around the house was pretty standard. It certainly wasn’t enforced, as in the nudist camp fantasies many men seem to have. It wasn’t really discussed as a lifestyle choice, or even recognized as one. It was simply casual and commonplace. If my parents had to change from around-the-house clothing into their work duds and I was talking to them in their bedroom, for example, they wouldn’t shoo me away. My mom frequently would take her early evening bath and then stroll around the house in the buff, cigarette in hand, as she tidied up or looked for where she’d left her murder mystery.

My dad would putter around naked after he’d gotten up in the mornings, moving from bedroom to his morning pee in the bathroom, down to the kitchen, where I’d find him munching on toast with his legs crossed and his balls dangling. My mother once scandalized some fourth-grade friends of mine by nonchalantly strolling through the living room wearing nothing but a skimpy yellow bikini bottom, a pair of Jackie O. sunglasses, and an open book pressed against her naked bosom, on her way to a topless sunbathing session on the patio. And the first time my spouse accompanied me for a visit home, twenty years ago, my father sat on the edge of the guest bed wearing nothing but a fishing cap talking endlessly about his recent appointment to a museum board.

They were innocents, really. Both my parents tended to assume that everyone else saw nudity as they did—simply as nudity and nothing more. They found no erotic context to it, no threat of sexualizing the home. Just something that, if it happened, simply was what it was, with no hidden meaning or intention.

I naturally went through a period of extreme modesty in my early adolescence, particularly in that awful stage in which boys experience spontaneous erections that won’t quit, at the slightest puff of wind. (You know, that awful stage that lasts from roughly eleven until the mid-forties.) But something of their philosophy stuck, because I tend to be of the same mindset as they were. If I’m nude around the house—and I often am—it’s simply because I took my clothes off for a shower, or have just risen from bed (I’ve slept nude all my life), and haven’t bothered to put anything on yet. In front of my loved ones I’ll walk upstairs and down in the buff, not really thinking about it. My household always used the hot tub in the nude. On hot days, inside the house with the fans on high, finding me or anyone else topless or bottomless or the combination of the two isn’t really that uncommon. For me, I’m more often bottomless than topless. I simply tend to get cold, otherwise.

Either way, it’s just nudity.

Nudity was fairly common when I was a kid at the YMCA, where I learned to swim. The sexes were strictly segregated using the swimming facilities in the nineteen-seventies, when I first was dragged there for lessons, everyone from the wrinkly old men to the youngest boys took their clothes off in the locker room and didn’t put anything back on until they left. (Was there anything else in the YMCA other than the pool? I certainly don’t remember anything.) We’d slap our feet across the wet tiles of the locker and shower rooms, down the half-circular stairs to the pool area, and splash around in the water like happy nude little otters. It was giggle-worthy and weird the first couple of times, but after that, none of us gave it a thought. A decade later when I was the instructor of some of the boys’ swimming classes, it was the same—though I heard the local Y changed their policies a year or two after I moved from Virginia.

A couple of months ago, in a group of men roughly the same age as I, I mentioned the nude swimming and was met with cries of incredulity. None of the other men had ever heard of such a thing. And if they had, it was weird. Worse than weird. It was depraved, and perverted.

And that’s when it occurred to me how far our culture has swung in the last two or three decades. We can’t separate nudity from sex, not even in the most innocent of contexts. A simple tale of swimming without trunks becomes, in these times, fraught with implications about who might have been looking at what, or thinking dirty thoughts, or planning terrible, nasty deeds. The mental associations I have with the concept of nudity are fairly sunny and innocent, but in these days people regard them as rimmed with dark shadows where lurk the perverted, with their even darker motivations.

So I ask my readers: issues of self-image aside, what were your experiences with nudity growing up? Did you see your parents nude often, or was it something so unimaginable that my tale of bohemian innocence seems utterly foreign to your sensibilities? Did it influence you as an adult? I’m curious to hear your responses.

Reader Asses: #2

And the ass keeps coming in. I asked for photos of your butts to share with the world—or at least that small portion of the world that visits my blog—and you guys have been responding with some of the most mouth-watering, juicy photos of your rear ends that I've had the pleasure to see.

I'm hoping to keep this an ongoing feature, so please! Keep sending in your photos! See my original post about the project and send me your butt.


Anonymous Person

This unnamed New Englander tells me that the top in the photo is a former regular fuck buddy whom he misses. You know what, anonymous? If I was fucking a butt like yours on a regular basis, I'd probably miss you right back. Isn't that a beauty?


HornyCub

A bottom who knows how to finger his hole is always a good thing. A bottom who knows how to finger his hole and has low-hanging big nuts is even better. Let HornyCub know how hot that butt is, guys!


Dirty Dave

Now, I have to confess something. I am fascinated by what I am assuming is Dirty Dave's closet. And by fascinated, I mean that I'm utterly jealous of all the walk-in space he has for his clothing. But you know what? I didn't even notice that closet the first four or five times I stared at Dirty Dave's photo, because I was mesmerized by his beautiful butt. That is one ass that I would love to work over.


AJ

AJ is one of my Twitter buddies, and I can confidently say that the rest of him is just as hot as the butt he's bending over and showing here. One of these days, AJ, I am going to visit and mount you. One day very soon.

I'm going to be on a personal trip over the next few days, so we'll have another round of reader asses this next Monday. Tomorrow, we'll have another open forum topic on the subject of nudity around the home.

The Last Time

I’ve been writing lately a lot about my power-bottom experiences in my teens. There are certain things about those days I remember vividly. My pulse still quickens at the memory of how my heart would pound at the sight of a toe tapping beneath a toilet stall, as if it were trying to escape from my ribcage. My dick twitches when I recall the looks of invitation on men’s faces, or their intense stares as they unzipped and proffered their dicks. I remember the deeds themselves, and a surprising number of the men with whom I performed them.

What I don’t remember much, however, is actually receiving pleasure in the act of being fucked. As I've written about before, my unfortunate run-in with sexual assault more or less erased all that from my memory.

It shocks me to think how long it’s been since I successfully had a dick in my ass. It’ll have been nine years, later this year. Now, lest all my bottom fans run frantically around, frightened that the sky is falling and that I’m wanting make a late-life flip from top to bottom, I’d like to assure you that nothing of the sort will be happening. I’m one of those guys who’s wired to fill hole. Fucking as a top occupies my fantasies. It’s what I assume I’ll be doing when I meet a guy—even when the guy is another top stud.

I’ve always been sexually adventurous, however. If an opportunity for fun presents itself, I’ll rarely pass it up. So a part of me is a little sorry I’m not a bit more versatile, if only in case a hot man somewhere wants to flip-fuck with me. (I’m nothing if not accommodating.) And there is the occasional guy whom, when I see him, makes me want to bend over and offer my hole.

The last man who had me was one of those.

It was almost nine years ago on a cruise ship in Alaska—a gay cruise. I’m honestly not convinced that if one’s going to take a gay cruise, it should be to Alaska. Though it’s fun to be in the company of a huge number of party-hardy gay guys in a floating hotel in which the booze flows freely and there’s a party every night, I actually think it might be best to do so when the destination allows the party boys to remove their clothing. Sure, there were a few shirtless men circulating in the sixty-degree weather and the tepid sunshine as the ship pulled out of Vancouver. A few of them kept up the brave front as we sailed further and further north, appearing in nothing but their trunks out on the decks in the nipple-hardening chill the next morning. After we’d navigated into an endless fog bank that lasted for the rest of the trip, however, out came the hoodies and the puffy parkas and the blankets handed out by the ship’s personnel. For the rest of the trip, all the hot-bodied gay men did nothing but shiver beneath layers and layers of wool while huddled beneath heating vents.

When we landed in a fishing town where the salmon were spawning and struggling to get their egg-bloated bodies upstream, the seagulls were casually swooping down, picking them up with their beaks, and dashing them onto the sidewalks and docks below where the tourists were walking. It was like one of the more bizarre Biblical plagues, visited upon hordes of shrieking and scattering gay guys. Some of us haven’t been able to eat salmon since. (Okay, I’m talking about me.)

Anyway. There were several cruising spots on the ship where men would hook up for sex. One of them was the steam room in the spa—but there were so many men crowding in there to escape the pervasive cold that I never found it very appealing. Another was supposed to be the ship’s nude sunbathing deck—an elevated deck at the back of the ship that wasn’t overlooked by anything, and was supposed to be off-limits to kids during the ship’s regular excursions. The area was pretty much off-limits to anyone who wanted to keep warm during the Alaska trip; at night it was totally dark and fairly deserted, save for the shadows of the men lurking and looking for someone to take back to their rooms.

I met Max there the first night of the cruise. It was difficult not to notice him—at six-foot-six, he was taller than even I. In the inky darkness of the Pacific night he was a long and lanky shadow dressed in denim. In the murk I could only make out a few distinguishing characteristics. He had a furry face. That much I could feel when he pulled me roughly to him, pressed his lips against mine, and thrust his tongue down my throat. His head was bald, I discovered when I pressed my cold palms against it. It was cold and windy and loud up there. When he shouted into my ear, “You’re comin’ back to my room,” I knew from the rich accent that he was Australian.

I wasn’t disappointed when I followed him from the deck into the light below. Max was a handsome fucker. He was at least a good twenty years older from me, tall, muscled, and arrayed with an elaborately-groomed set of mutton chops, a long wild-west mustache, and a biker’s pointed beard. A spike jutted out on both sides of his nasal septum. He was hot.

When we passed guys in the hallway, they’d stare at his imposing figure and their eyes would linger with respect and yes, lust. He was actually so hot, in a sexy-daddy way, that I was slightly afraid he would attempt to ditch me in the labyrinth of hallways on the way to his cabin. He didn’t, though. Once we were alone in his room, he shut the door by shoving me against it and giving me another of his tonsil-exploring kisses. His hands clutched my shoulders, as if he was afraid I might try to squirm away. “Damn, boy,” I remember him saying, after we both emerged from the kiss gasping for air. “I am going to enjoy you.”

He stripped. He wasn’t wearing much—a much-distressed denim jacket, a pair of tight, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. The boots took some maneuvering to remove, but the rest came off in a few fluid motions. He stood before me, naked. That’s when I saw he was inked from his neck to his ankles. There was barely a square inch of skin that didn’t have some tracery of the elaborate, body-encompassing blue-green design upon it. It was tribal in influence, and had elements of snake-inspired art. When I stared at him the first time and took in that mobius strip of a tattoo with no beginning and ending that encircled every limb to the wrists, every hollow and crest of his musculature, he looked almost as if he was standing in front of a projected slide of some conceptual line drawing. Only his head, his hands, his dick, and his feet were white and untouched.

My dick had been hard since we’d kissed up on deck. When he ripped off my clothing and shoved me roughly down onto the bed, I was even harder. The first thing he did was to kneel between my legs and chow down on my dick like a madman. It was some of the most aggressive and hottest head I’ve ever received. I buckled and snorted; he grunted and slobbered on me so determinedly that my nuts were slick and wet from his drool. When at last he backed off me, pinching his own eraser-sized nipples as he stared me down, my dick was swollen and red, and as thick as if it had been in a vacuum pump.

“My turn,” he said, in that accent that had charmed my socks off. He spent the next few minutes giving me a vigorous face-fucking. His dick was uncut and as large as my own. He didn’t waste time trying to let me accommodate it in my throat, or get my lips accustomed to the girth. No, he was in there and in all the way, right from the beginning, choking me, or seemingly trying to. Then I found myself on my knees, ass up in the air, and his face buried between my cheeks. He ate me as vigorously and deeply as he’d sucked me, until I was nearly unconscious from pleasure and whimpering more than I was breathing.

Then I felt cool air on my hole as he stood up, followed by the tickle of his warm cock head against my opening. Normally at this point I protest, but he didn’t give me a chance. “You are so damned fuckable,” he said in that Aussie accent, melting me. “You a top or a bottom, mate? Not that it matters. You’re my bottom tonight.”

Then he went in. There was pressure, and a sharp, hot sliver of pain like a splinter passing through flesh. Then, miraculously, there was nothing but pleasure, and my desire to be filled.

When I masturbate and think about bottoming, I think about that night with Max. I think about how he made me want him inside me without my even knowing I wanted it. I think about how he simply took me at the right moment, and made it work. I even think about how he made me ride him at several points. Even when I was bottoming regularly I hated sitting on a guy’s dick and bouncing up and down on it. The fact that Max made me want to do it, and to like it, is remarkable.

Max fucked three loads into me that night, and I was grateful for each. The last of them he did outside, on the balcony of his stateroom. It was frigid outside and I was naked and hate the cold. I had the metal bar of the glass wall cutting into my chest as he bent me over and pounded me against it, and I dislike the touch of icy things. I was being fucked, which normally I don’t like. My head was out and over the water, from high above, and I’m not fond of heights. On either side of his stateroom balcony were men watching us in the dark, observing as the naked, pierced, tattooed giant held me down and drove his dick into me. And I hate being watched. (Oh, who am I kidding? I love being watched.)

Somehow, though, all those little things I normally don’t like combined into one giant ball of love. It was, in a lot of ways, the best single fuck I’ve received. Especially when, afterward, he bundled me up in a blanket and made out with me on his bed, to warm me up again.

I was Max’s little toy for the rest of the Alaskan trip. I ate at his table. We went on excursions together. Max’s buddies were mostly men into leather who referred to me as ‘his little pup,’ as if I was some teenaged twink Max had hired for the night. Some nights I’d fuck Max. Most nights, Max fucked me.

“You’ll remember me,” he predicted when we parted in Vancouver again. Then he gave me one of his grins, ruffled my hair, and marched off with his backpack.

He was right about that. I certainly do.

The Performance

Spencer describes himself as a lover of dance and not a performer. He doesn’t live for the spotlight on the stage, he tells me, quite seriously. He loves the discipline of the art—the rehearsals, the countless runs of the routines, the quest for perfection in a form that’s so fleeting and ephemeral. From the way he describes his passion with dance, I always get the impression he’d be perfectly happy stretching and exercising and running routines from day to day, without ever stepping foot onstage.

But oh, what a performer he is.

It’s Saturday night and I’ve forgone my usual frivolities to attend the second performance of his I’ve seen. The skies dumped four or more inches of snow on the area in the short space of time in the afternoon. The freeways were in terrible condition still. Only a single lane had been passable the entire twenty-five miles I’d driven. The audience is pretty sparse. Many of the middle-aged women who comprise the vast majority sitting in the little theater are still shivering in their woven scarfs and wooly knitted hats.

Then the show starts, and for a couple of hours, we forget about the mountains of snow outside. We forget about winter’s bite, or the long rides home we’ll all have to make. There’s just the music, the dancers, and the light and the darkness.

I’ve told Spencer many times that he has a face made for the stage. His features are sharp, but broad. Every nuance stands out on his face in the dreamy, comedic piece in which he first appears. His seated body sways with the other two dancers onstage, gyrating slowly to the bossa nova rhythms. All three move and swivel in unison, like riders on a turbulent bus, but it’s Spencer that steals all the focus. It’s at his quirked eyebrows the audience laughs, at his comic reactions that a wave of enjoyment sweeps the room. They’re emotions that would be lost on finer faces, but on Spencer’s, they could be seen in the very back row.

There’s pure joy in his stride when he leaps across the stage and lands nimbly on his foot. He uses a metal folding chair in his choreographed moves, brandishing it skyward and twirling it through the air as gracefully as any human partner. When he at last sets it onto the ground, it connects to the floor without a sound. I marvel at that kind of control. Then he’s up and over the chair, his hands gripping its sides as his legs stretch and extend in the air, then descend in a display of artistic athleticism to which I could never aspire, admire it as I may. His right palm lies flat on the floor; his right foot connects several feet to the side. His left leg and arm rise high in the air and stay there for what seems an impossible amount of time. Not once do they waver. His flesh becomes rigid, rooted to the stage, until at last on a downbeat he swoops back into the dance, part of the trio once more.

He’s breathtaking.

Two hours later, and another twenty-five miles of snow-covered roads, we’re together again. I’m naked between the flannel sheets, warm below layers of blankets. There’s a cat at my feet, already asleep. From the bathroom Spencer pads in, straight out of the shower. He’s nonchalant about his nakedness as he tosses his clothes atop the dresser. When he slides between the sheets, the temperature rises dramatically. He’s moist, but the sheets absorb the extra moisture quickly. “Hi,” he says, with a little boy’s smile.

“You were amazing tonight,” I tell him. He pretends to ignore the compliment, but I can see the corners of his mouth lift. He snuggles closer, next to where I’m propping myself up on an arm. I enthuse about his musicality, his long lines and fluid movements. Whether or not he dances in order to perform, his performance moved me, and I tell him that, too. “You make me so proud,” I finish. “You have amazing control over your body.”

“That’s not true at all,” he says, his liquid brown eyes staring up at me. “You do.”

My lips part to ask a question. Then I understand what he’s telling me.I turn off the lights, and slide my naked self down into the sheets, dragging him with me into the depths.

I have all night for this performance.