Open Forum Friday: Cocksuckers

The other night I found myself being hounded by a guy on Manhunt who wanted to give me a blow job.

I told him up front that I love getting head, but I rarely, rarely shoot from it. I went through the explanation I always seem to make: that I rarely will agree to meet solely for a blow job because when I don’t shoot, I feel badly. And if I’m pressured to shoot when I don’t want to or can’t, it’s definitely not going to happen.

But the guy was nice, and kind of good-looking in a goofy way. He told me that in that context, he didn’t care if I got off—he just wanted to suck on a very big dick for a little while. So I invited him over.

We went up to my bedroom. I dropped my pants. He got to work. At first, the sensations of his mouth on my dick were pretty pleasant. Not very long after, however, I started to feel less like I was getting sucked off and more like the guy thought if he pumped my dick long and hard enough, he’d bring up well water. “I am kind of more into a slow and sloppy blow job,” I directed him.

He went back to sucking for about thirty more seconds. Then once again his hand latched onto my meat and began flying back and forth over it. I had to stop him. It wasn’t pleasant. It just hurt.
“You do remember you said you weren’t going to be in a hurry to try to get me off, right?” I asked.

He ignored me and started beating harder. “I know I can do it,” he growled. “Just give me a chance.”

Awkward. I had to detach him from my dick and gently send him home. I’m not sure why he even came over, after all my caveats and warnings, if he was going to be like that. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon, either.

Part of me thinks I’m just kind of hard-wired for fucking. It’s what turns me on the most. Getting head feels good. But when I’ve mounted a guy and am sliding in and out of his wet hole, it’s better than good. It’s right.

Another part of me wonders if I’ve just run into some guys who give spectacularly bad blow jobs. One of my readers shared with me a half-facetious, half-dead-serious open letter to cocksuckers that he’d posted to Craigslist. Let’s see how long it takes before it’s flagged and removed, he joked with me. I read through the thing and you know what? It resonated.

With his permission, I’m reposting it below.

Dear Cocksuckers, 

I have a tip for you. If I present you with my steely hard cock, and after a couple minutes of your attacking it, it starts getting soft, I'd recommend that you not continue to attack it even harder and faster. If you do, don't be surprised when it gets even softer. 

Not everyone enjoys having their cock practically ripped from their body, put in a death grip, or jacked and bobbed on so fast it makes for an entirely unrelaxing experience. Besides all of this, a hand job is not a blow job. 

Then when I take control of your head to show you how to do it, my cock gets all steely again, and I let you take over again, why do you go back to your old ways only to soften me again? 

Then when I lightly and slowly jack in your mouth to show you how to do it, my cock gets all steely again, and I let you take over again, why do you go back to your old ways only to soften me again? 

Are you really that unobservant...that unteachable? The worst of you are the ones who are all like "pick me, pick me, you won't regret it." I always do regret it as it seems you're so damned sure of your skills, that you can't be bothered to tune in. 

Oh, and I really don't like to have my nipples ripped off of my chest either. My God, they're still burning from last Sunday. So when I brush your hand away, get the message. 

Why am I posting this? It's because the last four blow jobs I've gotten have been baaad, and since you all seem to be tripping all over each other to get a fat dick and wad in our mouth, I thought I'd give the teachable among you a leg up. 

Sincerely,
7.5 thick cut leaking inches 

PS...I've never understood why cocksuckers post or reply with their dick pics...especially only dick pics. I just don't get the relevance.

Like I said, the rant resonated. It does always seem to me that the worst oral experiences I’ve had come from the men who badger me with promises that I won’t regret picking them. The men who think that attacking my dick harder and faster and with more violence is going to make me produce a payload more quickly are pretty much deluded.

So in today’s Open Forum Friday, I’m curious about your own experiences with oral sex. Are my ranting reader and I isolated cases, or is the plague of poor cocksuckers more common than we think? What makes a bad blow job, for you? Or more to the point, what makes a really good one? If you think you’ve got the mad skills, step up and share with us your trade secrets.

After all, the more good sex going around, the happier we’ll all be. Right?

Reader Asses: #11

A special edition of Reader Asses today, as I bring you first an ass that I know close up and personal.

Ace

Last week, in an entry called Someone's Poem, I wrote about spending a very special night with a 21-year-old boy who drove up from Ohio to meet me. After I spent several hours opening him up for the first time in over two years, I went back home. These were the self-photos he took with his phone an texted to me when I climbed into my own bed.

I didn't take these photos, but I certainly got that hairy ass wet in them. Thanks, Ace!


Writer

Near and dear to my heart is my good friend Writer, the first Breeder's Reader who went out of his way, early in my blogging career, to make a place for me in his bed. I commemorated the evening in a post that remains one of my all-time favorites.

Writer's a special guy, and has a damned hot ass. Not only is it hairy and perfectly round, but it looks awfully good when he's topping some lucky guy, too. Don't you folk agree?


Dan

Dan is one of my readers from the UK who chastises me for saying ass instead of arse. Danny, I'll call it whatever you fucking want as long as you keep sending in photos like this one.

Props to the unusual underwear choice, the hot open hole, and the position of submission, my friend. That is one ass I'd like to come across in a dark club or a hotel room. Pun totally intended.


Tyler

What infuriates me about Tyler's incredible jock butt is that the guy used to live very close to me—and yet I could never get him to come over and let me pay attention to that beautiful thing. Could the guy be any hotter? I honestly don't think so . . . and he seemed like a pretty hungry bottom at the time, too.

Tyler, come on back to your old home town and let me chow down on what you've got between those cheeks. I promise you won't regret it.



And there we have another edition of reader asses. Did you like 'em? If so, let the contributors know in the comments. And please—I love my mailbox full of ass photos. If you'd like to be featured here in a future edition, follow the link and send me your ass!

What I Couldn't See

This area in which I’ve lived for half my life is the most divided, racially and economically, of anyplace I’ve ever known. Though we refer to the vast region of southeast Michigan as ‘Detroit,’ that generality fails to connote what every native of the region knows: there’s a vast difference between the relatively prosperous suburbs and the city proper, which has been eating away at itself from within for years.

I lived within the Detroit city limits for many years when I first lived here—I moved into the downtown area as a student, then bought my first house in one of the so-called safe neighborhoods at the city’s edge. In the early-to-mid nineties when I bought the two-story colonial for a whopping twenty-four thousand dollars, safety was indeed very much a concern. It was the height of the city’s reign as the crack and murder center of the U.S. My neighborhood was a pleasant little racially-diverse enclave of friendly people just south of the city’s notorious 8-Mile Road that delineated the city border from the suburbs, populated heavily by police officers and firemen and other city workers who were required to live within its limits.

Back in the early nineties, an era that now seems as long-distant and antiquated as the middle ages, we had to cruise face to face in bars and parks and restrooms. Online was only becoming an option. I’d snagged a free Prodigy sign-up kit when I’d lived in my downtown apartment. In my new house, though, with my hot new Macintosh LC II pizza box and my 2400-baud modem, I made the leap to America Online, which outdid Prodigy with its nifty bells and gizmos. Not to mention its specialized M4M chat rooms, where excitement lurked.

It was in one of these chat rooms that I made my first AOL hookup. The guy was married, and older than I, and lived in one of the ultra-wealthy, ultra-white Grosse Pointes, the most exclusive suburbs in the region. That’s about all I knew of him. It was an era in which having digitized photos of oneself was a novelty, not a requirement; obtaining one would have required an expensive and clunky scanner, or more affordably, one of those nozzles one could attach to a dot-matrix printer that would have scanned a photo into a pixillated approximation of itself, line by line, as it jerked across the slowly-rotating carriage. Even if I had, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to figure out how to send or receive one, in those distant days. We were all such babes in the woods, then.

As it turned out, a photo didn’t matter. He didn’t want me to see him, anyway.

This is how it used to go down, with him. We’d see each other in the MI M4M chat room. Soon I’d hear the familiar trill of the instant message from him, asking if I could host. He’d name a time, and then I’d agree to be ready. I’d wash up, strip down, and then wait for him in the living room, completely naked. Door unlocked. On my knees.

Blindfolded.

I didn’t want me to see him, not ever. He had too prominent a job, he explained. A wife. Three kids. He didn’t want to be recognized, especially by the men he was fucking. So at his command I’d take a raggedly old bandana that I’d had since high school and wrap it around my eyes. I’d kneel on the soft peach-colored carpet in front of the sofa. And I’d wait, patiently, for his arrival.

He usually arrived quickly. When he was hunting, he wanted to get down to business as fast as possible. I’d hear the sound of a car door slamming outside, and then a step on my front landing. The whuff of displaced air between the storm door and my front door would follow, then the opening of the latch. My dick would harden as I heard him cross the threshold and drop his coat onto the floor. Then he’d walk over to me and take control.

Usually he’d grab me by the hair and blindfold and grind my face against his crotch. I was clean-shaven, then; he’d abrade my cheeks and jaw against the cotton of his slacks. My lips would snag against the cold metal teeth of his zipper. His belt buckle, frigid and hard, would bang against my forehead as he fumbled it from its clasp. Then I’d smell his dick, hot and needy, close to my lips.
Its scent was undefinable, but I’d recognize it immediately. There was soap, certainly, and the faintest remnants of the laundry detergent from his fresh briefs. But there was something else as well—perhaps the aroma from the bead of pre-cum that always lingered at his dick’s tip, or the mixture of oils and secretions that even the cleanest of man quickly accumulates in his out-of-the-way places. Regardless, I always knew when he’d pulled out that dick, just seconds before it plunged into my anticipating mouth.

He wasn’t gentle. He was a skull-fucker, the kind of man who liked to cradle my head in his hands and hold it motionless while he power-pistoned its wet depths. His dick couldn’t have been any longer than five-and-a-half thick inches, but the length didn’t matter. The vigor with which he used it did. He managed to open my throat with those shorter inches than most men with dicks my size ever could. The back of my throat would be hoarse and swollen from the assault for days, when he was finished.
I liked it like that.

He never undressed; he never took any more than five good strides into my home. He’d enter, close the door behind him, drop his pants to his upper thighs, and face-fuck me until he shot a load down my throat. When he came—and he came quickly—he’d thrust his dick so deeply down my throat that my nose and mouth would choke and gag, deprived of air, against his belly. Done, he’d shove me away roughly. So roughly that sometimes I’d fall back to the carpet, dizzy and off-balance. I’d hear the sounds of his buckling and fastening, and then the door opening and closing behind him.

Sometimes he liked to switch it up; he’d bring velcro cuffs with him that he’d attach to my wrists before he face-fucked me. A couple of times he cuffed my ankles and wrists and got me to kneel on the sofa in order to fuck my hole, but mostly he liked my mouth. He’d tell me how pretty my lips were, as he squeezed them with his stubby fingers, pinching the flesh tightly against his rigid meat. Or he’d whisper that I was better than his wife, as he’d insert his ring finger along with the rest of his dick.

He always told me to leave on my blindfold for five minutes after he left. I cheated, once. I wanted to see what this man looked like, this figure of wet dreams who played so powerfully into my fantasies. After my front door shut, I ripped off my blindfold and raced to the front window. Through the California privet I watched a perfectly ordinary middle-aged guy—slightly overweight, dark hair, former jock good looks—striding back to his BMW. I only caught a brief glimpse of him. I didn’t want to see more. It already felt a little like ripping down the curtain and finding that the mighty Wizard of Oz was a a suburban soccer dad.

After that, I left on my bandana, happy to remind blind for him.

And the winner is. . . .

Thanks to everyone who entered last week's Follower 500 Jock Giveaway Contest. Between the comments and the guys who entered via email, we had close to seventy-five hot and sweaty guys wrestling for my dirty jock.

Ah. The mental image. I like it.

Now, I've been working on the thing for almost a week now. I didn't wear it over the weekend because the straps were cutting into me after four straight days—but it did see cum rag duty. I've already put the stinking thing back on this morning, and I'm going to wear it a few more days to fill out the week.

There can only be one winner, though. After entering all the names into a lottery application written expressly for purposes like this, I've simulated a random drawing. And the winner is. . .

Gingerbeard!

I swear, guys, his winning has nothing to do with his offer to pay for personal delivery. Nor the part where he said I'd have to pump a few loads into him while I was there. It's kind of a tempting offer, though.

Gingerbeard, hit me up via email with your mailing information and all your naked photos, and at the end of the week I'll send you your prize. (Okay, only one of those two items is necessary. I'll let you sort out which one.)

Sunday Morning Questions: Breeder's Law Edition

I've been having one of those weekends. You know, the kind in which I have all kinds of opportunity for messing around . . . but no one to do it with.

In fact, it's been such a dry weekend that I was able to pull out the graph paper, the plotting pins, and the ol' geometrical compass so I could perform a scientific study. And it made me come up with what I think is a new and irrefutable principle. In fact, I've given it a name so that it can be studied more widely by the scientific community at large: The Breeder's First Law of Reciprocal Attraction.

The Breeder's First Law of Reciprocal Attraction states, thusly: The amount of attraction between two units is inversely proportional to the distance between them. That is, to guys in Phoenix, I'm catnip. To men in California, I'm a tin of canned sex. To guys in Australia, I'm fuckmeat on a stick sprayed with pheromones and covered with wrapping paper made out of the most hardcore of porn.

For the local guys, though, I could wrap my dick in hundred-dollar bills and they'd still not get off their asses and investigate. Maybe it's the holiday weekend. Maybe it's the stars. Maybe I've just worn out my appeal. But I'm pretty sure it's Breeder's Law in action.

By the way, if you'd like to enter the giveaway for the jock I've been wearing all week, please make sure to enter before midnight tonight (or early Monday morning. Who'm I kidding? I'm not going to be checking the final emails before tomorrow). Check in Monday's entry for all the details.

We've got more questions to round up today from formspring.me. Please stop by the site and leave your questions for me--you can do it anonymously, if you'd like.


Sorry, this was the first Q. Suppose you are in a monogamous relationship.. and your partner decides to never have sex again... what do you do?

Unless you're in a coma, one's partner should not be making unilateral decisions for the both of you. If this were to happen within a relationship and it was causing unhappiness for the partner who wanted to continue having sex, it would be either time to renegotiate the monogamy clause, or to seek counseling or outside assistance to explore the reasons and remedies for the sudden celibacy.


You mentioned a few weeks ago you were doing something at the local middle school with music. Are you teaching something there? or just volunteer stuff

I do school visits sometimes for my primary career. But I occasionally get hired on a free-lance basis for my crazy keyboard skills. In that case, accompanying a squadron of kids for a solo and ensemble festival.


Why did you decide not to teach?

I'm a creative artist who sometimes teaches, not a teacher who tries to squeeze in some creative work between his classes and research. I enjoy teaching and am a good teacher, but for the last several years I've preferred to focus on my creative work.


Did you ever get around to playing D&D, or was it strictly a cover for your meetings with Earl?

I played it once—with the original white box rulebooks. Yes, I'm that old.

The dungeon master was a guy in my seventh-grade class named Henry, who had a reputation as the school's uber-nerd. On an everyday basis he wore Star Trek buttons all over his clothing. Dozens of them. Really. One of them blinked and was shaped like one those tricorders, or whatever they're called. He also wore a 'Frodo Lives' button and sometimes a cape like Gandalf's.

Frankly, Henry was embarrassing to be around. And not just because he mixed his fandoms.

But Henry was the first person I knew who had the white-box D&D rulebooks, and he tried to start those of us who were nominally his friends into letting him be the dungeon master. The problem was that he was kind of a dick as a dungeon master; all the frustrations he had as the most picked-on kid in the class (now that I think of it, that's probably the sole reason he was in my circle of nerdy friends...he made us look normal) came out in his campaign, that Saturday morning. I think my half-elf cleric was dead barely before the 20-sided diced cooled off from the character creation.

I was kind of pissed, and told him where to shove it. And while my other friends continued playing D&D, I just used it as a cover for my Earl visits.

In the interests of full disclosure, I was a fan of other RPGs, and tried to lure people away from Henry's campaigns with Runequest, Gamma World, and especially Traveller. I loved Traveller.


Your creativity and intelligencel intrigues me, do you have any non sexual blogs you follow that you would recommend? I don't consider myself a writer even with an English Lit degree but I am always looking for interesting blogs to peak my interest

Your flattery, er, flatters me. Thank you. I read a mixture of blogs online. My favorite general-interest one would probably be Towleroad, because of its mixture of gay political-interest posts, music and entertainment news, and science posts. It really is more than just a Lady Gaga Watch blog, which is a relief.

For entertainment news I enjoy the A.V. Club. I also enjoy Tom & Lorenzo's Fashion, Television, and Pop Culture blog. WebUrbanist is always thoughtful and interesting. And I am always fascinated by the Shorpy Historical Photos site.

Apparently my brain demands a steady diet of ephemera. I'm sure you can find any of these sites by Googling them. Is there anything you think I should be reading?


The new Comments tab lists all the published comments and lets you delete them. You no longer have to visit each blog post and manually remove spam comments?

I don't delete comments. I mark the obnoxious ones as spam. Blogger makes them invisible, and internally tracks the IP address so that it can automatically move future posts from the same address into the spam folder.


Spencer makes you so happy. Do you suppose when you make the move your wife would consider taking in a boarder? Perhaps Spencer could be a gardener or the driver.

That's a sweet fantasy, but I don't think Spencer wants to spend a life as my gardener. I see a bright future for the kid; he should be free to pursue it.


Music questions here: 1. Have you ever sang Poor, Poor Pitiful Me in karaoke (it's my favorite). And 2. Would you ever post video and/or audio of your piano playing?

1) No, but I do like that song. And 2) I don't think my piano playing is really all that exceptional. Competent, yes, which is why I get hired on occasion to play in the background, where no one is really noticing me.

I would consider posting a recording of me singing, though. Because although I'm not a particularly great singer, I surely do it with gusto.


do you like bear?

I surely do, but for some reason, the local bears don't seem to like me. Or else they don't like to show it. Maybe it's my hair.


Did you write another blog before this one? Because a lot of guys here call you Rob, but I don't remember an entry where you actually say your name is Rob.

I think I may have had snippets of dialogue in my blog in which a guy might have addressed me by name. Additionally, many of my readers have written me and gotten a response signed with my name.

Which is Delores. (No, I'm kidding.)


This might not be popular, but I for one am interested in reading about one of your MMF experiences. Do you have any thoughts about writing about that? Do you take requests?!

It might be more popular than you think. I would write about them more if I was having more of them; I enjoy meeting with married couples, but I haven't done so for a little over a year. The last couple I was seeing parted from me somewhat awkwardly, so I might not have been as inclined to pursue replacements readily.


Are you attracted to the way a man smells?

Unless he smells like a skunk, or is highly perfumed, yes.

Smell is the one sense that can turn me off of sexual activity almost instantly. Although I like both a natural musky scent or a light cologne sometimes, If a guy is at too far an end of either side of the spectrum, I'm likely to be gagging too much to engage in some good old-fashioned rogering.

Saturday Night at the Rest Stop

The freeway was so dark on my return home from Ann Arbor Saturday night that I almost missed the turnoff to the rest stop. Only the blaze of its bright florescent lamps through the Plexiglass enclosure, greenish-yellow against the indigo midnight sky, tipped me to my destination.

My ass was still sore, quite frankly, after its poking by the steam room bear. In my post-coital moments in his hotel bathroom, I thought I’d wiped all the remnants of his attempts to fuck me from my ass. My hole, however, had been leaking lube during the return trip home. The long, solitary minutes and the prospect of more sex had flagged my curiosity once more.

Several cars were parked slantwise in the rest stop’s lot, when I pulled in. A head that was shrouded in the deep shadows of a suburban minivan turned to follow my path, as I stepped from my car and walked in the direction of the little shelter set back from the road. Most of the other cars were empty, which signaled to me that their occupants were probably within.

A trucker smoking a cigarette lounged against the outside door, his hand thrust deep into the pockets of his grimy, ragged denim jeans. Though his head was angled away from me, his eyes danced over my length, checking me out. I pretended not to notice, and pushed through.

A boy stood at the urinals just within the men’s room doorway, his skin the color and sheen of obsidian. His arms extended in long straight lines; his hands cupped around his genitals, which he’d pushed close to the porcelain of the waist-to-floor urinals. A latin man stood a urinal away from him. He had to have been around forty. His clothing was covered with dust, though in good shape. At my entry, he zipped up his grey jeans, stepped away from the urinal, and pulled his hoodie over his shaved head.

The men’s room has three stalls. The one closest to the door was occupied by a tall guy who was unbuckling his pants. He must’ve been at least six-six or six-seven, because for a guy to register as tall in my eyes, he has to be at least a good three inches over my own. He was bearded and white, the kind of guy I see at student concerts and swim meets, cheering on the spawn. He stared at me in the mirror as I traveled to the stall next to him.

No one was in the far stall to my left, when I sat down. The suburban dad’s foot immediately tapped at me when I dropped my pants. I tapped back. For a few moments we continued the ritual of tapping and bringing our feet closer. I sensed a shift in the shadows he was casting beneath the partition, and caught glimpse of ass from where I leaned over. When I moved my hand beneath the partition, he angled his body so that his backside connected with my fingers. I moved my hand further along the crack, between his legs, and found myself grasping his hard dick. The pre-cum oozing from its tip was cool and sticky against my skin.

He wanted to feel my dick. I obliged by letting him stroke it beneath the partition. We were interrupted fairly quickly, though, so I had to return to my seat on the toilet. Soon, though, when I didn’t hear anyone else in the restroom change position, I stood up to see who’d come in.

In the mirrors I could see the trucker I’d passed coming in was now standing next to the young black boy at the urinals. They were side by side looking both over their shoulders at the reflections of me and the married daddy in the stall next to mine, and at each other’s hard dicks. A third guy in a patterned woolen coat stood near them, stroking his meat through the fly of his baggy jeans. The latin guy had walked over to the sinks across from my stall. He unzipped the fly of his gray jeans and exposed his hard cock. The latin was only five-four or so, and his eight and a half inches looked obscenely monstrous on him. He had a circumcision scar a good three and a half inches behind his crown, which had to be the furthest back I’d ever seen, especially on a brown dick like his.

He nodded at me, as I watched him stroke. “Let me see yours,” he whispered.

The three men at the urinals had begun to stroke openly for each other. Next to me, I could see shadows of the tall dad’s hand flying back and forth over his meat. He was standing up and staring at the latin man, though his stall door remained closed. I felt bold enough to open my door and show off my dick to the latin. He immediately dived for it, taking it in his mouth and struggling to take it to the base. His hand went between my legs. One of his fingertips snaked its way into my still-sensitive asshole. “Fuck, papi,” he said, standing up and squeezing his dick so hard it should have popped. “You got load in there?” I didn’t answer. Instead I sat down on the toilet and took his meat in my mouth. It smelled slightly of a day’s piss, but I wanted to see how much of that monster I could take.

Before I got too far, though, we heard the sounds of the door opening outside. The latin leaped back and yanked up his pants. I closed my stall door and settle back onto the toilet. I heard the men at the urinals adjust themselves. Then, when once again no one made any quick exits, I stood up after a moment.

Two more guys had joined the already-busy men’s room. The latin had his pants unzipped again and was displaying his big dick to a kid with floppy hair pretending to wash his hands. A fourth man, tall and husky, had joined the guys at the urinals. Eight men, all hard and exposed, all jacking for each other.

I watched for a moment or two, and then made a decision. Hot as it was in there, it was simply too busy at that point. When it comes to public sex, there’s a thin line between a hot group scene and a juicy headline news bust. I pulled up my pants and, ass still feeling like it was sloshing, exited the restroom and headed back to my car.

I wasn’t too surprised when the latin followed me back. He stood at the trash can and watched me get into my car, which I left unlocked. After a couple of moments, he walked over, opened the back door, and got inside. He got his pants open so quickly that I might’ve sworn they were fastened with velcro. His dick stuck straight up in the air, just as hard and insistent as it had been in the restroom. I turned around and angled my body between the front seats, so I could see and hold it.

“I wanna fuck you,” he whispered. When I shook my head, he added, “You all lubed up and ready, papi, I want that ass.”

“Not here,” I said. “Let me suck you.”

He thought about it a moment, then relinquished his hold on his dick. I craned my body into the back seat and went down on him, slurping on that amazing dick. From the corner of my eye I watched as he turned his head from side to side, keeping a careful eye on the comings and goings around us. I’d parked in the most distant reaches of the lot, though, so not much could have happened without warning.

It didn’t take him long until he was pumping out amazing quantities of pre-cum that lubricated my mouth. A salty patch of the stuff dribbled down the back of my throat. The man seized the back of my head and held it still as he thrust upward. His breath left a sheen of fog on the inside of my window, where he breathed. With a mighty grunt, he shot. His load wasn’t huge, but it was unusually sweet. Hands still clamped on the back of my neck, he waited until I swallowed and cleaned him off. Then, when I sat up, he nodded, zipped and fastened, and existed the car.

I watched as he walked back in the direction of the restroom, either to clean up or to play some more. Either way, I was done for the evening. I’d fucked, I’d been fucked a little, I’d played with strange dicks at a rest stop, I’d sucked dick in my car. That was enough for one Saturday evening, and so I drove off into the night, leaving the little oasis a receding spot of light in my rear-view mirror.

Reader Asses: #10

Let's get right to it, shall we?


Donnie

I think these photos are some of the most professional we've seen in my series. Beautifully-lit, aren't they? And the subject is perfection—that ass is beautiful, and those balls are amazing.

Donnie hails from Finland. I'm pretty sure that if the Finnish Visitor's Bureau were to use him for an advertisement or two in selected publications, their number of tourists would probably triple.  Damn, Donnie. Thanks for sharing!


YB

Continuing in our international tour of asses, Mr. YB hails from Canada. You can tell he's from the great frozen north by the wooly socks, right? But let me guess. You didn't even notice them, because like me, you were mesmerized by that hole. That submissive pose always gets me every time.

Of course, the other way by which you might have recognized YB as a Canadian was by that uncut meat poking between his legs. That's one reason I love those Canucks.


FF

Sigh.

Every time I look at this picture, that's what I do. Because that ass is simply beautiful.

FF is a 19-year-old twink teen Latino bottom boy, as he describes himself, who's ready for a man to fill him with cock, cum, and love. Doesn't it make you want to go out and buy a bottle of lube and a bouquet of roses? I know it does me.

FF, you're one sexy boy, and you'll have many years of fun ahead of you. Enjoy them, my friend!


Nate

Now, I find this a particularly sexy photo. Nate is a reader who corresponds with me on occasion, and he sent this to be shared after an evening on which he was fisted for very first time. Thus the open hole.

It's an inviting sight—particularly with Nate's sexy face hovering in the photo's corner. Beautiful photo, Nate, and thanks for sharing a special night with everyone!



God damn, I always get randy after pulling together another reader asses column. Of course, I'd love to display your ass and hole for everyone to see, so consider sharing and read my original call for photos to see how to contribute.

And a quick reminder. If you'd like to enter the drawing for the jock I'm wearing and using as a cum rag for an entire week, make sure to visit that entry and leave a comment before Monday morning so that you can be in the running. I've had the thing on for two straight days now—overnight, too!

Return of the Steam Room Bear

When I met the steam room bear at the baths a few weeks ago, we’d spent such an intense few hours making out, fucking, and grinding against each other that there was no chance in hell I wasn’t slipping him my number and email at the conclusion of the afternoon. I give out my number in these situations with absolutely no expectation that the men will call me. They usually don’t. I’m too old and jaded to mope by the phone with my chin on my chubby fist, while Vikki Carr’s “It Must Be Him” plays in the background.

The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday.

He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.”

Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em.

Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below.

It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe.

“Yes. Please. Please fuck me.”

“Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass.

“Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.”

I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?”

“Pl—!”

He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!”

His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.”

I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.”

“I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.”

“Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment.

He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days.

Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return.

Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said.

“Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he whispered.

He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.”

I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that?


The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case.

His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?”

“Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench.

“Do you think about me fucking you?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know.

I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity.

He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.”

“I know.”

He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.”

They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway.

“I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say.

I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him.

I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?”

That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best.

I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.”

“I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it.

But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped.

“My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.”

Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him.

He slid back in, hard once more.

It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know.

“All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.”

He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it.

I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved.

Someone's Poem

“Want to hear something beautiful?”

We were tangled together, knotted limb to limb, our chests glistening with sweat and semen. Though it was after midnight, I could see his face in the dark; the cheap room at the Red Roof Inn not too far from my home hovered in a perpetual twilight, thanks to the banks of florescent lighting beneath its eaves, that leaked through the drawn curtains.

I’d been hearing beautiful things all night, thanks to the young man in my arms. He was all of twenty-one, a senior in his last semester of college who’d driven into town to meet me. His hair lay on my skin as he looked down into my face; it tickled. “Yes,” I replied.

“When I was driving up 75 through Ohio, it was all gray and dreary and pretty awful. The rain was crazy. Then I looked up and just as I was passing the Welcome to Michigan sign, I saw this cloud break above. It was truly amazing. Like magic.” I held the boy more tightly in my embrace, after that confession. “That’s when I knew everything on this trip was going to turn out to be all right.”

In the artificial twilight he lay on his side, his long, long blond hair gathered into a thick rope that lay across his neck and jaw and dangled loosely across the lower reaches of his ribcage. With his clear eyes, pale skin, and impossibly long golden tresses that seemed to give off their own light, he looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. His nose was narrow and sharp, his beard as short and neatly-trimmed as it was fair. He was beautiful, and to think that he’d been mine all evening took my breath away.

I’d arrived not knowing what to expect from the evening. I’d loved the kid’s profile when I’d seen it on BBRT, the week before. He’d checked me out a few days before contacting me to say he was planning a Detroit trip this last weekend, and that he’d been a blog reader of mine for a short time and was wondering if I might want to get together? Oh, I absolutely did. Over the next few days we hammered out the details. The boy messaged me both in email and through text messages to warn me that he hadn’t been fucked in a while—for over two years, to be precise. He seemed nervous about his recent inexperience, too; he didn’t go to the extreme that some do of making me promise, over and over again, to be gentle. He’d mentioned the hiatus enough, though, that I knew exactly how he felt. After all, I’ve felt that way about my own lack of bottom opportunities in recent years.

I wasn’t prepared for how absolutely breathtaking the kid was in person, though. His BBRT photos had been kind of goofy in a college boy way—they made him seem like a smiling, fun person, and definitely attractive, but they hadn’t prepared me for how truly attractive he was, when finally I knocked on his hotel room door and saw him on the other side, anxious and wide-eyed. I kissed him immediately, savoring the push and pull on my lips from his own. While we made out, standing there with his head tilted up to reach me, and mine lowered to his, my hands ranged down his body. My thumbs rubbed against his pierced nipples; my palms slid down the sides of his narrow waist. Then I cupped his ass, which in a pair of clinging sweatpants was full, perfect, and round. The kid wasn’t a particularly muscular guy, but my god, that ass. It would have bounced higher than a SuperBall.

We took our make-out session to the bed, where we gradually undressed each other, taking our time. He licked and sucked my torso and cock and balls, which I paid back by lifting his legs high to expose his hole for my mouth to taste. Hairy little fucker that he was, his hole was a forest of fur that abraded my chin and nose as I dove in deep.

He was tight. I could tell merely from the way his hole nipped at my tongue’s tip. At the same time, though, I could tell I was going to get inside that unused hole. The boy responded to every caress, warmed to every admiring word that passed through my lips. He wanted me, and he was letting me know it in every muscle’s turn, in every slow lowering of his curly lashes. When after a very long time I flipped him over so that those twin hairy globes were directly in my face, and he lifted them to assist my access, I judged that it was time.

My first attempt went badly, though. I knew that when I eased my cock head between those furry cheeks that I wasn’t going to get inside. He clenched down, repelling the invasion, and I retreated. That was fine. I lay next to him on the bed, with my greased finger pressed insistently inside his hole. As we kissed and nibbled at each other, I used the finger to draw a circle, gradually widening the entry until it puckered. I slipped another finger, and twisted and turned them to get him used to the sensations.

Then, after another very long period of relaxation and intimacy, I sweetly turned him back onto his stomach and worked my way in.

There were a few seconds of shock, and another few of intensity. Very quickly they were followed by sweet acceptance as I slid to the base. He groaned loudly, vibrating the alien mattress with the noise.

“How’s that feel?” I whispered in his ear.

“Wonderful,” he sighed.

I fucked him four times that evening, each time escalating the intensity of my thrusting just to the point I judged he could take it. All four times he responded by grinding and trying to add to my pleasure, the closer to got to orgasm. All four times, he pleaded for my load, and I was glad to give it to him. He spilled his sperm, too, once bringing himself to climax while I remained inside him and once letting me do the honors, and once by face-fucking me while I gulped eagerly at his dick. He licked me from head to foot, omitting no part of my body in his quest to bring me pleasure; he hammered at my hole with his finger, driving it all the way in until I grunted in contentment.

“You are driving me absolutely crazy with pleasure,” I kept telling him, as he stimulated and stroked me. Waves of sensation traveled over my body like an incoming tide.

“You deserve this kind of pleasure all the time,” he whispered back.

What was sweet, and touching, was that he believed it. I mean, what he told me is my own personal belief—I do deserve that kind of pleasure, all the time!—but he managed to say it with such sincerity that I knew his conviction was far deeper than my own.

The kid is a writer. In the morning’s early hours I got him to turn on the lights and read to me from his work, while I laid there on the bed in my shirt, my legs naked and sprawled open, my spent dick hanging limp between them. I closed my eyes and savored the words he spoke aloud, amused by the half-reticence in his halting voice as he read, and impressed by the half-confidence that took over as he proceeded. In a very few years’ time, that confidence is what will turn him into a speaker who will command attention.

He’s a good writer, too—good with an image, playful with his words. At the conclusion of each piece, he turned to me, naked in more ways than the purely physical, his beautiful long hair hanging on either side of his face. He was looking for approval. He’d had that long before, from the moment I met him in the darkness as our lips wrestled for dominance.

“If I were to write a poem about you,” he’d said in that florescent twilight, somewhere in the long, languorous hours we passed together, “I’d write about the feel of your skin, the smell of you, the way you taste on my tongue.” His arms had pulled me closer to him, and his words had buzzed in my ear. “You’d be the best poem I ever wrote.”

I wish I felt like someone’s poem more often. Maybe I deserve that, too.

The Follower 500 Jock Giveaway Contest

Yesterday in my weekly Formspring roundup, I asked for suggestions for a contest this week to celebrate my approaching 500th public Blogger follower. My frequent commenter and good friend Yves promptly stepped up to the plate and registered himself so that he could be number 500. And thus I must keep my part of the bargain.

Tempting as the contest suggestion was that I fly myself to a lucky winner's house for a weekend of servicing, it's a little out of my budget. What I can work with, however, was the proposal that I wear a jock for a week and then send it to the lucky winner. Therefore:

What you're looking it is my oldest jock. I had it as a senior in college, where it saw action in many an intercollegiate badminton tournament. (I'll leave it up to you guys to decide whether I'm kidding or not.) It's still in great condition, though the cup has lost some of its tone.

I'll be wearing the thing for a week, night and day, starting tomorrow or Wednesday. It'll see service as a cum towel, too. Then at the end of that week, I'll be sending it off to one of my (need I say lucky?) readers.

What do you need to do in order to win? Simple. You have one week to comment on this blog entry with a statement that you'd like to win the dirty prize. You don't have to be registered with Google or Blogger, but if you prefer to comment anonymously, please leave at least a name or nickname by which I can identify you. Do not, do not, do not give me your personal address in your comment. When I announce the winner next week, I'll ask him to email me with those details.

If you prefer not to let the world know you're after my soiled underwear, email me directly for a chance to win.

I'll keep the contest open until Sunday evening. When midnight strikes and Monday begins, it'll be over. I'll use my random drawing application to sort through all the names, and the first name drawn will be receiving a cum-stained packet shortly after that.

So what're you waiting for? Comment already.

Sunday Morning Questions: D Edition

The number of public followers I've accumulated on Blogger seemed stuck forever on 471. Then it started to inch up again over the last week. Now it's at 499.

And you know I have a tendency to celebrate when we reach milestones like 500. In the past I've given away pairs of spunked-up shorts that were, I do believe, quite gratefully received by the contest winners. I'm perfectly willing to do that again—I never seem to run out of the raw materials—but I thought I'd open up today's entry and ask the question: What kind of contest prize would you like to see for a random-draw event when I reach my 500th follower?

All I ask is that the suggestions be realistic. As much as a night with me sounds like a good prize (I hope!), it's not going to be realistic for everyone to hop on a plane an get to my city in order to wine and dine me and take me to bed. Notice how cleverly I didn't even bring up the possibility of me hauling out my credit card, there.

If you've got some good ideas, though, share 'em in the comments. Or mail me privately. I'm all ears. Otherwise, it's all underwear for the masses again! Not that it's a bad thing.

More questions from formspring.me again, today. Feel free to pop over there and ask me what you'd like, as long as it's not abrasive or abusive. And have yourself a good Sunday, guys and gals.


Do you have a favorite vacation spot? If so where?

Although I enjoy beaches and wooded resorts, I tend to enjoy taking vacations to some of my favorite cities—Chicago, Toronto, New York, Los Angeles— so that I can not only take advantage of their cultural attractions, but meet several of their men as well.


If i'm not being indiscreet.. when/why did you switch from pure bottom (in the Earl[y] days) to 95-99% power top?

I wrote about the incident that began the transition in my blog, in an entry called 'The Fulcrum.'


When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to be an archaeologist. I was highly influenced by the collection of artifacts from King Tut's tomb that toured the US during the nineteen-seventies.


Have you ever played hookie from work for the express reason of hooking up with someone?

No. I would simply invite them to bend over my work desk.


Have you sought or considered sex therapy/counseling to deal with your current mental block against bottoming?

Not beyond the counseling I eventually received after the incident that was at the root of it. Bottoming isn't something that I generally crave with anything more than a faint regret. If it was something I genuinely wanted regularly and found myself unable to do, I'd probably be more interested in overcoming my issues about it with action.

I know I can do it, because I've done it; the circumstances simply have to be right.


Love your blog and the fact that you are so grounded. The March 2 post was outstanding. Best to you and keep blogging.

Thanks for your compliments and good wishes!


Damn, those are some big balls (literally) you have there (your recent "smile" picture you posted) - but I'm digressing... Ever tried roids? How does bodybuiding make you feel (in any aspect)? the Dr.

Nope, I've never tried them. And do I look like a bodybuilder to you? I'm that 98-pound weakling upon whom the bodybuilder kicks sand.


In your blog you say you had been collared, what exactly did that mean to you, then? You were already submissive and obedient to Earl, so I'm curious if being collared took you to another level, or....?

A lot of today's leather and BDSM community talk about education, when it comes to their particular brand of play; I've known submissives who've been given books or texts to read, homework to write, their own blogs to keep about the experiences to which they're subjected.

I had none of that in my several years of time with Earl, the man around whom much of my sexual life revolved in my mid-teens. I'd show up to his house, wear the collar he'd leave me on his kitchen table, and then do whatever the hell it was he had planned for me that day. I didn't get any training other than what I got during the particular event. It was the same approach to advanced sex as throwing someone who can't even dog paddle into a watering hole is to swimming.

I knew certain things about the collar that made sense to me at the time. It was a badge of ownership. It allowed him to grab hold and direct me, when he needed, or restrain me when I was too eager. It was humbling. But most of all, it was one of those rituals that, by automatically following it without question, made me more his boy.


Have you ever had an experience when you were simultaneously having sex with two or more men who were related to each other (two brothers, a father and a son, cousins, or whatever)?

Yes.


Have you told your partner about all of your past relationships?

No. That would take more years than I've already invested in the relationship.


For the tops, Have you ever fucked a Fleshlight? How does it compare to the real thing for you?

Even when it's soaked in warm water to feel more like the temperature of hole, a Fleshlight feels very different from the real thing.

It's not bad, or even inferior. Just different. A real butt is going to be warm and is going to react in way to being fucked that a Fleshlight can never approximate. However, fucking a Fleshlight can still be a fun and pleasurable activity, I've found.


What rights should the father have if his unmarried girlfriend wants an abortion?

I'm afraid I side with the girlfriend's rights on this one. It's her body. Her choice.


Do you have a favorite 'toy' as an adult? What is it? (Note: toy can mean whatever it means to you...)

If we're talking sex toy, I'd probably have to say my collection of cock rings. I keep going back to my trusty rubber rings over and over again, but I enjoy substituting some of the others for a change in sensation.

If we mean other toys, I'd have to say my iPad. I use that thing more than I ever expected. At this point, I use it more than my laptop.


You're the coolest man on the net!!

I know, right?!

Field Trip Friday: Jayson Park

A lot of you porn hounds are probably familiar with Jayson Park.

He's starred in videos from a lot of the major bareback studios, including Hot Desert Knights, Treasure Island (his scene in Bone Deep with a top porn actor I truly admire, Dan Fisk, is one of my personal favorites), Red Stag Video, Raw Fuck Club . . . I'm probably leaving some out, but I lost count long ago.

Well, I actually have known Jayson for quite some years. I knew him before he was a much-admired and much-seeded porn deity, back when he was merely a hot man with an endless appetite for cock and cum. I've watched his rise in the porn world over the last couple of years with no little degree of pride, in kind of the same way he's watched me go from mere sleazy top to much-read blogger.

I'm not into commercial endorsements on this blog (unless, of course, you want to buy me stuff—then I'm craven). Jayson is a personal friend of mine, though, so I have no qualms about sending you to his new website: viewsfromthebottom.com .

Let me stress that Jayson's new effort is a personal website, not a commercial effort. Nor am I being rewarded monetarily for endorsing it. He's a friend of mine, and has been for some years. His goal is to reach out to fans and new readers with a mix of gay-interest new items, writings about his on-screen encounters, and queer culture. I think what he's started is pretty special, and I'm proud of him for branching out into this new arena.

So please. Pop on over to his site and spend a while. Put the feeds onto your daily reads. And jeez, if you haven't seen him bottoming onscreen yet, do yourself a favor and pop in one of his DVDs. The guy's amazing.

Love you, Jayse!

Shadow Lover

I’d been dreaming. I couldn’t tell you what about—tall buildings, certainly, and streets full of people. Clear, bright skies, and a leaf-scented breeze. Beyond that, I can’t recall. The noise of my phone vibrating in its charger was like a bar of ordinary household soap dropped into a tub overflowing with delicate, aromatic bubbles; the dream immediately fizzed away and evaporated into a dirty ring at the edge of my consciousness.

Nothing of it remained when I opened my eyes a few seconds later. The older I get, the longer it seems to take for me to come to consciousness in the middle of the night. I realize quickly that I’m in bed, but which of the many beds in which I’ve slept am I? The bed of my childhood, hemmed in by bookcases, or the bed of my first apartment, fourteen stories off the ground? Is the bed of my first house, tucked away in a corner on the second floor?

The choices spun in my brain like a reel of a slot machine until I realized that I was in my own bed, in what has been my home for thirteen years, and will be so for another six weeks. It was nearly five in the morning, according to my bedside clock. And the screen of my phone was blinking off, but not before I saw that I’d received some kind of text, or message.

I’ll be frank. I hate it when people try to call after my bedtime, or too early in the morning. It arouses an irrational kind of rage in me that can only be soothed with a good strangling. Usually I’ll ignore any texts I receive after a certain hour, but I was awake enough—and curious enough—to grab my glasses, clumsily shift them onto my nose, and peer at my phone’s screen. I’d missed three messages.

Hey buddy I know it’s late but I am in Ur area, said the first. Apparently it had arrived a couple of hours before, and I’d slept through its announcing buzz. It was from the Greek, the hot, lean little muscle stud from a couple of weeks ago. U around if I drop by later?


The second and third message had come in only a minute before. Listen if U get this I am parked outside Ur house. I’ll stay here for 10 minutes. If U want me 2 come in, flip on the front light and I will come in and come up to your bed. Hope U get this buddy.


My urge to strangle someone was forgotten. I’d mentioned to the Greek my current situation, separated from the family until my final move. As normally irritated as I might have been by the early-morning intrusion, the memory of our last hot fuck session made me feel a little more generous in spirit.

My dick rose beneath the sheets, as if knowing the texts had arrived especially for it. I considered the way I probably looked, with my crazy Bozo hair and an appearance as generally rumpled as the pillowcases. I slipped out of the bed and, in the nude, crossed to the front of the house. The cat that had been sleeping with me hopped down and rubbed around my leg. Sure enough, the guy’s showy muscle car was parked outside my house, still running, lights on. I’m probably not real presentable, I texted back, after a pause.

Don’t fucking care what U look like, came the text. Let me take care of U.


I thought about it a moment, popped a breath mint, then walked down the stairs and flipped on the porch light. Before I sprinted back up to the bedroom, I turned the lock in the door.

At that time of morning, and in my tree-lined neighborhood, only a few stars and a distant street light kept it from being pitch black. I was lying on my bed with my dick in hand and my sheets pulled back when I heard the door open and shut below. I listened to the footsteps on the staircase, and their old wood creaking. I saw a shadow hove into the room. He said nothing. First I heard one thud, then another, as he kicked off his sneakers. A faint shimmer of sound announced the dropping of his sweat pants. Then finally I heard him skimming off his shirt.

He found me by touch. His hand landed by chance on my calf, and then felt his way up to my knee and past my thigh. He claimed his prize when his hand wrapped around my stiff inches. The bed shuddered as he hopped onto it, and then I felt his lips around my shaft.

He was hungry. Without hesitation he went all the way down on my dick, not caring that the last shower I’d taken had been the morning before. He cleaned my dick of sheet lint and the day’s piss and precum and impaled his throat with it, moaning to himself as he sucked. I reached down and let my palm rub over his buzzed head.

When he clambered forward and roughly ground his mouth against mine, I was glad I’d taken that mint. His own breath was freshened as well. The stubble of his face ground hard through my beard and against my jaw. He pulled his hips so that they hovered over mine. Then he didn’t so much lower himself onto my upright cock as reverse-spear it with his hole. It was as if he jabbed down in one determined, savage motion, as if his hole knew exactly where to snatch at my rod. There was absolutely no resistance as I slid in him. His chute was not only warm, but already wet. Very wet.

Several loads wet.

I could feel other men’s sperm slicking up my dick as he began to raise and lower himself on top of me. I could only see his silhouette in the darkness, but my hands could feel his posture. I imagined him grinding my dick with his ass as he held himself erect, shoulders back, head lolling back as he let out the grunts of pleasure and need that punctuated the night. His own dick, restrained and bound in a ring of leather, had the spongy hardness of a man who’d been playing for several hours.

I tried to roll him over so I could pound him, but he wouldn’t let me. His gruff, deep voice cut through the dark. “Pretend you’re sleeping,” he said, pushing me back down. “And I’m the good dream you’re having.”

I laid back down, seduced by the idea of it. “So, how many?” I asked, after a few moments.

He knew exactly what I was asking. “Four since midnight,” he said. “Give me number five, then I’ll be out of your way.”

In a way, the fuck in the pitch black did seem like a dream. I was close enough to sleep that all I had to do was close my eyes, and I’d find myself drifting and dozy, though kept from sinking back into my dreams by that insistent ass clamped down on my meat as it rose and fell and clenched and loosened. I have an ordinary mattress and box springs, but so intense were the tides of pleasure that I felt as if I were floating on warm water, bobbing up and down upon the waves.

He said nothing. The grunts he released betrayed his own pleasure. His dick, halfway between soft and hard, flopped heavily against my stomach. It left a trail of ooze wherever it landed. When I began to moan more loudly and my own hips rose and ground into him, the closer I got, he leaned forward once more and kissed me. His tongue darted in and out, slippery between my lips.

“Give it to me,” he commanded, his face close to mine. His hips buckled violently, demanding the load. “Give it to me, buddy.” His growls grew more insistent. “I want it. Fucking give it to me.”

When I released, it was with a heartfelt cry of mingled shock and amazement. His hands clutched my forearms, pinning me down to the bed as he pulled his ass down as deeply as it could go. He rested there for a moment, and then very carefully pulled off.

The pressure on my arms and upper body abated. I felt him shift; his shadow receded. Then I felt warm breath on my dick, and the sensation of his mouth on my still-wet shaft. He cleaned off his own juices slowly, carefully, and with an obvious relish. Little whimpers of pleasure issued from his nose and the corners of his mouth as he engulfed the entire shaft, trying to get every drop.

When he finished, I again attempted to sit up. He pushed me back down, and lifted the sheets from the floor and covered me with them. “You go back to sleep,” he told me. “I’ll let myself out.”

I heard birds, over-eager for a dawn that was still a long time coming, chirping when he opened the front door after his stealthy trip downstairs. After the door shut, there was silence, then the sound of a car door closing and of his engine as he pulled away. My dick was still tingling as I lay there flat on my back, marveling at his hunger.

When I awoke again into the daylight, a couple of hours later, I wondered if it might have been a dream after all. But there on my phone were our messages, letting me know that my unseen lover had been more than a thing of shadow and sheer will.

Reader Asses: #9

We've got more reader ass to plow through today. And given how good looking they are, that was the right choice of verb.

TJ

TJ's not exactly the shy type. Nor is he a stranger to the camera, either. This sexy man has been in a couple of releases from Manhunter Videos, as well as in one of TIM's gangbang scenes. I think we can all understand why he's in demand, after these photos. Beautiful ass!

If you're in the Maryland or DC area and want to mount TJ, check him out either as TJWolfePrnStr on Manhunt or TJWolfe on BBRT.

Throb

I already knew that frequent commenter Throb was a sexy-assed fucker. You'll just have to trust me on how I knew. Let's just say that there are many parts of him to admire.

I love this self-taken photo of his ass that he managed to grab with his phone's camera, though. It's not exactly in focus, but hey. If I were kneeling down behind him at this range, I'd probably have to pull out my reading glasses to see clearly, too. But trust me, I wouldn't be wasting time fumbling for my readers . . . not with muscular globes this beautiful right in front of my lips.

J.

My boy J. seems to have snuck into someone's bathroom in order to take these photos of himself for me. I'm especially fond of the first shot, in which his ass makes a coy appearance over the waistband of his jeans, then flirts with the camera as it shows off its juicy, perfectly round self.

You know, if I had an ass like J.'s, I'd be wearing a bright red belt to call attention to it, too.


Cubinwpb

I can't overstate how hot are these last two photos of the day. I mean, fucking beautiful. Look at the curly hairs on that firm round ass.

Cubinwpb has a blog he maintains. Wouldn't you like to read about the adventures of the man who owns that beautiful ass?



Let's have a big round of applause for today's butts! I know the guys who contribute their photos to this little project of mine love to hear your comments about them, so be generous with your praise.

And if you'd like to participate in Reader Asses, in which I show off the finest views of my finest readers, I'd love to have your pictures. Read the original post in which I solicit them, and email me!

Friday at the Baths: Long Hair

A number of guys spilled out into the hallway from the steam room when I exited. My long-haired man walked about a dozen feet in front of me, through the dimly-lit halls of the bathhouse. He looked over his shoulder to see if I followed. My flip-flops slapped against the dirty carpet as I picked up speed in his direction.

I was aware that the bully was among the three or four guys who’d followed me from the billowing steam. When I turned the corner down the hallway where the long-haired fellow had his room, I could see the bully making a beeline in my direction, clutching his towel around his waist as he walked double-time after me. “Dude, you gonna fuck him?” I heard him stage-whisper. “He’s hot! I wanna watch you fuck him!”

Once I rounded the corner, I picked up the pace myself. The long=haired man had opened his door and paused in it to see if I was coming. I slipped in behind him and closed the door, so that we wouldn’t have unwanted company.

He had the dimmer switched down low. We were alone in the near-dark. Without any words between us, I removed my steam-damp towel and hung it on the doorknob. He loosened his, lay it on the tiny table between his bed and his locker, and lay down. In the interior twilight, he was a dark, lean streak against the luminous white sheet. One of his hands drifted down between his legs. It was too dim to tell what he was doing down there.

I knelt on the bed. His legs automatically parted, then lifted. When my hand searched for his hole, he sighed. He was already moist down there, but I added to the slickness with some spit.

“Can you go again?” he wanted to know. His voice was shy and hopeful.

Oh, I could go again.

Getting into him was a problem. The little guy was so tight, so little used, that it felt as if the head of my dick pressed against a cement wall. I had to check twice to make sure I was aimed at the right place. Eventually, though, I felt something give way. He gasped; his legs began to tense over my shoulders. I continued to push in, taking it slow, moving in and out in measurements too small to measure, increasing and relaxing the pressure. I got an inch in, then two, then a third. Then, as he let out one long shuddering sigh, the bottom five eased in, all in one go.

Once I was inside, he relaxed enough to let me fuck long and hard. He didn’t kiss. There was a strong smell of cigarettes to him that might have put me off, anyway. The way he looked at me as we stared at each other was almost more intimate than a kiss, though. The guy had soft green eyes that, set against his dark skin and the raven-black hair splayed over the pillow, looked all the more eerily pale and out of place. He stared directly into my own eyes. His lips were parted slightly. From time to time, when I’d thrust in deep, a tiny puff of air would issue from between them.

He really was feminine in aspect. That puts off a lot of men, but the quality suited him. His small, fine features matched the lankiness of his frame and the beauty of his mane. His hands, too, were small and narrow. As I continued to fuck him, his long fingers reached up and touched my cheeks, my temple. Stroked the sides of my head, cleared away the mess of dark blond hair hanging in my face.

When droplets of sweat would fall from my face onto his, he would merely blink and let them remain.
It was when he whispered, “Please,” that I realized how close I was to shooting. My mouth opened as my breaths became rasps. He nodded—just slightly, barely perceptible to the eye. His hands cupped my face, holding it still, as we stared into each other’s eyes. “Please cum in me,” he said.

The words were so polite, so gentle, that I couldn’t help but oblige. My fourth load of the afternoon spewed inside him. Only when I was shooting did his eyes closed. His head rolled back onto the cushion of raven hair. His small dick, hard and uncut, shifted from one side of his abdomen to the other, leaving behind a shining snail’s trail of ooze.

His hole clenched down around the base of my dick, refusing to let it go as it pulsed out the last of my semen. We had an awkward couple of minutes in the cramped cubicle trying to shift around into a mutually-pleasing position without me pulling out. At last, though, we settled down into a spooned position on our sides. “Don’t go,” he whispered softly.

I ran my fingers through his tresses. They were as soft and sleek as they were shiny. “I won’t,” I promised.

For two more hours and two more loads we stayed tied together. It was both intense and passionate—two things you don’t always find at the baths.

Friday at the Baths: Bath House Bully

After nearly a week’s hiatus from sex, I decided to take off Friday afternoon and spend it at the local baths. Secretly I was kind of hoping for a repeat of the hot Friday experience I had a couple of weeks ago. After all, who doesn’t like being the center of everyone’s attention for a couple of hours, and who wouldn’t crave more of it? I’m not that strong a man.

I arrived shortly after noon. Once I’d paid my money and signed my card and had been buzzed into the dark labyrinth of hallways inside so I could pick up my room key and towel, I could tell almost immediately that the crowd was a little different on this visit. The men a couple of weeks ago had been younger, generally. This last Friday there were an awful lot of seniors roaming around. Seniors with expensive cars, judging by the BMWs and Jaguars I’d seen in the parking lot. The average age of the men didn’t put me off too much. I could use a sugar daddy. (I’m kidding. No I’m not.)

Besides I wasn’t asking the age of the guy who assumed the position on the lower shelf of the steam room, right between my knees, as he nursed on my dick. I would’ve guessed him to be in his sixties, but the guy had a tennis-toned athletic body and a firm pair of calves—and his mouth was pretty damned good. Guys drifted in and out of the steam room as he gave me an expert blow job. At one point he put his hands on my knees and eased them back and into the air, so that my hips rolled back and gave him access to my hole. As he held my legs down, his mouth opened and his chip dipped into the cleft of my ass. I felt his mouth and tongue connect with my hole, and I stopped really paying much attention to what was going on around me.

It was a little while later, at the conclusion of that amazing rim job, that I found another older guy standing over me. I’d seen him before at the baths. He had big blue eyes that I couldn’t fail to recognize. His head was shaved and his body was fit and trim, while not as athletic as the man who’d gone back to sucking my dick, The guy’s dick, though, was killer—an actual nine-inch uncut thick slab supported by a cock ring around the base. My jaw dropped; he stepped forward and slipped between my lips the hefty poundage swinging between his legs.

A third guy started watching the little daisy chain. He was big, almost ungainly guy with a bald crown and a fringe of hair around the sides of his head, big-framed and square-faced. As much as I hate to draw the comparison, he reminded me of actor Brian Baumgartner, who plays Kevin, the slow one on The Office. Much younger, though, and not quite as doughy. He watched me deep-throat the big-dicked guy for a long time. I kept putting on a show for him as I did it. I like to be watched. Finally my buddy pulled out his dick and sat down next to me on the ledge, where we made out for a long time while the first man continued to suck on my balls and shaft.

“I want to see you fuck him,” the big guy announced, breaking the steam room’s unwritten code of silence that insists that all communications be made in nothing louder than the softest of whispers. “I want you,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at the big-dicked older man, “to fuck him.” This time, he stabbed his finger in my direction. “Get that big old dick in that boy’s hole!”

It struck me that the big guy was something of a bully. He treated us like we were his personal porn servants. There was no way I was going to be fucked by the older guy’s big dick. It would have ripped me to shreds. He didn’t really seem inclined to leap up and obey the bully, either. We ignored him, and went back to making out. When the steam got too thick and hot, the bully drifted away.

So the the rest of us. I went back to my little room with the big-dicked guy and enjoyed sixty-nining with him for a good half-hour, and then enjoyed him sucking on my feet and toes while he masturbated himself. When he left, I lay on my cot with the door open for roughly thirty seconds before a muscular black man strode on in.

“Damn!” he grunted, at the sight of my still-hard dick flopped across my hips. He left the door open as he knelt on the mattress between my legs. I tried to sit up, but he wasn’t having any of it. He wanted me as trade, silent and not participating with anything other than my dick. He shoved me back down. “Just put your arms over your head and relax, baby,” he told me. “I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

The blow job he gave me wasn’t great. It was just a prelude to the fucking, though. While I continued to lie on my back, hands cupping my skull as he’d instructed, the guy used a disposable one-time lube applicator and greased up his hole. Then he lifted himself slightly before settling back down on my rock-hard meat. His groans were loud enough to draw a crowd outside my door—and I’m sorry that my first thought wasn’t how hot the scene probably was, with a black muscle stud riding my pole with his head thrown back and deep cries of abandon issuing from within his chest. No, I was thinking, gosh, I wish I’d straightened my sheets a little better before all these people started watching.

The black guy came quickly. His dick was even bigger than the uncut older guy, and it unloaded in a thick spray onto my stomach and chest. He kept riding, though, putting on even a more vigorous show now that the orgasm was out of his system. “Ooo, baby, you got so much big white dick up in me and it feels so good!” he yelled at a pretty significant volume. Loud enough, anyway, to double the crowd of guys outside the door. “You need to give me that cum, pretty white boy!” After a few minutes more of that, I obliged, loudly. The guy held himself on me until my orgasm subsided, then climbed off. My dick slid out of him with a slick, audible plop; a hefty handful of my load fell out of his ass and onto the bed. “Damn!” he said at the door. “White boy got some pipe!”

The guys scattered as my new friend exited the room, like kitchen rats surprised in their scavengings. I took a shower, then returned to my cubicle and rested for a little while more.

When I ventured out again, it was to the steam room. The place was crowded by now, and a hot little Italian guy caught my eye. I liked his clear, pale eyes, his acute angle of a nose, and his coarse and curly hair. We kissed, and then I had him bent over the sweaty tile shelves in a matter of moments. I was nuts-deep in the guy as he groaned and buckled and pushed back his hips, his head hung low and his ass pointed high. A hot little Asian guy pushed through the crowd and next to me; he used some of the Italian boy’s lube on his fingers, and then worked them against my hole. The Asian guy had what I believe is medically termed a slammin’ body. Lean, narrow-waisted, hairless, and muscular he was. His dick was as skinny as the rest of him. He obviously wanted in the Italian guy’s ass when I was done with it, but in the meantime he was more than content to make out with me while I shoved in and out.

I came loudly, egged on by the dozen men watching. Some were crowded around me and the Asian kid, others were peering over the high tile partitions that separated one area of the room from the other. When I pulled out, the Asian boy shoved on in. I could tell by his ecstatic expression that he was enjoying the sensation of my sperm as lube. I was simply going to break away, but the Asian guy was insistent I stay with him. I stood behind him at his urging, holding him at the hips, and grinding my softening dick against his tight little butt cheeks. The entire time he fucked the Italian, the Asian kid kept making out with me. When he came—and it didn’t take long—his lips were locked with mine, tongue so firmly entangled that it would’ve taken a lock pick to separate them.

(The Asian guy was apparently pretty popular, that afternoon. Two different guys placed Craiglist missed connection ads for him, over the weekend.)

It was only about three by that point, so I didn’t quite want to leave yet. I returned to my room for a little and sat with the door open for a little while. A very little while, as it turned out, because Bully Boy came barging in fairly quickly. “Dude, you were hot, fucking that ass in there!” he said.

“Thanks,” I drawled.

“I love watching you young guys fuck. It’s hot to watch a boy like you do it so good.”

Now, if I’d had to guess, I would’ve placed the bully at about thirty-five. A kind of prematurely middle-aged thirty-five, but no more than that. “I think you might have underestimated my age,” I told him. What can I say? It was dark in there.

“Real young guys like you turn me on,” he said. His fingers reached out and grabbed a rough handful of my hair, which he proceeded to yank. “Go fuck that guy again.”

“I’m relaxing right now,” I told him.

“Go fuck that guy again!” he commanded. “I wanna watch you fuck his hole.” I smiled and shook my head. “Dude, he wants it. He wants your young dick up in him.”

“My young dick needs a little recuperation time,” I said, being firm.

“Dude, I know you got stamina. Don’t try telling me you don’t got stamina, because I know you got stamina. I’ve seen you with what, four guys now? Five guys? You’ve got the dick that doesn’t quit.”

“Maybe in a while,” I repeated. “Not now.”

He got the message, but every five minutes he stopped back by to try to entice me. “Dude. Just nail his little hole! I’ll track him down and bring him to you!” I kept putting him off, though. When he left at one point, I tried to sneak out and hide in the billows of vapor in the steam room, but somehow he walked in and found me. Almost immediately he turned around and dashed outside, only to return a short time later with the Italian guy in his clutches. He pushed the poor guy in my direction, then stood with his hands on his hips, looking smug.

Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I pulled the Italian to me and began making out with him. He relaxed into my arms almost immediately. It was then that I realized maybe the Bully hadn’t been bullshitting me after all, and that the Italian really had enjoyed the first fucking I’d given him. He certainly seemed to melt when once again I spat on my dick and eased it into his asshole. The Bully knelt down to the ground to get a good view, before it disappeared completely.

While I fucked, he kept up a steady stream of profane encouragement. “Fuck him! Yeah, fuck that tight little bitch!” he’d say. “Pound him. He wants it hard. You can tell he wants his hole to get a real rough pounding. Slam it in there! Slam that young dick deep in there!”

The commands didn’t really do anything for me, but they didn’t really detract from the fuck, either. The other men watching—because a small crowd, not as large as the last, had begun to accumulate around us again—seemed to enjoy it.

One guy in particular caught my attention as I fucked the Italian. He was a short and slender man of indeterminate age—anywhere between his late twenties to his late forties—with very long, lush, dark hair. His skin was dark and his eyes large, in a way that made me think he had some kind of Pacific Islander heritage. The guy was beautiful to look at. His features were finely-formed and even feminine, but his lean and hairless body was definitely male, with bulges in all the right places. He stared into my eyes as I fucked away, and with my encouragement, moved up to my side. He didn’t kiss me, as the Asian boy had. But he touched my skin with his hands as if I were some sort of artwork, and he the curator.

That was distracting. Not because I disliked it. But because I wanted to have sex with the dark-skinned, long-haired guy more than I wanted to continue fucking the Italian. I was close, though, and the long-haired guy’s feather-light touch on my butt was making my spine quiver in anticipation of orgasm. I slammed the Italian so hard that his head cracked against the tile shelf. He didn’t complain, though, or ask me to stop; he just braced himself and arched his butt higher so I could drive the load home.

My head was spinning from heat and sex and a three-load dehydration, but before I could return to my room or to the water cooler, the slender long-haired man grabbed my arm. He walked in the direction of the steam room door, pulling at me lightly. His fingers drifted down my forearm, where we separated.

I stepped out into the relatively frigid air of the dark hallways outside, and followed him.