Open Forum Wednesday: The Pic Thing

In my question-and-answer series yesterday was an inquiry from a reader about how to hook up with guys online without having to provide a photograph. I spent a good deal of this weekend clearing out my pending-replies folder of my email box, and I was a little surprised to find no less than four emails—all from different people—asking pretty much the same question.

Here’s one, which I’ve gotten permission to reproduce here:

Mr. Steed, 

I am a married guy who really envies the way you go for and get sex. I have been straight for the last twenty years after some ‘experimentation’ in high school, and I think it’s time to start integrating my gay side more, or I think I’ll go completely nuts. All I think about is gay sex. It drives me kind of crazy that I can’t get any. 

I’m not a bad-looking guy, I work out three times a week and have a fit build and a good chest. My position in the community is too important to risk putting pics out there, though, and it bugs me that guys want to see pics before meeting. I’m not into pic-swapping. I want to meet. It seems like no pics is a deal-breaker for most men, though, and I can’t take that risk. 

How can I meet guys online without showing any pics? I’ve tried Craigslist, etc. 

Thanks.

Before I get to my tough love, I’d like to express sympathy to all you guys who wrote in with similar letters (and they were all very, very similar). I understand you’re in a tough place, trying to negotiate that tightrope between your current life and your own sexual desires. It’s obvious, though, that none of you are content with the way things are; if you were, you wouldn’t be hunting for sex on the side, nor would you be writing me to ask for advice.

The simple reality, however, is that there are vanishingly few people who will want to meet you without knowing what you look like. That is the immovable object against which you have to labor. I wouldn’t meet you without a photo. Nor would I meet you with an obviously out-of-date photo, a murky photo that looks like it’s been shot with a crappy cell phone cam in the dark, or a shot only of the tip of your cock. I’ve been burned too many times by guys who’ve represented themselves falsely.

If you want to meet men online, you need to have a clear shot of yourself and your face. It can be that vacation photo from earlier in the spring, or a shot you’ve taken especially for your profile or ad sitting on the stairs. But I need to see a photo so that I can make sure you don’t look like an axe murderer, a creepy playground guy, or one of those men who claims to be 46 when it looks as if you’re 70. (I’ve got nothing against 70-year-olds, mind you, but I do dislike liars.) That’s just the way it is.

Guys who talk about how they’re simply too important and high-profile to have pics absolutely baffle me. Unless your name is John Travolta or Tom Cruise, you’re simply not that special a snowflake that you can’t share your face. (And if your name is John Travolta, you’re not really doing that great a job at hiding your needs, frankly.) There are a lot of married men who share photos of their faces with other men. I’m one. There are a lot of teachers, politicians, policemen, and other high-profile career men who have photographs of themselves. If we were in the nineteen-fifties or sixties and homosexual blackmail plots were still a current literary device, I might understand. But we are well past those days.

Perhaps you might not want to share your face photo on Craigslist, where anyone can stumble across it and link to it. That’s understandable. But you can choose another online site that requires membership, like Manhunt or Adam4Adam—your wife, your minister, your parishioners are not going accidentally to stumble across them on a site like those that requires a membership or account. (If they do, they’re looking for the same thing as you, you know.) You can even place your photos under lock so that you can pick and choose who sees them, if you’re really that worried. But guys are going to want to see your photos, and you are going to have to share them at some point.

The essential crux of the dilemma with these gentlemen is that—and I don’t mean to be cruel, just honest—they want to have all the benefits of scoring online tricks, without taking any of the risks. To someone who’s never posted a photo on an online profile before, I understand that it’s a daunting prospect. In reality, though, it’s a risk so minimal that once you’ve done it, you will be totally baffled at why you thought it was at all scary. Without risk, you’re unlikely to get rewards. No guts, no glory. That’s simply the way it works.

So no, I’m afraid that I can’t offer any of these gentlemen the reassurance that there is a foolproof way to get sex online without taking the slightest risk. If these guys want to get some, they’re all going to have to give.

What do you guys think? We’ve discussed the pic thing before the past, but would you have any different advice to give? Am I being too harsh? Or is my advice pretty much on-target? Let’s hear your experiences in today’s open-forum comments.

Monday Morning Questions: Day Late & Dollar Short Edition

What the fuck happened to the month of May? It was as if some giant time monster marched up and took a huge chomp and came away with three weeks of my life in its mouth.

I vaguely remember stepping back into that peculiar time warp that happens whenever I visited my pop's old place. Then after I returned back here, I found myself swamped with catching up . . . and then I looked up and it was Memorial Day weekend. Weird. I didn't even get to fuck a sailor for Fleet Week here.

Let's catch up on a bunch of questions that have been ripening since the last time, shall we? And if you have anything you'd like to ask anonymously, pop on over to my formspring.me profile and ask away.


What's you're favourite porn scene? I know you like Treasure Island Media's output. My personal favourite would be Dan Fisk and Ian Jay in Breeding Ian Jay.


I find the fuck scene between Jesse O'Toole and Erich Lange in Breeding Mike O'Neill to be one of the hottest and most romantic fuck scenes between two guys on film.

The first scene between Dan Fisk and his bottom in Breed That Faggot Boy Ass is also pretty hot. Dan Fisk is an amazing top.



Trying desperately to hookup; as a married guy, staying discreet is a challenge. Most hookups don't happen coz they insist on face pics. I'd rather meet.Please advise!

To be totally honest, I wouldn't meet you without a face pic, either.

That's simply the reality of online hookups. If it comes down to meeting a guy who has a clear and recent face pic in his profile, or a guy who has no photos, or photos of one-quarter of his dick and nothing else, I will take the guy with the face pic every time.

If it came down between meeting a guy with no face photos and jacking off, I'd probably choose the jacking off.

Something's got to give, here. You've got to decide which has more primacy in your life—the need to get laid, or the need to remain completely unknown. I suspect your fear of having your face seen is way overblown, and you need to get over that fear before you start getting laid regularly.



When your in NYC do you go just about every free moment? And do you go looking for a hook up?

I'm not sure I understand the question. Do I go into NYC just about every free moment? I live on the city's outskirts, so it's within easy reach at any time of day, but I usually only head into the city once or twice a week. Do I go every free moment when I'm in the city? Yes, I'm pretty much on the go from the moment I get off the train until the moment I get back on it, that night.

Do I go looking for a hookup? Often I do. Sometimes I have one pre-arranged. My luck at finding hookups spontaneously in the city is pretty low, sadly.




Did you have a favorite toy as a kid? Do you have a favorite toy now?

I had a lot of toys I liked very much as a kid, and most of them were open-ended in nature. Things like my Erector set (no jokes, please) and my chemistry and electronics science kits kept me interested and active for a very long time.

My favorite toy of all, however, had to be the Atari 2600 I got when I was in high school. I played with that thing for hours at a time, and have been a video gamer ever since.

My favorite toy now is my dick. Only now I've learned to share.



Would I have to beg you to serve me up your schlong in every position imaginable?

Only if you get off on begging. Otherwise you just need to arrange it.

When one of your sexual fantasies or desires is considered as taboo by the society, do you feel frustration and shame? Or does it help you to assume it and do it ? More generally, do u feel comfortable with some of your darkest desires you don't confess?

Feeling shame over sex is a waste of time, and none of us have unlimited time here on this earth. What constitutes taboo sexuality changes from decade to decade, from generation to generation; I've seen acts that were considered commonplace when I was a kid become taboo and unthinkable in the course of less than forty years.

Enjoy sex. It's a gift. Squandering it is the real sin.



Do you sometimes partake (or dream about) bondage? If so, what about it turns you on?

My philosophy about any kind of sex gear, whether it's toys, or something to wear, or bondage equipment, is that if I wasn't born with it, then I don't need it in order to fuck.

Some of my partners enjoy bondage, though. I enjoy making them happy. That's what turns me on about it.



if your wife were to reveal an attraction for another man and followed through would you be pissed,while you talk about men youvé slept with have you slept with women other than your wife while married

This is a couple of questions and a lot of assumptions about my relationship. I'll leave the latter behind for now.

I don't really believe that finding someone else attractive is an offense; it's certainly not worth getting pissed over. The human animal is wired to find others attractive, and even to act upon it.

I'm always surprised that people assume the stock reaction to one's spouse meeting up with someone else should be anger and the end of the relationship. Not every relationship has a zero-tolerance policy about infidelity—and a lot of couples have the balls and emotional maturity to arrange their relationship in a way that suits them, rather than pretend to live in a manner that flatters the relationship.

Everybody's got the freedom to find a relationship they deserve. It does not have to be the relationship other people have, or their parents had, or their grandparents presumably enjoyed. It does not have to be the relationship you see on television or read about in romance novels.

It's your life. Make conscious and intelligent choices about how you navigate it, rather than let it pass as you float in its stream.




Have you ever banged the babysitter?

No. Nor have I required the use of a babysitter for some time.



At work, one of your superiors proposes you to get promoted... But there's a condition. You have to be a sexslave for him and his friends during a whole weekend. No limit. If you refuse 1 order from them, no promotion. What do you do?

I'd get him to email me about, then I'd forward it to the human resources department.



Is there anything you do better when you're angry than when you're not?

I become highly verbal and articulate when I'm in a rage, and suddenly sound as erudite as I do when I'm writing my literary wordiest. I wish I could speak so well when I'm in a normal mood.



Do you have a personal age of consent (such as 18+) that you use when hooking up with guys or do you go by whatever the age of consent is in the state you're in (such as 16+ in Connecticut and 17+ in New York)?

I think it's safest to pay attention to the age of consent in the locality of the younger person.



Did/does your early sexual experience influence your opinion concerning age of consent laws?

I understand the need for age of consent laws; as a general rule, it's inappropriate to seek sexual consent from someone who doesn't really understand what they're getting into.

On a practical level, though, I think it's foolish to make generalizations about mass amounts of people. Age of consent laws are right for a large number of youths. A smaller number of youths (and I speak from experience, since I was among them) are going to ignore them and attempt to seduce their partners into being scofflaws. Age really doesn't qualify anyone for having sex. (There are some fifty-year-olds who aren't really ready to be having sex with others, either. I wish we had laws for them.)

Here's my basic beef with our current society's hysteria about teenaged sex: in our cultural dialogues, we tend to see the issue only in terms of black and white, and any attempts at actual discussion of the subject are met with such shrillness and condemnation that it's impossible to take a stance without being accused of a perverted agenda. The act is highly inappropriate, yes, but to paint all teens who engage in sex with older partners as victims of molestation or as abused—especially those who might have done so quite willingly, or sought it out on their own—does a severe and grave disservice to those who truly are abused against their will.

Detour

I have a mild east/west dyslexia that gives my life a little frisson of panic from time to time. It happens particularly when I’m driving and getting onto an expressway or turnpike, and a sign looms before me, pointing in two directions. East? Or West? For some reason I have no problems with north or south. That one I can handle instinctively. For the east/west axis, however, I have to visualize a map in my head, visualize the compass on it, and then think to myself, west is to the left, east is to the right . . . Wait, which way do I want to go?

After several mental steps, I usually get the answer right. But unless I’ve already worked it out in my head before I need to, on the road there will be a moment when I’m required to make a snap decision, and the several seconds it takes to figure out the proper direction can lead to a little bit of panic. And there have been a couple of times in the past, I’m sorry to say, when I’ve got several miles in the wrong direction before realizing it.

That’s why I like to depend on GPS and turn-by-turn instructions, when I’m driving somewhere unfamiliar. It tends to do the thinking for me. The only problem is that sometimes it’ll putz out on my phone. When I was driving down to Richmond from the northeast, for example, I was passing over the George Washington Bridge when my GPS app suddenly announced, in its bland female voice, Guidance . . . Terminated. I tried switching over to Google Maps to get the route I was supposed to be taking, but in emergency situations, Google Maps likes to give me little comedy routes. Like, in that case, making a U-turn in the bridge’s truck lane, driving back into Manhattan, taking a right at Radio City Music Hall, circling around Central Park, detouring through Harlem, and then getting back on the George Washington Bridge again.

To which I was about to say “Fuck you, Google Maps!” when the voice announced, Guidance . . . Resumed, and I managed to stay on my route.

And then there was my trip home from Richmond. I left very late in the day, because I had to spend the morning waiting for my car’s repairs before I hit the freeway, and listen to my dad lecture me about how I’d been ripped off for the repair costs. (He had no proof, really—just a strong conviction that all repairs are rip-offs.) Plus, lunch. So although I’d originally intended to be on the road by eight, I really didn’t get out of Richmond until nearly three. And then I was sailing up I-95 toward DC, trying to remember which one of the beltways I was supposed to take, when my GPS announced, Guidance . . . Terminated.

I waited a minute. I flicked my fingertip against the phone. I did a Google Maps search and got back another comedy route that would’ve driven me up the Mall to the Washington Monument and eventually landed me on the Capitol steps. Then I turned off the GPS and said, “Fuck it. It’s just 95 all the way home. Right?”

Well, no.

I’ve only driven this route a couple of times, but apparently there’s a stretch of my route in which I am supposed to leave 95 and get on the New Jersey Turnpike. I didn’t know that. So there was a point in my trip in which I found myself calling my dad and saying, “Everything’s fine. Just entering Pennsylvania. Okay, I’ll be careful. Thanks again for having me!” and hanging up. Then a few minutes later I thought, You know, I don’t think I’m supposed to go THROUGH Pennsylvania on this route. Then a few minutes after that, I thought, Um, why am I seeing the skyscrapers of Philadelphia?

I-95, on the route back, goes right through downtown Philly. Which was an interesting trip, granted. The traffic was light. It was damned scenic, if you like bridges and ships from the Spanish-American war and industrial zones. But the entire time I was driving it, I kept alternating between absolute confidence that 95 would get me home, and absolute certainty that my directional dyslexia had made me do something very, very wrong.

And then, north of Philadelphia, 95 just kind of . . . petered out.

I drove along some connecting highway for a little bit. Then I stopped in the middle of Nowhere, New Jersey, at a tiny gas station. There was some kind of cheap apartment complex behind the station, and a little diner up the road, and then nothing but green fields and vast expanses of trees that almost made me believe New Jersey deserved the title of The Garden State. I worked out my route on the map, tanked up on gas, and then did what I always do when I’m taking a quick break in an unfamiliar place.

I fired up Grindr.

Almost immediately I had someone message me. The guy’s photo was blurry, and just of a skinny body, shot below the neck. He was completely smooth. I never see anyone this close, he said. Grindr said he was only 300 feet away.


What do you need? I asked him.


My ass fucked and bred. Now.

Well. After a tense hour at the wheel, I was ready for now.

He lived over in the apartment complex. I walked there. When he opened the door, he answered wearing only a towel. He was barely more than a boy; one of those young men who spend inordinate amounts of time on his hair. Making sure it lay perfectly on his forehead. Making sure every dark lock was coated with the maximum amount of product. Being careful to cover up his slightly-pimpled forehead by combing it forward carefully, then micro-arranging every hair. I suspected he was wearing mascara, too. The effect was very much like a junior Adam Lambert. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve got to be done by nine.”
I looked at the clock in the cramped hallway. I was going to be done well before nine. I didn’t say anything. I let him invite me in. He took me through the cluttered, messy living room and led me to the bedroom, where Lady Gaga was playing on the stereo. Then he stood nervously by the bed. “You hook up from Grindr often?” he asked.

I shrugged,and ran my hands over his body. I wasn’t there for the scintillating conversation. His skin was almost electric at my touch. He sighed and twitched with every new inch of skin I encountered.

“This is my first time,” he said.

“Your first time from Grindr?” I wanted to know. “Or your first time ever?”

“From Grindr,” he said. My hand cupped his ass. His eyes half-closed and he let out a little hiss. “I’ve done—ah! Ah!—I’ve had sex lots of times.”

Typically my experience has been that guys who express the amount of sex they’ve had sex lots of times usually haven’t, not by my yardstick. I didn’t challenge him. Instead, I turned him around, pushed him over the bed, and bent down to eat out his hole. It tasted sweet, and clean. He fell forward onto the mattress with both hands, and grunted.

The kid was smooth all over save for a small growth of pubes. With the towel gone, he managed to look somehow even more naked than naked. His dick was small and erect, its head sheathed by a thick overhang of foreskin. I peeled it back as I stroked him. His knees parted, and then he collapsed until he was on all fours on the mattress of his twin bed.

That had been easy.

I wasn’t wearing a belt. All I had to do was tug at the button of my jeans and they flew open. Still chewing away at his little hole, I unzipped and got them down around my ankles. This boy was gasping and clutching at the dirty sheets like a drama queen. Every time I shoved my tongue up his hole, he let out a yell that the neighbors could’ve heard.

What was he going to do when I shoved my dick in? I had to find out.

We weren’t spending time on preliminaries. No kissing. No lovemaking. No extensive foreplay. He’d placed an order for a top who’d fuck his ass, and that’s exactly what I was doing. I pulled my T-shirt up in the front and yoked it around the back of my neck, so that most of my chest was free and naked. Then I spat on my dick, stood, and rubbed it on that pretty little hole.

“Ho-ho-ho-hold on,” he stuttered, putting the brakes on. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Up to you,” I told him. “You want it to hurt?”

He wheeled around to look at my angry red cock. “Fuck, that’s big.”

“Yeah,” I said, not denying it. Then, before he could back out of the arrangement, “You wanted to get fucked and bred. You’re going to get fucked and bred, son.”

“I don’t know if I can take it without lube,” he said.

I stared at him like he was some kind of moron. “If you want lube, you better give me lube.”

The only lube he had was some bottle of cheap stuff that anyone can buy at Walgreen’s. I slapped some of it on. It was going stick to me all day, I knew, but the look of fear in his eyes seemed a little assuaged when I liberally shoved two slick fingers of it up his hole.

No, this wasn’t a virgin’s hole, or even a near-virgin’s hole. This guy had been fucked before, and often. My dick grew harder as I slapped the remnants of the cheap lube on it, and aimed for home again. I could tell he was about to throw up some other protest to stall the fuck, so I shoved in, and replaced the protests with a yell.

I wanted to know how he was going to respond when I went in. I knew now. He yelled, and yelled loud. It wasn’t one those wracking cries of pain, but a deep outpouring of need and recognition. I was the key to some lock that had remained rusty and shut for god knows how long. His back arched; his head pointed up and his eyes stared sightless at the ceiling. His entire body shook and quivered; his ass clamped down on my meat. He wouldn’t have let go of me if my dick had suddenly sported spikes.

It was the epitome of a hot, quick fuck. His dong flapped back and forth, stiff and useless, as my hips slapped against his ass. He wanted his hole used. I used it. I fucked in and out without mercy, without dropping the tempo, without really bothering to investigate whether or not he was enjoying it. I didn’t need to ask. I could tell. The little fucker hadn’t been topped like that in a long, long time, if ever.

At some point he crossed his forearms and rested his head against them, low against the mattress. Every time I thrust inside him, he let out a little grunt. “Oh god,” he kept saying, over and over. “Oh god. Oh god. Ohgodohgod.”

I slapped his ass so hard it left the angry red mark of my hand behind. His head swung up. His eyes were wide open, shocked at the violence of it. Good. I didn’t want him to enjoy this too much.

“I’m gonna breed you,” I warned him, shortly before I let loose the tension engirding my cock. His butt thrust back at the moment I came, engulfing it with hot, slick ass. He took every drop inside, and squeezed my dick for the remnants. When I stopped moving, his hands groped for his own dick. I let him jack himself off with my meat and my load inside him. He came quickly, and with a tiny load…four or five little pinpoints of cum on the mattress.

Then I pulled out, and pulled up my pants, and rinsed off in the bedroom.


When you coming back? he messaged me again, over Grindr, when I was nearing the George Washington Bridge and finally feeling like I knew the way home.

Short answer? Probably never. But it surely was nice, on a strange road where I didn’t really know where I was, to meet up with as pleasant and unexpected a detour.

Daddy

He’s a skinny boy. Twenty-three. Tall as I am, but maybe twenty or twenty-five pounds less—one-forty, maybe. His waist is narrow and pale; I can see his hipbones jutting out above the elastic of his baggy striped boxers. From their bottoms are his long, lean legs. His nipples are small, but their tips are round and hard. He’s half-aroused in his underwear as he invites me in the house.

It’s not the best of houses. It perches on a street next to one of Richmond’s busier expressways, and the front yard is overgrown with weeds. There’s no driveway, but parked in the waist-high grass are three cars that made me balk when I pulled up off the curb and next to the closest of them; I thought this boy was going to be alone. And inside the house is a bit of a wreck. There’s debris everywhere. CD cases. DVD cases. Discarded mail and food packaging. A pizza box. It’s clean. There weren’t any surfaces so grungy that they made me recoil to touch or sit upon. But it’s cluttered.

When I’m in the door and it’s shut behind me, he grows shy. I hadn’t seen his face in the photos, and I could see why he hid it. He’s a little bit nerdy. His hair is cut in a timeless Richmond style—short but not too short, parted on the side, a cowlick poking up in the back. He wears round Harry Potter glasses. He’s not ugly by a long shot, but he obviously feels his body is his strong point. I put my hands on those hips, so sharp they could cut me, and pull that body in close. His legs automatically pull together and move between mine. His hands go around my shoulders. And then we kiss, long, and slowly, and deep.

The boy knows how to kiss. I don’t want it to stop. But he pulls away slightly. I feel a tremble shiver through his body. Then he says, “Oh, daddy.”

When I’m visiting my own daddy in Virginia, in the springtime I do so to help him out. I do all his spring yard cleaning—cutting down the sturdy trees that were mere twigs six months before, pulling out the strangling wisteria and the English ivy, pulling out the weeds from my mother’s former garden of roses, now gone wild and fragrantly feral. I fix things around the house. And when that’s all done, I perform chauffeur duty. My dad can’t drive after sunset, and doesn’t like driving anywhere he can’t reach on surface streets, so if he has errands that require distance driving, I’m his go-to guy.

The day before we’d driving all the way out to the Blue Ridge and back, allegedly to drop off a box of documents to an academic society there, but really, I think, so that my dad could have lunch at of his two favorite restaurants out that way—only he couldn’t decide which. I frankly thought the buffet at Kentucky Fried Chicken (“It’s the only KFC I’ve ever seen to have a buffet!”, he enthused) or the buffet at Golden Corral sounded both about equally vile, so I’d had to spend over an hour that morning trying to make him pick one. By rights that should’ve been the highlight of our day. Instead, on the trip home, we were talking and my car started to make one of those funny noises that cars make when something’s not right. It proved to be the plastic shield beneath the car had detached from the bumper and was alternately dragging against the highway or splintering into tiny shards.

I know nothing about cars. I really don’t. This was a fact driven home back at my dad’s place that afternoon, when his insistence that we poke around under the hood led to the astonishing revelation that in the several years I’ve owned this particular vehicle, I’d never lifted the hook, and didn’t even know how to unlatch it. (In my defense, I’m great around the house and have excellent soldering skills.) I determined that I’d get up the next morning, early, and head to the dealer for service . . . which why, at five in the morning, I’d been awake with this skinny kid begging me to come over and fuck his little hole. I need my daddy in me, he said in his messages. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to service my daddy’s dick.

Fine by me. At seven in the morning I presented myself at the dealer and, thanks to my brother’s superior car knowledge, was able to say in a blasé manner that my car’s air guard was dragging on the ground and could they please fix it so that I didn’t have to drive back to New England with it scraping all four hundred miles back? They could, but they couldn’t get the part until the next morning. Could I come back then, before I left for home?

It was nearly eight a.m. when I get on my phone and email him. He sends back his address immediately.
And now, here I am. “I’m so glad you’re in town, daddy,” he whimpers. “I’ve needed you.”
He’s playacting, but it’s not put-on. He’s genuinely happy. He genuinely does need me. I can tell that from the way his legs and hip mold against my own. He gasps and relaxes when my hands move over his smooth, hairless skin, when they shuck down his briefs like limp corn husks. “Take me to your bedroom, son,” I murmur.

He looks embarrassed. “The bedroom is . . . unavailable.” Ah. I get it. He’s got roommates. They’ve divided up this house into partitioned areas, I see now. There’s a divider between the living room and the dining room that’s an accordion-like vinyl pleat, latched in the middle. There’s probably a roommate sleeping on the other side. That would account for why we were being so quiet.

I didn’t give a fuck who was there. I led him to the sofa and let my shorts drop to the floor. The boy was on his daddy’s dick immediately, sucking it all the way to the base. Good head, too. He knew how to suck. Not too much teeth, not too much abrasion. Just the right amount of tongue action along the underside. He’s getting me close, and getting me close quickly. It’s more than most grown men can do.

I alternate between kissing him and letting him slobber all over my fuckstick. I’m not in a hurry to get back to my dad’s. His own dick—small, narrow, uncut—drips precum over his belly. There’s a long sticky thread of it connecting navel to tip, as his dick jerks and begs for his own attention. His hands are busy with my nuts, though. Stroking them. Caressing them. Squeezing them. Making my dick and balls feel good, and feel loved, the way a boy should. Yeah. He’s very good.

It’s time. I pull him up to the sofa and push him face-down on the pillows. I’ve already been licking at his little pucker from time to time. He’s wet and slick and hungry for it, so I push my dick against the sweet, warm spot and shove in. He twitches, then relaxes once more. He needs this dick. His hips raise up and push back, trying to get me deeper inside him. We try again with a little lube, and then I’m in, sliding all the way home. “Fuck, boy,” I whisper.

He starts a prayer into the seat cushion that doesn’t end the entire time I’m in him. “Oh god daddy oh god I need you daddy, fuck me, fuck me daddy, I needed this so bad, please don’t stop, please give it to me, oh god, oh god. . . .” He’s almost crying. His breath is ragged and torn as I move in and out of him. For long minutes I stroke in and out. I can tell he gets the most pleasure when I long-dick him, drawing out all but the tip before slowly pushing back in. His eyes roll up in his head when I do this. Drool hangs from the corner of his mouth, all over the pillow.

“Fuck me please, oh god daddy, please fuck me, fuck me please,” he says. The litany makes my juices flow. He’s so slick and wet now. His hot little hole grips onto me. He moans when I thrust hard. “Sssh,” I tell him. “We don’t want to wake your mom.”

This little bit of inspired roleplay sends him into a frenzy. He silences us both by craning his neck so that he can kiss me over his shoulder. Hard and keep we kiss as I shove my raw dick inside him. I’m coming before I really know it’s happening. It’s one of those orgasms in which it feels like something’s snapped, and the release is almost painful. Three, four jets of semen I shoot into him. A reluctant fifth. A small and tired sixth. We lay still.

But only for a moment. “Let me clean you,” he begs. “Let me clean you, dad.” He flips onto his back. I settle on my knees into the cushion and lower my dick into his mouth. He sucks away at my tool, cleaning off the ass juices and the semen and my sticky tool as he whacks away at his own dick.
“Good boy,” I say, stroking his hair. “I have a very, very good boy.”

When he comes, almost immediately after the words, it’s a geyser. Fluid sprays everywhere on the first shot. The second shot flies up like a ninja weapon to his nipple. He chokes slightly on my dick. I lift up and out of his mouth.

Then I watch him lying there, shuddering for a long minute after. He keeps twitching. His eyes are closed. I can almost see the electrical charge playing over his skin, from head to feet and back again. At last he subsides. By then, I have back on my clothes.

“Good boy,” I whisper, as I lean down to kiss him. “This is just between us guys, right?”

“Yes, daddy,” he whispers. A beatific smile crosses his face. With his eyes closed, he looks like an angel.
I give him one more kiss, and then I leave the house, to drive home to my own daddy.

A Perfect Day

Sometimes, I think when you open yourself up to the universe, the universe provides.

That’s one of those grandiose new age statements, I know, that tends to make eyes roll. Hell, I roll my eyes when my brother starts spouting off sentences like that and think to myself, spiritual nonsense. But if I can say that I genuinely believe anything, what I firmly hold true is this: the world, the universe, is full of opportunities. It’s always reaching out to give us what we need. And it’s our responsibility to be open to those opportunities, and to take them when they come along. Because if we don’t, and if we keep refusing what’s offered, eventually the bounty will cease.

I’m saying this because yesterday was, in a way, a perfect day, simply because I kept my eyes and mind open.

I had something planned for last night—I was going to head into the city to see Brini Maxwell, whom I love. (If you know who Brini Maxwell is, more credit to you. If you don’t, well, I just feel sorry for you.) My original intent had been simply to go about my business around the house all day, then head into Manhattan just in time to catch Ms. Maxwell’s event.

Instead, I woke up yesterday morning and thought to myself, why not just make today an adventure? The weather was supposed to be glorious. I could take a day off, pretty easily. The universe seemed to be calling to me. So why hole up in my home all day and emerge only late? I showered, hopped on the train, and headed into the city.

My goal for the day was to have no plans (save for the event in the evening). I could very easily have over-scheduled and over-planned my time, and given my normal tendencies, I probably would have. Instead, I just determined from moment to moment what I’d do. I grabbed lunch at a favorite spot because it appealed to me. I explored some new places, and spent some time at a couple of old favorites. I wandered. I talked to strangers, just because they said something to me.

In the mid-afternoon, I found myself sitting on a bench in Central Park, reading a book and watching people. It was one of those days in which everyone was in the park. Tourists. Locals. News people looking for a story about the first good weather of spring. Vendors were hawking their photos and magnets, and portrait artists were trying to convince young couples into sitting down for a charcoal sketch. A saxophone player was performing for a crowd, a distance away.

So I was sitting there, people-watching and reading, listening to the sax and inhaling the occasional scents of food that would waft my way, when a guy walked by, his bicycle wheels clicking as he rolled it along at his side. He was a really hot guy. One of those tall, big men who doesn’t have to do anything to attract attention—but since he was wearing one one of those muscle T-shirts of his own creation that not only has the sleeves ripped out, but was open on both sides all the way to the waist. Since he had a worked-out body, defined and ripped, that was bulging out both sides of that shirt, everyone was looking at him. I was looking at him. I kept looking at his big nipples, poking out from under the distressed fabric, and thinking how badly I wanted to chomp on them.

Then he looked back at me. And smiled. And nodded.

There would’ve been a time in my life I would’ve averted my eyes and pretended I hadn’t been looking. But I’m not that person any more, and I was feeling as if I was where I was supposed to be at that moment, so I nodded back. And smiled. And said, “Hey.”

And the next thing I knew, the guy had veered his bike over, leaned it against the fence, and was sitting next to me with his arms up and resting atop the bench’s top slat. One of them was, in effect, around me.

We talked. At first it was about sex—I found out he was a submissive bottom. He found out I’m an intense top. We compared what sex sites we were on, and found them very, very compatible. He told me a nickname that his friends had for him—“the devil’s hole.” I told him that a couple of my fuckbuddies said I had a demon’s dick, so that it seems a pretty good, if not fated, match.

If this were a porn story, I’d be marching the two of us off to some cheap room or restroom or to his place to fuck. But this story didn’t end like that. His place was in a different borough; my place was 25 miles away. We didn’t find some deserted corner of the park to fuck. We just talked. He talked about his job and his hobbies, and we talked about men on the sex sites. I talked about my work and my enthusiasms. For two solid hours we sat there on that park bench, in the dappled mixture of sun and shade, and just had intelligent, honest conversation. His arm was around me most of the time, and I could tell as people walked by that they thought we were a couple. Men and women alike stared at him with open admiration, and at me with envy. He didn’t even seem to notice.

Finally I had to get to my train. In a very gentlemanly way, he and his bike walked with me to Columbus Circle, where we parted with a hug and a kiss, and a sense on my part that I’d gained not only a potential fuck partner, but a very real new friend as well. And even if it goes nowhere? Those two hours were fucking perfect. The sun, the happiness of Central Park in spring, the depth of conversation with what had to be the hottest guy in the park . . . absolutely perfect. And it’s all because I opened myself up to the universe and asked it to provide.

So my advice to you, on this May day, is to stop denying the natural abundance of the world around you. Open yourself up this weekend. Do something unexpected and pluck some sweet fruit from the world’s natural bounty.

Not only do you genuinely deserve it—and you really do—but you owe it to yourselves.

I.O.U.

My buddy in Richmond lives on a street near my old middle and high schools. I know the neighborhood well; it used to be occupied primarily by an aging, low-income retirees. When I’d walk home from school in the afternoons, I’d always hear the sounds of The Secret Storm playing from old black-and-white TV sets, or hymns being picked out on on geriatric pianos. The tiny houses and cramped but quaint apartments comprised a genteel neighborhood that was, pretty basically, waiting to expire, and to be replaced by lower-middle-class single parents, students, and unmarried urban workers who wanted to live on the city’s outskirts.

I like visiting the neighborhood better now, knowing I’ll come away a few loads lighter.

The door’s open when I get there; he gestures at me through the screen to follow. I’ve slipped away from my dad’s place kind of late in the evening, on the pretext of meeting an old school friend for a drink. Most of the houses on the tiny plots here have their lights out for the evening. The only light shining in my buddy’s house is a naked bulb shining in a coat closet just within the door.

He’s wearing a baggy pair of sweatpants that hang almost off his round, muscular ass. They’re hanging so low he might as well not be wearing them at all; the waistband hugs his nuts and the backside where butt meets thigh. But he’s made a gesture toward respectability by allowing seven inches of his black-and-gray-checked boxers to cover what the sweatpants aren’t. His torso is taut, and heavily muscled, and completely bare. His skin is so black that it’s almost indigo in the bulb’s light.

“You stayin’ the night?” he asks, slugging back the dregs of a beer when I close the door behind me. “You can. Fuck all night. Sleep if you want, but I know that ain’t why you’re here.” He laughs at his joke. I’ve stayed overnight before, either on my way into or out of town. But I tell him I’m not, not this time. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal either way. “You want a beer?” he asks.

I shake my head. “So what’s been going on?” I ask him.

“You know how it is,” he says, taking another beer from the refrigerator just inside the pint-sized kitchen. “Just the usual.” Which for him means a steady stream of men, mostly from out of town, stopping in on the weekends to visit him and his younger lover. As he pops open the drink, he nods his head and gestures for me to follow him into the living room. His computer’s in there, and his desk, and we take a couple of minutes to look through a folder he keeps of men who’ve hooked up with the two of them, from the various sites they frequent, since I’ve seen him last. Almost all of them are white—he has a fetish for white guys. Most of these dudes are far more muscly than I, far better looking. My buddy is a hot, hot man; he can afford to pick and choose his partners.

But this isn’t one of those times I’ll wonder why I’ve been picked and chosen. I was the first white man who got invited into their bed when my buddy decided to open up their relationship, and I’ve been welcome back ever since. I ask about the boyfriend. He’s in school still, so I hear about that, while I scroll down the impressive photos of men who’ve been inside him—or inside my buddy, or inside the both of them—in the last six months. I stop at one, a tatted and ripped guy from Atlanta. He looks like a porn star, and has a dick to match. “He’s fucking enormous,” I say. “And your boyfriend took him?”

“He got real good pictures,” says my buddy. He moves in close, and sticks his hand down my shirt. HIs fingers know where to go to seek out my nipples. “In real life he ain’t as big as you.” He turns his swivel chair around so that I face him. My legs are spread, my dick hard in my shorts. “I think you want to fuck a little,” he says. I don’t deny it. “What’re you going to give me if you do?”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Maybe I want your ass tonight,” he says.

I shrug as if that’s no big deal. I’m not cleaned out, but honestly? I sincerely doubt it’ll be happening. The first couple of times I made visits to this guy—three or four years ago at this point—I told him I was game to be fucked if that got me into bed with the two of them. And I gave it a whirl. I lay there and let him shove his fat knob against my hole. For such a short and light guy, he’s enormous. He claims to be eleven inches, and though I’ve not measured it, I don’t see any reason to disbelieve the estimate. Fucking me with that thing is like trying to thread a very tiny darning needle with a baseball bat—you can push one against the other all you want, but it’s just one of those things that’s not going to happen.

“Maybe I want your mouth,” he says. I nod slowly. That’s more of a possibility. “You owe me,” he says. Then again, with emphasis, “You owe me.”

“Okay,” I agree. I can tell he wants to hear me say the words. “I owe you. Whatever you want. When you want it.”

After looking at a few more photos we go upstairs to the bedroom, where his boyfriend has been snoozing naked in bed for a couple of hours. I don’t know whether the boyfriend’s been told whether not I was coming, but I like his reaction at the sight of me when I pull back the blanket. When his sleepy eyes open and he sees me standing over him, his dick hardens instantly, and he smiles.

It’s all the invitation I need to remove my clothes, slowly and deliberately. My buddy settles back in an armchair near the side of the bed, pulls down his sweatpants—they don’t really have far to drop—and watches me go to work.

The fucks are good. The fucks are always the best, here. I com quickly the first time, and a few minutes later for the second. The third load is taking its own sweet time, and that’s fine with me. I’ve got as much of my dick as the boyfriend can take. The only thing the pair have in common, physically, is the dark hue of their skin. Otherwise, they’re complete opposites. The older one is hairy in his pits and on his legs, and he’s muscled to the point of looking like a cartoon character; the boyfriend is lanky, and skinny, and prefers to keep smooth. My buddy has a tree log between his legs; the boyfriend is almost tiny. This thing between them has been going on for over a decade though, and it works. My buddy likes the contrasts—just as he must like the contrast of his boyfriend’s black hole struggling to wrap even more of itself around my big white dick, or my furry mouth pressed against his boyfriend’s smooth and tender skin.

Watching my buddy’s pleasure is a good portion of my pleasure today, though. He’s held off through my orgasms, content to stroke himself while he watches another man use and soil his goods. The head of his dick is shiny and rock-solid, like black onyx, slick and wet from the precum he’s pumping out like a leaky bottle of lube. Our eyes are locked. Never mind that his boyfriend is lying on his back, his feet in my hands as I shove in and out, his forearms beating against the mattress with hollow thuds as he flails in pleasure or pain, or perhaps both. My attention on my buddy, and his is on mine. Our stare doesn’t break for the longest time. I see everything in his eyes. There’s lust, and appreciation at my ability to deliver and get the job done. There’s humor there, and irony of a sort that most men wouldn’t expect of him. And there’s a degree of jealousy. I’ve fucked my buddy in exactly the same position before, and he loved every inch of my white dick.

I hear a gasp. The boyfriend is coming. This is new to me. He’s never come just from me fucking him before. His hands are grasping the sheets and pulling his fistfuls into wrinkled balls. His face is twisted and wracked. He lets out a yell so sudden that spittle flies from his lips and lands on his already-wet face. And then he’s climaxing. His body jerks and twitches; his dick flies up and down, unhindered and untouched. I’ve seen him come many times before, when one of us has sucked him off, or when he’s stroked himself to completion. It’s just never happened when I’ve fucked him, until that night.

My buddy is sitting forward in his chair. Apparently he’s never seen this before, either. “Damn,” he keeps saying. “Damn!”

I let the boyfriend relax from his climax for a brief moment. Then I shove myself in again. I haven’t come again—not yet, anyway.

Then I watch my buddy climb onto the bed and stand on it. He’s so short that his head doesn’t even come close to hitting the ceiling. His dick was rock-hard before. Now it’s angry, alive. It’s raging out of control from what he’s witnessed, and it’s so close to my face and radiating such heat that it reddens my skin.

“You owe me,” he says as a reminder. The large club that is his dick strikes my face. He could knock a man out with that thing.

I told him earlier I owed him. So I open wide, and let that obscene member invade my mouth. Inch by inch, it stretches my jaw while I continue to fuck the younger guy.

He smells like a day’s work, and sweat, and fabric softening. My face hurts. The guy is so fucking thick that I feel as if my jawbone is going to crack. My mouth and throat are full—and I can take a lot of cock in my gullet, thanks—but it feels as if I’m only getting the first three inches in there. There’s a whole regular dick and a half of black meat hanging outside my distended lips.

But I’m liking the rough treatment he’s giving me. I owe him. He’s taking out his price on my mouth. He’s got my skull in a tight hold with both his hands, and I can tell he doesn’t intend to let go. My mouth is just a hole to him, a sex toy, and he’s hammering away at my face like it’s disposable and he doesn’t care what shape it’s in when he’s done.

I’m gagging a little, and trying very hard not to choke. Breathing isn’t easy. But my own dick swells and suddenly feels as thick as his. I grunt, and slobber, and I drool like a lunatic. But I do my best not to gag or complain. It’s simple. I owe him, and I know it. Pain is his price, this time.

I cum first. The third orgasm is stronger than either the first or second. It feels like I’m shooting long dollops of hot lava from my dick, deep into the boyfriend’s swollen hole. I don’t pull out, though. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. My buddy has my head in a lock. The back of his strong hand is on my neck, and he’s pistoning in and out with purpose. I hear him swearing, and growling. Then, not soon enough and just before I’m afraid my endurance is going to give way, I see stars. With a thrust that should by rights leave a hole in the back of my skull, he shoves as much meat as I can handle into my mouth. He shoots there, so deeply that my tongue misses the taste of his sperm completely. I’m left with only the vaguest traces in my mouth when he withdraws, and the slick throat of one who’s recently had a load dumped there.

My jaw and lips won’t fully recuperate for another three days.

My buddy flops down on the bed beside his spent boyfriend, and as an afterthought, gives the younger guy’s soft dick a long lick. “There,” he says. “Now that’s the goddamned circle of life.” I’m inclined to agree with him.

But then, I’ll agree to anything, to keep getting invited back.

Summer Teeth

It was the yellowest part of dusk, when the daylight was just beginning to drain from the sky, as if someone had turned off the faucet of sunlight and let only a little down the drain. Most of the cars around me hadn’t bothered to turn on their headlamps, when I pulled off the highway and into the familiar rest area less than an hour north of my dad’s house, in Virginia.

One of the advantages of my new location is that it cut roughly in half the time it took to drive to my dad’s place—from about fourteen to seven. Fourteen is hell. Seven, not so bad. By rights, I should’ve left New England in the morning and passed this particular public rest stop in the mid-afternoon. I started late, though. Very late. I’d been out late the night before, and had some piano duties in the morning, the Sunday I left. And then I’d had to get some allergy medicine. And then I’d had to stop and clean up a mess at home. And then the family had wanted me to get lunch with them. And then . . . and then . . . there’s always something, right?

I’d fucked in this rest stop before. I’ve stopped in late at night and picked up strange men from their cars, and gotten them to blow me. I’d gotten a few to climb into the back seat, away from the glare of the overhead lamps illuminating the parking lot, and sit on my cock. A couple of times I’d picked up truckers. One had hungrily sucked me off after midnight behind the building in a pool of shadow; the other had taken me back to his truck and let me fuck him in his cab, while he chewed on my nipples so vigorously I winced for a week whenever my shirt fabric would rub across them.

If it had been mid-afternoon when I’d reached this point, I would’ve driven on by. Nothing happens there during the day, that I’ve found. But since dusk was approaching, and the habit was strong, I pulled in. Inside the building, I usually cruise in the further-back of the two men’s rooms, the one that the truckers usually use. It’s a little less trafficked usually had fewer of the opposite sex passing by the door on the way to the women’s room.

The man was already standing at the urinal. He was tall, unshaven. Handsome, in his own way. Though he wore a young man’s ringer T-shirt, a much-worn pair of jeans, and a battered pair of cowboy boots, he had to have been in his fifties. His hair was gray and carefully trimmed; his forearms were tanned, lean, and firm. He stood with his left hand holding his dick, his right thumb hooked into the frayed fabric of his jeans pocket, his fingers pulling apart his fly. He was already looking back over his shoulder, casually, very casually, when I entered.

He paused for a moment at the sound of my footsteps before letting his gaze fall on me. Down. Up. Eye contact. Then casually, very casually, he turned his head away.

But not so much he couldn’t see what I was doing.

I stepped up to the urinal next to his. Men don’t do this, usually. Not when there are three or four empty urinals on either side of a guy. We space ourselves. We head to the urinal furthest away from the man already occupying a space. Even the most heedless of us leaves an empty urinal space between a man standing there and ourselves. Stepping up next to a man in an empty bathroom is deliberate. It’s provocative. It’s an act of intent.

And my dick was intending to get wet.

I started stroking it at the urinal. It didn’t take much to get hard. I’d already felt myself swelling at the sight of the handsome guy in the worn work clothes. I could see his left hand working his own dick, though he kept his hips close to the porcelain. Our eyes met over the little partition. He nodded. So did I.

I stepped back, allowing light to fall onto my stiff dick. He looked back at the doorway, then down at the rod pulsating in my fist. His jaw jutted out at the sight of it. “Fuck.” He mouthed the word, more than uttered it.

His turn. He stepped back to show me his meat. It was respectable—a good six inches, fat at the base where it was surrounded by pubes the color of pewter, and narrower at the head. “Nice,” I grunted.

“What’re you into?” he asked.

But then we were interrupted. We both turned back to the urinals and pretended we were attending to the business at hand, peeing the way no two men do in an empty restroom unless they happen to be blood relatives and/or handcuffed together. Someone had entered the open doorway and, with the sound of track suit fabric swishing as his thighs rubbed, managed to warn us of his approach. I didn’t look immediately, but could hear the intruder at the sinks, close to the doors. Swishing, and swishing, and swishing some more, with that annoying sound that shiny synthetic fabric makes when it passes over each other.

When I saw my new friend looking back over his shoulder, and not bothering to pretend to conceal it, I decided to turn my head as well. Was the guy cruising? No, he was not. He was studying himself in the mirror. Quite frankly, it looked as if he were trying to pop a zit on his upper lip.

The man was—how can I put it kindly?—dressed as if he were mentally challenged. I don’t think he was; there wasn’t anything about his posture or the way he moved that indicated so. But he did indeed wear a shiny, dirty, synthetic track suit and a nasty-ass T-shirt that at some point had probably been white, but was now a Jackson Pollock of snot trails, food stains, and general grunge. He had what my spouse archly calls ‘Summer Teeth.’ As in summer there, summer not.

There’s a character Matt Lucas plays in the British TV show Little Britain named Andy—pudgy, wheelchair-bound (allegedly), lard-pale, desperately unattractive, glasses thick as Coke bottles, of an age that could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-nine. This guy had Andy’s general appearance and sad, bald dome and Benjamin Franklin haircut. He was rotund. He wore a headband, as if he’d been jogging. And after he’d finished examining his lip, he began undressing right there in the middle of the floor, in front of the sinks.

First he kicked off his shoes so that they went flying against the tiles beneath the sinks. Then he pulled up one foot and started to pull off his sock, while he hopped around on the other. He repeated the performance again, switching sides. Then off came the jacket of his track suit, and then his pants.

My would-be sex buddy and I were kind of gawking outright at this point. My dick had deflated not just at the guy’s entry, but at his prolonged wardrobe change, which wasn’t proceeding exactly swiftly. I think we were both hoping that the guy would just give it up and go away so that the two of us could make some arrangements, but by now he was stepping out of his pants and leaving them in a plastic puddle on the floor.

Off came his undershirt. It was one of those moments in which you want to exclaim “Whoa!” and avert your eyes at the sight of so much unsexy flesh, made even more pale and luminous by the harsh florescent lights. I think I winced. It was quite a sight. The guy slapped himself twice on the belly, looked at himself in the mirror (totally unconscious of the two of us the entire time, I might add), and then gathered up his clothing from where he’d shed it all over the floor and stuffed it into a paper supermarket bag. He put his socks on top, and then his shoes, and standing there in nothing but a pair of briefs with a yellowed front, kicked the bag to the wall.

Then, from a battered and beat-up flight bag, he pulled another outfit. Another track suit, to be exact. Another track suit that was exactly the same. I know what you people are thinking. “Oh, he was just changing into a fresh track suit, silly,” you’re going to tell me. “He’d been driving all day and wanted some fresh clothing.” But people, this was not a fresh track suit. The T-shirt he pulled on was just as disgusting as the first had been. Just as stained. It looked like it stank. The track suit was not only made of the exact same loud material, but had the same logos on it. It was even the same color. The athletic shoes he pulled out of the bag were just as battered and shot. The socks, just as yellow. If anything, the new identical track suit was in even worse condition than the other one, as it had been wadded up and shoved in its carrier with little regard.

I think the both of us were standing there with our jaws dropped. My buddy zipped up quickly, when the guy started hopping around the restroom floor to pull on his sock. “Good luck,” he murmured, with a pat on my back. I wanted to tell him to wait, that I’d walk out with him, but he was already on his way. I zipped, edged past the crazy fool with the Ben Franklin hair, and made my way out to the parking lot.

It doesn’t take much to spook a public encounter sometimes, and the gentleman in the track suit had managed to squelch this one. I saw my buddy taking strides with his long legs in the direction of a white van near where I’d parked. He didn’t linger, though, or make any advances to inviting me into the van. He pulled out, winked at me as he passed, and was on his way.

Damn you, Summer Teeth!

Sunday Morning Questions: Yo' Mama Edition

I don't write much about my mother in my journal. It's mostly because she passed away a good decade and a half ago, so she's not a physical presence in my life any longer.

But spiritually, and emotionally, she's with me every day.

My mother was a good woman, an advanced woman for her time. She was a trend-setter and a go-getter. (I wasn't intending to rhyme, but apparently I'm a poet, and just don't know it.) She blazed trails, was never afraid to be political, and was never, ever afraid to state her opinions, even when she knew there'd be many voices in opposition. If I inherited even a weak, milky latte version of that from her strong espresso of a personality, she did her job right.

There are times I wish I could hear her voice just one more time, though, or just tell her what's been going on in the last decades, though.

And that's why, whenever Mother's Day rolls around and acquaintances of mine start bitching and moaning about the obligation of it all, and how tiresome it is, I want to slap them. Bitches, at least you've got a mother to be bored with. Go out and do something for her, once a damned year!

So that's my advice to all of you today. If you've still got a mother, do something nice for her. Because they aren't around forever.

And if you don't have a mother—or if you have a crappy mother, or an abusive mother, or a mother from whom you're estranged (and I know it happens . . . we aren't all as fortunate as I), do something nice for the motherly woman in your life who's kind to you from time to time. Tell a mother you admire what a good job she's doing with her kids. Fuck a MILF. It's a flexible holiday.

But let people know, while they're still around, what they mean to you.

Okay, let's get to some questions from formspring.me.


Are you a "country boy" or "city boy?" Do you like to camp out under the stars, or hang out in the city?

I don't see why there has to be an 'or' in there. Yes, yes indeed I am, to both those questions.

My mom was a country girl who grew up barefoot in the mountains of Georgia. My dad came from a family of East Coast city slickers. Although they compromised and settled in a minor city with a small-town feel, I'd spend summers in the country and weekends in the big city. They both have their distinct and pleasurable energies.

So now I live in a quiet area that while not exactly rural, is pretty close to being the picturesque countryside, and New York City is only twenty miles down the road. It's a good place for a guy like me.



How do you feel about women reading and ccommenting on you blog?

I've had women ready and commenting on my blog since day one. I don't write a boys-only blog, nor do I think that women have cooties. Anyone who enjoys my entries and behaves themselves in my blog comments is more than welcome.



Have you met any of the guys you had sex with when you were younger (pre-18/pre-16) after becoming an adult? Are there of them you would like to meet with, maybe even hook up with again?

I moved out of my hometown after I went to college and graduate school, and never really came back for any extended period of time; that alone pretty much guaranteed that I never ran into old tricks from my youth.

The one exception would have been a colleague and very good friend of my dad's, whom I blew many times in his car when I'd see him cruising the park, during my teen years. I was always worried, when I'd see him socially, that he would either say something to make me feel awkward, or make a pass at me about which I would have been embarrassed.

However, he was just as anxious to keep his reputation as a Southern unmarried gentleman intact, especially with my parents (though I think they'd pretty much figured out his sexuality years before), so never once did he ever make any allusion to my oral skills, or to those evenings in the park.

There are some men I'd like to meet again, just to relive the past and to see if they remember things the way I do. My old mentor, Earl, would be one of those.



What are your opinions on stealthing?

Stealthing, for those unfamiliar with the term, is what it's called when a man makes every appearance of putting on a rubber in order to fuck, only to pull it off and complete the act in the raw when his partner is unawares, or unable to do anything about it.

I understand that it's a dark and taboo fantasy for a few men, and I've got no beef with men who privately fantasize about the act. If in real life, however, the only way one can get what one wants is to lie and misrepresent one's intentions, something is seriously wrong.

There are plenty of men out there who are looking for a raw dick in their hole. Plenty. Stealthing the unwilling in the face of that is aggressively sociopathic, and I find those who brag about doing so—and especially who blame their victims for letting it happen—to be uniformly sorry individuals.

Snowed in at Wheeler Street

I’m one of those people who swears he likes to live his life without regrets.

It’s not entirely true, of course. The entire first half of my life seems to be filled with incidents in which I said or did the wrong thing—or more likely, didn’t say or do something when I could have, only to come to realize how fleeting that opportunity was, years and years later. All the lost people from my youth of whom I’ve written—heck,everyone in my series of Earl stories, for example—lie entombed in my memory encircled with wreaths of regret.

The best that can be said of our early years, though, is that if we’re paying attention, we start to learn from our mistakes and hopefully not make them again. Right? One of the reasons I dissect my failures is so that I can figure out where I went wrong. And I like to think I’ve gotten to a point at which I do live without regrets. Sure, there are the short-term regrets. The unkind words I say, the missed opportunities, the times when I have a fit of temper and lash out at a friend. These days, though, I’m more likely to realize what’s happening. Instead of waiting to write about it with regret in another twenty years, I apologize, or make the wrong right. I’m not perfect, but I like living with the smallest footprint of guilt possible.

I was thinking earlier this week that I do regret not having more than one life to live. There have been times in my existence I’ve wished I could simply diverge and take two paths. I want to have my current life and my current relationship, while another me goes off and lives an entirely different life. I like the life I lead. Yet sometimes, I experience an immense sadness when I think to myself that as rich as it is, it didn’t go another way.

I thought about that an awful lot, a couple of weeks ago, when Spencer started popping up into my life more often.

It started casually, when he sent me that video of him singing, unaccompanied, “Wicked Little Town”. A few days later, he started sharing some of his writing with me—some poems about loss and love that I found moving. I sat down and over the course of a week knitted him (Yes. Shut up.) a hat in a style I thought he would particularly like.

The entire time I was working away on the thing, I kept thinking about Spencer, and what he’d meant to me. I thought about the enormous quantities of food he consumed whenever he came to my house, and how I had to visit Trader Joe’s three times a week to stock up. I thought about the warmth of his body against mine when we would sleep, actually sleep, together in bed at night. I thought a lot about the sounds he would make whenever I’d open his hole with my dick or my fist.

I thought about his tattoos, about his limber legs that could grip the underside of the headboard’s top bar with prehensile strength, like a monkey’s. I thought about the little gifts he’d give me, and about the gifts I’d plan for him. I thought about the books we encouraged each other to read, and I thought about his soft lips against mine. His smell. The touch of his hand and the sounds of his voice.

And a lot of the time I thought about the perfect weekend we spent together, one blustery January when we had blizzard conditions forecast and knew we’d spent at least a couple of days holed up in our homes. He decided to spend that entire weekend with me, and we cuddled beneath a blanket on the couch in the den the entire time, talking and fucking and watching television, and only leaving the safety of the couch so I could make meals for him, or when we’d scamper upstairs and crawl between the frigid sheets together, giggling like little boys. For three days we were able to bask in each other’s company, uninterrupted, without guilt, without regret.

It really was, in my memory, perfect.

I’d finished the hat and had taken it to the post office week before last, and literally was walking back into the house from the trip when I got an email from him that read, Whenever I listen to Kate Bush’s “Snowed in at Wheeler Street,” I think of us. I love you and miss you very much.

The timing of it bowled me over. I hadn’t told him I was making him anything, much less that I’d been thinking about that snowstorm, or that I’d been on my way back from mailing his gift. We were just unusually in sync that day.

“Snowed in at Wheeler Street” is a duet between Bush and Elton John from her latest (and excellent) album, 50 Words for Snow. It’s a story about reincarnation, essentially—about two lovers reincarnated again and again throughout the centuries, whose lives and paths cross in each, but only for a fleeting moment. Their time together is never the present, but always in the future, in a life of which their current selves will have no awareness. Until, that is, the pair finally are snowed in during a storm, and realize how many times they’ve been close each other before, and how badly they don’t want to lose each other again.

I was surrounded by people when the email came in. I had to excuse myself, take a walk, find somewhere private, and mourn for a very long and wet time.

I loved Spencer so very much. Much as I try not to think about it, I still do. When we were together, I knew that it was only for a time, and that our relationship came with an expiration date. I made my peace with that. The life I chose was the right choice for me. But oh, I think about him and wish, just wish, that there could be another me out there, giggling with Spencer and sharing his life with him, and diving naked beneath the covers to make love to him while he’s still steaming from the shower. I don’t regret falling so headlong for the boy. I don’t regret the choice I made, in moving away from him. I only regret not having the luxury to afford all the options.

But it’s nice to know he misses me too.

He’s been sending me photos of himself in the hat, which he loves. But I keep hoping that maybe one day, during a snowstorm, he’ll pull it over his head and imagine it’s me keeping him warm, like I used to. And I hope he knows how very difficult it was for me to lose him.

Until the next life, anyway.

The Pounding

He’s greedy when he sits on my dick. He’s lost in his own world once I slide in. I don’t really exist for him, anymore. He rocks back and forth, his knees digging into the fleece blanket imprinted with a giant tiger, that covers the mattress resting on the bare floor. All he cares about is how deep he can take me, how much of me he can accommodate in that tight ass of his.

Not that I mind. The Mover has a body that’s worth looking at—natural muscle formed from daytime shifts of lifting furniture into trucks. I can study the tattoos inked over his Puerto Rican golden skin. The picture of his mother, on his pectoral; the flying swallow on his bicep, the stars and one-word brands of inspiration on his forearms, his hip, the inside of his thigh. I can look at his gap-toothed grin, a private smile generated from the sensations of my hard pole sinking into him, again and again. I can notice the way his hands push down on my chest as if he’s restraining me, preventing me from leaving, until he’s gotten what he invited me for.

I’m getting pleasure from the encounter, of course. Every time he rocks back and forth, his slick ass grips and releases at my dick. I can feel the precum oozing out in small squirts, making our point of connection even more slippery. I’m rock hard inside the warmth of him, secure and breathing heavily as he sits on and uses my cock the way he wants. The way he needs. It’s enough of a distraction to take my attention away from his ‘room,’ as he calls it.

Ever since The Mover managed to get out of his sister’s crowded apartment—three generations crammed into two small bedrooms—he’s bombarded my phone with text messages about how we can meet all the time now that he has his own ‘room.’ The first time I took him up on his invitation to host me, I didn’t really understand how literally he meant the word; it’s a square cell in the basement of a boarding house, with no shower, no sink, not even a real closet. In anyone else’s residence the dim little room with a single window covered with burglar bars wouldn’t be fit even for a workroom or an exercise room. I would’ve used it to store old boxes and Christmas decorations, back in Michigan. Here, though, it’s a cheap living space. I know I shouldn’t be a snob about these things, and beggars can’t be choosers, but an unheated room in someone’s basement, copulating on a mattress on a bare floor covered by stained linoleum, isn’t exactly the green promise of luxury Connecticut living. Especially when I’ve had to sneak in through the side door while the family occupying the first floor was busy at their dinner.

“Mmm, feels so good,” he moans, in his heavy accent. Then he remembers I’m there, and leans down to plant his lips on my mouth. He kisses like an untrained little boy, all eagerness without any actual technique. “I love it. You feel good, lover.”

“So do you,” I say, jerked back to the moment.

“You give me your seeds?” he asks, not opening his eyes. “You will fill me up, my lover?”

“I’ll seed you, “ I promise.

His dirty talk inspires me. When he rocks forward to get as much of inside him as possible, I thrust up. I can tell I’m hitting that little button of pleasure, both from the way it indents my swollen cock head, and from his ecstatic reaction. “Yesssss,” he hisses. His eyes are mere slits, revealing on the slightest glint. “Yessss.”

“You like that?” I ask. “You like—?”

Whatever I’m about to ask him is interrupted by a commotion at the closed and locked door to his room. It’s an explosion; it’s the hammering of a pair of fists against the cheap wood. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me cold, and then hot. My heart accelerates and thuds so heavily in my chest that I’m certain The Mover can hear it. We both free, mid-grind. Outside the door is a male voice, deep and gruff, cursing in Spanish. I can’t make out what he’s saying with my fading memories of high school Spanish, but I can tell the tone. It’s angry. Enraged, even.

The Mover looks at me with big, dark eyes. “Oh, fuck,” is all he says. Then he pushes me back onto the bed and covers my lips with a finger before I can reply. He yells back in Spanish. I can’t understand a word of it.

In reply, the guy outside the door attempts to kick it in. I can hear the wood cracking in the frame. The only point at which the door is securely fastened is at the latch, where the lock is only a push-button in the knob. The Mover climbs up from the mattress and off my dick, then crosses to the door. He puts his head against the wood as if to listen, and then recoils when the guy on the other side once again assaults it.

In the shock and confusion of the moment I don’t know what I’m supposed to be thinking. I’m surprised to see that I’m still rock-hard, mostly. I’ve stayed erect through worse yelling, though. The pair of them begin arguing with each other at the tops of their voices while I consider what I should be doing. Crawling across the floor to retrieve my clothes next to where The Mover is standing, maybe? Hiding underneath the tiger blanket?

The argument goes on for about a minute, but it seems infinitely longer. The volume decreases slightly, then more. At last they’re arguing in only raised voices, rapidly and unintelligibly. Finally, The Mover shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and pads back to the mattress. “Estúpido. He is stupid,” he proclaims.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, my neighbor. He all the time wants money for drugs. I tell him no, but you see how he gets.”

Oh, fantastic, I think to myself. A drug-hungry addict high enough almost to break down a door in a boarding house to extort money from his neighbor, who’s naked and having gay butt sex with a strange white guy. That’s really I need in my life. I raise myself from the mattress, rise to a standing position, and move for my clothes.

He begs me to stay. He wants my dick—no, he needs my dick. But I’m too far past the point of excitement now, after that nerve-shattering barrage. I’m sweaty, and my head is throbbing almost as loudly as the addict’s fists against the door had pounded. I just want to get out as quickly and quietly as possible. I dress, and apologize as best I can. Once he’s unlocked the door and peeked out in the basement to make sure the coast is clear, I stealthily make my way out, and onto the street with its mix of houses and light industrial businesses.

And to be honest, I haven’t been back since.

The Runt in Bed

When I bring him into the bedroom, he’s like a puppy in a new household. His dark eyes dart around, landing on the books lining one wall, on the clothes that appear to be overflowing from the closet and into the basket below, then to be spilling out onto the floor. His nose quivers at the unfamiliar smells, from the bouquet of azalea and California privet just outside the window, to the scents of strange deodorants and body sprays and the overlooked odors of the ordinary that none of us notice because we’re so used to them. His neck swivels as he looks at the pictures and the desk covered with books and the weekend’s work, and the way the lights from the auditorium in the building next door filter in through the lowered shades.

“Take your clothes off,” I tell him.

The Runt and I have fucked several times since the definitely size-challenged young-ish man contacted me on Grindr a few months ago. It’s always been in the back seats of cars, though. In dark parking lots along the New Haven line. In the cold, with our hot breath crystallizing inside the car windows. But I’ve got a rare night to myself at my place, and a freshly-made bed that’s not my own, so the time seems right.

The Runt never says much. He always obeys, though. He removes his hoodie and jeans, and folds them neatly before putting them in a stack on the floor. Off come his adorably much-worn socks, so floppy that they don’t even make a pretense of staying up on his skinny legs. He shimmies out of his tight gray T-shirt. Last, he pulls off his black briefs. He’s standing before me completely naked save for the collar he’d pulled from the glove compartment and put on when I’d picked him up in my car.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him completely naked, standing up. He’s a skinny, short young man, and his head of wavy brown hair makes him look even younger than he really is. The sight takes my breath away. “Beautiful boy,” I grunt. “You know what you do to my dick when you look all pretty like that?”

He shakes his head. I use both hands to outline the hard meat in my jeans, so he’ll know exactly what he does. He’s trying not to betray his excitement, but his dick hardens while I watch. It rises from flaccid to fully erect in mere seconds, then throbs in pace with his quickening heartbeat. At his sides, his hands flap helplessly. He wants to cover his shame, but at the same time, he wants me to notice how excited I make him. Much as he pretends otherwise, the little slut is proud of his erection, the proof of his desire.

“Get on the bed,” I order him.

I give him a few seconds to sit on the edge of the mattress and pull himself into its center. He’s surrounded by sheets and pillows and smells and sights unfamiliar to him, but now he’s looking at me. Only at me. His little dick points up toward the ceiling when he settles back against the headboard. I’m still clothed when I stride over to the bed and mount him. His mouth opens automatically to receive my tongue. He shifts and settles until his dick is pressing against mine through a layer of denim. I feel him stiffen and gasp slightly when the cold of my belt buckle meets his skin, soft and supple as a pair of kid gloves. He smells like soap, and cheap scent.

The Runt’s hungry. Because of his living arrangements we haven’t been able to meet as much as I’d like, and he’s not getting it from anyone else. Already his hole is lifting up and pushing against me. I grind the head of my dick against it through my jeans, and listen as softly he huffs and exhales and catches soft breaths. He’s caught up in his need. It’s overwhelming him, rendering him completely and utterly pliable.

By the time I flip him over and lap at his pink little hole, the huffing and breathing has turned into whimpering. He sounds like a hurt dog, whining for aid. My hands seem enormous on those tiny cheeks. When he tries to pull away, tries to resist the pleasure he needs so much and yet seems so unwilling to accept in such quantities, all I have to do is pull in order to keep him in place. I pull insistently. I pull firmly. He’s not getting away from me. I can tell by the rasp in his voice that if I were to look at his face, right now, he’d be crying.

His face is still wet when I flip him over yet again. My dick’s angry, now. There’s something in small men like the Runt that brings out the sadist in me. I want to make him hurt. My dick wants to drive inside and make him yell. He makes me want to forget about his pleasure—he doesn’t need to know there’s such a thing as pleasure. All he needs to know is the force of my dick, splitting him wide open.

And when I drive in, my pants pulled only to thighs, he yells out in nothing but pain. My thickness stretches him in a way he hasn’t had in weeks. My length tunnels deep inside. Even when he’s beginning to bottom out, I still push in. His ass hot and almost liquid around me. My dick is fire, but he’s molten lava.

My hand covers his mouth for most of that yell. Over the side of my hands his eyes bulge. They’re full of fear, and pain, and the worry of more to come. His body is spasming as it tries to accept the deep thrust I’ve stabbed into him. His hips buckle. His legs grapple for something to hold onto, and then wave helplessly in the air. His face is wet with tears.

But he’s hard. Not just rock hard, but dripping at the tip of a dick that’s closer to little boy than the mature man he is. I’ve never seen him harder than when I shove into him brutally, when I cause him as much pain as my meat can manage. When I hit bottom, I shove in a little more, then wait until his yells subside once again into a quiet keening. “You want me to stop?” I ask him, taking my hand away. “I’ll stop and take you home right now if that’s what you want. If you can’t handle my dick, that is.”

Though the light is dim in the room, I can see the obsidian glint of his eyes. “No,” he begs. “Please don’t take it out.”

“You want it?” I ask him. He nods. “You want my dick in there, don’t you?” He nods some more. “Say it,” I tell him. “Say the words.”

“I want you in there,” he begs. “I need it. Please don’t take your dick out. Please don’t take it out. Please don’t—“

What he doesn’t know is that I wouldn’t have taken it out even if he’d asked. I just wanted to hear him beg.

We have more room to maneuver in the bed, but we don’t really use it. Not for the first fuck. I keep his little legs in the air, manhandling him like he was a a cheap prop. Though his tight hole is still aching, he’s accepting the fuck, taking it like a man. A little, underdeveloped man. I wrap my fingers around his ankles and fuck away, feeling my ball slap and rub against his butt cheeks.

He comes unexpectedly and without warning. Only his breathing—a quickening that catches and chokes in his throat—betrays that he’s shooting at all. That and the squirt of semen that hits his stomach with a squelch and begins running down toward his chest and face. I rip my dick out of his hole and cause him to protest. Then I slap some of that load onto my meat and shove it back in, fucking him with his own juices for lube.

I can only punish him for so long before I’m ready to shoot, myself. The load gushes from my dick into his guts. He stares at me when it happens, his lips parted, his eyes full of hope and awe and fear. Fear that I might kick him out, right then—fear that I might disengage and let my cock come slopping out of that tight, juice-filled hole.

I’m not done with him yet, though. Still connected, ass to cock, I fall onto my side and pull him into a position where I can both hold him and continue gently moving in and out. He’s in a fetal position, his hairy legs pulled up to his chest, while I hold hims as tightly as possible from the front.

“You needed that badly, didn’t you?” I ask, as the dark begins to settle around us.

His only reply is a sudden release of breath. It’s as if he’s divesting himself of some great weight that he’d carried, now we’re alone and past that first flush of need and desire.

I accept the answer for what it is. And I begin a second time to stretch him past the point of endurance.

Sunday Morning Questions: Here We Go Edition

So I've been more or less away for a couple of weeks, here.

Part of the hiatus was because I simply needed a little break; when writing (or anything) becomes a chore instead of an anticipated event, I find it's because I'm neglecting other areas of my life. It's often wiser for me to take a step back and figure out what in my life needs to be tinkered with to put everything back into balance. Plus a quick mental health break never hurt anyone.

The other part of my absence was because I took a week to visit my dad, down South. I go down every few months to help him out around his house. May is the time of year when he needs his yard cleaned up and his gardens planted, his gutters fixed and drained, and his screens repaired. Then I chauffeur him around on a few errands, and suddenly it's the end of the week. And I am WHIPPED.

But you know. Spending time with an elderly parent is a good thing for everyone.

The plan is to get back on track with some entries this week to catch everyone up on what I've been doing. In the meantime, though, thanks to those of you who peeked your heads into my life while I was absent, and for those with well-wishes, and for those who were kind to me when I was gone. To the guys in Richmond who kept me busy during my precious free time, more thanks. And to the one guy who helped me out when I was temporarily lost on 195 on the way home...well, big thanks to you and your cute little butt. (That'll be forthcoming. Don't worry.)

Let's start back with some easy questions from formspring.me.


What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?

Alligator, I'm pretty sure. It tasted like chicken.



It seems mostly you don't use any lube but spit. Is this artistic license or is that how it happens?

This is how it happens.

Spit is not the most ideal of lubes, but it's not bad. It's 100% adequate. It also has several handy advantages. It gets the job done. It's free. I don't have to pull out of a guy and go hunting around in the drawer of some bedside table to find it. It washes off easily afterward. And I don't run out of it.



Ever wondered what happened to all those nude pics you sent to guys you flirted with? Ever found out if they sent them on to someone else? How would you feel if they did?

I don't perceive much difference between emailing someone nude photos, versus having them see my nude photos on some sex site. They're the same photos. Strangers are looking at them all the time. If it gets me laid, I'm all for it.

I do get upset when I find someone else using my photos as their own—and I've discovered it happening more times than I can really count. But looking at them or collecting them? I don't really care.

Hey, if you don't want them out there, don't take them, and don't entrust them with anyone else.



When in the act, which are your top 3 favorite positions? Are you the top or the bottom? If Versatile you can pick up to 6 ;-)

1. Doggie, with the guy either on his knees, or simply butt-up.
2. Straddling, with the man sitting on my dick.
3. Lying on our sides—an underrated position, but one that's highly intimate.


Where is the best place in new york to meet guys for sex?

Their apartment, I'm thinking?

I've not really cruised anywhere in New York City since I've moved to the area. If anyone has suggestions, I'm always game.


When you are having sex, how important is kissing?

On a scale of 1-100, about a 101.

I've been in long-term fuck-buddy relationships with men who don't kiss, but it doesn't really encourage me to promote them to the first tier of intimacy.

I'll be actively repelled by someone who is a poor-to-mediocre kisser. Squeezing your lips shut and poking out your tongue like a dagger doesn't cut it, guys.

From the Archive: Restroom Lunch Break

(While I'm acting as my pop's indentured servant this week, I'd like to encourage everyone to A) enjoy this piece from the archive from two years ago, and B) pray for me never to have to clean out the archaeological site that is the unvacuumed back seat of his car ever again.)


The only thing I knew about the guy was that his online name was SexInPublic, that he had a couple of photos showing a beefy, hairy body and a nice mouth fringed with fur, and that judging by his profile, we both liked to cruise the same places. Would love to run into you at the mall restroom, he emailed me out of the blue earlier this week, naming the mall where I do most of my hooking up when I’m in that kind of mood. Damn nice cock—bet you deliver a hell of a load, too.

It does. Want to suck it tomorrow at 11? I wrote him back. Upstairs or down?

Upstairs, he decided. Can’t wait to wrap my lips and throat around that dick of yours.

Short, simple, and to the point, was the correspondence. If only it were all that easy. There was something direct and honest about it, too—at least to the point that I didn’t feel the need to doubt that he’d show. I left my house twenty minutes early, drove several miles north to the mall, parked outside, and walked in. When I pushed open the men’s room door in the quiet corner behind the coffee shop, it was precisely eleven o’clock.

And he was waiting in the handicapped stall next to the one I chose. When I dropped my shorts and looked beneath the partition, I saw a pair of long, shiny square-tipped leather shoes protruding from a pair of frayed designer jeans. On the tiles I saw a shadow lurch forward, as if the guy next to me were bending over and down.

I tapped my left foot. Immediately in response he tapped his own toe, several times, up and down, moving it closer to mine. I leaned down and looked under the partition and saw a man’s head craning down to do the same; I could tell his hair was short and dark. Our eyes met briefly, but when someone invaded the quiet sanctity of the men’s room from outside, we both sat up and resumed more normal postures.

While the intruder pissed in a urinal, I stroked myself hard while looking around the back of the partition, using the shiny marble tiles as a reflective mirror. My buddy was also stroking himself, I judged by his arm motions. I watched as he removed his eyeglasses and set them on the box holding rolls of toilet paper. The guy at the urinal stepped back, triggering the auto-flush. We listened as he washed and dried his hands.

The moment the room was clear again, the guy next to me was on all fours. I could tell he wore a crisply-pressed cotton baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; an expensive gold watch adorned his furry right wrist. I knelt down on the tiles, my dick stiffening as his left hand grabbed for my dick. His wedding ring was thick, gold, and sported a large stone in its flat face.

I suspected that, when he yanked my dick under the stall and stuffed it in his mouth, he wasn’t thinking about his pretty wife.

My left hand gripped the toilet seat, and my right the top of the roll dispenser as I pivoted my knees beneath the partition. The cold metal pressed into the top of my pelvis as he pulled as much of me as possible underneath, gobbling down on my dick. I was ready to withdraw, silently and swiftly, in the case of another intruder, but at the same time, he had total and complete access to the parts he wanted so badly.

And he went to town on them, too. I could feel slobber cascading down my shaved nuts and tickling the underside of my asshole before dripping on the floor. He would deep-throat my meat like a starving man and try not to gag on my length, then surface for air and gasp before going down again faster than a drowning man with bricks in his pockets. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, as he did all the right stuff to my dick.

Someone came in. With practiced calm I levered my hips out and up, and then settled onto the toilet seat. My friend did the same, lifting himself from his huddled position on the floor without any sound more than a few shifting clothes. We both waited for the new intruder to leave; I put some more spit on my dick and ran my fist up and down the shaft while the guy peed, knowing that my buddy was watching me through the crack behind the partition.

When the second intruder left, my buddy was back on the floor again, not even bothering to keep his pristine shirt off the grubby tiles. He stuck his head all the way beneath the partition and looked up at me. I could see now that he was a good-looking man—perhaps older than he advertised in his profile, but an attractive guy nonetheless. “That’s the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,” he whispered at me. His hand reached out to run his hands over my hairy legs.

I just nodded. I had the heels of my sneakers together, with my camo shorts bunched around them. My knees were spread as far as they’d go, and I double-fisted my big dick while he watched. I used all the same techniques I employ during my cam shows—using my full fist at different angles, grabbing my nuts with one hand and pulling them as far as they’d go, and pursing my lips like I was close to orgasm—which I honestly was, showing off. “I want it in my ass,” he said.

“Now?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Next time,” he promised. I just grunted and nodded, and then stuffed the tip of my right index finger into my slit. I withdrew a heavy bead of precum that left a long, sticky tail as I pulled it away and shoved it in my mouth.

I thought he was about to faint when he saw that. “Fuck,” he said. “I’ve gotta come.”

I leaned forward and offered my left hand. Immediately he straightened up and thrust his knees beneath the partition. With my right hand still slicking my own dick, I spat into my left and got his little member wet and hard. Then I jacked at it.

It didn’t take long. He was groaning almost immediately, and then thrusting his hips against my hand shortly thereafter. The partition vibrated with every shove; my own stall door came unlocked and drifted open to bang against my knee, but I didn’t bother to close it. We were still quietly undisturbed.

When he came, it was with a violent grunt. Little droplets of semen puddled in my hand and then onto the floor underneath. I waited until his spasms subsided, then grabbed a wad of toilet paper so that I could clean off first my hands and then the floor itself. Then I did a quick possessions check—phone, keys, wallet—and left the stall so I could wash my hands.

I saw him walking to his own car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. The man was driving a BMW parked next to mine. Out in the wild he looked like any other upper-middle-class suburbanite dad hitting the mall for a quick shopping trip.

No one save me would’ve guessed him to have been on all fours, only moments before, pants around his ankles and ass high in the air as he’d nursed some stranger’s big dick in his mouth on a dirty restroom floor. I’m sure that’s just the way he wanted it.