Pride

It’s Pride here in New York today.

Every year from certain quarters—online and in real life—I listen to gay men grouse about this annual celebration. I’ve written before about how they point at photos of drag queens and shirtless twinks with outrageous hair and complain, “Why should I be proud of that?”

Maybe you’re not proud of flamboyance. Be proud of this: be proud (if you can) that you live in a society in which you’re not arrested simply for showing up to a Pride parade, and that our fierce feminine brothers can express themselves freely without being arrested for ‘gay propaganda.’

Be proud you live in a country that allows gay demonstrations of all stripes, from the simple and unorganized to the vast and corporate sponsored—because there are many in which such a thing would be squelched and the participants incarcerated, if not killed.

Be proud you live in a country in which being gay or lesbian or bisexual or transgendered or what-have-you is now legal. It wasn’t always.

If you live in a country or a state in which marriage equality has been established, be proud of that. If you don’t, be proud that year by year, state by state, the movement is coming your way.

Be proud that DOMA was defanged. Be proud that California is once again allowing same-sex marriages. In other words, even as you stay aware that there’s much left to do, be proud of the progress that we have made and that we will continue to make.

And maybe even most of all, be proud of the fact that in spite of setbacks, in spite of selfishness and fear and the irrational hate of others, we have made progress—and will continue to do so.

Be proud of yourself. No matter whom you love, you’re part of a rich and beautiful tapestry of humanity. And that is worth celebrating.

Cock of the Walk

The sun’s beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the motel parking lot, still damp from the morning’s brief rain shower. There’s a faint metallic air of ozone in the air from its rapid evaporation. I knock at the door—110—and am greeted by the rattle of the chain, and a thunk of metal as someone draws back the deadbolt.

It’s pitch black inside. To my sun-bleached eyes, anyway, it seems as if I’ve stepped into a state of blindness. The door closes behind me. I sense noises from every corner. There’s a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it,” whispers a voice in my ear. I feel the long bristles of the man’s mustache scrape my ear, shiver as the pads of his palms press into my shoulders, massage my neck. “Make yourself at home. You’ll be in demand.”

I let the host guide me to the back of the room, where there’s an open sink by the washroom door. I kick off my flip-flops, slowly remove my shirt. I’m trying to kill time until my eyes adjust to the dimness. By the time I’m down to nothing more than my rubber cock rings, I can see the noises are coming from shadows, and that the shadows are moving all around the small hotel room. There’s a cluster of them in a corner, where I can see the outline of a man bracing himself against the wall while another kneels behind him, licking and snuffling his hole. There are a few on the other side of the washroom door frame, where the sounds of grunting and sucking and the wet squelch of mouth meeting mouth echo on the tiles. And there are many on the bed, which is a mass of writhing naked flesh.

How many men are here? I can’t tell. I’d guess between a dozen and fifteen. I fold my clothes neatly, place the sandals atop them, and store them on the highest shelf in the closet, where I hope they’ll be safe.

Then I move to the bed.

I realize I’m a magnet, and the men are iron filings. At my approach they all move toward me. A hand reaches out to seize my hardening meat. Another hand reaches up, pulls me down by the neck. A tongue invades my mouth. Someone’s standing behind me, rubbing the downward-facing bulge of his cock into my butt crack. There’s a mouth on my nuts, and then another on my hole. I’m pulled down by the current of hungry men seeking to consume me. I sink into the mattress, and find myself drowning in flesh.

It’s the sweetest kind of drowning I can imagine.

I spent a lot of my life hating my appearance; I could go weeks without any but the most cursory glances in a mirror. It’s only been the last half-dozen years that I’ve actually been at peace with my exterior and what it’s become. My gifts are modest, but hey. They’re my gifts. It would be folly not to enjoy them. So I think of myself as foxy, rather than toxic. I dress to present myself to advantage. I use my smile to disarm men, and my eyes to let me know how much I want them. I put my modest gifts to their best possible use.

But here. Fuck. I’ve got too much confidence. Arrogance, even. I know I can have anyone I want in this room. These men are hot, too. The guy sucking my dick and staring up at me gratefully is a compact, bald, muscle stud, smooth all over and with a round bubble butt that twitches and gapes and closes again as he grinds against the bed. There’s a black man demanding my mouth. His body is as hard and muscular as my skin is pale and soft. A guy my age with long, curly hair to his shoulders stands staring at me from the other side of the bed. He’s stroking his cock, and pushing off a tall man trying to play him.

I don’t know where this insane confidence I’m feeling comes from. Maybe it’s the mood of the room. Maybe it’s long experience telling me what I know will happen. I just know that now I’m here, these men are mine to direct. Mine to choose. Mine to fuck and fill.

This is my party. The dark is my territory.

I start with the muscle dude. He’s not letting go of my meat, anyway; he’s determined to be the one who gets the first and best of my inches. I haul him up between my legs as I lay back against the headboard of the rickety bed. I shove my mouth against his and thrust my tongue deep into his mouth. I can taste my own precum inside. He gets angry when another man—short, solid, built, mustached (I find out later that he’s a state trooper)—dives for my cock when I’ve pulled the bald guy off it. He shoves back with his feet, tries to push the trooper away. He wants the monopoly on what I’m offering.

But the trooper is determined. He forces his head beneath the bald guy’s crotch, attaches his mouth to my cock, and sucks like he’s starving. The bald guy breaks away from our prolonged kiss and for a moment, looks like he wants to deck the trooper.

And I’m sitting there, smirking a little bit, and enjoying the near-fight as my just due. Yeah. I deserve this.

The trooper will get his turn before the afternoon’s end. I choose the bald guy first. I just use my hands to turn him around. I pull up my knees so they’re pointing at the ceiling, spread them wide, and let him grapple with finding a comfortable position to sit on it. He’s been popped before I got to him. His hole is slimy and wet and juiced, but it’s also warm and hungry as it slides down on my shaft.

This fucker knows what he’s doing. He’s not messing around with any half-hearted wiggles or coquettish jiggling. Fucker is slamming down to the base. Clutching at my rod with his expert hole. Angling it expertly to give me the maximum friction and sensation. He’s squeezing it, clamping down on it like a vise. Other men are trying to get to me. There’s a mouth on each nipple. Guys take my hands and rub them over their bodies, so I can feel the muscle and the meat. But the bald guy owns my mouth and cock, and he’s determined to get the first load.

He does. I let it out in a loud gush, crying out with mingled joy and need as it arrives. It’s an animal cry muffled by the bald guy’s tongue down my throat. For a moment we stare at each other in the darkness.

He nods. I nod back. Mission accomplished.

Next.

There’s a mouth on my dick, cleaning me off. It’s the black guy who’s been waiting his turn. His mouth completely consumes my dick; his tongue flicks out to lick my balls. Then he’s pushing me into one of the two thin pillows. His hands close around my wrists, locking them up and over my head. I’m hard again at being dominated that way. His dick is thick and nearly as long as mine, but he doesn’t give a shit about it. He just wants to kiss me, softly and tenderly. It’s a style completely different from the bald guy’s. This man is a lovemaker.

A lovemaker on his own terms, though. He refuses to let me up. His wrists still hold my arms. I offer a token resistance; his grasp tightens. He only lets go when he goes down between my legs to suck my dick again. Someone shoves a dick in my mouth. I open up and obediently take it. There are hands pinching my nipples and a mouth at my hole—probably the black guy’s. I don’t care who’s doing what to me. All I know is that on that bed, for the eight or nine men crowding around, I’m the center of attention.

And a cocky part of me, deep inside, sneers and thinks that’s just as it should be.

It takes a while for me to get to the point of orgasm again, but when I do, it’s deep inside the black man’s gut. He’s enticed me onto my knees, so that I can pound it into him while he’s gobbling down the dick of the state trooper. “You married?” the trooper asks, nodding down at my ring. I reply that I am. “Me too,” he says. “Kids?”

I nod.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. Past doubts be damned. At that moment, as I juice up the black guy’s hole, I know it. The tide of red recedes as my pulse slows. My vision returns to shades of black. The men close in around me. I’m a nocturnal beast, surrounded by shadows. This is my home. Like I said: my territory.

I’m in just about every mouth in the room at some point. I fuck eight different asses, shoot in four. Men jostle for their turn between my legs, and I sit there like some kind of god-damned king of the night, relishing every fucking second of it.

Men come and go. Three hours pass. At last it’s just two of us. Me, and the party’s host. He’s a handsome older man, a fine specimen with long wavy hair and a retro mustache like Sam Elliott in Lifeguard. He’s standing at the end of the bed, naked, his dick still hard and angled off to the side. “You think you’re cock of the walk, don’t you?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I say. I’m sitting at the top of the bed again, dead center, like it’s my fucking throne. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms resting on their crowns.

“You just assume everybody wants to worship that thing,” he says, nodding at what’s hanging down, four times spent, between my thighs.

I look him up and down. My dick stirs yet again, coming to life and rising obscenely into the air. It’s still wet from a dozen men’s mouths, still stinking of too many holes to count. “I think you do too,” I tell him, feeling arrogance swell my chest.

He stands stock still, like small prey caught in my sights. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I do.” Then he slides down onto the sheets, and up between my knees to claim his long-awaited prize.

And the nocturnal beast in me roars, satisfied.

Sunday Morning Questions: Hate Words Edition

When I first moved from a small Southern city to the U.S. Midwest, I felt as if I might as well have moved there from Kazakhstan. I was supposed to be among my intellectual peers in the grad school that had given me a full ride. Whenever I opened my mouth to speak during my first week of class, though, my peers would simply stare at me, agog. The first couple of times I thought it was because I’d stunned them with my intellectual brilliance, but no. They weren’t listening to what I was saying. They were stunned by—and giggling at—my accent. “You talk funny!”, one of them volunteered.

Even one of my professors, that first week, said to me, “What you just said might have been true for all I know, but I was too busy listening to that hilarious accent of yours to notice.”

Hilarious. Jesus. At worst, my Southern drawl was extremely mild. I learned very quickly to scrub my speech patterns and speak only in approved Midwestern tones. I wanted people to listen to what I was saying, not how I said it.

I also had to battle Midwestern perceptions about Southerners and race. It seemed that every Detroiter wanted to corner me and get the real deal on how we treated African-Americans. “I bet you’ve seen some rough stuff down there,” they’d say confidentially. “Beatings. Lynchings. That kind of thing.” Well, no. I didn’t.

The more unfortunate side of the Midwestern attitude toward race could’ve easily been summed up by something someone said to me my first month in Michigan: “I know the South is full of prejudice, right,” one white guy said to me. “It’s like, the only place in the country you can get away with saying anything about hating spooks.”

Nice, right? It’s okay to be racist in the Detroit—where one can actually draw on a map the dividing lines between the highly-segregated black and white neighborhoods. It’s just considered polite not to say anything about it in front of other, presumably lesser, races. And it’s considered acceptable, to a degree, because hey, they’re still way better than Southerners, right?

I always had to explain, rather stiffly, that I grew up in a Southern city that was richly integrated, that neither I nor anyone I knew had used racial invective, especially the word spooks, and that although the South had a deep history of shame when it came to race relations, I was finding Michigan simultaneously both self-congratulatory about its alleged liberality, and yet a hell of a lot worse than anything I’d ever encountered back home.

I’ve been trying to formulate a response to all the Paula Deen nonsense that’s been filling the airwaves and creating noise on the internet the last couple of days. If you’ve not been paying attention, the rotund Southern television chef gave a deposition in which she admitted that she has, in her lifetime, uttered the word nigger. Consequently the Food Network terminated her contract. The situation’s ugly and unfortunate on both sides. It’s an ugly and hurtful word. She shouldn’t have said it. No question about it. It’s reprehensible.

At the same time, though, I have some complex feelings about the response of both the media and the internet. I’m always suspicious of cultural events when huge groups of people dogpile on to express their outraged indignation about what someone has done or said. Justified or not, there always seem to be other motives at play—whether it’s the quick fix of a rush of adrenaline and self-righteous glee, or the schadenfreude to be enjoyed from taking a vicious swipe at a target already laid low.

I’m no fan of Deen’s—either her television personality or her cooking—but a portion of the excited glee that seems to be coming from kicking her while she’s down seems to arise from people who like to take cheap and easy shots. She’s a fatty—therefore you know she must be morally weak. She uses a lot of butter—she must have no self-control whatsoever. Then there’s the fact Deen is Southern. She talks funny. (She has exactly the same accent as my mom’s mother used to, so it’s not particularly comic to me.) Of course she’s said the word nigger. She’s from the South, right? They all talk funny and act like that down there. Not like the rest of us, the nice people.

I’ve seen outrage on social media from men I know who have absolutely no issue calling women who stand in their way words like cunt and bitch; I’ve seen moral superiority from a former school acquaintance who during the election was so loud and obnoxious about “Obama bin Ladin and the fags controlling him” that it’s tough to take anything she says seriously about how deeply shocked, shocked and appalled, she is about Deen’s admission.

All of us in our lifetimes have used hateful language. That fact excuses nothing. But to dogpile onto someone else when she’s been backed into a corner, merely to express our own superiority, is disingenuous. Finger-pointing accomplishes nothing; it doesn’t help anyone explore we we use hurtful words, or under what circumstances. And those are dialogues that we, as a society, really should be having, rather than resting on our perceived laurels and congratulating ourselves for not being as bad as other people.

Whew. Heavy topic this morning. Thanks for putting up with it. Let’s get to some questions from formspring.me.

With all the sexual encounters you have had, what was the wildest request for sex from someone you have done, and to compare what was the wildest request you wouldn't do?

I think the most offbeat request I ever had was to stretch someone's scrotum skin flat and tight, like a drum—or like Cassandra the Last Human on Doctor Who, for those of you who watch that—and drive sterilized finishing nails through it into a block of wood. That I had no problem with.

I did have a problem when the same guy wanted me to study up on genital scarring and perform some of those rituals armed with a sterilized skinning knife. I passed on that one.


As a married man do you find having a wedding ring attracts more attention? Also I’ve heard (not experienced) that married men usually make lousy tops supposedly because they're doing all the humping like they do in marriage & prefer to be done than the doing.

I was just noting last week that individuals tend to be observant about certain things. Some people are very observant, for example, about eye color, and could tell you exactly what hue a person is simply by talking to them once. (I am not good at that.) Other people are good about wedding rings, and can tell you immediately if an absent person wore one or not. (I'm not really good at that either. What I am good at is telling you exactly what I ate at any restaurant I've visited in the last 15 years, and probably what everyone else in my part ordered, as well.)

So for those people who just don't notice rings, no, mine doesn't really attract attention. There are men I've been with a dozen times who don't realize it's there. I'm pretty open about being in a relationship in online profiles, so that people can self-select whether they care to pursue anything with me or not based on that criterion.

However. For those who meet me and notice the ring, it often becomes a focal point of the encounter. There are a lot of men who like to kiss it or to suck the ring it's on. Some men like to have me remove it and place it in my pocket or on the table or somewhere out of sight, so that they can pretend I'm single and theirs for the duration of the encounter. Others like me to place it on one of their fingers while we fuck, as a bonding experience—like we’re temporarily married during the fuck.

I don't know where you hear that married men are lousy tops; I hear from my best bottoms that their best tops are usually married men who fuck women as well. There are a lot of married men who prefer to be done rather than do the doing, if that makes sense—but there are just as many gay men who are like that too.


Who was the first person you thought you were in love with? Do you still think you were in love with them?

When I look back on my teen years, I think it's odd that despite all the men I had sex with, I never really fell in love with any of them. I was fond of a few. I certainly enjoyed a lot of them. I saw many of them for years. But I assumed romance wasn’t in the cards, so I didn’t expect or look for it.

It wasn't until college that I fell in love for the first time, and it was with a girl in my sophomore dorm. She was smart as a whip and tolerably pretty, in the same way Hermione is pretty at Hogwarts though neither Harry nor Ron ever notice her through most of those books. But she was from Long Island (which was as exotic to me as Hogwarts would’ve been) and she caught my fancy. I spent most of my college years mooning after her from afar.

We were good friends, you see, but she was spending most of her college years mooning after another boy. And he treated her like dirt, while he kept her hoping for an eventual romance and traditional white wedding. He kept her on the hook, while she kept me on the hook, while I mooned after her and kept dozens of hopeful men on hooks of my own.

Was I really in love? Yeah, probably. But if I didn't have the nuts to tell her about it, I didn't deserve to have her. Simple as that. What it did teach me, eventually, is that sitting around and hoping is a piss-poor excuse for courtship. I never made that mistake again.


Rob, I feel I must thank you for sharing a private side of your life and innermost thoughts. I feel there are others like me who find it difficult to respond to you as we have very ordinary lives that may bore you. Thank you again.

I appreciate that you're grateful, my loyal reader. Thank you.

I wish you wouldn't refer to your own life as boring, though. Or if it is boring, make it exciting! You have the capacity to direct your life toward goals that are both exciting and fulfilling—but it’s up to you to steer in the direction you want to go. It won’t simply happen without you taking control.

Park and . . . Oh Yeah

There are slow or even tragic evenings at the park-and-ride lot. Then there are Monday nights like this one, when I pull with a sharp right up the ramp and into the center of an empty stretch of spaces at the far end. I’m not even there for a hot minute when another vehicle slides in next to mine. It’s a slick black sedan, foreign-made. I look up from my phone warily, steeling myself for the sight of a bad set of teeth, or a less-than-attractive face, or a belly upon which one could easily rest entire shelves of commemorative plates.

But no, the guy’s handsome—clearly Latin, with salt-and-pepper hair on the pepper side, groomed into a professional and sexy wave across his forehead. Despite the gray, he’s younger than I. He’s wearing a crisply-pressed white businessman’s shirt, and a gray suit jacket. He’s lost the tie somewhere before this exit. His head is turned to look in my direction.

I have absolutely no qualms about staring back. This man is fine. Damned fine.

For a half-minute we bathe in each other’s glances. I can tell from the flicker of his eyes he’s checking out my jawline, my hair. I’m looking at the neat lines of his shirt, the angle at which it falls against an obviously-muscular chest.

He unbuckles. Open his door. Steps out of his car. When he stands, I can tell he’s only about five-five, maybe five-six. But he’s a hot little fucker. While he maintains eye contact with me over his windshield, he pulls off that expensive suit coat, folds it deftly, and stores it on his seat. His fingers flip open the clasps on his cuff links; he tosses them atop the jacket and shuts his door. Then he’s folding the ends of those French cuffs over each other and exposing his brawny forearms as he moves in my direction.

He bends down a little, looks through my window. I nod, and he lets himself in. “I like your looks,” he says, once he’s sitting down. His hand reaches out to massage the bulge in my jeans. There’s not a shy bone in this guy’s body. “Damn. Big boy.”

He’s got a lump in his own pants that he’s rubbing with the heel of his free hand. “You’re not tiny,” I comment.

“You married?” he asks.

I nod. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sixteen years. Damn. I love that dick. That’s what I need.”

He looks around. I do, too. There’s a pickup truck at the lot’s other end with its back hatch pulled down; two men are moving something from a car to the truck’s bed, but they’re a long distance away. He unzips his pants, pulls them down beneath his butt. They’re wrapped around his knees. He’s wearing a pair of blue-striped boxers from Brooks Brothers; he opens the fly and pulls out his cock. It’s no monster, but it’s a beauty. A good six and a half inches, maybe, fat, perfectly formed. “Fuck,” I say. “Let me suck it.”

“So you like sucking?” he asks, looking around.

“I love to suck.”

“Ahhh, probably shouldn’t do it here though.”

“Just a taste,” I beg. I’m hungry for that beauty.

“Show me yours.”

I unzip, unbutton. I pull out the goods. He hisses at the sight. “Sssssshit. You’re way bigger than me.”

“You’ve got a hot one though,” I assure him. I’m still staring at it.

“What gets you super-hard?” he asks.

I look around again. “Privacy,” I joke.

“How about a hot ass?”

I nod, and lick my lips. Yeah. I love hot ass.

And he can tell. The fucker responds by turning in the passenger seat so that he’s resting on his right hip. He pulls down his boxers and exposes his butt to me. It’s round, and smooth, and creamy. “Touch it,” he says. “Go on. Touch it.”

I waste no time. I reach out with my hand and grab the man’s butt. He loves the way I manhandle his flesh. “Squeeze it. Yeah. It can take some rough treatment,” he says in a soft voice. “Yeah. Just like that.”

I have one cheek in each hand, and I’m squeezing and separating them. I’m pulling them apart to expose his hole. It’s tiny, and pink, and hairless, almost as if it’s been shaved. I’m pretty sure this is natural, though.

“You can touch it,” he whispers. “It’s cool. It’s clean. Touch it.”

I run a fingertip over the pucker. It responses by disappearing and then blossoming out. “Beautiful,” I muse.

“You want it?” he wants to know. I nod at him. He looks at me over his shoulder, then sticks a meticulously-manicured thumb into his mouth. He wets it, then reaches around and shoves it into his own hole. “Show me how you’d fuck me,” he says. He gestures with his head at my dick. “Beat it.”

My meat is stiff and throbbing at this point. I check around me again before I begin pumping, but then I keep my eyes on that hole. He’s sodomizing his own butt with his thumb, driving it in and pulling it out again. His wedding ring glints at me with every thrust. “Would you fuck me hard?” he wants to know.

“Yeah, I’d fuck you hard,” I say. I start pounding my fist around my meat, to show him. It turns him on. He squirms and pulls apart his cheeks to expose his winking hole again. “I’d fuck you like a bitch in heat.”

“Bet the wife loves that monster raping her,” he says. Our eyes meet. “I know I would.”

It’s the intimacy of that instant that sets me off. Sperm spurts out of my dick and cascades down my clenched fist, icing the knuckles and dripping down onto the seat below. He watches with fascination until I’m done. Then he rights himself on the seat, stares at my still-oozing erection. In a swift, unexpected motion he leans over. I feel the heat of his breath on my shaft, feel the wetness of his tongue. It grazes against the head as he takes a lick of my load for his prize.

Then he’s groping in my glove box and tossing me a napkin from Taco Bell, while he pulls up his boxers and suit pants and pulls himself together.

“Are you around here often?” I ask. I want to see this man again. Naked, in a hotel room.

“Not often. Even the little I am is too often,” he says, not unkindly. We both know the chances of running across each other again soon are slim.

“I get that,” I tell him. He waits for me to clean up my mess, and to pull up my pants again. Then he’s out and gone. From his own car he gives me a salute before he pulls out.

Encounters like I wrote about last week are what make me always consider not going back to this particular car park.

Men like this one are what keep me going back.

Park and . . . Yikes.

Guys are always asking me in email or on an instant messenger about the park-and-ride lot I visit. They picture it as basically a roadside orgy, an outdoors bathhouse—a spot where cruisers approach my windows the minute I drive up, hoping for a taste of my dick. Throw in some roller skates and a chocolate malted and the cruisers sound like carhops at a sexy Treasure Island drive-in.

Obviously, it’s not like that at all.

No, the park-and-ride lot is first and foremost just a parking lot in the middle of nowhere where businessmen and women meet for carpools into Manhattan in the mornings. It’s where families from different parts of the county will meet to transfer crap for a weekend tag sale from one trunk to another. It’s the spot from which busses carrying school groups to a weekend theater matinee will leave, and where the parents will idle at the appointed time to pick them up again. At any given time, eighty to ninety percent of the cars in the lot are there for legitimate business.

Frankly, there are days on which the remaining ten percent aren’t worth hanging around for. I’ve had a little more time to myself than usual this month and I’ve ended up hitting the park-and-ride a little more than usual in the last couple of weeks. I went at eleven on a Sunday night (“Sunday nights are incredibly hot at this place!”, read the online review at a cruising site) to find myself the only car in the lot at all. I left after a very quiet and action-less fifteen minutes.

I paid the lot another visit when it was on my way home the next night. It was after rush hour, so there were plenty of open spots around. I was a little disappointed when, after a couple of minutes in a quieter corner of the lot, a woman pulled in next to my car. It was dusk, and her van had some kind of tinting on the windows, so all I could really see was a blond bob. I figured it was some suburban housewife picking up her husband after a late night at the office.

Then she got out of the car with a black clutch in her left hand. It wasn’t a woman. It was definitely a cross-dresser. Not an artful cross-dresser, either—that is, not one who went to any lengths to create an illusion of femininity. Basically, it was an old bald man with a wig in a Lily Pulitzer dress, with thick chest hair sprouting out of the neckline. He looked like Benny Hill’s sidekick, Jackie Wright, stuffed into leftovers from the local Methodist church rummage sale.

Luckily I’d already pulled out my cell phone to check mail when I’d thought it was a housewife; I slunk down in my seat and did my best to appear invisible as she made several passes by the front of my car in an effort to entice me. It didn’t work.

Another time I went back to find the place hopping—just not with anyone I found remotely attractive. After I parked my car, two guys—one Phillip Seymour Hoffman lookalike who was actually wearing a trench coat that made him look like a flasher, and the other a married guy with a comb-over who pulled a fifth of bourbon out of his trunk and took a massive swig from it before approaching—circled around my car like it was a fishing boat, and they were sharks from one of the Jaws movies who’d caught the scent of bloody chum. When I maintained a studious (and oblivious) concentration on my cell phone and proceeded to make an imaginary call to no one, they took off into the woods and presumably went at each other. And they were welcome to it.

A third man approached my car after they left. He wasn’t bad looking. He was tall, in his forties, and wasn’t actively cultivating the image and dress sense of a child molester. My bar isn’t too high, you know. “How’re you doing tonight?” he said, rubbing a bulge in the front of his jeans.

“I’m good,” I told him, giving him a great big smile. Men like my smile. I like to disarm them with it.

He was so charmed that he smiled back. I actually recoiled at the sight of his teeth. At the roots they were yellow. Out toward the ends, they were a rancid brown. Even as I type these words, I’m trying not to gag at the memory. I don’t know whether I was looking at active decay, or the kind of tobacco stains that came from religiously packing chaw into his mouth before every bedtime. But it was vile, whatever it was. It was so disgusting that I was actually speechless. “You looking for fun?” he leered at me with those brown teeth, as he leaned in to look through the driver’s side window.

I was totally speechless. There was no way I was having sex with that man. I didn’t want that mouth and those teeth anywhere near my dick.

Despite the fact that he’d already peered in to see the outline of my hard-on beneath the flimsy shorts I was wearing, I was considering initiating another imaginary phone call. Then the guy saved me, when he saw my left hand scrambling to cover up my quickly-evaporating arousal. “Aw, fuck,” he said, heaving his shoulders. “You’re married.” He wheeled around like a teenaged girl upset that I hadn’t bought her the pair of shoes she’d wanted. “Fuck. Why do I always have to fall for the married ones?”

“OH WELL!” I nearly shouted with relief, as I rolled up my windows. “SORRY ‘BOUT THAT!”

I think the tread marks are still there that I left as I peeled rubber home.

Magical Thinking

I don’t think there’s a single person alive who, when a kid, didn’t hope he could affect the world with his thinking. Coincidence happens when the paths between the wished-for and the actual cross, and little kid brains become convinced some mystical assertion of will is the cause. Is there anyone who hasn’t clenched his juvenile fists and closed his eyes and tried to move mountains with one desperate, silent wish? I doubt it.

Last week I was playing bingo at the local watering hole, and when the bartender wandered over to look at my card, he asked what numbers I was looking for. “I need two,” I replied, trying not to stare at the guy’s biceps, “G-55, for one.”

Then right at that moment, the drag queen pulling the bingo balls yelled out, “G-55!”

I felt a momentary rush of imaginary power over the world for a moment. The bartender fist-pumped the air. I just grinned, shook my head, and chalked it up to the persuasive power of coincidence. But that didn’t stop me from concentrating really hard for the rest of the game and thinking, B-9. B-9. B-9!!!

Just in case.

This story I’m about to tell took place on Tuesday. I’m in the city, walking across 48th Street. It’s a beautiful day out—sunny, temperature hovering around seventy-two. The kind of spring afternoon on which anything seems possible. I’m running errands, but I’m in no particular hurry to get them done because of the balmy weather. So I’m passing the uptown stop for the B train and for some reason remembering that bingo game from the week before. And I’m mentally shaking my head at my silliness and thinking, I just WISH I could get what I want by thinking it. Then my eyes light on a guy stepping up onto the sidewalk from the subway station steps.

He’s handsome. Oh my god, so handsome. The guy looks like Gerard Butler’s beefy, impossibly hard-bodied animated character from 300 has stepped off the screen and into business casual. He wears a lilac-colored pressed dress shirt that hugs every muscle in his considerable chest. His slacks, dark and fine-woven, cling to his hard ass. His face is rugged, his hair thick and wavy. I don’t usually notice eye colors right off, but it’s impossible to miss the sapphire blue of his. When I pass the guy, we’re no more than three feet apart. I take in the tight shirt, the beefy body, those glittering gemstones of eyes, and think to myself, If I could make stuff happen just by thinking it . . . Fuck.

That’s when our eyes meet.

I feel that shock that sparks when two men lock stares. The pop of electricity that leaves me startled and breathless. He isn’t just looking at me. He actually stops still at the top of the stairs. His eyes only break from mine to flick down the rest of my body. I’m wearing a dark gray sport shirt and a pair of dress jeans—nothing special, but I’d found the outfit flattering when earlier I’d left home. Then our eyes fasten back on each other.

And I walk on, while my brain wildly thinks, Holy crap! Did I make THAT happen?

It’s tough to justify why I don’t stop walking. It’s a Manhattan thing. We have places to go. Things to do. Strolling is for tourists, people. Our little legs keep moving in the direction we’re pointed. It’s not until I’m a few steps past that I’m thinking, God damn, I wish I’d stopped. Or that I even realize that stopping is an option. By the time I do, only three seconds have passed. He’s still standing there by the subway stairs, looking after me.

So I pause, then turn and walk back to him.

I don’t know how to talk to beautiful men, generally. Built fuckers in their thirties whom I’m half-convinced and half-afraid are only staring at me because I’ve stunned them in the tracks using solely the power of my brain waves? That’s even tougher. But I fake it. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound confident.

“Hi,” he replies, staring at me like I’m the answer to his god-damned prayer, and not the other way around.

“I—“ I start to stammer.

At the same time, he says, “You—“, then trails off.

We both laugh a little. That ice is broken. “Are you hung?” he blurts out. “You kinda look like you’d be hung.” I nodded and reply that yes, I am. “Top?” he ask.

“Yes again.”

He looks at my crotch, then looks into the steady stream of people meandering by. “Listen, I don’t usually do this,” he says, using the preamble that men use right before they do something they’ve done many times more than once. “But I’m horny as shit. Do you wanna come home with me for a little bit? I’ve gotta stop off at my office real quick, but . . . maybe you’ve got something you need to do, right?”

“I don’t usually do this either,” I fib. “But yeah. I’ll go with you,” I say. In the back of my head, that little part of me begins to nag. It’s the part that always pipes up I’m not worthy, that he’ll laugh at me when I got my clothes off, that I’m being set up for some massive Carrie prom night-scaled disaster. I switch that obnoxious twat right off. There’s no earthly reason I don’t deserve to be with this man. I swallow, then say with more assurance, “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The stop-off he has to make was on 50th; I sit in the lobby under the watchful eye of a security guard while he dashes up to his office and back again in the space of ten minutes. Then we’re off again to push through the crowds on the way to his place on Ninth. We don’t speak much beyond pleasantries. But I can’t help but notice, on the way over, how both women and men glance at him with appraisal as we pass. Nor can I help from inwardly crowing, Yeah, but I’m the one who stopped him in his tracks with my magical thinking.

He starts to shed his clothing the minute we’re through the much-varnished door of his Hell’s Kitchen flat. He kicks off his tasseled loafers on the mat, flips open his cuffs and shirt buttons as we pass the efficiency kitchen, drops the shirt at the entry to the living room. The belt hits the floor by his flatscreen. The pants he tosses on the armchair. He peels first his black dress socks from his feet and then the tank from his chest as if they’re layers of onion skin, and lets them fall so that he’s standing there in nothing but his underwear. Andrew Christian, they are.

Designer underwear baffles me for the most part; it seems as if most men buy and fetishize it as if they believe pulling up a pair of overpriced briefs over their knees and thighs will magically transform their bodies into those of the sleek and muscular models on the boxes. It never does. With this guy, though. Fuck. That underwear probably fantasized that it’d be lucky enough to find someone like this piece of work to wear them. That underwear probably prayed that could ever be cozying the junk of a guy like this.

Now I’m stunned. I drop my shoulder bag onto the floor and stand there, hands at my side, and stare as the musclebound god faces me.

He correctly assumes I’m admiring his physique. He’s incorrect to think that I wanted to see him pose, though. He makes a stupid duck face and curls his arm to show off his guns, then hunches over to flex his chest. I find that crap phony and off-putting, so I hold up a hand and twirled an index finger at the ceiling. “Turn around,” I tell him. Perhaps not entirely coincidentally, it’s the same finger and motion one uses to signify Big whoop.

He turns. He puts a leg out, shifts his weight. He looks to the side, his eyes sidling back to mine. He’s posing again. His thumbs hook into his underwear, and he teases me by pulling down the waistband. I haven’t taken off a thing until this point, but as he puls his undies up and down over the round perfection of his ass, I unbutton my shirt. I slide loose my belt buckle, unbutton my jeans and let them fall to my ankles. My own underwear—five bucks a pair, Uniqlo with a Keith Haring print—fall into them. I cup my dick in my hand and point it at him. All the phoniness of his poses evaporates.

“Fuck, you are hung,” he says.

“I don’t lie,” I say. “Not about that.”

He licks his lips. We stare at each other again, eyes locked as firmly as they had been on the street. “I want it in me,” he admits in a half-whisper. I nod, once, in the direction of the sofa. He grabs the back with his hands, and settles his knees on the seat. I kneel down behind him. “I don’t know if I’m real fresh,” he says from over his shoulder. “I’m clean to fuck. But I don’t know about rimming. Sorry, dude.”

“Okay,” I say, standing up. He’s got a bottle of lube and some poppers on the glass table behind the sofa. He takes the lube, squirts some on his hand, and rubs it on his hole. Then he reaches back to grab my cock. It’s the first time he’s felt it. He gives it a good squeeze, tests the heft, feels the length. Then he clasps the lube and poppers in his hands like talismans and nods over his shoulder at me.

This isn’t a romance. We haven’t kissed. We’ve barely talked. He hasn’t made a move to suck my dick or get my number. This is a fuck, raw and simple. My dick’s hard and already dripping, anticipating pushing its way into that muscle ass and owning it for a few minutes. He’s not easy to get into, either. I can’t tell whether he’s bearing down against me, or trying some exotic technique to make himself appear tighter than he actually is, but getting the head past his outer ring takes effort and a minute of battering my dick against him. But once I’m in, I’m in. All the way to the base.

And it feels good.

He’s clamping down on the last inch of meat where my dick meets my pelvis, waggling his butt around and refusing to let me out. “Dude,” he’s gasping out. “That feels amazing. That’s a real top’s dick. I knew you were going to be hung. I don’t know why. I just knew when I saw you.”

“You feel gooooood,” I drawl, beginning to get into the fuck. I slide in and out, watching my cock thicken and swell with just a single sweet stroke.

When he huffs deeply from the bottle of poppers, his hole deepens even more. I feel the warm flesh soften and blossom around my stem. His arms cross his chest. With the poppers in his right hand and the lube in his left, he reminds me of a pharaoh posed and carved onto an ancient Egyptian mastaba.

From the waist up, anyway. From the waist down, he’s all slut. His cunt makes soft squelching sounds as I push in and out. He moans in time with my fucking, and raises his hips to push back against me. Forty minutes before we’d been strangers passing on the street. Now we’re tied in copulation like two dogs going at each other, and I’m not pulling out the knot of my dick until I’m done.

I fuck him on the sofa for several minutes until he begs to switch positions; with admirable athleticism he flips himself onto his back, raises his butt to the level of my hips, and begs for me to drive it in. He hangs onto his own ankles as I plow deep. A couple of minutes more and he’s oozing lube from the bottle over his cock and balls. Some of it drips down onto my feverish dick and slides into his already-wet ass. Then he starts to jack.

I can tell by the way he’s playing with himself that he’s going to shoot quickly, whether he wants to or not. I don’t intend to find out whether he’s one of those bottoms who’ll let me continue fucking after he comes, or whether he’ll start complaining and twisting to get me out of him the minute he’s shot. I intend to get my orgasm, too. And it’s close enough that all I have to do is pick up the pace a little, grind into him a little more aggressively, and let my nuts do the work.

Our orgasms are close. He shoots first, loosing a blast of semen that slops across his chest and nipples and forms a rope of pearls across his sternum. I’m there with him, seconds later, painting his guts in a climax so overwhelming that I clench my face in what has to look like pain. I feel his legs swing down; my cock pops out. I’ve barely got my vision back than he’s wiping my dick down with a hand towel and chattering about how he’s got to get to the gym before five.

Doesn’t matter. I get the message. We did what we were meant to do, and now it’s done, past tense. I pull up my pants, button my shirt, make sure I look respectable in the mirror, and I’m on my way. He pats my ass on the way out, says we should do it again sometime. Sure thing, boss.

Whether or not we will, I don’t really know. Probably not.

But that’s okay. I’m not mournful when I leave. I don’t know the guy’s name. I don’t have his number, didn’t ask for his email. I’m looking at it this way: if the universe hadn’t wanted us to meet, it would’ve sent me down 49th instead of 48th. It would’ve distracted me with some kind of fucking Elmo or Statue of Liberty performer in my path closer to Times Square, or held me back at a traffic light so that by the time this guy emerged from the bowels of the B train station, my legs would’ve carried me in another direction.

But the universe, or coincidence, let this encounter happen. If it’s meant to happen again, it’ll push this guy in my path at some future point. I don’t care. I’ve had fun. The whole thing was kind of fucking crazy, right? And besides, I’m leaving his place feeling good. I’m feeling incredible, in fact. I’m cock of the walk, the proudest fucking top in the whole damned city. I’m grinning like a god-damned fool.

And why? Here’s where I want to write, Because things like amazing-looking studs stopping in the street to check me out just don’t happen to me. But it’d be a lie. Things like that do happen to me, now and again. However, they don’t drop into my lap because of anything I’ve thought, or some magic brain-wave I transmit that stops hot men dead in their tracks. I don’t believe my brain has magical powers.

My preferred form of magical thinking is more a way of looking for the magic in the world around me, for noticing opportunities. It takes more than wishing to make magic happen.

So I look handsome men in the eye. I stop my legs from walking and turn them in the other direction, on whim. I say hello to strangers.

I keep my sails unfurled for adventure, and sometimes let unknown winds steer me where they may. An alchemy of good luck and an openness to taking chances—that’s all real magic often is.

The Toy

I’ve bottomed four times in the last six months. Twice for the Russian, once for Tim the senior, and once in a group encounter I’ve not recorded yet. It’s something of a giant leap for me—the number is four hundred percent more than I had bottomed in more than a half-dozen years prior.

I’m not suddenly turning into a big old bottom dad or anything, trust me. That isn’t on my agenda. It has been kind of nice, though to be able to go into an encounter knowing that if some handsome man or sweet boy plays with my hole, I can choose to roll over and present my butt. For years, thanks to my own fears and misgivings, that wasn’t even an option.

It’s always nice to have options.

After the Russian wrecked my hole in March, though, I limped back to Grand Central feeling as if my intestines had been turned inside out. For days I was sore and tender down there. A pleasant kind of tender, to be sure. The kind of ache accompanied by glowing memories. But at the time, I thought to myself, You know, I’ve really got to do something about acclimating myself to that monster dick.

Over the next few days I parsed my memories of the experience of the Russian fucking me to find out the parts I really needed to work on. What it pretty much boiled down to is that my most uncomfortable moments had to do with the initial penetration. I would tense up when the Russian fingered my hole, or jammed lube in with his fingers. Sure, some of the discomfort probably had to do with his passion and impetuous desire to get inside me as quickly as possible, but a lot of it simply arose from the novelty. I might rub the outside of my hole on a daily basis in the shower, to get it clean, but I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d fingered myself.

Luckily, that was easily taken care of. A couple of sessions in the shower with a bottle of lube, and I was getting my fingers inside me as easily as I could slip them inside some eager hole. Not that tough at all.

I needed to do something more, though. The Russian’s dick is a hell of a lot bigger than a finger. I went online and browsed through some penetrative sex toys, hoping to find something that could help me get more accustomed to the sensations of having something hard and stiff slide inside me. I looked at dildos and considered a couple, but was easily intimidated. I checked out some smaller butt plugs and thought they looked intriguing. And then I saw the Aneros.

The Aneros advertises itself as a prostate stimulator. It’s curved to reach the prostate. It has a handle at the base to aid removal, and projecting knobs that stimulate the perineum from the outside. Basically, it looks like a designer door hook you’d buy at Target. And whatever it calls itself, it’s a god damned butt plug.

I looked at the product’s web site and rolled my eyes at the over-enthusiastic forums, where people were posting rave comments about how the Aneros had been utterly life-changing, and where a lot of users were comparing notes on things called “P-Waves” and “Super-O’s.” (They’re apparently not breakfast cereal brands.) But I had known a couple of people in the past who’d bought the first iterations of the toy, and they’d loved it, so I tossed out a little cash and thought to myself, What the fuck.

The Aneros arrived a few days later. I looked at it, compared its rather diminutive size to some of the dicks I took in my teen years, compared it to the hulking girth of the Russian, and mentally nicknamed it the Wee Willy Winkie. But later that night I hopped in the shower and cleaned myself inside and out, threw a towel onto the bed, got out the lube, and figured I’d pop it in for a minute or two. I greased it up, slid it in, was pleased that I didn’t have much discomfort getting it in there, and then let it sink down to the base.

And oh my god.

The rest of this entry is going to sound like I’m shilling a product for a paid ad, so let me assure you I’m not. When the head of that Aneros hit my prostate, it immediately started sending stimulation up my spine in a way I’d never before experienced. It was a bit like the good moments during a fuck, all combined and assaulting me at once. It was a lot like the tingle I feel when someone makes me blush furiously—how the rush of sensation and pleasure comes from nowhere and wraps around my neck and midsection like a tight, hot girdle.

For years I’d known some of my better fucks claiming to have anal orgasms, and I never quite understood what they were like. No one had ever given them to me, when I’d been a bottom. After the Aneros went in, I was actually pretty sure I understood what those bottoms had meant. I lay there on the bed, gently drawing up one knee and then the other as I rocked my hips back and forth. I spread my legs and and drew up my heels, and gently thrust into the air, just to enjoy the sensations. My cock was rock-hard the entire time, but I wasn’t masturbating myself very often, or with the intent of shooting. I was just enjoying the sensations, and riding on a wave of pleasure. (I don’t know whether I was having P-Waves or Super-O’s. Personally, I think they sound gimmicky.)

When finally I took out the Aneros, I felt like a million bucks. I’d intended to leave it in for five minutes. I left it in there for two hours.

Two fucking hours. The first time.

I’ve used it several solitary times since, and I’ve decided that I most enjoy it when I insert it and simply concentrate on the sensations. I can watch porn, or chat dirty to someone online, grind a bit, and come away feeling tingly and satisfied. I’ve tried having orgasm while it’s in there, but they’re intense—intense to the point that they’re more painful than pleasurable, but they certainly leave you feeling as if your pipes have been cleared.

Now, a plastic and silicone toy is no substitute for warm human flesh. Nothing is going to substitute for a good and attentive lover who knows what he’s doing. A toy can’t engage in intimacy with you, or touch your body, or kiss your neck. But you know, to a top guy who has on many occasions been mystified at what bottoms feel when they’re really enjoying a fuck, it has been a great tool.

I kind of get it, now.

I kind of want to get it, too.

Sunday Morning Questions: Facebook Sucks Edition

There’s always something, isn’t it?

This week, Facebook decided I wasn’t a real person. That is, for those of you who had added my Facebook account as a friend, I’m no longer visible or able to be contacted on the service, because Facebook has declared that I’m not a real person.

(Admittedly, there’s a certain amount of truth behind the accusation. The name I was using for the account is not my own. But I’m certainly real enough.)

Unfortunately, the only way I can find to rectify the situation is to participate in a test I’m sure to fail in which I’m challenged to look at photos of my Facebook friends and then to type in their names. This is not a test I’m certain I could pass on my 100% genuine Facebook account under my 100% genuine name, despite the fact I have less than 200 friends on the service. For an account with 1500 friends, few of whom I actually know in real life, it’s nigh on impossible.

And my chances of success are severely impeded by the fact that a lot of the photos that are supposed to be my Facebook friends are of various porn stars and celebrities, most of whom I’m pretty sure are not actually following my account there, as well as Hanna-Barbera characters, red equality signs, and plates of burgers and fries.

To top it off, some other branch of Facebook keeps emailing me almost daily. You haven't logged in in a while! it tells me. All these cool posts from all your friends have been posted while you've been gone! Follow this link and log in to see what you're missing! YOU DON'T GET TO HAVE IT BOTH WAYS, FACEBOOK.

There’s no visible way to appeal to Facebook for reconsideration; the help button at the bottom of the page takes me to help content that’s unrelated to the photo-matching game they want me to play. I attempted to do some Google image reverse-matching, but that was unsuccessful (and you try reverse-matching an Instagrammed shot of a Wendy’s Chicken Sandwich and fries to see which of your fifteen-hundred friends might have posted the damned thing). Anyone else have a suggestion for a solution? I’m open to your ideas.

If worse comes to worse, I’ll just start over on Facebook. I primarily use the account for publicizing new blog posts—the rest of the time I spend there is usually ignoring apps like Candy Crush and Wonderful Color Birthday Calender [sic] 2, and then leaving groups to which I’ve been invited without asking like UKRAINE GLORY HOLE LOVERS and Young Gay Bros Wantin’ Abuse. Hmm. Now that I think of it, maybe I could do without a blog Facebook account altogether.

Until I figure out what I want to do, I remind you that you’re welcome to follow me on my Twitter account. I tend to post there more often, including notices of new blog posts and occasional sex pics.

Let’s get to some questions from formspring.me.


When first experimenting with anal what was the first thing you inserted in there?

I believe it was a finger, when I was 9 or 10. Later on I experimented with a carrot, and then moved up to a broomstick handle. I finally got dick a couple of years later and didn't play with any toys again until my twenties.


Some people ask you the most random non sexuaal questions & others are just plain bloody rude. I enjoy your blog, thanks for sharing, keep it up.

I'm actually fine with the non-sexual questions. I'm not banging butt twenty-four hours a day after all (try as I sometimes might). I have other interests as well, and if people are interested enough to ask about them, or about my childhood or earlier experiences, I'm happy to share.

The rudeness I get from a very small handful of people is the single most daunting and dispiriting thing not only about Formspring, but about interacting with readers. For some readers the rudeness is inadvertent—I suspect they're so unused to, and so intimidated by, someone who's not frightened of his own sexuality that they manage to project all their own fears and self-hatred on me in the guise of being clever or condescending. Yet I also attract hypocrites who in their questions and comments insist that they're above the low vulgarity in which I wallow, and yet they for some reason follow every dirty sex blog or nasty Twitter user out there. And then I just get the crazies, who suck the life right out of me—as we all saw earlier this year.

I'd rather have some weird-ass questions about my favorite childhood cereal over those freaks, anytime.


Does having sex outside a private home (cars, public toilets, etc.) thrill you in a way and make the sex feel different then meeting in a private home?

I first started having public sex in parks, cars, public washrooms, and alleys in my youth simply because I didn't have a private home to which I could take men. I lived with my parents. They were permissive, but when it came to bringing home a strange adult to bang me in my childhood bed, they weren't that permissive. So it arose as a means to an end—a necessity, rather than a preference.

In the era in which I came of age during the late seventies and early eighties, however, public cruising spots were how gay men met each other to have sex. Not every small city or rural outpost had a bar. We didn't have the internet, so we couldn't hook up via Craigslist. Heading to the park to cruise, or catching eyes with a stranger on a city street, or hanging out on the trails by the riverside and taking the action into the bushes was our only means to an end. It was a way of life for many of us who had no better alternatives to meet like-minded men.

These days, of course, it's different. But it's still possible to hit a parking lot, or a restroom, or a park, to find some hot guy, and to have sex with him there. For me, the thrill isn't from the locale. I'm not standing there thinking, "Damn, I really like the pee smell in this restroom!" I'm not standing there thinking, "Hey, lookit me having sex behind this vending machine, I'm a bad, bad boy!" I'd infinitely rather be fucking on a bed, any day.

What’s sexy about public sex is the thrill of the chase. It's knowing that I took a risk and came up with a hot reward. It's the convenience, or the sheer whim of it that I like. I like knowing that men still stick to the old customs, and that human nature doesn't change. I might not do it as much as I did when I was in my teens and twenties—which was daily—but I still do it from time to time to keep my hand in.


What forms of Southern manners do you continue to observe?

What an interesting question. In the time and place where I grew up in the South, manners were a big part of the culture. They weren't so much taught as hammered into one's DNA.

A lot of those genteel customs have gone by the wayside thanks to a certain lassitude of etiquette in today's modern culture, and because we communicate differently as a texting and emailing society from the days when all we had was the postal service and the telephone at our fingertips.

However, I find that I'm unable to hold open the door for a woman in public. I don't care if she looks perfectly capable of swinging it back herself. I am there to hold it for her, dammit. I also have a hard time keeping myself from writing hand-written bread-and-butter notes on stationery with a pen, after someone has had me over for a home-cooked dinner or has let me stay overnight. I realize I could get it done with email so much faster, but it just seems less nice that way.


First time reader found your blog while looking for a web site for my family, your runt story made me cry & gave me hope, my gorgeous 17 year old son came out & his father left when i couldn't & wouldn't kick my darling son out.

Gloriosky, it's quite something to run across someone's graphic gay sex blog when you're looking for a family web site. It makes me wonder what the hell search terms you used.

But I'm glad you found the entry helpful, and not mentally scarring. Thank you for standing by your son. I know he thanks you, too.