Thursday Open Forum: Group Sex 101

Orgies. Group sex. To a lot of people, myself included, the terms are no big deal. To others, they’re fraught with anxiety.

Most of the sex I’ve had over the last six months, it seems, has either been in group situations, or with men I’ve met during big naked groups. I can’t say why this is, exactly—beyond, of course, the fact that I’m a top with a big dick, and big-docked tops are popular (and rare) in groups. Maybe there are more orgies in this part of the country? Maybe I’ve just stumbled into a handful of sex friends who are more inclined to throw groups when they know there’s a reliable top to invite? I don’t know.

What I do know is that of the mail I get from readers, the topic that gets addressed the most, the topic which has people fretting and worrying more than any other, has to do with the etiquette involved in attending group sex functions.

I’m not going to dismiss any of this anxiety as foolish or unwarranted. Meeting up with one stranger can be scary on its own. Walking into a group situation with a bunch of unknown strangers only multiplies whatever body anxieties and performance fears one might have; it’s enough to make a neurotic out of the most stable personality.

If you’re considering following in my footsteps and attempting group sex for the first time, however, I think there are a few general guidelines to follow.

1. Don’t be afraid to say yes to to a group sex invitation.

Group sex isn’t inherently deviant and perverted. Attending an orgy isn’t going to make you into an unredeemable slut or a bad person. Gay or straight, large group or small, it can be highly enjoyable and a great way to socialize. Yes, socialize. And network too, believe it or not.

Overwhelming as the prospect of getting naked in front of group might be for a first-timer, however, I think it’s important to remember that most of the men attending a group sex event are really all there for the same reason—to get off a time or two, and to have an enjoyable couple of hours doing it.

Chances are they’re all arriving with the same worries you might be feeling. Am I good looking enough? Am I hung enough? Will anybody want to fuck me? They’ll be worrying about whether or not they’ll have to make the first move, and how humiliated they’ll be when they try to reach out for some hot guy’s dick and the hot guy up and slaps away that filthy greasy paw. There might be some die-hard group sex aficionados in the mix like me, but chances are a lot (if not most) of the guys are new to it, just like you.

If you get the invite, or if you see an opportunity while you’re prowling online, first relax. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Think about it. Then accept. You might have more fun than you think, and you probably will even come away more confident than you went in.

2. Pick an event that’s right for you.

If you live in a big city, there are probably sex parties happening around you on a frequent basis. Some of them get advertised on sites such as Manhunt or Adam4Adam or BBRT, where it’s possible to browse through public boards or even to press a single button to get a listing of upcoming events. Others might appear in local sex blogs. Some are going to be private, by invitation only, and you have to know the right people.

Anxious as you might be, however, to get your first taste of group sex, before you start worrying about whether you’ll fit in, make sure the event suits you. If you’re looking for guaranteed bareback sex, don’t sign up to attend a foot fetishists’s festival or a jackoff party. Don’t sign up for a group in which safer sex rules are strictly enforced. If you think anal sex is dirty and disgusting, don’t attend a fisting party. This advice might seem obvious, but believe me, I’ve been in a lot of situations in which guys showed up, convinced they could make the party suit their own desires, without any regard to what everyone else wanted. It ain’t cute, and the results ain’t pretty.

There are a handful of events in which the people throwing the party very rigorously screen attendees. They may be searching for a certain degree of hotness, or excluding men who don’t meet a certain invisible requirement for looks, weight, or age. If you do submit your stats and photos for one of these and don’t get invited, don’t waste any of your time mourning when you get the rejection. You are not totally unfuckable. That party just wasn’t for you—and you can do better, trust me.

3. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up. And show up on time.

Nothing irritates a man who’s spent a lot of his own personal time attempting to arrange a group sex party more than people who simply don’t show. My experience in arranging groups has always been pretty dismal; if I invite ten guys to come play at my place on a given date and time, I usually expect about three to show up, at most. I have friends who are more trusting.

Don’t sit behind your computer wanking while you think to yourself how hot an orgy would be, if all you plan to do is get off and never show up, even though the host is expecting you. If you’re unsure you’ll be able to attend, don’t say yes. If you know the chances are slim of you emerging from beneath the rock where you live, please tell the nice guy inviting you Think of me next time, but I can’t be there on that date. Thanks.

If the party’s one of those affairs in which you’re encouraged to show up anytime between eight p.m. and midnight, feel free to make a late entrance. Otherwise, show up at exactly the appointed hour the party’s supposed to start. It’s annoying for the host or one of the other guests to open and close the door repeatedly. You’re pulling them away from the action, when you show up late.

If you do have a genuine conflict, tell your host as soon as possible—preferably before the event commences. Telephone, text, or email your regrets. Doing so as an afterthought might indicate how little regard you have for the host, but even that’s better than not showing up at all.

4. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up ready to play.

Don’t bounce into the room expecting everyone to be hugely interested in the traffic you just encountered. Don’t spill the hundred excuses you might have for being fifteen minutes late. Don’t assume that the motel room or the host’s house will have a working shower so you can clean up. Arrive with your cock ring on, your jock on your butt beneath your business suit, and your hole cleaned out and ready to go. Everyone’s time is at a premium these days; don’t waste it when it comes to others.

Additionally, don’t even bother attending a sex party if you’re not committed actually to having sex. If you’re going to lurk in the corner and not remove your clothes, stay home. If you’re going to arrive only to check out the guys, decide they’re not good enough for your persnickety ass, and then flounce off, just don’t come in the first place. If you’re planning to whack off furiously watching others while growling like a rabid dog at anyone who attempts to touch you, you’d do better behind your monitor watching porn. I’ve encountered all three types of these guys at just about every party I’ve been to, and I can tell you from experience, none of them ever got invited back.

If you are going to need lube for your adventures, bring lube. If you are requiring condoms, bring condoms. If the guy throwing the party has asked for a few bucks to cover the overhead costs, bring a few bucks. Don’t assume that others will cover for you.

5. While you’re at a group sex party, stay responsible for your own safety and behavior.

Start off by being responsible for what you bring with you. If it’s a regular group of guys you trust, that’s one thing. But if you’re in a dark hotel room with a bunch of naked strangers, don’t show up with a Coach leather man-bag that’s holding your iPad, your smartphone, the one printed copy of your doctoral thesis due next week and the one backup, and the irreplaceable birthday gift you just bought your dear mother-in-law. You don’t know who’s going to take off with it while you’ve got your legs lifted to heaven. Leave your wallet in the car, or at home. Arrive with as little cash as possible, and with as little that a light-fingered stranger might be tempted to filch.

If you’re attempting to preserve a negative serostatus at a group sex party, doing so is your responsibility. If you want your partners to wear condoms, it’s up to you to ask them. If you’re trying to bareback but to serosort your partners through some kind of superstitious voodoo ritual that convinces you that you’re immune to risk, be aware that a man’s answers to your question about his HIV status may be affected by exactly how few inches away his raging cock is from your raw hole. Don’t accept substances at a party you wouldn’t otherwise accept; don’t venture to a neighborhood where you’d feel uncomfortable, just for the sake of cheap and easy sex.

When it comes right down to it, you are responsible for your own safety and welfare at a group sex party. Don’t let your dick or anybody else make those important decisions for you.

6. Be nice to the host.

I don’t know how many times I can emphasize this particular point. Every couple of weeks I attend a group event at the home of a retired professor, at which fifteen to twenty guys show up on any given day. And every single time there’s always one asshole—he’s always a different person, but it seems like someone new is always occupying the Designated Asshole slot—who comes in, drops his drawers, and proceeds to rebuff not only the genial host’s advances, but even his attempts at conversation. The Designated Asshole will try to corner whoever he thinks is the hottest guy, get off quickly, and then disappear without even thanking the host.

Grandmotherly though I know I sound, I think this kind of behavior is appalling. (I know, you’re picturing me in a housecoat clutching my pearls and intoning Whatever are they teaching the children these days!) But I know I’m not the only one. Not only does my host keep track of who’s being a rude son-of-a-bitch, but the other regulars at the party, when they see our host given the cold shoulder, are more inclined to shut out the Designated Asshole so that he’s not getting any fun whatsoever. We can be highly protective of our favorite professor.

So if your party has a host, whether it’s the fellow whose house you’re using, or whether it’s the nice pervert who’s taken his time to arrange for the hotel room and to line up the list of guests, be nice to the guy. Give him some extra attention. Slip him a twenty to help pay for the costs, if he’s rented a hotel room for the day. Give him a blow job or your dick or make him feel extra special and hot with your compliments. Your kindness will be remembered, and you will be invited back.

7. For the love of god, play nicely with others.

You’re not going to be attracted to every single person at a sex party. You’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you’re excused from treating them politely.

That guy you think is a creepy old troll might be the boyfriend of the hottie you’re trying to get with, for all you know. Kicking him to the curb with a rude comment could backfire. Even if the creepy old troll is indeed merely a creepy old troll, you’re still not going to do yourself any favors by cutting him down with what you imagine is a witty and devastating remark. Mostly you’re just going to make yourself look like a cruel dick in front of your peers.

The same rules your mom taught you on the playground when you were five years old apply here. Don’t shove others out of the way to get to your favorite toy. You are no more entitled than anyone else present to be first on the best rides. Don’t cause fights, don’t argue, don’t make a fuss or a scene. Do not monopolize any one person. You will be expected to share.

I’ve always found that the camaraderie of men enjoying sex with each other is a bonding experience that can’t be beat; it’s a surefire way to make friends, earn respect, and to share joyful experiences that you’ll remember for a very long time to come. Group sex can be fucking amazing when everyone’s looking out for each other and helping each other to have a hot, sweaty time. And it can be lousy, frustrating, and godawful when one or two guys spoil it by behaving heedlessly or by trying to ruin the spirit of sharing with selfish behavior. Don’t be the Designated Asshole, and treat everyone as you’d like to be treated. It’s the Breeder’s Golden Rule.

If you’ve got questions about group sex, ask them in the comments below. And if you’re experienced in it and have other tips to share, post those as well. We’re all here to help each other over these hurdles—and once those fears of groups are conquered, you’ll be on your way to having some great fun.

(Just remember to invite me, too.)

Sunday Morning Questions: S-S-S-Single Bed Edition

I’m just back from a visit down South. Yes, I’ve been visiting my dad again, which is never as relaxing as it sounds. He saves up chores for me during the months I’m up here in Yankee-land, then springs them upon me when I arrive. No matter when I go down, I know I’m in for a hectic few days of yard work, chauffeur service, handyman duty, and personal shopper assignments.

Which is all well and good. But you know what I hate about the visits? Having to sleep in my old bed.

Now, the bed in which I sleep when I go down there isn’t the bed I had as a kid. That would’ve been my dad’s old childhood bed, a creaky wooden affair that I inherited, ancient mattress and groaning bedsprings and all, when I graduated out of the crib. It only lasted until I was in my early teens when my parents decided to shell out the money for a box spring and a new mattress.

I was grateful for the change, because by then I was painfully aware that every slight movement I made resulted in a symphony of springs straining and rubbing at top volume. Attempting to masturbate on that old bed would’ve brought the whole neighborhood running. If I wanted to get my juvenile dick off at night, I had to climb out of the bed, lie down on the floor, do my business, wipe up, and get back into bed again, just to avoid detection—and the gunshot sounds the springs released on my exit from and re-entry back into the sheets were probably a dead giveaway in themselves.

With the new mattress, though, I could whack away for hours and no one would be the wiser.

I only had sex once on that mattress, however. When I was living with my parents the year after I graduated college, I’d moved into their basement because it was an apartment unto its own self—it had its own bathroom, its own air conditioning, a separate entrance, and a lot more space than my old bedroom. One night I was bold enough to sneak home my old college boyfriend, who was two years older than I and for whom I had a soft spot, even though he had a tendency to treat me like gay dirt. I met him at the end of my block, walked him to my parents’ house after dark, snuck him in through the basement entrance, and had very mediocre sex with him until dawn, at which point I snuck him out again before my folks would be awake.

But now, when I go back to my childhood house again and toss down my bag and look at the single bed that my dad has carefully made up for me, I think to myself, I actually had sex on that? How?! The mattress is so damned tiny. When I try to sleep on it, either my head or my feet dangle off one of the ends. If I attempt to flop my body over in the middle of the night, the same way I do at home, I usually wake up in a panic, mere milliseconds away from tipping off the side to the floor. I’m pretty sure I could have athletic sex on it without making a sound, but what’s the point? I’ve got an ottoman at home that’s bigger than the bed of my teen years.

But let’s get to some reader questions. Thanks to those of you who’ve been sending in new questions for me to answer—I’ve added them to the queue and you’ll get answers soon. Eventually, anyway. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, whether they’re grand and general or short and specific, pop over to spring.me and type them in, or else email me directly at the address in the sidebar with the word Question in the subject line.


I apologize if this is a duplicate: Are you still using your Aneros Prostate toy? Describe more recent experiences. I love to use mine in the jacuzzi tub weekly following my personal fitness training sessions. Aiming a water jet just right really works.

You don't need the Aneros to get a good prostate massage with the water jets of a Jacuzzi. All you need to do is back your hole up to the jet, turn it on, and you get the massage AND a enema.

Man, I miss my hot tub.

I still use the Aneros fairly consistently. I like the extra stimulation it gives me when I masturbate. I've said a few times before that I prefer sex with someone else (or multiple someone elses) to solitary masturbation, so I tend to keep my solo sessions infrequent. When I'm looking for a good long self-pleasuring bout, though, I'll grease my hole, insert the Aneros, and go at it.


Twitter, blogging, etc. can create a very lopsided intimacy between people. How do you deal with people who feel they have a personal relationship with you from reading your posts, yet are complete strangers to you?

It's difficult.

There's a huge lop-sided balance between most people who read my blog, and myself. They've had the opportunity to read over four years' worth of my writings—two big thick books worth of it—where I've talked about my childhood, my teen and college years, and my day-to-day sex life now. In many cases, the readers have already made up their minds about what kind of person long before I ever begin to interact with them.

And that's okay. When I write, I know that my readers react. Sometimes it's positive and supportive. Sometimes I challenge them or turn them off. That's what opinions do.

The problem, however, usually arises when the reader forgets that although they know everything about me from the age of ten up, I know very, very little about them. Sometimes I have a face shot. Sometimes not. Their expectations of deep and immediate intimacy—either conversational or physical—aren't something I can usually offer with so little to go on.

When my readers and followers actually take the time to engage with me, to let me get to know them and their senses of humor or their quirks or interests, I'm usually much more at ease with them when we meet than otherwise. I'm wary when someone starts attempting to use the information I've shared against me; my problem with a stalker last year arose from a reader who exploited me based on what he'd read in my blog, and it not only made me think twice about my online fans and friends for a while, it made me not want to write anything anymore, ever again.

So all I ask of my readers is a bit of reciprocity. I give a lot of myself. I'm not asking them to write me two books in exchange, but neither should I have to dig and wheedle and beg to get more definite information out of them in order to establish a friendly relationship.


How do I start a sex blog? Do you make a lot of money from it?

Starting a sex blog is easy. It merely takes three steps:

1) Have great sex.
2) Write about it.
3) Post what you write publicly for everyone to see.

That’s it.

Do I make buckets of cash from it? No. I don’t make a cent. I don’t make any money from advertising because the site hosting my blog doesn’t allow advertising on sites with adult content. Even if they did, I don’t like advertising flashing its message in the margins. So during the several years in which I’ve put my life out there, I’ve done it for the love of my readers, and for the love of the experience.

Daddy likes his folding bills too, don’t get me wrong, but he ain’t gettin’ any from his blog.

I accept gifts from readers who’ve wanted to look over my Amazon wish list and purchase something for me, but no one is required to do so, and very few do. I’m always grateful when it happens, though.

So if you’re looking to start a sex blog because you want to have interesting dialogues with others, and occasionally meet new people, and because you like writing and you like sex, go for it. If you’re doing it because you want to have extra spending money . . . well, excuse me for a minute or two. I need to have a good giggle for a little bit over here in this corner.


What's the weirdest request you've had... in bed?

I suspect you were looking for an answer that involved kinky and depraved acts of sexual deviance. Oh, I’ve had plenty of those.

The weirdest request I've had was a marriage proposal, though. It happened in bed, after sex. Apparently it was great sex for him . . . for me it was kind of eh-to-average.

The whole conversation started with me pulling out of his hole, whereupon he started gushing about how fantastic I had been (naturally!), then asking me what color I'd paint the bedroom if I lived there. I told him I liked it as it was. Then he asked which side of the bed I slept on. I told him I slept on the right side, and he replied I'd have to learn to sleep on the left because he took the right, hah-hah-hah. Then he asked where I wanted to go on a honeymoon. Thinking he was joking, I started to name some actual location. Then I stopped and said, "You're joking, right?"

He was not. Then he suggested I move in and that we get married. He had known me ONE HALF HOUR.

I mean, I know sometimes I'm good, but damn!


When You meet up with guys is it always for sex or do You just hang out with them.

It's for sex.

That's the short answer, anyway. When I meet up with friends—that is, people I've known for a long time, with whom I like spending my free time, guys who've opened up to let me into their lives in the same way I've let them into mine—we will hang out. We'll go to a bar and drink and talk. Or we'll watch television. Or we'll do a movie and dinner. Or we'll play video games together. Something friends do.

On the other hand, if a guy has approached me online or on some app on my cell phone and has told me I've got a great dick and asks if I want to ‘hang out,’ I expect that ‘hanging out’ to involve his tongue hanging out of his mouth as I pound him from behind.

If the sex leads to a friendship at some point, awesome. But I'm not going to drive a ways to the guy's house and sit around awkwardly while we both try to ignore the fact that we met only an hour before on pigsforporking.com.

Repost: 3 Loads, 35 Minutes

(While I'm visiting my dad this week, I've reposted a couple of old favorites that I hope you'll enjoy—either again, or for the first one. This one from 2010 has photos from the session!)


Usually when I write a sex entry, I tell myself I can’t take any more time to write than it took to have the sex. This entry might be a little difficult.

After my restroom cruising on Monday I returned home and plopped down at my laptop to catch up on my email. Almost immediately I got a text message from the kid who’d stood me up so spectacularly on Sunday morning. I am so sorry about yesterday, he’d written. Let me make it up to you. I wasn’t in the mood for either apologies and I’d pretty much already put the kid on my three-strike-and-out list, when he started texting again. I am in your neighborhood with a buddy. We can both be butt up and blindfolded any time you say. Please please please come fuck us. You can take all the photos you want.

Well. A man can only be so strong. I gave in and texted back, and we arranged for me to be at his buddy’s place, which was less than a mile and a half away, in twenty minutes.

The house was a neatly-kept little bungalow on a quiet street near a school. I parked in front, entered through the side door, and locked the door behind me. Then I walked through the tidy kitchen and the immaculate living room, and into the bedroom, as I’d been instructed.

Two boys in their twenties knelt on the mattress before me. The one who’d contacted me wore a leather blindfold. He was skinny, good-looking, and covered with tattoos, and sported piercings in his lip. His friend was taller; a vinyl hood obscured his entire head, leaving only his mouth exposed. The only thing I could tell about him was that he was nearly hairless, and that his hole was glistening with lube.

I shut the door.

I knelt on the bed and without a word, took both their heads in my hands and directed them to my crotch. Both of the boys went to town on the denim of my jeans, running their mouths over the length of hard dick underneath. My boy clawed at my top button and yanked down the zipper, then began sucking my dick through the cotton of my briefs. His friend with the hood pulled down my shorts and began licking at my butt cheeks. A moment later, I yanked off the pants and shorts and was sitting on the hooded boy’s face, letting me dive deep into my hole with his tongue while my boy sucked my dick.

The sensations were incredible. Both of the kids were hungry and horny, and ate at me with a hunger that brought me close to orgasm several times. Too close. After a couple of minutes of that treatment I couldn’t stand it any more. “Time to fuck,” I growled.

My boy immediately got onto his knees.

I slapped some lube from a jar on the bureau onto his hole, and shoved myself in. I’d expected him to be much looser than he was; the little slut was tight as a boy half his age, and he gasped with every inch I worked in. Despite his initial resistance, it didn’t take me long to ease my way in to the base. “Oh god,” he yelled out. It was the first time I’d really heard his voice, and though it was effeminate, it was still pretty on the ears. “Yes. It’s been so long since I had a real man’s dick.”

The hooded boy was lying on his back at the bed’s edge. I pulled out of my boy and dived into the hooded boy’s hole. It was looser and warmer, but he yelled louder when I went in. Almost immediately he pulled his legs up and back so that more of his butt was exposed. “Fuck,” he whispered, over and over. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.”

For a couple of minutes I went back and forth between the two holes, taking my pleasure in one, then the other. I was close to shooting, though, so I plunged back in to my boy’s hole and held myself in him, not saying a word. “You’re coming,” he said almost immediately. “I can feel your dick throbbing. Oh fuck. You’re filling me up. Holy shit.”

“Is he coming in you?” asked his friend.

“Yes. He’s shooting it all . . . Fuck.”

I hadn’t said much at all during those first fifteen minutes. For one thing, part of me was still pissed at the kid for standing me up the morning before. For another, I kind of liked the idea that the only feedback they were getting from me was the direction of my hands, the feel of my dick, or my mouth and tongue deep in their own mouths as we kissed. They could learn what they wanted from me from my breathing, or my grunts. “Sit on my dick,” I said now, though, instructing the hooded one to climb on my wet rod.

My boy held his friend from behind as he slid his ass down onto my cock. He kissed at the hooded boy’s neck and ears and pinched his nipples, hard, as the boy began rising and lowering himself. Despite the fact I’d shot only a minute before, I was still raging hard and had a week’s worth of fucking to make up. “Yes,” I said, when the boy started moving himself in a way I found especially pleasing. “Like that. Just like that.”

He responded to the direction quite well. While my boy continued twisting and torturing his nipples, the hooded kid shuddered and moaned as he rode my hard dick. “Just like that. Keep doing it. Keep doing it,” I said. For a couple of more minutes I sat upright, my legs splayed out, while the hooded guy did his work. Then, unable to hold it any more, I pulled him down by the fabric of his mask and crushed my mouth against his. The kid had a very thin, long dick—skinnier than any I’ve seen in some time. It erupted with cum all over my T-shirt as he shook and gasped. His mouth made helpless noises against mine.

I didn’t last any longer than it took him to cum. I grabbed the kid by the shoulders and pushed him down. My second load was quieter than the first, but he knew it was happening. “Oh god,” he said, holding onto me for support. “Oh my god.”

“Is he breeding you?” asked my boy, with the blindfold. His hands scrabbled for the place where my dick was inside his friend. “Oh fuck, he is,” he said. Cum was already leaking from the hole. My boy licked what he’d found off of his fingers. “Let me clean you off.”

I found myself on my back, pushed down by two pairs of hands, as two mouths traveled down my torso. My boy licked what remained of his buddy’s load from my shirt, then pushed it up so that he could chomp on my nipples. The hooded boy sucked my dick, cleaning off the cum and juices from his ass. Then the blindfolded kid joined him, licking at my nuts and ass crack.

I didn’t lose my hard-on at all. It was only a couple of minutes later that I found myself mounting my boy from behind, pushing him down into the mattress as I straddled his ass and thrust myself into his tight, tight hole. I honestly haven’t encountered a hole that tight on a guy of his years in a dog’s age. He groaned and panted and begged me to fuck him hard while I nailed his little ass into the bed.

“Just do it,” he said, grunting. “I don’t give a fuck what you look like. I don’t care if I never see you. I just want another load. I want you to load me with that big dick. I’ve needed a real dick for so long and dude, you know how to give it to me.”

“Shut up,” I told him. He stopped talking. I was close to shooting again, and his voice was distracting me.

What put me over the third time was when the hooded guy started licking at my butthole again. The sensation of his sweet little mouth on my ass pushed me over the edge, and I thrashed forward, pinning the blindfolded kid to the sheets as I bred him. “Shit!” yelled the kid. “Shit!” Over and over he said the word while I lay on top of him, waiting for the fireworks to clear from my head. A minute later, I pulled out and stood up. My blindfolded boy rolled over, and exposed the load he’d shot onto the sheets.

I wiped off with a towel on the bureau, grabbed the camera I’d brought, and pulled on my pants. “Gotta go,” I told them. I looked at the clock by the bed. Three loads, thirty-five minutes.

“Yeah, my dad’s going to be home soon,” said the hooded guy. That only made me pull my shoes on all the more quickly. “Damn, that was hot.”

“So hot,” agreed my boy. “Fucking hot.” They lay on their backs, hands on each other’s stomachs and chest, unseeing, when I left.

My phone buzzed with a text message when I got back to my house. Hope I made up for everything, my boy had sent.

He had.

Repost: Without Words

(While I'm visiting my dad this week, I've taken the liberty of putting up a couple of past favorite entries. I hope you enjoy this one from 2011.)


When Spencer pads into the bedroom, his body is still steaming from the shower. With the hall light behind him, throwing his body into silhouette, I can see trails of vapor rising from his skin. He stands there for a moment, a faceless shadow with its weight shifted to its right hip, as he waits for instruction.

I say nothing.

After a moment he takes a step forward, and then another. He lifts his right knee to rest it on the mattress, next to where I lie. Then his hands press down on the bed, next to my shoulders. He leans in, and brings his mouth to mine. “Hi,” he says.

I haven’t seen him in a week. I’d driven him to the airport before the Thanksgiving holiday; he’d only arrived back home this afternoon. It’s been a long week of saving up my juice for him, all for this reunion. When he kisses me, softly and sweetly, my dick begins to harden. I lift my neck to reach him all the more easily, and use my hands to pull him in for a kiss that’s deeper and harder. “I missed you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, and say nothing.

He notices this time. “What’s the matter?” When I don’t reply, he brings his other leg onto the bed and straddles my body. “Did I do something wrong?”

I’ve already decided not to use words for the fuck. They seem too easy for this evening. He’s susceptible to what I say to him. I show him instead, by pushing him around, down onto his back. Simultaneously I roll so that I’m on top. Across the bed we tumble. His legs rise into the air and wrap themselves below my shoulder blades. I can feel him hook his heels over my spine. My prick is stiff and swollen now. The head nudges against the boy’s hole. His own dick leaps and spasms against my sternum as now I kiss him. My tongue drives into his mouth; my hands hold down his thick biceps. Helplessly he squirms beneath me, trying to press his dick harder against me, to give it the relief it craves.

“Say something,” he begs, when I lift my weight from him.

I don’t obey him, though. Instead, I push his legs up and rest his knees on his shoulders. My middle finger probes his lips, then forces its way into his mouth. He sucks on it instinctively, like a baby. When I remove it, slick and cool with his spit, immediately I use it to toy with his ass lips. His hole is hot and moist from the shower he’s just taken. The tip and first two joints slip in easily, causing him to gasp. I could fuck him so easily, right now.

But not quite yet. I kneel down beside the bed and let my mouth dive in to that sweet gap between his legs. From bottom to top I lick the hole, letting the scruff of my beard rasp against the exposed tenderness with every lap. To punctuate the pleasure, I alternately nip his cheeks with my incisors, or blow a column of cool air onto the wet skin. Every time, they bring him hushed little thrills.

I’ve been denied the ass too long for much foreplay. He’s not sucked me; I’ve barely eaten him out at all. My dick demands, though, and my dick gets. I rub some moisture on it with my fingers, and thrust forward. Instinctively the head finds the hole. He opens up, craving me. I don’t hesitate to sink all the way in.

He’s warm, and wet, and his hole is as smooth as I remember. His hips grind at the depth of me, and then he sighs, content. “This is what I wanted,” he says. “Didn’t you?” I still don’t answer. Instead, I pull out. He protests. Even in the twilight darkness of the dimly-lit room I can see his eyebrows furrow, concerned that he’d perhaps said or done the wrong thing. “What?” he asks. “What do you want?”

I show him what I want. I yank him to his feet and I shove him against the wall. His hands reach high and press hard against the plaster, as if he’s holding up the entire second story. In this position, his dancer’s ass pushes out, full and heavy, two meaty handfuls that I separate as I push back into him. He slumps forward; his head and body hit the wall with a heavy thump. “Fuck,” he moans. Then, “Fuck me.”

That’s one command I’ll obey. I was going to do it anyway. I thrust deep into him and pull out again, over and over, relentlessly assaulting his hole. I’ve been in need the entire time he’s been gone. I’m not pausing for niceties now. I don’t even think the boy has a sense of time, or place as I pound his ass. He’s lost in some private ecstasy. The side of his face presses against the wall. His eyes are closed. Though he lets out little animal moans, he seems barely conscious. If I turned on the lights, I wouldn’t be surprised to see drool running from the corner of his mouth.

When I reach around for Spencer’s dick, it’s a stiff wet stub jammed against the plaster at an uncomfortable angle. I wrap my hand around it, and the thick inches respond. I spit into my hand once more and spread it along his dick’s length, jacking him as hard as I’m fucking. It only takes him thirty seconds before he’s rasping like every breath hurts. His back aches. I feel his dick throb in my palm as he shoots. He leaves his load on the wall, where it begins to drip onto the floor in multiple wet tracks.

I rip out of him, making him yelp. Then I shove the boy onto the bed so that his hips hang over the edge, and push his legs into the air before I shove in again. He loves to be fucked after he shoots; if anything, he’s more open and relaxed after the tension in his dick is dispensed with. The angle at which I’m fucking him makes him tighter than I’ve ever felt before. It feels as if I’m entering in a way that pounds the very root of his dick and keeps him hard even after he’s blown. His jaw drops. He roars. The sound he makes is long and unending and seemingly without breath or pause. It’s the sound of a tornado at full volume, or of a train’s horn as it approaches down the tracks at top speed. He yells. And yells. I’m glad the windows are tightly shut.

Whatever spot I’m hitting does it for him. Although he’s still leaking stray semen from the load he blew onto the wall, he’s hard again. I use his dick as a handle as I continue to pound that internal pleasure button. I’m getting close myself, just listening to his pleasure.

When I shoot, it’s with a mighty grunt. I drive into him and hold it there, silently spasming. He knows me, though. He knows when I’m coming, and holds me in him, his hands clutching at my hips. He wants it deeper, and then deeper still. “Please breed me,” he begs. “Please. I’ve wanted it so much. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Please give it to me.”

The load’s large. I haven’t shot since the last time I saw him. I can feel it oozing out around my meat and dribbling down both his crack and my nuts, shortly after I’ve finished jerking and shaking. He sighs, and whimpers, and sounds for a moment as if he might cry. Then we both negotiate our way onto the mattress and rest there, still connected, dick-to-ass. “Amazing,” he whispers, running his fingertips through my beard. “God, that’s amazing.”

I still say nothing. I pull his fingers onto my lips, however, so that beneath he can feel the smile I’m wearing.

Repost: Daddy's Best Boy

(While I'm visiting my dad this week, I've put up a couple of reposts to keep you occupied in my absence. This one is from 2010.)


His name is Steve; he prefers that I address him as Son, or Daddy’s Boy.

Steve moved from the eastern seaboard to accept a job at a big hospital here in town. A friend of mine gave him my email address when he found out we lived only ten minutes apart; we’ve seen each other irregularly for a year, since, when his busy hospital schedule can accommodate a meeting. Much of his furniture’s still in storage, making his apartment a little sparse.

I’m not there to see the furniture, though.

The moment the door’s closed, he’s on me, moving my hands into his loose clothing. “Oh fuck, daddy,” he tells me. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, son,” I whisper when I manage to tear my mouth from his.

“Do I look okay, daddy?" He's not pretending, with this question. He's earnest, and even worried a little. "I want to look good for you. I want to make you proud of me.”

Steve always looks great. His face has the strong chin, easy grin, and jock-like good features of a sportswear model. Sometimes he’ll greet me wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and tight underwear, or a tank top and some slack sweatpants. Sometimes he'll be wearing nothing. Today he's greeted me in a black jock and a tight-fitting wife-beater. “Oh yes,” I hiss, pushing him in the direction of the air mattress lying on his bedroom floor. He's still not managed to take the time to buy a bed. “You look very, very good, boy. I want you to show me how good you look.”

It’s ridiculous, this roleplay. He’s almost the same age as I. With his salt and pepper hair and dark brown eyes, he might even look older. No matter. He insinuates himself into my lap and has me slap his ass until it’s red, and snap the elastic of his jock to raise angry welts across his butt as he moans and writhes.

It would take only one word to break the illusion we sharing together. One word, one refusal, one mistimed snort of disbelief. “I want to make my daddy feel good,” he tells me, pushing me onto my back and straddling my hips. “I want to be daddy’s best boy.”

“Oh, you are daddy’s best boy,” I say. His hole is already lubed, loose, and ready. I wrap my fist around my cock and support it as he lowers himself down. Then I sigh as I sink deep into his warm, soft flesh. “You are making your daddy very proud, son.”

His eyes widen as they stare into mine, then close entirely. His mouth drops into a gasp. His head jerks backwards, and he says nothing more. Not for a long, long while. This is the payoff, for me. I wear the daddy mask just for this moment, when I see him so lost in the bliss of his fantasy, beyond words and the cares of the everyday, that his body shakes with pleasure.

After our long lovemaking, yesterday afternoon, I was drinking cold water from a glass mug as I looked at the largest of the photographs sitting atop his dresser. They're the only decoration I've ever seen in his spartan apartment; he must have dug them out fairly recently. The photo was of a young man with medium-length blond hair, handsome as hell, standing in a park with a hound at his side. The dog’s silky coat was glistening in the sunlight, falling around the dog's body like a pair of shaggy, bell-bottomed pajamas. There were matching glints in the young man’s wire-rimmed spectacles. “Is that you?” I asked Steve, letting the water soothe my raw and ragged throat.

“That’s me,” he replied, settling down by my side on the air mattress. He picked up the frame and studied the photograph. His face wore the somewhat sad, somewhat wistful expression of a man looking at the picture of an old friend he once loved but hadn’t seen in some time.

“The dog’s beautiful,” I told him.

“She really was,” he said. “She really was.” He paused, lost in thought, while I waited for more. “Sally was her name. She was an afghan. I had two afghans, once. Both were beautiful dogs. Total couch hogs. If they wanted up next to you when you were watching TV, they got their way. But they were my babies. Then I had to have one of them put to sleep because she had cancer.”

“I’m really sorry.” I waited a moment. “How old were you in that photo?”

“Twenty. . . .” He calculated on his fingers. “Between twenty-four and twenty-six. I forget exactly. Almost twenty years ago. Yeah, the first dog died of cancer just as I was at the end of my relationship with my first serious boyfriend. He was twenty years older than me. A librarian. We were living in Texas and he had two job opportunities—one in Ann Arbor, at the University of Michigan, you know, and the other in Seattle. So I went to Seattle with him and I realized . . . well, it was kind of strange. I realized I didn’t want to be with him any more. He was so settled and I was just young, you know. I wanted to travel and see things. I thought that's what it would mean to live my life. Going to Seattle to his home, with his furniture and his paintings and decorations—none of it mine—made me realize how much I was missing.

“So I told him that I was sorry, but I wanted to move out and see the world. He didn’t realize at first what I was saying. He thought he could kind of keep the home fires burning and that when I was tired of going new places, I’d come back and we’d live happily ever after. I kept telling him that I wouldn’t be coming back, but I don’t think he ever really believed me.

“When I'd left Texas to join my boyfriend, I’d boarded Sally with a woman I knew, just for a little bit until I could ship her to Seattle. When I picked her up, she told me, ‘Hey, your girl is a sweetheart and a real beauty. If you ever want to sell, I know just the guy who would love to have her.’ She named a name and I said, ‘Hey, I know Tom!’ He was a guy I knew pretty well who had an afghan already. So I knew he’d take really good care of her. I couldn’t leave Sally with my boyfriend, you see. He didn’t like dogs. He never remembered to feed them when I was out late at school or anything. The afghans were totally my babies. So I called Tom, my friend, and we talked, and he was thrilled to buy Sally from me. It gave me just a little cash, you know, for moving expenses, and I knew he’d love her just as much as I did."

He was silent for a while. At last I rested my hand atop his. When he spoke again, it was with a shaky tremolo.

“So I said goodbye, and saw her off. That night my boyfriend came home. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked, and I told him Sally was gone.” Steve got quiet for a moment. “He was just standing there with his briefcase, and then he dropped it to the floor. It fell open and all his papers fell out. Then he burst into tears. Because it hit him right then, for the first time, that I was leaving and wasn’t coming back and that our relationship was really . . . over.”

I reached out and pulled Steve close to me, until his head rested on my shoulder. I was afraid to speak, but after a moment of respectful hush I murmured, “How did you feel, giving up your baby?”

“I knew Sally was going to a good home, and there was just no way I could take her with me, so. . . .” His voice trailed off into silence. “I still miss that dog.” He draped his arm over my chest, and kissed my nipple. “I don’t know why I told you that story. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about my baby, before.”

I kissed the daddy’s boy on the head, and held him close while we both stared at the photograph in the darkening room.

Nut Buster

So I’m fucking this guy. He’s sexy. I mean, not balls to the wall handsome or anything, but he met me at the door with a furry bare chest, a pair of furry pecs, and a knowing grin on his scruffy mug. He invited me in. Had a drink ready for me. Said some nice things, right into my ear, with a whisper. He made me laugh. He made me hard.

And this is what he gets for it. He’s in the center of his bed, leaking pre-cum from his erect sausage in every direction. The fitted sheet has come loose from its corners; he’s got those satin linens balled up in his hands as he grips tight to the mattress, trying to grab onto something solid. His mouth is wide open in a rictus of—well, I don’t know what to reckon. Pain or pleasure. Either/or. I don’t really know and don’t really care, because my dick is feeling too good.

That hole of his is wrecked. Gaping. Wide open. He’s so greasy from lube and spit and my juices that little frothy bubbles have formed on his butt cheeks. Whenever I plunge out, I’m looking not only at that hole puckered like a big fish mouth, but at those little bubbles surrounding it. Then I shove back in again with no resistance whatsoever. Just soft, silky, wet flesh. I’ve made him into a pussy molded specifically for my dick.

He’s swearing. Maybe praying. Maybe begging for more. I don’t understand a word he says, though. He’s beyond comprehension, and I’ve got blood rushing in my ears. Every heartbeat sounds like a waterfall coming down on my head. He could be reciting the Gettysburg Address for all I know.

Don’t care. Got to keep the fuck going.

I’m pounding. I’m slamming. I’m slapping his ass. Then I reach down and grab his scrotum. It’s already red and bulging; his nuts are high and tight. Without really thinking about it, I wrap my thumb and index finger around them and give them a gentle tug.

“Fuck yeah!” I hear him yell. Do the neighbors? Possibly. Again, I don’t care. “Dude,” he says. When I pause and let the waterfall’s rush subside a little, I can see his pupils are big. Enormous. Like saucers. “Seriously. The rougher you treat ‘em, the tighter I’ll squeeze.”

“Yeah?” I ask. My eyebrows rise. I want to make sure he knows what he’s in for.

“Yeah.” He’s flashing me that lopsided grin again. Challenging me.

I like a challenge.

So now I’m grabbing onto those nuts while I fuck. I’ve got him on his back, legs high up. I don’t even have to hold him by the ankles—that’s how good he is. He’s giving me full access to those nuts of his. And he’s right—the harder I play with them, the tighter he gets. I squeeze and twist them. He clamps down. It feels good. Feels so damned good. I yank them a little. He clenches. I yank back on them hard. His hole becomes a vise, gripping my inflamed meat so tightly that it nearly makes me shoot.

“Do it,” he says, looking up at me with love in his eyes. “Just fucking use them.”

All right then. I’ve used nuts harder than this, trust me. I pull them out as far as they can go, and then some. His hole constricts. Tight. So damned tight. He could make a diamond out of a fucking charcoal briquette with that kind of muscle action. But I’m not done. My left had is clutching that sac like I’m trying to make it pop, and my right hand hauls off. Slaps them. Once. Twice. Three times. He yells again. Looks up at me with fucking adoration. I let loose with a lot of fast blows to his abused nuts. Fast, but hard. Slap slap slap! Slap slap slap!

The jizz just starts flowing from his dick. His hole feels like it’s trying to squeeze the meat right off of my body as he comes. His own semen is splattering him in the face, on the chest, making those dark blue bedsheets even wetter and more stained than they were before. My load joins it a couple of minutes later, when it leaks out of his ass.

“Christ,” he pants, when we’re panting and lying side by side a minute later. He looks at the ceiling. “I love that so fucking much. Bust my nuts as hard as you want, man. I love it.”

So now I’ve got his number, right? I know exactly where he wants to end up. My job is simply to take him there. And take him there I do in a few minutes, when we’ve both recovered. I’ve got him butt up. Ass wide open. Cummy hole begging for more of my seed. Nuts purple in my fist. I’m slapping them. I’m punching them. The only thing more painful to do to them would be to wear a hobnailed boot and slam down the heel on them.

And the dude is in fucking heaven. He’s begging for more rough treatment. Telling me that no one else has the balls to treat him this way. I’m calling him a dirty faggot, telling him he fucking deserves it, and once again he’s leaking juice and getting close to shooting a second time from the abuse.
Then I reach down with my right hand, under his rib cage, and run my hand through that thick black chest hair he’s got. I give his nipple a pinch. Just a little tweak.

And suddenly, everything shifts. He’s jumping off my cock. Scurrying to the head of the bed and clutching the sheets to him like a wounded virgin. “Christ!” he shrieks in a high treble. “What the fuck are you doing?”

My heart is still thudding away. My cock is rigid. Naked. Exposed. It doesn’t like the cold air. It had a warm home only seconds before. Wha’ happen?

“I mean, Christ!” he’s yelling. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“I tweaked your nipple,” I said, reasonably enough.

“They’re sensitive!” he shouts.

I just stare at him. I mean, this is the guy whose balls were about to burst like a couple of egg-sized water balloons, thirty seconds ago. “They’re sensitive?” I repeat.

“You can’t just go assaulting them like that!”

“I barely tweaked them,” I pointed out. “I mean, it wasn’t hard at all.”

“But they’re sensitive!” He’s still clutching the covers like he’s a Victorian maiden caught in dishabille and I’m a randy satyr from the sylvan woods. A satyr with a particularly sordid reputation.

“Your nipples are sensitive,” I say slowly, “but I can brutalize your nuts any way I want.”

He thinks I’m mocking him. Maybe I am. It just doesn’t make fucking sense. I mean, okay, maybe they’re sensitive, but there’s no need for the outrage and horror. “That’s just the way I’m built. Where’re you going?”

“I’d better get going,” I say. I’m tempted to wipe my hands and cock on his duvet, but I don’t want to hear the shrieking again. I do the gentlemanly thing and pad over to the bathroom, where I wash up briefly in the sink. The water’s cold, but that’s fine. Maybe it’ll deflate my cock—my cock is about five minutes behind the rest of me, still thinking about that warm ass.

He seems to realize his error. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’d better go.”

“Can I get you a drink? We could start over again.” I decline. I’ve got my shirt on, my pants. My socks. Then my shoes. He follows me to the front door, still naked. “I guess I’m sorry if I flew off the handle. You’ll come back, right? Just don’t do it again.”

I smile. “Oh, don't worry. I won’t do it again,” I assure him.

Then I go. I won’t be back. There are always other holes to use.

Sunday Morning Questions: Even More Questions Edition

When I started my sex blog I really didn’t expect anyone much to read it. Truth. I thought there’d be a couple of people who stumbled on it. I figured I might tell a couple of sex buddies who got off hearing about my exploits. But that was it, I reasoned. I’d have kind of a safe outlet where I could share my sex writings. The fact it was potentially public gave me a naughty little thrill, but that’s about all the exposure I expected.

Nearly two million visitors later, I like to think I’m a leetle beet savvier than that. I get a lot of visitors here on a daily basis. The ones who’ve stuck around for a while are always keeping me on my toes, often remembering better than I what I’ve said in the past. Hey, they’ll poke me after I write a post. You said after that guy who squirted enema juice in your face that you weren’t going to rim the holes of strange asses any more. Then you rimmed that new guy. What gives? Or they’ll just rib me gently with Hey Breeder. Remember when you moved to the east coast and you were so sure you’d never meet any guys to have sex with again? How hard do your regular orgy buddies laugh when you tell them that story?

I like my long-term readers simply because they’ve been on the same ride with me for a while, and we have that luxury of being able to compare notes about it.

I like my new readers too, because they bring an enthusiasm to older material that I might’ve forgotten about. When a newer readers goes through my old Spencer entries, for example, and leaves thoughtful comments, I have a tendency to go back to the same entries just to see what they’re commenting about. Then I relive them in a way I hoped I might, when originally I wrote them.

One of the reasons I started my Sunday Morning Questions feature was because when I started getting an avalanche of readers, they all had questions. Sometimes those questions inspired new entries. A lot of the time, though, the questions were so easily answered, or so beyond the scope of my usual blog entries, that I preferred not giving them an essay to themselves. Someone wanting to hear whose hole I plugged last isn’t going to tune in for much longer if he shows up and finds me writing about what type of food I liked best, or what musical instruments I learned as a kid. That kind of trivia was better suited in a semi-regular feature of its own.

So please—continue to send in your questions. I enjoy answering them. Some of you seem to enjoy reading them. It’s a win-win situation for both of us. If you’re on spring.me, feel free to follow me and ask me questions there; if you’re not, just email them in. I’ll get around to them either way.

Let’s get to some of today’s inquiries.

Wanted your opinion on this.. I'd like to both fuck and be fucked. However I have an average dick size (5" but reasonably thick) … so I’m not sure if too many bottoms would dig me. I'd like to bottom too, but I've had issues taking in coz I'm tight and small.

Not to disparage you or to make generalizations about horny bottoms, but let me assure you that there are a hell of a lot of bottoms out there. If you can get your dick hard and keep it hard, I can guarantee one hundred percent that there are going to be many many many bottoms who are anxious to go butt-up for you, regardless of your size.

You could look like Ron Jeremy (sorry, Ron) and have a dick roughly the proportions of a bite-sized mini-Tootsie Roll, and there would be bottoms clamoring to service it.

Not all of them, mind you. Being willing to top does not give you the liberty to expect to top whomever you please. And whether or not your partner will ask for a repeat performance depends on how well you treat him and how well you use the tool between your legs. In my opinion, those two things are what really matters.

But yeah. Bottoms dig guys with hard dicks. You’ll get laid.


Do you find nose rings attractive?

Oh god yes. That is, I love men with septum piercings. They make me want to grab the ring and lead the guy around like Ferdinand the fuckin' bull.

Those twee little nostril rings on either side, though? If you're a Nepalese woman, go for it. Otherwise they do nothing for me.


YOU are the BEST! New question ...

With so many men in open relationships if one is partnered is it better to be upfront about it including it in one’s profile or simply omit it? Does it influence you either way if the possibility of a hook up exists?

Thank you. I agree. I am the best!

It's a little more difficult, however, for me to come up with as firm an answer for your question. One of the things you have to think about when you're putting personal information about your home life on your profile is that publicly stating you're in an open relationship affects not only how people are going to see you, but how they're going to perceive your partner as well.

If your other half is comfortable that you're putting up a personal ad proclaiming that you both are free to play around with others, even though he knows full well that a mutual acquaintance, employer, or person from your church or book club might see it, sure. Go for it. If he or she would be a little uncomfortable that someone local you both know might run across your personal ad on doublefistmymanflaps.com and assume that your partner's into similar fun, you might want to hold back announcing your relationship status.

If your partner's feelings aren't a hindrance, and you want to make very clear to others that you're not looking to date, but just for casual sex buddies, I say stating your relationship status up front is the way to go. It's one less thing you'll have to reveal when you get to the negotiation phase, and it might prevent someone else from having unreasonable expectations about picking out flatware patterns with you in the future.

You may find, however, that on some sites there can be a lot of antipathy toward a man in a relationship. I've noticed on many of the location-based apps like Grindr and Scruff in particular, the users often have off-putting rants about guys in relationships in their profiles—and they have absolutely zero inhibitions about messaging you (even if you haven't looked at their profile or pinged them in any way) and telling you what a lying scumbag you are for cheating on your spouse like a god-damned whore (even though you may not be). I don't necessarily advocate lying to guys to get laid, but sometimes a judicious omission is not necessarily a bad thing.

I personally am not swayed by a guy's relationship status either way. What goes on behind closed doors in a person's home is his own concern; I'm not the morality police. My concern is merely how good their holes are.


Do you ever get to the point where you just 'need' to unplug? If so, what do you do?

Over the years, as the internet as grown in importance and abundance, I've found more and more of my time consumed in front of a computer monitor or laptop or tablet or cell phone. I've found it very helpful to maintain balance by unplugging from electronic devices for a significant portion of each day—sometimes for a day, a weekend, or even a week at a time.

Hobbies are something I find valuable. Since I already spend chunks of my free time browsing internet sites and playing video games, I invest an equal amount of time in hands-on, constructive crafts and hobbies. i gardened for a long time until I came to terms with the fact that I truly dislike gardening. I took classes in paper making and calligraphy. I taught classes in stained glass art. I've had other enthusiasms and pet projects over the years. Some of them have been more successful than others. (I pity my household the year I attempted to learn how to play clarinet.)

For the last two years, when I put away the phone and the laptop and ignore the electronic chirps of all the devices in my house, I'm either reading, exploring New York City, participating in one of my musical activities, or knitting. Most nights, probably knitting. Don't judge.


GPS Apps – Get On – Hook Up – Get Off, right? On the days I don’t make a connection I opt off and check back rather than risk looking like day old baked goods. Does hanging out for several hours increase or decrease chances of securing a Hook Up?

I suppose there's an argument to be made that if you hang around long enough anywhere, you'll eventually get a hit or two. However, I tend to be more like you—when I see guys who've been on one of the GPS apps all day long, I have a tendency to think of them as guys who are are probably going to waste my time, since they have no problem wasting so much of their own.

It's unfair, I admit. Sometimes the GPS apps will keep a guy logged on—or give the appearance of it—for hours longer than he actually was active. And I have no proof that anyone who actually is on Grindr or Scruff all day is doing so just to jerk other guys around.

I tend to use GPS apps either only when I'm in a new locale, or at home only after I’ve been logged off for a few days. I've noticed I get more sniffs when I'm giving the appearance of being new meat than an old troll.

The Guido

I’m looking at him. A big ex-jock of a guy. Deep chest, big round biceps. Dark hair that’s arranged in waves around his ears. Strands of gray betray the fact he’s probably my age, maybe a little bit younger. His muscles might’ve been more defined and tighter a few years back, but even slightly out of shape, he’s a hot slab of Italian beef that probably turns a lot of heads.

He’s standing there, khakis unzipped, chambray shirt undone, exposing his tanned torso. His balls are the size of eggs, nestled between the teeth of his zipper. And the dick. Fuck. It looks heavy. If you picked up that thing and let it fall on a flat surface, it looks as if it’d make a resounding thud. Thwack it down on a butcher’s scale, and the needle would probably fly off. Is he as long as I am? Not by a long shot, but a hungry cocksucker wouldn’t give a fuck with that hooded giant in his face.

In fact, the cocksucker kneeling between us didn’t hesitate a half-second before unhinging his jaw and letting it drop, python-like, to engulf the man’s link. He’s a skinny twenty-something with short hair and a fitted plaid shirt. A true cocksucker. He’s rubbing himself through his jeans, but his focus is on the man’s meat. Getting it wet. Opening for it wide. Sucking it deep. He adjusts his crouching stance so that he’s at the perfect height to take that fat fucker down his gullet. He’s got one knee pointed toward the sky above, and one knee firmly ground into the damp grass and earth beneath his feet. That’s going to leave a stain. The cocksucker doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” grunts the beef. “You like that Guido meat, huh?”

The cocksucker grunts. Opens his lids wide, looks at the man. He might have a mouthful of dick, but the look in those eyes tells us this is prayer time for him.

If that’s what he’s going to call himself, fine. I’ll call him that, too. The Guido’s looking at me. Those dark eyes of his scan up and down my body. He raises a hand to rub the back of his knuckles through my facial scruff. Lets his fist travel down. Tweaks my nipple between his index and middle finger. Lifts my blue T so he can get a better view of my cock. I’m newly trimmed, balls shaved. My dick’s arched out, rock hard. It flatters me he’s so fascinated by my rod; he grabs it, squeezes it, bounces it in the palm of his hand. My head flares from the attention.

“That’s a beauty,” he murmurs. There are cars passing within earshot, but it’s mostly quiet in this little wooded area. He doesn’t have to speak up to be heard. “Look at that,” he says to the anonymous cocksucker, putting one of his meaty paws atop the kid’s head to turn it in my direction. “You need to be paying attention to that one.”

The cocksucker obeys. He looks up at me, worship still in his eyes. Opens wide. Engulfs me in a single swift motion. The slab he’s already swallowed has opened up his throat. I slide right down.

The Guido takes my hand and puts it on his dick. It’s hot and wet from the cocksucker’s slobber. Then he grabs me under the chin, pulls me in, and plants his mouth over mine. His lips are soft and pillowy; when his tongue invades my mouth I taste the distant remnants of coffee. He’s a good kisser. Seems almost unfair that a guy this attractive should be hung and a good kisser, too.

I’m a little off-balance when the kiss ends. I blink a few times, surprised. He grins at me. Looks down at the cocksucker. “Now me again,” he says, grabbing the kid’s head and yanking him back onto his uncut slab.

Back and forth we go with the mouth. That’s all the kid is to us. A mouth. We don’t know his name, don’t know where he’s from, what he does for a living. Don’t care. We just know he can suck. We know he can nurse on dick like a pro. So that’s what we keep giving him. More and more dick. We look at the other while the cocksucker sucks, grinning and playing with each other’s nipples, touching each other’s bodies. Kissing from time to time. The hungry mouth keeps his eyes closed, concentrating on the shaft he’s pleasuring. Waits for the command to switch, or for the pair of hands that pries him from one erection and forces him down on the other.

When the Guido comes, it’s loudly. He growls like an animal as his fist clamps down on the base of his cock. When he pulls out of the mouth, his meat is dark and angry-looking. Just the tip is peeking out of his foreskin. He rests the base of his hand on the kid’s forehead, tips his face skyward. Semen gushes out and spills down on the cocksucker’s face, a great rush of it. Some of it puddles around the kid’s closed eyes, then runs down his temples to his ears. A spurt of it laces his forehead. The final slow ooze of it creams the boy’s mouth, trickles down his flat, waiting tongue into his throat. Then the Guido’s dick rests heavily on the cocksucker’s cheek.

I shoot as well. It sprays out seconds later, landing on the other man’s dick, the kid’s face, the ground. The last spurt plops down onto my sneakers.

We stand there for a moment, not moving, in this erotic tableau. Then the cocksucker pulls down his other knee and lets it rest on the ground. That’ll be a matching stain, I think to myself, as I zip.

The beef has to tuck his thick meat down the leg of his pants when he stuffs it back in there. It leaves a bulge I can see over my shoulder as I take the trail back up to the parking lot. The cocksucker remains kneeling. My last vision of him before he’s obscured by the brush is of him lifting his face to the sun, as if in thanks for what he’s received.