Sunday Morning Questions: Hipster Mage Edition

Earlier this week I was full of righteous indignation over Google’s decision to ban adult images from Blogger, the platform on which I host my blog. Although Google had been fine with adult content for over a decade—welcomed it, even, in their mission statement—they announced with little fanfare that any blogs containing X-rated photos or videos would be hidden from public view. The turnaround left a lot of my fellow bloggers in a panic.

I gave the announcement a couple of days to sink in, then with a heavy heart spent an evening deleting photographs and videos from past entries. I started back at the very beginning—2010, when I started keeping this blog. I managed to purge an even hundred entries before my eyes were spinning. One hundred out of nearly eight hundred. I figured that was good enough progress for an evening.

Then the next morning, of course, I discovered that Google had suddenly reversed their decision and decided to allow blogs with adult content to continue—instead, they’ll crack down on the unlawful distribution of commercial porn instead. Seventh-eighths of my blog is relieved that they reconsidered their hasty, reactionary move. One-eighth of my blog, though, is now missing its photos and is kind of ticked off about it.

I’m also a little annoyed that although Google saw fit to notify every adult blogger via email about their initial crackdown, and also by messages atop the Blogger console web page warning users to clean out offending images by mid-March, they haven’t really seen fit to distribute the word about their change of mind in a similar manner; the change-of-heart announcement appeared in a forum that no one I know reads, somewhere in a corner of Google’s bureaucratic space. It got picked up and redistributed and announced on many a tech blog, thank god—but they haven’t sent around an email to apologize for putting their users into a panic, or anything.

Still. I should be thankful I still have my blog here, as well as some of my images left. So let’s get to some Sunday morning questions. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, the fastest way to get them answered in my occasional feature here is to email them to me at the address on the sidebar with Sunday Morning Question(s) in the subject line. The more I get, the faster the answers will come.


What, for you, is the key to good sex?

You know, so much goes into any one sexual encounter that it’s really, really tough to offer any one single thing that will prove the magical key to making every encounter fantastic. (Of course, having an amazing dick like mine helps.)

More than that, though, these days I feel when both parties go into an encounter with the mindset of wanting to please their partners, and with a willingness to cast aside all the petty stuff that can inhibit or hamper an encounter, they’ll have a good time. If two guys (or gals, or any combination thereof) can ignore for a few hours the little worries of the home, the big concerns of the workplace, the fears about money and the everyday anxieties about being good enough to deserve sex, or pretty enough to get sex, they’ll have a good time. If they hop into bed with smiles on their faces and their attention focused on their partners, ready to accept attention and equally willing to give it, they’ll have a good time.

Just remember, those of you hunting out good sex: if what you’re bringing to an encounter is anxiety, anger, or fear, the chances are pretty good that the sex you’ll have will only make those bad things worse. Learn to breath, to smile, to give yourself positive messages, and to wipe away as much of that bullshit as possible.

Or at least learn to hide it well.


Do you prefer to be addressed by your name, or as ‘Sir,’ or ‘daddy,’ or what?

A few weeks ago I was approached by some semi-local guy somewhere online—I’ve forgotten whether it was an app or some hookup site—who decided that I was going to be his beta top. That is, he was the Alpha in the situation, and I’d be his sidekick top. Boy Wonder to his Caped Crusader, I guess. If he threw a group, I’d be invited and I’d fuck the holes he told me to fuck. I’d hold down the bottoms he told me to hold down. If he wanted me to plug a bottom’s mouth while he was fucking the hole, I’d do as I was told. I guess there was some lube carrying and maybe some sword polishing to be done in his vision of the modern-day equivalent of a knight’s squire, too. I don’t know.

To be honest, it seemed totally relaxing. I’ve been totally accustomed, over the last twenty-five years, to having to manage every aspect of a sexual encounter. Taking a step back to obey orders without having to think them up sounded like a fucking vacation. So I told the guy that his parties could be fun, and that I was in if he’d have me.

That’s when the nightmare began. If I was going to be in his stable of tops, the guy informed me, I’d have to call him Sir. Every single time. If I left the address ‘Sir’ out of a sentence, I would have to beg his forgiveness (Sir). No, I would have to beg his humble forgiveness, Sir. If I referred to him to any of his stable of bottoms, I would have to call him ‘Our Gracious Master’. It was just in direct address that I would call him ‘Sir.’ In the middle of his stream of directives, he then changed his mind. Instead of ‘Sir,’ I was call him ‘Sire.’ That’s what his stable of bottoms called him. ‘Sire.’ And if I forgot to call him ‘Sire….’

It was at that point that I blocked him and his line of bullshit. Christ, I hadn’t even been invited to a party yet and already it was just so much work.

Look. I don’t have any particular need to be called any particular title. My ego doesn’t need the inflation of being called Sir; I’ve got better things to do with my time and my dick than make guys jump over linguistic hoops just to get to the goods. There are a lot better ways for them to prove how much they want my meat—directly—than by adhering to any artificial demands for a title.

However. I’m very much turned on when a man addresses me by a title, whether it be Dad or Sir or Papi or Owner, when it means something to him. When a man truly wants me to be his master, or the sexy dad who fucks his hole, or the aggressive top Sir who plunders his ass, and when he uses one of those words to signal his feelings for me and his regard for me, nothing makes my dick harder for him.

Men who use those words with sincerity, need, and naked honesty will get a response out of me.
I’m always likely to prefer ‘dad’ over ‘daddy,’ though. Just a personal thing.


You have a knack for making yourself feel approachable. I mean, I’ve read just about every entry (I think) and feel like if I sat down next to you somewhere that I could start a conversation about a dozen things, just like one of my real life friends. Do you think one of the reasons you’ve been stalked and taken advantage of by readers is because you seem so accessible?

The short answer to your question is yes, I do believe you are correct. I have a definite ability—when I care to—to project through my writing a certain amount of warmth, honesty, and informal attainability. It does have a tendency to make perfect strangers feel as if they can walk up to me and start a conversation.

Which is great. I was on vacation earlier this month somewhere with a much warmer climate (and had a great time, thanks for asking) and had no less than five guys recognize me as the author of this blog. Two of them approached me through Scruff (You don’t happen to have a blog, do you. . . ?).

Two others found me when it was quiet and I was on my own. They sat down and very quietly and very shyly informed me that they’d recognized me from my photos and just wanted to say that they were long-term fans of my blog. Very nice. Very sweet. And finally one Australian guy—and no offense to the four others, but I had to admire his style and accent—came up to me at midnight at a cruising spot to whisper in my ear, “Are you Mr. Steed? I fucking love your writing, mate. You write my favorite blog!” We ended up having a really nice half-hour talk in the pitch black until twelve-thirty rolled around and he had to go to a pre-arranged fuck.

(I guess being someone’s favorite blog writer isn’t enough of an honor to score an invite to a fuck? Maybe it’s just Australian reserve.)

At the same time, I wish some of my readers would remember that my blog only reflects a part of my life. A great part of my life, sure. But it’s not all of me. Nor is it really enough for anyone simply to drop into my life and assume that suddenly we’ll be besties forever.

When I talk in my blog about the extreme difficulties I have with a very small handful of my readers, I kind of get the impression that people think I’m just griping about being called a name here and there. If only it were that easy! Insults about my appearance or my sex life I can shrug off easily. It’s the insults to my privacy and to my good will that afflict me more.

For example, from this week, I had a reader who attempted to post a comment to my blog that contained my real-life name . . . like I was going to let that one pass. What he felt he was pulling with such a stunt I don’t know—but it was definitely some attempt to establish a hold over me. I’m not freaked out that a reader knows my name. Plenty of them do. The guy didn’t frighten me. He didn’t impress me with any spurious cleverness. But he certainly pissed me off to the point that I won’t be publishing any more comments from him again, or interacting with him. Why would anyone purporting friendly intentions do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense. It was a violation, pure and simple—and one of those outrages to my propriety that seem to be coming more and more frequently these days. For what reasons, I really cannot fathom.

I am friendly with the vast majority of my readers. But it doesn’t make us instant friends. That is a privilege with no shortcuts.


Are you still gaming?

If you mean video gaming, sure! It’s my biggest hobby.

I think everyone knows I used to be a big World of Warcraft player—I druid-healed for many of you in dungeons and raids during the Pandaria expansion—but I haven’t played that for a couple of years now at this point. I’m still a big player of Diablo 3, which I regard as basically a big slot machine that I click mindlessly in the hope of bigger and better gear jackpots. I indulge in a lot of Minecraft. Yes, I know a lot of six-year-olds play Minecraft. I like it for the same reason they do. It’s a big sandbox in which I can do whatever the fuck I feel like, whether that’s building enormous towers, exploring, or just going down in my impressively vast mineshafts and digging for diamonds for hours on end.

I do most of my gaming on the Wii U and on the Playstation 4. If anyone wants to befriend me on either of those devices, I’m open to it. Just contact me by email with your IDs.

Recently I finished Dragon Age: Inquisition. It took me fucking forever to get the hipster mage who caught my eye to give me his ass. I mean, key-rist. I did all the little favors he oh-so-coyly asked me, and would he go to bed with me? No. When I killed my first dragon, he suddenly warmed up a little and told me how manly and dashing I’d been out there, whipping my sword around. So I killed another dragon, then another, thinking maybe it would impress my little hipster mage. No luck. All he’d do was kiss me chastely and continue to give me come-hither glances.

I was a little frustrated with the guy by the time I’d finished killing all ten fucking dragons in the game. “Screw you, hipster mage,” I told the guy. “I’m not hanging around any more. I’ve done all the quests. I’m killing the end boss and finishing the game and you know what? It’s your fucking loss.”

Then of course the moment I finished killing the game’s Big Bad and everyone across two imaginary continents loved and adored me for saving them from the forces of evil, he came oozing out of his lair to tell me that he had reconsidered and wanted to be my boyfriend forever and ever. Oh sure, now that I could have my pick of the entire population. Asshole.

Yeah, I went through with it. I mean, I'd put so much time into it. Yeah, the sex was . . . okay. You’d think a guy with a mustache like that would be a little more creative in bed, but whatever. I got his hole.

Lesson learned: It’s easier to get laid in real life than in a fantasy role-playing game, people.