Good Enough

So here’s the thing about this kid: his butt is amazing.

It’s round. Round, hell. Those two globes offset from his hips at precisely the right angle, with exquisitely-calculated curvature. They’re the ultimate culmination of human geometry, the fruition of refined formulae, the pinnacle of every mathematician’s search for geometrical perfection since Archimedes. I could throw out a phrase like bubble butt to describe the thing, but the words aren’t evocative enough to suit the acme of this kid’s ass. Bubble implies impermanence. Bubble hints at something that can vanish before it’s been admired, much less memorized or immortalized.

No, this kid’s butt is solid. Meaty. Weighty. It’s the kind of butt that can take a slap and a pounding both, only to bounce back for more. It’s solid. Athletic. You look at it, and all you can do is wonder how many squats it took to bring about this consummation of meat and muscle. I’ve had many mighty fine asses, mind you, but this boy’s rear end is one of those that only comes around once in a lifetime. It’s the kind of butt that, had this boy casually ambled by during the sculpting of Michaelangelo’s David, would have made the mighty artist throw down his chisel in disgust, saying, “Fuck this amateur shit. Back to baking pizza.”

But let me backtrack a little.

I was cruising one of the sex sites when a twenty-year-old kid hit me up. Sup, he said.

The photos he’d chosen were blurry but intriguing. He seemed barely literate . . . or at least was determined to establish his masculinity through brusqueness. How was he doing today? Good. U. What was he looking for? Good raw dick. How bout u. Where was he?

When he named the neighborhood in which I live, I was a little taken aback. That’s funny, I told him. Me too. What street?

He named the street I live on.

Huh, I told him. Me too. It’s a long street, though, stretching over a mile down to the shore, so I told him my cross street.

He didn’t seem to recognize it. #43 here, he replied. I checked my phone’s map just to be sure, but my suspicion was correct: the address he’d given me was only a block away.

Now, forgive me if I sound unnecessarily dubious here, but my first instinct was that the kid was bullshitting me. I’ve run into obvious fantasists and scammers on these sites before, from the guys who throw up a couple of jailbait photos from Reddit and send me messages that read, Hi today’s my 18th birthday and my high school is out today and live only 1 mile from you and my hot uncle says I should let you bareback me, what does bareback mean??, to the dudes who post genuine pics of themselves but try to pass off 65 as 43 . . . and everything in between. My little uptight neighborhood is not exactly replete with boys looking to be bred. Remember, this kid hadn’t even known the name of the second cross street south of him.

On the other hand, I thought to myself, do I know the name of the second cross street north of me? No. I did not. I still don’t. So I left a little wiggle room for doubt, and told the kid to hit me up some evening that week. I’d take care of him. Then I signed off, assuming I’d never see him again.

Three days later. It’s a Wednesday night. I’ve got the place to myself. Sup, he messages me from out of the blue.

Ready to come over? I ask. It’s a challenge, really. I’m waiting for him to bullshit out of it with an excuse.

I’m a little surprised when he says, I need 20 to clean up. 7:30? Address?

I give it to him, and tell him I’ll be waiting out front on the sidewalk at 7:30.

It’s one of those nights that’s fucking freezing out. I’ve got on a down jacket and a cap, but I’ve stuffed my bare feet into my sneakers, so there’s frigid air drifting under the cuffs of my jeans and reaching up far enough to make my balls recoil. My mittened hands are wrapped around my torso, hugging the heat in, while I stand outside on my dark street, waiting for the guy.

Thankfully, it’s not too long before I see a figure ambling down the sidewalk. He’s on the wrong side of the street, though. Well, is it him? It’s too dark to see any features, but the person seems to be craning his neck to look at the street numbers. Dude, I’m thinking. Your address is an odd number. My address is an odd number. Why the fuck are you on the opposite side of the street?

“Hey,” I call out, when he should be in earshot. “Hey!” I don’t know the boy’s name. (Still don’t.) He’s got some thick wool hat covering his ears, so he can’t hear me over the slight car traffic on the two-lane road. He’s now walking past, going too far. “Hey, kid!”

He wheels around, finally. I beckon him over. He jogs across the street. “Hey. Thought you were number 88,” he says in an unexpectedly deep voice.

88 is not remotely my street number. Neither digit is even vaguely close. “Come on in,” I tell him, shivering, and already wondering whether I’m regretting extending the invitation.

For the first time, as he follows up the stairs onto my front porch, I can see that he’s as tall as I. Maybe taller. Six-four? I can’t see his face. Under his thick winter clothing, he’s bulky and shapeless. He could be two hundred and seventy-five pounds of seventy-year-old shambling flesh under there, for all I can tell out here in the dark. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m getting.

But what the hell. I had needs. I wasn’t having to to travel far to get this guy, and he was pretty much free for the taking. Might as well give him a go. Yes, basically I use the same rationale to decide whether or not to let the guy in, as I do when weighing whether or not to eat cheese that’s been sitting out on the break room counter at work for a suspiciously long time. I’m not too proud to admit it.

Once we’re inside my living room, his hat comes off first. “Sup,” he mutters, nodding at me as I remove my down jacket. He’s clearly twenty—he didn’t lie about that. Mediterranean looks. Lot of product in his short hair, cut in a fade on the sides and floppy on top. Handsome kid. I don’t expect him to be quite as good looking as he is, from the blurry photos he’d posted.

That’s it for the small talk, though. “I’ll put this here,” he says, and starts to remove the outermost layer of his clothing. It’s some kind of shiny shell that covers up an oversized baseball jacket underneath. He throws it on my rocking chair. Then he applies the toe of one sneaker to the heel of the other. It pops off with a clunk—a size twelve or thirteen high-top roughly the size of a small appliance. The other hits the floor to its side. He hooks his fingers under the elastic of his pants. Shucks them. They’re the same windproof fabric as his first jacket. Underneath those, he’s got a pair of baggy ripped jeans.

With the outer layers shorn, I’m beginning to see he’s more athletic than I would’ve guessed. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest.

He nods.

The kid is tall. I’m unused to men looming over me, but this looks down into my eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. Off comes his Yankees jacket, hitting the rug at the foot of my bed. He’s wearing a gray wife-beater underneath; I’m stuck motionless at the sight of his arms. They’re muscular. Sculpted. The boy is swole. His deltoids look like fucking tree trunks. A half-sleeve extends down his left arm from the shoulder to his elbow, the outline inked in but not colored. The thin fabric of his tank top clings to and outlines his pecs. There’s a gap between navel and jeans in which I can spy a perfect V across his narrow waist.

I’m speechless. My jaw doesn’t work. I say nothing. But that’s all right. This twenty-year-old kid, this muscled-up pup, this boy who looks like he should be headlining the next Magic Mike movie, takes a step forward so that his face is close to mine. For a split-second I’m anticipating a kiss. But then he drops to his knees, wraps his thick arms around my middle, and rests his cheek against the bulge in my jeans.

When he starts to kiss the fabric, eyes closed, his lips searching for the outline of my meat, I feel myself growing harder and harder. My rigidity excites him. His massive hands reach for my belt. I help him loosen it, then allow him to unbutton me. He pulls down my zipper. Once again, when he encounters my black trunks, he presses his face against the fabric. I can feel the warmth of his breath, and the chilliness of the tip of his nose against my skin.

I adjust my stance so that my jeans fall to the floor. He tugs at the waistband of my shorts, to let loose my cock. His mouth is already open to catch it. Even though the skin of his face is still cold, his mouth is wet. Tropical. Once I’m down his throat, he opens his eyes again and regards me with heavy lids.

I know that look. It’s the expression of a boy who’s fallen in love with my dick.

“Suck it,” I order. He doubles down on my inches, letting them slide slickly in and out of his eager gullet. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him grunt. Deep as his voice is, the guttural noise rumbles from his chest with a vibration that only amplifies my pleasure.

I’m picky about my blow jobs, you know. The vast majority of guys give bad head. The stimulation might be enough to keep me hard, but maintenance is not the same as arousal. This kid, though. He knows how to work his tongue. He knows how to vary his strokes. And he doesn’t rely on beating me off in lieu of real oral service. This kid sucks unexpectedly well, like he’s had years of practice. Maybe he has. So I let him suck me for a good long time, down on his knees, in the dusk of the bedroom, before I pull out.

“Take off the jeans,” I order, as I step out of my own.

Without protest, he stands up once more. He tugs off his top to expose that perfectly-worked chest. His pants drop. He pulls his feet, clad in white ankle socks, out of the pile of denim. His hands protectively clutch his crotch, where his hard dick stretches out a white, elastic fabric. He now wears only a much-worn, dime-store jock.

“I want you now,” he says, looking me in the eye.

Well. Okay. If some swole kid wants me now, I guess he’s going to get me now. I’m obliging, that way.

I pull one of my pillows to the middle of the bed. Pat it. Without needing instruction, he hops up onto the mattress, grabs the other pillow to bury his face in, and uses the cushion I’ve prepared to prop up his hips.

That’s when I see the ass.

That ass. That indescribable, sculpted, sent from heaven with a seraphim chorus of trumpets accompanied by a cherubim choir ass.

That’s when my jaw drops.

I stare at that butt for a long minute, motionless. “Jesus Christ,” I finally blurt. Appropriate, since I feel like I’m having a religious experience.

He turns his head on the pillow so that he can regard me with one eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—fuck, nothing is wrong.” I stammer out.

“Am I good enough?”

Is there anything more endearing than a kid like this asking if he’s good enough? In the second it takes him to ask, in these brief few words, I feel like I’ve had more insight into what drives this boy that probably his friends and family do.

All it takes is this ephemeral, fleeting glimpse of vulnerability and fear deep down, to turn him in my eyes from a Junior Tom of Finland improbability, to someone desperate for real, human contact.
I crawl onto the bed between his legs. “I’ll show you how good enough you are,” I promise.

This kid nearly cries during the long minutes I eat him out. He hisses and clutches the bedclothes when I part his cheeks and bury my face between the symmetrical globes. When I chew at the soft flesh deep within, he whines. The sensation is so intense for him that when he starts grabbing at his own ass cheeks I can’t tell whether he’s try to stop me, or to pull them apart to go deeper. Without confirmation, I naturally assume the latter. The whines turn to squeals, the grunts to half-vocalized swearing. Has he ever been eaten out in his life? I can’t tell.

One of my thumbs slips into his slick hole. He raises his head from the pillow. Is the wince on his face pain? Pleasure? Again, I assume the latter, and replace my thumb with my index and middle finger. My spit has made his ass slippery and ready for dick; a little more spit greases my rigid meat. My fingers still stretching his pucker, I pull myself to my knees.

“You want it?”

He nods.

“Ask.”

The kid mumbles something. Only the pillow hears it.

“Ask,” I order.

In a very low, barely audible voice, he enunciates the words. “Fuck me.” He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t say sir. He doesn’t need to. There’s an honesty in the way he mans up and finally demands what he wants. There’s a need that’s as naked and plain as what I saw earlier, when he asked me if he was good enough.

So yeah. I fuck him.

He’s a howler, this one. He bays as I slide into him. I can tell from the way he instantly accommodates me, though, that he’s in no pain. He’s moist all the way in. Either I prepared him well with my rimming, or he’s naturally self-lubricating. He’s as wet and soft as pussy, actually. “Fuck,” I exclaim, when I reach the bottom.

He replies in whimpers.

I wonder a lot about this kid. I wonder where he’s been, the last few years I’ve been living in this sexless cul-de-sac. I wonder how long he’s been taking cock, how long he’s been raw-dogging it. I wonder at which gym he’s a personal trainer. Because with this body, what else can he be but a trainer, right?

The one thing I don’t have to wonder about is whether he’s enjoying himself. Every stroke, every probe, every long pulling-out and sliding-in makes him gulp and yelp and moan. When I drive in deep and grind my hips, using that amazing ass as my cushion, he sobs and sniffs. He’s hugging the pillow like a teddy bear; he’s lifting his ass to help me plumb its depths.

I’m not holding back, either. I know the effect this butt, this perfect butt, is going to have on my dick this first night we’re together. He’s getting three loads, minimum. So I have absolutely zero problem with letting loose the first one in a prompt and expedient manner.

Like I said, I’m obliging, that way.

I can feel the tide rising, that red-tinged wave of pleasure buoying me forward. “You want my seed, son?” I ask.

He mumbles again. Unacceptable.

“Say what?”

This time, he’s more audible, and just as definite. “Breed my hole. Please.”

I give him what he wants. Beneath a red wave I sink. My sight grows blurry. All sound recedes. Nothing exists for me at that moment save for his ass contracting around my pulsing, engorged flesh, and the sensation of my seed jetting into his guts. For who knows how long, I kneel there between his legs, my hands cupped around those beautiful cheeks, as my senses slowly restore and I can feel my kettledrum heart thudding in my ribcage.

My dick snakes out. Plops between his thighs. He makes a move, as if to roll over. “No.” My hands keep him still.

Prone I go, chest against the mattress, to keep his legs spread. I pry apart his sloppy wet ass with my fingers. Dive in with my tongue. The scent of my sperm is powerful, down here. When I make contact with my tongue, his reaction is to draw himself up on his elbows. “Oh FUCK!” he shouts.

His surprise doesn’t stop me. Savagely I yank apart his cheeks and suck on the hole, tasting my essence as it oozes out. One of his fists hits the mattress; I can feel the vibration as it strikes. Again he beats against it, over and over.

I stop chewing at his hole. “No one’s ever done this for you after they fucked you. Have they?”

“Noooooo,” he whines, raising his head and shaking it. He’s near tears.

“But you love it, don’t you.”

He knows it’s not a question. He nods, his eyes closed, and I go back to work. At first, he continues to beat the mattress with his clenched fist, as if pounding at a door that will never open. Yet the longer I lap at him, the more of him I clean up, the deeper my tongue probes at that wide-open pussy that’s been fucked and bred, the less he resists. Weakly, he stops striking the bed. He gives in.

That’s when I know he’s ready for round two. And this time around, I intend to savor this ass.

This beautiful ass.

This fucking amazing ass.

This ass that’s now mine.

Monday Morning Questions: Send Me Your Noods Edition

Remember when I used to answer reader questions on a regular basis? Yeah, me too. Good times.

Of course, sometimes it seemed like the majority of the questions were How do you keep your sexual acts secret from your wife? or How do you keep from bringing diseases home? or Why are you not dead yet?

If you have a question that’s not one of those, feel free to email me at the address on the sidebar, or send me a message on Twitter—I’ll consider using it in future editions of this feature.


One of the things I’ve admired about you since I’ve been reading you for a couple of years now is that you seem to have great success in finding good sex. I’m like you in that I’m kind of confident about myself, but when I go to meet guys, I’m always striking out. Either they’re no-shows or they flake out, or the connection isn’t there, or sometimes the sex just isn’t all that, if you know what I mean. To what do you attribute your success?—M

M, quite honestly, I usually only write about my better times. The shitty hookups don’t make the cut.

When I meet a guy who says he wants to give me an expert blowjob, but all he really wants to do is grab my dick in a vise-like grip and choke it purple while he moves his lips in the vague vicinity of my genitals and occasionally lets his tongue flick out, until my dick is chafed and sore and I finally have to force him to lay off . . . it’s probably not going to make the pages of my blog. When I make an app connection with a guy who tells me to come right over, and I do, and then I have to sit in my car for 45 minutes because he’s ‘not ready yet,’ and when I finally get into his dingy, dirty little apartment and the sex is mediocre at best and generally makes me feel as if I’ve wasted an afternoon I could’ve been—I don’t know, emptying the cat pans at home—I don’t write about it. I have plenty of sex that would my readers recoil with a muttered Oy!

And hoo boy, do I ever get stood up in spectacular fashion. Last week, in fact, I was flaked on spectacularly. At one of those sex parties I don’t go to anymore, about a year and a half ago, I met a guy. Let’s call him Michael. (Because that’s his name.) We fucked toward the end of the evening, after the more aggressive bottoms at the party had clawed at each other to get their hole on my dick. Most of the men had gone home, and I still had a little life in me; Michael and I found ourselves in our host’s bed, alone, while the few remaining guests chatted quietly in the next room.

We made love. It wasn’t mere sex party sport fucking. It was sweet, and tender, and intimate. He told me that he didn’t think he was going to have the privilege of getting my cock inside him that night, much less a load; as a more shy type, he’d hung back and watched rather than made his desires for me known. He was kind, and honest, and made a good impression. I actually spent more time with him than any other single person at the party that night.

We’d kept in touch since then, but he lived in Jersey. Finding a time to play just proved difficult. Michael liked to tell me that the sex we’d had at the party that evening had been transformative for him; I gave him confidence that carried over to later parties. I fucked him like nobody before ever had. (Well, naturally.) He would tell me he wanted my touch, my kisses, my dick, and he wanted them badly.

Then last week he told me he’d be staying the week a little closer to me—still a good hour’s drive, but closer. Did I want to meet? The ball’s in your court, he texted.

The ball’s in your court. I hate that phrase. When guys use it, it’s to signify that they want nothing more to do with the logistics of hooking up. It’s up to the other guy to make everything happen. To me it’s a passive-aggressive turnoff. The ball is never solely in anyone’s court. Hooking up, making a date—it’s a dialogue. It needs two people to happen. The ball’s in your court is a guy saying, Hey, you get to go to all the trouble to come up with a date and place and plan for our meeting, while I’ll do jack shit to help you out. But oh, wait, I get to hold absolute veto power over any details you come up with that I might not like.

Fuck that shit.

But my memory of the good evening I’d had with Michael outweighed the amount that phrase repulsed me, so I texted him back. Are you free tomorrow, Thursday? I asked.

For you, yes, he replied. Anytime Thursday except around 2 when my cleaning lady is here.

All right then. How about in the early evening?

That would be great! he answered.

What time, exactly? I wanted to know.

His messages had been coming fast and furious up until this point. I had to wait a couple of minutes for his last reply. I’ll have to let you know, he finally said.

M, I’m telling you right now, when I got that message, I knew, I knew, that I would not be hearing back from him. Every instinct honed by forty years of sex with men told me that I was never going to get that reply telling me what time I could come over.

The realization enraged me, right then and there. Here I was, accepting his passive-aggressive ball’s in your court bullshit challenge. I was telling him I was willing to carve a considerable chunk of time out of my day to drive an hour to his place so we could engage in good sex for a few hours, and then drive an hour home. Here I was, trying to make a date in good confidence. And I knew, I just knew, that I was going to get nothing but bullshit from him.

I tried to calm myself down. I let the memory of a single good night attempt to soothe me. Maybe he’d come through.

Still, I knew he wouldn’t.

I woke up Thursday to no messages on my phone. Every hour that passed, I dug in with the grim satisfaction of knowing my instincts had been correct. I didn’t cave and text Michael. Ball’s in your court now, motherfucker. I went to lunch, took in a movie afterward. Finally, around four, I sent Michael a text. You never got back to me, and my window of making this evening happen has closed. I guess it won’t be happening.

Immediately he texted back. He’d totally forgotten to get back to me! He was supposed to have dinner with a friend! Maybe we could do it another time!

Into my phone I tapped, I’m so sorry I misunderstood when you said ‘That would be great!’ that it meant you already had plans. I thought about sending it. But in the end I just deleted the snap-back, letter by letter. Michael had already heard the last from me.

I spent the rest of the day feeling as miserable about being stood up as I’d been miserable earlier about the certainty of it. But in the end, I came to a certain realization: my time is valuable. My attention is a gift. When a guy proves himself unworthy of a valuable gift—that’s it. No more chances.

M, if guys are standing you up or treating you badly, don’t fret too much. They’re doing the same to me, and to all the other men reading this blog. Tell yourself the same thing I did this week, though: don’t give them a second chance unless they really go out of their way to earn it. Your time is valuable. Your attention and presence is a gift. Give them to the men, and only to the men, who deserve them. Be patient, and be persistent. They’re out there.


What’s your personal policy on the photos you show on apps like Scruff or Grindr or on websites? I don’t think mine are doing the job they should be doing even though I’m not a troll or anything, any suggestions?

When you’re attempting to construct a profile, I suggest you play to your strengths.

I try to be as transparent as possible on cruising apps and sex sites. I have a face pic, front and center. I’ve got good teeth thanks to several thousand of my parents’ dollars in orthodontic work, so I pick photos with big smiles. They make me look friendly and approachable. I’m comfortable with the way I look, and face photos work for me, so on Grindr or Scruff, you’ll find me looking relaxed and happy and, you know . . . foxy as all get out.

I see a lot of scowling guys on these apps, though. There are some men for whom the glowering, broody look can work—but honestly, most of those guys are wearing chaps, a vest, and the same cap as the biker in the Village People. If looking like you’re about to punch someone is what gets you attention from guys (and not the FBI), though, go for it. I’m not really a fan of headless torso photos, but if you think your body is slammin' and you’re proud of it, then by all means, post that headless torso photo. Whatever you do, pick the photos that show off your best assets.

When it comes to cruising sites, where the photo restrictions are less conservative, I have a personal tendency to put everything on the line. I’ll show face, cock, face and cock, fuck shots if they’re allowed . . . and I keep them all unlocked. I’m not fond of messages from strangers consisting solely of the word UNLOCK???, so I keep them all public. No shame here.

I wouldn’t fault you, though, if you don’t feel the same. If you’re comfortable showing your dick and ass in a shot anyone can see, but you want your mug locked away . . . great. If you don’t mind guys seeing your face, but want to keep the goods hidden as a surprise for that special fellow . . . fine with me. I do advise you have at least one face shot to share, though. Many men, myself included, won’t meet without seeing someone’s face.

If you think you’ve done a good job with your photos, and the profile is still not working for you, make sure your profile and your photos are working together in a harmonious fashion. If you’re advertising yourself as a big ol’ toppy top man—I see this one all the time and it baffles me—make sure your profile isn’t a succession of extreme closeups of your pucker accompanied by shots of you bending over ready for any dick, any species. (Guys, why do so many of you do this?) If you’re saying you’re a bottom whore and you’re posting pics of your big dick that seem to invite someone to have a seat, you’re just going to confuse your potential audience . . . and probably get a lot of emails from other bottoms asking you to flip. If you claim you’re nine inches and your photo is either of a stubby dick or is at such a bad angle that your penis looks stunted, guys are going to roll their eyes and think you’re a big liar.

In other words, think of your profile on an app or website as a story about yourself and what you want. Is the story you’re telling one that will attract the men you want? Is the story showing you to your best advantage and displaying what’s most attractive about you? Do your photos illustrate that story appropriately?

Ask a friend, if you’re worried your pics aren’t doing the job. Heck, ask me. I’m willing to rifle through your X-rated noods to see which one is best.


You’ve said in the past that when a man gives you a compliment during an encounter, you should accept it gracefully. I try, I really do, but I don’t think I’m worthy of the compliments guys sometimes give me. What should I do?

You know what’s more painful and annoying, when I tell a man he’s handsome, or that he’s sexy as all get out, or that he has a beautiful body, and the man deflects the compliment or flat out says No I’m not or otherwise naysays the good vibes I’m trying to send his way? Well, an unmedicated root canal. But that’s about the only thing.

Listen. If a guy is chatting you up on Grindr and says how attractive you are, and you’re convinced that he’s only saying it to get in your pants, and he’s just seen that one shot of you that your bestie took when you were relaxed, and that shot looks better than you usually do in your everyday life, and you’re certain that if the guy saw you sitting there at home wearing sweats and yesterday’s underwear he’d probably run for his life . . . fine. Feel that way. Think what you like, privately. But still say thank you! and swallow your doubts and don’t share them with the poor fellow. He was probably being sincere, and any display of doubt on your part is ungrateful and, frankly, annoying.

But if the guy already has you naked, and in his bed, and he’s making love to you, and he’s saying sweet things? Why the fuck are you doubting him? At that point he doesn’t have to charm you. He doesn’t have to connive to make your head spin. He doesn’t have to say a damned thing he doesn’t want. He’s already got you where he wants you. In the heat of the moment, he’s speaking the truths a man speaks when his guard is down, when he’s at his most essential and primal.

To sum up: when a man compliments you, especially during an encounter, the only response you’re obligated to make is to say thank you, and maybe smile. If you can, believe him. At the very least, accept graciously. Suck it up and don’t contradict him.

Taking a compliment is easy to do. Start practicing today, and you’ll find yourself worthy of more.