I Know You

The only reason I’m here, in front of this tenth-story Chelsea apartment door on a winter’s afternoon, is because I’ve dared myself. In fact, every step that’s brought me here has been a dare.
Now, arrived at my destination, I have to dare myself one last time. Ring the bell, I think. Let him know you’re here. Do it. Get it over with. When I hesitate, the irresistible last self-push: C’mon. I dare you to.

My index and middle finger rise to the eye-level pushbutton. With the backs of my knuckles, I press and release, sounding a bell on the other side. Done, I tell myself. Happy now?

The door opens. The man I'm here to meet wears a pair of baggy workout pants. Athletic socks with loose elastic sliding down his furry legs. A tank-top that’s obviously been chosen for utility over style, though it shows off the curves of his muscles nicely. His face—that mug I recognize instantly—peeks around the door. His dark hair is long. Not as long as in his movies; it’s been cut roughly at the same level as his jaw. But those soulful eyes are the same. Both his locks and his trimmed-short beard are shot with more gray hairs than I remember.

The spark of familiarity, though, was instant. I know you, I thought. It wasn’t for the first time.

The man says my name in a deep voice, followed by, “Come on in.” He extends a meaty hand to grasp my own, and pulls me over the threshold.




Hey. I know you, I’d thought, the first time I’d seen his profile online, in my track list. You’ve been in porn, right? He’d used a selfie as his primary portrait, but a lack of studio lighting and a professional photographer couldn’t disguise that intense stare, the sharp jawline, the rough-hewn masculinity. At the time I’d merely taken a quick glance at his profile before moving on. To be honest, I’d assumed that some horny cretin was catfishing unsuspecting guys, using pictures of a well-known porn top as bait. But then again, who’d have the audacity to pass off photos of a major gay porn actor as his own? Not just some schmo who bottomed in a couple of dirty flicks, but a truly well-known star from a big studio?

Then the man behind the profile sent me a message on the site, admiring my profile. Dare you to play along, I taunted myself. So for shits and giggles I replied. I thanked him when he said he liked my photos. I answered his questions about my location and availability. Frankly, I was waiting for the inevitable, leering attempts at cyber chat that would tip me off I was dealing with a fraud.

But those never came. Over the course of our correspondence, he wrote sparingly about enjoying reading, and about how difficult it was to meet articulate men. He unlocked photos for me that didn’t seem like studio shots scrounged from Google. He told me that yes, he did escort and massage for a living; he hoped I wasn’t offended by that. The fact that he’d hit me up first meant he was looking for something off the books.

He didn’t get to bottom often, he said. I had a beautiful dick, and he really wanted to bottom for me.

This is where I had to dare myself again. Say yes, I told myself. Dare to think he’ll want you.

So I said, sure. Of course I’d be happy to take care of him, if that’s what he wanted.

Give him your phone number, I prodded myself. Dare ya.

I gave him my phone number.

We moved pretty rapidly from online chat to texting. He sent me a number of candid shots of himself that convinced me, pretty much beyond doubt, that I was speaking to the very same porn star to whose scenes I had jacked off multiple times over the years. There aren’t a lot of tops in porn that I watch, thinking, Damn, I wish he would stretch me the fuck open. There’s Dan Fisk, maybe. And most definitely there was this guy.

This man always excelled in his one-on-one scenes with others. His studio never dropped him in the middle of a gang bang. Oh no. They always paired him up with one exceptionally hot bottom, put them together in a dimly-lit room, then let the camera roll. In his scenes, this man knew how to control a situation. He would start slow, intimate. Romantic, even. The way he kissed the men he was about to fuck always made me twitch with need; I’d watch his bottom boys respond with real lust to his every touch.

On video, this man was a little bit older, a little more seasoned, a little quieter . . . a little bit more real than the rest of the studio stable. I always found those qualities attractive. He looked like he had sex on film because he enjoyed it—because he was damned good at it—rather than just to earn enough dough to pay off his dealer. When that inevitable moment came in every video when he’d finally turn over his boy, part those cheeks, and slide in his sizable member, I would be pouring the lube over my own dick, sighing, and wishing the boy were me.

Funny, how I’d idly fantasized about this guy for years before running across him online—but solely as a bottom fantasizes about a top. I’d never once considered fucking him. I could recall him even bottoming in any of his appearances.

I really want to submit to you, he texted. Just forget about myself while I’m your boy. May I do that?

Give him what he wants, I dared myself. Fuck him. Fuck this alpha of alphas. Make him your boy. My rock-hard dick spurred me on. Mark that ass as yours.

So I made a date.




Here’s the thing, though. All this time I was talking to the guy, I hadn’t actually come out and said, I know about your career in porn. I’d never casually brought up in conversation, So what’s it like, banging Dawson? I’d never dropped a hint like, You look familiar. Kind of like the top in that third scene of Splooge Up My Guts 2: Electric Boogaloo. Why the silence? Hell if I knew.

My own reservations about hooking up with my fans are abundant, and I’m one hundred percent certain that sex blog fans are neither as numerous nor as persistent as fans of porn stars. (And sex blog fans are pretty damned numerous and persistent.) Being labeled a stalkery fanboy was something I wanted to avoid. Another part of me simply didn’t think it was appropriate to speak of his history in porn. If he wanted to bring it up, sure. It'd be fair game. But if this man wanted to have a private sexual vacation—bottoming, no less—away from his public sexual persona . . . who was I to deny him?

Before the afternoon of our meeting, I confess, I messaged my friend Ryan Wolff with a couple of the photos. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Do you recognize this guy? I asked.

Oh hell yeah, Ryan replied instantly, and named the man.

I was immediately relieved to be validated that I wasn’t exchanging steamy texts with, you know, a sandwich shop worker bearing a vague resemblance to a porn star. (The thought had crossed my mind, more than a few times.) He wants me, I explained. But I didn’t want to go all fanboy on him, so I didn’t tell him I recognized him. His real name is different from his porn name. I shared the name the man had given me.

That’s him all right. Ryan texted back, He’s retired from porn, but I understand he’s versatile. Knock up his ass real good.

And here I am. Ready to knock him up.

No. I’m ready to give him what he asked for. Today he’s not going to be a porn star. Today this man is going to be my boy . . . just as he desired.





I step inside the door, ready to apologize for my chilly hands, my frigid nose, my ice-cold cheeks. Once the door closes behind me, he ignores my frozen extremities and immediately cups my face in his hands, pulling down my head. His nails riff through the scruff of my beard. His eyes open wide, look straight into mine; he pulls our foreheads together. Our hips connect. Jersey to denim, seam to zipper, hardness to hardness. He smells of soap, and of a woodsy deodorant.

Still staring at each other, we grind together for a long moment until he breaks the silence. “You’re much better looking in person,” he says, then to my relief temporizes, “and I thought you were handsome in your pics.”

He looks just like he does in porn. Silly thing to think. Of course he does. Except he’s here—he’s real. He’s touching me, resting his hands on my chest, cupping my ass. He’s shorter than I imagined, to be honest. Everyone is, when I meet them.

Tell him, I dare myself. Just say, hey. I know you.

No. Ultimatums have propelled me out of my living room and down the New Haven line into the city. They’ve forced my grudging feet onto the Lexington Avenue train into Chelsea. Self-provocation has gotten me over the threshold. It’s time to leave dares behind. I'm here. Now. For him.

Once and for all, I decide to keep my mouth shut. This man can spend the afternoon free of the invisible albatross of the porn star—my gift this afternoon will be unburdening him of having to live up to anything. Of having to perform.

I speak his name. His real name. “Thank you,” I tell him, for the compliment. “You are one of the most ruggedly handsome men I’ve ever seen. Can I make you an offer today?”

“Yes. What?”

“Let me make love to you. Let me be in charge.” His forehead is still pressed to mine as I half-whisper the enticement. His fingers are clasped around the back of my neck; his thumbs rest on my collarbone. His response is a sigh, and a rumble deep in his chest. “You don’t get to bottom often, do you?”

Those soulful eyes are already boring into mine. He separates our craniums so that we can better see each other. Still we’re glued pelvis to pelvis, hands on each other’s hips, swaying back and forth in some slow, tuneless dance. “No,” he finally says in soft, low syllables. “I surely don’t.”

“You don't get to let loose.” Again he shakes his head. “Then let me be the one taking care of you today,” I tell him. “I intend to treat you right.”

“Yes. Please.” He leans forward, places a hand on my cheek. We kiss. His tongue slips between my teeth; his lips are soft, though his beard prickles through my own. “I need that very, very badly.”

In all the idle fantasies I’ve had about this guy over the last decade, if I’d scripted our conversation, I would’ve been in his role and he would’ve taken mine. But this feels good. This feels very natural, in fact. I enjoy taking care of my men. Why should a few dozen hours on video make this one any different? I jettison shed my jacket and backpack and shoes in his entry hall and allow him to guide me our of the hallway. His apartment is small, but tidy; he's curated his many books onto their shelves by subject. Sneakers snuggle in pairs beneath the bed. There’s a portable massage table folded against the wall. A bed occupies a spot between a radiator and the window.

It’s toward the mattress that I steer him now, maintaining the connection at our core. He stumbles back with awkward steps, his lips hungrily on mine. We kiss with increasing ferocity; it’s as if the feel of my mouth on his, my tongue deep inside, unleashes his need. I’ve seen his bottoms on film crave him in exactly this way, many times before. Now it’s his turn to give in.

He’s on his back, head on the pillow, hairy legs in the air. I’m on top of him, my groin still grinding against him, insistent, demanding, my chest against his, our lips fastened on each other. My dick feels like cement. It has to be bruising his most tender places. But no, I feel his own erection prodding back, just as hard, just as anxious.

We separate to rip off our clothes. No seduction. No more prolonging the moment. There’s just raw, naked need between us. He looks over my body while I stare at his. My eyes have the better half of that bargain. He’s still in great shape. Lean. Furry. His fat dick is dark and wreathed by even darker pubes, shot with silver. It points straight at me.

I have to taste it. I might not be taking it—not today—but I need that porn star dick in my mouth. He groans as I go down on him. Already his head is slightly musky and slick with his precum. It slides down my throat effortlessly. How many times does a guy get to worship a dick about which he’s fantasized? Out flicks my tongue, every time I reach the base, licking at his nuts. After a few moments, his sac is covered with my drool.

The entire time I’m down on his meat, he’s groaning. He’s seized my skull between his big hands; now he’s lifting me off, bringing my mouth to his, tasting his own precum from my tongue. My breath probably smells like his dick, but he’s sucking the air out of me, he’s breathing so heavily. He flips me onto my back, stares into my eyes with flinty intent, and then parts my legs so that can suck me.

He works on my nuts, first, licking them, sucking them into his mouth, teasing me with his wet lips. Then he travels up the shaft. I feel his hot breath on my skin—and then he’s down, swallowing my inches. I feel a crackle of sensations when his short beard abrades my sac, then the slick softness of his open throat.

“Suck it,” I whisper. He grunts and gargles on my hard meat. “Get it all good and slicked up for your ass, son.”

I don’t actually know how old this man is. I’m assuming he’s younger than I, though neither of us is exactly a spring chicken. I can see the effect that the word son has on this ultimate porn daddy, though. It’s as if every bone in his body melts away; his center of gravity drops deep into the mattress as every newton of tension and resistance drains from his muscles. Even his throat collapses around my cock, driving it more deeply down his gullet. He’s more relaxed than he’s ever made anyone on that massage table.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I murmur in his ear. He submits completely when I withdraw from his mouth and turn him face-down on the bed. I grab the extra pillow and easily shove it beneath his hips. “Let me see that hole, son.”

My growl elicits one in return, deep from his gut. He reaches back to pull apart his cheeks and expose the furry depths of his cleft. There’s so much hair I can’t even see the pucker at first. But there it is, deep inside, warm. Moist. Protected. When my mouth meets that private part of him, he lets loose with a noise that’s pure animal. It could be from pain; from what I’m doing, I know it’s of pleasure.

As my incisors gnaw at him, as my lips stretch his hole, as my tongue laps with broad, dog-like persistence at a place made sensitive by need and neglect, his howling intensifies. My thoughts are for his neighbors. He, however, seems to be operating in a place beyond all consideration for the adjoining apartments. He’s got no thoughts. Only needs.

He roars, pleating the sheets between his clenched fists. The noise doesn’t daunt me. I redouble my efforts and dive deeper. There’s a bit of struggle from his sphincter, at first. It tries to clamp down, to deny me what I most want. My tongue flattens, broadens, weakens its target. I’m relentless. I’ll get what I want, in the end. The beast quiets. Relaxes. The taste of his hole changes; there’s the faintest metallic tang as it releases for me.

“You like it,” I tell him.

There’s no need to explain what I mean. His face is contorted in a rictus of pleasure as he looks over his shoulder in my direction. He nods. The man likes all of it. The attention. The licking. The surrender.

With my index and middle finger, I probe at his pucker. He’s not as tight as I fear. The flesh gives way and parts as I twist my digits. He's not virgin-tight. On the other hand, he’s not sloppy-open by any means. I’m a good judge of how difficult it will prove to get into any given hole. I’m guessing that with this man, any barrier to me fucking him will be more mental than physical.

As if to prove my point, the moment he realizes he’s enjoying himself too much, the porn star clamps down like a vise on my fingers. There’s a dispenser of lube by the bed. I raise myself up and softly shush him as I press down to release some of the opaque lubricant into my fingers. It’s a bit cold, but warms instantly as my fingers deliver it onto, then into, his rectum. Kneeling now, I kiss a path up his spine, deviating at the shoulders, ending at the base of his neck. He’s still clutching his bedsheets, but his arms are over his head in a posture of complete surrender. I know you, I think, looking down at him. Then I reach for more slickness, to spread over my cock.

He watches me sleepily, his eyes half-lidded. Smiling, almost. My dick is engorged. Ready to go. But I hesitate.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m a man of abundant sexual confidence. I realize the measure of my power, once my pants hit the floor. I know the caliber of men I can attract, with a little luck and effort. At this decade of my life I should instinctively understand I can pull off most situations. But honestly? The reality of thus situation is catching up with me.

Who the fuck am I to top a porn star of this magnitude? Sheer chutzpah might’ve gotten me to this point, but what the hell do I think I’m doing? I’ve had several porn actors, including some major ones, as sexless close friends. I once made out with a kid who turned out to be a porn star in the restroom at Uncle Charlie’s, on his twenty-first birthday. I’ve slept with men who later revealed they’d been in a porn video or two in their past. But never, ever, have I fucked someone like this guy, knowing his past, knowing his level of fame. This is craziness.

At the mere altitude of five feet from the floor, I’m experiencing the giddy vertigo of someone who’s been hauled up the first steep incline of a fearsome rollercoaster, and who hangs in hideous suspense between the rise and the inevitable plunge to come.

I’ve gotten this far, I realize. Time to start the ride.

I slide in from behind. As he did with my fingers, almost immediately he starts to clamp down. With only about two inches inside, and his hole starting to fight me, I lower my chest to his back. “You are so damned beautiful,” I whisper into his ear. “Do you know how fucking hard you make my dick? Reach down. You feel that? You feel it?” He obeys. Nods. He feels it, all right. How long has it been since someone topped him last? “I am going to fuck you so deep,” I murmur. “Your dad is going to knock up that beautiful, amazing ass.”

That’s doing it. His hole flares. I slide in another inch.

“Such a good boy. Such a good, beautiful boy, giving up his pussy to dad.” I’m not only in his ass. I’m in his head. “Fuck, baby boy. You’ve got me. You’ve got almost all of me in there. You want all of your dad’s fuckstick up that hole, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes sir.” He stirs. Opens his eyes. Looks back at me with adoration.

I lean down and meet his mouth with mine. “When I’m done, this ass will belong to me. Right?”

“Yeah,” he growls. “It’s already yours.”

“Arch that back, son,” I tell him. “C’mon. You can do it.” He obeys instantly, and my last two inches slide inside and hit bottom.

I lower myself onto the man so that I’m weighing him down. Like most men, he finds the sensation comforting. His fingers wriggle to clasp my own as slowly I start grinding. I’m so deep inside I already can feel the nub of his prostate pressing against my cock head. “Feels amazing. Dad's really enjoying his boy’s hole. I know you're loving it.” He nods, trying to come to terms with the sensations flooding his body. “Do you love it? Tell me.”

“I love it,” he gasps.

“Say thank you, dad.”

“Thank you, dad.” Again we make eye contact. He says the words again, to make sure I understand his sincerity. “I mean it. Thank you, dad.”

“You’re welcome, son,” I reply—because that’s what good dads say to their boys. I thrust in with more vigor, making him gasp.

I raise myself with my palms flat on the mattress. Now I can pull out more, and thrust deeper. He lifts his head, enraptured by the sensation of my fuckmeat slopping in and out of his hole. “Don’t come yet,” he begs.

“Oh.” I let out a genuine chuckle. “I have absolutely zero intention of coming yet. I intend to enjoy this fuck. Our first fuck.”

“Thank you.” It’s more breath than voice.

He’s now as wide open as pussy, soft as velvet. For a while I fuck him in this position, urging him to enjoy himself, coaching him on how well he’s doing. I roll with him onto our sides, and hold his leg in the air while my dick splits him open, one arm encircling his chest. I whisper obscenities into his ears in the missionary position, the soles of his feet parallel to the ceiling. No position is better than the rest; he grinds and clutches at my cock with his hole through all of them.

“Let me ride you,” he says at last. Now is when he comes into his own.

This time, he puts me into place. He arranges a pillow for my head, and nestles me there on my back before he kneels above my hips. “Let me,” he whispers, when I reach down to help aim my dick. Fine by me. I tuck my hands under the pillow, palms up, and let him do his thing.

It’s odd. Until I’d walked into this apartment, my perception of this man these previous weeks has been of the porn star, the persona carefully crafted of muscle, stubble, dick, and gruff masculinity. Once I’d met him, once I’d taken control, the superstar receded until the actor became a man in simple need. Now, though, as he squats over me and grabs one ass cheek to pry it open as he guides my erection deep inside his guts—now I’m seeing the star power emerge once more. His forehead glistens with moisture as he whips back his head to clear the hair from his face. He cocks his jaw to one side as he lowers himself down, then grabs his knees when he hits bottom. “That load belongs to me,” he announces.

I agree. “Yeah. It does.”

“I've earned it.”

“You’ve definitely earned it, son.”

“Thank you, sir.” He’s not so much bobbing up and down on my meat as he is pivoting back and forth, but the effect is the same on my dick. My nuts are contracting; I can feel the skin bunching up. He raises his hands over his head. He’s showing off, now. If there had been a lens pointed at him, he’d secretly be searching for his best light.

Cocky fucker.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly grinning. “Let me look at you.”

Still churning my dick with his hole, he swivels from side to side, giving me views from all angles. Then suddenly self-conscious, he bursts into laughter. He rests his palms on either side of my head and lowers himself down to plant an affectionate kiss on my lips.

“You are beautiful,” I whisper, as our eyes bore into each other. “And it’s time to take my seed.” The announcement sets him into motion again. Grinding, squeezing, bucking back and forth on my dick. His hair fringes either side of his face, casting it into shadow. Drops of his sweat fall onto my mouth, but I don’t care. “You want it? You want my load?”

“I want it.” He looks deadly serious now. “I need it. I need your load in me.”

“Like you said, you’ve earned it.”

At least, that’s what I intended to say. He muffles the last half of the sentence with his mouth, though. His palms press down on my chest, squeezing the air out of me. He’s crushing me. But I like being crushed and smothered at his hands.

“Ride it,” I wheeze. “Get that load. Steal it.”

He’s already ahead of me. I can already sense the heat rising from my balls, feel the waves of sensation beginning to overtake me. He doesn’t let up. Maybe he’s more experienced as a bottom than I knew. Maybe he’s just been with so many expert holes that he’s picked up a few tricks. But he’s milking out this load, come hell or high water.

When I shoot, I barely make any noise. The pressure he’s exerting on my rib cage has left me gasping for air. I thrash, though, and dig my heels into the mattress as I thrust myself more deeply inside. He’s not touched his hard, fat dick the entire time he’s been on top of me—but now he grabs himself in his fist, pounds it twice, and starts hosing one of those porn star loads across my chest and onto my face. I’m shooting. He’s shooting. Two bulls, bucking at once, gulping for oxygen, rising and falling and rising and falling again.

For a moment, after we’ve sprayed everything we’ve got, we freeze in our little tableau. He’s looking at me, almost as if truly seeing me for the first time. There’s something in his expression . . . is it sadness? Longing?

I have to know. “You all right?” He nods. “What are you feeling?”

He lowers his haunches. Runs his hands through his hair. Considers his words. “Honestly? I was wishing more men treated me like you just did.” His mouth puckers up as he thinks some more. It's a wry and regretful expression. “I was wishing more men were like you.”

I blink. Then I murmur something. I thank him. He’s left me astonished . . . and a little sad.

Then he pulls himself off me and rises. Naked, he pads across the room in search of a towel. Before he disappears into the bathroom, he turns to grace me with a smile. His teeth are a little crooked. He’s a little shaky on his feet. But I know I’m seeing him at his most honest. He’s a man who in that moment, is shorn of pretense and stripped of all fantasy. What’s revealed is a man at his most essential.

I meet his grin with one of my own, and I think, Hey. Now I know you.

Grindr Roulette: A Drama in Three Acts

Trick 1: 4:50 pm

I’m sitting in S’mac in the East Village on a Monday night. There’s a small cast-iron skillet of macaroni and cheese before me. Chunks of ham stud the creamy pasta; steam still rises from the surface. It’s a cold day out, and I’m indulging in an early dinner. I’d rather be at home right now, feet up on my ottoman, heat cranked. But, grudgingly, I’ve hauled myself into Manhattan for a meeting this evening.

Are you sure we can meet? I’d texted the group’s leader earlier. I mean, is the building even open on a federal holiday?

Sure! he’d texted back. They’re always open.

I’m peppering the mac and cheese when my phone buzzes on the little cafe table beside me. It’s the group’s leader. No meeting tonight, he says. The building’s closed because of the federal holiday.

Well. Shit. Usually I like being proven right, you know? On a frigid winter day though, with the New York City wind blasting to the bone at every intersection, I was kind of kicking myself for not calling the Center myself from home, before my commute.

There are worse things than being at loose ends in the metropolis, though. So I close out my messages and fire up Grindr just long enough for it to register my location. Then I go back to my meal.

I’m three-quarters of the way through my skillet when I fire up Grindr again. Sure enough, I’ve gotten about eight responses. A couple are just taps from blank profiles—those I ignore. A couple more are from good-looking boys, but their one-word inquiry of Looking?? put me off. I might be looking, but I’d like a little more interaction than that.

There’s a message from a guy who’s a mere 250 feet away, though. In his forties. All I can see in his profile is a chest shot, but it’s a hot chest shot. The dude takes care of himself. Furry bod. Firm pecs. Trim waist. You look close and I need breeding, he says. Any other pics?

When I reply I’ve got some for swap, he immediately returns a photo of his face. It looks like the kind of head shots actors take in for their auditions . . . and if this fellow isn’t quite leading man material, he’s at least studly enough to be cast as the guy the female protagonist in a rom-com uses for rebound sex to make her ex jealous. You know the type. Handsome, in a bland way.

I send him back a couple of dick shots. Fuck, he writes. You’re hung! How soon can you be here?
Ten minutes? I say, looking at the remnants of my meal and guessing how long it would take to walk 250 feet. It’s 4:50

Sounds fucking hot. You got me so boned here. See you in 10, buddy. He gives me an address.

All right, then. I’m going to enjoy this one, I can tell. Hot guy, hot ass, needs breeding, is only a quick walk away. What could go wrong?

Ten minutes might’ve been an overestimation, I realize when I look up the guy’s address on my phone. He’s all of two blocks away, down Second Avenue and around the corner. I stall a little buy prolonging the last few forkfuls of the macaroni. Once I’ve popped a couple of mints in my mouth, I kill a little more time by bussing my table and taking a quick piss in the restroom.

I walk up to the address the guy gave me at exactly 5:00. I find his apartment number on the list next to the intercom and ring the bell. There’s a pause, and then the intercom speaker clicks. “Uh,” says a staticky voice. “This is kind of embarrassing. But . . . oh fuck. Just come on up.” The latch vibrates.

I let myself in and climb three flights to the guy’s apartment. This is the oddest reception I’ve ever gotten. Do I know the guy and not realize it? Does he recognize my secret superhero Breeder identity? What’s embarrassing, and why did he seem to be considering not letting me in at all? (Wasn’t that what he had implied over the intercom?) Had he catfished me? Was the photo he’d sent not his own?

The door opens the moment I knock. I hadn’t been catfished. The guy’s face was the same as in the photo he’d shared; he’s wearing only a pair of loose sweatpants, and standing there shirtless with an abashed expression on his face. But he makes no effort to gesture me inside. If anything, he plants himself against the half-open door and stands there as if to impede me from crossing the threshold.

“Like I said, this is kind of embarrassing,” he says without preface. “I really wanted a breeding, but your pics were so hot that I . . . kind of . . . finished myself while I was waiting for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “It’s been only ten minutes,” I finally say, each word leaden. The spark of excitement in my groin extinguishes.

“Yeah, but you know how it is.”

No. I really don’t know how it is to make a date with a guy for a hot fuck and then to masturbate so furiously that I’m spent before he arrives mere minutes later. I blink at him with incomprehension.

“Anyway, sorry. Maybe next time?”

“Uh-huh,” is all I can say.


Trick 2: 5:35 pm

I’m in a coffee shop up Second Avenue, closer to 14th Street, nursing my wounds with a latte that tastes vaguely of gingerbread in one sip, coconut milk the next. And I’ve got Grindr fired up again.
I’m getting messages on a regular basis; the guys on the grid are closest to me in mere tens of feet rather than the hundreds I get at home. You look like the kind of top I need right now, writes one guy. I’m ass-up in my apartment, cleaned out, and ready for your load, if you’re interested.

My disappointed dick is definitely interested. This guy is in his early forties. He’s got a professorial appearance about him. Something about the unkempt curly salt-and-pepper hair in his profile photo, his wire-rimmed glasses, his half-closed eyes, speaks of years of working toward some lowly tenure position. The fact that he writes in complete sentences with proper punctuation, on Grindr, nails home the impression. I could be interested, I type back. If this interests you.

I send him a dick pic. I have one photo I privately call The Deal-Clincher. It’s a self-shot of me reclining on my bed, legs spread, dick in hand, my head drawn slightly back, my brow furrowed, my mouth drawn into a perfect O. In the shot I look close to shooting, and simultaneously insanely smug—a little bit like I’m going to say either Oh my fucking god, this fucker’s about to blow!, or else, Oh shit, is this not the biggest dick you’ve ever seen in your life? I tend more to the latter, because in this particular shot my weapon looks like a fucking baseball bat. It’s so engorged that it’s purple. It fills up my hands. It looks like horse cock. I’ve got a lot of attractive shots of my meat to send out, but when I bust out The Deal-Clincher, it’s because I mean business.

What kind of idiot would NOT be interested in that monster? is his reply.

With satisfaction, I think to myself, Right?

His address is a little further north and closer to Union Square. I swig down the rest of my brew and start the trudge up that way. I’m feeling good about this one; the first guy was just an anomaly, I tell myself.

The guy buzzes me into his building and I take the elevator up the ninth floor. He’s naked when he opens the door, though the darkness of the hallway beyond keeps me from seeing much of his body. In the studio apartment beyond I can see bookshelves around two of the walls, crammed with volumes. Yeah, this guy’s an academic, all right.

Not until my backpack has hit the floor and I’ve kicked off my shoes does he step into the light to reveal the dark coils of hair covering his lean body, the hipbones jutting out at angles below his waist, his unusually large feet. “Thanks for making this so easy,” he says to me, standing on tiptoe to press his mouth against mine.

I reciprocate by leaning down to meet him. He purses his lips and projects the tip of his tongue through the tight embouchure. With the rapidity of a sewing machine, he thrusts it in and out of my mouth.

Oh dear.

Not every guy is a good kisser, I realize. But who the hell is teaching guys to make out like this? That protruding tongue business is about as erotic as a lights-out party with your own maiden aunt. I abandon any attempts at passion and allow him to guide me to the bed. He hops up onto the mattress on all fours and assumes the position. “Fuck it,” he demands.

No foreplay, I guess. No sucking of my dick, no sexy undressing, no attempts to get me hard and ready. Nothing. I guess I’m just there to perform. So I unbuckle my belt, undo the button of my jeans, tug down my pants and shorts, and rub his hole while I masturbate myself to stiffness.

“Oh fuck yes, babe,” he hisses, when my fingers stretch his hole. He’s already wet; it feels more like silicone lube than some other guy’s seed, though. “Get me ready. Get that big penis out and stick it in. Give your baby your big penis. Me wants it. Me wants it.”

His sex chatter is unerotic, but I’ve worked miracles with much less. My dick’s not exactly the overstimulated proportions it reached in that Deal-Clincher photo, but it’s hard enough to fuck. I add a little lube to it from the dispenser by the bed and slide in.

“Fuck that pussy!” yells the guy. “Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck that—aaaaaah!”

I have a vague idea of what’s going on from the sounds he’s making. Sure enough, when I pull out to look, the asshole has sprayed a load directly onto the bedspread. I don’t know whether he assumes that I’m done, too, because in order to see what’s going on, I’ve pulled out. Immediately he bounces up, though, and starts to pull on some around-the-apartment duds that are lying in a crumpled pile by the bed. “That was great!” he enthuses. “See ya round!”

I’d been in the dude for all of fifteen seconds. If that. Silently, I stuff my junk into my shorts, pull up my jeans, and fasten my belt. He’s standing by his front door, obviously itching for me to leave. Truth to tell, I’m no less anxious to get out, either.

It’s while I’m sitting down on a stool, next to where I removed my shoes, trying to unlace them and stuff my feet in and lace them back up again in that awkward silence, that I take a glance at his books. I see some titles that look familiar to me. “Hey,” I say, genuinely surprised. “You’re a Patrick Dennis fan.” I reach out and touch a spine. “First Lady? No one has First Lady. You’ve got Genius . . . 3D, Tony . . . Wow. You’re a real enthusiast, aren’t you?” I’m a little surprised; other than Auntie Mame, no one reads Patrick Dennis any more (and mostly they haven’t read him . . . they’ve seen the movie).

He was a major influence on my own writing style and outlook. What wouldn’t I give to have a really good conversation about one of my favorite authors with someone else who enjoys his novels? I’d even forgive bad sex for that.

I stand up, hoping for some response. But the guy just shrugs. “Sure. I guess.”

Okay then. I don my coat, grab my backpack, and head out once again.


Trick 3: 6:15 pm

Smart New Yorkers keep two databases in their heads. One is an ever-evolving list of clean and reliable public restrooms at places that aren’t named Starbucks. The other is a compendium of public spots, again not named Starbucks, where it’s possible to sit down and relax between appointments . . . or unsuccessful Grindr hookups.

The Barnes and Noble just north of Union Square sits on both lists. It’s right in the vicinity of the disappointing academic. The fourth floor has a section of seat for lectures and readings that’s fairly reliable . . . and there’s a clean restroom only a floor down. Propped in one of the end seats with my jacket on my lap and my backpack at my feet, I cross my legs and consider what to do.

I’ve had two disappointments so far. Realistically, I should just cut short my losses. Call it a night. Spend the next couple of hours shopping, or grabbing a drink at one of my favorite bars. It’d make sense to head over to Uniqlo and shop for some socks I need. What I shouldn’t do is fire up Grindr again. I’d just land another dud of an encounter. My dick probably smells like the academic’s ass. What if I did get a bite, and the guy went down on me, and came up gagging? What if, after two disappointments, I couldn’t even get it up? Nah. A third go at Grindr isn’t for me.

I’m on the app thirty seconds later, of course.

Hey. It’s a 20 year old. That’s all I know about him, because his profile photo is a starry sky.

Hey, I write back.

Looking to suck big cock. You got big cock for me?

Along with the message he sends a naked photo of his entire self. He’s a skinny little twink with a skinny little butt, smooth from neck to foot. He’s got sloppy brown hair and a fringe of scruff on his chin. In other words, he’s incredibly fuckable.

Yeah. I’ve got big cock. The kid’s given me a boner in the middle of B&N. In retaliation, I unleash the biggest weapon in my Grindr arsenal: The Deal-Clincher.

I want it in my throat. You want to come over?

I should say no. I know I should.

Give me an address, I say instead.

He send me a location a couple of blocks away, on Sixth and 17th. Be there in 10, I tell him.

I’ve got business in the restroom before I leave, though. I grab a handful of paper towels, run some lukewarm water over them, and in one of the stalls I clean up my dick as best I can. It doesn’t look dirty, but I feel a little bit better about shoving it in some kid’s mouth after it’s been in another man’s hole . . . albeit oh-so-briefly.

The walk’s not far, but it’s dark now, and the wind blows in my face like it’s determined to make a particularly icy point. I’m glad the lobby of the kid’s apartment building is stuffy and overheated, because I get a chance to thaw out a little on the elevator up.

The kid opens up the door on my first knock. He holds up a finger to his lips before I can say hello, then reaches out a hand and pulls me into the dark foyer. “Hi,” he whispers. There’s a pulled partition between the foyer and the living room beyond; I can hear the sound of a television sitcom on the other side. “In here.”

His fingers still wrapped around mine, the kid pulls me into a room to the right of the front door. It’s a tiny space. I realize almost immediately that it’s supposed to be a coat closet, or an umbrella room—some kind of pre-war outdated storage space that can barely fit a twin bed and a dorm-room mini-fridge. He’s put up shelving around the tops of the high ceilings to hold his clothing and books. A student, maybe, renting a tiny room in someone else’s apartment.

When he takes my other hand in his, and pulls himself close, I look at the boy for the first time. He’s got a pretty face. Big, open, liquid eyes. Soft pink lips. Pale, smooth skin. The fuzz on his jawbone is downy and trimmed to a point. There’s a corresponding line of thin fur that trails down his stomach to his pubes. He looks like a young James McAvoy as Tumnus the faun. “I really hoped you’d show,” he says in the softest possible voice.

I don’t get the impression that he’s not supposed to have guests. I do, however, understand that he’d rather keep our conversation quiet. “How could I resist a beautiful boy like you?” I whisper.

He is beautiful. Half of me is convinced something got to go wrong. He’s probably a bad kisser. He’ll get my pants off and decide I’m not the guy for him. Maybe he’s got a colostomy bag. Like the academic, he has to stand on tiptoe to press his lips to mine. I raise my hand. Cup his jaw. Pull him in.

No. He’s a great kisser.

He’d greeted me shirtless. All he’s wearing is a pair of soccer shorts. They slip to the ground in a puddle. His dick is hard already, curved, pointing toward my feet. I seize it with a fist and pull him closer. “Daddy,” he whispers.

“Be a good boy,” I tell him as I struggle out of my jacket. “Get my pants off and suck me.”

The kid obeys, but first kneels down to remove my shoes and socks. Then he unbuttons my shirt and slips it over my shoulders. Finally, he unbuckles my belt and unbuttons my jeans, and tugs them down with my shorts. He stares at my cock as he helps me step out of the last of my clothing, but not until he pushes me back onto the thin mattress does he finally open those soft lips and take my meat between him.

He’s no disappointment in the oral department, either. Fuck. Far from it. The sensation of his mouth on my dick is electric. He’s not gagging; I must’ve done all right in that bookstore washroom. He’s going down on my inches like he’s starving and it’s a nine-inch sub. Then he’s back up with his narrow waist between my thighs, taking my tongue in his mouth. Back down to the dick he goes, sucking and slurping on it hungrily. Then up to my mouth again, trembling with pleasure and desire as I run the flats of my hands down his smooth back and across his tiny little butt.

I’m not even aware I’m pulling apart his cheeks and fingering his butthole until he pauses, on one of his trips between my mouth and my dick. “I didn’t get ready to be fucked,” he whispers. “I just wanted to suck tonight.”

“That’s okay,” I say, meaning it. If anyone’s going to get me off orally, it’s going to be this kid.

Am I surprised then, minutes later, when he gets my dick especially wet with his spit, then reaches around and pulls my dick to his tiny little pucker as he makes out with me? I’m not, really. I say nothing, though. This can be his decision.

I feel him rubbing my sloppy-wet knob against his boyhole. There’s barely enough room for him to sit up on me without knocking his skull on the shelves overhead, but he rests his weight on his knees and leans back anyway. I tuck my fingers behind my head and watch him. He’s struggling, internally; he wants me inside him, I can tell, but he’s not sure if he should.

“It’s all right,” I whisper, startling him enough that he opens wide his half-closed eyes. “You don’t have to. You’re a good boy.”

I can see it written plain on his face. He doesn’t have to. But he wants to. He wants to be a better boy. The best boy.

He spits in his hand. Adds the moisture to his hole. Then slowly, almost painfully, he starts backing down on my cock. His own dick, fat and curved down, drips with precum. “Fuck me, daddy.” He mouths the words more than pronounces them. His eyes are closed again. He’s lost in a world of his own. “Fuck me.”

“Good boy,” I say again, and then again. “Good boy.” Over and over I use the words, as he engulfs more of me. Each time I invoke the phrase he sighs to himself. He’s happy to be a good boy. He wants to make dad proud, I can tell.

It’s not difficult to get all the way in the kid. He swallows the last few inches in a single, greedy gulp. He rests for a moment, then begins sliding up and down the pole. With his hands resting on my chest, he leans forward and looks down into my eyes. His lips part. For the longest time, I wonder what he’s going to say.

Finally it comes out. “I love it.” Plain and simple. What every dad wants to hear. “I love it. I love it,” he repeats.

“I . . . love . . . that . . . ass,” I whisper back, delivering each word with one of his thrusts. “Kiss me, son.”

When he shifts his weight forward, I pivot my hips upward and plant my heels on the mattress. I take over the hip action; he’s a curled ball over me, his mouth glued to mine. The bedsprings squeak as I begin pounding his hole from below. It’s not going to take long to shoot in the kid, I know.

“You want my load?” I ask. “You want dad’s load?”

He doesn’t have to assent. I can tell by the hunger of his kisses that he craves it. Then, “Please,” he says. “Please just fuckin’ load me.”

We’re still keeping it as quiet as possible. The TV’s laugh track from the other room is still louder than any noise the two of us are making. When I cum, it’s silently. My lungs seize. My cock lunges into the deepest part of the boy. He gasps, and presses his palms against the shelving overhead. While I quietly unload into his guts, he releases his right hand and furiously beats his downward-facing dick. It’s mere seconds until he releases a load onto my chest.

For long seconds we remain frozen in that tableau. Then slowly, like a rag doll, he crumples down onto the mattress beside me. My cock comes out with a sloppy squelch. I put my arms around the boy and become big spoon to his little, as his sperm glues my chest to his spine. He raises one leg for a moment, so that he can maneuver my cock between his thighs. Then he brings them back together again.

Jackpot, I think to myself, as the boy sighs with contentment. As he snuggles against me, the two of us cuddle and silently listen to studio audience applause in another room.