Monday Morning Questions: Public Apology Edition

I can tell by the way you write you’re educated, but all you write about is sex. Is it just me or does it seem like a waste of all your education to have your entire life obsessed with one thing? Seems like you could be doing something better with your time, I don’t know.

I extend my deepest apologies that you have tracked down and visited a sex blog on the internet to find that it is primarily focused upon . . . sex.

I thank you for bringing this unforgivable oversight to my attention. My highly-honed mission statement here at A Breeder’s Journal is to be absolutely everything to absolutely everyone. Obviously I have failed in this regard.

In order to make amends, I would call to your attention the fact that at my twitter account (@meetthebreeder), you will find that I am not only obsessed with sex, but also with the pop music group Steps, the video game Animal Crossing, and with incredibly bad television shows. It is upon Twitter I thus achieve a rich diversity I obviously have failed to garner—much to my eternal regret—with my blog.

Thank you for bringing these oversights to my attention. Rest assured that in the future, I will do everything in my control to tailor the contents of my personal sex blog to the needs of you, the individual who pays absolutely nothing for its content, who never buys me gifts, and who doesn’t contribute to my income in any way. Until that day comes, here’s an image of kittens with laser eyes on pizza slices:

I have a gentlemen caller who is trying to get me into a cock cage. It's not as if I had nothing to do with that desire (I sure did) but I also have not decided yet if I just like the idea of being in one (I never have). I'm enjoying every moment of his attention, though it is a bit hard to keep any sort of focus! I probably will buy one on my own and find out the answer - is this something I'd rather just fantasize about?

I’ve noticed a curious correlation between a huge rise in interest in chastity caging and the current pandemic. Were I still an academic, I’d propose the theory that men are turning to chastity devices as a way to deal with increasing uncertainty during a time of lockdowns—asserting control over a device from which they can be released any time, unlike how most of us captives have felt during this COVID-19 crisis.

If you’re interested in genital restraint, why not give it a try? Unlike auto-erotic asphyxiation, it's a safe kink to explore. 

I’ve held the keys to many a man’s cock cage over the last several decades. Physically held the keys, that is. A guy will buy a chastity device and I will lock him into it. Then I will take the only copies of the keys that can release him, thus leaving his little dick restrained until I return. It’s a kick for both parties. The caged party gets the sexual thrill of being denied and controlled; I get the knowledge that the boy has ceded his own sexual freedom to me, plus the sadistic knowledge that the longer I deny him, the more discomfort and need he experiences.

The longest I’ve held a key was probably for about five years, with a local guy I’d see frequently. No, I didn’t keep the guy caged that entire time—the longest period was for maybe about a month. When in lockdown, he was totally free to suck as many cocks and he wanted and to take as many loads in his hole as he could collect. The only time he would get himself off, however, was when I granted him the favor of unlocking his penis cage myself. I enjoyed that control. He enjoyed my superiority, and loved to hand over his own sexual authority to a more dominant personality.

That relationship may be a more extreme example of chastity and control; not everyone who locks himself into a cock cage hands over the key to someone, much less for years at a time. You may wish to experiment by letting yourself be caged (without an actual lock) for the length of a single sexual session, to see if you like it. That’s enough for most men who engage in the kink. If you choose to explore longer periods of chastity, add a single day at a time, and see how much you can endure.

Consider the type of cage in which you intend to imprison yourself. Solid plastic cages tend to be the cheapest—but how disgusting are they going to be, and how rancid will they become from your own urine and secretions, when you wear them for days at a time? You’re going to want to select something that allows you to keep clean (unless staying dirty is your goal—and if so, no judgement), that can be flushed with extended wear, and that’s going to make you feel sexy and good about yourself, even as you’re denying yourself or being denied your own sexual autonomy.

If I had to pick an ideal cage for enforcing chastity on someone long-term, I’d probably choose a steel cage, like those by Mature Metal (modeled below by my friend @verswolfXXX—I wish I were close enough to hold his key). The cage allows air and water to circulate. The heft of the steel construction means it can’t be easily ignored or forgotten, even as it’s concealed by everyday clothing. From a fetish perspective, it’s everything a guy could ask for.*

As for actually handing over the key to someone—I don’t recommend beginners take that step immediately. At least, not without keeping a copy of the key for yourself, in case of emergency. Ask yourself the following questions: are you going to be in raptures at the thrill of being caged while the man caging you is towering over you, only to be irritated by the mundane realities when he isn’t? Will the fellow be responsible enough, and considerate enough, about your health and sexual well-being to uncage you on a schedule you can tolerate? Is he going to be around enough to do so? Can you truly rely upon your key holder not to ghost you?

Most dominant-submissive scenarios require mutual trust between parties. Make sure your trust in your partner is rock solid before you make any commitments that might end up with a professional having to take bolt cutters to your most delicate regions.

*Note: I have not received any promotional consideration from Mature Metal for this endorsement. I just like their stuff. @verswolfXXX, on the other hand, owes me his hole for pimping him.

Could you tell us about your best/worst gloryhole experiences?

I’m finding your question difficult to answer. Not because I’m ancient and my memory is like a sieve just yet—but because I’ve had so many excellent gloryhole experiences, and because I am having a lot of difficult trying to summon up even one truly bad one. (If someone remembers one from my decade plus of this blog, remind me. I’m ancient and my memory is like a sieve.)

Let’s start with the latter. It’s not so much an actual singular experience as an ongoing circumstance. There was a year when I was a doctoral candidate that I would visit a gloryhole in the campus library, in an out-of-the-way men’s room in a far stretch of the library’s periodicals section that few people visited. Chances were that if anyone trekked the long route to that restroom, they were looking for business.

The gloryhole itself had been hacked into the sheet metal partition between the two stalls within. Someone had used pliers to bend back the points of jagged metal so that they wouldn’t stab anyone in the groin or face; someone else had applied electrical tape around the perimeter on both sides to smooth it out and prevent injury. I used to spend hours at a time at that glory hole. Lunch times were particularly busy. I’d sit in the stall further from the two doors leading in, sucking cock after cock. Students, faculty, staff, men from the streets. Some would stride in already hard, unzip, and without prelude shove their meat through the hole. I’d efficiently take care of it, swallow the load, and await the next horny fucker standing impatiently by the sinks for his turn.

I know, it all sounds very good, but after the hole had been open for about a month, a rival arose. Some lump of a person from the local community (in my head, I remember him as the wheelchair-bound Andy that Matt Lucas used to perform on Little Britain, but he probably wasn’t that repulsive) discovered the hole and would attempt to commandeer it at the same times I did. (So basically, whenever the library was open.) 

If I arrived after my rival was already there and I spied him through the hole, I honorably followed the Cocksucker’s Code and would leave. He, however, like a total asswad, would refuse to vacate the other stall when I had arrived first. Cocksucker’s Code says the first cocksucker claims the hole, so I would stubbornly refuse to budge when he'd shuffle in, groan, and heft his enormous backside on the other seat. On those days, no one got sucked. Men would come in, wait a little bit, see that nothing was going on, and then leave for greener pastures.

Sadly, gloryholes are ephemeral things. That particular hole was open only about six months before the school’s custodial staff welded new metal over it on both sides. I’d had it to myself most days for maybe the first third of that time. The last two-thirds were a bitter rivalry to the end between two cocksuckers, with both of us losing out in the end.

Okay, now the best gloryholes. I’m going to divide this into two parts—gloryholes knowingly created for their intended use, and gloryholes in the wild.

The best manufactured gloryholes I would visit were at the late and much-lamented Bijou in Toronto, during the nineteen-nineties and early two-thousands. The Bijou was essentially a clothes-on bathhouse in the basement of a building in Toronto’s gay district. It featured what was known as the Slurp Ramp, an elevated platform with stairs, partitioned on all sides so that guys who wanted to feed would stand on the platform and slide their meat through the dozen-plus gloryholes around the perimeter. Cocksuckers below would stand on the ground, the holes at mouth level, fighting for the prime cocks. The room was dark save for what light filtered in from a TV playing porn in an adjacent room.

I could easily spend hours at a time at the Slurp Ramp, sucking cock after cock, then climbing the ramp and taking my pick of the eager mouths, then heading back to the floor once more. I’d often drag myself back to my hotel at three in the morning, shirt covered in dried cum despite my best attempts to take every drop, weary and exhausted, but happy. I even once had a cock poke me in the eye so insistently that I lost a contact lens in the dark, there.

Best gloryhole in the wild: probably my first, what was then known as the Business Building (now Harris Hall) at the university where my parents taught, in Richmond, Virginia. I’ve written before of my business in that particular building, so I’ll keep it brief. But let me paint you a picture of public cruising in 1975, when my prepubescent self went exploring while my mom or dad would be teaching a two-hour seminar in the evenings.

The Business Building was a six-story structure with all its men’s rooms stacked atop each other, directly across from the same stairwell. Though there were no facilities on the first floor, the second and third floor boasted identical large U-shaped restrooms with five stalls apiece, basically all of which had gloryholes drilled into the particleboard. Floors four through seven had smaller restrooms with only two stalls apiece.

The action would always start on the second floor. Men would occupy the stalls and fuck and suck through the holes and beneath the partitions; others would stand at the urinals on the side of the U invisible from the door leading in and out, and either fuck and suck there, or watch what was going on in the stalls, or wait for someone to open a stall door for sex. Some men watched the action from the sink area in front of the door; they would take it upon themselves clumsily to impede intruders who weren’t regulars for just enough time it took for the men in the stalls to climb from their knees and back onto the seats. If the second floor restroom was totally occupied—and in the evenings it always was at capacity—men would take their business up to the third floor. If both the large restrooms were too full, the action would spill up the staircase to the fourth floor, to the smaller facilities. And then up to the fifth and sixth, if necessary. In the mid-seventies, it was never unusual to find all five upper stories…every stall, every urinal…occupied with cocksuckers and sodomites and voyeurs, going at it until ten or eleven at night.

And those weren’t the campus’ only cruising spots, either: the campus library there was equally cruisy, as was the Hibbs Building, where in 1976 I finally gave in and let my first stranger fuck me.

By the time I graduated college in 1985 and had started studying for a Master’s degree at that university, the AIDS epidemic had struck fear into everyone. The Business Building tearooms had emptied out; the gloryholes patched over. Occasional shenanigans happened in the second floor restrooms, but I’d have to waste fruitless hours there in the silence for it to happen, and the cruising scene there became no longer worth the investment of time. The spillover from floor to floor that had taken place nightly, for years, was gone forever. Generations after mine would never experience anything like it. (Hell, most of my generation never experienced anything like it.)

I miss the gloryholes of the Business Building. They were where I’d seen my first erect penis. They were where I’d been taken in hand by my elders and shown the ropes of making contact and pleasing anonymous dick. The Business Building restrooms were where I was protected by, and welcomed into, the fraternity of cocksuckers.

Have you had many experiences with cum rags? I am a little obsessed. I have always hunted for them— both my brothers, my dad, roommates— pretty much my entire life I’ve tried to track down the rag/cloth/sock/tissue just to smell the musk of it or lick out anything still wet and sticky. Maybe a question for the blog and probably something you’ve got a story about!

As a kid I was scrupulous about leaving absolutely zero evidence of my masturbation around the house, so I’d shoot my boy loads on my stomach, wipe them up with tissue, and then toss the hardened mass in the toilet to flush the next morning before my parents woke up. Later on, most of my sex was happening in the parks and toilets around the city, so I was usually shooting there (and leaving the evidence either down someone’s throat or spilled on the ground).

I don’t think I actually realized guys kept towels or scraps to mop up their seed until I was in my early twenties, when a Latin guy fucking me would mop up my leaking ass or the semen I’d spewed onto my chest with a terry-cloth towel he kept beneath his bed. When he was done, he’d simply toss it back under. The next time we’d play, it would be harder and crustier than before.

I’ve written before about Darryl, a guy I used to play with back in Michigan who had a serious fetish for underwear used as a cum rag. Probably of all my encounters, he had the biggest cum rag fetish of anyone I knew. And of course, for readers of my blog, I’ve made crusty cum rags out of old socks and raffled them off.

Maybe this is a good question for my readers, too—have any of you gentlemen harbored a fetish for cum rags? Whose did you track down and how did you get them?

As someone who has done financial domination and has seen finsubs, what do you think are the signs to you that a sub is taking it too far?

I wrote a long answer last year about my relationship with the fetish known as findom—financial domination, or being a cash master to cash slaves. For those unfamiliar with the scene, or with my relationship to it, I advise taking a moment to review what I said there.

I’m not one of those low-investment cash masters whose day-to-day involvement with his subs extends only as far as posting scowling photos of himself on social media and demanding money for new footwear. Any findom arrangement with me is an investment of my time and energy. I am always devising ways in which my submissives should express their gratitude for my attention in ways including, but not exclusive to, what’s in their wallets or bank accounts.

As a responsible dominant, I don’t allow a submissive to make promises that he’s going to be unable to keep. One of the first assessments I make of a prospective cash slave before accepting him is of how sustainable a commitment to me is going to be. In the flush of sexual excitement, a submissive will promise all kinds of things—but when a man's boner deflates, does he have the actual wherewithal to follow through? I may ask to see bank statements, pay checks. Invasive as that might seem to you, to cash slaves, a good rummaging in their finances can be as erotic and exposing as bending over with bare buttocks.

I keep an eye out for signs of trouble. Late offerings. Missed tributes. Emails that sound stressed or distraught. Lack of response altogether, as if he’s avoiding me. I look for signs that draining a submissive’s wallet is causing trouble in his home life, such as missed bill payments, or an inability to pay essentials. Money arguments with their significant other. If a submissive wants to deny himself luxuries in order to please his cash master, that’s one thing. If he’s genuinely unable to make commitments to his landlord or to utility companies, that’s another, and it’s a sign that the sub should withdraw and reassess his ability to serve a cash master.

In general I think it’s fair to ask the very same questions about cash servitude as it might be about other behaviors that might interfere with everyday life—from something as mild as too much video game playing or too much time on social media, to more serious interferences like too many party favors or too much alcohol. Is it interfering with the person’s family relationships? Is it affecting his work? Is it causing the submissive too much stress? Is it even affecting his health?

If any of these turn out to be the case, I feel it’s the dominant’s duty to step back and ask the submissive to make changes in his life before he’s permitted to resume his tributes.

How do I get over my shyness? I wanna suck my friends dick. He’s gay. I’m gay. We have many things in common. Lotta flirting. My underwear are always wet after he leaves. And I kick myself for not just jumping him? I feel like I’m getting signals. How can I tell and how do I tell him I wanna swallow his dick and his load.

It’s kind of tough to tell when flirting is mere playfulness—a form of social lubricant that keeps the dialogue flowing—and when it’s the real thing. Is it the real thing on your end? Are you flirting back because he’s flirting? Or is there actual intent behind it, on your part?

If the latter and you’re truly trying to hook up with your friend, I’d recommend a little more directness. However, if you’re typically a reticent type, I wouldn’t try leading with “Hey, shove those inches of yours down my throat.” That might be too much for a shy personality to handle, right out of the gate.

However, even a morbidly shy person can speak up and say, when the double entendres fly, something earnest and honest along the lines of, “Hey, am I reading too much into this, or is there something between us you’d maybe like to explore?” Or, “I can’t tell if you’re just being playful with me, or if you’re flirting for real. Can we talk about that for a second?” You’re the one who knows the typical interplay between yourself and your friend. Think up something like those above statements, memorize it, and have it ready to go at an appropriate point.

If your friend says that yes, he’s been wanting to jump your bones too, fan-fucking-tastic. Enjoy. Know, however, that you absolutely run the risk of having your friend say, “Oh shit, nah, I was just jokin’ with you, bro.” Just because you’re both gay doesn’t mean that sex inevitably is in the cards. But you know what? It’s better to ask, get rejected, and to know, than to waste months or years of your life pining after someone who’s just a flirt for the fun of it.

If it does turn out that your friend isn’t into the idea—you’ve still got a friend. Hang onto those. They’re tough to find these days.

Do you have questions for future editions of Monday Morning Questions? Email me at the address on the sidebar, or send me a DM on Twitter.

Doing Without

As of this week, it will be six months since I’ve had sex. For me, that’s a very long time—probably the longest stretch I’ve gone without, since puberty.

A reader and friend of mine commented:

Sometime, I'd find it really interesting to read what you have to say about how not having sex for several months has affected you. I know I would be in some sort of catastrophic depression.

I can’t claim with one hundred percent certainty that I’m not depressed. I’ve been isolated in my home since March. The first couple of months were terrifying in my part of the U.S. The supermarkets were barren. Every trip out of the house felt like an installment in the initial chapters of a post-apocalyptic movie, right before everybody gets wiped out save for an unlikely (yet Hollywood-attractive) troupe of rag-tag survivors. During the initial few weeks, sex wasn’t really even on my mind.

With time the terrifying turned mundane. The supermarkets restocked. The weather turned warm and welcoming. I started not only wearing masks when I’d go outdoors, but wearing them in my sleeping dreams as well. That’s about the time the loneliness started to take its toll, and I’d find myself wishing I’d had the foresight to isolate with a perpetually horny bottom.

Sure, I’ve managed to distract myself during this terrible half-year. I’ve played video games. I’ve listened to music. A lot of music. (It’s a very good year for music.) I’ve streamed drag shows and supported friends whose lives as entertainers have been brutally interrupted. I’ve watched a lot of television and movies. I do all these things to distract myself, and at night I crawl into bed and try to pretend I’m content.

My dick, punching holes in the memory foam, tells me otherwise.

Every day I remind myself how fortunate I am. How lucky to have food in the freezer, a roof over my head. How auspicious it is that I haven’t been sick. How incredibly charmed my life must be that I’m to be able to hole up at home and be only inconvenienced in minor ways. I recognize that in a time of distress and disease and death and widespread fear, I am privileged. My libido has been a driving force in my life for decades, and having to pack it in mothballs has at times seemed cruel. It’s led to any number of self-pitying moments. But then I remind myself that in the larger context, a mere lack of ready holes to fuck is a minor inconvenience.

On Twitter and the various sex apps I’d see guys who were proceeding with a business-as-usual approach—they’d be advertising that they’d be ass-up and ready in a hotel room for all comers. Or they’d be hitting the cruisiest spots of a local park. Or they’d be hosting a small group at their home that night. Guys would hit me up on Scruff telling me to come on over, their place was free.

I’d resist. Some made it easy by flaunting their lack of concern for the virus; I knew I wasn’t going to take my chances with anyone who didn’t recognize or care about the risks. Others, those who had round and beautiful butts that made my cock strain in my shorts, were difficult to resist. Particularly if they assured me that they’d been isolated as well. But I resisted all the same.

I’ve somehow already lived through one pandemic more or less intact. But there’s a big difference between COVID-19 and HIV. An HIV infection isn’t going to spread casually throughout my household. An HIV infection isn’t going to leap from my body to dozens of others when I attend a social event, or sit in a bar, or sing in a choir. Someone taking risks with HIV in his sexual life is endangering himself only—not the well-being of everyone around him.

This was a conviction theoretical to me during the first few months of my isolation, but when my aging dad was diagnosed with cancer last month, the thought of potentially infecting him inadvertently, in his compromised state, distressed me greatly. Particularly because I’m soon going to have to live with him for a few weeks during his treatment. I can’t conceive of risking his life with my own personal need for contact. I’m just going to have to resist some more.

At first, friends commiserated with me. We all were in similar straits of needing touch, needing a mouth on our own, needing the physicality of another body next to ours—but at first we all were resisting. Then they began slipping. I’ve tried hard not to judge adversely their hookups—because even after six months of abstinence, who’s to say when I won’t have a moment of weakness and give in to temptation? Every big mistake I’ve made in my life, I’ve made with my dick. With that kind of track record, how likely am I to do what’s right? Perhaps I can extend my monkish solitude another six months, but it’s more likely I’ll succumb to some dude’s come-ons tomorrow, or next week.

But oh, god, how I have to resist the urge to judge. When a friend tells me about the strangers he’s sucking off in a park, even as my dick springs up, the rest of me recoils. When friends tell me about ‘calculated risks’ they’re taking that sound to me like business-as-usual picking up serial random dick on Grindr without any vetting, I have to shush the Mrs. Grundy that wants to lecture them, and instead listen with envy about the hookups. When buddies text me about the half-dozen guys they banged over a weekend, all I want to do it yell in all caps, HOW IS THAT SAFE? But I listen, and gnash my teeth, wishing it were me.

For a while, though, it won’t be.

How can I judge them? I’m no saint. Many are the times I’ve let circumstance carry me on unexpected adventures on the turn of a dime. All it would take to make me crumble would be a wayward smile or a certain stare as I passed someone. A text from a favorite. A come-hither photo. An opportunity. Any of those, and I’d lose any claim I might have to remaining virtuous during these trying times. So how can I blame anyone I know, much less those I like and understand, for doing exactly what I myself yearn to do?

Once in a while I think maybe this is it for me. Maybe I just won’t have sex again in what span of my days is left. Then frequently I wonder if once again in my lifetime, disease will redefine how, where, and when I have sex. Decades ago, fear of AIDS emptied the sexual field I’d known of its players. Tearooms that had been packed from noon until midnight suddenly were deserted. Campus cruising spots that had seethed with action in 1980, floor after floor of them, echoed emptily in 1982. Bathhouses shuttered. The scores of men who had spent their nights in unlit parks sliding among the shadows, congregating by picnic tables and near ponds to locate each other only by their glowing cigarette tips—vanished.

Maybe this second pandemic of my life, like the last, will fashion new ways I connect with men. Maybe, in the rear view mirror, this time of self-denial will seem nothing more than a hiccup. Until then, like everyone else, I stumble ahead, trying to survive. Trying to do the best I can.

Open Forum Friday: How Y'all Coping?

So. How are you guys doing? Anything going on? Anything new to report?

Yeah, me neither, I guess. Same old, same old, right?

In all seriousness: it’s been a rough year so far for just about everyone. Many of you have been reaching out to make sure I’m okay, what with being close to the epicenter of the COVID-19 outbreak in this country. And I am okay. I haven’t been sick. I’d stocked up on toilet paper a month before things got serious; I’d purchased an armful of hand sanitizer when it was on sale at Target, right before I flew to Las Vegas in early February. I’d even grabbed a 5-pack of jumbo-sized disinfectant wipes at CostCo on a whim, two weeks before all hell broke loose.

When things started getting bad in late February, I started staying at home even though no one was demanding I should. I’d creep out to my class at night armed with a giant bottle of Purell and one of those monster tubs of disinfectant wipes I’d just bought, and before starting my instruction I’d demand my students basically run through a G-rated and less invasive version of the scene in Silkwood where the heroine is blasted down with a hose.

Then abruptly the schools shuttered. The parks were made off limits. City services closed. The world shut down. It’s been a month today that I’ve been in isolation.

I’m doing all right. I wake up and eat breakfast. I play video games. (Mostly Animal Crossing. Thanks to the couple of readers who keep letting me come to your towns and buy stuff from your shops!) I take a shower. I straighten my beard, because even in isolation, dad’s gotta look foxy. I eat lunch. I play more video games. I’ve been working on a project to get more people recording their experiences during this trying period of history—so that takes a chunk of my afternoon. I make dinner. Then I watch TV, because I need to find out what happens to this Joe Exotic dude.

Then I get up the next day and do the same thing all over again. All the while, I try with all my might not to think about the fact that I haven’t fucked in over a month and by this point I am going bat-shit crazy to the point that I would sink my dick into anything that looked even vaguely receptive. A photo of a Krispy Kreme donut makes me hard.

But no, I’m trying to do my part and stay socially-distanced.

So that brings me to my questions for you guys, on this Open Forum Friday. How’re you doing? Are you keep yourselves isolated? If so, are you breaking the recommendations and sneaking out to get some, or are you taking one for team and keeping it in your pants? If you’re staying home, how’re you coping with the horniness? Keeping busy? Sex with the person you’re isolated with? Masturbation? Copious amounts of porn? What good porn are you viewing? Nude pics from readers? (That’s more of a hint than a question. I’m always happy to get nude pics from readers.)

I’m seriously interested in your coping strategies during this rough time. It doesn’t look like things will be changing in the near future, and it seems most men I talk to are getting their pipes as thoroughly backed up as mine feel.

So for real now: what are you doing to get by, when it comes to sex? Let us know in the comments below.

The Tenth Anniversary: Readers' Top Twelve Posts

As part of my tenth-anniversary commemoration I answered a number of questions readers asked about some of the more memorable personalities that have appeared on these pages in the last decade—Runt, Scruffy, Spencer, Earl, and the like—and in return I received a number of emails and messages saying how grateful they were to hear about my former lovers, and to know (mostly) that they were well. I was glad to make my readers happy.

But you know what messages have made me happiest? Hearing congratulations and thank-yous from readers who had disappeared off my own radar. I’ve made a lot of friendships through my blog. Some have lasted for many years; a few were temporary, but none the less enjoyable. Some were barely momentary, a quick exchange of emails with no follow-through whatsoever.

Over the last couple of weeks, though, I’ve received several emails from men who’ve checked in to let me know what they’ve been up to since the last time we talked, which sometimes has been as many as five or six years. Like Runt and Scruffy, most of these men are in much better places than they were when originally they reached out to me. That’s always heartening to hear.

This week I’ve compiled a list of my dozen most popular blog entries. I’ve had millions of visitors in the last decade; these entries have had the most unique view totals. Perhaps with the world shutting down around us, you might have some spare time to enjoy some erotic writing. Revisit a few of these essays from the past, won’t you?

12. July 26, 2016—Dick Dock 2016: Cocksucker

My Dick Dock entries have always been popular. Two of them made this list, in fact. I think this one, in which I’m made to inhale poppers as I slobber all over dick is my favorite of the two. Re-reading it makes me rock hard, in fact—I think it’s one of the two times in my life I’ve done poppers. I know, I’m such a puritan!

11. April 12, 2010—Incriminating Evidence

It’s interesting that this particular entry popped up; it’s about the records I used to meticulously keep when I was a kid, of all the men I had sex with. I’ve been trying to revisit the memory of this sexual accounting in order to write about it again, for a different sort of project I’ve been toying with.

10. April 15, 2011—Field Trip Friday: Jayson Park

Porn actor Jayson Park has been one of the best friends I’ve made through my blog. This entry asking readers to make a visit to his website (which doesn’t seem to be working these days) must get a lot of hits from guys trying to find him through search engines. He’s a stud. Always has been, always will be.

9. February 11, 2013—Open Forum Monday: The Big One

I’m amused that so many men have looked at, and read, my entry about a milestone birthday. I understand why I wrote it; I remember during much of my forties I always wondered why the clock seemed to stop for men once they hit the age of 49. I still know men who are in their sixties at this point but whose app profiles all say 49. But sexy, this entry isn’t.

I’ve had several of the Open Forum entries, which ask for and respond to reader feedback, not only make this list, but come very close to it. I suspect people liked reading what other commenters had to say.

8. July 11, 2013—The Rest Stop at Dusk

I really like this essay. It’s one of my favorites from my first few years. There was one point at which, for some milestone or another (my first million views, I think?) I was planning to attempt a podcast-style reading from my blog, and this essay about rest stop cruising along I-275 in Michigan was going to be the entry I read.

In the end, I was too lazy to figure out the recording process.

7. February 7, 2012—A Long, Sloppy Blowjob

Usually when I look at the titles of my more popular entries, I immediately can tell you what they’re about. Not this one, boy. I had to read it from start to finish, and only when I was approaching the end did I have a recollection of it. You kind of tend to remember when some crackhead bangs on the front door of the public library down the street, thinking it’s your house.

These department of bad encounters stories never end well.

6. August 19, 2013—Home Gloryhole

Oh man, I loved this guy. I used to visit his gloryhole every couple of months when I’d be on my way back to Grand Central. Amazing mouth, hot gloryhole set-up. I wonder if he’s still in business?

5. July 18, 2013—Dick Dock

I tend to get cocky when I’m cruising publicly. I know it. I admit it. My philosophy in a bathhouse, or backroom, or bookstore, is that I’ll wait for what I want, rather than settle for what other dudes won’t touch. And I tend to get what I want, as I did on this night in P-town.

I’m actually kind of fond of my Dick Dock entries. The place is legend, but I understand it’s touch for guys who’ve never been there before to know exactly what the protocol might be for cruising there. I’ve received a lot of feedback from new visitors to Provincetown who’ve told me that more than any other source, these essays gave them a taste of the atmosphere there, and the ways men connect in that dark space beneath the Boatslip.

4. April 29, 2011—Open Forum Friday: Cocksuckers

I admit: I’m puzzled how this one rose so high over many more thoughtful entries. Essentially I wrote an essay here about bad blow jobs, and how much I dislike it when a cocksucker decides to stop using his mouth and instead seize onto my cock with a vise grip and beat it so hard that I lose any will to have sex for a good long time. (Or I simply can’t, because of the chafing sores.)

The real gold here—as in any of my Open Forum entries—lies buried in the reader responses, which are plentiful and thoughtful, and sympathetic.

3. October 4, 2013—Nasty Little Faggot

I’m happy this particular memoir occupies this spot, because it’s as nasty as the title boasts. Reading it from a distance of seven years, I find I’ve forgotten exactly which cocksucker I’m describing in this essay…but in a certain sense, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He did his job well.

2. January 21, 2013—Stupid Faggot

I’m intrigued, but not surprised, that entries with the word faggot in the title have made two of the three most popular spots on this list. I’ve noticed for years that variations of faggot and cocksucker are in the top search terms that lead random viewers to my blog, month after month. Sometimes it’s just faggot cocksucker stories, sometimes it’s faggots who suck cock, sometimes it’s cocksucker faggots, but those search terms are always up there.

I was going to illustrate with a list of search phrases from this month, but when I went to look, the top search terms were free jockstrap giveaway (no, I’m not having one), hornyfather (just like that), bareback blog, and sissies in snap-on plastic panties, which seems oddly specific to me.

This particular entries is one of my all-time favorites. It’s more than a scene in which a Puerto Rican boy debases himself in front of me—though I was very fond of this particular kid for a couple of years until ultimately he overstepped his boundaries. It’s a meditation on the ways in which words that sound vile in one man’s mouth can be a balm from another’s; it’s a thoughtful defense of men who find joy and pleasure from epithets that have hurt them in the past.

But mostly I suspect the number of readers who’ve flocked to this particular entry do so to see a hungry boy doing what he does best.

1. May 24, 2011—Cruising 101: The Bathhouse

Here we are—the most popular post in the history of my blog. And by a long shot, too. ‘Cruising 101’ has had ten times more viewers than #12 on this list, and twice as many as #4. I remember writing it because in the first couple of years of writing about my sexual encounters, I’d encounter a lot of prejudice and ignorance whenever I’d write about visiting one of Detroit’s multiple (at the time—I think they only have one now) bathhouses.

“They’re a breeding ground for disease,” I heard. Well, sure, but not any more than your own bedroom. “Only desperate guys go to bathhouses…eeeewww,” they’d say. Um, okay. Sure. Enjoy sitting at home looking at blank profiles on Grindr and wondering why you’re not getting any.

Simultaneously, I’d get a lot of questions from men curious about the experience. What were bathhouses like? How did they work? What did they need to know if they decided to give one a try? This entry arose out of that.

Like the Dick Dock entries, I’ve had a lot of thanks and feedback over the years for this quick introduction to the tubs; I would like to point out, though, that there was a follow up entry, Cruising 101: Mr. Manners Visits the Bathhouse, that goes beyond the mechanics of how to get into and navigate around a bathhouse, and into how to treat the men one encounters there. Worth a read, I think.


And that’s the list! Taking a deep dive into the statistics of my blog for the last ten years has been interesting. I’d been vaguely aware that although I was writing blog posts more frequently during the first three years, save for the entries that made this list, on average the number of views those pages got were really quite low compared to those I’ve made in the last five years—I can look at the number of unique readers for any post in the last year and it’ll usually have ten times the number of views my much older posts ever had.

Yet the direct engagement I have these days is much less; I might get emails and comments from followers on Twitter about the posts, but I get many fewer comments in the blog itself. My own attitude about the blog has been more more casual, however. Hard to blame anyone else from feeling the same.

What have been your favorite entries from the past ten years? Share with everyone in the comments below!


Are you looking to help me celebrate the tenth anniversary of my blog? Send me a message or email and tell me about your favorite blog post or memory! Share your photos with me! If you're feeling especially generous, check out my Amazon wish list. Mostly, though, I'd just like to hear from you!

The Tenth Anniversary: Last of Reader Questions

I’ve been super-grateful for the many kind notes you guys have sent me since I started this trio of anniversary questions and answers. I have to admit that writing this blog over the last decade has often left me feeling like a crazy Lear howling his madness into an uncaring gale. Knowing that there are people out there who care, and who have even benefitted in the slightest by anything I might’ve said, really gives me solace.

While this might be the end of my anniversary-edition questions, I’ll still be making more entries in the future—and next week I’m hoping to prepare a retrospective of my most popular posts, with perhaps a little commentary as appropriate. So be sure to tune in.

(I wouldn’t mind more of those congratulatory notes, too. And ass pics. Those are always welcome.)

Where are your sex positive blog peers? Why aren’t there many many more in this app/blog-rich age; is this country stalled out in terms of sexual liberation?

There are still thoughtful and sex-positive blogs out there—I try to keep the list of those I follow updated in my sidebar. (If you’re running one that I may have overlooked, send me a note and let me know.) I think these days many men are too impatient to write blogs; as I said in the last set of questions, it’s not fashionable any longer to share sexual experience in long-form writing.

The online world has shifted over the last decade. It’s infinitely less effort, and more gratifying, to post a shirtless selfie on Instagram and get a thousand likes than it is to sweat over a two-thousand word piece of memoir for three comments (three if I’m lucky). It’s hotter and sexier to throw a thirty-second clip of oneself stroking for the camera on Reddit or on Twitter for the upvotes and woofs than it is to attempt a creative essay. It’s easier to monetize one’s torso than it is serious writing.

All that is fantastic, of course. I don’t begrudge anyone their thumbs-up icons or heart emojis. But I do think that when gay male sexuality is reduced to posed photos and videos by fitness models, its audience tends to think that only hot muscle jocks and pretty Instagram boys are worthy enough to find bed partners, and to enjoy a life that’s fully sexual. And that’s bullshit. Regular dudes like me have an excellent time too, when we’re looking for it.


Any regrets or negative feedback from posting your interactions as a 14 year old with adults?

I do not have any regrets.

I grew up in an entirely different era. My mom and dad didn’t helicopter-parent me, or really supervise my free time at all. Unlike today, it wasn’t widely assumed that any kid who stepped outside the boundaries of his front yard would be immediately kidnapped and molested—so as a little kid and teen I had free reign to roam where I wanted. I lived in a time in which gay sex itself was illegal. However fucked-up a concept it might be to us nowadays, then the penalty for gay sex with a fourteen-year-old kid wasn’t really any different than it would’ve been for butt-fucking a guy in his mid-thirties.

We are so sensitive these days to any whiff of intergenerational impropriety that it’s difficult for a younger generation to conceive of a time in which gay life was already so marginalized, and its actors already such literal sexual outlaws, that not once was my age an issue for any of the men with whom I had sex. We were all criminals, and criminals together.

My intent in writing about that part of my life has never been to normalize that kind of interaction, nor certainly not to apologize for it. I’m merely giving testament to my own lived past.

What I’ve discovered, though, is that my experience isn’t unique. All the feedback I’ve ever received on my history-tagged posts has been one hundred percent positive; I regularly have men write me to say that they, too, were sexually adventurous with older men in their teens, and how affirming it is to have their own experiences validated.

As inappropriate as they might have been or as we might see them these days, my youthful sexual experiences were something I sought out. I relished every encounter with an older man. I never felt abused, or exploited—neither then nor to this day. I think my fondness for those memories shines through when I write about them, and readers have responded in kind.


Anyway your profile says you're married and a dad....so wondering if you'd ever disclose anything about that sphere?

Nah.

That was kind of a smart-ass response. I know. Honestly, though, if I haven’t discussed something in a decade, I’m hardly going to start now.

Keeping a blog in which I divulge and explore my own sexual experiences is fine and good. Exposing others who haven’t necessarily consented to appear in it, though, is something I’ve always avoided. When it comes to my sexual partners, I do my best to change enough details that they can’t easily be identified. When it comes to my nearest and dearest, I simply don’t expose them in an way whatsoever.


Do you prefer the pizza in New York or Chicago?

A question near and dear to my heart! I prefer Connecticut pizza.

Seriously, Connecticut pizza is amazing, and Connecticut regularly has its pizzerias clustered at the very top of the best-of lists. New Haven pizza makers like Frank Pepe, Modern, Sally’s? Yes please. The hot oil pizzas of Fairfield County? Yum. (One of my friends was working in Stamford last week and made fun of a sign on a local pizzeria advertising its hot oil pizza, but when I explained it was a thin-crust pizza on which has been spooned a ladleful of olive oil infused with hot peppers, he had to concede that it sounded pretty good.)

For my birthdays I always have a choice of where to go for dinner. I always choose the oversized, misshapen, charred pies at Frank Pepe’s. Seriously, it’s worth trying their white clam pizza once in your life.


I would love to know how you lost your cherries and how old you were. Getting fucked, fucking, getting sucked, sucking and swallowing. Asking for all of us here.

I was twelve. On the same day. For all of them except topping, which I didn't discover until much later.

I’d spent a long year attempting to seduce my sixth-grade homeroom teacher without any real success. Basically the week school let out and I realized that Mr. Goldberg was not going to be the fellow who would relieve me of my virginity, I set out to lose it to someone else as quickly as possible. Considering that I’d spent the previous year and a half in the cruisiest restrooms in the city, I knew exactly where to find someone to do the deed.


I have been a fan of your blog for years, one of my favorite part of your blog is the hotel hook ups. How many have you experienced and have you enjoyed a gentleman from the hotel groups on his own?

I’ve had a lot of hotel group sessions over the years—way too many to count, actually. Back in Michigan I used to attend blackout parties in which the host would rent a hotel suite and make sure that the inner room was so pitch-dark that rarely could you see whom you were fucking around with. (I really miss those.) Back there I’d also regularly attend a fist-fucking hotel group, as well as a pretty sleazy ongoing session with a group of guys from BBRT that met at different skanky hotels on the outskirts of the city twice a month. And FelchingPisser’s hotel gang bangs, sometimes.

Since my move, the ongoing hotel parties I’ve attended included the one exclusively held for married suburban men (the host’s reasoning is that ‘a group of married men fucking each other is ‘safer’ than anything else,’ which is utter bullshit, but the sex was good), the Manhattan married men’s group (same host, same philosophy, same bullshit, but the sex was even better), and a sleazy group of motley men out in New Haven on occasion. And yeah, I have often been notorious for getting the phone numbers of other attendees during the groups, and hooking up with them after.

I think of all the hotel groups I’ve been to, the one I enjoyed the most was the blackout group. The sex was hotter on average, and the anonymity of the dark room forced guys to make judgments not on looks or perceived age, but on dicks and holes and how well the guys attached to them were using them. One of the things I don’t like about larger sex parties in general is that there are usually wallflowers who lurk around the edges of the room, men who are too frightened to participate but like the idea of watching; I think the notion of a total blackout scared away the voyeurs and left only the guys who were there actually to fuck.


Which of your college experiences holds the fondest memories for you sexually? Was it a specific location? A bottom? A top?

Okay, I have to explain to my readers that the fellow who asked this particular question—a friend through the blog—attended the same college as I. We both had a lot of sex with the same French Professor. (Not at the same time, as my reader started at our alma mater the year after I left, I think.) So this query isn’t coming out of nowhere.

Despite the hours and hours I spent sucking on, and getting fucked by, the French Professor, and the fond memories I have of him, I think the single sexiest college encounter I had was with the president of Kappa Alpha—a notoriously redneck and homophobic fraternity whose leader that year was a steamin’ hot cup of good ol’ boy with a John Oates mustache. (Trust me. It was verrrrry hot in 1983.)

The frat boy picked me up in the cruisy restroom of the campus center and drove me in his truck (yes, there was a Confederate flag sticker in the rear window) to an amphitheater in the woods on Lake Matoaka, where he fucked me in a dressing room there. Primarily I recorded the experience because I’d had an opportunity twenty years later to thank the frat boy for giving me that afternoon of unbridled animal sex. It’s not all that often that we chances to thank people for good memories they gave us decades before, and at the time it was important for me to commemorate that.

Well. That was all good and high-minded of me, but there’s more to that particular story. Frat boys, it turns out, are all fine and dandy when they’re only personalities on Facebook, but they’re fucking annoying when they leech on to you and don’t let go. For about three years after that, the former frat boy turned to me whenever he wanted something—an article edited, a reference for a job, a cash advance. I realized I was being used, but I had such a soft spot for that fucking he'd given me at Lake Matoaka that I would help him out with just about anything when I could. Except the cash. I'm not that soft a touch.

The turning point came when the frat boy decided that that he needed to move to Manhattan. Did I know of anywhere with cheap rent? I thought I was doing him a solid when I hooked him up with a friend of mine who was seeking a roommate. The frat boy lived with my friend for four months. He never paid any rent. Eventually just moved out and left all his trash and crap in his room for my friend to clean up. Then to me he badmouthed my poor friend, who is a saint and really didn’t need, want, or shouldn't have had to clean up the aged frat boy’s discarded laundry and crusty cum rags.

I learned my lesson about being nostalgic about old tricks, after that, because some grown-up frat boys never leave the Kappa Alpha house, apparently.

The single most poignant experience I had in college was the night before graduation, when I hooked up with a shy boy named Jefferson for whom I’d longed since I first saw him my freshman year. He always stared at me with such hunger when we passed on campus, yet it wasn’t until right before we were about to depart the campus forever that he took a chance and decided to meet with me, only to announce, after I’d spent the night making him happy, ‘this isn’t who I am’—then fleeing.

I never have been able to find out what’s happened to Jefferson. There’s literally no trace of him to be found, either in the annals of the alumni records, or anywhere on the internet. I hope he finally figured out who he was, though.


Was wondering, have you ever found a trace of Earl?

No!

My mentor Earl was very much a center of my teen years; he taught me a lot about sexual responsibility as well as sexual abandon—and sexual depravity, to boot. When his partner’s jealousy of me came to a head, though, Earl made the decision for me that I shouldn’t see him any longer. I never did. I was heading to college soon thereafter anyway; although I considered attempting to contact Earl during my visits home or during the holidays, somehow I was unwilling to poke a potential hornet’s nest.

When I returned to my parents’ home after college to attend grad school for a couple of years, Earl was gone. Someone else was living in his house. I didn’t really know anyone at that point who could tell me where he might have moved—hookups in that time didn’t really keep each other in their contacts book, and we didn’t have an internet to search.

By my thirties, I'd forgotten Earl’s surname. It finally surfaced in my rusty brain when I started to write memoirs about him in my late forties. Even then, I couldn’t find a trace of him through Google, nor that partner of his, either.

I’ve always been baffled, I have to admit, by people who have zero presence on the internet whatsoever. I mean, even my elderly dad can be found on Google, despite the fact I’ve forbidden him to join any social media—and he's a man who thinks that when I talk about his information being stored in the cloud, that I actually mean there’s some cumulus formation somewhere packed full of binary numbers.

I’d love to know what happened to Earl, but I think at this point I’d have to hire a private detective.


What’s the most profound thing you’ve learned about human sexuality that you didn’t realize before you started writing the blog?

Oh good, a big-picture question I can end upon.

From the age of twelve, I started having a lot of sex. Sex in parks, sex in restrooms. Sex in houses, sex in hotels, sex in dorm rooms, sex in alleys, bars, bathhouses, bookstores, and bedrooms. I had sex whenever I wanted, and often. I had sex with a lot of partners.

So I think my biggest surprise, when I started to write about the sex I was having, was how much of an outlier I apparently am—because it seems as if a hell of a lot of my readers don’t have sex at all.
My eyes were opened wide when I began to realize that the majority of men, it seems, prefer dreaming about sex, or masturbating to images of sex, to actually engaging in it.

Their lack of sexual inertia has become even more apparent in the digital age; it appears that more and more men are creating profiles and taking photos not so they can connect up with someone, but in order to receive a little validation or praise when finally they are cajoled to unlock their nude album. These are the men who disappear when you attempt to set up a date with them, or who at long length keep prospective tricks on the hook while never committing to meeting.

I’ve also been saddened by the number of emails and messages I receive from men who have decided their looks work against them and that they’re unfuckable, or by the men who have painted themselves into a closet corner and have decided to live vicariously through me, while never attempting a little human contact with someone close at hand. As recently as a decade ago I always assumed most other men were having as much sex as I; the most profound thing I’ve discovered is what a distinct minority I seem to be in.

At the same time, though, the best missives I’ve received have been those from men who’ve decided to take chances and start to explore their sexuality, or the men who’ve resolved to rearrange their relationships, or start new ones, to accommodate their sexual needs as an integrated part of their lives.

Sexual pleasure is a gift with which we’ve all been blessed. Honor that gift, before it’s taken away forever.

The Tenth Anniversary: More Questions from Readers

As I continue to celebrate my ten years in the blogging business, I'd once more like to thank everyone who has taken the time to ask questions, or reach out and send me notes of congratulation and esteem. Don't stop with the latter! I love hearing from everyone!

If you missed the first round, check it out here.

But let's get down to more questions.

You fool around a lot, like I mean, a lot. How haven’t you gotten any diseases?

I do fool around a lot. Like, I mean, a lot. As an adult, I absolutely have gotten sexually-transmitted infections. What I do, though, is test regularly and when I catch the very occasional something, I man up and go to a clinic and get a shot for it, or take a pill.

One of the trials I’ve had with this blog over the last decade has to do with my readers’ horror of disease. It used to be that whenever I posted, the first comment I’d receive would be, Aren’t you afraid of catching something? Whenever I put out a call for questions, people would overwhelm me with, How do you protect your family from the diseases you must be catching? I’m always baffled by the insistency and frequency of these questions because to me, dreading STIs is such a minor part of my sexual life.

Honestly, when you’re an adult and you have an active sex life, part of it is assuming the responsibility of monitoring your sexual health. If you catch an STI, it’s not a divine judgment from God Above warning you to Sin No More. It’s not a black stain on your spotless moral permanent record. A bout of the clap does not void your Get Into Heaven punch card.

A sexually-transmitted disease is merely a virus or a bacteria, just like all the viruses and bacteria you can get by not washing your hands, or letting someone cough on you, or even by taking care of your sick kids. Diseases are not more dire and punishing merely because you got them by enjoying another man’s body.

Spare me your existential horror over superbacteria—when you catch something, you make an appointment for testing, wait for the results, notify your partners like a responsible human being, and then adhere to the course of treatment. It’s not difficult, and it’s not the apocalyptic end of the world.

I made the decision early on in my blog to ignore the constant chorus that bewails the specter of plague. I don’t focus on malady. I shouldn’t have to be my readers’ only source of education in how to recognize the symptoms of, and take care of, sexually-transmitted infections. This aspect of being an adult is honestly not that complicated.

My blog is a celebration of sexuality, not a chronicle of disease.


Has your blog given you any opportunities (other than sex) during the last ten years?

When I started it a decade ago, blogging was much more fashionable than now. In the first three or four years, my site got a lot of mainstream attention and exposure from gay journalism web outlets, as well as a lot of publicity from Treasure Island and a few other sex sites. I was asked to contribute to several erotic literary print journals, where I got to see a few of my lurid essays in print.

The blog has afforded me unusual experiences I might not have otherwise had. I’ve been wined and dined by readers passing through the area, I enjoyed a locker room visit after a major league sports game (didn’t see any naked parts, no), and I received a couple of gratis haircuts from upscale Manhattan salons. One of the best things that happened to me was when I got invited to an museum exhibition opening night party by the curator, a fan of mine.

I participated in one interesting project that resulted in a hardback book about people who keep sex diaries, in which I had most of a chapter to myself. That particular adventure led to being asked to be one of the stars in a reality television series about people who keep sex diaries—but the conception seemed so weird (I was supposed to appear as myself and pretend I was writing in my diary while I did a voiceover of what I writing, and then the voiceover was supposed to fade to a re-enactment of whatever sexy encounter was going down) that I passed. Honestly, I’d rather be enjoying my sex life than worrying about bringing it to reality TV, and I didn’t need to inflict notoriety on my family. It sounded like a lousy project, and I never did see it actually make it to air.

Mostly my blog has afforded me an opportunity to meet people and make friends I might not otherwise have. Which leads me to….


Have you met any celebrities through your blog?

Yes. One of the first men I met when I moved to metro NYC was a well-known Tony award nominee and Pulitzer nominee whose name would cause any Broadway fan to nod his head wisely…and then have to look it up on Wikipedia to recall the details. He had been a fan of the blog for a couple of years and when he saw I was moving into the area, asked if I’d like to meet. We had several sessions in which I would dress up in the leather he provided (you know Pulitzer nominees—they always have spare leather) and flog him, piss on him, and flog him again. I enjoyed the sessions, but I have to admit I felt little bit of disconnect at times in which I’d see myself in the mirror flogging a Tony nominee and wondering, How exactly did I get here, again?

I know of two actors on primetime television who have reached out to tell me they’re readers, but I’m afraid their publicists might kill me if I make a blind item out of them.

My blog has introduced me to several porn actors with whom I’ve made friends in and out of the bedroom. And since we’re talking about reality TV, I can’t guarantee I met all the following through the pages of my website, but since the blog began I have slept with: one contestant from Drag Race, two contestants (one a finalist) from So You Think You Can Dance, someone from American Idol…I think that might be it.

If someone would send me some of the boys from The Challenge, I’ll thank you handsomely.


Is there anything you wish you’d written about in your blog that you didn’t?

It hasn’t been as much of an issue since my big move, but in the early years of my blog I deliberately had to censor, and then eventually not write at all about, any mentions of bisexual sex. I found with a couple of very early entries that if I wrote about being the third with a male/female couple, I got a lot of very, very ugly comments from readers. They were so vitriolic, in fact, that I removed the entries entirely, because I hated waking up months later to find hate mail still arriving in my email box asking how dare I stick my dick in anything inglorious as a vagina.

Except, of course, their language was a lot more juvenile. I’m actually surprised how fast it takes for some gay men to lather at the mouth with anger and disgust because an icky-poo pussy makes an appearance. There was even one entry (the sole remaining entry under the ‘bi’ label) in which I detailed fucking a married dude in a hotel room while his wife watched me bang away over Skype, which although it featured absolutely zero female participation or genitalia, had some of dudes outraged because there was a mere hint of female presence. A lot of guys really enjoyed the entry; I had fun writing it. Those who hated it, though, let me know. Loudly. Obscenely. With a lot of shaming. Many, many times. For months.

It’s a shame, because when I lived in Detroit I was very active in the cuckolding community. I was often requested or hired as a bull—someone who would be called in by a (usually married) male/female couple, to shame the male half either by fucking his wife the way a real man fucks, with a real man’s big dick, or often by feminizing the husband and fucking him while his wife laughs and humiliates him. I had a lot of hot scenes with couples that I tried to write about, but had to give up, because of the guys who thought I should only be having the sex they wanted me to have, instead of the sex I was enjoying.

My belief is that if you don’t like a particular entry of mine, you don’t have to read it. Move on. Enjoy your time elsewhere for a spell. It’s not necessary to let everyone know how disgusted you are by a penis going into, or being anywhere in the vicinity of, or possibly even being seen by the owner of, a vagina. Jesus.


How come you don't put pictures in your blog anymore?

Three reasons.

The first had to do with a decision Google made several years ago when in 2015 they announced, without any warning, that their Blogger platform would no longer allow X-rated images, even on blogs clearly labeled as intended for adults. Any blogs that contained X-rated images would be pulled down, they decreed.

Well, even though I was annoyed as hell, I dutifully set to and began removing all the images I’d posted, starting from the beginning. It was a pretty tedious process, but I got through several years’ worth over the subsequent 48 hours—at which point Google decided to reverse the decision. I was relieved I didn’t have to censor the rest of my entries, but annoyed enough that I never restored the photos I’d posted.

The second reason had to do with some readers in the first couple of years of my blog who attempted to…I’m not sure exactly what. Dox me? Intimidate me? Blackmail me? Show they had something over me? Whatever their intentions, I had three or four readers who downloaded photos from my blog, used the EXIF geolocation data to discover where the photos had been taken, and then would send me images of that location on Google maps in order to inform me they knew where I lived (or thought I lived, as many of the shots they’d used weren’t taken at my home). Again, the readers doing so were a distinct minority, but they were little shits anyway for attempting to intimidate me.

The third incident happened on a particular blog post called ‘3 Loads, 35 Minutes’ in which I chronicled hooking up with a pair of young bottom boys who greeted me at their place with butts up on all fours for some quick and dirty fucking. I took photos of the whole thing—them on the bed with their holes pointing at me, both of them sucking my cock, me invading and breeding their little holes. I illustrated the subsequent entry with nearly a dozen hot photos at the appropriate junctures. I was sure it was one of my best efforts to date.

Then, of course, some asshole reader decided to comment with something along the lines of I smell BULLSHIT. This couldn’t have happened! My response was bafflement at why anyone would accuse me of fraud, when I’d thoroughly documented the encounter with seedy photographs. Furthermore, what was even the point of going to the effort of taking photos at all, if assholes were going to say it was all bullshit anyway?

After all those things, whenever I’d consider putting more of my own photos in the blog, I’d shrug and think, “What’s the use?”


Can you tell us more about that trip to Mexico?

You’re talking about my high school trip to Mexico City (part one is here, and part two is here), in which my sophomore Spanish class was expecting a cultural experience and instead found ourselves ripped off by an indifferent tour organizer and booked into a red-light district fleabag hotel. Well, you know me, always making lemonade out of lemons. I hooked up with a stallion named Toro, who not only would fuck the living shit out of me all that week, but who went out of his way to make arrangements to act as the class’ tour guide, getting us into places and giving us experiences that we would never have seen on any old ordinary charter tour.

Honestly, there’s not a lot more to add to the two entries I wrote about the experience. I had a very good week being the boy to a handsome Mexican stud, and my Spanish class trip was more or less saved by my whoring—though no one ever truly knew the circumstances of why a charismatic local decided to take a bunch of pimply adolescents under his wing. I got an A for my final grade that year, too (of course…I wasn’t permitted to get anything less than As), and a comment on my report card that I had shown great initiative during the class trip. If initiative is a synonym for sluttiness, I guess it’s pretty apt.

What particular event after that day in the florist shop cemented you in as a power top instead of a slut bottom?

I wrote in an entry called The Fulcrum about an incident as a very young man with a florist in in which he persuaded me, for one of the first times in my life, to slide my dick into his hole instead of bottoming for him. I enjoyed the experience so much that it swung the pendulum for me; though I’d been a dedicated bottom up until that point, after that, I started to desire, and think about, topping.

I remember quite vividly, the day after that encounter, I went hunting for sex in the university restrooms and the thought uppermost on my mind was, You know, topping sure felt good. I need to find more ass to fuck. An hour later, after I’d planted some seed in an undergraduate bent over a toilet, I was ready for more.

Looking back, I’m kind of astonished how I’d managed to dodge topping during the decade between 12 and 22. Once I discovered how good it felt to shove my cock into a hole, I wanted to do it more and more, until it was all I really wanted to do.


Have you ever been catfished?

All the time. All. The. Time. Right from the beginning of my blog, when readers used to reach out and get in touch with me and share a little something of their lives, I’ve had to cope with the reality that not all of them are whom they claim to be.

When I’m contacted by a Montana nudist farm owner, in the back of mind I’m thinking he’s probably a subterranean chronic masturbator who probably lives in a basement apartment in some dire rust belt city and who’s only nude when he showers. When I get emails from a ‘wealthy bussinessman' who doesn’t know how to spell ‘business’ and certainly doesn’t sound professional, I reply with the restraint I’d ordinarily give someone who’s trying to scam me.

I’ve had guys message me with Yo. Sup. Love the blog, and then attach professionally-lit and photographed shots that are recognizably scavenged from some porn site. I am convinced that a large percentage of my favorite people on Twitter are catfishes, even though I don’t necessarily enjoy them any the less for it. (I might enjoy them more for their commitment to the fantasy, in fact.)

No, the dangerous catfishes in my life are men who present themselves as more sexually-experienced and sexually-driven than they really are. I’m unlikely to meet the nudist Montana farm families and kinky cops and sexy twin brothers who both need a dad like me to teach them how men fuck. But when I meet the regular guys who present themselves online as wild and uninhibited, only to find out that they are easily freaked out and think I’m moving too fast when we hook up—that’s when shit gets unpleasant.

I put a lot of myself out there on the blog. I draw distinct personal lines I won’t cross, but a lot of my life is an open book. Most of my readers, I’m happy to say, recognize my openness and honesty and respond in kind. I’m glad for that.


I’d say as part of your 10 year anniversary your followers should donate so you can kidnap and use a lad of your choice and then write about it.

I say you should organize a Kickstarter to make this happen!


Are you looking to help me celebrate the tenth anniversary of my blog? Send me a message or email and tell me about your favorite blog post or memory! Share your photos with me! If you're feeling especially generous, check out my Amazon wish list. Mostly, though, I'd just like to hear from you!

The Tenth Anniversary: Questions from Readers, Part 1

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