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!
Sunday, March 15, 2020
Monday, March 9, 2020
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.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2020
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!
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!
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