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!