Monday, September 21, 2020

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.

Thursday, September 3, 2020

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.