From the Archives: Perigee Moon

(I'm nearly back from my vacation, but in the meantime, enjoy this story from the archives.)

When he steps through my front door, he avoids looking at me. Instead, he turns away and removes his thin wool hoodie, barely enough to keep his narrow frame warm on a cold night like this. Though the room is dark and the shades are drawn, the perigee moon has risen just above the rooftops across the street. Its brilliant, blue-white light reflects from his pale skin, giving it the iridescence of pearl.

Down drop his ragged khakis, puddling around his ankles, followed by his shorts. When finally he turns, I can barely make out the familiar tattoos covering his young skin. The insides of his forearms arms are trellises for vines of roses, thickly flowering and studded with thorns. There’s a crest in the center of his chest, just above the sternum, elaborate, heraldic, and covered with scrollwork. His biceps are decorated with curlicues and intricate designs. On his shoulder is a dark splotch of a design—a Celtic cross, it would seem. And on the outside of a thigh, a woman’s face, surrounded by hair.

There was no question we’d do it any way other than in the dark. This twenty-year-old boy, Jason, and I have still never seen each other’s faces directly. The many times we’ve played have been in restrooms around the county, where I’ve only seen the extended shape of his lips around my dick, beneath a metal partition. Once I had him over to my house. As on this night, I invited him over late, after dark. I’ve turned off all the house’s lights, save for the porch light over the address plate. I’ve drawn all the shades and curtains. The house is already on a silent street with very little light. Tonight, it’s as dark as it gets.

I’m sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, my inches hard and ready in my right hand. He shuffles across the oriental rug in his socks and kneels down before me. After a deep, deep breath, he impales his mouth on his dick. There’s not timid preparation, no licking or kissing or slow entry. He throws himself down on it like a disgraced samurai upon his own sword, taking it to the hilt and letting out a deep, groan from his diaphragm when it can go no farther. My head lolls back on the sofa’s cushions, resting there. I feel his saliva dripping down my nuts, and then trickling beneath my sac.

Though his skin is almost luminescent in the moonlight, I can’t really see anything of his face. I’m fine with that. All I need to know is that the boy wants me, and is doing his best to make me feel good. He’s not trying to get me off, here. He’s wetting me up, getting me slick for his ass. To accentuate the point, when I reach down between his legs to grab his stiff cock, which already has a tip that’s wet and getting slicker, he grabs my wrist and yanks it down, down between his legs. His fingers press mine against his hole, which opens and closes around the tips.

He’s already lubed down there, but I want to taste him, first. I shove the boy onto the sofa and take his place on the floor, where I spread those perfectly round twenty-year-old cheeks and bury my face between them. He gasps at the roughness of my beard against his tender skin. I can hear him muffling his cries in the cushions before at last he lets his forehead rest on their back. “Fuck me,” he begs in a soft voice. “Stick that big daddy dick in me and ram the fuck out of me. Please.”

His boyhole is tight. Very tight. I’ve had the forethought to put a small bottle of lube on the coffee table. I squirt a glob of it onto his hole and work it in roughly, making him cry out and squirm, as I spread more on my meat. When I go in, it’s with a savage push. I know he likes it to hurt.

His head flies up. His jaw opens wide. The cry he lets out is at first soundless, a phantom scream that makes no noise, though its presence cannot be missed. He twitches, and shudders, and finally relaxes. When he lets out a noise, it’s only the word yes, sibilant and long, deep and in the chest.

I hold it there until he completely relaxes, then begin pumping. “Let me sit on it,” he begs after a moment. “I need to sit on that daddy dick.”

He’s used to sitting on me that way. In every restroom where we’ve fucked, he’s had me push my knees and legs beneath the stall so he can straddle my dick and ride. That’s what he does now—lowers his tiny frame on my outsized dick until it reaches the bottom. Then he begins to ride. He bounces, and thrashes, and squeezes that super-tight hole around me as our lips meet. We’re making out when he shoots, spraying semen all over his chest and mine. The spasms of his hole drag me kicking and screaming over the edge; my release is sweet, and deep, and silent.

When he at last stands up, my load slides from his hole and lands on my shin. I grab my T-shirt and wipe it up, then mop him down. He takes the T-shirt from me and catches the spots I’ve missed, then hands it back. I sniff the soaked garment, then shrug and pull it on.

He dresses facing away from me, not wanting me to see his face, or for himself to see mine. His legs are still shaking like a newborn calf, attempting to walk for the first time, but he manages to step back into his khakis and pull on his shirt. “All right, dad,” he mumbles at the last. “Thank you, sir.”

“Be careful,” I tell him, and then let him out the door.

I can only see his back, through the blinds, as I watch him stumble to his car. He’s walking almost bow-legged—a slip of a boy sneaking back home, by the light of the perigee moon.

From the Archive: My Boy Scruffy

(I miss Scruffy. We still chat from time to time, and at the end of every conversation he tells me that no one fucked him the way I did. True or not, I still like hearing it. While I'm on vacation this week and being flooded by Hurricane Out-of-Town Family, I'm reposting a couple of old favorites, like this one.)


I got a text message from Scruffy, Wednesday morning. What are you up to today, handsome? I was in the middle of something and couldn’t get right back to him. A couple of minutes later he sent another: I’ve really missed you and hope you’re free to get together. Text me? My dick was hard in my jeans when I punched out a message back: My bed is yours. Come over.

I hadn’t seen Scruffy in too long. He was last here two weeks ago exactly. I’d invited him to come spend the next night while the spouse was out of town, but he came down with food poisoning or something at the last minute and had to cancel. It’s unusual that we’ve gone so long without seeing each other—for the last three months or so, it’s been at least once or twice a week, minimum, that he’s been naked and in my bed. Often it’s been more than that.

I met Scruffy on Manhunt when one January morning he opened his photos for me without comment. The photos showed him as a tousle-headed, fair-skinned blond boy with an shy grin and a chin covered with a growth of bristly fuzz. The kid was completely adorable to me, though he resembled no one else more closely than Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. I wrote and told him he was extremely cute; he was naked and at my place in less than twenty minutes. If only all online hookups were as quick and simple.

Wednesday I met Scruffy at my side door and let him in. Once the door was shut, I leaned down from the upper stair where I stood and took his face between his hands. His mouth pushed out to meet mine; I felt his teeth rake against my lower lip as he sucked it in. “God, I’ve missed you,” I said, pulling him into me.

He rested his head against my shoulder. “I missed you too. So much.”

We made out by the door for a little while longer before I took him by the hand and guided him through my kitchen and living room to the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my waist, and grinned. My hand shot up to stroke his adorable face once more. “You are so damned pretty,” I told him.

He always flushes when I praise his looks. He doesn’t believe me, I think, because he doesn’t yet believe it can be true. Part of Scruffy’s charm is that he doesn’t know how truly attractive he is; I think he looks in the mirror and sees a tall, awkward dork barely out of adolescence, an overgrown kid in dirty jeans and a Cereal Killers T-shirt. I look at him and see a handsome young man. Uncertain, perhaps. Undecided about what direction to steer his life, yes. But I see the prettiness and the sweetness of his face, and the sweet white skin of his body, and I can’t help but sigh with admiration, every damned time. “You’re the good looking one,” he said.

I wouldn’t let him shrug off the praise. “Don’t make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments. You’re beautiful. Seriously. Own it.” We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he swooped down and devoured my mouth. His lips traveled down my jawline to my neck, to my ear, around the back of my head, to all the places he knew I liked. His hands reached for mine, and our fingers curled together. Then he forced them up and over my head until he had me pinned. Hungrily we kissed. Our tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Then, with a fluid and beautiful motion that would have done a gymnast proud, he arched backward and raised his hands into the air. “Watch your fingers,” I said, warning him to avoid the ceiling fan overhead. He ignored me, crossed his hands at the back of his neck, and pulled off the Cereal Killers T-shirt and discarded it on the floor. Then he sat there and waited, watching me look at him. I took in his long, pale torso, with its pink little nipples and the trim waist. I looked at the little puffs of hair beneath his armpits, and the natural muscles beneath his arms, and the scuff on his elbow, and said, “You really are beautiful.”

Scruffy’s grin is crooked, and bashful, and I’m always glad to see it.

It was my turn to take control. I pulled him down to the mattress and held him in my arms, letting my fingertips dance up and down his stretched-out stomach as we continued to make out. Then my lips began to follow them, moving up and down his torso. I licked at his nipples and bit them gently to elicit his shivers. I ran my furry chin up and down his sides, and dug it into his ribcage, so that my beard could give him goosebumps. With his eyes closed he lay on the bed and sighed, and groaned, and writhed like a fish needing water as I kissed his soft, sweet stomach. My left hand expertly tugged at his belt and undid it, then unfastened the button of his jeans before I pulled down the zipper.

Beneath the jeans he wore a pair of blue briefs. His cock was almost popping from the elastic band. I put my mouth on his hardness and exhaled. He gasped at the sudden feel of the warmth blooming around his dick, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him; instead I pushed him back down, softly, quietly, and stood on the floor by the bed’s edge. My fingers hooked beneath the band of his briefs and prompted him to lift his hips. As if I were undressing a boy for bedtime, I pulled down his pants until they had cleared his waist. Then I tugged at the hem of his right leg, then his left, and gently removed his pants.

Whether he believed it or not, Scruffy was beautiful just then. His right hand lay on his stomach as if he was abashed of his nakedness, with me still in my jeans and T-shirt. His dick lay in curve, looking like a thick, pink comma. His balls, shaved and smooth, hung low between his legs. I took his dick in my hand and squeezed. Immediately it began to harden and swell. His hips thrust in the air, involuntarily. He wanted to be sucked. I gripped the shaft right at the base and hooked my little finger around his nuts, pulling them up so they brushed my chin as I opened my mouth and worked my way down the shaft. Scruffy’s cock is almost as large as mine, though he prefers to bottom. It always hits me at the back of the throat an inch before I’ve swallowed it all, but I always manage to get it all in. He grunted when my lips touched bottom. To add to the sensations, I reached between his legs and tickled his hole.

For a long time I sucked and played with his tackle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to eat his ass. I pushed Scruffy over so that he was lying face down. The kid has a beautiful, round, slappable butt, and he likes it treated roughly. I let my hand land on the right cheek with a loud smack that made him shudder and whimper. Then the left, leaving a red mark behind. Once more on the right, and then the left, and then I alternated between them with deliberate hand slaps that made more noise than caused any pain. Each time he jumped, and clutched the blanket.

When his cheeks were blushing, I pushed them apart with my hands and dove in. I love to rim. I tell guys that I can rim for a long, long time, and they never believe me; I licked and sucked at Scruffy’s hole for over a half hour and I still wanted more. I’d dig my tongue in as far as it could go until I reached the slightly metallic-tasting inside of his hole. I spit in the hole and blew cool air in it to drive him crazy. I bit and nibbled at the cheeks just so I could listen to him yelp and moan. Then I’d bury my face in between those beautiful buttocks and lick and munch and gnaw and rub my beard over his skin while he breathed pleas and filthy obscenities. My own cock was rock hard while I worked him over. I could feel a puddle of my own precum in my shorts where I lay. When he tried to struggle free, I switched position and sat on his shoulders and continued rimming him from the other direction, just so he couldn’t escape.

When I came up for air, he was begging. “Please,” he said. “Please let me see your dick. Let me taste it.”

I didn’t say anything. I merely undid the top button of my jeans, then yanked open the other buttons of the fly. He was shaky as he sat up. “I really dig your underwear,” he said, burying his face between the denim flaps. I was wearing a pair of cheap Gap trunks with horizontal stripes in different shades of military tans and greens. “Can I have ‘em?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If you do a good job.”

He proceeded to do a very good job. I let him ease down my jeans and remove my socks. Then he proceeded to suck me. I’ve said before that I find it difficult to shoot from getting a blowjob, but with Scruffy I have been getting increasingly closer and closer to losing it in his mouth; I think he’s due to get a gullet full any time now. He also does this thing—words fail me at trying to describe it—with his mouth on my nuts. He’ll take my entire sac in his mouth and suck and suck and somehow manipulate it with his lips and tongue so that I end up squirming. He won’t touch my dick at all while he does it, but it still feels like those cum-churning last moments before I start to lose my load. For long minutes he kept me on edge until at last he very gently spat out my balls and said, “I want to eat your beautiful hole.”

“Really?” I said, hopefully.

“Fuck yes.” Without any ado he pushed my legs up in the air so that my ass met his mouth. "I love your hole!" Then he proceeded to rim me twice as vigorously as I’d done him. I don’t remember much about it. I just remember it felt very, very good. At some point he flipped me onto my stomach and ate me from behind, but then I found myself lying on my back and rimming him while he licked me out.

Both of us were harder than cement and dripping all over each other by the time I lowered him onto his stomach. I sat beside him and played with his wet, open hole. “You know what I’m going to do.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You know I’m going to leave my seed in you.”

“I know,” he said. “I want it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want your seed in me.”

“What?” I said, feigning temporary deafness. “I didn’t hear you.”

Louder and more clearly, he enunciated. “I want your fucking seed in me.”

I didn’t have to lube him. I spread spit on the head of my dick, swung my legs over his, and began sliding in. “Go slow,” he said. “I haven’t been fucked since the last time we. . . .” I didn’t have to go slow. After a tiny bit of initial resistance, his hole opened wide and welcomed me. He let out a guttural noise that was more animal than verbal, and sank deep into the mattress. He pulled the pillow close and hugged it; I thrust my fingers beneath his armpits, guided them under the pillow, and ended up clutching his hands with mine as I began slowly to grind my hips.

“You feel good,” I whispered.

His voice was near tears. “I love sex with you. I love it so much.”

"You need it, don't you?"

His head nodded. "I need it bad. I need you. It's like your cock was made for my ass. Ever since the first day."

I continued fucking while I whispered low and close into his ear. “I know you’ve got your own life. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re my boy. I own you here.”

“Yes,” he said back, nodding. I honestly thought he might cry.

“Who are you when you’re here?”

“Your boy,” he said. “Always and forever. Your boy. Oh god. I want it to keep on going and never stop. Don’t let it . . . stop . . . .”

Still holding his hands, I fucked him sweetly. I used my knees to push his legs together and moved in and out. Scruffy excites me. He overexcites me, actually. I hadn’t been in him any longer than ten minutes than I began feeling the old familiar sensation, dragged up from the soles of my feet, that made my balls thrum like a speeding freight train. He knew by my increased breathing and the vigor with which I fucked him that I was getting close. “Breed me,” he said. “Please breed me. Please let me have your cum.” He kept begging for my sperm. When it finally came, I was silent—too busy trying to catch breath to make noise. I exploded in him with four or five gushes. “I can feel it,” he said, laughing and delighted. “I can feel it in me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I was still rock hard when I rolled over with him onto our left sides. My arms held his chest. He tugged at his own dick maybe six times, and then contracted. His own orgasm was not quiet. In fact, my first panicked reaction was to remember that I’d neglected to close the windows, and that the whole neighborhood could probably hear. But I didn’t care. When he was finished yelling, he shivered all over, and lay very still and quiet in my arms.

It was maybe four minutes later when he finally said, “I shot all over your pillow.” He rolled to show me the globs of semen that had soaked into the navy blue sheets. I didn’t care about that, either.

I stayed in him, still inserting myself and withdrawing very slowly, until he began to move his ass in time with mine. It didn’t take him long. It never does. Spooning we lay there as I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re so wet,” I said. I took his hand and made him reach to feel where my dick was sliding in and out of his distended hole. “You feel that?”

“Fuck yes,” he said. Over and over the said the words, sounding as if he spoke from the depths of a very good dream. “I love it. I love being with you. I’ve never had sex like this.”

“You are so beautiful,” I told him again. I hoped he believed it.

He twisted his neck so that we could kiss over his shoulder. I continued to fuck him until I came again. My second orgasms tend to arrive quickly. The sensation of my dick sliding in and out of my own wet, warm cum always excites me. I love the slippery sensuality of it. When I shot this time, he reached around and pulled at my ass, trying to drive me deeper inside him.

“I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy,” he said, when I wiped him down with a towel.

“I’m not busy." To prove it, I held the back of his head and pulled him to me.

We intertwined and made out. Scruffy is one of those boys who doesn’t turn off once he’s shot. I love that about him. The kissing after we’d both come was as intense and passionate as it had been the moment he’d walked through the door. “I love being yours,” he whispered to me at last. “I like being your boy when I’m here. I think about it all the time.”

“You are mine,” I told him, as I stroked his cheek.

“Your hole,” he said. “Your cum dump.”

He knows the words to say to arouse me. Within a few moments he was straddling me and sitting on my still-hard cock while jacking furiously at his own. “I wish you’d been the one who’d cunted me,” he said. “I wish you’d been in me first.”

I held onto the wooden slats of the headboard, helpless. “I'm in you now.”

“Yeah, I’ve got you, and you don’t get to go anywhere until I’ve got another load.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have a third in me, but when he really started to buck and slam his butt against my hipbones, I suspected I might. “I’m going to fucking take you captive until you give me what I want. I'll fucking rope you to the bed if I have to. Your boy wants another fucking load.”

“My beautiful boy,” I echoed.

“Your goddamned hungry boy.” He pulled his feet forward and lay them flat on either side of me, then squatted over my dick so that he could bounce his ass up and down over it. The bed creaked in protest. “Your owned boy who wants another fucking load out of you.” I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations he was milking out of me, but he was too pretty to block out. Our eyes locked. “Give it to me!” he demanded.

I usually dislike bottoms or cocksuckers who demand a load on a schedule, but I fucking love Scruffy. He does stuff to me few others can. I nodded, then grunted. A third load oozed out of my dick and into his hole. He felt my dick contracting and expanding and slammed down, greedily gobbling up every drop. I could feel his muscles trying to suck it in. “I’m going to keep it in there,” he said, beating himself wildly “I’m going to keep your hot sperm in me all day, the way I do every time we meet. Because that’s where it belongs. If I can’t have your dick in me all day, I want your nut in there.”

“Promise me,” I said.

“I promise you,” he said, loud and fervent. “I am never, ever going to push any of your sperm out of me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

We’d been through this catechism before. “Because I’m your boy,” he said. “You own me. Your boy.”

He begged me to sit on his face while he jacked himself off. I lowered myself down on top of him while he continued to thrash his own meat in his fist. By the time he came a second time, he’d managed to make my hole feel as if it was having its own mini-orgasm. I was actually sorry it had come to an end when he panted, and heaved, and went limp, like a rag doll.

We lay and talked for several minutes before he had to get up and leave. “Whose boy are you?” I asked before I let him out.

He kissed me deep. “Yours,” he said. “For always.”

My upper lip smelled of Scruffy all afternoon and evening. From time to time, whenever I had a private moment, I’d curl it up and breath deeply, and think about my beautiful, beautiful boy.

From the Archives: Bobby

(While I'm on vacation this week, I'm reprinting a few favorite old entries. I hope you like this one from a couple of years ago.)


His name was Bobby, and he played basketball. Those are the only two substantial facts I remember about the guy. In the days I used to keep my high school yearbook, I could have picked his photo out on the page—a picture of a handsome black kid with skin the color of caramel and a face shaped like the business end of a fist, squared-off and flat and just as confrontational.

I stood out in high school for two big reasons. It wasn’t because I was especially popular, or because I was well-liked, or because I had notoriety as the class brain or clown. No, I stood out because I hit my full height when I was fifteen, well before anyone else in my school had reached such a monstrous size, and because I was the whitest kid in school. The only white kid in my otherwise all-black school, in fact.

At that age, kids who stand out tend to get the brunt of the bad treatment, but I cultivated the art of being invisible. I slunk from class to class without attracting attention. I found quiet corners to eat my lunch. In the classrooms I was fine. The dangerous areas for me were the hallways, the boys’ room, the school bus, and anywhere on the school grounds not normally monitored by the teachers. That’s where I would worry about being picked on, or called out, or worst of all, beaten up. I wasn’t a strong kid, or particularly trained in fighting. Being beaten up seemed about the worst thing that could happen.

It never did happen, though. I managed to glide through school without being noticed much at all. Bobby was one student who did.

I sat in the middle of the school bus. Not close to the front, where the extremely timid would lurk, and not in the back where the rougher kids would congregate loudly. The middle was a safe, invisible place to be, overlooked by the more boisterous. Until the that day my sophomore year, when I was minding my own business and looking out the window, and suddenly found myself inhaling a scent that was at once sharp and intimate. The cotton fabric smelled like urine and musk; I found myself jerking my head away.

Bobby had boarded the bus, his athletic bag slung over one shoulder. He was still wearing clothes from a basketball practice—and in 1980, we didn’t wear long shorts for basketball. No, we had tiny little shorts that barely covered our business, accompanied by white socks with stripes of color around the top that came up to our knees. I hadn’t paid attention as he’d terrorized the freshmen at the front by holding out his dirty jock at them. So it was something of a surprise to realize that he’d decided to thrust it under my nose. “You like it? You can have it,” he said, dropping it on my lap.

I remember want to drop the dirty jock like a hot potato. My strategy when irritated or threatened, then as now, however, was merely to show as little reaction as possible. I pinched what looked like the cleanest portion of the waistband between the very tips of my fingers, and with an expression of remote disdain, dropped the jock into the aisle, right on the dirty bus floor. Bobby’s friends had been laughing at his antics before, but when Bobby scrambled to retrieve his athletic supporter, they laughed even harder.

I wrote it off as one of those moments in which my invisibility had inadvertently become opaque, but there were a few other incidents that followed. Once or twice, Bobby sat down on the bus next to me. I was certain that there’d be harassment to follow, but no. He just sat there, saying nothing, and seeming to expect nothing. Even when I had to push my way past him into the aisle at my stop, he didn’t push me, or yank down my pants, or do any of the terrible things featured in my imagination.

It wasn’t until the day of a school assembly that I suspected anything was up. For some reason the two of us were seated in the front row of the auditorium, next to each other—which strikes me as odd, given that he was two years older and we didn’t share any classes. The assembly was long and boring. At some point, very early on, Bobby moved his leg next to mine, pressed his bare, basketball shorts-clad leg against my corduroys, and kept it there. His leg was lightly hairy. I could feel its warmth through the fabric of my pants. I must have made some vaguely move to slide away from him, but his knee and calf followed, and very firmly adhered to mine as he sprawled out with his legs spread.

I didn’t pull away again. For the rest of that assembly I let him remain that close to me, knee to knee, wondering what it could mean. I’d already been having sex with older men for four years, by that point; I was no innocent by any means. But the only sex I’d had with someone else my age was with a sad boy lost in a haze of drugs, at the request of my older friend Earl; I’d certainly never had anyone else in school make any kind of erotic advance to me, and it really threw me.

It was about a month later, close to the end of the school year, that Bobby made his move. He spied in me in the hallway between Algebra II and Civics. “I want to show you something,” he said, over the hustle and bustle of boys and girls slamming their lockers and cutting loose.

“I’ve got class,” I mumbled.

“Come on,” he insisted, and gestured to me.

My high school was shaped like an upside-down T. The bulk of the classrooms were along the horizontal cross-bar, while in the back were a few of the advanced science labs, the orchestra and band rooms, and some meeting rooms where Key Club and the National Honors Society held court. Bobby strode through the hallway toward the back as if he owned it; I slumped behind, invisible and unnoticed, as the numbers of people began to peter out. I watched as he made his way down a staircase at the very rear of the building.

The bell rang. The hallways quieted down as the last people fled to their fourth-period classes. Only Bobby and I were in the stairwell, and I followed as he disappeared under the metal stair. The only way we could have been seen is if someone had come up to the windows set in the doors leading outside.

I was in real distress. I cannot stand to be tardy for anything—I never have been able to tolerate it, even as a child. And there I was, deliberately absent from Civics, and getting to be more of a truant by the second. I had never been in that section of the school before, and I didn’t know what Bobby wanted . . . though I hoped I suspected. “I’m late,” I stammered.

“I want to show you something,” he said in his lazy drawl, as he stared at me. His eyes stayed fixed on me as his hands reached for his pants. He wore no belt. All it took to open his jeans was a quick flip of the uppermost button and the almost-silent rending of his zipper. He yanked down on the elastic waist of his white briefs, and hooked them under his balls, so that he could show me his dick.

It was not the largest dick I’d seen, but it was thick; thick and two shades lighter than the rest of his skin. He’d been hard before he’d unzipped for me, and his head was bulbous and full. Without touching himself, he made his shaft leap up in the air. “What do you think?” he said.

I was too wary to respond. I thought it might be a trap of some kind. I said nothing.

He curled his hand into a fist and drew it over the upper half of his rod. “You like it?” Again he made it jump in the air. “Touch it.”

I didn’t move. I wanted to touch it very badly, but I didn’t want him to know.

In a soft whisper, almost a growl, he repeated, “Touch it.”

When he reached out for my hand and pulled it toward him, I resisted only slightly. He rested my hand on his shaft, which was so hot and rigid that it felt like an iron bar left to bake in the sun. I felt a stirring in my own pants as my fingers wrapped around it.

“It likes you too,” he whispered.

Almost immediately after I grabbed hold, he started to shoot. His cum flew and landed several feet away on the stairwell tile; it dripped from his head and grazed his sneakers. Finally, it oozed slowly from the tip as he buckled and shook. I’d already retrieved my hand and backed away, careful not to let any of the stuff on me.

“All right,” he said at last, nodding at me. He stuffed his still-hard dick in his pants, zipped, and buttoned himself. “Later.”

I remained standing in the stairwell, stunned, for a minute before I proceeded to class. I slipped in with excuses ready on my lips, but I didn’t need them. The teacher must’ve assumed that if her top student was late, it must’ve been for a good reason.

I never had another close encounter with Bobby. He didn’t sit with me again after that, and he graduated that year. But I remember smelling his sweat and oils on my hand the rest of that day, and how I would cup my fingers and palm close and inhale discreetly, whenever I could. And I remember looking over his yearbook photo after that, and wondering what in the world became of him.

From the Archive: Without Words

(I'm taking a blog vacation this week, but here's a favorite entry from last year to keep you amused and hopefully aroused while I'm gone.)


When Spencer pads into the bedroom, his body is still steaming from the shower. With the hall light behind him, throwing his body into silhouette, I can see trails of vapor rising from his skin. He stands there for a moment, a faceless shadow with its weight shifted to its right hip, as he waits for instruction.

I say nothing.

After a moment he takes a step forward, and then another. He lifts his right knee to rest it on the mattress, next to where I lie. Then his hands press down on the bed, next to my shoulders. He leans in, and brings his mouth to mine. “Hi,” he says.

I haven’t seen him in a week. I’d driven him to the airport before the Thanksgiving holiday; he’d only arrived back home this afternoon. It’s been a long week of saving up my juice for him, all for this reunion. When he kisses me, softly and sweetly, my dick begins to harden. I lift my neck to reach him all the more easily, and use my hands to pull him in for a kiss that’s deeper and harder. “I missed you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, and say nothing.

He notices this time. “What’s the matter?” When I don’t reply, he brings his other leg onto the bed and straddles my body. “Did I do something wrong?”

I’ve already decided not to use words for the fuck. They seem too easy for this evening. He’s susceptible to what I say to him. I show him instead, by pushing him around, down onto his back. Simultaneously I roll so that I’m on top. Across the bed we tumble. His legs rise into the air and wrap themselves below my shoulder blades. I can feel him hook his heels over my spine. My prick is stiff and swollen now. The head nudges against the boy’s hole. His own dick leaps and spasms against my sternum as now I kiss him. My tongue drives into his mouth; my hands hold down his thick biceps. Helplessly he squirms beneath me, trying to press his dick harder against me, to give it the relief it craves.

“Say something,” he begs, when I lift my weight from him.

I don’t obey him, though. Instead, I push his legs up and rest his knees on his shoulders. My middle finger probes his lips, then forces its way into his mouth. He sucks on it instinctively, like a baby. When I remove it, slick and cool with his spit, immediately I use it to toy with his ass lips. His hole is hot and moist from the shower he’s just taken. The tip and first two joints slip in easily, causing him to gasp. I could fuck him so easily, right now.

But not quite yet. I kneel down beside the bed and let my mouth dive in to that sweet gap between his legs. From bottom to top I lick the hole, letting the scruff of my beard rasp against the exposed tenderness with every lap. To punctuate the pleasure, I alternately nip his cheeks with my incisors, or blow a column of cool air onto the wet skin. Every time, they bring him hushed little thrills.

I’ve been denied the ass too long for much foreplay. He’s not sucked me; I’ve barely eaten him out at all. My dick demands, though, and my dick gets. I rub some moisture on it with my fingers, and thrust forward. Instinctively the head finds the hole. He opens up, craving me. I don’t hesitate to sink all the way in.

He’s warm, and wet, and his hole is as smooth as I remember. His hips grind at the depth of me, and then he sighs, content. “This is what I wanted,” he says. “Didn’t you?” I still don’t answer. Instead, I pull out. He protests. Even in the twilight darkness of the dimly-lit room I can see his eyebrows furrow, concerned that he’d perhaps said or done the wrong thing. “What?” he asks. “What do you want?”

I show him what I want. I yank him to his feet and I shove him against the wall. His hands reach high and press hard against the plaster, as if he’s holding up the entire second story. In this position, his dancer’s ass pushes out, full and heavy, two meaty handfuls that I separate as I push back into him. He slumps forward; his head and body hit the wall with a heavy thump. “Fuck,” he moans. Then, “Fuck me.”

That’s one command I’ll obey. I was going to do it anyway. I thrust deep into him and pull out again, over and over, relentlessly assaulting his hole. I’ve been in need the entire time he’s been gone. I’m not pausing for niceties now. I don’t even think the boy has a sense of time, or place as I pound his ass. He’s lost in some private ecstasy. The side of his face presses against the wall. His eyes are closed. Though he lets out little animal moans, he seems barely conscious. If I turned on the lights, I wouldn’t be surprised to see drool running from the corner of his mouth.

When I reach around for Spencer’s dick, it’s a stiff wet stub jammed against the plaster at an uncomfortable angle. I wrap my hand around it, and the thick inches respond. I spit into my hand once more and spread it along his dick’s length, jacking him as hard as I’m fucking. It only takes him thirty seconds before he’s rasping like every breath hurts. His back aches. I feel his dick throb in my palm as he shoots. He leaves his load on the wall, where it begins to drip onto the floor in multiple wet tracks.

I rip out of him, making him yelp. Then I shove the boy onto the bed so that his hips hang over the edge, and push his legs into the air before I shove in again. He loves to be fucked after he shoots; if anything, he’s more open and relaxed after the tension in his dick is dispensed with. The angle at which I’m fucking him makes him tighter than I’ve ever felt before. It feels as if I’m entering in a way that pounds the very root of his dick and keeps him hard even after he’s blown. His jaw drops. He roars. The sound he makes is long and unending and seemingly without breath or pause. It’s the sound of a tornado at full volume, or of a train’s horn as it approaches down the tracks at top speed. He yells. And yells. I’m glad the windows are tightly shut.

Whatever spot I’m hitting does it for him. Although he’s still leaking stray semen from the load he blew onto the wall, he’s hard again. I use his dick as a handle as I continue to pound that internal pleasure button. I’m getting close myself, just listening to his pleasure.

When I shoot, it’s with a mighty grunt. I drive into him and hold it there, silently spasming. He knows me, though. He knows when I’m coming, and holds me in him, his hands clutching at my hips. He wants it deeper, and then deeper still. “Please breed me,” he begs. “Please. I’ve wanted it so much. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Please give it to me.”

The load’s large. I haven’t shot since the last time I saw him. I can feel it oozing out around my meat and dribbling down both his crack and my nuts, shortly after I’ve finished jerking and shaking. He sighs, and whimpers, and sounds for a moment as if he might cry. Then we both negotiate our way onto the mattress and rest there, still connected, dick-to-ass. “Amazing,” he whispers, running his fingertips through my beard. “God, that’s amazing.”

I still say nothing. I pull his fingers onto my lips, however, so that beneath he can feel the smile I’m wearing.

From the Archive: Ugly-Sexy

(While I'm on vacation, I'm re-running a few of my favorite old essays for your pleasure.)


He knelt down on the floor, naked, staring up at me. His knees were spread as far as they could go, spreading the perfect, halved cantaloupes of his butt apart so that from my position on the sofa, I could almost see the pink pucker they normally hid. He rested the weight of his his naked, muscled torso on his fingers and palm as he leaned it and rubbed his face against my dick and balls. From his broad, solid shoulders, his chest tapered to a slim waist. His arms bulged and narrowed in all the right places, the products of hours and hours of weights and push-ups. From my view above him, as he bowed to worship my dick, his body was practically perfect. “Nice,” I whispered into the half-darkness.

“Thank you sir,” he said, and raised his head to look into my eyes. That fucking ugly face.

Ugly-sexy.

There’s a certain kind of look that makes me weak at the knees every time—the kind of guy who spends a lot of time at the gym, who takes time to pick out clothing that’s going to show off his body, and who has a plug-ugly face. No, not even a face. A mug. He might have a crooked beak, or a lop-sided smile, or a mouth that’s simply formed from the tricks of genetics into a permanent sneer. His eyebrows might be too thick, too dark, and too close together; his eyes might be too dark, too mean, too beady. Sometimes he’ll have a rock cliff of a forehead, uneven and broad and craggy. His chin might be too much of a stub, or his ears too big. He’s just not handsome in that traditional, movie-star way.

And I fucking love it.

Pretty boys—I’ve got nothing against them. They make my life a little happier when I see them walking down the street, or when I watch them undressing in my bedroom. But a less comely gent with a killer body will turn my head when he walks into a room, and keep my attention riveted, every time.

My cocksucker had lips that looked as if they’d been smashed into a permanent rosebud with a rubber band as a baby—a Sylvester Stallone pout, with the dark hair and scraggly eyebrows to match. His eyes were too far apart. His skin was too pale to be tan and too dark to be pale. His head was almost too small for his body. The nose that was the crooked, bumped crowning glory of his face had been broken at least twice. Sat next to one of the handsome Italians that undoubtably had to be in his family, anyone would’ve winced. But damned if I didn’t think he was the hottest thing on earth at that moment. “Suck me,” I ordered.

He knew what to do with that pouty mouth. It traveled up and down the length of my shaft for long, slick minutes, never stopping to utter complaint or ask for a rest. From time to time he would pause and lap at my nuts and stare up at me with those blank, beady eyes that didn’t so much see me as behold me. I’d run my hand through his hair, which was crispy from product and left a residue between my fingers, and pull him onto my dick again.

I liked the look of him better from behind, when he had his face in the pillow and his ass in the air. I fingered his pretty hole and watched it twitch at my touch. My mouth and lips made it jump. It relaxed and blossomed as I licked and dug at it with my tongue. Then, after spitting in my palm and slathering the saliva over my dick, I raised my cock to the hole I’d wanted from the beginning and slid in. He accepted me with a long, drawn-out gasp that made him claw the pillowcase.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, as I started to slide in and out. His shoulders and head rested on the mattress while his hips rose higher in the air. I had to push him down before he got them too high to continue fucking. I lifted my right knee and rested on the left as I continued to open wide his hole with my dick.

As I thrust in and out roughly, not really caring if he enjoyed it or not, he started to jack at his dick, getting more and more aroused. “I’m not ready yet,” I warned him. “If you come, I’m not stopping.”

“You don’t have to stop,” he promised. “You don’t have to . . . ah, fuck!” Ropes of semen began to shoot from his dick onto my blanket, and his hole grabbed at my dick to suck it in as deeply as it could.

He was true to his word. Once his spasms had subsided, he kept his butt in the air and let me pound away. I positioned him so that neither of us was inconvenienced by the puddle of cum in the bed’s middle, and fucked away. After a while, he pushed himself up on those beautifully-sculpted arms and looked over his shoulder at me. “You are so damned good,” he said, sounding as if he genuinely meant it. “So fucking good. My hole feels amazing right now.”

The sight of that plug-ugly face turned me on even more. I pulled his face around with one of my hands, and drove my tongue between the same ugly lips that had been around my dick only a few minutes before. My heart rate increased, as did my breathing. Before I knew it, I felt that scratched-out, diffuse feeling of expansion and diffusion that accompanies the best of my orgasms. Dimly was I aware that I was shooting a thick load of cum in him. All I could really feel was the snapped rubber-band tension of my dick, fire-red and still throbbing, and his mouth panting into mine. His own hand was jerking at his dick again. While I inhaled deeply and attempted to regain my good senses, he shot another load onto the bed.

A few moments later, I lay back on the bed and watched him dress. First his jockstrap, perfectly white and probably never used for actual exercise. Then his shiny blue sweatpants that made his cheeks seem even rounder and perkier. Finally his gymnast’s T, sleeveless and designed to show off his guns.

But then there was that face. He flashed me a grin that exposed one front tooth skewed and protruding in front of the other, and raised the caterpillars that were his eyebrows. “You are fucking good,” he said, wiping sweat from his enormous forehead. “We’ve gotta do that again.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, turned on by the contrast between how he appeared from the shoulders down and the neck up. “Definitely.”

Ugly-sexy. I wanted more of that.

From the Archive: Restroom Lunch Break

(While I'm acting as my pop's indentured servant this week, I'd like to encourage everyone to A) enjoy this piece from the archive from two years ago, and B) pray for me never to have to clean out the archaeological site that is the unvacuumed back seat of his car ever again.)


The only thing I knew about the guy was that his online name was SexInPublic, that he had a couple of photos showing a beefy, hairy body and a nice mouth fringed with fur, and that judging by his profile, we both liked to cruise the same places. Would love to run into you at the mall restroom, he emailed me out of the blue earlier this week, naming the mall where I do most of my hooking up when I’m in that kind of mood. Damn nice cock—bet you deliver a hell of a load, too.

It does. Want to suck it tomorrow at 11? I wrote him back. Upstairs or down?

Upstairs, he decided. Can’t wait to wrap my lips and throat around that dick of yours.

Short, simple, and to the point, was the correspondence. If only it were all that easy. There was something direct and honest about it, too—at least to the point that I didn’t feel the need to doubt that he’d show. I left my house twenty minutes early, drove several miles north to the mall, parked outside, and walked in. When I pushed open the men’s room door in the quiet corner behind the coffee shop, it was precisely eleven o’clock.

And he was waiting in the handicapped stall next to the one I chose. When I dropped my shorts and looked beneath the partition, I saw a pair of long, shiny square-tipped leather shoes protruding from a pair of frayed designer jeans. On the tiles I saw a shadow lurch forward, as if the guy next to me were bending over and down.

I tapped my left foot. Immediately in response he tapped his own toe, several times, up and down, moving it closer to mine. I leaned down and looked under the partition and saw a man’s head craning down to do the same; I could tell his hair was short and dark. Our eyes met briefly, but when someone invaded the quiet sanctity of the men’s room from outside, we both sat up and resumed more normal postures.

While the intruder pissed in a urinal, I stroked myself hard while looking around the back of the partition, using the shiny marble tiles as a reflective mirror. My buddy was also stroking himself, I judged by his arm motions. I watched as he removed his eyeglasses and set them on the box holding rolls of toilet paper. The guy at the urinal stepped back, triggering the auto-flush. We listened as he washed and dried his hands.

The moment the room was clear again, the guy next to me was on all fours. I could tell he wore a crisply-pressed cotton baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; an expensive gold watch adorned his furry right wrist. I knelt down on the tiles, my dick stiffening as his left hand grabbed for my dick. His wedding ring was thick, gold, and sported a large stone in its flat face.

I suspected that, when he yanked my dick under the stall and stuffed it in his mouth, he wasn’t thinking about his pretty wife.

My left hand gripped the toilet seat, and my right the top of the roll dispenser as I pivoted my knees beneath the partition. The cold metal pressed into the top of my pelvis as he pulled as much of me as possible underneath, gobbling down on my dick. I was ready to withdraw, silently and swiftly, in the case of another intruder, but at the same time, he had total and complete access to the parts he wanted so badly.

And he went to town on them, too. I could feel slobber cascading down my shaved nuts and tickling the underside of my asshole before dripping on the floor. He would deep-throat my meat like a starving man and try not to gag on my length, then surface for air and gasp before going down again faster than a drowning man with bricks in his pockets. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, as he did all the right stuff to my dick.

Someone came in. With practiced calm I levered my hips out and up, and then settled onto the toilet seat. My friend did the same, lifting himself from his huddled position on the floor without any sound more than a few shifting clothes. We both waited for the new intruder to leave; I put some more spit on my dick and ran my fist up and down the shaft while the guy peed, knowing that my buddy was watching me through the crack behind the partition.

When the second intruder left, my buddy was back on the floor again, not even bothering to keep his pristine shirt off the grubby tiles. He stuck his head all the way beneath the partition and looked up at me. I could see now that he was a good-looking man—perhaps older than he advertised in his profile, but an attractive guy nonetheless. “That’s the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,” he whispered at me. His hand reached out to run his hands over my hairy legs.

I just nodded. I had the heels of my sneakers together, with my camo shorts bunched around them. My knees were spread as far as they’d go, and I double-fisted my big dick while he watched. I used all the same techniques I employ during my cam shows—using my full fist at different angles, grabbing my nuts with one hand and pulling them as far as they’d go, and pursing my lips like I was close to orgasm—which I honestly was, showing off. “I want it in my ass,” he said.

“Now?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Next time,” he promised. I just grunted and nodded, and then stuffed the tip of my right index finger into my slit. I withdrew a heavy bead of precum that left a long, sticky tail as I pulled it away and shoved it in my mouth.

I thought he was about to faint when he saw that. “Fuck,” he said. “I’ve gotta come.”

I leaned forward and offered my left hand. Immediately he straightened up and thrust his knees beneath the partition. With my right hand still slicking my own dick, I spat into my left and got his little member wet and hard. Then I jacked at it.

It didn’t take long. He was groaning almost immediately, and then thrusting his hips against my hand shortly thereafter. The partition vibrated with every shove; my own stall door came unlocked and drifted open to bang against my knee, but I didn’t bother to close it. We were still quietly undisturbed.

When he came, it was with a violent grunt. Little droplets of semen puddled in my hand and then onto the floor underneath. I waited until his spasms subsided, then grabbed a wad of toilet paper so that I could clean off first my hands and then the floor itself. Then I did a quick possessions check—phone, keys, wallet—and left the stall so I could wash my hands.

I saw him walking to his own car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. The man was driving a BMW parked next to mine. Out in the wild he looked like any other upper-middle-class suburbanite dad hitting the mall for a quick shopping trip.

No one save me would’ve guessed him to have been on all fours, only moments before, pants around his ankles and ass high in the air as he’d nursed some stranger’s big dick in his mouth on a dirty restroom floor. I’m sure that’s just the way he wanted it.

From the Archive: 3 Loads, 35 Minutes

(I'm visiting my dad this week. While I'm toiling away as his unpaid handy labor, won't you stroll down memory lane with me in this entry from two years ago?)

Usually when I write a sex entry, I tell myself I can’t take any more time to write than it took to have the sex. This entry might be a little difficult.

After my restroom cruising on Monday I returned home and plopped down at my laptop to catch up on my email. Almost immediately I got a text message from the kid who’d stood me up so spectacularly on Sunday morning. I am so sorry about yesterday, he’d written. Let me make it up to you. I wasn’t in the mood for either apologies and I’d pretty much already put the kid on my three-strike-and-out list, when he started texting again. I am in your neighborhood with a buddy. We can both be butt up and blindfolded any time you say. Please please please come fuck us. You can take all the photos you want.

Well. A man can only be so strong. I gave in and texted back, and we arranged for me to be at his buddy’s place, which was less than a mile and a half away, in twenty minutes.

The house was a neatly-kept little bungalow on a quiet street near a school. I parked in front, entered through the side door, and locked the door behind me. Then I walked through the tidy kitchen and the immaculate living room, and into the bedroom, as I’d been instructed.

Two boys in their twenties knelt on the mattress before me. The one who’d contacted me wore a leather blindfold. He was skinny, good-looking, and covered with tattoos, and sported piercings in his lip. His friend was taller; a vinyl hood obscured his entire head, leaving only his mouth exposed. The only thing I could tell about him was that he was nearly hairless, and that his hole was glistening with lube.

I shut the door.

I knelt on the bed and without a word, took both their heads in my hands and directed them to my crotch. Both of the boys went to town on the denim of my jeans, running their mouths over the length of hard dick underneath. My boy clawed at my top button and yanked down the zipper, then began sucking my dick through the cotton of my briefs. His friend with the hood pulled down my shorts and began licking at my butt cheeks. A moment later, I yanked off the pants and shorts and was sitting on the hooded boy’s face, letting me dive deep into my hole with his tongue while my boy sucked my dick.

The sensations were incredible. Both of the kids were hungry and horny, and ate at me with a hunger that brought me close to orgasm several times. Too close. After a couple of minutes of that treatment I couldn’t stand it any more. “Time to fuck,” I growled.

My boy immediately got onto his knees.

I slapped some lube from a jar on the bureau onto his hole, and shoved myself in. I’d expected him to be much looser than he was; the little slut was tight as a boy half his age, and he gasped with every inch I worked in. Despite his initial resistance, it didn’t take me long to ease my way in to the base. “Oh god,” he yelled out. It was the first time I’d really heard his voice, and though it was effeminate, it was still pretty on the ears. “Yes. It’s been so long since I had a real man’s dick.”

The hooded boy was lying on his back at the bed’s edge. I pulled out of my boy and dived into the hooded boy’s hole. It was looser and warmer, but he yelled louder when I went in. Almost immediately he pulled his legs up and back so that more of his butt was exposed. “Fuck,” he whispered, over and over. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.”

For a couple of minutes I went back and forth between the two holes, taking my pleasure in one, then the other. I was close to shooting, though, so I plunged back in to my boy’s hole and held myself in him, not saying a word. “You’re coming,” he said almost immediately. “I can feel your dick throbbing. Oh fuck. You’re filling me up. Holy shit.”

“Is he coming in you?” asked his friend.

“Yes. He’s shooting it all . . . Fuck.”

I hadn’t said much at all during those first fifteen minutes. For one thing, part of me was still pissed at the kid for standing me up the morning before. For another, I kind of liked the idea that the only feedback they were getting from me was the direction of my hands, the feel of my dick, or my mouth and tongue deep in their own mouths as we kissed. They could learn what they wanted from me from my breathing, or my grunts. “Sit on my dick,” I said now, though, instructing the hooded one to climb on my wet rod.

My boy held his friend from behind as he slid his ass down onto my cock. He kissed at the hooded boy’s neck and ears and pinched his nipples, hard, as the boy began rising and lowering himself. Despite the fact I’d shot only a minute before, I was still raging hard and had a week’s worth of fucking to make up. “Yes,” I said, when the boy started moving himself in a way I found especially pleasing. “Like that. Just like that.”

He responded to the direction quite well. While my boy continued twisting and torturing his nipples, the hooded kid shuddered and moaned as he rode my hard dick. “Just like that. Keep doing it. Keep doing it,” I said. For a couple of more minutes I sat upright, my legs splayed out, while the hooded guy did his work. Then, unable to hold it any more, I pulled him down by the fabric of his mask and crushed my mouth against his. The kid had a very thin, long dick—skinnier than any I’ve seen in some time. It erupted with cum all over my T-shirt as he shook and gasped. His mouth made helpless noises against mine.

I didn’t last any longer than it took him to cum. I grabbed the kid by the shoulders and pushed him down. My second load was quieter than the first, but he knew it was happening. “Oh god,” he said, holding onto me for support. “Oh my god.”

“Is he breeding you?” asked my boy, with the blindfold. His hands scrabbled for the place where my dick was inside his friend. “Oh fuck, he is,” he said. Cum was already leaking from the hole. My boy licked what he’d found off of his fingers. “Let me clean you off.”

I found myself on my back, pushed down by two pairs of hands, as two mouths traveled down my torso. My boy licked what remained of his buddy’s load from my shirt, then pushed it up so that he could chomp on my nipples. The hooded boy sucked my dick, cleaning off the cum and juices from his ass. Then the blindfolded kid joined him, licking at my nuts and ass crack.

I didn’t lose my hard-on at all. It was only a couple of minutes later that I found myself mounting my boy from behind, pushing him down into the mattress as I straddled his ass and thrust myself into his tight, tight hole. I honestly haven’t encountered a hole that tight on a guy of his years in a dog’s age. He groaned and panted and begged me to fuck him hard while I nailed his little ass into the bed.

“Just do it,” he said, grunting. “I don’t give a fuck what you look like. I don’t care if I never see you. I just want another load. I want you to load me with that big dick. I’ve needed a real dick for so long and dude, you know how to give it to me.”

“Shut up,” I told him. He stopped talking. I was close to shooting again, and his voice was distracting me. 

What put me over the third time was when the hooded guy started licking at my butthole again. The sensation of his sweet little mouth on my ass pushed me over the edge, and I thrashed forward, pinning the blindfolded kid to the sheets as I bred him. “Shit!” yelled the kid. “Shit!” Over and over he said the word while I lay on top of him, waiting for the fireworks to clear from my head. A minute later, I pulled out and stood up. My blindfolded boy rolled over, and exposed the load he’d shot onto the sheets.

I wiped off with a towel on the bureau, grabbed the camera I’d brought, and pulled on my pants. “Gotta go,” I told them. I looked at the clock by the bed. Three loads, thirty-five minutes.

“Yeah, my dad’s going to be home soon,” said the hooded guy. That only made me pull my shoes on all the more quickly. “Damn, that was hot.”

“So hot,” agreed my boy. “Fucking hot.” They lay on their backs, hands on each other’s stomachs and chest, unseeing, when I left.

My phone buzzed with a text message when I got back to my house. Hope I made up for everything, my boy had sent.

He had.

Moving Week Repost: The Cop

While I'm settling into my new home this week and don't have much in the way of internet access, I'm reposting a few favorite entries that shorter-term readers might not have encountered, and that longer-term fans might remember fondly. This entry is from June of 2010. I tend to think about it this time of year, when the weather starts to get warm and the days are long.

Last week, someone asked me via formspring.me whether I’d had sex with a police officer or not. When I replied I had, naturally I got several people asking to hear about it. Because in these post-Village People days, what self-respecting gay guy hasn’t wanted to have sex with a policeman?

In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I stayed in the little town where I was attending college. Williamsburg is a Virginia tourist attraction known for both Colonial Williamsburg and the Busch Gardens theme park, and its summer months could be absolute madness. I’d been putting myself through school by working in an ice cream store that was so swamped during tourist season that they were more than happy to have me stick around and work nights.

There wasn’t much to Williamsburg. The college and Colonial Williamsburg abut each other like conjoined twins, tied by a long, straight umbilical cord of a road to the interstate some miles away. Along that road were businesses and hotels, including my ice cream store. And way out past the outskirts of town was the little apartment that I and my junior-year roommate were subletting together.

I didn’t have a car in those days. (I didn’t have a car until I was in graduate school.) I did have my ten-speed bike, though, and a sturdy pair of legs. I’d bike several miles down to campus in the mornings, where I’d hang out in the campus center and whore in the restrooms. In the afternoons I’d head to the ice cream store, where I’d work until ten before biking home and doing it all again the next day.

One night after work I was biking down Richmond Road, the long commercial stretch of fast food chains and old-persons’ cafeterias, when I was hit by a car. It wasn’t as dire as it sounded. When I happened to bike in front of the Arby’s driveway, a tourist from Maryland nosed out too far in the road, rammed my ankle, and sent me sprawling. Luckily there was very little traffic at that time of night, and I had presence of mind enough to fall toward the sidewalk and not out in the middle of the road.

The tourist, apparently feeling she was doing the right thing, slammed on her accelerator and took off. I sat on the curb and checked first my leg, which throbbed a little but which wasn’t in bad condition or anything. I’d just begun to look over my bike when I heard the whoop of a siren. When I looked up, a police car had pulled up in front of me. “Don’t go anywhere!” called the cop inside. Then he, too, went roaring off with his siren blaring.

I don’t think I thought I was in trouble, though the possibility crossed my mind. After all, it wasn’t me that the cop was chasing. Under the streetlights I obediently waited. By the time he returned a few minutes later, I’d determined that everything was fine with my bicycle. The cop blocked the entire right lane with his vehicle and got out to talk to me. “Couldn’t get her,” he said, putting both his hands on his hips.

He was a stocky man in his early forties, tending more to chubby than to muscular. He was also a good foot shorter than I, and wore his hair in that style Virginia men of a certain middle age used to, back in the day—severe part on one side, a swoop of hair over the forehead, trimmed to within an inch of its life. A gold band decorated his ring finger. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

With a little prompting, I explained that I worked at the ice cream store down the street and that I was just biking back to my apartment. “These out-of-towners are crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta be careful. I wouldn’t want my kid biking on this road. Listen. I’m going to follow you home. Just to make sure you’re okay. Got it?”

There wasn’t really much I could do. I shrugged, struggled back into my backpack, and biked home with a police escort. The entire way back he kept his light flashing and stayed a good ten feet behind me. I pulled off into my parking lot and thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t until I reached my apartment door that he tooted his horn, waved at me out the window, and drove off. I went inside and thought no more about it.

Until, that is, until the next night. Biking home from work again, I passed the same Arby’s and nearly had a heart attack when a car came barreling out of the drive just seconds after I’d passed. It wasn’t a tourist, though. It was a police car, and driving it was the very same cop who’d followed me home the night before. He nodded at me without any real friendliness on his face as he drove by, and then pulled off. He’d drive up to some waypoint and wait for me, then when I’d pass, he’d drive by again and wait somewhere. All the way home he leapfrogged me, until we were in my parking lot. Then he waved, spoke to someone on his radio, and drove off.

I had a night off after that, but part of me wondered if my policeman was waiting for me at Arby’s again. The next time I drove home, he answered the question for me by meeting me in the parking lot of the ice cream store. His squad car had been idling, the entire time he'd waited for me. When I stepped out of the back door, he flicked his lights twice to greet me.

I walked up to the driver's side and said hi through the window. "I'll be okay," I said to him. "Really. You don't have to follow me home every night."

"It's my duty," he said. When he stared at me, it was with an intensity I recognized. He was attempting to be casual, but I wasn't fooled.

He wasn't an attractive man, in a traditional sense. There was something sexual about him, though. With his gruff voice, his barrel chest, his paws, and his air of easy authority, I was kind of mesmerized. He was masculine and protective. All I could really think was that I felt like the prostitute of Blondie's "X Offender," pledging her body to the officer who arrested her: "When I get out, there's no doubt I'll be sex offensive to you."

"I've never had an accident before the other night. Really," I assured him. It was night, so I was fairly confident he couldn't see how deeply I was reddening, but I looked up and away, anyway.

"If I had a boy like you," he said in low tones, "I'd be worried about him. Out at night. On the roads. Alone."

Said in a different way, the words could have come off as creepy and serial killer-like. The way the cop said them, they gave me an instant erection. I laughed it off and unlocked my bike, and began the trip home.

I waited for the officer when I reached my sublet. As I expected, he pulled his car into the parking lot and watched while I locked up my bicycle. "Thanks again," I said, walking over to his car. "As usual."

"No problem. As usual." Though I expected him to pull off and get back to work, he stayed in his car, staring at me levelly. His fingers tapped against the outside of his door. "So," he said at last. "You live with a girlfriend?"

I colored deeply again. My erection, which had withered on the bike home, sprang back to life. "No," I told him. Before he could ask anything else, I supplied, "A roommate."

He nodded, as if he'd expected that. "So the other night, I checked out this place around the back of these apartments," he said, staring still. "It's real quiet. You want to see it?"

My heart beat like timpani. I knew exactly what he was asking, and knew I'd heard correctly. I might even have known it was coming. Still, I couldn't help but respond with stunned shock. "Yeah," I said, with the ghost of a voice. "Sure."

After I'd hopped into his front seat and allowed him to drive me around the apartment complex, the back of which was indeed dark and quiet, we sat in his car staring forward. His fingers now drummed on his thighs. After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat. "I'm married."

I'd known that, by the ring. "All right," I said.

"Shit, I got two little girls at home." I didn't know how to reply to the confession. "Okay. Here's the thing. I never had no boy before."

When he made that announcement, his voice was as choked with worry as mine had been. I looked over in surprise, to find him trying to assess me. His eyes darted away. I had the realization then that as nervous and excited as I was, his anxiety was even higher. I'd thought we'd come back to this dark spot so that he could ravish me. Now I realized that I was going to have to be the seducer. Once I grasped that notion, my own nerves disappeared. "It's okay," I told him, softly. I reached out and put my hand on his.

He flinched slightly, but let me rub my palm up and down the thatch of hair growing on his forearm. "Unzip," I suggested. After a moment, he obeyed.

His dick was thick, short, meaty, and already hard--a knob of flesh with an unwashed scent. He wasn't dirty, but his tool had obviously been lying unused all day. When I took it all in my mouth and began to suck, he gasped, then groaned. I felt his hand rest gently on the back of my head, almost as if he were afraid to touch me back. With my free hand, I pulled his fingers hard against my skull, to show him it was all right. His digits twined with my hair, and began to control the rise and fall as I sucked.

I slobbered greedily over his dick, aware of the steering wheel digging into my shoulders, and the bulges and sharp corners of the objects hanging from his belt bruising my clavicle. Beneath the fabric, his radio occasionally sparked and flared with noise, but the only sounds he made were of soft sighs and the occasional grunt. I hummed with pleasure as I sucked that dick, breathing in a whiff of masculine sweat every time my nose his his pubic hair.

When he came, which was shortly after I began to suck, he did so with a shout and a cry of, "I'm gonna let it loose . . . you gonna take it? You gonna take it?" I answered by plunging my head down to the root and letting him hold my head there while he unleashed spurt after spurt of semen. He tasted sour, and slightly like lemons, and bleach, but I swallowed him all. For a moment I remained down on his dick. When it began to soften, I sat back up again.

I didn't know what his reaction would be, after his first blow job from a guy. Would he kick me out? Would he call me names? I'd been with straight men before who'd verbally abused me after the act, so that they could feel better about themselves and what they'd done.

The cop didn't do any of those things, though. Instead, he sat there in the dark parking lot with his dick still flopping down beneath his belly, and rubbed his hand over his belly. "Shit," he said at last. Then he turned his head and looked at me. "So. Do you do that fucking up the butthole thing, too?"

The next time we met, which was a couple of nights later in the same spot, we did the fucking up the butthole thing. I had to teach him to get me wet and to slick up his dick, and that he didn't have to treat me as if I were made of glass. After the first few times, he began to get into the man sex—he could pound away at my ass like the best of them. He wasn't much for the dirty talk, but every time he came in my hole, he'd tell me something like, "I'm making babies in you, boy."

This is what I think about when I think about my police officer: those hot and humid Virginia summer nights, the rise and fall of cicada cries, the smell of sweat, and the weight of my cop's body as he pressed hard into me and grunted: "Making my babies in you."

Moving Week Repost: High Elvish

While I'm settling into my new home this week and don't have much in the way of internet access, I'm reposting a few favorite entries that shorter-term readers might not have encountered, and that longer-term fans might remember fondly. This entry is from April of 2010.

The boy was cute. I would have put him at twenty-one or twenty-two. Old enough, that is, to be legally consuming the mug of beer he clutched in his hands. His hair was dark and shaggy and was patted down in a carefully negligent swoop that covered the entire of his forehead. The smallest, downiest patch of fuzz adorned the tip of chin, as if he’d dipped it into the magnetic particles of a Wooly Willy child’s toy. His eyes were wide, clear, and blue. From where I sat in the smoky bar’s booth, my long legs sprawled out over the bench, I noticed those eyes looking at me, over and over again. Every time they met mine, they skittered away like timid mice. I wasn’t afraid to stare at him outright. So I got to see the shy dance of his own gaze as it danced around the room, followed by the magnetic return to me before it dashed away again.

He was a little like the current American Idol contestant Tim Urban, this kid, save for a little slighter and not quite as wholesome. Then there were his forearms, the undersides of which appeared smudged. I thought at first that perhaps he’d laid his arms on a dirty table and they’d come away grimy, but the more he raised his mug of beer to his pretty little lips, the plainer it became that he’d had both armed tattooed in an elaborate script. I was convinced for a while it was some erudite saying in a fancy font.

He saw me looking, and out of defense crossed his arms over the Atari logo T-shirt he wore beneath his ragged plaid shirt. The position only gave me a better view of those arms.Then when I saw the diacriticals, I realized that he’d gotten his arms covered in High Elvish. The kid was some kind of Lord of the Rings fanboy, and had actually picked out an Elvish quotation and had it inked onto his skin.

The scrappy chin fuzz, the Atari shirt, the total geeky fanboyishness of the tattoos—well, it gave me a total mental hard-on. And it wasn’t as if I was imagining that the kid was staring at me. I had his full attention most of the time, even in those moments when he was studiously avoiding looking my way. We were in a crowded suburban bar packed with drinkers and couples eating dinner and smokers having their last hurrah with smoking indoors before the Michigan smoking ban goes into effect next month. It was a straight bar, a sports bar, and the sort of place where the fanciest thing on the menu was the ‘Swanky Frankie’—a hot dog wrapped in bacon and deep-fried. I had a night away from home and was surrounded by a bunch of friends. He was at a crowded table of guys and girls his own age, all of them drinking and whooping and eating the free popcorn with both hands. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place where you pick up guys.

We had eye-fucked each other for over a half hour when finally I excused myself from the table and stood up. I stretched. When I found him—surprise, surprise—staring at me after my public yawn and extension, I let him have half a sheepish grin. Then I made my way to the men’s room.

The bar’s restrooms were at the back. A half-drunk slattern exited the women’s room, making its hinge protest with a high-pitched creak when she leaned too heavily on the door on her way out. She stumbled by, unsteady on her feet, as she gave me the up-and-down. I slipped into the men’s room and stood at one of the two urinals.

It wasn’t too long before I heard the restroom door open with a slow, tentative push. I didn’t even look around. I just listened to his soft footsteps as with uncertainty he walked in, pretended to check his hair in the mirror, and coughed. Then, after a pause that seemed eternal, he sidled over to the urinal next to mine, and unzipped. I’d started to grow hard the moment I knew it was him. I turned my head slightly, enough to know that he was looking over at me. When I knew I had his attention, I took a step back.

My cock was plainly visible, jutting from the fly of my jeans. I stroked it in my right hand and cupping my balls with my left. I like showing off my dick to strange guys. Know they’re getting an eyeful turns me on. Seeing the hungry look on his face, the unconscious working of his lips as he listened to whatever inner monologue he had of lust and need, simply made me all the harder.

A bead of precum bulged from my slit as I turned to him. He angled his body toward mine, too. His dick was only half-hard, and not large at all, but it was hooded and shaved and clutched so hard between his trembling fingers that it was turning purple. I turned a little more in his direction and thrust out my hips and cock. “Touch it,” I ordered him in a whisper.

His fingers were still shaking as he obeyed my order. His arm turned so I could see the letters so carefully inscribed along their length, that elaborate script that would have been better suited adorning the One Ring. The kid reached out and took my meat from underneath, and squeezed. It was hot in his cold hand. I stared not at what he was doing, but at his face and those beautiful blue eyes. He looked mostly at my dick, stroking it in his hand as if he’d never held one before other than his own. Occasionally though, his glance would dart up to mine and then away again, almost as if he were embarrassed at being caught doing what he was doing.

“Suck it,” I told him, after a while. I used my hands on his shoulders to press down. Obediently, without question, he knelt down onto the dirty tiles.

Again he looked up at me, a question in his eyes. Do I have to?

I nodded. Yes, he did.

His mouth opened. His tongue flicked out. He leaned forward at an angle. Then, from outside the restroom came the awful squeal of the door to the women’s room, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot. The kid scrambled up to his feet. A wild look was in his eyes, as if he expected the vice squad to have appeared behind him. The kid stuffed his junk back into his pants so hastily that I feared for its safety. Then, like a little doe frightened by hunters, he darted on light, fleet feet out of the restroom and back to his table.

I followed a little while later. He’d taken a seat with his back to me, so he couldn’t stare at me any more. His arm was around the shoulders of a chubby, pretty girl. From time to time he’d whisper in her ear as if confiding something. I knew his attention was still on me, though, because he couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder to see if I was still there.

I didn’t return to the restroom that night, and I didn’t attempt to engage him any further. Sometimes making a boy admit to his desire is all I need; I like watching that internal struggle as he attempts to balance the sexual heat against his compulsions to remain a good boy. Saturday night, the heat won out—it was brief, and it didn’t result in anything, but the heat won. That’s a victory for my side, any day.