“This is the most ridiculous thing ever,” I tell Nick as he pads in from the kitchen. He’s got an bowl in his hands. It’s set on a plate. A single spoon rests on the rim.
“But you’ve been busy.” His tone is teasing. He sits down on the side of his bed, and leans over. I’m naked, beneath the covers, and surrounded by the several pillows he’s fluffed to prop me up. “You need to save your hands for better things. Like . . . fucking me again. Now, open wide.”
Nick dips his spoon into the bowl and produces an Italian meatball, microwaved and covered with brown gravy. I’m still protesting, but more and more weakly. “I’m not a baby bird.”
“Open wide,” he whispers, and brings the spoon in for a landing. My last defenses break down, and I part my mouth. The spoon penetrates between my lips; he tips the utensil to deliver the piping-hot meatball onto my tongue. “Now chew,” he says, staring me in the eyes. I obey. “Good boy.”
A shiver passes over my body. It’s an intimate, surprisingly erotic moment. No one else has ever fed me meatballs in bed, before.
Have you ever had an encounter with someone who initially comes off as a fucking lunatic, but turns out to be surprisingly sweet in person . . . and then morphs into a lunatic again? That would be my history with Nick, the Greek escort. Welcome, Nick, to your tape.
Nick came more or less out of nowhere (and ultimately disappeared just as quickly) to give me one of the sweetest, and most baffling, encounters of last year. I was at home one evening folding laundry when I checked BBRT, which I’d had running in the background, to see if anyone was looking for sex. It’s rare that anyone is, in my sleepy suburb. I had one message from a guy from New Haven with a profile name of GiorgioSaint. I checked his profile first, something I always do unless I know the guy. No photos. Nothing in the description. No stats. Every field said ‘ask me,’ which is the hallmark of someone who either has just created the profile, or worse, never bothered to fill it out.
Hi, I’m Giorgio. Send me your email, said the guy’s message.
Ordinarily I would’ve just ignored the request. That evening, though, I must’ve felt cranky and contentious. (Hey, it happens.) Why in the world would I send you my email? I don’t know you, and your profile tells me nothing.
Send me your email. I’m out of messages and I want to tell you something.
Somehow I was pretty sure that the something this anonymous guy wanted to tell me was that if I logged into www.camtacularboyz.com I could chat with him for the low rate of twenty dollars for ten minutes, or that he had a surefire way to battle erectile dysfunction. Apparently I was mystified as well as cranky and contentious, though, because after a moment’s hesitation, I gave him my address. Then I prepared for the spam that was to follow.
About five minutes later I got the guy’s email.
Hey Mr. Steed! I am going to be upfront with you right from the start. I am NOT Giorgio Saint. I had to come up with an alias if I was to come onto the site in peace! I did NOT want to bother with blocking people or attitudes. Who I really am is Nick Basil Pappas. If you do a "Search" and put in my name, there you will find me. Those are my pics and they are current. I recognize you from your blog and I liked your writing and your attitude.
(And no, that wasn’t the name he actually gave me.)
I mentioned in last week’s entry in this series that I don’t use search engines to research my tricks. I don’t peep at their Facebook accounts, if I know their last names. I don’t hunt for them on (as my dad calls it), The Tweeter. In my opinion, it’s rude. It’s invasive. Just because one can do it, doesn’t mean one should.
Sure, I’ll occasionally look up old college classmates on social media when I’m feeling nostalgic, or if I want to see how much older than myself they look. But potential tricks or guys I’m fucking? Nope, not unless they invite me to. It’s such an solid plank in my sexual belief system that hopping online to research a person doesn’t even occur to me, and I usually become exasperated when I find someone’s done it to me.
When invited, though, particularly in these trying circumstances, I’ll bite. I copied the guy’s name and pasted it into my browser bar, and a moment later I had a pageful of results. Problem was, I wasn’t sure what to make of them. After a moment, I typed out another email. So you're telling me you're a bipolar unarmed man from San Diego who attempted to rob and assault a senior citizen in her home and was shot by police and taken into custody? Because that's what's at the top of the list when I search for Nick Basil Pappas.
What? No.
He repeated that he wanted me to Google the name, and I reiterated that I’d done exactly that . . . and come up with Nick B. Pappas’ rap sheet and a bunch of incredibly unflattering mug shots for photos. By now I was laughing at this idiot, and continuing the conversation merely because it amused me. The fact that he seemed totally unaware that a West Coast bipolar granny robber had hijacked the top spot in Google searches of his name seemed the cherry on the sundae.
At last Nick sent me an actual web page to check out, which I did. The link took me to a site where interested customers could solicit local male escorts. Suddenly, the conversation lost its fun.
Hey thanks, I told him, trying to stay polite for what was going to be my final email. I appreciate it, but I don’t pay for sex. Before I hit send, I spent a moment looking at the escort's photos. This Nick guy was handsome—handsome as hell, in fact, with his dark Mediterranean movie star looks and deep, soulful eyes. His eyebrows were dark, dense, and brooding. And the body. Shit. That body. Even though he was obviously in his forties or early fifties, Nick looked like he belonged on the cover of Men’s Health.
His photos were so professionally done that I suspected they’d been promo shots for porn films. When I did a more refined search for Nick Pappas gay porn (hey . . . he’d invited me to do it) I indeed found a slew of video clips from porn studios of Nick performing with stars I’d actually heard of.
Still. Paying for sex isn’t something I do. I closed the browser and sent off my reply.
But no, no, no. That’s not what the East Coast Nick Basil Pappas was asking for. He assured me in a series of emails accompanied by even more photos from his porn career that he wasn’t trying to solicit my business, but my expertise. (The choice of word was his.) He’d read my blog for several months. He wanted me.
He had very strict rules about what his clients could do with him. They could suck his dick. They could bend over and he would fuck them. He would give them massages, but he would not kiss them. He'd never be submissive, and encounters with his clients would never be at all romantic.
The photos he’d offered, I should mention, had me licking my chops. Nick was a bodybuilder, and the porn films he’d done unanimously played to his strengths. He sent shots from a film he’d done were he was the big buff prize straight guy at the gym all the queers were trying to attract. He’d played an Olympic athlete who’d fucked all the other athletes in the village. He’s played another type of Olympian entirely when he’d been draped in laurels and a sheet and some gold sandals for the part of Horny Zeus. There was a shot of him wearing nothing but a yellow hard hat and a skimpy tool belt, for a production where he’d been a horny dumb construction worker tricked into topping a man's hole for the first time by the boss’ smart-assed son. The guy was the kind of beefcake that are the bread and butter of porn, and I confess, I was a little surprised he was soliciting me in such an eccentric way.
Yet Nick said he wanted to meet because he intuited from my blog that I would take good care of him. He found me attractive. He liked my dick. In fact, he wanted to suck it. He wanted it to fuck him bareback, and to breed him. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted someone to take control and make love to him, because he hadn’t experienced any tenderness in his life for a long time. Because he trusted me, and because he liked me from my blog, he’d decided I was the man he wanted to do all these things.
After such an oddball start, I was touched by his rapid-fire confessions. And flattered, of course. If anything is illuminated by this particular series, it’s that I am too much of a sucker for a man who compliments both my dick and my writing, even though I know, I know that losing all perspective for a pretty compliment never turns out well.
Yes, I told him. I’ll be that man.
So I’ve driven a long way to see Nick. Over an hour and a half, it turns out, because the town where Nick lives has the same relationship to New Haven that Flint, Michigan has to Detroit—they’re sometimes referred to in the same sentence, but they’re not very close at all. When I arrive at his apartment building, I knock on his door. It opens. He’s standing on the other side, completely naked. Exposed. He seems, to my expert eyes, a little vulnerable. “You came,” he says.
“Of course I did.” I step through and into the gloom of his apartment. He’s got blackout shades drawn over every window, so it’s difficult to see. Not that there’s much decor to look at. Nick’s apartment has the spartan quality of a home that’s barely been moved into, much less lived in. Nothing hangs on the walls; the surfaces clear of clutter. Even the furniture speaks of a bare minimum. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He laughs. “I’m nervous,” he says. Even in the dark I can tell how very handsome he is. He’s exactly what his photos advertise—the porn pics, that is. Not the mugshots of the granny robber. Five foot five inches of sheer bulk. What’s funny is that this object of fantasy for so many men—the brawny lumberjack, the construction worker, the alpha musclebound literal god of all, in one film at least—is nervous of me. Of me.
“Oh, Nick,” I say, shaking my head. I step forward and place my hands on his narrow hips. Then I pull him close.
He falls into the embrace eagerly, resting his head on my chest. I feel the warmth of him radiating through the layers of my cotton clothing. Below my crotch, I can feel the heavy bulk of his soft cock as it swells with blood and begins to harden against me. “You’re what I want.” He utters the confession softly, as if afraid of breaking the solemn hush. “Can I belong to you tonight?”
For answer, I cup my hands beneath his chin and steer his lips to mine. He responds with a kiss . . . of sorts, anyway. It’s a peck on my lips, really. Is he being timid. I move in more aggressively for something deeper and more intimate. He responds by tightening his lips and pushing out his tongue so that it protrudes about a quarter of an inch, like the tip of a tiny pyramid.
And that’s just how he kisses, does Nick the Greek. About as lewdly as someone’s Victorian maiden aunt.
But that’s all right. He’s got other skills. After he leads me into the bedroom, he stands me by the high king-sized bed and kneels on the ground. His lips open to surround my hardened flesh; I feel the warmth and wetness of his tongue and mouth as he takes my inches to the balls. He groans contentedly to himself as, slowly, deliberately, he travels from tip to base to tip again, where lets the slick flesh rest against his nose and upper lip. It’s as good of a blow job I’ve had in some time, and I make sure to let him know it.
He’s anxious to proceed, though. “I so badly need to be fucked by you,” he says in a low and lyrical voice. “Am I fuckable?”
“Oh, Nick,” I laugh. “You are so very fuckable.”
“I really just want to be worthy of you,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. Maybe he uses these sugared words on his clients, I think to myself. Maybe not. But I’m not a paying customer, and when he’s looking at me in that liquid, trusting way, I have no reason to doubt anything he says. I let the good moment remain a good moment, free of doubt.
“Let me show you how worthy you are.” I say the words as I lie him face down on the bed, with a pillow propping up his hips. Then I start lapping his hole.
For long minutes he’s wordless as I lick and chew at him. He grunts. He moans. He raises his hips to give me deeper access. But he doesn’t speak until ten, fifteen, twenty minutes have passed. “Nobody ever gives me this pleasure.”
“Do you let them?” I wonder aloud.
He chuckles. “No. You know I’m selective about who gets to enter me.” Right then, right there, Nick makes a decision. “Fuck my hole.” Onto his back he flips, using the same pillow that’s nestled in his crotch to lift the small of his back.
“Are you ready for that?” I already know the answer. I just want to hear him say it.
“I’m ready.”
I kneel between his uplifted legs. Spit in my hand, rub it on my meat. Repeat with another handful of spit, for his ass. I position my cock at his hole. The head nudges his warm, pulsing flesh. Our eyes lock. He nods.
In I go.
It’s a sweet fuck. Every thrust yields new revelations, from the tightening of his nipples to the red blush that spreads across his chest and face, to the way his eyes bulge with pleasure. His hole opens wide for me. His cock, fully rigid for the first time since we’ve met in the flesh, swells into a fat nine inches. And when we kiss, his mouth opens slight. He still doesn’t admit my tongue, but it’s a start.
I fuck him for a full half hour in that same position, taking it slow, letting him enjoy long thrusts the entire length of my dick. His whimpers turn to utterances of satisfaction, then to pleas. “You want my cum?” I ask.
“Yes. God, yes. I want to belong to you. Make me yours.”
I let him have it. It’s an shuddering orgasm, intense enough to make my vision dim. My body is still shaking and jerking when he begins pounding furiously at his own dick. “Don’t pull out,” he begs. “Stay inside. Stay inside. Stay. . . .”
His own climax is even noisier and more violent than mine. He thrashes like a bucking bronco, sending me sprawling to the side. Juice oozes from his hole and onto the top sheet as his own semen jets into the air into a perfect arc. It splatters on his face. Pretty good for a dude his age, I’m thinking to myself.
I lie next to him, and wait for him to come to. He smiles at me, and laughs, aware he’s caused a commotion. “I made you miss dinner,” he says. It's probably the most unexpected thing he could say, in the moment.
“I’m fine.” I really am. Whipped, but fine.
“No, no, you need to eat.” It’s not usually what I hear from my fucks, but he nestles me beneath the sheets and a comforter, props pillows around me, and ambles off in the direction of his kitchen to see what he can whip up.
It seems fitting, in this barely-furnished abode, that a box of frozen meatballs and some canned gravy is all he can produce. But as he feeds me, ball by microwaved ball, I find myself enchanted by the sweet unlikeliness of this encounter. Nick’s not a kisser—that’s for sure. But there’s a honest, endearing quality to Nick’s naked need for affection and love that makes my heart reach out to him.
When we parted that night, several hours and loads later, Nick said to me, “I’d like you to come back.”
I confess to having felt a glow at the words. I hadn’t been sure if this was a one-time physical connection, or whether he wanted it to lead to a regular round of good sex. “I’d like that too.”
“Will I be reading about this in your blog?” He still held my hand as he asked the question.
“You tell me,” I said. “Do you want me to write about it?”
He seemed to think over the question, but only for a mere split second. “Yes. Write what you want. I’ll look forward to reading it.”
Fair enough. I let him give me another couple of his ladylike pecks on the lips, and then we parted.
Sweet, right? I drove back home feeling like I'd hit the jackpot.
But then.
You know there has to be a but then, right? It usually takes a lot for me to lose my temper with a guy. It’d be pretty unlikely I’d be stomping around writing a burn list post and growling, That guy totally pissed me off by giving me sweet good sex and feeding me meatballs in bed! God DAMN him!
No, the initial encounter with Nick over the internet had been awkward as hell. In person, he was attractive, and kind, and loving in bed. It really was a highlight to make love to a guy who’s been the object of so much lust, whether through porn vids or escort ads. You’d think that after we met, everything would have been smooth sailing.
You’d be wrong, because the minute we weren’t face-to-face any longer, all our communications went straight to hell.
When are you writing about me? he started asking, basically the minute I got home. What are you going to say? I told him I didn’t know when I’d be writing about him, and that it probably would be after I’d let the encounter gestate a little bit. Don’t use my real name, please, he begged.
The inquiries continued daily, several times a day, for the better part of a week. Are you writing about me yet? When will it come out? Will it be tomorrow?
Listen, I eventually told him, over the course of several texts. I intend to write about you. I really do. We had a great time, and I was hoping it would be the first of many great times. I’d like to celebrate the night that we had. But when you’re so overeager to see your entry (this was my attempt at tact, by the way, and trying not to say ‘When you bug the shit out of me about your entry. . .”), it makes me anxious, and the anxiety prevents me from sitting down and writing it. If you give me a little space, and time, you’ll see it.
Oh. Space and time. You don’t want to see me again.
That’s not what I’d been telling him, I tried to make clear. All I really wanted was a little freedom from the constant inquiries into when he’d see the entry about himself.
I thought we’d reached an understanding. I mean, when someone says, Okay, I understand, you’re justified in thinking you’ve reached an understanding, right? A couple of blissfully text-free days later, though, he sent me: Is your post up yet? I’ve been waiting a week to see it.
I didn’t lose my temper. Honestly, I didn’t. I did reply, carefully choosing my words, that I thought I’d made it clear that the pressure he was putting on me to sit down at my laptop and pound out an essay about pounding him out, wasn’t exactly conducive to my creative process.
This is bullshit, he wrote back.
Well, what’s there to say to that? I said nothing, in fact. I thought I was being generous in overlooking it.
Two hours later, though: So I guess you’re not talking to me now. I thought we had a good night together. I guess I was fooling myself.
I’m not usually a fan of passive-aggressive behavior like this. It turns me off so much that usually I won’t acknowledge it, much less fall into its intended manipulation and re-enter a conversation on the defense. You and I had an incredible night together, I assured him. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe we can talk all this out the next time we meet? I think it’s easier that way than in text.
I realize that not everybody is a great communicator in writing. I disagree with the trope that emails and text automatically lack the nuance that in-person conversations can have; after all, over the years the great writers of the world have packed plenty of nuance into their sentences, paragraphs, and books. Not everybody’s adept at it, though, and I was beginning to realize that if I wanted a real conversation with Nick, without confusion, face-to-face was going to be the way to do it.
He didn’t reply, though. I wasn’t going to nag him.
Then, another two days later. I guess I wasn’t good enough to make your blog. Sorry I couldn’t make the cut.
Dude. Something was wrong, here. I sighed, and tried turning my mind to other things. I’m not suggesting that musclebound porn actors/escorts with the faces of movie stars can’t have insecurities. Everyone has insecurities. What I did know, however, was that however this man felt about himself, whatever self-perceived void he was trying to fill through me, neither I nor a blog post was going to make him complete. I might have a few sexual and writing skills, but I can’t heal all of that. I didn't deserve his hostility, either.
Nick made me sad. I'm sad right now, thinking and writing about him. I probably could have sat down and forced out a sketch of our night together—but it wouldn’t have felt right, nor would it have been enough for him. As I write this essay, enough time has passed that I can remember our time in the flesh with unalloyed fondness, separate from the annoyance he was immediately after. But that week when he was nagging me four, five, six, ten times a day to hurry up and write the post? All it really was doing was making me peevish.
I was still processing the last message from him when my phone vibrated again. Don’t bother texting me or trying to contact me any more. Goodbye.
Guys. Don’t go throwing around ultimatums you don’t intend to stick to. I’ve had this exact situation happen enough in my life to know that when someone tells me never to text or call again, the guy isn’t going to be happy when I actually follow his admonitions. Still, I hoped Nick would come around. I thought I’d give him some time to simmer down.
A day after his command not to text him, though, he texted a last time. I can’t believe you haven’t tried to apologize. This is fucking ridiculous.
And that, friends, was the point I’d had enough. Even the sweetest evening can’t counterbalance weeks of haranguing. Maybe our communication might have been better if we’d talked it out over coffee (or sex). But Nick wasn’t even giving me incentive to write a short essay about him, much less drive another hour and a half to iron out our differences.
So I file this one under Regrets, my friends. The incident makes me sad for what could have matured into something beautiful, but died stillborn.
Nick, if you’re reading this post—which I doubt, but who knows?—the entry you thought you deserved would’ve ended right before my But then. It would’ve been an entry worth a boner and a smile. It would’ve been romantic, even. Readers would have envied us both.
Here’s what I wish, though: I wish you’d loved the reality of what happened that night, and let that reality be. I wish you’d not let doubt or worry force you into pressuring me; I wish you hadn't needed constant reassurance of my sincerity. My blog doesn’t take faulty encounters and make them golden. It’s not my job to take a snapshot of an evening and then to soften the edges, erase the wrinkles, and make everything picture-perfect. If our evening of lovemaking and meatballs felt real to you, then it was real. If it felt good in the moment, it was good.
The next time you encounter someone who provides exactly what you want and need, love him for what he is and what he gives you. Don’t insist on dragging him into the crap, afterward.
Let good things be good. That’s a lesson we all can learn.
Afterword
During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.
Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.
What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.
Maybe one of these men is you.
If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.
My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.
All of us could stand to do better.
Showing posts with label bbrt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bbrt. Show all posts
Monday, July 17, 2017
Monday, June 19, 2017
13 Reasons Why/Tape 2: This Faggot
Some men seek sexual adventure. They love the thrill of the chase, the electricity of two men making eye contact across a crowded room; they relish the prickle across their skin when a man sprawled on a park bench lazily lets his finger drift across the hardened bulge in his jeans. I am one of these men. I enjoy sex. I’m good at it. I make it happen, enjoy it to the fullest, and gird up for the next exploit.
Many men—most men—only dream of sexual adventure. When the real thing presents itself, they retreat, snail-like, and hope that it goes away. This Faggot was one of those men . . . and This Faggot, welcome to your tape.
A month ago, our brief encounter happened. My April allergies were unusually severe, this year. My eyes had been so itchy and red that I couldn’t wear my contacts. My nose ran like a faucet. For about three weeks I stumbled around looking like a bespectacled professor who’d fallen face-first into a barrel of pollen. For most of that time I kept to myself. Spit, piss, and cum are acceptable bodily fluids for an encounter, but most men don’t care to be sneezed and snotted on.
Then came May, and relief—I could step outdoors again, and breathe fresh air, and sit on my front porch with my tablet in my hand and . . . of course, cruise for hole.
I was on the bareback site when a young fellow sent me a message there. Hi, this is out of the blue, Sir, and you don’t know me. But this faggot wanted to testify that you and your blog have changed its life. This faggot has to thank you for that. There are reasons why you are revered in the community of bloggers by faggots like this one, and converting this faggot from celibate into cum dump is just one of them. Also, if it’s not too presumptuous for it to say so, you are extremely, extremely handsome, Sir. Anyway, thank you, and this faggot will understand if it is not your type.
I checked out the kid’s profile. He was in his early thirties. Lightly-muscled body. Save for a patch of sparse fur between his pecs, he was mostly smooth. Fat dick, for a bottom. Lean and round ass. His face, though. When I get a message from a guy who says something along the lines of ‘I’ll understand if I’m not your type,’ I usually expect some kind of extreme—extreme scrawniness, extreme stockiness, or extreme butterface.
This Faggot—as he called himself—was starkly handsome: cheekbones like scalpels, wide green eyes, a sharp chin and the brow of a scholar. He lived in Manhattan, so he was local to me. In his photos he carried a certain air of entitlement—the good young professional looks and grooming of a stock broker, maybe, or a high-earning finance guy. I could’ve been reading into it, though; there’s only so much about a person’s character you can tell when in most of his pics he was kneeling on beds with an arched back, in obvious heat, while a series of black dicks stretched and gaped his holes.
Ivy League graduate gone wrong is totally my type, you know.
Like Wile E. Coyote over the Road Runner, I licked my chops over his photos for a moment. I sent a short reply, thanking him kindly for the copious compliments, then said, If I had anything to do with those amazing photos of yours, I’m happy to have been inspiration.
He wrote back within a minute. Oh Sir, just hearing from you makes this faggot so happy! Short history: this faggot used to be a condom nazi. This faggot even read your blog pretending to disapprove of it, but you just write so beautifully that I broke down. Your beautiful words made this faggot realize that it wasn’t having good sex at all the way it was. Or ANY sex. You made this faggot admit to itself that all the hating it was doing was a cover-up while it pretended to be committed to its boyfriend. All this faggot’s secret sexual fantasies were of being a cum whore who never refuses a load from ANYONE, Sir. So this faggot got itself on PrEP and started taking loads from strangers. This faggot guesses it was secretly trying to make you proud all along, Sir.
Now, I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t eating up his story. Friends, I was gulping it down like a pig at the trough. If there’s any trend you’ll notice in these entries, it’s that when a reader of mine throws down a few compliments and peppers them with some Sirs and Dads and some gestures of submission, this revered blogger’s response isn’t to keep the guy demurely at arm’s length. Fuck no.
If you want really to picture my reaction to that kind of approach, imagine me injecting a horse hypodermic of Viagra directly into my veins while I roar, BRING ME ANOTHER!
When This Faggot asked if there would ever, ever, ever be the slightest chance that a superior top like me might want to hook up with him, I gave the guy my cell phone number so we could take the conversation to text. He was a local, after all. I’ve hooked up with guys from BBRT with less interaction.
SIR, you are so beautiful in all your photos. This faggot has fantasized about you for years, he texted immediately. Jerked at your escapades. Admired your ability to communicate the emotions of your fucking along with the feelings in your body. This faggot only wants to please you and be your pig, if you give it the opportunity, Sir.
A faggot’s role is to please a man, I told him. You’re already pleasing me.
This faggot hopes to be a pig to make you proud, Sir. Right now it is just another basic faggot. It will do what you want it to do and wear what you want it to wear. This faggot prefers to keep its useless faggot cock covered so it does not lose focus on worshiping your beautiful breeder dick, Sir.
I was hard as he texted me. Shit, what top wouldn’t be? This hot little cunt wasn’t just striking the right notes . . . he was whacking them over and over again with an enormous Looney Tunes-sized cartoon mallet. What about that boyfriend of yours? I asked. Is he going to have a problem with a stranger dumping loads up your hole?
This faggot is a cheating faggot, Sir. It is its pleasure to help you release that cum into the world. And Sir, you are not a stranger! You are a man who helped a faggot find enlightenment. A teacher. A mentor. A man I've admired for so long.
Jesus, I texted. That’s humbling to hear. And from such a handsome boy.
Never be humbled, Sir. Your exploits have helped scores of faggots find themselves. That fact should make you swagger even more than that fucking huge and perfect breeding stick between your legs. And honestly, most guys don't even acknowledge this faggot. It did not expect a God like you to even respond to it, let alone show interest. This has already made this faggot’s day.
BRING ME ANOTHER!, roared my ego again.
I’m ashamed to admit that at this point I let the guy phone me. Ordinarily I don’t like talking on the telephone. From childhood it’s always seemed unnatural, listening to disembodied voices at the other end of a magic stick (or these days, at the other end of a square of glass). But this guy wanted to discuss when we could meet. When I warned him in a text that I wouldn’t be doing phone sex in any form, he said he completely understood and didn’t want that from me. He simply wanted to hear my voice and negotiate a fuck date.
This Faggot had a sexy voice, actually. I could tell he was nervous, when I called his number. “Oh god,” (or maybe O God, referring to my status with him), upon answering. “It’s really you. I—I mean, this faggot—didn’t think you would call for real, Sir.”
“Well, I wanted to arrange our first fuck.”
“Before we figure that out, Sir, please let this faggot express how sincerely attractive and hot it finds you. It has jacked off to your photos so many times, and even more times to the words you write so amazingly beautifully in your blog. This faggot messaged fifteen guys this morning before I—it—worked up the nerve to say hello to you, and you are the only one who responded.”
“Aw, shucks, son,” is what my mouth said, but inside my rampaging ego was brandishing the wad of compliments like a thick stack of dollar bills at a strip club and making it RAIN, baby. (On myself. Because I deserve it.)
We talked about the timing of our tryst, and decided that I’d come to his place two days following. I had a meeting that day near Chelsea, where he lived. “This faggot will do everything and anything you tell it, Sir. It will take your cum, your piss, even your snot, because it all comes from you, Sir, and it will all make this faggot stronger, better, complete.”
“Well sure,” I said, not wanting to argue with that caliber of offer. If only I’d gotten it during allergy season, right?
“May it make a request, Sir? Will you wear your special metal BREEDER cock ring? This faggot wants to feel that BREEDER cock ring touch its teeth as it swallows your cock. It wants to lick the word BREEDER. Knowing how many men have seen it before this faggot when they kneel and worship you and take you inside them. It will remind you that you are this faggot’s God and its reason for being.”
I thought it over a moment. I mean, who am I to disagree with that kind of persuasion? “Yeah. I’ll do that,” I said. My voice might have been a little husky with lust.
“This humble faggot wishes you could fuck me today, Sir.”
“I wish I could too. But you’re a pretty boy, son,” I said. “Fucking handsome as hell. If you’re so horny, why don’t you get back on BBRT and find a dick to stretch your hole . . . just to cool you down until day after tomorrow? You want to do that for me?”
“Oh god yes, Sir,” he moaned. “It will do it right now. It will take all the piss and cum it can all DAY for you, Sir. It wants to make you proud!”
“Good boy. And then you’ll tell me about it.”
“Yes SIR. This faggot will tell you about every dick that unloads in its cumdump ass!”
“That’s what I like to hear. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, son.”
“Goodbye, Sir. I love you, Sir.”
The last three words took me aback for a moment. During the trip from my porch to my desk, I thought about them. He hadn’t said the words automatically, the way someone might rattle them off to their talkative old dad at the end of a call. Nor had he alarmed me; he hadn’t made the declaration sound dangerous and stalker-like. It had come out sounding fairly unconscious, and sincere.
Thank you for letting me hear your voice, he texted as I sat back down at my desk.
I hesitated before typing my reply. Were you aware of what you said to me, when you said goodbye on the phone?
Yes, Dad, he replied. It slipped. This faggot hoped you had not heard it. It was excited.
Say the words now.
It said I love you, Sir.
Did you mean it in the moment?
Yes Sir. It meant it.
My boner raged. So you’ll say those words when I’m loading up your little faggot hole on Thursday?
Yes Sir. This faggot will say it and mean it. Thank you, Sir. You deserve to be loved more than anyone.
Yeah, I told myself. I did deserve to be loved.
I was in a good place. I had a commitment for Thursday. I had the guy’s phone. I had his address. He’d gotten my attention, and inflamed my dick, my interest, and my ego to equally grotesque proportions. This was going to be a good experience. I set down to work, hoping my raging erection would subside.
Then. Five minutes later. He texts me again. Your faggot sent messages to a bunch of tops, even ones with ads looking to just load holes. No responses.
Of course you’re not getting responses, I thought to myself. Jesus. It’s been five fucking minutes.
This faggot is sorry daddy. It told you it was not worthy of your attention. You deserve much better, and there are boys out there who always seem to be able to get cum in their holes…and this faggot promised it would do this for you. FUCK, it is such a failure.
I was a little taken aback by this weird, sudden temper tantrum of defeat. I mean, I’ve known, admired, and fucked some pretty successful sluts in my time, and I can’t think of one who would have thrown his hands in the air after ten minutes online (on a weekday morning, no less) and yelled, “SCREW IT, I’M OUTTA HERE.” I tried to sound conciliatory, though, when I texted him, Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. If it’s not going to happen, you can’t force it. It’s okay.
You don’t get it. You could spend you entire day going from hole to hole. Everyone wants a piece of you. I’m just a shit nobody that no one wants to fuck I guess. Plus I failed you. I told you I was a basic faggot.
I was considering the way I should respond to this dark and curious turn when he texted again, mere seconds after the last. Still no takers for my hole. I’ve given up and signed off. I'm sorry. I'm a failure. Nobody wants to use me. To be honest I was going to delete my profile this week. I might as well do it now.
I’m not attracted to failures, I told him. I’m attracted to you. Therefore you aren’t a failure.
I'm so average and you are a part of the top of one percent among gays. You gave me one easy assignment and I couldn't do it in a city like NYC of all places. I think that underscores I should give up on sex for good. And now you know why my boyfriend can't even bother to fuck me or look at me. I’m too average. Below average, even.
At this point, even I was starting to realize that his compliments about me were way too over-the-top to carry any water. Top one percent among gays? Pfff. Top three percent, maybe. Top one percent was just hyperbole. And once again—once again in a succession of many, many encounters with readers who claimed to admire me, claimed to want to meet me—I felt as if I were being punked. This Faggot was suddenly so baffling, so improbable, that I wondered if I’d been set up for inevitable disappointment from the very beginning.
For some god-knows-what reason, however, I decided to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Listen. There are plenty of times I can't find a fuck to save my life . . . and I'm a top. If you knew how difficult it was for me, with my big dick, to get laid sometimes, your opinion of me would do a one-eighty. Failure is not defined by the inability to arrange a hookup at a moment’s notice. Not for me, not for you.
His downward spiral continued, however. By this point, I noticed, he’d dropped the entire ‘this faggot’ schtick. I'm so embarrassed. I feel like if I can't even get regular guys into me how can I get one like you?
At this point, my confusion began turning to irritation. You don’t seem to realize you’ve already got one like me. You’ve GOT me. We’re still meeting day after tomorrow, right?
I sat at my desk, phone in my hand, waiting for a reply. Nothing. After a minute I fired up my browser, and checked the website where we’d met. When I looked in my mailbox, all the messages we’d exchanged had vanished. I searched for his user name there. Nothing.
You deleted your profile, I texted.
I told you I would. And right now I'm laying in bed stroking and reading your blog.
This is the point where I gave up. This faggot could have had me, the real person, in the flesh. Less than forty-eight hours from that moment, he could have enjoyed the fuck of his life. (I’m not so much exaggerating my own prowess, mind you, as marking how sorry his sex life used to be.) Yet there he was, alone, diddling himself in the cold blue light of the computer screen with a version of me that could never touch, taste, or enjoy him back.
My blog is not a real, living thing. He could have had the real me, so easily. It makes me sad you deleted your profile, I tapped out, wondering why I even bothered.
I'm sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.
I looked at my watch. Between the time of our phone call and the time of his last message, a mere quarter hour had elapsed. Over the course of less than ninety minutes, This Faggot had gone from courting me with compliments and promises, to setting up a first date, to promising me outrageous sexual satisfaction, to telling me he loved me, to circling the toilet in a puddle of his own self-despair, to breaking up with me.
I’d jumped all the hoops of a five-year relationship in less than an hour and a half. No wonder I was fucking exhausted.
This Faggot kept his promise. I haven’t heard from him since. On the day we were supposed to meet, I left a polite text saying that the ball was in his court and I’d let him decide what to do . . . but I suspect my number had been long blocked by that point.
Was he depressive? Could be. Was he feeling guilt at fooling around on this boyfriend of his, and decided to pull back? I guess it’s a possibility. Did he simply feel as if he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and that he couldn’t perform up to the the standards of a God who was among the top three percent of gays? (Oh, heck. Let’s make it the top two percent. No need to be over-modest.) Maybe? Or could it simply have been, as I often fear, that he simply didn’t find me attractive enough and needed a way to wriggle out of his commitment?
There’s no justification behind it. No matter what the answer, I’m the one left swinging in the wind when he vanished.
When readers approach me with compliments, and with stories of their own about how my writing has been a catalyst to their own sex lives, it feels to me that finally I’m reaping a little of the seed I’ve sown—pun firmly intended. It feels like I’m getting a little love back.
What leaves me so dispirited after encounters like these—and there have been many—with readers is that they’re so damned draining. When readers turn out to be like This Faggot, jerking the rug right out from under me, it leaves me bruised. Worn out. Sour. Men like This Faggot leave me unwilling to engage with any of my readers—even those who sound and behave like totally reasonable people.
I have been bruised so many times, now.
As a writer, and as a sex blogger who has put so much of his private life on display for everyone to enjoy, I find myself stupidly susceptible when one of my readers appears willing to give back to me—and I’m not simply talking about when they want to repay me with their holes. Even if just a little, and even if just once in a while, This Faggot was right about one thing: I do deserve to be loved.
Afterword
During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.
Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.
What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.
Maybe one of these men is you.
If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.
My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.
All of us could stand to do better.
Many men—most men—only dream of sexual adventure. When the real thing presents itself, they retreat, snail-like, and hope that it goes away. This Faggot was one of those men . . . and This Faggot, welcome to your tape.
A month ago, our brief encounter happened. My April allergies were unusually severe, this year. My eyes had been so itchy and red that I couldn’t wear my contacts. My nose ran like a faucet. For about three weeks I stumbled around looking like a bespectacled professor who’d fallen face-first into a barrel of pollen. For most of that time I kept to myself. Spit, piss, and cum are acceptable bodily fluids for an encounter, but most men don’t care to be sneezed and snotted on.
Then came May, and relief—I could step outdoors again, and breathe fresh air, and sit on my front porch with my tablet in my hand and . . . of course, cruise for hole.
I was on the bareback site when a young fellow sent me a message there. Hi, this is out of the blue, Sir, and you don’t know me. But this faggot wanted to testify that you and your blog have changed its life. This faggot has to thank you for that. There are reasons why you are revered in the community of bloggers by faggots like this one, and converting this faggot from celibate into cum dump is just one of them. Also, if it’s not too presumptuous for it to say so, you are extremely, extremely handsome, Sir. Anyway, thank you, and this faggot will understand if it is not your type.
I checked out the kid’s profile. He was in his early thirties. Lightly-muscled body. Save for a patch of sparse fur between his pecs, he was mostly smooth. Fat dick, for a bottom. Lean and round ass. His face, though. When I get a message from a guy who says something along the lines of ‘I’ll understand if I’m not your type,’ I usually expect some kind of extreme—extreme scrawniness, extreme stockiness, or extreme butterface.
This Faggot—as he called himself—was starkly handsome: cheekbones like scalpels, wide green eyes, a sharp chin and the brow of a scholar. He lived in Manhattan, so he was local to me. In his photos he carried a certain air of entitlement—the good young professional looks and grooming of a stock broker, maybe, or a high-earning finance guy. I could’ve been reading into it, though; there’s only so much about a person’s character you can tell when in most of his pics he was kneeling on beds with an arched back, in obvious heat, while a series of black dicks stretched and gaped his holes.
Ivy League graduate gone wrong is totally my type, you know.
Like Wile E. Coyote over the Road Runner, I licked my chops over his photos for a moment. I sent a short reply, thanking him kindly for the copious compliments, then said, If I had anything to do with those amazing photos of yours, I’m happy to have been inspiration.
He wrote back within a minute. Oh Sir, just hearing from you makes this faggot so happy! Short history: this faggot used to be a condom nazi. This faggot even read your blog pretending to disapprove of it, but you just write so beautifully that I broke down. Your beautiful words made this faggot realize that it wasn’t having good sex at all the way it was. Or ANY sex. You made this faggot admit to itself that all the hating it was doing was a cover-up while it pretended to be committed to its boyfriend. All this faggot’s secret sexual fantasies were of being a cum whore who never refuses a load from ANYONE, Sir. So this faggot got itself on PrEP and started taking loads from strangers. This faggot guesses it was secretly trying to make you proud all along, Sir.
Now, I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t eating up his story. Friends, I was gulping it down like a pig at the trough. If there’s any trend you’ll notice in these entries, it’s that when a reader of mine throws down a few compliments and peppers them with some Sirs and Dads and some gestures of submission, this revered blogger’s response isn’t to keep the guy demurely at arm’s length. Fuck no.
If you want really to picture my reaction to that kind of approach, imagine me injecting a horse hypodermic of Viagra directly into my veins while I roar, BRING ME ANOTHER!
When This Faggot asked if there would ever, ever, ever be the slightest chance that a superior top like me might want to hook up with him, I gave the guy my cell phone number so we could take the conversation to text. He was a local, after all. I’ve hooked up with guys from BBRT with less interaction.
SIR, you are so beautiful in all your photos. This faggot has fantasized about you for years, he texted immediately. Jerked at your escapades. Admired your ability to communicate the emotions of your fucking along with the feelings in your body. This faggot only wants to please you and be your pig, if you give it the opportunity, Sir.
A faggot’s role is to please a man, I told him. You’re already pleasing me.
This faggot hopes to be a pig to make you proud, Sir. Right now it is just another basic faggot. It will do what you want it to do and wear what you want it to wear. This faggot prefers to keep its useless faggot cock covered so it does not lose focus on worshiping your beautiful breeder dick, Sir.
I was hard as he texted me. Shit, what top wouldn’t be? This hot little cunt wasn’t just striking the right notes . . . he was whacking them over and over again with an enormous Looney Tunes-sized cartoon mallet. What about that boyfriend of yours? I asked. Is he going to have a problem with a stranger dumping loads up your hole?
This faggot is a cheating faggot, Sir. It is its pleasure to help you release that cum into the world. And Sir, you are not a stranger! You are a man who helped a faggot find enlightenment. A teacher. A mentor. A man I've admired for so long.
Jesus, I texted. That’s humbling to hear. And from such a handsome boy.
Never be humbled, Sir. Your exploits have helped scores of faggots find themselves. That fact should make you swagger even more than that fucking huge and perfect breeding stick between your legs. And honestly, most guys don't even acknowledge this faggot. It did not expect a God like you to even respond to it, let alone show interest. This has already made this faggot’s day.
BRING ME ANOTHER!, roared my ego again.
I’m ashamed to admit that at this point I let the guy phone me. Ordinarily I don’t like talking on the telephone. From childhood it’s always seemed unnatural, listening to disembodied voices at the other end of a magic stick (or these days, at the other end of a square of glass). But this guy wanted to discuss when we could meet. When I warned him in a text that I wouldn’t be doing phone sex in any form, he said he completely understood and didn’t want that from me. He simply wanted to hear my voice and negotiate a fuck date.
This Faggot had a sexy voice, actually. I could tell he was nervous, when I called his number. “Oh god,” (or maybe O God, referring to my status with him), upon answering. “It’s really you. I—I mean, this faggot—didn’t think you would call for real, Sir.”
“Well, I wanted to arrange our first fuck.”
“Before we figure that out, Sir, please let this faggot express how sincerely attractive and hot it finds you. It has jacked off to your photos so many times, and even more times to the words you write so amazingly beautifully in your blog. This faggot messaged fifteen guys this morning before I—it—worked up the nerve to say hello to you, and you are the only one who responded.”
“Aw, shucks, son,” is what my mouth said, but inside my rampaging ego was brandishing the wad of compliments like a thick stack of dollar bills at a strip club and making it RAIN, baby. (On myself. Because I deserve it.)
We talked about the timing of our tryst, and decided that I’d come to his place two days following. I had a meeting that day near Chelsea, where he lived. “This faggot will do everything and anything you tell it, Sir. It will take your cum, your piss, even your snot, because it all comes from you, Sir, and it will all make this faggot stronger, better, complete.”
“Well sure,” I said, not wanting to argue with that caliber of offer. If only I’d gotten it during allergy season, right?
“May it make a request, Sir? Will you wear your special metal BREEDER cock ring? This faggot wants to feel that BREEDER cock ring touch its teeth as it swallows your cock. It wants to lick the word BREEDER. Knowing how many men have seen it before this faggot when they kneel and worship you and take you inside them. It will remind you that you are this faggot’s God and its reason for being.”
I thought it over a moment. I mean, who am I to disagree with that kind of persuasion? “Yeah. I’ll do that,” I said. My voice might have been a little husky with lust.
“This humble faggot wishes you could fuck me today, Sir.”
“I wish I could too. But you’re a pretty boy, son,” I said. “Fucking handsome as hell. If you’re so horny, why don’t you get back on BBRT and find a dick to stretch your hole . . . just to cool you down until day after tomorrow? You want to do that for me?”
“Oh god yes, Sir,” he moaned. “It will do it right now. It will take all the piss and cum it can all DAY for you, Sir. It wants to make you proud!”
“Good boy. And then you’ll tell me about it.”
“Yes SIR. This faggot will tell you about every dick that unloads in its cumdump ass!”
“That’s what I like to hear. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, son.”
“Goodbye, Sir. I love you, Sir.”
The last three words took me aback for a moment. During the trip from my porch to my desk, I thought about them. He hadn’t said the words automatically, the way someone might rattle them off to their talkative old dad at the end of a call. Nor had he alarmed me; he hadn’t made the declaration sound dangerous and stalker-like. It had come out sounding fairly unconscious, and sincere.
Thank you for letting me hear your voice, he texted as I sat back down at my desk.
I hesitated before typing my reply. Were you aware of what you said to me, when you said goodbye on the phone?
Yes, Dad, he replied. It slipped. This faggot hoped you had not heard it. It was excited.
Say the words now.
It said I love you, Sir.
Did you mean it in the moment?
Yes Sir. It meant it.
My boner raged. So you’ll say those words when I’m loading up your little faggot hole on Thursday?
Yes Sir. This faggot will say it and mean it. Thank you, Sir. You deserve to be loved more than anyone.
Yeah, I told myself. I did deserve to be loved.
I was in a good place. I had a commitment for Thursday. I had the guy’s phone. I had his address. He’d gotten my attention, and inflamed my dick, my interest, and my ego to equally grotesque proportions. This was going to be a good experience. I set down to work, hoping my raging erection would subside.
Then. Five minutes later. He texts me again. Your faggot sent messages to a bunch of tops, even ones with ads looking to just load holes. No responses.
Of course you’re not getting responses, I thought to myself. Jesus. It’s been five fucking minutes.
This faggot is sorry daddy. It told you it was not worthy of your attention. You deserve much better, and there are boys out there who always seem to be able to get cum in their holes…and this faggot promised it would do this for you. FUCK, it is such a failure.
I was a little taken aback by this weird, sudden temper tantrum of defeat. I mean, I’ve known, admired, and fucked some pretty successful sluts in my time, and I can’t think of one who would have thrown his hands in the air after ten minutes online (on a weekday morning, no less) and yelled, “SCREW IT, I’M OUTTA HERE.” I tried to sound conciliatory, though, when I texted him, Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. If it’s not going to happen, you can’t force it. It’s okay.
You don’t get it. You could spend you entire day going from hole to hole. Everyone wants a piece of you. I’m just a shit nobody that no one wants to fuck I guess. Plus I failed you. I told you I was a basic faggot.
I was considering the way I should respond to this dark and curious turn when he texted again, mere seconds after the last. Still no takers for my hole. I’ve given up and signed off. I'm sorry. I'm a failure. Nobody wants to use me. To be honest I was going to delete my profile this week. I might as well do it now.
I’m not attracted to failures, I told him. I’m attracted to you. Therefore you aren’t a failure.
I'm so average and you are a part of the top of one percent among gays. You gave me one easy assignment and I couldn't do it in a city like NYC of all places. I think that underscores I should give up on sex for good. And now you know why my boyfriend can't even bother to fuck me or look at me. I’m too average. Below average, even.
At this point, even I was starting to realize that his compliments about me were way too over-the-top to carry any water. Top one percent among gays? Pfff. Top three percent, maybe. Top one percent was just hyperbole. And once again—once again in a succession of many, many encounters with readers who claimed to admire me, claimed to want to meet me—I felt as if I were being punked. This Faggot was suddenly so baffling, so improbable, that I wondered if I’d been set up for inevitable disappointment from the very beginning.
For some god-knows-what reason, however, I decided to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Listen. There are plenty of times I can't find a fuck to save my life . . . and I'm a top. If you knew how difficult it was for me, with my big dick, to get laid sometimes, your opinion of me would do a one-eighty. Failure is not defined by the inability to arrange a hookup at a moment’s notice. Not for me, not for you.
His downward spiral continued, however. By this point, I noticed, he’d dropped the entire ‘this faggot’ schtick. I'm so embarrassed. I feel like if I can't even get regular guys into me how can I get one like you?
At this point, my confusion began turning to irritation. You don’t seem to realize you’ve already got one like me. You’ve GOT me. We’re still meeting day after tomorrow, right?
I sat at my desk, phone in my hand, waiting for a reply. Nothing. After a minute I fired up my browser, and checked the website where we’d met. When I looked in my mailbox, all the messages we’d exchanged had vanished. I searched for his user name there. Nothing.
You deleted your profile, I texted.
I told you I would. And right now I'm laying in bed stroking and reading your blog.
This is the point where I gave up. This faggot could have had me, the real person, in the flesh. Less than forty-eight hours from that moment, he could have enjoyed the fuck of his life. (I’m not so much exaggerating my own prowess, mind you, as marking how sorry his sex life used to be.) Yet there he was, alone, diddling himself in the cold blue light of the computer screen with a version of me that could never touch, taste, or enjoy him back.
My blog is not a real, living thing. He could have had the real me, so easily. It makes me sad you deleted your profile, I tapped out, wondering why I even bothered.
I'm sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.
I looked at my watch. Between the time of our phone call and the time of his last message, a mere quarter hour had elapsed. Over the course of less than ninety minutes, This Faggot had gone from courting me with compliments and promises, to setting up a first date, to promising me outrageous sexual satisfaction, to telling me he loved me, to circling the toilet in a puddle of his own self-despair, to breaking up with me.
I’d jumped all the hoops of a five-year relationship in less than an hour and a half. No wonder I was fucking exhausted.
This Faggot kept his promise. I haven’t heard from him since. On the day we were supposed to meet, I left a polite text saying that the ball was in his court and I’d let him decide what to do . . . but I suspect my number had been long blocked by that point.
Was he depressive? Could be. Was he feeling guilt at fooling around on this boyfriend of his, and decided to pull back? I guess it’s a possibility. Did he simply feel as if he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and that he couldn’t perform up to the the standards of a God who was among the top three percent of gays? (Oh, heck. Let’s make it the top two percent. No need to be over-modest.) Maybe? Or could it simply have been, as I often fear, that he simply didn’t find me attractive enough and needed a way to wriggle out of his commitment?
There’s no justification behind it. No matter what the answer, I’m the one left swinging in the wind when he vanished.
When readers approach me with compliments, and with stories of their own about how my writing has been a catalyst to their own sex lives, it feels to me that finally I’m reaping a little of the seed I’ve sown—pun firmly intended. It feels like I’m getting a little love back.
What leaves me so dispirited after encounters like these—and there have been many—with readers is that they’re so damned draining. When readers turn out to be like This Faggot, jerking the rug right out from under me, it leaves me bruised. Worn out. Sour. Men like This Faggot leave me unwilling to engage with any of my readers—even those who sound and behave like totally reasonable people.
I have been bruised so many times, now.
As a writer, and as a sex blogger who has put so much of his private life on display for everyone to enjoy, I find myself stupidly susceptible when one of my readers appears willing to give back to me—and I’m not simply talking about when they want to repay me with their holes. Even if just a little, and even if just once in a while, This Faggot was right about one thing: I do deserve to be loved.
Afterword
During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.
Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.
What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.
Maybe one of these men is you.
If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.
My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.
All of us could stand to do better.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Cornflower Blue
The young man grunts as I shove inside him. His hole, slick both from my spit and from the half-hour I’ve spent eating it open, resists only for a split second. Then it yields. I glide in, inch by inexorable inch, until my nuts nestle on his ass, one on each cheek.
He sighs. Against my chest, the backs of his thighs had resisted as I’d slid home. Now that I’ve reached a location deep inside that he hoped I’d probe, now that I’m rubbing against that secret spot he’s opened for me, he relaxes. His lips part. His eyes close. His shoulder-length blond hair is splayed out over the pillow in a natural fan; it spills over the top of the mattress and onto the wooden boxes hiding on the shelves behind.
He feels so good. It’s been a while since my dick has been inside anything this warm and pliant. And this pretty boy is warm. His body is smooth all over, his skin the palest shade of pink. I’ve nearly forgotten how good a butt like his feels, wrapped around my shaft. How right. “Your ass is amazing,” I tell him.
His eyes open. Even though he’s resting on the base of his spine, and even though he’s got his legs in the air and an engorged cock stretching his hole painfully wide, his expression seems relaxed. Lazy, even—like he’s waking up from a long nap to find me on top of him. When lifts his neck to press his lips against mine, his hair rises like the long, elegant train of a skirt. “You,” he breathes. His head falls back on the pillow, but he keeps his fingers linked around the back of my neck. “You’re the one who’s amazing. Just fuck me. Please fuck me.”
I have no problem with that. I grin a little at the intensity of his response as I drive in deep, grind, and then pull out just far enough so that I can dig in one more. I’m not fucking to pound one out. Not yet. I’m fucking to make his hole feel good. That’s what matters to me now.
“Am I all right?” he asks. He’s got these blue eyes. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. I’ve never seen a cornflower, but I’m sure of the shade. Cornflower blue.
“Are you all right?” I repeat, pretending to think about it. Withdraw, thrust, grind. Withdraw, thrust, grind. I wait until the third long thrust to reply. “Yeah,” I say, staring into those eyes of cornflower blue. “You’re very all right.”
“I’m not too feminine?” He smirks a little, like he’s joking, but I recognize that little hesitation in his voice. I know that slight look askance. He’s afraid to scrutinize me, because he knows he might read on my face an answer to his question he didn’t want. While I’m thinking these things, he continues talking. “I guess some guys think I’m too feminine—effeminate, feminine, whichever—to be with.” My silence makes him finally look me in the eyes—but only for a split second. He closes them again. “I’m not, am I?”
Withdraw. Thrust. Grind. My dick is rock hard as it retraces its steps over and over again. “Look at me,” I tell him.
His lids open. He’s got big, long lashes. The kid has long, lush blond hair, a smooth body, and the features of a cinematic siren of the nineteen-forties. He came to the door wearing a pair of polka-dotted sweatpants and a multi-colored pleather jacket with the type of enormous shoulders I haven’t seen since a mid-eighties Cameo video. “Would that really worry you?” I ask him. “I mean, really.”
“Well, no—“ The conversation isn’t drawing him out of the fuck. He’s mindful of every plunge of my cock deep into his guts; his hips rise to meet mine, and his lungs let out small huffs with every wet collision. “I don’t know. Maybe you like that.”
Myself, I’m turned on by the talk’s intimacy. I’m an intimacy junkie. I love when a man shows me his insecurities in the heat of the moment. It means he’s not just opening his hole. Any proctologist with a tub of Vaseline and a speculum can get a man to do that. It takes a real lover to get a man to open that Pandora’s Box of fears and vulnerabilities hidden deep away, at the same time he’s giving up his pussy.
“Do you think I’m just being nice to you?” I ask him. “That this fuck,“ and I thrust home on the emphasized words, just to make him whimper and drive the point, “is some kind of consolation prize? You think I save better lovemaking for some dude who’s spent months getting the brim of his fucking baseball cap to a regulation curl?”
“No,” he says. He’s looking me square in the face, now. He knows he’s got nothing to fear from me.
I pull my dick all the way out. His hole gasps and gapes, working itself open and closed like a fish out of its tank. “You think I’m holding back on you? Because I can hold back on you.”
“No.” His hands have been around my neck this entire time. He pulls down on it as if my hips my follow. “Please fuck me. Don’t hold back.”
My dick doesn’t need to prod for the opening. The dick knows where it lies by now. I can find that massive gape while blind. I slam back inside, glad to be in the warmth and the wet once more. He lets out a whimper that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Let me tell you something,” I whisper to him, beginning the grind once more. “And I want you to promise not to forget it.”
“What?”
“Promise first.”
I could make him promise me anything at this moment, I realize. Eternal love. Eternal fidelity. I could sell this fucker a complete set of Tupperware, just because he’s so eager to keep taking my cock. I’m not going that far, though. They’ll change their minds later in the cool light of day, but damn, do they mean it in that hot moment. “I promise,” he says. Just as I expect.
I nod. Wise boy. “Listen up, then,” I tell him. I shift positions, drawing his ass higher in the air and his knees closer to his face. He’s almost doubled in half, just to accommodate the girth and length of my fuckmeat. However much he’s contorted, he’s never been more open. “I’m not looking into those pretty blue eyes of yours, I’m not looking at that beautiful long hair, not running my hands over your smooth skin, while secretly rating your masculinity.”
My face is mere inches above his own. His legs frame his sharp cheekbones. “I believe you,” he whispers.
“My dick,” I snarl, accompanying the emphasis with another wicked thrust. “My dick isn’t determining where you lie on some arbitrary spectrum.” I pull apart his ankles so that his legs spread more widely. “My dick wants what it wants. And you know what it wants?”
“My hole?” he asks, sounding more like a little boy than the adult he is.
“Your hole.” My dick’s plunging in at a different angle that’s making him gasp and huff for air. “It wants you, because it thinks you’re a hot piece of ass. It wants your tight . . . little . . . hot . . . wet . . . fuckhole.”
He nods and uses his hands to pull his cheeks wider apart. “My pussy.”
“It’s a beautiful pussy,” I agree.
“It’s your pussy now.”
I smirk a little. Of course it is. “So do me a favor,” I growl as I continue to pound my new possession, “and think of me as a man who likes what he likes, because he likes and wants it. You’re better than some fucked-up spectrum. Got it?”
“I get it,” he says softly. He’s relaxed again, totally open. His cock points drooling, untouched, at his nipples.
“My dick is hard for you,” I tell him, picking up the pace. “Anyone who doesn’t get hard for you? Fuck those shits. More hole for me.”
I’m grunting now. Really shoving it in. His spine is more and more vertical by the thrust as I try to ram down to the heart of him. “More hole for you,” he agrees as he grapples it open with clawing fingertips. “Jesus fuck.”
I’m dimly aware of him grabbing his dick with one hand. The cum instantly flies out of it and cascades down his chest. He grimaces as it splats onto his head. Several pearls drip onto his hair and the pillow below. His ass clenches during the climax, but it’s nothing like how it clamps down afterward. Instantly I can tell he’s one of those bottoms who, once he’s done, is done.
No matter. I’m there, myself. I push through muscles actively trying to repel me and down into the deepest part of him. My load burns when it jets out. He can feel it. He’s staring at me with his brows furrowed, those eyes boring into mine almost angrily as he convulses in time with every jet I blast into him. I wait until the last gush. Then I withdraw. Slowly. Deliberately. Inch by inch. At last my meat slops down his crack, and my seed spills over from his hole and dribbles down to kiss the crown.
A minor geyser of my sperm still oozes from his hole when I finally speak. It’s been a while since I shot, I remember. “So. What’s it make you when a cock like mine dumps a payload like that in you? Masculine? Feminine?”
He stretches like a cat, his thin arms curling above his head. He’s still reveling in the moment, I can tell. “Both. Neither.” For a moment he relaxes. Then he smiles, as if the thought’s just occurred to him. Our eyes lock for a final time. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. “I guess it just makes me well-bred.”
It’s a good, good answer.
He sighs. Against my chest, the backs of his thighs had resisted as I’d slid home. Now that I’ve reached a location deep inside that he hoped I’d probe, now that I’m rubbing against that secret spot he’s opened for me, he relaxes. His lips part. His eyes close. His shoulder-length blond hair is splayed out over the pillow in a natural fan; it spills over the top of the mattress and onto the wooden boxes hiding on the shelves behind.
He feels so good. It’s been a while since my dick has been inside anything this warm and pliant. And this pretty boy is warm. His body is smooth all over, his skin the palest shade of pink. I’ve nearly forgotten how good a butt like his feels, wrapped around my shaft. How right. “Your ass is amazing,” I tell him.
His eyes open. Even though he’s resting on the base of his spine, and even though he’s got his legs in the air and an engorged cock stretching his hole painfully wide, his expression seems relaxed. Lazy, even—like he’s waking up from a long nap to find me on top of him. When lifts his neck to press his lips against mine, his hair rises like the long, elegant train of a skirt. “You,” he breathes. His head falls back on the pillow, but he keeps his fingers linked around the back of my neck. “You’re the one who’s amazing. Just fuck me. Please fuck me.”
I have no problem with that. I grin a little at the intensity of his response as I drive in deep, grind, and then pull out just far enough so that I can dig in one more. I’m not fucking to pound one out. Not yet. I’m fucking to make his hole feel good. That’s what matters to me now.
“Am I all right?” he asks. He’s got these blue eyes. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. I’ve never seen a cornflower, but I’m sure of the shade. Cornflower blue.
“Are you all right?” I repeat, pretending to think about it. Withdraw, thrust, grind. Withdraw, thrust, grind. I wait until the third long thrust to reply. “Yeah,” I say, staring into those eyes of cornflower blue. “You’re very all right.”
“I’m not too feminine?” He smirks a little, like he’s joking, but I recognize that little hesitation in his voice. I know that slight look askance. He’s afraid to scrutinize me, because he knows he might read on my face an answer to his question he didn’t want. While I’m thinking these things, he continues talking. “I guess some guys think I’m too feminine—effeminate, feminine, whichever—to be with.” My silence makes him finally look me in the eyes—but only for a split second. He closes them again. “I’m not, am I?”
Withdraw. Thrust. Grind. My dick is rock hard as it retraces its steps over and over again. “Look at me,” I tell him.
His lids open. He’s got big, long lashes. The kid has long, lush blond hair, a smooth body, and the features of a cinematic siren of the nineteen-forties. He came to the door wearing a pair of polka-dotted sweatpants and a multi-colored pleather jacket with the type of enormous shoulders I haven’t seen since a mid-eighties Cameo video. “Would that really worry you?” I ask him. “I mean, really.”
“Well, no—“ The conversation isn’t drawing him out of the fuck. He’s mindful of every plunge of my cock deep into his guts; his hips rise to meet mine, and his lungs let out small huffs with every wet collision. “I don’t know. Maybe you like that.”
Myself, I’m turned on by the talk’s intimacy. I’m an intimacy junkie. I love when a man shows me his insecurities in the heat of the moment. It means he’s not just opening his hole. Any proctologist with a tub of Vaseline and a speculum can get a man to do that. It takes a real lover to get a man to open that Pandora’s Box of fears and vulnerabilities hidden deep away, at the same time he’s giving up his pussy.
“Do you think I’m just being nice to you?” I ask him. “That this fuck,“ and I thrust home on the emphasized words, just to make him whimper and drive the point, “is some kind of consolation prize? You think I save better lovemaking for some dude who’s spent months getting the brim of his fucking baseball cap to a regulation curl?”
“No,” he says. He’s looking me square in the face, now. He knows he’s got nothing to fear from me.
I pull my dick all the way out. His hole gasps and gapes, working itself open and closed like a fish out of its tank. “You think I’m holding back on you? Because I can hold back on you.”
“No.” His hands have been around my neck this entire time. He pulls down on it as if my hips my follow. “Please fuck me. Don’t hold back.”
My dick doesn’t need to prod for the opening. The dick knows where it lies by now. I can find that massive gape while blind. I slam back inside, glad to be in the warmth and the wet once more. He lets out a whimper that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Let me tell you something,” I whisper to him, beginning the grind once more. “And I want you to promise not to forget it.”
“What?”
“Promise first.”
I could make him promise me anything at this moment, I realize. Eternal love. Eternal fidelity. I could sell this fucker a complete set of Tupperware, just because he’s so eager to keep taking my cock. I’m not going that far, though. They’ll change their minds later in the cool light of day, but damn, do they mean it in that hot moment. “I promise,” he says. Just as I expect.
I nod. Wise boy. “Listen up, then,” I tell him. I shift positions, drawing his ass higher in the air and his knees closer to his face. He’s almost doubled in half, just to accommodate the girth and length of my fuckmeat. However much he’s contorted, he’s never been more open. “I’m not looking into those pretty blue eyes of yours, I’m not looking at that beautiful long hair, not running my hands over your smooth skin, while secretly rating your masculinity.”
My face is mere inches above his own. His legs frame his sharp cheekbones. “I believe you,” he whispers.
“My dick,” I snarl, accompanying the emphasis with another wicked thrust. “My dick isn’t determining where you lie on some arbitrary spectrum.” I pull apart his ankles so that his legs spread more widely. “My dick wants what it wants. And you know what it wants?”
“My hole?” he asks, sounding more like a little boy than the adult he is.
“Your hole.” My dick’s plunging in at a different angle that’s making him gasp and huff for air. “It wants you, because it thinks you’re a hot piece of ass. It wants your tight . . . little . . . hot . . . wet . . . fuckhole.”
He nods and uses his hands to pull his cheeks wider apart. “My pussy.”
“It’s a beautiful pussy,” I agree.
“It’s your pussy now.”
I smirk a little. Of course it is. “So do me a favor,” I growl as I continue to pound my new possession, “and think of me as a man who likes what he likes, because he likes and wants it. You’re better than some fucked-up spectrum. Got it?”
“I get it,” he says softly. He’s relaxed again, totally open. His cock points drooling, untouched, at his nipples.
“My dick is hard for you,” I tell him, picking up the pace. “Anyone who doesn’t get hard for you? Fuck those shits. More hole for me.”
I’m grunting now. Really shoving it in. His spine is more and more vertical by the thrust as I try to ram down to the heart of him. “More hole for you,” he agrees as he grapples it open with clawing fingertips. “Jesus fuck.”
I’m dimly aware of him grabbing his dick with one hand. The cum instantly flies out of it and cascades down his chest. He grimaces as it splats onto his head. Several pearls drip onto his hair and the pillow below. His ass clenches during the climax, but it’s nothing like how it clamps down afterward. Instantly I can tell he’s one of those bottoms who, once he’s done, is done.
No matter. I’m there, myself. I push through muscles actively trying to repel me and down into the deepest part of him. My load burns when it jets out. He can feel it. He’s staring at me with his brows furrowed, those eyes boring into mine almost angrily as he convulses in time with every jet I blast into him. I wait until the last gush. Then I withdraw. Slowly. Deliberately. Inch by inch. At last my meat slops down his crack, and my seed spills over from his hole and dribbles down to kiss the crown.
A minor geyser of my sperm still oozes from his hole when I finally speak. It’s been a while since I shot, I remember. “So. What’s it make you when a cock like mine dumps a payload like that in you? Masculine? Feminine?”
He stretches like a cat, his thin arms curling above his head. He’s still reveling in the moment, I can tell. “Both. Neither.” For a moment he relaxes. Then he smiles, as if the thought’s just occurred to him. Our eyes lock for a final time. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. “I guess it just makes me well-bred.”
It’s a good, good answer.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Monday, June 2, 2014
Face Down. Butt Up.
Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh.
We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.
I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.
His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”
I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.
He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.
I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.
“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.
I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.
“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.
My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.
I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.
I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.
“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”
My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.
“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.
Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.
We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.
I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.
His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”
I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.
He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.
I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.
“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.
I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.
“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.
My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.
I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.
I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.
“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”
My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.
“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.
Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Repost: 3 Loads, 35 Minutes
(While I'm visiting my dad this week, I've reposted a couple of old favorites that I hope you'll enjoy—either again, or for the first one. This one from 2010 has photos from the session!)
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.
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.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Tim
“Put it in me,” he whispers. My arms are underneath his armpits; I’ve got myself propped up on my palms. My cock’s head is nudging against his hole. His chute is already wet and sloppy from the half-hour’s worth of eating I’ve already given it. I could shove it in right now, but I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. Fifteen stories below, down in the streets there’s the sound of a siren blaring. He breaks the silence with a needy whine. “Please. Put it in me. I want to see if it feels like I remember. Please.”
“Tell me what you were thinking the first time I fucked you,” I say to him. My head probes and teases him. Through what light there is in the dusky room I look down. I’m dripping slime from the tip. The strand of gooey fluid connects us for a moment, then bows and snaps.
“All those years ago?”
I nod.
“I—I was scared,” he says. My head throbs at the news, and I reward him by pushing it a little inside his ass lips. Instinctively his back arches, and his legs rise. “I didn’t know you. I hadn’t seen you before. You just . . . showed up.”
“I was invited.”
He nods rapidly. “I know. But you showed up and knew what you were going to do to me. You knew what you wanted. And you were so. . . .” His neck makes a small circle. “So big. Probably the biggest I’d had at that point.”
“Tell me what you were thinking when I went in. Do you remember?”
He nods. “I remember. I just kept worrying if I could take it all.”
His talk is exciting me. I rub the pre-cum into his lips and start burying the shaft. He’s soft, and wet, and so warm that it nearly takes me by surprise. He gasps. His lungs take in breath so quickly that his abdomen swells.
“Oh god,” he whimpers. “It still feels so good.”
1997. I met them in a chat room I frequented then, long extinct now. I was driving from Michigan to Chicago the following week; they were in Indiana. I agreed to drive an extra hour out of my way to hook up with them for a few hours.
The place was a little roadside motel, perhaps once respectable but gone seedy in the years since. The old pool had been emptied and covered over. The interiors still had the original wallpaper, a hideous pattern of baby-puke brown slashed with mid-century teal, pink, and lime stripes. The bed had a Magic Fingers unit, defunct, attached to the headboard. It had probably stopped accepting quarters decades before.
I met the guy in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck when I arrived, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his grimy jeans. He looked like his photo. Rough cut. Brawny. Mustached. He was as blunt in person as he had been online. “You ready to fuck it?” were the first words out of his mouth.
He had a younger partner—the ‘it’ of his sentence. When the man led me to the motel room in all its tacky splendor, the guy was naked in bed, face down, butt up, clutching a pillow. He was a slender young man—shorter than his boyfriend, skinnier, slighter. His skin was a pale white that almost glowed in the half-dark of the shoddy room. “So how do you like the little shit?” the man asked, walking over. When he slapped his partner on the ass, his cheeks bounced and quivered, but the young man himself said nothing. “Real fuckable, huh?”
I was already undressing. I was due in Chicago by nightfall. I wasn’t there to make friends, or find a boyfriend. I was there because the older partner had liked my dick, and because he’d wanted to see me fuck his partner. “Nice,” he said as my pants fell to the floor. He grabbed my dick roughly and slapped it around a little, chuckling as it got hard in his hands. “It’s gonna love that.”
“I’m going to eat out that hole first,” I said, moving to the bed.
“Just fuck it. Mount it and fuck it!”
I ignored the man. I didn’t care if it was his boyfriend, and I didn’t care it was because of the older man’s hospitality that I was there that afternoon. When I come to fuck, I do what I want. “I’m going to eat him out, first.”
I didn’t even see the younger partner’s face until I’d chewed on his puffy hole for a good long time. On whim, I turned him over onto his back. His eyes opened. I remember he had long lashes that surprised me; they were curly, like his thick brown hair. I pushed him up so that his head reclined on the pillows, and suspended myself over him, with my cock poised at his hole.
He was so unexpectedly sexy, lying vulnerable and gaping beneath me, that I paused. “What’s your name?” I asked. The boyfriend had never told me. He’d only referred to him as ‘the hole’ or ‘it.’
“Tim,” he whispered.
“Well, Tim,” I asked, very seriously. “Do you want me to fuck your hot little hole?”
The young man and I stared each other in the eyes for what felt like a very long time. Then he cracked a grin and nodded. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s what I’m made for.”
All right then. I acknowledged his answer with a nod, then drove in with my cock, wiping the smile right off of his lips.
“You were a little whore for it,” I say to him now. I’ve got a steady motion going. My dick is pistoning in and out of his guts, stiff as cement. “You really were made for fucking.”
“That’s what I’m made for,” he says, using the same words he’d used nearly two decades before. He’s still pale. Still skinny. Still unexpectedly handsome, though his curls have been trimmed into a brush cut. He’s got a trace of stubble all over his face that he didn’t have then. It suits him.
“You loved being fucked.”
“I loved it from you,” he said. “I didn’t love it from everyone.”
We haven’t taken our eyes off each other the entire time. It’s the most connected fuck I’ve had in months. “What was your partner’s name?”
“Elliott. He liked being called Butch, though.”
“Butch, right.” We’re making small talk, but I’m still churning his rectum with my rod. “Whatever happened to him?”
He shrugs. “I moved out. Moved on.”
“You still see him?”
“Once in a while.”
“Because he turned you into what you are.”
“A hole,” he says, agreeing.
“A whore.” He nods. There’s a fire burning in his eyes. His legs are still in the air, suspended by themselves. I don’t even have to hold them up. He’s tireless, this one. “So why was I different?”
“You saw me,” he says. I say nothing. I slide in, out. In, out. He relaxes into the long strokes I’m giving him, pushing back and gripping me when I reach the base. “You really saw me. You asked me my name.”
“What, Butch used to line up guys to fuck you and only one of them asked your name?” I’m being facetious, but when I ask the question, I see the truth in his face. How many times have I fucked guys without knowing their names? Without caring? “He didn’t . . . hit you or anything, did he?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. He was an all right guy. When it came to his sex games, though. . . .” I’m tired of talking. I thrust into him hard. He lets out another gasp, and his eyes half-close. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Tim.” My voice is deep, and low, little more than a rumble in his right ear.
“Tell me what you were thinking the first time I fucked you,” I say to him. My head probes and teases him. Through what light there is in the dusky room I look down. I’m dripping slime from the tip. The strand of gooey fluid connects us for a moment, then bows and snaps.
“All those years ago?”
I nod.
“I—I was scared,” he says. My head throbs at the news, and I reward him by pushing it a little inside his ass lips. Instinctively his back arches, and his legs rise. “I didn’t know you. I hadn’t seen you before. You just . . . showed up.”
“I was invited.”
He nods rapidly. “I know. But you showed up and knew what you were going to do to me. You knew what you wanted. And you were so. . . .” His neck makes a small circle. “So big. Probably the biggest I’d had at that point.”
“Tell me what you were thinking when I went in. Do you remember?”
He nods. “I remember. I just kept worrying if I could take it all.”
His talk is exciting me. I rub the pre-cum into his lips and start burying the shaft. He’s soft, and wet, and so warm that it nearly takes me by surprise. He gasps. His lungs take in breath so quickly that his abdomen swells.
“Oh god,” he whimpers. “It still feels so good.”
—
The place was a little roadside motel, perhaps once respectable but gone seedy in the years since. The old pool had been emptied and covered over. The interiors still had the original wallpaper, a hideous pattern of baby-puke brown slashed with mid-century teal, pink, and lime stripes. The bed had a Magic Fingers unit, defunct, attached to the headboard. It had probably stopped accepting quarters decades before.
I met the guy in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck when I arrived, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his grimy jeans. He looked like his photo. Rough cut. Brawny. Mustached. He was as blunt in person as he had been online. “You ready to fuck it?” were the first words out of his mouth.
He had a younger partner—the ‘it’ of his sentence. When the man led me to the motel room in all its tacky splendor, the guy was naked in bed, face down, butt up, clutching a pillow. He was a slender young man—shorter than his boyfriend, skinnier, slighter. His skin was a pale white that almost glowed in the half-dark of the shoddy room. “So how do you like the little shit?” the man asked, walking over. When he slapped his partner on the ass, his cheeks bounced and quivered, but the young man himself said nothing. “Real fuckable, huh?”
I was already undressing. I was due in Chicago by nightfall. I wasn’t there to make friends, or find a boyfriend. I was there because the older partner had liked my dick, and because he’d wanted to see me fuck his partner. “Nice,” he said as my pants fell to the floor. He grabbed my dick roughly and slapped it around a little, chuckling as it got hard in his hands. “It’s gonna love that.”
“I’m going to eat out that hole first,” I said, moving to the bed.
“Just fuck it. Mount it and fuck it!”
I ignored the man. I didn’t care if it was his boyfriend, and I didn’t care it was because of the older man’s hospitality that I was there that afternoon. When I come to fuck, I do what I want. “I’m going to eat him out, first.”
I didn’t even see the younger partner’s face until I’d chewed on his puffy hole for a good long time. On whim, I turned him over onto his back. His eyes opened. I remember he had long lashes that surprised me; they were curly, like his thick brown hair. I pushed him up so that his head reclined on the pillows, and suspended myself over him, with my cock poised at his hole.
He was so unexpectedly sexy, lying vulnerable and gaping beneath me, that I paused. “What’s your name?” I asked. The boyfriend had never told me. He’d only referred to him as ‘the hole’ or ‘it.’
“Tim,” he whispered.
“Well, Tim,” I asked, very seriously. “Do you want me to fuck your hot little hole?”
The young man and I stared each other in the eyes for what felt like a very long time. Then he cracked a grin and nodded. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s what I’m made for.”
All right then. I acknowledged his answer with a nod, then drove in with my cock, wiping the smile right off of his lips.
—
“You were a little whore for it,” I say to him now. I’ve got a steady motion going. My dick is pistoning in and out of his guts, stiff as cement. “You really were made for fucking.”
“That’s what I’m made for,” he says, using the same words he’d used nearly two decades before. He’s still pale. Still skinny. Still unexpectedly handsome, though his curls have been trimmed into a brush cut. He’s got a trace of stubble all over his face that he didn’t have then. It suits him.
“You loved being fucked.”
“I loved it from you,” he said. “I didn’t love it from everyone.”
We haven’t taken our eyes off each other the entire time. It’s the most connected fuck I’ve had in months. “What was your partner’s name?”
“Elliott. He liked being called Butch, though.”
“Butch, right.” We’re making small talk, but I’m still churning his rectum with my rod. “Whatever happened to him?”
He shrugs. “I moved out. Moved on.”
“You still see him?”
“Once in a while.”
“Because he turned you into what you are.”
“A hole,” he says, agreeing.
“A whore.” He nods. There’s a fire burning in his eyes. His legs are still in the air, suspended by themselves. I don’t even have to hold them up. He’s tireless, this one. “So why was I different?”
“You saw me,” he says. I say nothing. I slide in, out. In, out. He relaxes into the long strokes I’m giving him, pushing back and gripping me when I reach the base. “You really saw me. You asked me my name.”
“What, Butch used to line up guys to fuck you and only one of them asked your name?” I’m being facetious, but when I ask the question, I see the truth in his face. How many times have I fucked guys without knowing their names? Without caring? “He didn’t . . . hit you or anything, did he?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. He was an all right guy. When it came to his sex games, though. . . .” I’m tired of talking. I thrust into him hard. He lets out another gasp, and his eyes half-close. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Tim.” My voice is deep, and low, little more than a rumble in his right ear.
He touches the back of my head with a hand and pulls my own ear down to his lips. “I have hoped for this for so long,” he whispers.
Three months prior to that day I’d received a message on BBRT. Do I know you?
I didn’t recognize the profile. It was a guy in Chicago. He was younger than I, pale, handsome. His profile was mostly ass shots, but there were enough of his face that I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I don’t know. Do you?
Did you ever meet up with two guys in a motel in Indiana? He proceeded to describe everything I’d seen that night—the crazy wallpaper, the disused pool outside, the Magic Fingers. His ex had whored him out in that motel to strangers on many a night.
That was me, I told him. I was astonished that he’d been able to bring back so vividly in my head an encounter I’d basically forgotten. I’d fucked the younger partner that night, shot in him, watched while the older partner fucked him, and then fucked again before I’d washed up in the sink and gotten back on the road that night. It was a temporary byway, a hot way to kill a couple of hours and nothing more. I’d forgotten it by the next hole I fucked.
His messages, though, brought me back to that night, and I found myself reliving it as if it had been yesterday and not over fifteen years before. He was coming to New York, in a few months he told me. Maybe we could get together? Relive old times?
I was happy to oblige.
“Did you think about me, after?” he wants to know now. He’s spurring me on to orgasm. Clenching onto my meat tightly. Kissing me. Chewing on my nipples. Anything to get the load.
I hesitate. He wants to hear that I did, of course. It would be easy to fib for him. Somehow, though, I feel I owe him the truth. Or at least a softened version of it. “I fuck a lot of holes,” I say, in apology.
He seems to understand. “I thought about you,” he says. “I always hoped you’d come back through. That’s why—“ I’m turned on by the intimacy of the talk; it adds to the fuck. I’m plowing into him harder, now, trying to wound him with my weapon. “That’s why I took the chance when I saw your profile.”
“I’m surprised you recognized me.”
“You don’t look that different,” he murmurs. His hand reaches up to my face. “Will you remember me after tonight?”
There’s something about the question that sends me over the edge. The vulnerability of it. The way he’s opening his soul to me, the same way he’s opened his hole. I’ve gotten into him deep. My load goes in deep, too. I push into him as hard as I can, and feel him clamping down as my muscle swells and subsides, swells and subsides again. When the haze of it clears, I find him looking at me with wet eyes.
Still inside him, I swivel him around so that we both drop to our sides on the mattress. I pull him close, and put my arms around him. “I will always remember this,” I promise him. “I will always remember you.”
He smiles, happy again.
It’s a pledge I definitely can keep.
—
Three months prior to that day I’d received a message on BBRT. Do I know you?
I didn’t recognize the profile. It was a guy in Chicago. He was younger than I, pale, handsome. His profile was mostly ass shots, but there were enough of his face that I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I don’t know. Do you?
Did you ever meet up with two guys in a motel in Indiana? He proceeded to describe everything I’d seen that night—the crazy wallpaper, the disused pool outside, the Magic Fingers. His ex had whored him out in that motel to strangers on many a night.
That was me, I told him. I was astonished that he’d been able to bring back so vividly in my head an encounter I’d basically forgotten. I’d fucked the younger partner that night, shot in him, watched while the older partner fucked him, and then fucked again before I’d washed up in the sink and gotten back on the road that night. It was a temporary byway, a hot way to kill a couple of hours and nothing more. I’d forgotten it by the next hole I fucked.
His messages, though, brought me back to that night, and I found myself reliving it as if it had been yesterday and not over fifteen years before. He was coming to New York, in a few months he told me. Maybe we could get together? Relive old times?
I was happy to oblige.
—
“Did you think about me, after?” he wants to know now. He’s spurring me on to orgasm. Clenching onto my meat tightly. Kissing me. Chewing on my nipples. Anything to get the load.
I hesitate. He wants to hear that I did, of course. It would be easy to fib for him. Somehow, though, I feel I owe him the truth. Or at least a softened version of it. “I fuck a lot of holes,” I say, in apology.
He seems to understand. “I thought about you,” he says. “I always hoped you’d come back through. That’s why—“ I’m turned on by the intimacy of the talk; it adds to the fuck. I’m plowing into him harder, now, trying to wound him with my weapon. “That’s why I took the chance when I saw your profile.”
“I’m surprised you recognized me.”
“You don’t look that different,” he murmurs. His hand reaches up to my face. “Will you remember me after tonight?”
There’s something about the question that sends me over the edge. The vulnerability of it. The way he’s opening his soul to me, the same way he’s opened his hole. I’ve gotten into him deep. My load goes in deep, too. I push into him as hard as I can, and feel him clamping down as my muscle swells and subsides, swells and subsides again. When the haze of it clears, I find him looking at me with wet eyes.
Still inside him, I swivel him around so that we both drop to our sides on the mattress. I pull him close, and put my arms around him. “I will always remember this,” I promise him. “I will always remember you.”
He smiles, happy again.
It’s a pledge I definitely can keep.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Fucked
In early March, the Russian wanted to know why it was taking me so long to see him again. We’d traded fucks one passionate night right before Christmas, but for about two months I’d avoided making a follow-up date.
With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape.
I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull.
Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that.
One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe.
I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?)
So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud.
I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook.
“Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.”
Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything.
He fuckin’ knows it, too.
We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming.
He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust.
Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers.
“I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear.
“I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .”
What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.”
It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification.
“It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.”
He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?”
I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no.
He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure.
And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper.
He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me.
When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed.
It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him.
The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to.
I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself.
He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do.
By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again.
I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week.
But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy.
I think I’m ready for more now, though.
With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape.
I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull.
Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that.
One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe.
I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?)
So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud.
I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook.
“Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.”
Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything.
He fuckin’ knows it, too.
We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming.
He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust.
Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers.
“I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear.
“I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .”
What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.”
It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification.
“It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.”
He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?”
I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no.
He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure.
And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper.
He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me.
When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed.
It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him.
The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to.
I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself.
He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do.
By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again.
I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week.
But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy.
I think I’m ready for more now, though.
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