So. Earlier this year it was time for my annual Craigslist ad.
No, I don’t have a particular day or season I place Craigslist personals. Theoretically, I could put up an ad a day if I cared to.
I just don’t care to.
I’m aware that the site works for other people in other areas. For me, where I live, Craigslist is pretty much the online cruising spot of last resort. The site where horny hopes go to die a slow and painful death. The dirty red light district of the internet where you’re pretty sure the digital equivalent of scabies lurk in every shadow.
What exasperates me about the site is that it’s a place where one can be scientifically precise about who one is and what one is looking for, and yet will be sure to receive emails offering nothing but the exact opposite. I’m willing to put down hard cash money that this afternoon, if you were to write an ad starting out with I’m a bottom with a small dick looking for tops only, the very first reply you would receive would begin with the words, Hi, I saw your ad just now and I am looking for a big-dicked top like you to fuck me.
I’ll only reply to profiles with photos will yield scores of emails from horny souls who don’t include pictures or who are curiously allergic to cameras. Say Please be local, and you’ll be fielding inquiries from Lincoln, Nebraska. (Unless you are actually from Lincoln, Nebraska, and then you’ll get responses from men in my neighborhood.) Include the restriction, I’m only free after five this afternoon, and I guarantee every reply you receive will include the words, LOOKING 4 NOW???
The sheer signal-to-noise ratio on Craigslist is so low that it takes roughly twelve months for me to stop my shuddering from my last experience to give it another try. On this particular afternoon in May, though, I found myself in Manhattan for a meeting. I had some time open in the evening after I was done, and was looking for a little mischief.
And J. Crew 101 . . . that’s my cue to welcome you to your tape.
I knew my meeting would take several hours and that during the time I’d be in the conference room, I wouldn’t be able to keep stabbing at the phone to keep track on the GPS apps I tend to like. I couldn’t easily open up a website to cruise. What I could do, without really being overly distracted or distracting to others, was to place a Craigslist ad for later on. I could check the emails I received discreetly and easily, without seeming to the others around the table like I’d rather be somewhere else.
The ad I placed was straightforward. I said I was a married dude looking for a mouth or ass to unload in. I gave all my stats. I stated the specific block or time I was available. I made clear I’d only consider responses with photos. I said that I could not host, but I would travel either to the guy’s place, or meet him somewhere like a bookstore. Then, my mind busily envisioning all the topsy-turvy replies I’d be sure to get, I attached a clear photo and posted the damned thing.
The meeting had barely gotten past the previous month’s minutes when my Yahoo! mail account started to blow up. With what I assumed was a surreptitious air, I held the fingers of my left hand up to my eyebrow, shielding my eyes in a pose that I was pretty sure connoted deep and philosophical thought, while with my right hand underneath the table, I browsed through the missives. Looking 4 now?? Top here to fuck you at your place, was the first promising response. Hi, do you have a car and can you come out to Passaic right now? was the second.
I suppose my general approach to Craigslist is fatalistic, really. I know that roughly all the responses I’m going to get are going to be utter nonsense. I know that every rare occasion I'm sent a hot email it’ll be from someone who is ‘too discreet’ to have any photographs of himself taken, and that every time I receive a scorching pic from a guy, it’ll be accompanied by a meth-fueled stream of consciousness so addled and incoherent that it will leave my boner limp for a week. I sat there in that meeting, fingers pushing up my left eyebrow, flipping through message after message and thinking, Nope. Nope. Nuh-uh. God no. Really, dude? Nope. Fuck no.
Then, toward the end of my meeting, I finally got a bite from a man named Jim—though I’m calling him J. Crew 101 for the purposes of this entry—that made me sit up and take notice. The guy sent a pic—of his butt, admittedly, but it was a good-looking butt. In his email he said he was a married guy (to a man) who was looking for downlow fuckings that he wasn't getting at home. He needed someone discreet with whom he could share some extramarital, stress-relieving sex from time to time.
Sounded perfect to me.
I went out to dinner by myself when the meeting was done. In a little sandwich shop I sat, exchanging some preliminary emails with the guy. J. Crew 101 lived in Chelsea, not far from where I was. The face photo he sent was quite attractive. Clean-cut, preppy, fair-haired, shy in appearance, wearing a Casual Fridays business shirt rather than a bare torso. I’m really looking for someone passionate, who’ll take his time with me, he wrote. I rarely get the sex that I need. I’m choosy.
Sounded right up my alley.
Even though the guy was only a handful of city blocks away, I was in no rush to pressure him into meeting. For one thing, I didn’t know if he was LOOKING 4 NOW. For another, he kept reiterating that he wanted a longer-term, unrushed, physical relationship. You don’t insist on closing the deal in four email exchanges or less for something like that.
Instead of the Craigslist forwarding service we’d been using, I gave him my real email address, and then my cell number, so that we communicate that way. For the better part of ninety minutes, I ate my dinner and read my book and got to know J. Crew 101.
J. Crew 101 started having sex later in life. He was one of those Catholic boys so terrified of hell that he didn’t even masturbate until he was in college. He got into a relationship young, without sowing any of his wild oats, he confided in me. His husband of fifteen years would probably be relieved to know he was getting sex elsewhere, because it would absolve his husband of the guilt and unfulfilled responsibility of keeping J. Crew 101 satisfied. Did I understand?
My life had been completely different, I told him. I was sexed young, and never really stopped. I made my confession, too: that in the last couple of years I’d been so discouraged by a couple of men that for a time—and this was perfectly true—I’d decided it was less soul-crushing to remain celibate than to get involved and broken again. It wasn’t that I was too easily disillusioned by the men I’d been seeing, I explained. It was that the men I’d been seeing seemed incredibly eager to disappoint me.
We exchanged several emails, and then texts, along that vein. It was nice to open up to a stranger; though I didn’t dwell on my recent sorrows so much that I sounded like an Eeyore, he gave me the space to state my recent disappointments and my hopes for a new beginning. And although he didn’t bad-mouth his husband, he let me know that something was lacking in his life, and that he was trying to rectify the situation . . . albeit by answering a Craigslist ad. Which we both agreed was not the most likely way for either of us to remedy our ills.
I liked J. Crew 101. As sunset began to fall, I took my phone and my backpack to a small park by the hospital and continued to chat with him. He told me that he felt confident to meet sometime soon, and floated a few possible dates. I told him my availability, and the times I’d most likely be back in his neighborhood. And then he had to go make dinner for his husband.
I spent another couple of hours in the city, having drinks with a friend, and was on my way back to the train when J. Crew 101 sent me an abrupt email. Hey, I think we want the same things, he said. But I think you're "too advanced" for me. Apologies. Good luck.
The fuck, I thought. What was this ‘too advanced’ shit, and where was it coming from? I’m sorry to hear that, I wrote back with a clenched jaw, but a determination to remain polite. It’s a shame you’ve talked yourself into this decision. I won’t attempt to convince you to change your mind, as you’ve apparently conjured up a number of imaginary reasons why we wouldn’t be good for each other. I wish you’d spared me hoping that I’d made a new friend.
I really was trying not to be rude to the guy. Quite the opposite—I was aiming to be as nonjudgmental as possible in my response. At the same time, though, my feelings were of utter dejection. I mean, I’d found a guy—on Craigslist, of all things—who had potential. We liked each other so far. In person, our chemistry may or may not have worked. But we both wanted similar things, and we’d gotten along.
His sudden rejection not only stung, but it reminded me that perhaps I should’ve expected it.
One of the philosophies in which I’ve believed, for large chunks of my life anyway, is in the innate generosity of the universe. For many years I’ve always said that the universe always offers us a rich banquet of opportunities, and that all we have to do to keep receiving them is to tell the universe yes.
Say yes to new people, and yes to new conversations and ideas, and yes to whatever weird, fun, and wonderful strokes of good fortune come our way. Telling the universe yes, I’ll try that, or yes, I will, or most importantly, yes, I’ll take this chance is what expands our horizons and makes our lives rich and worth living.
Saying no, I won’t, or no, not this time, or no, I’m fine where I am is what diminishes us as men and women, and makes our lives smaller. Say no often enough, and opportunity will vanish altogether.
That’s what I believed, I’d told J. Crew 101 (in an abbreviated version) earlier that evening. A few encounters with bum guys—and I meant everyone in this series of essays, and those I have yet to write about—had shaken that belief. I’d closed myself off, and was only this last spring considering starting to say yes once again.
And now, when I was saying yes, please, to J. Crew 101, J. Crew 101 was saying not a chance. Slamming the door in my face.
I was shaken. But I recognized, somehow, that it wasn’t me. It was him.
I didn’t expect a reply from him to my polite goodbye. I got one, though. I googled your email, he told me. (After my last two entries in this series, we all know how I feel about being stalked online.) I found your blog. I’ve been reading it for the last two hours. I jacked off three times reading it. But you’re too advanced for me.
At that point in May, I hadn’t written in my blog in ages. I’d been on my hiatus for seven months. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever be moved to write again. I’d contemplated several times deleting it entirely—but enough former fondness for the project lingered that I hadn’t yet given in to the impulse.
But there it sat, my blog. Ironic, that most of my resentments to the blog lay in the way I’d been treated by a handful of longtime readers—and now it was causing a first-time reader to reject me outright. For once there was something cruel in the accusation that I was at the postdoc level of sexual depravity, while J. Crew was content merely to take the 101-level seminar. Not even take the seminar. Audit it. He didn't have the courage to commit to completing anything—nor when he could walk out the moment it made him feel awkward.
I didn’t reply. What could I say to the guy that didn’t reek of recrimination? That he’d apparently found me and my blog enticing enough to jack off three loads in two hours, but that I was the sex fiend, here? What could I say that didn’t sound like an apology or a repudiation of what I am? Was I supposed to grovel I hadn’t written in the blog for months and months and would he pleeeeeease consider taking me back? That I’d reformed?
J. Crew 101’s decision was his; I didn’t intend to make him feel badly for making it. I’m always telling readers to know their own comfort levels, and to stick to them. That’s all J. Crew 101 did, essentially. I wasn’t going to apologize for my sexual being. I am what I am. (And he’d been the one to answer my ad for blatant and remorseless sex, after all.)
But most interesting of all, I didn’t want to renounce my blog. I wasn’t going to wave it away as a triviality, or claim it was just a passing phase, or diminish it in any way at all. I felt oddly defensive over the poor little neglected thing, all of a sudden. Even if I didn’t really want to add to it right then or there . . . at least J. Crew 101 lit a little spark of protectiveness in me.
These entries I’ve been writing out of sequence all along. Basically I’ve been trying to space out the more dire and difficult to write about with some of the more easy or comic annoyances. Maybe this should have been the first in the series, because it really gave rise to my desire to express all the grievances I’ve been bottling up over the last several years. My encounter with J. Crew 101 made me want to holler my anger aloud, to shout back, to catalog the wrongs that have fettered me, over and over again. Maybe it should be the series' last, since it kicked off these entries that followed.
So thanks for being an asshole, J. Crew 101—and you were indeed an asshole, even if you were the asshole who got me started on this path of airing my grievances. One of these days, before it’s too late, I hope you’ll open your eyes and realize that amazing opportunities are passing you by every day—even from something as grungy and unlikely as Craigslist, and even from 'too advanced' lowlifes like me. And I hope that you have the courage, some day, to say yes . . . before there’s nothing left to say yes to.
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 craigslist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label craigslist. Show all posts
Monday, July 24, 2017
Monday, July 14, 2014
Revenge
When the late-night commuter trains out of Grand Central pulls into the last stop at the New York border, all the dumb white overprivileged Connecticut kids shout out derogatory comments. This stop is . . . Mexican Town!, they’ll giggle, like it’s the funniest shit in the world. This stop is . . . Little Puerto Rico! The village has a heavy concentration of Latin neighborhoods, though, and as I’m driving through the landmarks of one just outside the little downtown area, late one night on my way to a fuck, I’m suddenly struck by a thought. This street seems awfully familiar.
A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site.
The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck.
Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little.
He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers.
The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior.
It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say.
The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked.
Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.”
“Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.”
Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke.
Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.”
Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more.
And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.”
“Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs.
“That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?”
“I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two.
“You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?”
“I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“
Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate.
I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.”
I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out.
From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment.
“You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?”
I nod. “How about you?”
“I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little.
“But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though.
“But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.”
“I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them.
He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?”
I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.”
I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again.
“Thanks,” I say at the door.
“Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?”
Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all.
A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site.
The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck.
Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little.
He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers.
The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior.
It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say.
The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked.
Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.”
“Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.”
Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke.
Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.”
Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more.
And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.”
“Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs.
“That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?”
“I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two.
“You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?”
“I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“
Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate.
I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.”
I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out.
From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment.
“You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?”
I nod. “How about you?”
“I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little.
“But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though.
“But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.”
“I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them.
He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?”
I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.”
I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again.
“Thanks,” I say at the door.
“Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?”
Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Adventures in Craigslist
I recently decided to give Craigslist a try again. Twice, in fact. A couple of local friends of mine had claimed great success with the m4m ads there, and something about the site has to keep compelling people to come back, right?
I guess none of you will probably be surprised at all to hear that my ventures into the East Coast of Craigslist-land were just as spectacularly unsuccessful as in the midwest. Oh darn. I’ve gone and given away the whole plot of this entry!
Many of my readers know that although I’ll follow just about any road that leads to sexual adventure, there are still a couple of areas unexplored. That’s mainly because they’re unusual enough that it’s difficult to find a partner to help out with them. One of these, of course, is my oft-shared fantasy of being blindfolded and restrained by a bottom I trust, and then of being used as a top by that bottom—or, in my more wild imaginings, by a number of unknown bottoms. A kind of reverse gang-bang, if you will. I’ve had several guys offer to put it together for me, but so far no one’s pulled through. (Will it work if I sigh heavily, gaze off into the distance, and say, I guess nobody loves me? Because although I dislike passive-aggression, I’ll queue it up if it works.)
What I decided to advertise on Craigslist was a variation on that theme, essentially. I wrote an ad asking for someone to play dominant bottom to my submissive top. Now, having control, and exercising it, is part of my daily diet as a top. I’m used setting the pace and the agenda of a tryst; I’m totally accustomed to telling my partner what I expect of him and how he should accomplish it.
I utterly get off on knowing that when I give an order, it’ll be obeyed. And it will be obeyed. I feel territorial pride about the holes I fuck, and I love knowing that if there’s anything I want from a guy, all I have to do is tell him. He’ll comply. Asking a bottom to dom me isn’t merely something that rubs against the grain; it’s almost so much against my natural instincts in the bedroom that it’s unimaginable. Forbidden. Definitely erotic. Ceding control, a quality that as a natural top I prize, has the tang of the taboo.
So I wrote up the ad. Included my stats. Stated plainly that I was looking for an assertive bottom who wanted to control a top. Included a photo that showed the most of my assets, by which I mean my smile, of course. (And my junk.) Very clearly said that I’d only be replying to responses that were relevant to what I was looking for. And I stated that furthermore I’d only be replying to guys who included photos with their response.
Twice I did this. Twice. In one of the largest Craigslist markets out there.
And in response I got:
Well of course I replied back to the guy. We swapped two emails and batches of photos, and he told me he’d be back in touch when he got back from his vacation.
Then I never heard from him again.
Ordinarily I’d be positive about the results. I did, after all, get a reply from a hot guy I liked who seemed to understand what I was looking for. He didn’t follow through, but hey. I was close. That’s encouraging, right?
In the wake of over a hundred replies, though, that one near-miss isn’t even looking too hot. Maybe I’ll try again in the future and hope for a new batch of Craigslist viewers. Maybe I’ll try somewhere else.
Or maybe I’ll just set aside the scenario as the stuff of fantasy. If it’s ever meant to happen, it’ll happen.
I guess none of you will probably be surprised at all to hear that my ventures into the East Coast of Craigslist-land were just as spectacularly unsuccessful as in the midwest. Oh darn. I’ve gone and given away the whole plot of this entry!
Many of my readers know that although I’ll follow just about any road that leads to sexual adventure, there are still a couple of areas unexplored. That’s mainly because they’re unusual enough that it’s difficult to find a partner to help out with them. One of these, of course, is my oft-shared fantasy of being blindfolded and restrained by a bottom I trust, and then of being used as a top by that bottom—or, in my more wild imaginings, by a number of unknown bottoms. A kind of reverse gang-bang, if you will. I’ve had several guys offer to put it together for me, but so far no one’s pulled through. (Will it work if I sigh heavily, gaze off into the distance, and say, I guess nobody loves me? Because although I dislike passive-aggression, I’ll queue it up if it works.)
What I decided to advertise on Craigslist was a variation on that theme, essentially. I wrote an ad asking for someone to play dominant bottom to my submissive top. Now, having control, and exercising it, is part of my daily diet as a top. I’m used setting the pace and the agenda of a tryst; I’m totally accustomed to telling my partner what I expect of him and how he should accomplish it.
I utterly get off on knowing that when I give an order, it’ll be obeyed. And it will be obeyed. I feel territorial pride about the holes I fuck, and I love knowing that if there’s anything I want from a guy, all I have to do is tell him. He’ll comply. Asking a bottom to dom me isn’t merely something that rubs against the grain; it’s almost so much against my natural instincts in the bedroom that it’s unimaginable. Forbidden. Definitely erotic. Ceding control, a quality that as a natural top I prize, has the tang of the taboo.
So I wrote up the ad. Included my stats. Stated plainly that I was looking for an assertive bottom who wanted to control a top. Included a photo that showed the most of my assets, by which I mean my smile, of course. (And my junk.) Very clearly said that I’d only be replying to responses that were relevant to what I was looking for. And I stated that furthermore I’d only be replying to guys who included photos with their response.
Twice I did this. Twice. In one of the largest Craigslist markets out there.
And in response I got:
- Approximately thirty-five responses from guys saying i want u to hold me down and facefuck the shit out of me;Out of all the responses I had to my ad, exactly one seemed suitable. A guy in Brooklyn sent me some shirtless photos that would’ve made any of my readers sit up and take notice. He was fit, furry, and masculine. He had a meaty, round ass. He was all bottom, he told me. He’d had fantasies of having a top who’d do his bidding in the sack, and who’d wear a leather collar and call him dad. He wanted to be in control. He could host.
- In the area of twenty-five to thirty responses that said hot dick r u dom?;- About twenty replies of dubious relevance that didn’t include a photo;
- Another dozen that contained face pictures that looked like they’d been culled from the FBI Most Wanted bulletin board in the post office; and,
- Three offers to make money from home safely and easily with no investment required!
Well of course I replied back to the guy. We swapped two emails and batches of photos, and he told me he’d be back in touch when he got back from his vacation.
Then I never heard from him again.
Ordinarily I’d be positive about the results. I did, after all, get a reply from a hot guy I liked who seemed to understand what I was looking for. He didn’t follow through, but hey. I was close. That’s encouraging, right?
In the wake of over a hundred replies, though, that one near-miss isn’t even looking too hot. Maybe I’ll try again in the future and hope for a new batch of Craigslist viewers. Maybe I’ll try somewhere else.
Or maybe I’ll just set aside the scenario as the stuff of fantasy. If it’s ever meant to happen, it’ll happen.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Missed Connections
Over the weekend I slipped up and did something I'd sworn to avoid fora while. I answered a Craigslist ad.
I know, I know. You've all heard me malign Craigslist time after time. In my metro area, it's the nadir of online cruising. In the last few months, I've never had a truly successful hookup from the site. I've met weirdos, yes. I've met men who never show.
Saturday I answered an ad from a guy who lived in my zip code. Looking to suck guys at my private gloryhole, it said. Come in, unzip, get off, get out. I liked the direct approach, and I'm fond of a good gloryhole, private or public, so I wrote back with my location, stats, and a shot of my wrangling my dick. He wrote back with an enthusiastic WOW! I want to taste that!!!
Then it was downhill from there. I asked him if he was available, and where the gloryhole was; he said that he was looking for right then, and that the gloryhole was at the foot of his basement stairs. I asked for an address. He wanted to know when I was free. I told him I was free right then. He said he might have to postpone, because he didn't like spending time in the basement in the dark behind the gloryhole. (Which baffled me. Why offer the services of your home glory hole if you don't like being behind it?) I repeated I was looking for right then. Then he disappeared for twenty minutes, and that was that.
When he came back, I'd already given him up, but he wanted to know my cock size. I asked him if he was honestly looking for dick or just playing games. He asked if I knew someone I could bring with me.
That's when I lost it, more or less—I wrote the guy back and told him that it wasn't my responsibility to line up a party for him, and that if he'd seriously been looking to suck right then, he would've invited me over already, and that he could've had me over forty minutes before. Good luck finding someone, I wrote, but it won't be me.
I'm not a game player! was his last, sad little reply. I trashed it.
So no, I'm not really positive about Craiglist at the moment . . . though I am perpetually fascinated by one of its sections. The Missed Connections, that is. I read them every day.
I think I like the Missed Connections because every little snippet is almost a story unto itself. It’s a bit like switching on a soap opera and catching so few lines of dialogue that it’s left to one’s own imagination to construct the scene around it. It’s a fantastic resource for writers. Voyeurs, too.
I mean, who is not intrigued by what’s left unsaid in something like this?
What’s going on here? Did a customer walk into Lowe’s and become so enamored with the clerk explaining the instant on/off lamp switch plug device that, when he got it home, he couldn’t remember what it was for? Did he spend the rest of the evening in a romantic daze, stroking his dick and thinking of the Lowe’s clerk in his tidy apron and name tag? Or did it go down in an entirely different fashion, with the customer walking into Lowes intending to buy a timer for his sprinkler system, and was so overcome by the clerk’s pulchritude that he walked off instead with a much-despised plug device? I want to know!
Who isn’t intrigued by this barely literate collection of run-on sentences? I like to picture our protagonist as wearing a plastic trucker’s cap and a stained tank top, clumsily proffering a Jolt Cola bottle (used) full of water for the stranded hot stud's radiator, his other hand stuffed into his dirty jeans, smiling his broken-toothed smile when the musclebound hunk thanked him. Then I picture Mr. Trucker Hat creepily staring at the handsome guy in the dark from behind the windshield of his busted-up Ford truck, a sticky spot in his shorts, as the poor stalked guy waits for AAA to send a tow.
There's more in my imagination, but I don't want to freak you out.
I’m always fascinated by glimpses of a city in which I live, but don’t recognize in the Missed Connections:
I drive north on Woodward all the time, and no one’s ever flashed me. There are all kinds of questions I want to ask this guy. Was he late to dinner? Did the wife notice his distant, pensive air? Did he need some time to himself in the basement workroom, after? I’m almost tempted to start writing emails with guesses. Blue stripes and My Son Is on the Honor Roll of the Roeper Academy?
I suspect everyone who reads the Missed Connections section likes to think that someday their eyes will be traveling down the list of locations and situations and, in a sudden spark of recognition, realize that someone is looking for them. Why, it was ME at that supermarket, Wednesday afternoon! I was INDEED the guy in the blue SUV at the Sonic! Who wouldn’t be honored to be noticed, remembered, and desired?
I have no such illusions, primarily because being seen would require occasionally leaving the house. If someone did write a Missed Connections ad to me, this is what I’m sadly afraid it would look like:
I know, I know. You've all heard me malign Craigslist time after time. In my metro area, it's the nadir of online cruising. In the last few months, I've never had a truly successful hookup from the site. I've met weirdos, yes. I've met men who never show.
Saturday I answered an ad from a guy who lived in my zip code. Looking to suck guys at my private gloryhole, it said. Come in, unzip, get off, get out. I liked the direct approach, and I'm fond of a good gloryhole, private or public, so I wrote back with my location, stats, and a shot of my wrangling my dick. He wrote back with an enthusiastic WOW! I want to taste that!!!
Then it was downhill from there. I asked him if he was available, and where the gloryhole was; he said that he was looking for right then, and that the gloryhole was at the foot of his basement stairs. I asked for an address. He wanted to know when I was free. I told him I was free right then. He said he might have to postpone, because he didn't like spending time in the basement in the dark behind the gloryhole. (Which baffled me. Why offer the services of your home glory hole if you don't like being behind it?) I repeated I was looking for right then. Then he disappeared for twenty minutes, and that was that.
When he came back, I'd already given him up, but he wanted to know my cock size. I asked him if he was honestly looking for dick or just playing games. He asked if I knew someone I could bring with me.
That's when I lost it, more or less—I wrote the guy back and told him that it wasn't my responsibility to line up a party for him, and that if he'd seriously been looking to suck right then, he would've invited me over already, and that he could've had me over forty minutes before. Good luck finding someone, I wrote, but it won't be me.
I'm not a game player! was his last, sad little reply. I trashed it.
So no, I'm not really positive about Craiglist at the moment . . . though I am perpetually fascinated by one of its sections. The Missed Connections, that is. I read them every day.
I think I like the Missed Connections because every little snippet is almost a story unto itself. It’s a bit like switching on a soap opera and catching so few lines of dialogue that it’s left to one’s own imagination to construct the scene around it. It’s a fantastic resource for writers. Voyeurs, too.
I mean, who is not intrigued by what’s left unsaid in something like this?
Lowe’s: Instant on/off lamp switch plug device (m4m)
I should have paid more attention.
What’s going on here? Did a customer walk into Lowe’s and become so enamored with the clerk explaining the instant on/off lamp switch plug device that, when he got it home, he couldn’t remember what it was for? Did he spend the rest of the evening in a romantic daze, stroking his dick and thinking of the Lowe’s clerk in his tidy apron and name tag? Or did it go down in an entirely different fashion, with the customer walking into Lowes intending to buy a timer for his sprinkler system, and was so overcome by the clerk’s pulchritude that he walked off instead with a much-despised plug device? I want to know!
Broke down (m4m)
hot stud with broke down car at rest area i gave u pop bottle for water would like to meet again
Who isn’t intrigued by this barely literate collection of run-on sentences? I like to picture our protagonist as wearing a plastic trucker’s cap and a stained tank top, clumsily proffering a Jolt Cola bottle (used) full of water for the stranded hot stud's radiator, his other hand stuffed into his dirty jeans, smiling his broken-toothed smile when the musclebound hunk thanked him. Then I picture Mr. Trucker Hat creepily staring at the handsome guy in the dark from behind the windshield of his busted-up Ford truck, a sticky spot in his shorts, as the poor stalked guy waits for AAA to send a tow.
There's more in my imagination, but I don't want to freak you out.
I’m always fascinated by glimpses of a city in which I live, but don’t recognize in the Missed Connections:
Woodward Avenue Studs (m4mm)
You and your hot friend were driving north on Woodward when you both lifted your shirts and flashed me. Damn! You two were amazing! Are you brothers? I couldn’t stop, was heading home to the family, but if you two are interested in a married man, tell me what color shirt I was wearing and what my bumper sticker said.
I drive north on Woodward all the time, and no one’s ever flashed me. There are all kinds of questions I want to ask this guy. Was he late to dinner? Did the wife notice his distant, pensive air? Did he need some time to himself in the basement workroom, after? I’m almost tempted to start writing emails with guesses. Blue stripes and My Son Is on the Honor Roll of the Roeper Academy?
I suspect everyone who reads the Missed Connections section likes to think that someday their eyes will be traveling down the list of locations and situations and, in a sudden spark of recognition, realize that someone is looking for them. Why, it was ME at that supermarket, Wednesday afternoon! I was INDEED the guy in the blue SUV at the Sonic! Who wouldn’t be honored to be noticed, remembered, and desired?
I have no such illusions, primarily because being seen would require occasionally leaving the house. If someone did write a Missed Connections ad to me, this is what I’m sadly afraid it would look like:
Weird-looking tall guy in Papa Joe’s grocery (m4m)
You were very tall, you have a fuzzy face, and your clothes were covered with cat hair. I followed you around the store hoping to catch your eye, but you were too busy trying out every food sample to notice. First you were all about the cheese on toothpicks, and then I saw you take seconds of the blueberry bread. Then you choked on the homemade peanut butter and yelled out, “Jesus Christ, it’s rancid!” really loudly. I was going to bring you water, but you’d already moved on to the deli meat and the open container of ginger snaps. Wow, you really like your free samples, don’t you? Maybe next time.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Moments in the Woods
He stood in front of the Taco Bell with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his baggy khakis. They were pants so faded and worn that I could almost see his knuckles through the threadbare pockets; the legs were two inches too long, so that the hems had dragged upon his heels and been trodden away until there was little left but hanging threads. He wore a plain white T-shirt, with its V-neck stretched and pulled out of shape. My first impression was that he looked everything like his photos—blond, blue-eyed, impossibly young, and even more impossibly pretty for a town of gas stations in the middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.
My second impression was that he looked nothing like his photo. The angle at which he’d taken the pictures he’d sent had obscured his body, leaving me with the impression that he’d be short and slight. The kid was short, that much was for sure. He couldn’t have been more than five-six. Slight, no. Beneath that much-worn T was a broad frame of steel and muscle—the buffed-up, worked-out body of a Madison Avenue ad campaign. The perfect test tube concoction of youth, masculinity, and roaring hormones. I sat in my car for a moment and watched him as he pulled out his hands and balled one up. When he nervously ground it into the other palm, his chest flexed slightly and his biceps rippled. I hadn’t expected him to be built.
I unfolded myself slowly from the car. Slowly, because I’d been driving for nearly nine hours at that point. He didn’t recognize me until I approached him. My own hands were stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. “Hey kid,” I said.
He feigned indifference, but his slightest movements told me how nervous he was. His eyes darted away from, and then back to mine. Back and forth, back and forth. “Hey,” he said at last, swinging his arms back and forth.
“You haven’t been waiting long?”
“Five minutes. About that,” he said. In his email the night before he’d told me he lived only a mile from this exit, and from the road I’d called him only shortly before to let him know I was near. He looked me up and down, nodding. No one was around. In a soft voice, though, he asked, “So. You still gonna bareback me?”
“Yes.” I maintained my gaze even as he avoided mine.
“Cool, cool,” he said.
“You still want it bare, right?”
Again he nodded. The briefest, most economical of head jerks. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. I want it. It’s just. . . .” He looked away again.
“First time you’ve played raw,” I said for him. He thrust his hands in his pocket and looked up at me through those blue eyes, affirming it. He didn’t drop the tough act, but he looked almost shy. Vulnerable, even.
It made my dick hard.
“So where’re we going to do this?” I asked. When he jerked his head for me to follow, I watched as he sauntered over to a battered red Ford truck parked nearby. I climbed back into my own car and together we pulled out of the Taco Bell parking lot and onto the road where trucks and cars roared off the turnpike on their way to other places.
I’d placed a Craigslist ad for this region of Pennsylvania the afternoon before my driving trip to Virginia. I’d gotten about 36 responses in total. Though I thought I’d worded the ad fairly clearly, in the great tradition of Craigslist, apparently I erred. I’d stated that I would be driving through the county on April 23 and would be available around dinnertime for some play before I drove on; roughly half the people responding to my ad thought I’d been looking either for immediate sex, or that I’d be available on May 11 when they commuted through town for the South Central Pennsylvania Butter Worker’s Convention or some such idiocy. I’d said I was looking to top raw and fuck a load in a hole, and roughly a third of the responses I got began with some variation of “Hey I don’t do anal but if you want to meet. . . .” I concluded my ad with the words, “Only responses with clear photos will receive my reply,” and a mere eight of the people who wrote me included photos.
Only one of the respondents who’d sent a photo and asked if I could give him his first barebacking got my response, though. I followed him away from the oasis of truck stops and Subways and burger joints, down a two-lane road that wound through family restaurants, and then past houses, and finally past nothing but trees. For five minutes we drove until he came to an old car repair shop, long shuttered and closed. A sign resting against the dusty garage doors reflected an ancient and almost inconceivably low price for unleaded. Around the back of the filling station we drove onto a gravel-covered clearing. His tail lights flared red as he pulled to a stop.
He jerked his head for me to follow him into the woods. The air was chillier beneath the trees with their fresh leaves, than it had been back in the sun-baked asphalt of the truck stop oasis. It smelled greener, though. And it was quiet. I couldn’t even hear the turnpike that had to lie over the rise to the north. I followed him into the wood along a path that was little more than a wandering line of trampled leaves. We reached a tree that had fallen over sometime in the winter, and he stopped. Abruptly he sat down on the trunk, and swung his legs like a little boy. “This okay?” he said.
I nodded.
"Cool." Without a word or a signal from me, he kicked off his sneakers. Then he hopped up onto his sock-covered feet and with both hands, skimmed off the ratty white T. Beneath the cotton was a porn star’s body. I barely had a chance to admire the curves of his arms, the firm roundness of his shoulders, or the glory of his chest because he unbuttoned his khakis, stepped out of them, and tossed them onto the ground without even bothering to see where they fell. In his white socks and white Hanes he looked like a go-go boy at a gay bar.
The remainder of his clothes didn’t stay on for long. When he kicked out his legs to grab and shuck off the socks, the thick blond hair on his legs glinted. He then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and yanked them down to the ground. Without my even asking, he’d completely stripped naked. No self-consciousness, no doubts, no hesitations. Just me and the woods and his naked shelf and his boner, a five-inch thick stub of uncut flesh. It throbbed.
He rubbed his hand around his jawline, up his sideburns, and into his hair, watching me stare “So am I good enough?” he asked at last.
I nodded again. Oh yes. He was more than good enough.
“What do you want?” he asked. I swallowed hard and cocked my head, then rubbed my hand across my stiff dick, which had raised a ridge along my right leg.
“Oh, I know how to suck,” he assured me as he dropped to his knees. The ground underneath us was soft enough for him to kneel. His fingers reached out and undid the button of my jeans. He briefly grabbed my dick through the material of my shorts; his finger tickled around the wet spot that had already soaked through. Then they joined the mess of denim around my calves. His mouth opened. “Fuck!” he said, before thrusting his head onto my meat. He hadn’t lied. He knew how to suck. I didn’t know who’d taught him or where he’d practiced, but he wasn’t hesitant or inexperienced. Within an instant he had me harder than hard and gasping. “It’s better than the pictures.”
I didn’t say anything. I just wove my fingers through his hair and pulled him onto my dick, setting the pace for him. Nice and easy, not as quickly or as frantic as he wanted and needed. His hands ran up and my legs. He played with my ass, then my balls. His eyes were closed as he sucked.
I don’t remember how long I let him work on me. It seemed like a very long time. I didn’t want him to stop. I still had another five hours to go on my trip, however, and I couldn’t linger for too long. “You like my dick?” He made a noise. I yanked his mouth off my meat. “I said, do you like my dick?”
“God yes.” A thin line of spit connected us for a moment. It snapped and splashed him by the eye. “Yes. Let me suck your dick. Let me suck you off.”
“My load is going in your ass, runt.” One of my blog readers had used that word in an email to me the week before. I liked the sound of it. Runt.
He liked it too. He stared at me from the ground with my dick the only obstacle between us. “Are you really going to bareback me?” I raised my eyebrows. He knew the answer to that question. I didn’t have to respond. “How do you want it?” he asked.
I gestured for him to stand up. He followed my command and turned around until he was propping himself up on the tree trunks, his meaty hands firmly clutching the bark. “You cleaned out?” I asked.
“Yes,” he assured me. He wasn’t lying. When I knelt down, the cleft of his butt smelled of Dove soap, as if he’d scrubbed it red moments before he’d left to meet me at the Taco Bell. He didn’t say a word when I licked and sucked at his hole, but when I spat on it and rubbed a finger against the raised pucker s, he hissed. The kid was so fucking young, I realized right then. His skin was so soft. So pink. The flesh was tight and rigid. His hole seemed to radiate heat. I continued licking at and fingering it while I added my own spit to what remained of his on my own dick.
Then I stood up and went in, slow. He seemed almost prepared for it to hurt. I think we were both surprised when it slid in without much resistance. “Is it in?” he asked, almost in a panicked voice. For a moment I thought he was going to try to struggle away, to undo what had already been done. “Are you in me bareback?”
“Oh, I’m barebacking you,” I told him.
His hands scrabbled back. His fingers clawed at his ass. I thought he was pulling at the cheeks in order to help me get deeper, but no. He wanted to feel it for himself. His fingers touched mine as I helped him feel my rigid rod slide in and out. He let out a cry from his chest, once it sunk in that what he’d craved, what he’d probably dreamt about for however long he’d been getting his little ass used, was really happening. It was the kind of moan a man makes shortly before he bursts into tears, but instead of weeping, he sighed deeply. “Shit, yes.”
He relaxed into the fuck. His cheek rested against the bark as he thrust his ass up and into the air. The kid didn’t seem to care that the mark it made might linger. “You like it, runt?” I asked him. His ass tightened at the question. “You like my big bare dick in that little hole?”
“I wanna come with you, dude,” he said. His fingers worked furiously at his little dick. “I wanna fuckin’ come when you do.”
“I’m not coming yet,” I told him. Gradually I ramped up the speed of my fuck, taking pleasure in the sensations of his ass, eventually thrusting so deeply his whole beefy body shuddered from every slam. His hole was open wider than I thought possible—though it was true he’d told me he’d been fucked before, but not barebacked. He didn’t even seem to noticed that I was pretty basically pulling all the way out and plunging back in again.
I might not have been coming, but he was. I barely noticed it at first, as he was so quiet about it. I knew it was happening when his legs buckled, though, and he almost jerked himself off my dick. Thick ropes of white cum landed on the leaves between his legs. I shoved myself back in and held my dick inside as deep as I could as his ass clutched at me. Not until he stopped shooting did I resume my rhythm.
He wasn’t enjoying the fuck as much now that he’d cum. It didn’t matter, though. I did. He didn’t object as I fucked harder. He rested his forehead on his forearm and took it, with his eyes closed and his butt still lifted to meet my thrusts. “Breed me,” he whispered, as I picked up the pace. “Fuckin’ breed me. Fill my boycunt. I want my first sperm load.”
“You want it?” I asked, pushing in and out faster.
“I want it,” he told me. “I want my first breeding. Give it to me.”
“What’re you going to do with it?” I asked him. “I don’t want you pushing it out when I drive on my way.”
“I’m keepin’ it,” he said. His voice echoed hollowly against the tree trunk. “I’m gonna keep that sperm in my all day and all night if I can. I want your sperm. Please give it to me.”
On and on he talked, asking for my sperm as I fucked. I’d wanted to hold back, to enjoy his young ass the way it was meant to be enjoyed, but it was tough. I knew I was close when my dick began to buzz as if it had been a struck tuning fork. Seconds later, I caught a harsh breath and began to unload in the runt’s hole. “Fuck yes!” he groaned. “I want it! I’ve wanted your sperm! Give me—!”
He was shooting again, I noted with surprise. The amount of fluid wasn’t nearly as much as the first time he’d shot, but it was still enough to make a thick splat onto the already wet leaves between his feet. His back arched forward, and he gasped and rolled his hips. My dick immediately began to slide out. He was done.
He kept his word, though. The runt clenched his butt cheeks together and sat down on the tree trunk, panting. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing. All I had to do was pull my pants over my still-hard dick and fasten them. He sat there totally naked and watched me. Once again I saw the shy look in his eye when he asked, “Was I okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, grinning at him.
“I was good enough?” It was a serious question. He wasn’t merely fishing for compliments. I wanted to hug the kid right then, but I thought he might take it as condescension. I knew that someone in his life had to have told him that he wasn’t good enough at some point. Someone had to have. It was as plain and naked as he. I wanted to assure him that whoever that had been was a fool, and best forgotten. That he should get out of Nowhere and get the hell away from whomever it was, fucking with his head.
It was too big a liberty to take, though. “Hey,” I said, staring him in the eyes to make sure he knew I meant it. “You are more than good enough. For anyone.”
He paused for a second, then nodded. His arms crossed over his chest, and he spread his legs so that his softening dick hung between them. “Okay. You would know. I guess.” As he had been a few moments ago when he’d expelled me from his ass, I could tell he was done. “See ya,” he said.
“See ya,” I repeated. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and left by the path by which I’d come in.
I saw him emerge from the woods a few minutes later, after I’d checked my phone and pulled my car around on the little gravel lot. He was dressed, and scuffing his feet in the dirt. He stopped at the sight of my car. When I pulled around the abandoned filling station, he stood there in the cloud of dust he’d kicked up, then raised his hand and held it in the air. He wasn’t waving, but letting me go with his unspoken thanks.
My second impression was that he looked nothing like his photo. The angle at which he’d taken the pictures he’d sent had obscured his body, leaving me with the impression that he’d be short and slight. The kid was short, that much was for sure. He couldn’t have been more than five-six. Slight, no. Beneath that much-worn T was a broad frame of steel and muscle—the buffed-up, worked-out body of a Madison Avenue ad campaign. The perfect test tube concoction of youth, masculinity, and roaring hormones. I sat in my car for a moment and watched him as he pulled out his hands and balled one up. When he nervously ground it into the other palm, his chest flexed slightly and his biceps rippled. I hadn’t expected him to be built.
I unfolded myself slowly from the car. Slowly, because I’d been driving for nearly nine hours at that point. He didn’t recognize me until I approached him. My own hands were stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. “Hey kid,” I said.
He feigned indifference, but his slightest movements told me how nervous he was. His eyes darted away from, and then back to mine. Back and forth, back and forth. “Hey,” he said at last, swinging his arms back and forth.
“You haven’t been waiting long?”
“Five minutes. About that,” he said. In his email the night before he’d told me he lived only a mile from this exit, and from the road I’d called him only shortly before to let him know I was near. He looked me up and down, nodding. No one was around. In a soft voice, though, he asked, “So. You still gonna bareback me?”
“Yes.” I maintained my gaze even as he avoided mine.
“Cool, cool,” he said.
“You still want it bare, right?”
Again he nodded. The briefest, most economical of head jerks. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. I want it. It’s just. . . .” He looked away again.
“First time you’ve played raw,” I said for him. He thrust his hands in his pocket and looked up at me through those blue eyes, affirming it. He didn’t drop the tough act, but he looked almost shy. Vulnerable, even.
It made my dick hard.
“So where’re we going to do this?” I asked. When he jerked his head for me to follow, I watched as he sauntered over to a battered red Ford truck parked nearby. I climbed back into my own car and together we pulled out of the Taco Bell parking lot and onto the road where trucks and cars roared off the turnpike on their way to other places.
I’d placed a Craigslist ad for this region of Pennsylvania the afternoon before my driving trip to Virginia. I’d gotten about 36 responses in total. Though I thought I’d worded the ad fairly clearly, in the great tradition of Craigslist, apparently I erred. I’d stated that I would be driving through the county on April 23 and would be available around dinnertime for some play before I drove on; roughly half the people responding to my ad thought I’d been looking either for immediate sex, or that I’d be available on May 11 when they commuted through town for the South Central Pennsylvania Butter Worker’s Convention or some such idiocy. I’d said I was looking to top raw and fuck a load in a hole, and roughly a third of the responses I got began with some variation of “Hey I don’t do anal but if you want to meet. . . .” I concluded my ad with the words, “Only responses with clear photos will receive my reply,” and a mere eight of the people who wrote me included photos.
Only one of the respondents who’d sent a photo and asked if I could give him his first barebacking got my response, though. I followed him away from the oasis of truck stops and Subways and burger joints, down a two-lane road that wound through family restaurants, and then past houses, and finally past nothing but trees. For five minutes we drove until he came to an old car repair shop, long shuttered and closed. A sign resting against the dusty garage doors reflected an ancient and almost inconceivably low price for unleaded. Around the back of the filling station we drove onto a gravel-covered clearing. His tail lights flared red as he pulled to a stop.
He jerked his head for me to follow him into the woods. The air was chillier beneath the trees with their fresh leaves, than it had been back in the sun-baked asphalt of the truck stop oasis. It smelled greener, though. And it was quiet. I couldn’t even hear the turnpike that had to lie over the rise to the north. I followed him into the wood along a path that was little more than a wandering line of trampled leaves. We reached a tree that had fallen over sometime in the winter, and he stopped. Abruptly he sat down on the trunk, and swung his legs like a little boy. “This okay?” he said.
I nodded.
"Cool." Without a word or a signal from me, he kicked off his sneakers. Then he hopped up onto his sock-covered feet and with both hands, skimmed off the ratty white T. Beneath the cotton was a porn star’s body. I barely had a chance to admire the curves of his arms, the firm roundness of his shoulders, or the glory of his chest because he unbuttoned his khakis, stepped out of them, and tossed them onto the ground without even bothering to see where they fell. In his white socks and white Hanes he looked like a go-go boy at a gay bar.
The remainder of his clothes didn’t stay on for long. When he kicked out his legs to grab and shuck off the socks, the thick blond hair on his legs glinted. He then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and yanked them down to the ground. Without my even asking, he’d completely stripped naked. No self-consciousness, no doubts, no hesitations. Just me and the woods and his naked shelf and his boner, a five-inch thick stub of uncut flesh. It throbbed.
He rubbed his hand around his jawline, up his sideburns, and into his hair, watching me stare “So am I good enough?” he asked at last.
I nodded again. Oh yes. He was more than good enough.
“What do you want?” he asked. I swallowed hard and cocked my head, then rubbed my hand across my stiff dick, which had raised a ridge along my right leg.
“Oh, I know how to suck,” he assured me as he dropped to his knees. The ground underneath us was soft enough for him to kneel. His fingers reached out and undid the button of my jeans. He briefly grabbed my dick through the material of my shorts; his finger tickled around the wet spot that had already soaked through. Then they joined the mess of denim around my calves. His mouth opened. “Fuck!” he said, before thrusting his head onto my meat. He hadn’t lied. He knew how to suck. I didn’t know who’d taught him or where he’d practiced, but he wasn’t hesitant or inexperienced. Within an instant he had me harder than hard and gasping. “It’s better than the pictures.”
I didn’t say anything. I just wove my fingers through his hair and pulled him onto my dick, setting the pace for him. Nice and easy, not as quickly or as frantic as he wanted and needed. His hands ran up and my legs. He played with my ass, then my balls. His eyes were closed as he sucked.
I don’t remember how long I let him work on me. It seemed like a very long time. I didn’t want him to stop. I still had another five hours to go on my trip, however, and I couldn’t linger for too long. “You like my dick?” He made a noise. I yanked his mouth off my meat. “I said, do you like my dick?”
“God yes.” A thin line of spit connected us for a moment. It snapped and splashed him by the eye. “Yes. Let me suck your dick. Let me suck you off.”
“My load is going in your ass, runt.” One of my blog readers had used that word in an email to me the week before. I liked the sound of it. Runt.
He liked it too. He stared at me from the ground with my dick the only obstacle between us. “Are you really going to bareback me?” I raised my eyebrows. He knew the answer to that question. I didn’t have to respond. “How do you want it?” he asked.
I gestured for him to stand up. He followed my command and turned around until he was propping himself up on the tree trunks, his meaty hands firmly clutching the bark. “You cleaned out?” I asked.
“Yes,” he assured me. He wasn’t lying. When I knelt down, the cleft of his butt smelled of Dove soap, as if he’d scrubbed it red moments before he’d left to meet me at the Taco Bell. He didn’t say a word when I licked and sucked at his hole, but when I spat on it and rubbed a finger against the raised pucker s, he hissed. The kid was so fucking young, I realized right then. His skin was so soft. So pink. The flesh was tight and rigid. His hole seemed to radiate heat. I continued licking at and fingering it while I added my own spit to what remained of his on my own dick.
Then I stood up and went in, slow. He seemed almost prepared for it to hurt. I think we were both surprised when it slid in without much resistance. “Is it in?” he asked, almost in a panicked voice. For a moment I thought he was going to try to struggle away, to undo what had already been done. “Are you in me bareback?”
“Oh, I’m barebacking you,” I told him.
His hands scrabbled back. His fingers clawed at his ass. I thought he was pulling at the cheeks in order to help me get deeper, but no. He wanted to feel it for himself. His fingers touched mine as I helped him feel my rigid rod slide in and out. He let out a cry from his chest, once it sunk in that what he’d craved, what he’d probably dreamt about for however long he’d been getting his little ass used, was really happening. It was the kind of moan a man makes shortly before he bursts into tears, but instead of weeping, he sighed deeply. “Shit, yes.”
He relaxed into the fuck. His cheek rested against the bark as he thrust his ass up and into the air. The kid didn’t seem to care that the mark it made might linger. “You like it, runt?” I asked him. His ass tightened at the question. “You like my big bare dick in that little hole?”
“I wanna come with you, dude,” he said. His fingers worked furiously at his little dick. “I wanna fuckin’ come when you do.”
“I’m not coming yet,” I told him. Gradually I ramped up the speed of my fuck, taking pleasure in the sensations of his ass, eventually thrusting so deeply his whole beefy body shuddered from every slam. His hole was open wider than I thought possible—though it was true he’d told me he’d been fucked before, but not barebacked. He didn’t even seem to noticed that I was pretty basically pulling all the way out and plunging back in again.
I might not have been coming, but he was. I barely noticed it at first, as he was so quiet about it. I knew it was happening when his legs buckled, though, and he almost jerked himself off my dick. Thick ropes of white cum landed on the leaves between his legs. I shoved myself back in and held my dick inside as deep as I could as his ass clutched at me. Not until he stopped shooting did I resume my rhythm.
He wasn’t enjoying the fuck as much now that he’d cum. It didn’t matter, though. I did. He didn’t object as I fucked harder. He rested his forehead on his forearm and took it, with his eyes closed and his butt still lifted to meet my thrusts. “Breed me,” he whispered, as I picked up the pace. “Fuckin’ breed me. Fill my boycunt. I want my first sperm load.”
“You want it?” I asked, pushing in and out faster.
“I want it,” he told me. “I want my first breeding. Give it to me.”
“What’re you going to do with it?” I asked him. “I don’t want you pushing it out when I drive on my way.”
“I’m keepin’ it,” he said. His voice echoed hollowly against the tree trunk. “I’m gonna keep that sperm in my all day and all night if I can. I want your sperm. Please give it to me.”
On and on he talked, asking for my sperm as I fucked. I’d wanted to hold back, to enjoy his young ass the way it was meant to be enjoyed, but it was tough. I knew I was close when my dick began to buzz as if it had been a struck tuning fork. Seconds later, I caught a harsh breath and began to unload in the runt’s hole. “Fuck yes!” he groaned. “I want it! I’ve wanted your sperm! Give me—!”
He was shooting again, I noted with surprise. The amount of fluid wasn’t nearly as much as the first time he’d shot, but it was still enough to make a thick splat onto the already wet leaves between his feet. His back arched forward, and he gasped and rolled his hips. My dick immediately began to slide out. He was done.
He kept his word, though. The runt clenched his butt cheeks together and sat down on the tree trunk, panting. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing. All I had to do was pull my pants over my still-hard dick and fasten them. He sat there totally naked and watched me. Once again I saw the shy look in his eye when he asked, “Was I okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, grinning at him.
“I was good enough?” It was a serious question. He wasn’t merely fishing for compliments. I wanted to hug the kid right then, but I thought he might take it as condescension. I knew that someone in his life had to have told him that he wasn’t good enough at some point. Someone had to have. It was as plain and naked as he. I wanted to assure him that whoever that had been was a fool, and best forgotten. That he should get out of Nowhere and get the hell away from whomever it was, fucking with his head.
It was too big a liberty to take, though. “Hey,” I said, staring him in the eyes to make sure he knew I meant it. “You are more than good enough. For anyone.”
He paused for a second, then nodded. His arms crossed over his chest, and he spread his legs so that his softening dick hung between them. “Okay. You would know. I guess.” As he had been a few moments ago when he’d expelled me from his ass, I could tell he was done. “See ya,” he said.
“See ya,” I repeated. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and left by the path by which I’d come in.
I saw him emerge from the woods a few minutes later, after I’d checked my phone and pulled my car around on the little gravel lot. He was dressed, and scuffing his feet in the dirt. He stopped at the sight of my car. When I pulled around the abandoned filling station, he stood there in the cloud of dust he’d kicked up, then raised his hand and held it in the air. He wasn’t waving, but letting me go with his unspoken thanks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)