I Know You

The only reason I’m here, in front of this tenth-story Chelsea apartment door on a winter’s afternoon, is because I’ve dared myself. In fact, every step that’s brought me here has been a dare.
Now, arrived at my destination, I have to dare myself one last time. Ring the bell, I think. Let him know you’re here. Do it. Get it over with. When I hesitate, the irresistible last self-push: C’mon. I dare you to.

My index and middle finger rise to the eye-level pushbutton. With the backs of my knuckles, I press and release, sounding a bell on the other side. Done, I tell myself. Happy now?

The door opens. The man I'm here to meet wears a pair of baggy workout pants. Athletic socks with loose elastic sliding down his furry legs. A tank-top that’s obviously been chosen for utility over style, though it shows off the curves of his muscles nicely. His face—that mug I recognize instantly—peeks around the door. His dark hair is long. Not as long as in his movies; it’s been cut roughly at the same level as his jaw. But those soulful eyes are the same. Both his locks and his trimmed-short beard are shot with more gray hairs than I remember.

The spark of familiarity, though, was instant. I know you, I thought. It wasn’t for the first time.

The man says my name in a deep voice, followed by, “Come on in.” He extends a meaty hand to grasp my own, and pulls me over the threshold.




Hey. I know you, I’d thought, the first time I’d seen his profile online, in my track list. You’ve been in porn, right? He’d used a selfie as his primary portrait, but a lack of studio lighting and a professional photographer couldn’t disguise that intense stare, the sharp jawline, the rough-hewn masculinity. At the time I’d merely taken a quick glance at his profile before moving on. To be honest, I’d assumed that some horny cretin was catfishing unsuspecting guys, using pictures of a well-known porn top as bait. But then again, who’d have the audacity to pass off photos of a major gay porn actor as his own? Not just some schmo who bottomed in a couple of dirty flicks, but a truly well-known star from a big studio?

Then the man behind the profile sent me a message on the site, admiring my profile. Dare you to play along, I taunted myself. So for shits and giggles I replied. I thanked him when he said he liked my photos. I answered his questions about my location and availability. Frankly, I was waiting for the inevitable, leering attempts at cyber chat that would tip me off I was dealing with a fraud.

But those never came. Over the course of our correspondence, he wrote sparingly about enjoying reading, and about how difficult it was to meet articulate men. He unlocked photos for me that didn’t seem like studio shots scrounged from Google. He told me that yes, he did escort and massage for a living; he hoped I wasn’t offended by that. The fact that he’d hit me up first meant he was looking for something off the books.

He didn’t get to bottom often, he said. I had a beautiful dick, and he really wanted to bottom for me.

This is where I had to dare myself again. Say yes, I told myself. Dare to think he’ll want you.

So I said, sure. Of course I’d be happy to take care of him, if that’s what he wanted.

Give him your phone number, I prodded myself. Dare ya.

I gave him my phone number.

We moved pretty rapidly from online chat to texting. He sent me a number of candid shots of himself that convinced me, pretty much beyond doubt, that I was speaking to the very same porn star to whose scenes I had jacked off multiple times over the years. There aren’t a lot of tops in porn that I watch, thinking, Damn, I wish he would stretch me the fuck open. There’s Dan Fisk, maybe. And most definitely there was this guy.

This man always excelled in his one-on-one scenes with others. His studio never dropped him in the middle of a gang bang. Oh no. They always paired him up with one exceptionally hot bottom, put them together in a dimly-lit room, then let the camera roll. In his scenes, this man knew how to control a situation. He would start slow, intimate. Romantic, even. The way he kissed the men he was about to fuck always made me twitch with need; I’d watch his bottom boys respond with real lust to his every touch.

On video, this man was a little bit older, a little more seasoned, a little quieter . . . a little bit more real than the rest of the studio stable. I always found those qualities attractive. He looked like he had sex on film because he enjoyed it—because he was damned good at it—rather than just to earn enough dough to pay off his dealer. When that inevitable moment came in every video when he’d finally turn over his boy, part those cheeks, and slide in his sizable member, I would be pouring the lube over my own dick, sighing, and wishing the boy were me.

Funny, how I’d idly fantasized about this guy for years before running across him online—but solely as a bottom fantasizes about a top. I’d never once considered fucking him. I could recall him even bottoming in any of his appearances.

I really want to submit to you, he texted. Just forget about myself while I’m your boy. May I do that?

Give him what he wants, I dared myself. Fuck him. Fuck this alpha of alphas. Make him your boy. My rock-hard dick spurred me on. Mark that ass as yours.

So I made a date.




Here’s the thing, though. All this time I was talking to the guy, I hadn’t actually come out and said, I know about your career in porn. I’d never casually brought up in conversation, So what’s it like, banging Dawson? I’d never dropped a hint like, You look familiar. Kind of like the top in that third scene of Splooge Up My Guts 2: Electric Boogaloo. Why the silence? Hell if I knew.

My own reservations about hooking up with my fans are abundant, and I’m one hundred percent certain that sex blog fans are neither as numerous nor as persistent as fans of porn stars. (And sex blog fans are pretty damned numerous and persistent.) Being labeled a stalkery fanboy was something I wanted to avoid. Another part of me simply didn’t think it was appropriate to speak of his history in porn. If he wanted to bring it up, sure. It'd be fair game. But if this man wanted to have a private sexual vacation—bottoming, no less—away from his public sexual persona . . . who was I to deny him?

Before the afternoon of our meeting, I confess, I messaged my friend Ryan Wolff with a couple of the photos. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Do you recognize this guy? I asked.

Oh hell yeah, Ryan replied instantly, and named the man.

I was immediately relieved to be validated that I wasn’t exchanging steamy texts with, you know, a sandwich shop worker bearing a vague resemblance to a porn star. (The thought had crossed my mind, more than a few times.) He wants me, I explained. But I didn’t want to go all fanboy on him, so I didn’t tell him I recognized him. His real name is different from his porn name. I shared the name the man had given me.

That’s him all right. Ryan texted back, He’s retired from porn, but I understand he’s versatile. Knock up his ass real good.

And here I am. Ready to knock him up.

No. I’m ready to give him what he asked for. Today he’s not going to be a porn star. Today this man is going to be my boy . . . just as he desired.





I step inside the door, ready to apologize for my chilly hands, my frigid nose, my ice-cold cheeks. Once the door closes behind me, he ignores my frozen extremities and immediately cups my face in his hands, pulling down my head. His nails riff through the scruff of my beard. His eyes open wide, look straight into mine; he pulls our foreheads together. Our hips connect. Jersey to denim, seam to zipper, hardness to hardness. He smells of soap, and of a woodsy deodorant.

Still staring at each other, we grind together for a long moment until he breaks the silence. “You’re much better looking in person,” he says, then to my relief temporizes, “and I thought you were handsome in your pics.”

He looks just like he does in porn. Silly thing to think. Of course he does. Except he’s here—he’s real. He’s touching me, resting his hands on my chest, cupping my ass. He’s shorter than I imagined, to be honest. Everyone is, when I meet them.

Tell him, I dare myself. Just say, hey. I know you.

No. Ultimatums have propelled me out of my living room and down the New Haven line into the city. They’ve forced my grudging feet onto the Lexington Avenue train into Chelsea. Self-provocation has gotten me over the threshold. It’s time to leave dares behind. I'm here. Now. For him.

Once and for all, I decide to keep my mouth shut. This man can spend the afternoon free of the invisible albatross of the porn star—my gift this afternoon will be unburdening him of having to live up to anything. Of having to perform.

I speak his name. His real name. “Thank you,” I tell him, for the compliment. “You are one of the most ruggedly handsome men I’ve ever seen. Can I make you an offer today?”

“Yes. What?”

“Let me make love to you. Let me be in charge.” His forehead is still pressed to mine as I half-whisper the enticement. His fingers are clasped around the back of my neck; his thumbs rest on my collarbone. His response is a sigh, and a rumble deep in his chest. “You don’t get to bottom often, do you?”

Those soulful eyes are already boring into mine. He separates our craniums so that we can better see each other. Still we’re glued pelvis to pelvis, hands on each other’s hips, swaying back and forth in some slow, tuneless dance. “No,” he finally says in soft, low syllables. “I surely don’t.”

“You don't get to let loose.” Again he shakes his head. “Then let me be the one taking care of you today,” I tell him. “I intend to treat you right.”

“Yes. Please.” He leans forward, places a hand on my cheek. We kiss. His tongue slips between my teeth; his lips are soft, though his beard prickles through my own. “I need that very, very badly.”

In all the idle fantasies I’ve had about this guy over the last decade, if I’d scripted our conversation, I would’ve been in his role and he would’ve taken mine. But this feels good. This feels very natural, in fact. I enjoy taking care of my men. Why should a few dozen hours on video make this one any different? I jettison shed my jacket and backpack and shoes in his entry hall and allow him to guide me our of the hallway. His apartment is small, but tidy; he's curated his many books onto their shelves by subject. Sneakers snuggle in pairs beneath the bed. There’s a portable massage table folded against the wall. A bed occupies a spot between a radiator and the window.

It’s toward the mattress that I steer him now, maintaining the connection at our core. He stumbles back with awkward steps, his lips hungrily on mine. We kiss with increasing ferocity; it’s as if the feel of my mouth on his, my tongue deep inside, unleashes his need. I’ve seen his bottoms on film crave him in exactly this way, many times before. Now it’s his turn to give in.

He’s on his back, head on the pillow, hairy legs in the air. I’m on top of him, my groin still grinding against him, insistent, demanding, my chest against his, our lips fastened on each other. My dick feels like cement. It has to be bruising his most tender places. But no, I feel his own erection prodding back, just as hard, just as anxious.

We separate to rip off our clothes. No seduction. No more prolonging the moment. There’s just raw, naked need between us. He looks over my body while I stare at his. My eyes have the better half of that bargain. He’s still in great shape. Lean. Furry. His fat dick is dark and wreathed by even darker pubes, shot with silver. It points straight at me.

I have to taste it. I might not be taking it—not today—but I need that porn star dick in my mouth. He groans as I go down on him. Already his head is slightly musky and slick with his precum. It slides down my throat effortlessly. How many times does a guy get to worship a dick about which he’s fantasized? Out flicks my tongue, every time I reach the base, licking at his nuts. After a few moments, his sac is covered with my drool.

The entire time I’m down on his meat, he’s groaning. He’s seized my skull between his big hands; now he’s lifting me off, bringing my mouth to his, tasting his own precum from my tongue. My breath probably smells like his dick, but he’s sucking the air out of me, he’s breathing so heavily. He flips me onto my back, stares into my eyes with flinty intent, and then parts my legs so that can suck me.

He works on my nuts, first, licking them, sucking them into his mouth, teasing me with his wet lips. Then he travels up the shaft. I feel his hot breath on my skin—and then he’s down, swallowing my inches. I feel a crackle of sensations when his short beard abrades my sac, then the slick softness of his open throat.

“Suck it,” I whisper. He grunts and gargles on my hard meat. “Get it all good and slicked up for your ass, son.”

I don’t actually know how old this man is. I’m assuming he’s younger than I, though neither of us is exactly a spring chicken. I can see the effect that the word son has on this ultimate porn daddy, though. It’s as if every bone in his body melts away; his center of gravity drops deep into the mattress as every newton of tension and resistance drains from his muscles. Even his throat collapses around my cock, driving it more deeply down his gullet. He’s more relaxed than he’s ever made anyone on that massage table.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I murmur in his ear. He submits completely when I withdraw from his mouth and turn him face-down on the bed. I grab the extra pillow and easily shove it beneath his hips. “Let me see that hole, son.”

My growl elicits one in return, deep from his gut. He reaches back to pull apart his cheeks and expose the furry depths of his cleft. There’s so much hair I can’t even see the pucker at first. But there it is, deep inside, warm. Moist. Protected. When my mouth meets that private part of him, he lets loose with a noise that’s pure animal. It could be from pain; from what I’m doing, I know it’s of pleasure.

As my incisors gnaw at him, as my lips stretch his hole, as my tongue laps with broad, dog-like persistence at a place made sensitive by need and neglect, his howling intensifies. My thoughts are for his neighbors. He, however, seems to be operating in a place beyond all consideration for the adjoining apartments. He’s got no thoughts. Only needs.

He roars, pleating the sheets between his clenched fists. The noise doesn’t daunt me. I redouble my efforts and dive deeper. There’s a bit of struggle from his sphincter, at first. It tries to clamp down, to deny me what I most want. My tongue flattens, broadens, weakens its target. I’m relentless. I’ll get what I want, in the end. The beast quiets. Relaxes. The taste of his hole changes; there’s the faintest metallic tang as it releases for me.

“You like it,” I tell him.

There’s no need to explain what I mean. His face is contorted in a rictus of pleasure as he looks over his shoulder in my direction. He nods. The man likes all of it. The attention. The licking. The surrender.

With my index and middle finger, I probe at his pucker. He’s not as tight as I fear. The flesh gives way and parts as I twist my digits. He's not virgin-tight. On the other hand, he’s not sloppy-open by any means. I’m a good judge of how difficult it will prove to get into any given hole. I’m guessing that with this man, any barrier to me fucking him will be more mental than physical.

As if to prove my point, the moment he realizes he’s enjoying himself too much, the porn star clamps down like a vise on my fingers. There’s a dispenser of lube by the bed. I raise myself up and softly shush him as I press down to release some of the opaque lubricant into my fingers. It’s a bit cold, but warms instantly as my fingers deliver it onto, then into, his rectum. Kneeling now, I kiss a path up his spine, deviating at the shoulders, ending at the base of his neck. He’s still clutching his bedsheets, but his arms are over his head in a posture of complete surrender. I know you, I think, looking down at him. Then I reach for more slickness, to spread over my cock.

He watches me sleepily, his eyes half-lidded. Smiling, almost. My dick is engorged. Ready to go. But I hesitate.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m a man of abundant sexual confidence. I realize the measure of my power, once my pants hit the floor. I know the caliber of men I can attract, with a little luck and effort. At this decade of my life I should instinctively understand I can pull off most situations. But honestly? The reality of thus situation is catching up with me.

Who the fuck am I to top a porn star of this magnitude? Sheer chutzpah might’ve gotten me to this point, but what the hell do I think I’m doing? I’ve had several porn actors, including some major ones, as sexless close friends. I once made out with a kid who turned out to be a porn star in the restroom at Uncle Charlie’s, on his twenty-first birthday. I’ve slept with men who later revealed they’d been in a porn video or two in their past. But never, ever, have I fucked someone like this guy, knowing his past, knowing his level of fame. This is craziness.

At the mere altitude of five feet from the floor, I’m experiencing the giddy vertigo of someone who’s been hauled up the first steep incline of a fearsome rollercoaster, and who hangs in hideous suspense between the rise and the inevitable plunge to come.

I’ve gotten this far, I realize. Time to start the ride.

I slide in from behind. As he did with my fingers, almost immediately he starts to clamp down. With only about two inches inside, and his hole starting to fight me, I lower my chest to his back. “You are so damned beautiful,” I whisper into his ear. “Do you know how fucking hard you make my dick? Reach down. You feel that? You feel it?” He obeys. Nods. He feels it, all right. How long has it been since someone topped him last? “I am going to fuck you so deep,” I murmur. “Your dad is going to knock up that beautiful, amazing ass.”

That’s doing it. His hole flares. I slide in another inch.

“Such a good boy. Such a good, beautiful boy, giving up his pussy to dad.” I’m not only in his ass. I’m in his head. “Fuck, baby boy. You’ve got me. You’ve got almost all of me in there. You want all of your dad’s fuckstick up that hole, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes sir.” He stirs. Opens his eyes. Looks back at me with adoration.

I lean down and meet his mouth with mine. “When I’m done, this ass will belong to me. Right?”

“Yeah,” he growls. “It’s already yours.”

“Arch that back, son,” I tell him. “C’mon. You can do it.” He obeys instantly, and my last two inches slide inside and hit bottom.

I lower myself onto the man so that I’m weighing him down. Like most men, he finds the sensation comforting. His fingers wriggle to clasp my own as slowly I start grinding. I’m so deep inside I already can feel the nub of his prostate pressing against my cock head. “Feels amazing. Dad's really enjoying his boy’s hole. I know you're loving it.” He nods, trying to come to terms with the sensations flooding his body. “Do you love it? Tell me.”

“I love it,” he gasps.

“Say thank you, dad.”

“Thank you, dad.” Again we make eye contact. He says the words again, to make sure I understand his sincerity. “I mean it. Thank you, dad.”

“You’re welcome, son,” I reply—because that’s what good dads say to their boys. I thrust in with more vigor, making him gasp.

I raise myself with my palms flat on the mattress. Now I can pull out more, and thrust deeper. He lifts his head, enraptured by the sensation of my fuckmeat slopping in and out of his hole. “Don’t come yet,” he begs.

“Oh.” I let out a genuine chuckle. “I have absolutely zero intention of coming yet. I intend to enjoy this fuck. Our first fuck.”

“Thank you.” It’s more breath than voice.

He’s now as wide open as pussy, soft as velvet. For a while I fuck him in this position, urging him to enjoy himself, coaching him on how well he’s doing. I roll with him onto our sides, and hold his leg in the air while my dick splits him open, one arm encircling his chest. I whisper obscenities into his ears in the missionary position, the soles of his feet parallel to the ceiling. No position is better than the rest; he grinds and clutches at my cock with his hole through all of them.

“Let me ride you,” he says at last. Now is when he comes into his own.

This time, he puts me into place. He arranges a pillow for my head, and nestles me there on my back before he kneels above my hips. “Let me,” he whispers, when I reach down to help aim my dick. Fine by me. I tuck my hands under the pillow, palms up, and let him do his thing.

It’s odd. Until I’d walked into this apartment, my perception of this man these previous weeks has been of the porn star, the persona carefully crafted of muscle, stubble, dick, and gruff masculinity. Once I’d met him, once I’d taken control, the superstar receded until the actor became a man in simple need. Now, though, as he squats over me and grabs one ass cheek to pry it open as he guides my erection deep inside his guts—now I’m seeing the star power emerge once more. His forehead glistens with moisture as he whips back his head to clear the hair from his face. He cocks his jaw to one side as he lowers himself down, then grabs his knees when he hits bottom. “That load belongs to me,” he announces.

I agree. “Yeah. It does.”

“I've earned it.”

“You’ve definitely earned it, son.”

“Thank you, sir.” He’s not so much bobbing up and down on my meat as he is pivoting back and forth, but the effect is the same on my dick. My nuts are contracting; I can feel the skin bunching up. He raises his hands over his head. He’s showing off, now. If there had been a lens pointed at him, he’d secretly be searching for his best light.

Cocky fucker.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly grinning. “Let me look at you.”

Still churning my dick with his hole, he swivels from side to side, giving me views from all angles. Then suddenly self-conscious, he bursts into laughter. He rests his palms on either side of my head and lowers himself down to plant an affectionate kiss on my lips.

“You are beautiful,” I whisper, as our eyes bore into each other. “And it’s time to take my seed.” The announcement sets him into motion again. Grinding, squeezing, bucking back and forth on my dick. His hair fringes either side of his face, casting it into shadow. Drops of his sweat fall onto my mouth, but I don’t care. “You want it? You want my load?”

“I want it.” He looks deadly serious now. “I need it. I need your load in me.”

“Like you said, you’ve earned it.”

At least, that’s what I intended to say. He muffles the last half of the sentence with his mouth, though. His palms press down on my chest, squeezing the air out of me. He’s crushing me. But I like being crushed and smothered at his hands.

“Ride it,” I wheeze. “Get that load. Steal it.”

He’s already ahead of me. I can already sense the heat rising from my balls, feel the waves of sensation beginning to overtake me. He doesn’t let up. Maybe he’s more experienced as a bottom than I knew. Maybe he’s just been with so many expert holes that he’s picked up a few tricks. But he’s milking out this load, come hell or high water.

When I shoot, I barely make any noise. The pressure he’s exerting on my rib cage has left me gasping for air. I thrash, though, and dig my heels into the mattress as I thrust myself more deeply inside. He’s not touched his hard, fat dick the entire time he’s been on top of me—but now he grabs himself in his fist, pounds it twice, and starts hosing one of those porn star loads across my chest and onto my face. I’m shooting. He’s shooting. Two bulls, bucking at once, gulping for oxygen, rising and falling and rising and falling again.

For a moment, after we’ve sprayed everything we’ve got, we freeze in our little tableau. He’s looking at me, almost as if truly seeing me for the first time. There’s something in his expression . . . is it sadness? Longing?

I have to know. “You all right?” He nods. “What are you feeling?”

He lowers his haunches. Runs his hands through his hair. Considers his words. “Honestly? I was wishing more men treated me like you just did.” His mouth puckers up as he thinks some more. It's a wry and regretful expression. “I was wishing more men were like you.”

I blink. Then I murmur something. I thank him. He’s left me astonished . . . and a little sad.

Then he pulls himself off me and rises. Naked, he pads across the room in search of a towel. Before he disappears into the bathroom, he turns to grace me with a smile. His teeth are a little crooked. He’s a little shaky on his feet. But I know I’m seeing him at his most honest. He’s a man who in that moment, is shorn of pretense and stripped of all fantasy. What’s revealed is a man at his most essential.

I meet his grin with one of my own, and I think, Hey. Now I know you.

Sunday Morning Questions: L and R Edition

I have a tendency to meet people and make new friends, when I go out. I also have a tendency—perhaps you’ve noticed—to accumulate new stories all the time. Sometimes the two things go hand in hand. And I guess sometimes they work against each other.

Through another friend, over the summer I made acquaintances with a sexy Asian banker in Manhattan. He’s a nice, down-to-earth guy with a dry sense of humor that matches mine. I’d kind of guessed, from a couple of dropped hints he’d made on our first meeting about slings and leather, that he was perhaps sexually attracted to me. The explicit text bombs he made to my phone, later on, confirmed it. But for whatever reason, we haven’t done anything about it. (Yet.)

We were sitting at a midtown bar last week when he expressed the wish—one I’ve heard many times before from gay guys—that he could sleep with one porn star, once in his life. I suggested it’d be easy enough to pick up a copy of Next and riffle through the escort ads in the back, as they’re nothing but porn actors selling sex, but apparently the notion of having to pay for it didn’t appeal to him. He wanted the porn star to want him for himself. Kind of the way that guys who love strippers and prostitutes and other sex workers want them, but want it to be a freebie.

So I told him that I suspected even with porn actors, he’d find the whole spectrum of sex from good to bad, and that just because they’d fucked on film didn’t make them super-lovers or even spectacular human beings. “You don’t even know any porn stars,” he told me, scornfully.

Oh-ho-ho, but I do. I pulled out my phone and opened up my contacts, which has its own ‘Porn Actors’ section. (Not because I’m bragging, mind you, but because I’m anal about classification.) “Oh my god,” he exclaimed, over the first name alphabetically on the list. “I’ve seen all his movies! How do you know him?”

I didn’t want to say that I write a sex blog and the man in question was a fan, so I just mumbled something about how I’d known him for years. My acquaintance had already pulled out his phone, though, and was looking up some of the other names. “Oh my god!” he’d say after each once, once he’d Googled some photos. “Oh my god! You’ve had sex with all of these guys?”

“No, no,” I said, laughing. “I haven’t had sex with any of them. Well. Almost, with this one.” I pointed to the last name in the list.

“But I know who that one is! I love him! How do you know him?!”

The him in question was a kid who’s been in a lot of scenes lately. I’d met him over the summer at another bar near Grand Central, when he’d been out celebrating his twenty-first birthday. He’s a short, muscular little thing. I’d taken a pee break and he’d followed me into the single-person bathroom. We didn’t have sex (I thought he was too drunk for it, and I do have ethics), but we did make out against the slate walls of the restroom for a good ten minutes (my ethics only go so far). And then I had to listen to him talk to me about what cars he liked for an hour afterward.

Truth be told, I didn’t know he was a porn actor until later in the night when one of the bartenders told me. Then I, like my friend, looked him on my phone and realized that yeah, I’d made out with a porn actor. A twenty-one-year-old-that-night porn actor. I’d thought he was just some dumb kid who liked cars. “And I’m not saying he’s dumb,” I said, with the implication that I was saying exactly that. “But he does have an L and an R tattooed on his feet.”

“Liar,” he snarled.

“No really.” I brought out my phone, googled a couple of images, and sure enough, on a couple of them you could see the fancy L on the kid’s left foot. The shot was of him with his legs over his head, but the right foot was out of frame.

My acquaintance stared at me for a moment. “I think I fucking hate you now,” he said. Then he stood up and stalked away.

I’m still trying to figure out whether or not he was serious.

Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. And if you have questions, please feel free either to ask them through that service, or via the email in the sidebar. (Don’t be offended if I don’t get to yours immediately. I put them in a big backlog and choose them at whim. But I’ll get to them!)

Have you taken part in a "naughty librarian" fantasy/role-play? Would you like to?

No, I've never engaged in that particular kind of roleplay.

One of my grandmothers was a librarian. (Hence my anal tendencies about keeping contacts rigidly classified.) I had a severe crush on a librarian once, and I actually had fun with a naughty librarian several times. Sadly though, with the latter, it was never actually in his library.


What movie is better than the book from which it was made?

The English Patient. Good god, that book is a terrible read. And I usually love that arty literary crap.
Also, the Emma Thompson Sense & Sensibility is a hell of a lot better than the original Jane Austen book. Hey, I’m a Jane Austen lover who picks up Mansfield Park every other year for fun, but Sense & Sensibility is a tiny bit underbaked and a whole lot overwrought.


Did you have a favorite store to visit to buy snacks and pop when you were in grade four?

Johnson's Hardware was the name of the store, and it was a dinky little mom and pop hardware store in Richmond's north side that had what I felt was the most amazing nickel candy display in the world. I bought Wacky Packages and Bottle Caps there almost nightly, after a long bike ride from home. Additionally, the store had a soda machine outside that sold both Grape Nehi (which was my favorite) and Brownie (which Wikipedia describes as a 'whey-based chocolate drink', making it sound as unappetizing as it probably really was).

Plus, two doors down was Willey's Drug Store, where I could buy a chocolate or vanilla cone for a dime.

My, I was a little glutton.


What are (in your opinion) the oddest search terms that have brought people to your blog?

Most of the search phrases that people use to find my blog are pretty straightforward: things like "mrsteed's blog" or "a breeder's blog" or "mr steed sex journal." Those I understand.

What mystifies me every time are the phrases that seem to be very, very specific. So specific, in fact, I can't fathom why or how my blog came up in the Google search. Phrases like "depraved tops who bang out six loads in a row" (well, maybe that one I can figure out!), or "African violet use during sex." I also tend to get a lot of Justin Bieber sex-related searches as well.

However, I think my two oddest search phrases have been "photos of young men having sex in poses of the zodiac", and "spongebob squarepants sucking dick." If I actually had written about those things, my life would be a whole lot more interesting.


How many times do you think your parents have had sex?

My parents had a lot of sex. My parents had a LOT of sex.

They were not shy about it. If they were cuddling on the sofa watching TV, and the cuddling turned into making out, and the making out got them hot and heavy, they would have absolutely no qualms about leading each other to the bedroom and shutting the door. They made absolutely no attempt to pretend they were doing anything other than what they were doing, either.

Growing up I remember being barred from a couple of motel rooms for an hour or so while we were traveling, so they could fuck. Sometimes I was sent to the local store on errands on my bike so they could have the run of the house to themselves. They once did it in the back seat of my dad's 1963 Dodge Dart so that the windows fogged over.

I always accepted it as something natural—which it is, and should be. The only time it bothered me was the night before I moved to Michigan for graduate school, and my parents screwed with their bedroom door open, thinking I was asleep down the hall. That was loud and a little annoying. Not because it was my parents having sex, but because jeez, at least try to keep it down a little, folks!

My Life in Porn

A couple of months ago I had an offer that I had no choice but to refuse. Oh, it was complimentary at the time, and slightly funny, and it gave me another story to tell at parties. Simply put, I was asked to be in porn.

“That makes twice this lifetime!” I joked with someone online. Later that day, though, I added it up in my head and realized how totally wrong I’d been. I’ve had four offers to appear naked and screwing on camera.

The first was from a handsome fellow who who wanted to make a living traveling around the country, taping random encounters of himself with all sorts of guys, and then editing them together and selling them. I saw one of his tapes and they’re just awful things, production-wise. Grainy, badly-lit, poorly shot. Sure, there’s hot sex going on somewhere in there, but when you’re too busy peering through a murky puddle of shadows to see it, or getting seasick at the hand-held camera, or staring at the guy’s luggage sitting open on the table and wondering why he stuffed his dirty socks with his neatly folded shirts, you’re not really noticing it.

Then a few years ago I was extended an invitation to appear a more professional production, but again I turned it down. Then I had two invitations this year to take roles in what I can only describe as professionally produced niche market porn, shall we say. A niche market of the sort that, were I to appear ever in a reality television show or run for office, would basically guarantee me a long-running front page spot on The Smoking Gun.

I turned them down. Yes, I turned them all down. There’s something immensely flattering about the offers. Who wouldn’t appreciate heroin for the ego like that? I seriously doubt, though, that anyone wants to see my pasty body on their television screens. It’s obvious to anyone who looks at me that I’m not the gym-obsessed, tanned, twinky boy type who usually appears in these productions, or even the hunky muscle daddy type that so many men seem to wish I were.

It’s been a long stretch between the latest offer to display my talents on film and the first time I was asked to star in porn. True story: I was seventeen and still blond. A freshman in my first semester of college. I was six feet and three inches tall and a beanpole who weighed between one hundred and one hundred and five pounds. When I stepped out even into weak sunlight, I turned a deep brown.

I was sitting on a grassy bank, studying, when a man approached me. He sported long, shaggy blond hair that would be fashionable now in some circles, but back then just looked unkempt. His shirt was open to his navel, exposing a chest so dense with hair that it resembled Velcro. When he smiled, his teeth were startlingly white. “Whatcha doing?” he asked me.

“Studying,” I said, trying not to stare down his shirt. He had squatted down in front of me so that we were at face level.

“I was hoping you’d rather be doing something else,” he said. “Like fucking.”

Of course I exerted every ounce of common sense I had at the time before deciding how I should respond to so audacious and blunt a suggestion from a total stranger who might be a psychopath, rapist, or worse.

In other words, I thought about it for about a millisecond and then said, “Okay!” and blithely hopped into his van and went back to his apartment. Hey, what can I say? I've always been a fan of the direct approach.

“Oooo, you’re so tight,” he hissed the moment the door was shut, once he’d stripped me down and jammed his fingers in me. “Have you been fucked before?”

I’d already lost my virginity several hundred times by that point. I probably could have pulled it off again, but for some reason I decided to be honest. “Oh yeah,” I told him. “Lots.”

“Mind if I take some photos, then?” he asked, pulling out a Polaroid. In answer, I just spread my legs, looked lazily at the camera, and then saw a flash and heard a whirr as the instant photo came spooling out. I let him take a lot of photographs of me that day and on the other days I’d meet him. Posed photos, photos of me in action, always nude photos. I just didn’t care. I'd let Earl and his buddies take photographs all the time. (Though I have to admit that today there’s always a certain trepidation when I’m faced with vintage porn snapshots, certain that one day I’m going to see my skinny teen ass appearing somewhere.)

A couple of weeks later, by which time I’d ascertained that the guy’s name was David, he climbed off me, huffing and puffing. “I’ve been showing your photos to a buddy of mine in L.A.,” he said. “He does porn and he’s interested in meeting you.”

I had never even seen a professional porn movie, back in 1981. “Okay,” I said.

“No seriously, look, he’s interested in you.” He opened up the porn drawer by his bed and pulled out some color promotional materials. “See? These are his. Hot guys, huh? You could be one of them.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, not really taking it seriously. I was a freshman and had a stunning career as a B student ahead of me. Besides, my parents would have absolutely killed me if they found out I dropped out of school to do porn.

“No, he’s really interested. You could just go out there for a couple of weeks, that’s all it would take.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” I kept telling him.

Once when I arrived, David immediately started dialing the phone. “He’s here,” he said to the guy on the end of the line. “Talk to him.”

“This is William Higgins,” a voice announced. “I think my friend David’s told you about me. I make adult entertainment for men.”

The only reason I remembered his name so vividly is because for a moment I thought he called himself “Henry Higgins,” and the thought of Rex Harrison as a porn director just amused me. “Oh yeah,” I said in my most blasé manner.

“He tells me you’re a great fuck.”

“Yeah?” I replied, showing off my Advanced Placement English skills.

“I'm wondering if you'd be a good fit for one of my upcoming films,” said Mr. Higgins.

“Yeah? Well, nah, I don’t think so,” I said. “Thanks though.”

To be fair, I didn't really believe a word David was telling me. I didn't believe there was such a person—and if there were, I didn't believe David knew him, living as he did in the middle of nowhere, Virginia. I thought he'd gotten one of his buddies on the phone pretending to be a director, for some nefarious purpose. For all I know, that could've been the case. But most of all, I didn't believe I was porn-worthy.

I handed the phone back to David, who seemed mightily disappointed in me. He never had me back to his place again, after that day. I used to wonder if he was some sort of porn bounty hunter who lived on commission he earned by shipping boys west.

After a couple of weeks, the only reminder I had that I’d known him was a steady itching sensation below my waist. Baby’s first case of crabs.

I finally saw my first genuine porn film in 1987, when I finally had my own apartment and my own VCR and my own credit card to order one. I forget the title. It was some two-hour extravaganza that takes place mostly in a locker room after the big football game. When the words Directed by William Higgins flashed up on the tube, though, I was impressed—David and his friend had been for real, after all. Whenever I watched the movie after the first time, I stared at all the skinny blond twinks up on the screen and thought to myself, That could’ve been you, kiddo. That could’ve been you.

But I’m awfully glad it wasn’t.