what time can you be here tonight? read the text.
Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods.
The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night.
But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him.
Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7.
It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower.
The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust.
The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin.
As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole.
I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed.
The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly.
Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it.
“You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well.
Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.”
I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets.
The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet.
It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used.
I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue.
After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.”
He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets.
“I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .”
He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body.
It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.
It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later.
It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it.
But there it is.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: Exactly What Are We Saving All That Daylight For? Edition
After I finished yesterday's entry I thought to myself, Now these guys know more about my underwear than they really wanted to. But then I realized that you know more about where my bodily fluids are going than the average person. Why should you balk at my crummy underpants?
Do you guys feel extra-rested after your bonus hour of sleep last night? No, me neither. So let's get right to our usual Sunday morning tradition of rounding up questions I've gotten on formspring.me. As always, feel free to ask your questions anonymously (or not) there. If they're not super-repetitive or overly-invasive, I'll be glad to address them.
Who are your influences as a writer? And, if you could fuck any character from one of Shakespeare's plays, whom would it be?
When I am writing anything other than my journal, I can point to a number of influences at any given moment. When writing fiction, I can be influenced by classic literary writers, or modern American humorists, or whatever's appropriate for the mood or tone. In academic writing, I tend to emulate my father's methodical and rigorously-documented approach to writing.
In my personal journal, though, I can't say that I really consciously emulate anyone. That's just my own thought processes, trying to sketch broad outlines of what's occurred and to paint in a few details. That seems all me. Or at least, what I've learned about storytelling from everything I've read and incorporated as part of myself.
And I'd fuck Hotspur. You know he had a slammin' ass.
how many guys do you have waiting for you to fuck them? and how many of them are you dying to fuck?
I don't have an enumerated list! I hope there are a few. I have quite a few readers I've talked to that I find very attractive, and would love to get to know. Naked.
Cam4....do you have regular show times, or is it random? If regular, please tell me a time (I'm in Korea), I would love to see every inch of the guy that can write such sordid lines with such eloquence!
My show times tend to be random, but are often in the mornings, eastern time. My cam4 handle is steed48067.
If you do catch me on there, speak up and say something. Tell me you're a blog reader. I've had nice chats with several blog readers that way.
How tense do you get when you take an AIDS test? Panic at all, or are you ready for a poz result if it comes?
The first few times in my youth when I was tested, I had a distinct tendency to panic and obsess between the time the blood was drawn and the point when I'd get my results. With practice and time, I don't really think about it or tense up much.
do you use poppers?
I have never used poppers. I don't mind a bottom who does, though.
I have read about your many escapades with men, do you have any regular excursions with women as well?
I have encounters with women as well. Men are big sluts, though, and generally easier to land in bed.
You characterize men as big sluts who are easier to bed than women. Does that hold true for you? And do you prefer men or women?
It absolutely holds true for me. Some guys seem to assume that there's shame in having a strong libido--there's not. I'm happy to be a slut.
I prefer men. Usually with guys it's easier to get right to the good stuff.
If I had a cock in my bum, 2 in my mouth and one each ear, and you felt an urgent need to fuck me, what would you say or do to the 5 men already inside me?
"Move."
You've probably had this question before, but would you be willing to meet and breed a complete virgin?
Yes, and I've done it, too.
If it's not too personal a question, do you stick with your other half for stability/obligation/conformity, or because that's also a need you have that is fulfilled by that situation
I have never, ever, structured my adult life for the need of conformity. I did not undergo a relationship for the sake of it, not would I continue a relationship merely to blend in. Conformity is the least of my concerns or priorities.
Stability is a seductive influence, however. And once a relationship is undertaken, wouldn't you agree that obligation plays a role? It should.
Which sums up your view on sports: 1) interesting exercise for body (obviously) AND mind (strategies); 2) only as interesting as the bodies on display; 3) ho hum, period; 4) not-so-safe "sex" for hopeless closet cases; 5) other (specify)?
I'm fond of games. Particularly strategy games. So I appreciate some sports for the way they inspire players to think ahead, make decisions on the fly, and play strategically despite the fact that some of the choices they have to make need to occur in the blink of an eyelid. In my youth I was involved in competitive tennis and swimming, and later taught swimming to kids, so I also understand that sports can be a positive influence on some developing young minds and bodies.
That said, I find watching competitive sports a snooze. You couldn't pay me to sit through any kind of game on TV. And the amount of testosterone-filled posturing and jingoistic nonsense that sports events can attract is a menace.
I do like the Homoerotic Wrestling Channel that only seems to play at my neighborhood Mexican restaurant, though. I could watch that for hours.
When are your nipples hard?
When they're cold, or when they're chewed on. One of them I prefer more than the other.
Have you had conversations with your kid(s) about tolerance towards gays, or has the subject never come up? Do you think they could be homophobic?
When you have kids, in my philosophy, Big Topics aren't relegated solely to Big Conversations where you sit down with them and have the One Big Talk They'll Remember For The Rest Of Their Lives. The big stuff, like tolerance, should be addressed every day. Not only with conversation, but with example. Sure, sometimes it might be addressed directly, but my style is not to set aside a chunk of lecture time for the big topic of the day.
Homophobia isn't tolerated in my household. Nor is it a part of anyone's life here.
How old were you when you went to your first gay club/bar?
I never visited a gay establishment until I was in grad school. I would've been around twenty at the time, and a guy took me on a date to a little gay restaurant. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my entire life.
I never walked into my first gay bar until I was twenty-five or thereabouts. There really hadn't been any in the places I lived (of which I knew) until I moved to the midwest.
Do you guys feel extra-rested after your bonus hour of sleep last night? No, me neither. So let's get right to our usual Sunday morning tradition of rounding up questions I've gotten on formspring.me. As always, feel free to ask your questions anonymously (or not) there. If they're not super-repetitive or overly-invasive, I'll be glad to address them.
Who are your influences as a writer? And, if you could fuck any character from one of Shakespeare's plays, whom would it be?
When I am writing anything other than my journal, I can point to a number of influences at any given moment. When writing fiction, I can be influenced by classic literary writers, or modern American humorists, or whatever's appropriate for the mood or tone. In academic writing, I tend to emulate my father's methodical and rigorously-documented approach to writing.
In my personal journal, though, I can't say that I really consciously emulate anyone. That's just my own thought processes, trying to sketch broad outlines of what's occurred and to paint in a few details. That seems all me. Or at least, what I've learned about storytelling from everything I've read and incorporated as part of myself.
And I'd fuck Hotspur. You know he had a slammin' ass.
how many guys do you have waiting for you to fuck them? and how many of them are you dying to fuck?
I don't have an enumerated list! I hope there are a few. I have quite a few readers I've talked to that I find very attractive, and would love to get to know. Naked.
Cam4....do you have regular show times, or is it random? If regular, please tell me a time (I'm in Korea), I would love to see every inch of the guy that can write such sordid lines with such eloquence!
My show times tend to be random, but are often in the mornings, eastern time. My cam4 handle is steed48067.
If you do catch me on there, speak up and say something. Tell me you're a blog reader. I've had nice chats with several blog readers that way.
How tense do you get when you take an AIDS test? Panic at all, or are you ready for a poz result if it comes?
The first few times in my youth when I was tested, I had a distinct tendency to panic and obsess between the time the blood was drawn and the point when I'd get my results. With practice and time, I don't really think about it or tense up much.
do you use poppers?
I have never used poppers. I don't mind a bottom who does, though.
I have read about your many escapades with men, do you have any regular excursions with women as well?
I have encounters with women as well. Men are big sluts, though, and generally easier to land in bed.
You characterize men as big sluts who are easier to bed than women. Does that hold true for you? And do you prefer men or women?
It absolutely holds true for me. Some guys seem to assume that there's shame in having a strong libido--there's not. I'm happy to be a slut.
I prefer men. Usually with guys it's easier to get right to the good stuff.
If I had a cock in my bum, 2 in my mouth and one each ear, and you felt an urgent need to fuck me, what would you say or do to the 5 men already inside me?
"Move."
You've probably had this question before, but would you be willing to meet and breed a complete virgin?
Yes, and I've done it, too.
If it's not too personal a question, do you stick with your other half for stability/obligation/conformity, or because that's also a need you have that is fulfilled by that situation
I have never, ever, structured my adult life for the need of conformity. I did not undergo a relationship for the sake of it, not would I continue a relationship merely to blend in. Conformity is the least of my concerns or priorities.
Stability is a seductive influence, however. And once a relationship is undertaken, wouldn't you agree that obligation plays a role? It should.
Which sums up your view on sports: 1) interesting exercise for body (obviously) AND mind (strategies); 2) only as interesting as the bodies on display; 3) ho hum, period; 4) not-so-safe "sex" for hopeless closet cases; 5) other (specify)?
I'm fond of games. Particularly strategy games. So I appreciate some sports for the way they inspire players to think ahead, make decisions on the fly, and play strategically despite the fact that some of the choices they have to make need to occur in the blink of an eyelid. In my youth I was involved in competitive tennis and swimming, and later taught swimming to kids, so I also understand that sports can be a positive influence on some developing young minds and bodies.
That said, I find watching competitive sports a snooze. You couldn't pay me to sit through any kind of game on TV. And the amount of testosterone-filled posturing and jingoistic nonsense that sports events can attract is a menace.
I do like the Homoerotic Wrestling Channel that only seems to play at my neighborhood Mexican restaurant, though. I could watch that for hours.
When are your nipples hard?
When they're cold, or when they're chewed on. One of them I prefer more than the other.
Have you had conversations with your kid(s) about tolerance towards gays, or has the subject never come up? Do you think they could be homophobic?
When you have kids, in my philosophy, Big Topics aren't relegated solely to Big Conversations where you sit down with them and have the One Big Talk They'll Remember For The Rest Of Their Lives. The big stuff, like tolerance, should be addressed every day. Not only with conversation, but with example. Sure, sometimes it might be addressed directly, but my style is not to set aside a chunk of lecture time for the big topic of the day.
Homophobia isn't tolerated in my household. Nor is it a part of anyone's life here.
How old were you when you went to your first gay club/bar?
I never visited a gay establishment until I was in grad school. I would've been around twenty at the time, and a guy took me on a date to a little gay restaurant. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my entire life.
I never walked into my first gay bar until I was twenty-five or thereabouts. There really hadn't been any in the places I lived (of which I knew) until I moved to the midwest.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Pile of Last Resort
I noticed today that I have a lot of underwear.
It’s not, I hasten to add, because I’m an underwear fetishist. Far from it. The sight of a man in underwear might make me shift in my seat a little, in order to allow room for my boner to grow, but it’s the man I’ll be looking at. Not his shorts. I don’t collect underwear with funny or cute label names, or quasi-chemical mixtures of letters and numbers printed on their elastic waistbands. I don’t feel particularly more sexy when wearing an expensive pair of shorts over a pair I’ve gotten in a plastic-wrapped three-pack from a discount store.
No, my motivation for having a large drawer stuffed full of over fifty pairs of shorts is that I’m fundamentally lazy. Good as I am at changing out towels and sheets on the household’s beds every week, I really hate to do my own personal wash. I’ll launder every damned towel in the house—and sometimes it seems there’s more of those than of my underwear—and wash and iron every tablecloth and dishrag, too, by gum, before I’ll turn to the pile of cotton underthings moldering in the laundry basket in my closet.
I’m not as bad as my college freshman roommate, who managed to get through an entire semester of not washing his shorts by using an elaborate system of wearing each pair for several days and then turning it inside out and repeating the process, until finally they were all so disgusting that he would judge which was still freshest by going through his laundry bag and giving them the ‘sniff test.’ Those things were practically able to stand up on their own, by the time he took them home for his mom to wash over Christmas break.
But sometimes I feel like I’m on that edge.
I realized something today as I sorted out my fresh, clean shorts. Though I’d never consciously thought about it before, I sort my underwear into three distinct piles that I keep separate in my big bedroom chest.
There’s the Good Stuff pile. This is the largest of the three categories by far—the pile into which I fold my everyday decent foundation garments. None of them are stretched out, none of them are ill-fitting. If I were to be in an automobile accident and rushed the hospital, neither I nor my parents would be embarrassed to be cut out of them in the emergency room. Nor would I be ashamed of them if I walked into a trick’s house and dropped my jeans. I’ve got my Gap and Banana Republic stuff in here, as well as those comfortable little square-cut trunks I get from H&M, and a lot of other pairs I’ve accumulated over the past couple of years.
And then, I made the realization today, I have my Sex Shorts. These are the ones I deliberately set aside to wear on the days I think I’m going to get laid. None of my Sex Shorts are fancy, as my dad my say. But they’re nice. And I know that another man might enjoy removing them for me. Also in this category are the shorts that men have bought for me over the years, either to enjoy on my own, or to wear specifically for them.
And then—oh, I hesitate to mention them—there’s the Pile Of Last Resort. Gentlemen, am I incorrect in assuming we all have one of these? Into it go the underthings that I simply would rather not wear, and yet cannot bear to to throw away. There’s a parsimonious side to my Scottish heritage that won’t let me throw away these pairs of boxer briefs with which there is nothing physically wrong. Sure, some of them are butt-ugly. Yes, there are a couple of pairs of shorts that I might’ve gotten on Father’s day that have absolutely no support whatsoever and have a tendency to let my nuts plummet out, like some kind of free-fall amusement park ride, without the slightest notice. And yes, there are a couple of pairs of white shorts with mysterious black marks on them that never really have washed out. (Not skid marks. You guys are dirty-minded. Black marker marks.)
It’s there that you’ll find the baggy, shapeless pantaloons that the blind and even the fashion-averse would scorn to wear. The grampa panties. The Fruit of the Looms that must’ve been woven from sour grapes. It is the pile to which underwear crawls when it is ready to die.
I know I should toss them all out. I hate looking at them when I open the drawer. But then I think they might come in handy, sometime. Like, when I’m being lazy and not washing, which happens at least once a month.
Oh, Pile Of Last Resort. Your are my secret shame.
It’s not, I hasten to add, because I’m an underwear fetishist. Far from it. The sight of a man in underwear might make me shift in my seat a little, in order to allow room for my boner to grow, but it’s the man I’ll be looking at. Not his shorts. I don’t collect underwear with funny or cute label names, or quasi-chemical mixtures of letters and numbers printed on their elastic waistbands. I don’t feel particularly more sexy when wearing an expensive pair of shorts over a pair I’ve gotten in a plastic-wrapped three-pack from a discount store.
No, my motivation for having a large drawer stuffed full of over fifty pairs of shorts is that I’m fundamentally lazy. Good as I am at changing out towels and sheets on the household’s beds every week, I really hate to do my own personal wash. I’ll launder every damned towel in the house—and sometimes it seems there’s more of those than of my underwear—and wash and iron every tablecloth and dishrag, too, by gum, before I’ll turn to the pile of cotton underthings moldering in the laundry basket in my closet.
I’m not as bad as my college freshman roommate, who managed to get through an entire semester of not washing his shorts by using an elaborate system of wearing each pair for several days and then turning it inside out and repeating the process, until finally they were all so disgusting that he would judge which was still freshest by going through his laundry bag and giving them the ‘sniff test.’ Those things were practically able to stand up on their own, by the time he took them home for his mom to wash over Christmas break.
But sometimes I feel like I’m on that edge.
I realized something today as I sorted out my fresh, clean shorts. Though I’d never consciously thought about it before, I sort my underwear into three distinct piles that I keep separate in my big bedroom chest.
There’s the Good Stuff pile. This is the largest of the three categories by far—the pile into which I fold my everyday decent foundation garments. None of them are stretched out, none of them are ill-fitting. If I were to be in an automobile accident and rushed the hospital, neither I nor my parents would be embarrassed to be cut out of them in the emergency room. Nor would I be ashamed of them if I walked into a trick’s house and dropped my jeans. I’ve got my Gap and Banana Republic stuff in here, as well as those comfortable little square-cut trunks I get from H&M, and a lot of other pairs I’ve accumulated over the past couple of years.
And then, I made the realization today, I have my Sex Shorts. These are the ones I deliberately set aside to wear on the days I think I’m going to get laid. None of my Sex Shorts are fancy, as my dad my say. But they’re nice. And I know that another man might enjoy removing them for me. Also in this category are the shorts that men have bought for me over the years, either to enjoy on my own, or to wear specifically for them.
And then—oh, I hesitate to mention them—there’s the Pile Of Last Resort. Gentlemen, am I incorrect in assuming we all have one of these? Into it go the underthings that I simply would rather not wear, and yet cannot bear to to throw away. There’s a parsimonious side to my Scottish heritage that won’t let me throw away these pairs of boxer briefs with which there is nothing physically wrong. Sure, some of them are butt-ugly. Yes, there are a couple of pairs of shorts that I might’ve gotten on Father’s day that have absolutely no support whatsoever and have a tendency to let my nuts plummet out, like some kind of free-fall amusement park ride, without the slightest notice. And yes, there are a couple of pairs of white shorts with mysterious black marks on them that never really have washed out. (Not skid marks. You guys are dirty-minded. Black marker marks.)
It’s there that you’ll find the baggy, shapeless pantaloons that the blind and even the fashion-averse would scorn to wear. The grampa panties. The Fruit of the Looms that must’ve been woven from sour grapes. It is the pile to which underwear crawls when it is ready to die.
I know I should toss them all out. I hate looking at them when I open the drawer. But then I think they might come in handy, sometime. Like, when I’m being lazy and not washing, which happens at least once a month.
Oh, Pile Of Last Resort. Your are my secret shame.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Thursday Thanks
To the generous person who sent me a Target gift card this week from my Amazon wish list: many thanks. As always, I like to show my appreciation for gifts from my readers in a visual way.
In this case, draping the gift over my semi-erect dick seemed appropriate.
I already know what I'm doing with the gift. Sad to say, it's something entirely geeky.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Scruffy's Return
What I like about Scruffy is—no, that’s no way to begin. There’s too much I like about Scruffy to narrow it down. I like his boyish looks. His blond hair, so thick and shaggy. I like the snub at the end of his nose, which gives him the innocence of a freckled youngster. I like the slope of his shoulders as he walks, as if he’s not confident enough yet to stand straight and face the world head-on. I like the way his breath eases from his body and develops into a moan as I drive into him.
I like . . . no, I love . . . the way he kisses. His lips purse as he stares into my eyes, then they clasp softly over mine, pulling at them as gently and sweetly as a baby grasping with its tiny fingers. I love the deep, plush pillows of them as we connect. I love his ass, which is round and full and tastes of soap with the tang of fresh-cut grass, somehow.
But what I found I liked most about Scruffy Sunday night, when he came by for a couple of hours, was how thoroughly he forgot about me and indulged himself. Oh, he didn’t forget about me completely. It was my dick he nursed on for a long half-hour the moment he’d parked his car in my garage and made his way into the house. I was certainly there, legs spread, running my hands through his hair. I was the one gasping for air and clutching at the blanket when he’d run his teeth lightly over my engorged cock head, or when he’d suck cool air up and around the shaft.
But Scruffy was the one who completely lost himself in the moment. My dick was the world to him. It was the only thing going through his head as he licked and sucked with a hunger that I’d never seen in him before. When he’d switch to my nuts, doing that thing with them that only he and no one else has ever done, in which he somehow makes them into a rigid column and fellates them as he would a cock until they’re quivering and ready to shoot, he wasn’t doing it for my pleasure. It was solely for his.
The fact that his hunger and my pleasure coincided nicely was only a plus.
I fucked him three times, Sunday night. First on his stomach, with my feet straddling his butt as I pistoned in and out, cowboy-style. The second time he rode me, his feet on either side of my waist, returning the favor. The third time, we came together as I fucked him on his back, standing by the bed’s side as he wrapped his long, furry legs around me and refused to let me go.
When I collapsed on the bed beside him—and I do mean collapsed, in a heavy, huffing heap—I found the entire bed covered with his load. He’d sprayed semen everywhere. The pillows, the sheets, the bed’s far side. “Holy fuck,” I laughed, coming away cold and sticky wherever I touched. “Did you have a quart of cum in you, or what?”
He sounded sheepish in the dark. “I haven’t had sex since July.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded, and snuggled under my outstretched arm. While we’d been making love, right after I’d slowly entered him, I’d whispered into Scruffy’s ear. I know I’m just some guy you fuck around with once in a while, I’d told him, hoping the truth of what I was telling him might sink in. But I want you to know that being with you means something important to me.
You’re not some guy, he’d whispered back to me. You’re the only guy I’ve seen.
When he told me he hadn’t had sex since July, I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. It was at the very, very end of that month, only three days before I’d learned that I was going to be moving. I’d thought he was being abstract and metaphorical, saying I was the only guy he’s seen. Apparently he meant it just as sincerely. “You haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you?” He shook his head. It seemed as if he was close to tears. “Baby. Why not?”
I lay there in the dark as he talked to me, his arms around my chest and his head resting upon it, rising and falling with my breathing. I knew he’d had to move back with his mom at the end of the school year last spring. I hadn’t known that he’d lost his job right after the last time I saw him, and that he’d fallen into despondency for several weeks after. I didn’t know about one of his siblings’ problems with the law, or his mother’s inability to find employment. It was all those reasons that had kept him ninety miles away without seeing me for three months, while all the time I’d worried that the declarations we’d exchanged last July had scared him off.
With night as our blanket we lay together, arms around each other like little boys, best friends. He talked. I listened, and spoke when it seemed right.
And at the end, he left with a handful of Dum Dums and halloween candy, and the biggest smile upon his face.
I texted him Monday evening to thank him for seeing me. You really made my week, I told him.
He texted back only moments later. No, thank you. You made my year. You’re always so good to me.
I thought about it a moment, then texted back, You make being good a pleasure.
Because that’s what it should be all about in the end, right? Two people in the dark, being good to each other, and reaping the mutual benefit.
I think so, anyway.
I like . . . no, I love . . . the way he kisses. His lips purse as he stares into my eyes, then they clasp softly over mine, pulling at them as gently and sweetly as a baby grasping with its tiny fingers. I love the deep, plush pillows of them as we connect. I love his ass, which is round and full and tastes of soap with the tang of fresh-cut grass, somehow.
But what I found I liked most about Scruffy Sunday night, when he came by for a couple of hours, was how thoroughly he forgot about me and indulged himself. Oh, he didn’t forget about me completely. It was my dick he nursed on for a long half-hour the moment he’d parked his car in my garage and made his way into the house. I was certainly there, legs spread, running my hands through his hair. I was the one gasping for air and clutching at the blanket when he’d run his teeth lightly over my engorged cock head, or when he’d suck cool air up and around the shaft.
But Scruffy was the one who completely lost himself in the moment. My dick was the world to him. It was the only thing going through his head as he licked and sucked with a hunger that I’d never seen in him before. When he’d switch to my nuts, doing that thing with them that only he and no one else has ever done, in which he somehow makes them into a rigid column and fellates them as he would a cock until they’re quivering and ready to shoot, he wasn’t doing it for my pleasure. It was solely for his.
The fact that his hunger and my pleasure coincided nicely was only a plus.
I fucked him three times, Sunday night. First on his stomach, with my feet straddling his butt as I pistoned in and out, cowboy-style. The second time he rode me, his feet on either side of my waist, returning the favor. The third time, we came together as I fucked him on his back, standing by the bed’s side as he wrapped his long, furry legs around me and refused to let me go.
When I collapsed on the bed beside him—and I do mean collapsed, in a heavy, huffing heap—I found the entire bed covered with his load. He’d sprayed semen everywhere. The pillows, the sheets, the bed’s far side. “Holy fuck,” I laughed, coming away cold and sticky wherever I touched. “Did you have a quart of cum in you, or what?”
He sounded sheepish in the dark. “I haven’t had sex since July.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded, and snuggled under my outstretched arm. While we’d been making love, right after I’d slowly entered him, I’d whispered into Scruffy’s ear. I know I’m just some guy you fuck around with once in a while, I’d told him, hoping the truth of what I was telling him might sink in. But I want you to know that being with you means something important to me.
You’re not some guy, he’d whispered back to me. You’re the only guy I’ve seen.
When he told me he hadn’t had sex since July, I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. It was at the very, very end of that month, only three days before I’d learned that I was going to be moving. I’d thought he was being abstract and metaphorical, saying I was the only guy he’s seen. Apparently he meant it just as sincerely. “You haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you?” He shook his head. It seemed as if he was close to tears. “Baby. Why not?”
I lay there in the dark as he talked to me, his arms around my chest and his head resting upon it, rising and falling with my breathing. I knew he’d had to move back with his mom at the end of the school year last spring. I hadn’t known that he’d lost his job right after the last time I saw him, and that he’d fallen into despondency for several weeks after. I didn’t know about one of his siblings’ problems with the law, or his mother’s inability to find employment. It was all those reasons that had kept him ninety miles away without seeing me for three months, while all the time I’d worried that the declarations we’d exchanged last July had scared him off.
With night as our blanket we lay together, arms around each other like little boys, best friends. He talked. I listened, and spoke when it seemed right.
And at the end, he left with a handful of Dum Dums and halloween candy, and the biggest smile upon his face.
I texted him Monday evening to thank him for seeing me. You really made my week, I told him.
He texted back only moments later. No, thank you. You made my year. You’re always so good to me.
I thought about it a moment, then texted back, You make being good a pleasure.
Because that’s what it should be all about in the end, right? Two people in the dark, being good to each other, and reaping the mutual benefit.
I think so, anyway.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Smell! The Smell!
I’ve written before about ‘being in the moment’ during sex—that state of mindfulness in which all one’s cares, one’s jealousies, one’s worries, all the fretting about responsibility drop away. One forgets that bill that needs paying in the morning, or the argument with one’s parent from earlier in the day. All that’s left is the darkness, your partner, and the sweet sensations you’re making for each other. Being in the moment is about enjoying pleasure when it’s being given to you. Not thinking about it later and reflecting, or wondering if you might get something better later. It’s the here, and the now, and what’s in front of your eyes and between your legs.
I had a couple of really good encounters last week that were definitely of that quality of sex—and I was grateful for them. However, I had a couple more that were definitely not optimal. And since I try to record the vast majority of my sex life in my blog, I feel obligated to write about them. Both were with attractive guys. Both were duds, pretty much. And I realized earlier today, both of them were ruined, pretty much, because of my sense of smell.
Bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my sexual desire. The two times in my life I’ve been unable to get an erection with guys were because they stunk. One had a very, very creepy aroma that I associate with bodies in a funeral home; the other reeked of ass and pot. In these two isolated instances, I was happy to lie about my usual sexual prowess (“I’m occasionally impotent! Sorry! Bye!”) in order to make a quick getaway.
Mid-week, last week, I met up with a guy from the other side of town with whom I’d been corresponding off and on for several months. His photo was handsome enough. I really loved the pictures of his hole gaping wide open that he sent me privately. When he arrived, he turned out to be a great kisser. We tumbled around in my bed and made out and stripped each other down gradually. He sucked like a pro. I lubed him up, fingered him, and positioned him on his knees to enter from behind.
In I went. And almost immediately, I could tell there was something wrong. Sometimes, when you’re fucking a guy who’s not exactly clean, shall we say, it’s a little like plunging a limb into particularly sticky mud. When you try to withdraw, it sticks; it squelches. It resists. I felt that, and I knew I wasn’t going to like the results when I finally did pull out. But you know, I’m a pig. I wanted to fuck. So I stayed in deep, ground hard with my pelvis, and got the job done.
But oh, lordy. When I pulled out, the smell almost made me pass out. It was like sewer gas. It was like death. I had to close my eyes and think of unicorns and kittens in order not to gag as I grasped for a nearby towel I’d laid out, so I could get the muck off. He, in the meantime, wanted to loll about and talk about what a great fuck I was. Eventually I steered him to the bathroom with some desperate inquiries of, “Don’t you want to shower?!”, then waited for him to clean up and vanish so I could hop in the tub and scald myself with the hottest water possible.
The second-degree burns were totally worth it.
Friday night was the second encounter—this time with an out-of-town guy I’ve described with great affection in these very pages. I arrived to his hotel prettied up and ready for a long, fun evening of play. He greeted me with an “Oh my goodness!” and a hug like a puppy happy to see me. He grabbed my face with his hands and pulled me down for a kiss.
That’s when I recoiled. The guy’s breath . . . Well. It was if a skunk had musked itself and then died in his mouth. I had a sinking feeling of Oh, crap, I am totally not going to be able to go through with this as my dick shriveled inside my pants.
“Do you have any mints?” I asked, even though I’d had one on the elevator up.
He didn’t get the hint. “You taste so beautiful! So sexy!” he enthused, trying to pull me down for another kiss while I wrenched my face away.
It was really touch-and-go for a while. I didn’t want to leave abruptly. So I let him get me naked, and let him suck me for a very long time until I was hard enough to turn him around and fuck him. He kept trying to rear back and kiss me over his shoulder, which made me push him down into the pillows away from me. I’m afraid he took it as a sign I wanted rough play. But at least his attempts at dirty talk and bucking me off kept him from bringing his mouth within smelling distance. I was out of his hotel room in less than an hour.
It’s a shame, too. I would’ve enjoyed both men more if their smells hadn’t been an issue for me. I’m aware I’m doing nobody any favors by keeping my mouth shut about it, but men have a tendency not to react rationally when told they stink in a foul and off-putting way. And it’s not as if I require my guys to be perfumed and powdered, either. I enjoy a certain degree of natural man smell. With dirty asses and rancid breath, however, I have a little too much trouble coping.
I had a couple of really good encounters last week that were definitely of that quality of sex—and I was grateful for them. However, I had a couple more that were definitely not optimal. And since I try to record the vast majority of my sex life in my blog, I feel obligated to write about them. Both were with attractive guys. Both were duds, pretty much. And I realized earlier today, both of them were ruined, pretty much, because of my sense of smell.
Bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my sexual desire. The two times in my life I’ve been unable to get an erection with guys were because they stunk. One had a very, very creepy aroma that I associate with bodies in a funeral home; the other reeked of ass and pot. In these two isolated instances, I was happy to lie about my usual sexual prowess (“I’m occasionally impotent! Sorry! Bye!”) in order to make a quick getaway.
Mid-week, last week, I met up with a guy from the other side of town with whom I’d been corresponding off and on for several months. His photo was handsome enough. I really loved the pictures of his hole gaping wide open that he sent me privately. When he arrived, he turned out to be a great kisser. We tumbled around in my bed and made out and stripped each other down gradually. He sucked like a pro. I lubed him up, fingered him, and positioned him on his knees to enter from behind.
In I went. And almost immediately, I could tell there was something wrong. Sometimes, when you’re fucking a guy who’s not exactly clean, shall we say, it’s a little like plunging a limb into particularly sticky mud. When you try to withdraw, it sticks; it squelches. It resists. I felt that, and I knew I wasn’t going to like the results when I finally did pull out. But you know, I’m a pig. I wanted to fuck. So I stayed in deep, ground hard with my pelvis, and got the job done.
But oh, lordy. When I pulled out, the smell almost made me pass out. It was like sewer gas. It was like death. I had to close my eyes and think of unicorns and kittens in order not to gag as I grasped for a nearby towel I’d laid out, so I could get the muck off. He, in the meantime, wanted to loll about and talk about what a great fuck I was. Eventually I steered him to the bathroom with some desperate inquiries of, “Don’t you want to shower?!”, then waited for him to clean up and vanish so I could hop in the tub and scald myself with the hottest water possible.
The second-degree burns were totally worth it.
Friday night was the second encounter—this time with an out-of-town guy I’ve described with great affection in these very pages. I arrived to his hotel prettied up and ready for a long, fun evening of play. He greeted me with an “Oh my goodness!” and a hug like a puppy happy to see me. He grabbed my face with his hands and pulled me down for a kiss.
That’s when I recoiled. The guy’s breath . . . Well. It was if a skunk had musked itself and then died in his mouth. I had a sinking feeling of Oh, crap, I am totally not going to be able to go through with this as my dick shriveled inside my pants.
“Do you have any mints?” I asked, even though I’d had one on the elevator up.
He didn’t get the hint. “You taste so beautiful! So sexy!” he enthused, trying to pull me down for another kiss while I wrenched my face away.
It was really touch-and-go for a while. I didn’t want to leave abruptly. So I let him get me naked, and let him suck me for a very long time until I was hard enough to turn him around and fuck him. He kept trying to rear back and kiss me over his shoulder, which made me push him down into the pillows away from me. I’m afraid he took it as a sign I wanted rough play. But at least his attempts at dirty talk and bucking me off kept him from bringing his mouth within smelling distance. I was out of his hotel room in less than an hour.
It’s a shame, too. I would’ve enjoyed both men more if their smells hadn’t been an issue for me. I’m aware I’m doing nobody any favors by keeping my mouth shut about it, but men have a tendency not to react rationally when told they stink in a foul and off-putting way. And it’s not as if I require my guys to be perfumed and powdered, either. I enjoy a certain degree of natural man smell. With dirty asses and rancid breath, however, I have a little too much trouble coping.
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