Usually when I have to leave town on some errand, I've been writing up some entries in advance for you guys and having them auto-post in the early mornings, so that there'd be the usual material to peruse on a nearly-daily basis. The couple of times I've done it, though, I've noticed something: the minute my readers think I've left town, they stop reading my entries. They'll return the following Monday with warm wishes to hope I've had a great trip, but while I'm gone during an announced trip? I get remarkably few comments and my daily readership goes down.
Of course I'm obsessive enough to want to battle that kind of ennui. So this last week, when I had to go on another New England house-hunting expedition, I didn't want you guys in advance that I'd be absent. I didn't keep it a secret—if you're one of my Twitter followers, it should've been fairly obvious where I was at any given moment. I didn't make a big deal of it, though.
And guess what? My readers barely seem to have noticed I was gone. So there! Fooled y'all!
As for those curious about my household situation: I'm still living in Michigan for the moment. My better half has relocated to New England in temporary quarters, and I'll remain here until my house sells. At that point, we'll purchase a new home and the entire move will take place. So tell your friends to buy my house. I swear, I had professional carpet cleaners to get out the cum stains from the den floor.
Our Sunday tradition around here is to recap some questions I've fielded on formspring.me. If you've got questions, please head on over there to ask them; I'll answer anything that's not invasively personal or repetitive. (I know I've got a lot of responses to sort through, so I tend to be lenient on the latter.) The upside of formspring is that you can make your inquiries anonymously. If you'd prefer a more personal reply, feel free to contact me using the email address in the sidebar. Explore my other links as well, whether it's my wish lists or my various online profiles, or the blogs I enjoy reading.
What if I came to visit you and upon chatting you discover that I'm a total loser,or that I talk to much, or giggle too much. Would you just not go through with it? In other words, do you have a method of prescreening?
Do you really giggle too much? If a guy is making a trip from a long way away, I generally have a good feeling for him by the time we reach the stage he's going to travel for me.
Whats your name on Cam4?
You can find me there as steed48067.
has anyone ever pissed in your ass? or you to someone elses?
I've never had my ass pissed in. I have, however, pissed in asses before.
if you could spend a day with any person .. famous , not famous .. dead or alive ... who would it be ?
I want to give the name of someone literary so I can sound more intellectual than I am, or of a great humanitarian so that I can give the impression of caring more about the world than I do. But my answer would probably be Tim Gunn. Because he fascinates me.
What is it that gave you the idea/inspiration to start the blog?
That's such a good question. I've kept a journal for the better part of my life, and sexual episodes have always been a part of it. In my blog you might remember I even wrote about chronicling every sexual encounter during my teen years. The sex entries in my journal grew out of those to be pretty much what you read now.
There were a couple of sex blogs I enjoyed reading that inspired me, most especially the one from MrGloryHoleJunkie. And there were two blogs I really disliked and read regularly anyway, sneering the entire time and coming away saying, "I could do better than that!" after every session. (I won't name names.)
So after one of those episodes of reading some good stuff followed by some bad and irritating, I decided to put up, or shut up, and started posting my erotic journal entries on my new blog.
There were also some other complicated reasons I created a place to post X-rated material, but I think you could say admiration and competition were the driving factors.
Some men feel that musky hairy zones -- pits, crotch, gooch -- are highly erotic. Others could not be more repulsed, and few seem indifferent. What's YOUR attitude to manstink?
I'm almost afraid to ask what a gooch is.
I generally like natural smells. I enjoy the scent of a man's natural armpit with some sweat action going on. I dig my own natural smells from my armpits and crotch and balls.
If it's getting to the point that my nose is confusing the guy with a homeless person, though, then we've got a problem.
Remembering an incident in an airport with a certain famous senator: I wonder if you wwould be offended if a stall neighbor used a mirror to see your fat weapon?
I'd prefer he just stuck his hand or dick under the partition so we could get right to the action.
Favorite bathhouse?
In yesteryears of yore I would've said the Barracks in Toronto, simply because the sex could be amazingly piggy. Nowadays I think the Steamworks chain is the best.
One of your answers said you've only had the "privilege" of cuddling all night with a few men. Would you like to have a regular cuddle buddy you could sleep with, with or without having sex as well?
Absolutely. But we would be having sex.
I'm a tactile, touchy person. I find being around someone who has the ability to be casually affectionate very appealing.
You frequently mention your regulars (e.g. Scruffy). I'm sure it sucks to be leaving them. It occurred to me though, do your regulars have regulars of their own? The general disproportion of bottoms to tops might make that difficult but I was curious
I'm pretty certain that my bottoms have regular playmates other than myself. If not, they should.
I suppose my approach to sex is a bit like my approach to diet. Tasty as a guy might be, I've find it unhealthy for me in the long run to have a sexual diet only of one particular dish. Grazing around from the different food groups keeps me functioning well—and I suspect it would for other men, too.
There are playmates I've had for years, and even over a decade. I'd keep them even longer were I not moving away from the area. I think they recognize that I'd encourage them to play with others as well as enjoy themselves with me.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
My Shorts, Revisited
Remember that pair of shorts I crusted with cum and gave away in a contest a couple of weeks ago? (Jase, you should've had them in your paws by now, my friend!) Well, these ain't them.
What they are, however, are another pair of shorts I made for a very special reader shortly thereafter, and dropped in the mail for him. He promptly donned them, took some snaps of himself wearing them, and sent me the results so that I could post them for Breeder's Readers to see.
I think my cummed-up briefs look pretty good on this guy. What do you fellows think?
What they are, however, are another pair of shorts I made for a very special reader shortly thereafter, and dropped in the mail for him. He promptly donned them, took some snaps of himself wearing them, and sent me the results so that I could post them for Breeder's Readers to see.
I think my cummed-up briefs look pretty good on this guy. What do you fellows think?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Violation
I know his name. Not because he’s told me. Even his emails are stripped of any real names. Yet his identity’s printed on the Business Week lying upon his kitchen table. It’s all over the stack of bills he’s left sitting in the hall. It’s on the birthday card affixed to the refrigerator with a magnet of Michaelangelo's David: Michael—Happy birthday! Tim and Janie.
For two years, every six weeks or so, he’s communicated to me in code. Wife and kid are gone for the weekend. I’m going to bed at ten, he’ll say, when he’s in the mood. If I don’t get the letter in time or if I don’t reply, he knows not to expect me. If I write back something equally benign—Sleep tight, buddy—I’ll find a light shining over the side door when I park on his quiet street.
The door is always unlocked. I shut it behind me. I’m never in a hurry. His thrill is in having an intruder in his house; I know he likes to hear me slowly making my way through his rooms, a stranger among his familiar belongings. Just to heighten his excitement I’ll knock against his piano just so the glass atop it will bounce a little. I’ll kick a chair, just slightly, so that it scrapes against his hardwood floors. I’ll bang against a door, as if off-balance in the dark. When I finally finish toying with sounds in the living room, I’ll make my way up the stairs. Slowly. One step at a time, as if I’m trying to keep silent. I’ve learned that one of the stairs squeaks in the middle, so I press my weight onto it slowly. It lets out a long, plaintive cry. Then I pause, as if I were a prowler listening for a response from the bedroom.
I could just stomp into the house and walk up to where he’s waiting for me on the bed. He’d welcome me all the same. But over the years I’ve learned how well he responds to this long, drawn-out succession of cues that tells him how far I’ve trespassed into his house. Once again, I’m right. By the time I read his bedroom, his breath is raspy. If I placed a hand to his chest, I’d feel his heart thumping like a wild, caged animal desperate to escape. It’s not time to touch him, though. Not yet.
The only light in the room comes from the neighbor’s house next door. It eases through the wooden slats of his blinds and reveals the shape of him, face down, ass up. He feigns sleep badly. Though his eyes are closed, he knows I’ve made it to his room, and he can barely conceal his excitement. He always arrays the equipment he wants me to use on the other side of the king-sized bed, as if he had been carrying a towel and lube and sometimes a dildo across the room, forgot he’d set them down, and accidentally fallen asleep atop the covers beside them. This time there’s a bandanna as well, carelessly strewn over the side of the bed.
I cross my arms. And I wait.
I’m in no hurry. Prolonging the moment only makes him more desperate. In the weak and borrowed incandescent light the curve of his ass only arouses me; I watch him grind his pelvis into the mattress, helplessly waiting for me to do something.
But I wait.
Finally, when neither of us can no longer stand it, I reach for my belt, and unthread the leather from the loop that holds it tight. My fingers let go, deliberately. The metal of the belt jangles, then falls silent. In the quiet it seems like the clang of a church bell or the sound of a shot being fired. A moment later, I release the button of my jeans and pull down the zipper. It’s a softer noise, but just as audible. It’s a noise of intent.
He stirs slightly as I reach over him for the bandanna and take it by the corners, twirling it around until it’s a long strip of cloth I can ease over his forehead. He’ll roll his head slightly to help me, here, but it’s a natural motion, the rag-doll loll of a man deep in sleep. I’ve been gentle up until now, but when I yank the knot tight of the blindfold, it’s with a jolt. I use my fingers to grab the knot and I jerk his head back so I can whisper curses into his ear.
His fantasy is to have a man violate his house and then violate him; I instantly jam two fingers of my left hand into his ass. It’s already lubed, as always. He only resists momentarily before he clamps down on my digits, warm and wanting. He’s by far more muscular than I. He could toss me off with a mighty push if he cared, but he wants to be helpless as a kitten. I spit profane warnings in his ear, and he nods and moans. I could recite the Lord’s Prayer to him now and he wouldn’t notice if I did it in a growl. The fulfillment of his fantasy takes him beyond words. Every time he vocalizes it’s with a groan or a growl.
It’s not one of those nights when he wants his burglar to taunt him with sex toys or bind his wrists or clamp his nipples. He hasn’t left out the equipment for those things. He just wants to be used. When I yank on his hips to bring him to his knees, I can feel that the bedcovers where he’s been lying and waiting are soaked his precum, and not in small patches, but a large, slimy circumference. He cries out when I enter him. I haven’t bothered to undress, or even to pull my pants down much below my balls. With no apologies I’m on his bed in my jeans and t-shirt and boots, driving into him as deeply as I can.
I can tell by the way he yelps that the prong of my belt buckle is gouging him with every thrust, cold inflexible metal against his warm ass. My zipper’s scraping him, too, with every back and forth motion of our pelvises. Too bad. I’m too far gone much to care. With my right hand still gripping the back of his blindfold, I jerk him backwards. I’m as deep as I can go, now.
With all the anticipation in silence and the violent release he can’t last long, I’ve learned. I can gauge his arousal by the sounds he’s making. They’re louder and breathier, now, as I continue to pound into him. I pull out almost all the way and slam it in, three times. On the fourth, he yells as I feel his hole twitch and jerk around me. I’ve also learned that once spent, he’s done for the night; sometimes I have to pull out, spit on my palm, and blow my load all over his buttocks, but tonight we’re in synch. Our orgasms are nearly simultaneous, with me finishing only a few seconds after him. He’s still groaning as I pull out. When I reach down beneath where he’s kneeling, I can feel the trails of sperm left by his jerking, untouched cock.
There’s nothing for me to do but pull up my pants from around my hips, zip, and fasten my belt again. He’s collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, but I lean over and warn him not to rise until he’s heard my car pull away. He agrees, meekly, as if my power over extends beyond the fiction we’ve created.
I leave the path I came, only swiftly and silently.
His email’s waiting for me the next morning. Thank you, it simply says. I really needed that.
He never signs his name.
For two years, every six weeks or so, he’s communicated to me in code. Wife and kid are gone for the weekend. I’m going to bed at ten, he’ll say, when he’s in the mood. If I don’t get the letter in time or if I don’t reply, he knows not to expect me. If I write back something equally benign—Sleep tight, buddy—I’ll find a light shining over the side door when I park on his quiet street.
The door is always unlocked. I shut it behind me. I’m never in a hurry. His thrill is in having an intruder in his house; I know he likes to hear me slowly making my way through his rooms, a stranger among his familiar belongings. Just to heighten his excitement I’ll knock against his piano just so the glass atop it will bounce a little. I’ll kick a chair, just slightly, so that it scrapes against his hardwood floors. I’ll bang against a door, as if off-balance in the dark. When I finally finish toying with sounds in the living room, I’ll make my way up the stairs. Slowly. One step at a time, as if I’m trying to keep silent. I’ve learned that one of the stairs squeaks in the middle, so I press my weight onto it slowly. It lets out a long, plaintive cry. Then I pause, as if I were a prowler listening for a response from the bedroom.
I could just stomp into the house and walk up to where he’s waiting for me on the bed. He’d welcome me all the same. But over the years I’ve learned how well he responds to this long, drawn-out succession of cues that tells him how far I’ve trespassed into his house. Once again, I’m right. By the time I read his bedroom, his breath is raspy. If I placed a hand to his chest, I’d feel his heart thumping like a wild, caged animal desperate to escape. It’s not time to touch him, though. Not yet.
The only light in the room comes from the neighbor’s house next door. It eases through the wooden slats of his blinds and reveals the shape of him, face down, ass up. He feigns sleep badly. Though his eyes are closed, he knows I’ve made it to his room, and he can barely conceal his excitement. He always arrays the equipment he wants me to use on the other side of the king-sized bed, as if he had been carrying a towel and lube and sometimes a dildo across the room, forgot he’d set them down, and accidentally fallen asleep atop the covers beside them. This time there’s a bandanna as well, carelessly strewn over the side of the bed.
I cross my arms. And I wait.
I’m in no hurry. Prolonging the moment only makes him more desperate. In the weak and borrowed incandescent light the curve of his ass only arouses me; I watch him grind his pelvis into the mattress, helplessly waiting for me to do something.
But I wait.
Finally, when neither of us can no longer stand it, I reach for my belt, and unthread the leather from the loop that holds it tight. My fingers let go, deliberately. The metal of the belt jangles, then falls silent. In the quiet it seems like the clang of a church bell or the sound of a shot being fired. A moment later, I release the button of my jeans and pull down the zipper. It’s a softer noise, but just as audible. It’s a noise of intent.
He stirs slightly as I reach over him for the bandanna and take it by the corners, twirling it around until it’s a long strip of cloth I can ease over his forehead. He’ll roll his head slightly to help me, here, but it’s a natural motion, the rag-doll loll of a man deep in sleep. I’ve been gentle up until now, but when I yank the knot tight of the blindfold, it’s with a jolt. I use my fingers to grab the knot and I jerk his head back so I can whisper curses into his ear.
His fantasy is to have a man violate his house and then violate him; I instantly jam two fingers of my left hand into his ass. It’s already lubed, as always. He only resists momentarily before he clamps down on my digits, warm and wanting. He’s by far more muscular than I. He could toss me off with a mighty push if he cared, but he wants to be helpless as a kitten. I spit profane warnings in his ear, and he nods and moans. I could recite the Lord’s Prayer to him now and he wouldn’t notice if I did it in a growl. The fulfillment of his fantasy takes him beyond words. Every time he vocalizes it’s with a groan or a growl.
It’s not one of those nights when he wants his burglar to taunt him with sex toys or bind his wrists or clamp his nipples. He hasn’t left out the equipment for those things. He just wants to be used. When I yank on his hips to bring him to his knees, I can feel that the bedcovers where he’s been lying and waiting are soaked his precum, and not in small patches, but a large, slimy circumference. He cries out when I enter him. I haven’t bothered to undress, or even to pull my pants down much below my balls. With no apologies I’m on his bed in my jeans and t-shirt and boots, driving into him as deeply as I can.
I can tell by the way he yelps that the prong of my belt buckle is gouging him with every thrust, cold inflexible metal against his warm ass. My zipper’s scraping him, too, with every back and forth motion of our pelvises. Too bad. I’m too far gone much to care. With my right hand still gripping the back of his blindfold, I jerk him backwards. I’m as deep as I can go, now.
With all the anticipation in silence and the violent release he can’t last long, I’ve learned. I can gauge his arousal by the sounds he’s making. They’re louder and breathier, now, as I continue to pound into him. I pull out almost all the way and slam it in, three times. On the fourth, he yells as I feel his hole twitch and jerk around me. I’ve also learned that once spent, he’s done for the night; sometimes I have to pull out, spit on my palm, and blow my load all over his buttocks, but tonight we’re in synch. Our orgasms are nearly simultaneous, with me finishing only a few seconds after him. He’s still groaning as I pull out. When I reach down beneath where he’s kneeling, I can feel the trails of sperm left by his jerking, untouched cock.
There’s nothing for me to do but pull up my pants from around my hips, zip, and fasten my belt again. He’s collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, but I lean over and warn him not to rise until he’s heard my car pull away. He agrees, meekly, as if my power over extends beyond the fiction we’ve created.
I leave the path I came, only swiftly and silently.
His email’s waiting for me the next morning. Thank you, it simply says. I really needed that.
He never signs his name.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Two Angels
Writing my 'Dumb Fuck' entry yesterday reminded me of another encounter involving tattoos, several years ago.
---
I first noticed the tattoo when he pulled the hospital scrubs top over his head. Against his brown, tanned skin it was a deep hue of indigo. Then Doug’s head appeared from under the tangled garment, grinning at me. I let my eyes linger over his sweet face, his dark and liquid eyes. They trailed down to nipples dark as chocolate and to his flat stomach lined with a trail of fur that disappeared beneath the scrubs bottoms, right where the white skin of his tan line began.
“What?” he asked from curiosity, watching me gaze at him.
I shook my head. “You’re just so beautiful to look at, that’s all.”
That made him smile even more broadly. “Let me show what I think of you,” he suggested. He’s a small person, a compact man who barely comes up to my chest when we’re standing, but when he straddled me and pushed me back into the pillows, I scarcely noticed his size.
It wasn’t until an hour later, naked and dozy and smelling of each other, that I noticed it again. Our faces were close together as we talked. “What’s the tattoo of?” I asked. I traced it with my fingers. At the top, the design blossomed into something like—well, I couldn’t quite tell. It was like a flower, abstract and unlike any bloom I’d seen. It was like water, or a fountain. It was something like a person as well. Two lines, like a scythe, trailed away from the design into the blanket against his skin.
“It’s angels,” he said. “It’s the logo from the cover of Jesus Christ. . . .”
“. . . Superstar,” I said with him. I recognized it now. He turned on his side so that I could see it all. What I thought was a scythe was the circle connecting the two angels. I kissed the tattoo as I pulled him close. My cock pressed against the small of his back. “I see it now.” We lay there for a moment more. He trembled and made small murmurs of pleasure where I touched him, parting his legs to let my hands wander to shivery spots. “Does your partner know you’re here?” I asked in his ear.
“Gary knows I’m here,” said Doug. “I mean, he doesn’t know the exact address, but he knows I’m with you, yes.” His skin burst into gooseflesh where I moved my hands.
After a moment, I made an attempt at apology. “I hope that question wasn’t too intrusive. About Gary knowing where you were.”
“No, no, not at all! You can ask me anything. I trust you.”
I smiled at that. “All right. So why Jesus Christ Superstar?” I asked.
He flipped over on his back again and smiled, his dark brown eyes two slits in the twilight. “You want to hear the Jesus Christ Superstar story?” he asked. I nodded. I expected it to be a simple explanation—he’s been in a community theatre production of the musical, or he’d really rocked out to it as a kid when it had been released. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ve been with Gary for eight years, but before that, I had another lover named Michael. We were together for ten years and he made me very happy. Then he died. Of AIDS.”
My head was propped up on my hand as I stared down at him. He looked at me quickly to see how I took that information. What did he expect? Revulsion? Fear? I just nodded. My hand didn’t stop moving across his chest. “I was taking care of him as best I could, but of course it wasn’t enough. There was a moment right before the end—one of his rare lucid moments, I should say—when Michael held my hand and looked at me and said, I don’t know how I’m going to recognize you down here on earth once I’ve changed. He said it like that. Once I’ve changed. He said, How am I going to find you down here? He was really frightened.
“And I told him, You’ll recognize me because I’ll have an angel on my shoulder. He was really weak. I could barely hear him when he said, But lots of people have angels on their shoulders. And I squeezed his hand and said, Then I’ll have two. My own personal angel. And you, watching me.
“That was the last thing I was able to tell him that I know for certain he heard.” A tear spilled from his right eye, making a getaway for the pillow. Doug reached up and arrested it with a finger, wiped away its traces, and grinned at me in an embarrassed way. “After the funeral I went out and got this tattoo, so he could recognize me.”
I let him sink into the safety of my arms as my nose nestled against his ear. The open window let in the sounds of late summer—the splash and play of trickling water from the garden, the sounds of the neighbor kids at play, the huzz of locusts merging with the sound of a far-away lawnmower. In the distance, a mother yelled out to remind her son it was a school night. We lay there and listened to them. “Thank you,” I whispered to him.
“No, thank you!” he said. He sniffled in deeply, trying to clear his nose, but his tone was much stronger and confident. “It’s just funny. It’s been nine years and you know, it really doesn’t feel that long at all.”
“I’ve always felt that my losses and griefs are like—” I searched for a metaphor. “They’re like one of those hobo bags, you know, like they used to carry in the Peanuts comics? A bag on the end of a stick that you carry over your shoulder?” He nodded. My words sounded soft in the gathering darkness. “I feel like I pack up all the good things and the bad stuff about a person when they’re gone, so I can carry everything around and remember them all by it. It’s like, it gets heavier with every loss, the older I get. And even though I always seem to have the strength—so far—to pick it up and carry it with me wherever I go every day, there’s always the question in the back of my mind of when I’ll find it too heavy to bear. You know?”
“Yeah,” Doug said. “I know. It’s a burden, but I wouldn’t give it up. I’m supposed to carry it, right? It just helps to remind me that there’s a lot of love in the world. Do you believe that? That there’s a lot of love in the world?” I nodded. Yes, I did. “I’ve got this thing. I think love should be shared. Not just with one person, but with as many people as you can love.”
I nodded again. Uncertain that he could see me in the shadows of the bedroom, I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I said, my voice husky and choked.
He laughed slightly, no more than a burble in his chest. “I hope I didn’t freak you out.”
“No,” I said, closing my eyes and enjoying the warmth of his body. “You didn’t freak me out.”
---
I first noticed the tattoo when he pulled the hospital scrubs top over his head. Against his brown, tanned skin it was a deep hue of indigo. Then Doug’s head appeared from under the tangled garment, grinning at me. I let my eyes linger over his sweet face, his dark and liquid eyes. They trailed down to nipples dark as chocolate and to his flat stomach lined with a trail of fur that disappeared beneath the scrubs bottoms, right where the white skin of his tan line began.
“What?” he asked from curiosity, watching me gaze at him.
I shook my head. “You’re just so beautiful to look at, that’s all.”
That made him smile even more broadly. “Let me show what I think of you,” he suggested. He’s a small person, a compact man who barely comes up to my chest when we’re standing, but when he straddled me and pushed me back into the pillows, I scarcely noticed his size.
It wasn’t until an hour later, naked and dozy and smelling of each other, that I noticed it again. Our faces were close together as we talked. “What’s the tattoo of?” I asked. I traced it with my fingers. At the top, the design blossomed into something like—well, I couldn’t quite tell. It was like a flower, abstract and unlike any bloom I’d seen. It was like water, or a fountain. It was something like a person as well. Two lines, like a scythe, trailed away from the design into the blanket against his skin.
“It’s angels,” he said. “It’s the logo from the cover of Jesus Christ. . . .”
“. . . Superstar,” I said with him. I recognized it now. He turned on his side so that I could see it all. What I thought was a scythe was the circle connecting the two angels. I kissed the tattoo as I pulled him close. My cock pressed against the small of his back. “I see it now.” We lay there for a moment more. He trembled and made small murmurs of pleasure where I touched him, parting his legs to let my hands wander to shivery spots. “Does your partner know you’re here?” I asked in his ear.
“Gary knows I’m here,” said Doug. “I mean, he doesn’t know the exact address, but he knows I’m with you, yes.” His skin burst into gooseflesh where I moved my hands.
After a moment, I made an attempt at apology. “I hope that question wasn’t too intrusive. About Gary knowing where you were.”
“No, no, not at all! You can ask me anything. I trust you.”
I smiled at that. “All right. So why Jesus Christ Superstar?” I asked.
He flipped over on his back again and smiled, his dark brown eyes two slits in the twilight. “You want to hear the Jesus Christ Superstar story?” he asked. I nodded. I expected it to be a simple explanation—he’s been in a community theatre production of the musical, or he’d really rocked out to it as a kid when it had been released. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ve been with Gary for eight years, but before that, I had another lover named Michael. We were together for ten years and he made me very happy. Then he died. Of AIDS.”
My head was propped up on my hand as I stared down at him. He looked at me quickly to see how I took that information. What did he expect? Revulsion? Fear? I just nodded. My hand didn’t stop moving across his chest. “I was taking care of him as best I could, but of course it wasn’t enough. There was a moment right before the end—one of his rare lucid moments, I should say—when Michael held my hand and looked at me and said, I don’t know how I’m going to recognize you down here on earth once I’ve changed. He said it like that. Once I’ve changed. He said, How am I going to find you down here? He was really frightened.
“And I told him, You’ll recognize me because I’ll have an angel on my shoulder. He was really weak. I could barely hear him when he said, But lots of people have angels on their shoulders. And I squeezed his hand and said, Then I’ll have two. My own personal angel. And you, watching me.
“That was the last thing I was able to tell him that I know for certain he heard.” A tear spilled from his right eye, making a getaway for the pillow. Doug reached up and arrested it with a finger, wiped away its traces, and grinned at me in an embarrassed way. “After the funeral I went out and got this tattoo, so he could recognize me.”
I let him sink into the safety of my arms as my nose nestled against his ear. The open window let in the sounds of late summer—the splash and play of trickling water from the garden, the sounds of the neighbor kids at play, the huzz of locusts merging with the sound of a far-away lawnmower. In the distance, a mother yelled out to remind her son it was a school night. We lay there and listened to them. “Thank you,” I whispered to him.
“No, thank you!” he said. He sniffled in deeply, trying to clear his nose, but his tone was much stronger and confident. “It’s just funny. It’s been nine years and you know, it really doesn’t feel that long at all.”
“I’ve always felt that my losses and griefs are like—” I searched for a metaphor. “They’re like one of those hobo bags, you know, like they used to carry in the Peanuts comics? A bag on the end of a stick that you carry over your shoulder?” He nodded. My words sounded soft in the gathering darkness. “I feel like I pack up all the good things and the bad stuff about a person when they’re gone, so I can carry everything around and remember them all by it. It’s like, it gets heavier with every loss, the older I get. And even though I always seem to have the strength—so far—to pick it up and carry it with me wherever I go every day, there’s always the question in the back of my mind of when I’ll find it too heavy to bear. You know?”
“Yeah,” Doug said. “I know. It’s a burden, but I wouldn’t give it up. I’m supposed to carry it, right? It just helps to remind me that there’s a lot of love in the world. Do you believe that? That there’s a lot of love in the world?” I nodded. Yes, I did. “I’ve got this thing. I think love should be shared. Not just with one person, but with as many people as you can love.”
I nodded again. Uncertain that he could see me in the shadows of the bedroom, I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I said, my voice husky and choked.
He laughed slightly, no more than a burble in his chest. “I hope I didn’t freak you out.”
“No,” I said, closing my eyes and enjoying the warmth of his body. “You didn’t freak me out.”
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Dumb Fuck: Part 2
Sometimes people ask me why I’ve kept a journal since I was seventeen—which at this point is bumping up against thirty years of self-reflection on almost a daily basis. Lately I’ve been saying it’s because picking out the moments I want to write down and remember gives me the ability to look at something perfectly commonplace and see the extraordinary that lies beneath.
And when Bobby’s clothing flew off his body and landed on my living room floor in an explosion, like some kind of musical comedy punchline, I felt like I was being treated to the extraordinary that was concealed by layers of the drab and everyday. Bobby was really the most astonishingly good-looking guy I’ve met in recent months. His body belonged to a porn actor, or one of those smiling, welcoming models on the login screen of an adult site. His upper right arm was sleeved in inks of blue and green in a way that only accentuated the size of his bicep; another tattooed creation lay on the flat planes above his right hip, revealed when he lifted his arms above his head, hooked his hands behind his head, and stretched. Somehow he cracked his back in a way that displayed to best advantage his lean and muscular torso, his nipples the size and color of old pennies, and the wispy hair beneath his arms, yet didn’t seem at all calculated to show off.
I was still astonished. “You really are beautiful,” I told him.
His smile was slow and sleepy. When he flashed it at me, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Aw, gee, you don’t have to say that. You are too though.”
“You definitely don’t have to say that,” I echoed, still looking him over. Then, suddenly aware that anyone walking or driving by would be looking him over too, through my front windows, I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
My bedroom was dark when we walked inside. “You mind if we have some light?” he asked. “I want to see that big dick when I suck it.” My reply was to flip on the bedside lamp and then to drop my pants. I’d only been wearing a pair of camo shorts from the hamper, with no underwear beneath. I’m not sure whether it was because of the anger I’d had toward him when he’d been pulling his stunt with not being able to find my house, or whether I’d simply been so overwhelmed at the sight of the guy’s magnificent little body, but my dick had yet to catch up with the arousal my mind was feeling. “Let me get that hard for you,” he whispered, pushing me back onto my bed. I settled some pillows behind my back and sat up as I watched him spread my legs and crawl between them. He took my stiffening dick in his hands and opened his mouth to receive it.
I watched as his eyes closed and he let himself slip into the abandon of sucking at my dick. His mouth was a good fit for me. The tip of my cock nestled into his throat just above the base. Bobby would let it push there against the invisible tightness within, then lower himself just a little more in order to let me feel my cock head spearing the innermost throat muscles, as his lips tickled my pubes and his tongue would dart out to tease my nuts. My dick was slick and moist after a few moments, then seemed to get even more glossy and sleek. When he’d remove it from his mouth and come up for air and to look at his handiwork, it glistened in the light. Satisfied, he’d absorb it back into his mouth and continue.
“I’m getting you close, huh?” he asked at one point.
I’d had to remove his mouth from my dick completely because I’d been so near to orgasm. “Ye-es,” I breathed, astonished again at the brilliance of his eyes and the sheer beauty of his face as he looked up at me.
“Well if you cum in my mouth you’re gonna have to have another load ready for my ass,” he said. Then, with a boyish wriggle, he jumped up to his knees flopped face-down on the mattress beside me. He was still wearing that colorful jock.
When I got up on my own knees, Bobby looked exactly like he had in that first photograph I’d seen of him. “You have the perfect butt,” I announced.
He giggled—and it was definitely a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh. “Thanks dude.”
“My pleasure.” Then to prove my statement, I spread his legs and buried my face in that beautiful, perfectly round butt. His hole was lightly furry. I swirled the hair as I worked my tongue inside, alternating my licking with biting and kissing.
“Oh,” he said. He arched his back and swung his pelvis so that it mashed back against my face. His eyes closed yet again, and he grabbed the pillow to hang onto. “Oh!” he said, over and over again as I continued to rim him for long, slow minutes. No matter whether I was gentle or whether I was ravaging the hole with my mouth and beard, that was the only word he’d say. Sometimes it was an exclamation, and sometimes a whisper, but somehow he managed to milk a hundred different meanings from the syllable.
I had to fuck him. The sucking has left my dick dripping with his spit, but rimming always gets me rock-hard and ready to plow. I rubbed lube from the bottle on my nightstand onto my dick and spared a little for his hole. He settled back onto his knees and presented his pucker, letting it pulsate against the open air. My knob pressed against it, and then slid in, almost unimpeded by resistance. “Oh shit,” I said, when I reached bottom. “You feel so good. So warm.”
“Oh god,” he said, curling himself up. “Your dick is so big.”
I slid in and out of him slowly at first, keeping our bodies close as I left gentle kisses on his shoulders, his spine, his neck. My hair hung down around my face as I whispered dirty words into his ear and told him how beautiful he was, and how wonderful he felt.
He responded to every movement, every thrust, and every word with the faintest and sweetest of high-pitched grunts, as if caught at the pleasurable peak between distress and desire. His dry lips worked, trying to produce words. “You fuck so good,” he finally said. “I love your big dick in me.”
“Get on the side of the bed,” I ordered him.
He obeyed my order instantly, putting his knees on the mattress’ edge. He curled himself up into as small a ball as possible as I stood on the cold wooden floors and entered the furnace temperatures of his hole once again. I’ve seen a certain type of guy assume that position before, making themselves as tiny as possible by ducking their head to their chest, arching their backs, folding their arms, and keeping their ankles closed. I recognized the trained submissiveness of it. “Fuck me, daddy,” he whispered. “Please.”
I couldn’t help myself. His posture brought out my rough side. After I’d accommodated myself inside him once again, I started to slam in and out, moving around and stabbing at his guts with such violence that the bed began to move across the floor. I followed it, determined not to miss an inch of the fuck. He let out a series of little yips, high-pitched grunts, and ohs! that made me determined to fuck him harder—to make sure he felt what I was dishing out to him. “You want my cum?” I asked when I was getting close.
It was a moot question. He was going to get it whether he wanted or not. “Yes,” he answered, in the smallest voice. “Please.”
“I thought so.” I upped the savageness of my thrusting. He met me, bang for bang, his hips slamming back against me as roughly as I shoved into him. When I came, it was explosive. I grabbed his pelvis and yanked him against me so that I could be as deep as possible inside him as I let loose with my sperm. He thrashed around like a fish on a hook. Eventually the two of us subsided, and I collapsed on top of him on the bed.
“Can I cum?” he begged after a few moments. “Is that okay?” I told him it was, and he asked if I could be inside him when it happened. We eventually settled on a position in which I was lying on my back, and his little body lay at an angle across it, riding my still-hard dick. It was then for the first time that he pulled down the pouch of his jock, letting flop out an enormous, thick, uncut dick. It struck me briefly as unfair that anyone as pretty as this guy should be gifted with such a fucking huge cock, but when he started playing with himself that he was a show-er and not a grow-er. Though soft it had been a fat six inches, hard it was pretty much the same size.
I continued thrusting in him, enjoying the sensations of my cum oozing out onto my nuts, as he played with himself. “You like daddy’s dick deep in that hole?” I whispered at one point. He responded so automatically and with such intensity to the words that I knew I was on the right track. “You love knowing daddy bred that hole deep, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he whispered, jacking himself more furiously.
“It’s like you were made for daddy’s dick, wasn’t it?”
“Oh. Yes. Oh!” He moaned, and writhed, and without warning let loose. His sperm spattered his belly and rib cage, landing as far as those penny-colored nipples. His breathing, which had been labored and rasping, eased into something more normal. Then he lay there atop me, sprawled out and nearly unconscious, his arms above his head.
We rested there for a few moments, both of us almost half-asleep in the late hour. “Tell me about your ink,” I said at last. My hands had been traveling over the intricate patterns, none of which had been derived from any tattoo artist’s standard book of designs.
He grinned sheepishly. “This one’s all about chess,” he said, letting his fingers tickle over the pattern above his hip. “I like to study chess. It’s a real old game from Persia, you know, so these are Persian figures.” He explained in detail the significance of the various chess pieces that made up the work, and the alterations he’d asked for to suit his own personality and life, while I listened to him. I didn’t absorb half of what he said. I was too busy marveling at the notion that anyone who couldn’t figure out that streets were usually divided into odd and even sides could manage a game requiring as much forethought and insight as chess, plus being delighted that all my misconceptions about him were being stripped bare.
“Wow,” I said, when Bobby was finished. “That’s beautiful.”
His palm stroked over the larger of the two tattoos, almost protectively. “This one’s of Icarus,” he told me. “You know about Icarus? He flew too close to the sun and his wings melted. That story always freaked the shit out of me when I was a kid, but now I kind of like it. Icarus is me, you know?”
“Why?” I asked.
He looked at me through his pretty, slitted eyes and smiled. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me. There was some story there. I wasn’t close enough to hear it, though. Not yet. “Hey,” he said, eyes widening. His expression was suddenly impish. “You know why Icarus was a bottom?”
I didn’t really understand the question. “Why?”
He gestured to his tattoo. “So he’s flying, you know, and his wings melt all over the place, because they’re held together with wax and feathers, right? Even though Daedelus was like, dude, don’t fly that high, he did it anyway." His tone was the kind of intimate I really only hear in those sweet moments after sex, when all a man's inhibitions and barriers have melted away. Usually I hear it when I'm lying in the dark with the man, our skin still warm and sticky and connected. Bobby was standing up, and I was cross-legged on my bed, listening, like a child listening to a teacher's story, but the connection was the same nonetheless. "He just flew so high, and so far, that he couldn't even hear what Daedelus was telling him." He pronounced Daedelus with a hard A sound. "Do you know this already?"
"Tell me," I said, not wanting to cut short the tale. My eyes dropped from his, so I could examine more closely the artwork decorating the skin. In the middle of the painterly expanse of blue and green inks lay a naked male body, reclining as if he floated in the water, his body a backward curve. Lean and pink, motionless, yet forever caught in his downward trajectory. The artist had given him a tiny comma for a navel. It was a detail that made the figure look all the more vulnerable.
Bobby had a far-away look in his eyes. "So here Icarus is, falling, and falling, with all this sky and sun above him and nothing but all that space and what he knows is gonna happen, below. And he’s totally fucked.” He grinned at me, changing the mood on the turn of a dime. “That’s why Icarus is a bottom.”
I stared at this beautiful guy as a genuine smile spread across my face. And I realized that, no matter how dumb and pedestrian I’d assumed this guy to be, someone exceptional lived inside that perfectly-sculpted frame. “You really charmed me just now,” I told him, feeling solemn.
“You think?” He sounded astonished. “Guys have told me that before. I just don’t see it. Huh.”
Looking at something commonplace and seeing the extraordinary beneath. That’s why I keep my journal.
And when Bobby’s clothing flew off his body and landed on my living room floor in an explosion, like some kind of musical comedy punchline, I felt like I was being treated to the extraordinary that was concealed by layers of the drab and everyday. Bobby was really the most astonishingly good-looking guy I’ve met in recent months. His body belonged to a porn actor, or one of those smiling, welcoming models on the login screen of an adult site. His upper right arm was sleeved in inks of blue and green in a way that only accentuated the size of his bicep; another tattooed creation lay on the flat planes above his right hip, revealed when he lifted his arms above his head, hooked his hands behind his head, and stretched. Somehow he cracked his back in a way that displayed to best advantage his lean and muscular torso, his nipples the size and color of old pennies, and the wispy hair beneath his arms, yet didn’t seem at all calculated to show off.
I was still astonished. “You really are beautiful,” I told him.
His smile was slow and sleepy. When he flashed it at me, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Aw, gee, you don’t have to say that. You are too though.”
“You definitely don’t have to say that,” I echoed, still looking him over. Then, suddenly aware that anyone walking or driving by would be looking him over too, through my front windows, I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
My bedroom was dark when we walked inside. “You mind if we have some light?” he asked. “I want to see that big dick when I suck it.” My reply was to flip on the bedside lamp and then to drop my pants. I’d only been wearing a pair of camo shorts from the hamper, with no underwear beneath. I’m not sure whether it was because of the anger I’d had toward him when he’d been pulling his stunt with not being able to find my house, or whether I’d simply been so overwhelmed at the sight of the guy’s magnificent little body, but my dick had yet to catch up with the arousal my mind was feeling. “Let me get that hard for you,” he whispered, pushing me back onto my bed. I settled some pillows behind my back and sat up as I watched him spread my legs and crawl between them. He took my stiffening dick in his hands and opened his mouth to receive it.
I watched as his eyes closed and he let himself slip into the abandon of sucking at my dick. His mouth was a good fit for me. The tip of my cock nestled into his throat just above the base. Bobby would let it push there against the invisible tightness within, then lower himself just a little more in order to let me feel my cock head spearing the innermost throat muscles, as his lips tickled my pubes and his tongue would dart out to tease my nuts. My dick was slick and moist after a few moments, then seemed to get even more glossy and sleek. When he’d remove it from his mouth and come up for air and to look at his handiwork, it glistened in the light. Satisfied, he’d absorb it back into his mouth and continue.
“I’m getting you close, huh?” he asked at one point.
I’d had to remove his mouth from my dick completely because I’d been so near to orgasm. “Ye-es,” I breathed, astonished again at the brilliance of his eyes and the sheer beauty of his face as he looked up at me.
“Well if you cum in my mouth you’re gonna have to have another load ready for my ass,” he said. Then, with a boyish wriggle, he jumped up to his knees flopped face-down on the mattress beside me. He was still wearing that colorful jock.
When I got up on my own knees, Bobby looked exactly like he had in that first photograph I’d seen of him. “You have the perfect butt,” I announced.
He giggled—and it was definitely a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh. “Thanks dude.”
“My pleasure.” Then to prove my statement, I spread his legs and buried my face in that beautiful, perfectly round butt. His hole was lightly furry. I swirled the hair as I worked my tongue inside, alternating my licking with biting and kissing.
“Oh,” he said. He arched his back and swung his pelvis so that it mashed back against my face. His eyes closed yet again, and he grabbed the pillow to hang onto. “Oh!” he said, over and over again as I continued to rim him for long, slow minutes. No matter whether I was gentle or whether I was ravaging the hole with my mouth and beard, that was the only word he’d say. Sometimes it was an exclamation, and sometimes a whisper, but somehow he managed to milk a hundred different meanings from the syllable.
I had to fuck him. The sucking has left my dick dripping with his spit, but rimming always gets me rock-hard and ready to plow. I rubbed lube from the bottle on my nightstand onto my dick and spared a little for his hole. He settled back onto his knees and presented his pucker, letting it pulsate against the open air. My knob pressed against it, and then slid in, almost unimpeded by resistance. “Oh shit,” I said, when I reached bottom. “You feel so good. So warm.”
“Oh god,” he said, curling himself up. “Your dick is so big.”
I slid in and out of him slowly at first, keeping our bodies close as I left gentle kisses on his shoulders, his spine, his neck. My hair hung down around my face as I whispered dirty words into his ear and told him how beautiful he was, and how wonderful he felt.
He responded to every movement, every thrust, and every word with the faintest and sweetest of high-pitched grunts, as if caught at the pleasurable peak between distress and desire. His dry lips worked, trying to produce words. “You fuck so good,” he finally said. “I love your big dick in me.”
“Get on the side of the bed,” I ordered him.
He obeyed my order instantly, putting his knees on the mattress’ edge. He curled himself up into as small a ball as possible as I stood on the cold wooden floors and entered the furnace temperatures of his hole once again. I’ve seen a certain type of guy assume that position before, making themselves as tiny as possible by ducking their head to their chest, arching their backs, folding their arms, and keeping their ankles closed. I recognized the trained submissiveness of it. “Fuck me, daddy,” he whispered. “Please.”
I couldn’t help myself. His posture brought out my rough side. After I’d accommodated myself inside him once again, I started to slam in and out, moving around and stabbing at his guts with such violence that the bed began to move across the floor. I followed it, determined not to miss an inch of the fuck. He let out a series of little yips, high-pitched grunts, and ohs! that made me determined to fuck him harder—to make sure he felt what I was dishing out to him. “You want my cum?” I asked when I was getting close.
It was a moot question. He was going to get it whether he wanted or not. “Yes,” he answered, in the smallest voice. “Please.”
“I thought so.” I upped the savageness of my thrusting. He met me, bang for bang, his hips slamming back against me as roughly as I shoved into him. When I came, it was explosive. I grabbed his pelvis and yanked him against me so that I could be as deep as possible inside him as I let loose with my sperm. He thrashed around like a fish on a hook. Eventually the two of us subsided, and I collapsed on top of him on the bed.
“Can I cum?” he begged after a few moments. “Is that okay?” I told him it was, and he asked if I could be inside him when it happened. We eventually settled on a position in which I was lying on my back, and his little body lay at an angle across it, riding my still-hard dick. It was then for the first time that he pulled down the pouch of his jock, letting flop out an enormous, thick, uncut dick. It struck me briefly as unfair that anyone as pretty as this guy should be gifted with such a fucking huge cock, but when he started playing with himself that he was a show-er and not a grow-er. Though soft it had been a fat six inches, hard it was pretty much the same size.
I continued thrusting in him, enjoying the sensations of my cum oozing out onto my nuts, as he played with himself. “You like daddy’s dick deep in that hole?” I whispered at one point. He responded so automatically and with such intensity to the words that I knew I was on the right track. “You love knowing daddy bred that hole deep, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he whispered, jacking himself more furiously.
“It’s like you were made for daddy’s dick, wasn’t it?”
“Oh. Yes. Oh!” He moaned, and writhed, and without warning let loose. His sperm spattered his belly and rib cage, landing as far as those penny-colored nipples. His breathing, which had been labored and rasping, eased into something more normal. Then he lay there atop me, sprawled out and nearly unconscious, his arms above his head.
We rested there for a few moments, both of us almost half-asleep in the late hour. “Tell me about your ink,” I said at last. My hands had been traveling over the intricate patterns, none of which had been derived from any tattoo artist’s standard book of designs.
He grinned sheepishly. “This one’s all about chess,” he said, letting his fingers tickle over the pattern above his hip. “I like to study chess. It’s a real old game from Persia, you know, so these are Persian figures.” He explained in detail the significance of the various chess pieces that made up the work, and the alterations he’d asked for to suit his own personality and life, while I listened to him. I didn’t absorb half of what he said. I was too busy marveling at the notion that anyone who couldn’t figure out that streets were usually divided into odd and even sides could manage a game requiring as much forethought and insight as chess, plus being delighted that all my misconceptions about him were being stripped bare.
“Wow,” I said, when Bobby was finished. “That’s beautiful.”
His palm stroked over the larger of the two tattoos, almost protectively. “This one’s of Icarus,” he told me. “You know about Icarus? He flew too close to the sun and his wings melted. That story always freaked the shit out of me when I was a kid, but now I kind of like it. Icarus is me, you know?”
“Why?” I asked.
He looked at me through his pretty, slitted eyes and smiled. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me. There was some story there. I wasn’t close enough to hear it, though. Not yet. “Hey,” he said, eyes widening. His expression was suddenly impish. “You know why Icarus was a bottom?”
I didn’t really understand the question. “Why?”
He gestured to his tattoo. “So he’s flying, you know, and his wings melt all over the place, because they’re held together with wax and feathers, right? Even though Daedelus was like, dude, don’t fly that high, he did it anyway." His tone was the kind of intimate I really only hear in those sweet moments after sex, when all a man's inhibitions and barriers have melted away. Usually I hear it when I'm lying in the dark with the man, our skin still warm and sticky and connected. Bobby was standing up, and I was cross-legged on my bed, listening, like a child listening to a teacher's story, but the connection was the same nonetheless. "He just flew so high, and so far, that he couldn't even hear what Daedelus was telling him." He pronounced Daedelus with a hard A sound. "Do you know this already?"
"Tell me," I said, not wanting to cut short the tale. My eyes dropped from his, so I could examine more closely the artwork decorating the skin. In the middle of the painterly expanse of blue and green inks lay a naked male body, reclining as if he floated in the water, his body a backward curve. Lean and pink, motionless, yet forever caught in his downward trajectory. The artist had given him a tiny comma for a navel. It was a detail that made the figure look all the more vulnerable.
Bobby had a far-away look in his eyes. "So here Icarus is, falling, and falling, with all this sky and sun above him and nothing but all that space and what he knows is gonna happen, below. And he’s totally fucked.” He grinned at me, changing the mood on the turn of a dime. “That’s why Icarus is a bottom.”
I stared at this beautiful guy as a genuine smile spread across my face. And I realized that, no matter how dumb and pedestrian I’d assumed this guy to be, someone exceptional lived inside that perfectly-sculpted frame. “You really charmed me just now,” I told him, feeling solemn.
“You think?” He sounded astonished. “Guys have told me that before. I just don’t see it. Huh.”
Looking at something commonplace and seeing the extraordinary beneath. That’s why I keep my journal.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Dumb Fuck: Part 1
dude i cant find ur house, flashed the text message on my phone. what does it look like?
It’s the only house on the block that has the light on, I messaged him. Then, as an afterthought, It’s the only house with a for-sale sign.
so what does it look like? he repeated.
It’s two stories, has a big front porch with a bench, a FOR SALE sign, brick front steps, roses in the garden. I hit the send button and then walked to the front bedroom to see if I might spot the guy. I saw his car sitting directly in front of the house. You’re parked right in front of it!, I punched out.
If text messages could come with something to convey tone, mine might have sounded like a dog baring his teeth. He didn’t pick up on the growl, though. i dont think so dont see anything like that, he sent back, and a second later, I heard him release the brakes. I watched in astonishment as he sailed away, down the street.
Was he playing me? I couldn’t quite tell. I’d noticed the guy a couple of times before on Manhunt, but we’d never talked until Friday night, when he sent me a brief greeting and unlocked his photos. Bobby, he said his name was. The pictures told a story, or so I thought; the first was of a slim and muscular young man lying face down on a bed, wearing nothing but a jock that framed his perfect, round, bubble butt. His hands clutched the bedframe; his feet were restrained in cuffs. It was the kind of photo that made my dick stand instantly erect.
The next couple of photos showed how handsome was his face. His eyes were so beautifully-formed they seemed almost feminine, but his features were rugged, photogenic, and movie star-like. His chest was muscular and well-made, his sculpted arms every gym-bunny’s dream. The first several photos showed him with unblemished skin, but the rest were of a man covered in tattoos—so obviously they had to be more recent. There were some subtle differences between the inked photos and their earlier counterparts. The guy’s stomach wasn’t quite as flat; he had a little bit of a paunch, even. His butt seemed a little saggier, his face less angular and sharp.
Okay, I thought to myself. The guy has gotten a little out of shape over time, and threw in a few older photos to lure guys in. I was fine with that, to an extent. It was after midnight. I’d been idly hunting for someone to play with for over two hours at that point, and Bobby seemed interested, so I’d given him directions to my house and waited for him to show.
Now, from his place to mine the directions were fairly simple. Head up one big street for two miles. Turn right. Travel four blocks. Turn right again, and find me four houses down on the right-hand side. That was it—straight line, right turn, four blocks, right turn, four houses. Easy, right?
Not for this guy. From my perch in the window I watched as he re-parked at the far end of the block, then got out of his car and walked up to a house on the other side of the street so that he could peer at the address. i thought u said I was parked in front of ur house, he messaged.
“Idiot!” I barked at no one in particular. The guy was such a dumb fuck! My instructions had been perfectly clear. God knows they’d gotten plenty of other men to my front door. I looked up and down the dark street, and sure enough, mine was the only one with a porch light burning, making it look like Las Vegas in the middle of a dark desert. “If you can’t fucking find my house,” I said, as if getting ready to text it, “then Bobby-buddy, you don’t fucking deserve to get in my bed.” But instead of texting that, I sent, You were parked directly in front of it a minute ago. Come back.
I was slightly mollified when he got back in his car, turned around, drove back down the street, turned around again, and stopped the car in front of my house. “About time,” I muttered. I put my phone in my pocket and stomped downstairs to meet him. Despite the crisp, nippy air out, I opened my front door and stood in it so that he’d see me. He couldn’t miss that, right?
I waited. And waited. And then, after what seemed like an eternity my pants leg vibrated. I fished in the pocket, withdrew the phone, and looked at the screen. It said, dude u said u were 9139 but all the #s here are eeven.
Seriously?
As I prayed that my neighbors weren’t being roused from their sleep and watching, I stepped outside. Beyond the porch light’s glare, I could see a dark figure in sweat pants and a baggy hockey shirt walking up and down the sidewalk on the street’s opposite side, visible by the light of his cell phone screen. Anyone looking out their window right then, I thought to myself, was going to think a burglar was casing their joint.
I was seriously considering turning around, walking inside, turning out the light, and turning off my phone when suddenly the guy finally saw me. “Is that you?” he called out, breaking the cardinal no-talking rule of the sleepy suburbs at one in the morning. I heard the sound of footsteps as he trotted across the street. His feet tripped on the curb; he caught himself and kept his balance only at the last minute. “Oh my fucking god,” he said, when he reached my porch steps. “Your place is so fucking hard to find!”
“No, it’s really not,” I said, not at all pleased. I was nearly ready to send him home, at that point.
“All the numbers over there are even!” he said in an accusatory tone, as if I’d tried to pull a fast one on him somehow.
“Yeah, and all the numbers over here are odd,” I pointed out. “My house is an odd number. That’s how it usually works.”
“Oh,” he said. He let out an unexpected giggle. I pulled the porch door and let him in the house, not really willing to have this argument out in the dark and the open. “I’m kinda stupid, too. I had to remember that a nine is an upside-down six, duh.”
My lips were slightly parted. I blinked a couple of times. I honestly didn’t know what to say to that. When I looked him over in the light of the living room, his clothes were so enormous and baggy that I knew underneath him, his body probably was a lot more out of shape than even his photos had let on. His Red Wings shirt was so oversized that the hem reached his knees and made his shoulders seem slumped at angles to make twin ski slopes. “At least you’re here now, I guess,” I said, without a lot of enthusiasm.
“Yeah, right?” He seemed to have regained his good spirits, now that the even-odd mystery of the ages had been cleared up. Before I invited him to, or before I could say anything, he shucked his clothes. He kicked off his shoes so that they went crashing against the fireplace screen. Down went his sweatpants. Off came the hockey shirt. He stood before me wearing nothing but the same jock that had been in some of his Manhunt photos. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic and snapped it, then put his hands on his hips in a pose that clearly said, here I am. Hope you like it.
And I’ll be damned if beneath all that sloppy, baggy clothing was the most perfect, muscular body I’d seen in a dog’s age. It wasn’t as good as the first couple of pre-tattoo photos in his profile—it was much, much better. The guy was a dope, but he was one beautiful, pumped-up, worked-out dope who smiled at me with perfect teeth and said, in a way that made me melt, “Gee, you’re real cute. Do you wanna fuck?”
“Yeah,” I said, almost gulping in the way that the Wile E. Coyote swallows when he sees the Roadrunner. “I wanna fuck.”
(continued tomorrow)
It’s the only house on the block that has the light on, I messaged him. Then, as an afterthought, It’s the only house with a for-sale sign.
so what does it look like? he repeated.
It’s two stories, has a big front porch with a bench, a FOR SALE sign, brick front steps, roses in the garden. I hit the send button and then walked to the front bedroom to see if I might spot the guy. I saw his car sitting directly in front of the house. You’re parked right in front of it!, I punched out.
If text messages could come with something to convey tone, mine might have sounded like a dog baring his teeth. He didn’t pick up on the growl, though. i dont think so dont see anything like that, he sent back, and a second later, I heard him release the brakes. I watched in astonishment as he sailed away, down the street.
Was he playing me? I couldn’t quite tell. I’d noticed the guy a couple of times before on Manhunt, but we’d never talked until Friday night, when he sent me a brief greeting and unlocked his photos. Bobby, he said his name was. The pictures told a story, or so I thought; the first was of a slim and muscular young man lying face down on a bed, wearing nothing but a jock that framed his perfect, round, bubble butt. His hands clutched the bedframe; his feet were restrained in cuffs. It was the kind of photo that made my dick stand instantly erect.
The next couple of photos showed how handsome was his face. His eyes were so beautifully-formed they seemed almost feminine, but his features were rugged, photogenic, and movie star-like. His chest was muscular and well-made, his sculpted arms every gym-bunny’s dream. The first several photos showed him with unblemished skin, but the rest were of a man covered in tattoos—so obviously they had to be more recent. There were some subtle differences between the inked photos and their earlier counterparts. The guy’s stomach wasn’t quite as flat; he had a little bit of a paunch, even. His butt seemed a little saggier, his face less angular and sharp.
Okay, I thought to myself. The guy has gotten a little out of shape over time, and threw in a few older photos to lure guys in. I was fine with that, to an extent. It was after midnight. I’d been idly hunting for someone to play with for over two hours at that point, and Bobby seemed interested, so I’d given him directions to my house and waited for him to show.
Now, from his place to mine the directions were fairly simple. Head up one big street for two miles. Turn right. Travel four blocks. Turn right again, and find me four houses down on the right-hand side. That was it—straight line, right turn, four blocks, right turn, four houses. Easy, right?
Not for this guy. From my perch in the window I watched as he re-parked at the far end of the block, then got out of his car and walked up to a house on the other side of the street so that he could peer at the address. i thought u said I was parked in front of ur house, he messaged.
“Idiot!” I barked at no one in particular. The guy was such a dumb fuck! My instructions had been perfectly clear. God knows they’d gotten plenty of other men to my front door. I looked up and down the dark street, and sure enough, mine was the only one with a porch light burning, making it look like Las Vegas in the middle of a dark desert. “If you can’t fucking find my house,” I said, as if getting ready to text it, “then Bobby-buddy, you don’t fucking deserve to get in my bed.” But instead of texting that, I sent, You were parked directly in front of it a minute ago. Come back.
I was slightly mollified when he got back in his car, turned around, drove back down the street, turned around again, and stopped the car in front of my house. “About time,” I muttered. I put my phone in my pocket and stomped downstairs to meet him. Despite the crisp, nippy air out, I opened my front door and stood in it so that he’d see me. He couldn’t miss that, right?
I waited. And waited. And then, after what seemed like an eternity my pants leg vibrated. I fished in the pocket, withdrew the phone, and looked at the screen. It said, dude u said u were 9139 but all the #s here are eeven.
Seriously?
As I prayed that my neighbors weren’t being roused from their sleep and watching, I stepped outside. Beyond the porch light’s glare, I could see a dark figure in sweat pants and a baggy hockey shirt walking up and down the sidewalk on the street’s opposite side, visible by the light of his cell phone screen. Anyone looking out their window right then, I thought to myself, was going to think a burglar was casing their joint.
I was seriously considering turning around, walking inside, turning out the light, and turning off my phone when suddenly the guy finally saw me. “Is that you?” he called out, breaking the cardinal no-talking rule of the sleepy suburbs at one in the morning. I heard the sound of footsteps as he trotted across the street. His feet tripped on the curb; he caught himself and kept his balance only at the last minute. “Oh my fucking god,” he said, when he reached my porch steps. “Your place is so fucking hard to find!”
“No, it’s really not,” I said, not at all pleased. I was nearly ready to send him home, at that point.
“All the numbers over there are even!” he said in an accusatory tone, as if I’d tried to pull a fast one on him somehow.
“Yeah, and all the numbers over here are odd,” I pointed out. “My house is an odd number. That’s how it usually works.”
“Oh,” he said. He let out an unexpected giggle. I pulled the porch door and let him in the house, not really willing to have this argument out in the dark and the open. “I’m kinda stupid, too. I had to remember that a nine is an upside-down six, duh.”
My lips were slightly parted. I blinked a couple of times. I honestly didn’t know what to say to that. When I looked him over in the light of the living room, his clothes were so enormous and baggy that I knew underneath him, his body probably was a lot more out of shape than even his photos had let on. His Red Wings shirt was so oversized that the hem reached his knees and made his shoulders seem slumped at angles to make twin ski slopes. “At least you’re here now, I guess,” I said, without a lot of enthusiasm.
“Yeah, right?” He seemed to have regained his good spirits, now that the even-odd mystery of the ages had been cleared up. Before I invited him to, or before I could say anything, he shucked his clothes. He kicked off his shoes so that they went crashing against the fireplace screen. Down went his sweatpants. Off came the hockey shirt. He stood before me wearing nothing but the same jock that had been in some of his Manhunt photos. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic and snapped it, then put his hands on his hips in a pose that clearly said, here I am. Hope you like it.
And I’ll be damned if beneath all that sloppy, baggy clothing was the most perfect, muscular body I’d seen in a dog’s age. It wasn’t as good as the first couple of pre-tattoo photos in his profile—it was much, much better. The guy was a dope, but he was one beautiful, pumped-up, worked-out dope who smiled at me with perfect teeth and said, in a way that made me melt, “Gee, you’re real cute. Do you wanna fuck?”
“Yeah,” I said, almost gulping in the way that the Wile E. Coyote swallows when he sees the Roadrunner. “I wanna fuck.”
(continued tomorrow)
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Sunday Morning Questions: Nicole Edition
So, those of you over there on the eastern U.S. seaboard, did you make it through Tropical Storm Nicole all right? Over the last week some of you have told me about the torrential rainfalls and the winds, and one of you sent me horrifying photos of a parking lot of cars afloat in a flood of water. Yikes. Sounds like a serious interruption of the daily dose of porn surfing!
Today, as is my traditional Sunday custom, I'll be answering some of the questions that have been accumulating on my formspring.me account. If you've not visited it before, give it a try--it allows anyone, even you, to ask me questions anonymously or, if you prefer and you set up an account with them, with your identity attached. I'll answer just about anything that's not too invasive or redundant. Of course, you always have the option of reaching out to me via email if you'd prefer. I get around to all my emails eventually--honest!
What foot size do you have?
I wear a size eleven shoe.
How many pillows are there on your bed?
Three. Two for people's heads, and a small one I keep between my knees when I sleep.
This is a very unsexy question, but how do you do it all, time-management-wise? You seem to have a relationship, family, career and then a very active sex life that fuels a well-written blog. How the heck do you do it all?
First, thanks for the compliment.
I've said this a few times, but it probably bears repeating: I don't have a standard office job. I have the luxury of arranging my work, personal, and home life to suit the needs of the current day. If my needs involve some playtime, I can pretty easily accommodate it.
If I have a deadline or if I have household affairs that need my attention, those will come first. But I'm grateful to have an opportunity to earn a living in a creative profession that allows me--when it comes to time management--a quality of life I never had when I was a nine-to-fiver.
When did you have your first bareback orgasm in an ass? Were you a virgin to anal sex? Did you take or give a load first?
I took my first load before my teens. The first load I shot into an ass was when I was twenty-two or so.
What do you think of geek guys? Are they attractive to you?
Oh my gosh, geeky guys are like catnip to me. I gush over geeky guys!
Have you ever participated on a bukkakke?
Nope. I can't think of anything I'd like to do less than jack off on someone's face. If it doesn't involve a hole, I'm usually not fully aroused.
On NPR this morning a story about someone who wanted to move from Michigan but couldn't because house hadn't sold. How long do you have for your house to sell?
The sooner the better, generally, which is why I've been motivated to get everything in tip-top condition before the house was on the market.
However, I don't have a specific deadline by which I have to be in the new place (my other half does, but I don't). If it means I stick around for a couple of extra months until it sells, so be it.
Want to buy it?
Have you ever touched your father's penis?
I have, but not in a sexual context. He had surgery a few years ago that required me to nurse him for a couple of weeks, and during that time I has to bathe him three or four times.
When you move, will you get a new Adam4Adam username since your current one includes your zip
I guess I will. A couple of services let you change your user name; I don't think A4A or Manhunt are among them, though.
Ever considered writing a primarily non-sexual blog in addition to A Breeder's Journal? If so, what would you name it? P.S. Be careful what you ask for. Hehe.
My blog is really an extension of my private journal--mostly it's the sexual stuff with the names (and sometimes some identifying characteristics) altered.
It's all stuff that happens to me on a day-to-day basis, though.
so neither age nor race is a factor when fucking someone? no preference whatsover?
I don't have real preferences when it comes to race, no.
I like dicking younger guys, it's true. I have a real fondness for my boys. At the same time, I'm not one of those middle-aged men who either pretend they're a twenty-something themselves, or shun all others who don't fall into that category. I've been turned on by all ages throughout my life, and I don't see that changing.
Are there guys you've wanted to, or have had the option to, snuggle in and sleep all night with?
There are many men I've wanted to cuddle with all night. There are a handful with whom I've had the privilege.
Have you ever done something along the lines of this video? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gnl2rPx9s0c#t=30s :D
No, I can't really say I've ever had golden wings or a light saber spring out of the rose growing over my crotch. Lately, anyway.
Do you think your kids could be gay?
I think it's possible for just about anyone, or anyone's kids, to be gay. Do I think it's probable? I haven't seen any evidence to suggest it, one way or another.
Say you can, and must, choose between two new men. They're equally handsome, well built, versatile, successful. The only real difference: One's as intelligent as you, the other just average. Which would you have sex with; why?
In that kind of situation, the deciding factor would be personality—who's more pleasant, less stand-offish, more engaging in conversation?
Failing that, who has the better ass?
How do you decide how to position the bottom?
A lot of the time I can tell what positions he likes by the way his body responds when it's time to fuck--he'll scoot into a position he wants to open with, for example, or outright tell me, "I want to sit on your dick now."
If I get my druthers, I prefer to start out with them on their knees or belly, butt-up. I get more control and depth that way.
How close have you come to getting caught (specifically by your significant other)?
I've had only one close call, ever, when the spouse texted me to ask if I needed anything at the supermarket five blocks from home, right as a bottom was about to arrive at the house.
I fucked the boy quickly and was all cleaned up well in enough time, though.
Have you ever had any kind of sexual contact during a visit with a health care professional (doctor, dentist, shrink, massage therapist, chiropractor, etc.) that wasn't pre-planned?
Nope.
Are there any nationalities of guys that you've had great sexual experiences with? For me, I've had the best sex with Cubans and Brazilians
I've had a lot of really, really good sex with Mexican guys, and every Australian man with whom I've gotten naked has turned out to be fantastic in the sack. The Brazilians I've bedded have been very good--but I've only had a couple.
Your youth seems to have been one of incessant sexual practices a youth shouldn't engage in. Do you feel this has made sex more of an act of domination/submission for you? Or perhaps even made sex a ritually based addiction?
I've thought about this question quite a lot in the last week, and frankly I find it difficult to address because it comes pre-laden with a lot of negativity. The use of the word 'incessant' and phrases like 'shouldn't engage in' and 'ritually based addiction' are so laden with judgment that they're difficult to separate from the question itself.
If you wanted to ask if having sex in my pre-teens and early teens made a difference in my adult sex life, that's one thing. But it seems as if you've already made your decision about it, from your phrasing, and that's a shame. I don't mean to accuse you of being deliberately hostile with your question. I do think, however, that you're making your own assumptions about sex fairly clear, and hope you know that not everyone is going to agree with them.
I don't really believe there's activity that someone 'shouldn't engage in' based solely on reaching the age of legal consent in a municipality, or reaching the age of 18, or the age of 21. Sexual maturity--and I'm talking about the emotional kind--arrives earlier for some than others. There are full-blown adults older than me whom I don't think are emotionally ready to engage in sex, either casual or committed. They simply don't have the mental resources to cope with it.
I think it's as dangerous to insist that anyone can prescribe when it's appropriate to begin engaging in sexual exploration as it is to allow someone to prescribe exactly what sexual behaviors in which we're allowed to indulge. Anyone seeking to assert authority over the sexual activity of consenting adults--whether it's the deeds, the suitability of the partners, or the frequency--should be questioned.
I also believe that to accuse anyone who enjoys sex, and enjoys an active sex life, of 'addiction' is a dangerous cliche. Our culture today, largely because of talk shows and a self-help movement actively attempting to gain notoriety and sell books, seminars, and air time, has fixed upon the notion of sexual addiction as the obvious explanation for any man simply being a man and doing what a man does. That's a damned shame. If my sexual activity were to interfere with my career, my home life, or my social sphere, I might sympathize with your question. But it does not. If it were done compulsively without any joy or appreciation, then yes, I might agree that the behavior might be approaching the addictive. Anyone who reads my journal, however, knows that while I might have a good amount of sex, it's far from joyless, un-meaningful, and never done without thought and consideration.
Today, as is my traditional Sunday custom, I'll be answering some of the questions that have been accumulating on my formspring.me account. If you've not visited it before, give it a try--it allows anyone, even you, to ask me questions anonymously or, if you prefer and you set up an account with them, with your identity attached. I'll answer just about anything that's not too invasive or redundant. Of course, you always have the option of reaching out to me via email if you'd prefer. I get around to all my emails eventually--honest!
What foot size do you have?
I wear a size eleven shoe.
How many pillows are there on your bed?
Three. Two for people's heads, and a small one I keep between my knees when I sleep.
This is a very unsexy question, but how do you do it all, time-management-wise? You seem to have a relationship, family, career and then a very active sex life that fuels a well-written blog. How the heck do you do it all?
First, thanks for the compliment.
I've said this a few times, but it probably bears repeating: I don't have a standard office job. I have the luxury of arranging my work, personal, and home life to suit the needs of the current day. If my needs involve some playtime, I can pretty easily accommodate it.
If I have a deadline or if I have household affairs that need my attention, those will come first. But I'm grateful to have an opportunity to earn a living in a creative profession that allows me--when it comes to time management--a quality of life I never had when I was a nine-to-fiver.
When did you have your first bareback orgasm in an ass? Were you a virgin to anal sex? Did you take or give a load first?
I took my first load before my teens. The first load I shot into an ass was when I was twenty-two or so.
What do you think of geek guys? Are they attractive to you?
Oh my gosh, geeky guys are like catnip to me. I gush over geeky guys!
Have you ever participated on a bukkakke?
Nope. I can't think of anything I'd like to do less than jack off on someone's face. If it doesn't involve a hole, I'm usually not fully aroused.
On NPR this morning a story about someone who wanted to move from Michigan but couldn't because house hadn't sold. How long do you have for your house to sell?
The sooner the better, generally, which is why I've been motivated to get everything in tip-top condition before the house was on the market.
However, I don't have a specific deadline by which I have to be in the new place (my other half does, but I don't). If it means I stick around for a couple of extra months until it sells, so be it.
Want to buy it?
Have you ever touched your father's penis?
I have, but not in a sexual context. He had surgery a few years ago that required me to nurse him for a couple of weeks, and during that time I has to bathe him three or four times.
When you move, will you get a new Adam4Adam username since your current one includes your zip
I guess I will. A couple of services let you change your user name; I don't think A4A or Manhunt are among them, though.
Ever considered writing a primarily non-sexual blog in addition to A Breeder's Journal? If so, what would you name it? P.S. Be careful what you ask for. Hehe.
My blog is really an extension of my private journal--mostly it's the sexual stuff with the names (and sometimes some identifying characteristics) altered.
It's all stuff that happens to me on a day-to-day basis, though.
so neither age nor race is a factor when fucking someone? no preference whatsover?
I don't have real preferences when it comes to race, no.
I like dicking younger guys, it's true. I have a real fondness for my boys. At the same time, I'm not one of those middle-aged men who either pretend they're a twenty-something themselves, or shun all others who don't fall into that category. I've been turned on by all ages throughout my life, and I don't see that changing.
Are there guys you've wanted to, or have had the option to, snuggle in and sleep all night with?
There are many men I've wanted to cuddle with all night. There are a handful with whom I've had the privilege.
Have you ever done something along the lines of this video? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gnl2rPx9s0c#t=30s :D
No, I can't really say I've ever had golden wings or a light saber spring out of the rose growing over my crotch. Lately, anyway.
Do you think your kids could be gay?
I think it's possible for just about anyone, or anyone's kids, to be gay. Do I think it's probable? I haven't seen any evidence to suggest it, one way or another.
Say you can, and must, choose between two new men. They're equally handsome, well built, versatile, successful. The only real difference: One's as intelligent as you, the other just average. Which would you have sex with; why?
In that kind of situation, the deciding factor would be personality—who's more pleasant, less stand-offish, more engaging in conversation?
Failing that, who has the better ass?
How do you decide how to position the bottom?
A lot of the time I can tell what positions he likes by the way his body responds when it's time to fuck--he'll scoot into a position he wants to open with, for example, or outright tell me, "I want to sit on your dick now."
If I get my druthers, I prefer to start out with them on their knees or belly, butt-up. I get more control and depth that way.
How close have you come to getting caught (specifically by your significant other)?
I've had only one close call, ever, when the spouse texted me to ask if I needed anything at the supermarket five blocks from home, right as a bottom was about to arrive at the house.
I fucked the boy quickly and was all cleaned up well in enough time, though.
Have you ever had any kind of sexual contact during a visit with a health care professional (doctor, dentist, shrink, massage therapist, chiropractor, etc.) that wasn't pre-planned?
Nope.
Are there any nationalities of guys that you've had great sexual experiences with? For me, I've had the best sex with Cubans and Brazilians
I've had a lot of really, really good sex with Mexican guys, and every Australian man with whom I've gotten naked has turned out to be fantastic in the sack. The Brazilians I've bedded have been very good--but I've only had a couple.
Your youth seems to have been one of incessant sexual practices a youth shouldn't engage in. Do you feel this has made sex more of an act of domination/submission for you? Or perhaps even made sex a ritually based addiction?
I've thought about this question quite a lot in the last week, and frankly I find it difficult to address because it comes pre-laden with a lot of negativity. The use of the word 'incessant' and phrases like 'shouldn't engage in' and 'ritually based addiction' are so laden with judgment that they're difficult to separate from the question itself.
If you wanted to ask if having sex in my pre-teens and early teens made a difference in my adult sex life, that's one thing. But it seems as if you've already made your decision about it, from your phrasing, and that's a shame. I don't mean to accuse you of being deliberately hostile with your question. I do think, however, that you're making your own assumptions about sex fairly clear, and hope you know that not everyone is going to agree with them.
I don't really believe there's activity that someone 'shouldn't engage in' based solely on reaching the age of legal consent in a municipality, or reaching the age of 18, or the age of 21. Sexual maturity--and I'm talking about the emotional kind--arrives earlier for some than others. There are full-blown adults older than me whom I don't think are emotionally ready to engage in sex, either casual or committed. They simply don't have the mental resources to cope with it.
I think it's as dangerous to insist that anyone can prescribe when it's appropriate to begin engaging in sexual exploration as it is to allow someone to prescribe exactly what sexual behaviors in which we're allowed to indulge. Anyone seeking to assert authority over the sexual activity of consenting adults--whether it's the deeds, the suitability of the partners, or the frequency--should be questioned.
I also believe that to accuse anyone who enjoys sex, and enjoys an active sex life, of 'addiction' is a dangerous cliche. Our culture today, largely because of talk shows and a self-help movement actively attempting to gain notoriety and sell books, seminars, and air time, has fixed upon the notion of sexual addiction as the obvious explanation for any man simply being a man and doing what a man does. That's a damned shame. If my sexual activity were to interfere with my career, my home life, or my social sphere, I might sympathize with your question. But it does not. If it were done compulsively without any joy or appreciation, then yes, I might agree that the behavior might be approaching the addictive. Anyone who reads my journal, however, knows that while I might have a good amount of sex, it's far from joyless, un-meaningful, and never done without thought and consideration.
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