I wasn't necessarily planning to write about this particular topic, but it's been on my mind all weekend. Better to get it out.
Saturday was the anniversary of the night I met Spencer, last year, in my old home state. We'd spoken online a couple of times before that and I'd kind of written him off as a flaky whore. I didn't mind the whore part. Flaky, however, I only like in pie crusts. But I was horny, and he was available, so I issued the invitation.
I was charmed off my feet by him, that Friday. When he came back the next night, I knew I wanted him in my life. Night after night he came back until our emotions were as inextricably intertwined as the impossible sexual poses in which he'd grip me with his strong dancer's legs. I loved him, and told him so. He loved me, and would whisper the words as we'd drift off to sleep together, curled beneath layers of flannel sheets and blankets and his impossible fortresses of extra pillows, while snow fell to blanket the frozen ground outside.
For months we made love and spent all our free time together. I'd like to romanticize the relationship further and say that it was simple and uncomplicated, but it wasn't—we both knew the time was coming when my house would eventually sell and that we'd part ways. That knowledge is what made the relationship difficult for us both. It made him occasionally snippy and prone to verbal digs, as he tried to separate himself from me before we were too rooted together. It made me morose and prone to guilt and doubt. I worried too much that I was doing the wrong thing by allowing him to love me so deeply.
Despite the complications, we ended the relationship on a loving high note. When my house sold after a year and I finally made plans to reunite with my family, already living on the East coast, I worried that he'd pick some kind of fight on the pretext of it being easier to part from me angry than sad. But no, he was sweet and loving and supportive until the very night before I threw my overnight bags and the cats in the car and left Michigan for good. At a going-away party given me by friends that night, he was there, sitting next to me the entire time. He'd been everything to me, that last year. I had the spouse on my right side and Spencer on the left, and it seemed right.
Sad, but right.
I'd thought this month about the anniversary a couple of times in an idle fashion—it occurred to me that it had been in November of 2010 that we'd met, and that I should check on the date at some point. I didn't do anything about it, though, until last week when Spencer messaged me. We met this month a year ago!he said.
I checked my journal on my computer. November 19th. The best day of 2010 I had, I wrote back.
Saturday he messaged me again. You're one of my favorite people. I still treasure the time we had together . . . especially those long snowed-in days. Then he closed with his love.
Well. I couldn't have asked for anything nicer.
I read it and burst into tears that I had to hide and muffle in the bathroom.
And now that I had to look at the message again to copy it, I'm crying again, though I'm having to pretend I'm not, even as fat tears scald my cheeks.
But you know what? That's okay. I said above that the relationship Spencer and I had wasn't pure and uncomplicated, but I was a damned liar. It really was. No matter what the gap in our ages, no matter that we separated, never mind the stupid arguments we sometimes had or the words we both feared to say out of fear of hurting the other—none of that mattered in the end. For a time, a blissful and wine-sweet time, we were two boys in love. We took delight in each other's bodies, in each other's whims and palates. We saw parting on the horizon from the moment we met, and yet we both threw ourselves into the deep with abandon.
There's not much purer or more uncomplicated than that.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Sunday Morning Questions: Little Island Big City Edition
New York City is a small town.
I know you think I'm crazy for saying so, but it seems as if every time I head into the city, I run into someone unexpectedly. I head to a bar for the evening where no one should know me, and a reader will recognize me. I'll spend an afternoon at a museum, and then find later that someone's hit me up on Manhunt with, Think you're hot, were you looking at Venetian paintings earlier this afternoon?
Or, as happened Friday, I ran into a reader without knowing it. I went into the city for a show and went into Uniqlo, a clothing store, before dinner. I was there for about an hour, maybe, and then went on my merry way. Saturday, one of my most long-term readers sent me a message saying he'd seen me at Uniqlo and didn't want to startle me by saying hello. All I could really do was respond in the most predictable manner possible for me: I asked how my hair had been looking.
When the answer came that it had been looking pretty sensational, I was free to chew out the guy for not saying hello.
Because really—if you recognize me out there in the big wide world, the time to say hi is not after I've been away from the Venetian paintings for a few hours. It's not the day after I've been trying on jackets. It's when you see me at the museum or while we're both at Uniqlo.
There's ways to say hello and ways to say hello, of course. I'm not going to appreciate it if a reader yells across the cashmere sweaters, HEY AREN'T YOU THAT SEX BLOGGER?! Walking up to me, shaking my hand, putting a palm on my shoulder and telling me quietly that you're a reader, though? That works.
As a general warning, I'll probably be taking off the latter half of the upcoming week, what with the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S. Feel free to send me nude photos of you and your turkeys, if you dare.
(I'm kind of hoping that someone out there does dare.)
Let's get to some more questions from formspring.me, shall we? And please, feel free to ask your questions of me there—I've opened up the anonymous posting option once more.
Last time you bottomed for a man? How old was he?
The last time I bottomed to completion for a man was about 9 years ago. He was in his fifties.
Is there anything you find your partners are generally inhibited doing, that you wish they did more spontaneously / proactively?
All the damned time.
Oh, you wanted specifics? I think what irritates me most is when men are too inhibited to give me any kind of feedback during the act, whether verbal, physical, or even just a grunt here or there. If a guy's just going to lie there, I might as well bang a corpse or a sack of potatoes. And I'd prefer neither, thank you.
I also wish men were less inhibited about getting out from behind their computer screens and meeting in the flesh. The Internet might be great for porn, but it has created countless homebound prisoners, none of whom have been forced into electronic ankle bracelets.
A serious question from a Kinsey 6: Does the vagina really smell like fish?
No.
A vagina will acquire an odor when it's not washed. But you know, the ol' bait and tackle don't smell that great when not exposed to a shower, either.
My answer to this question will not stop me from yelling, when I feed my fat cat dried mackerel flakes, "It smells like a Korean brothel in here!"
what advice would you give to someone about to try bottoming for the first time?
I'd suggest playing with your hole--at first in a clean environment like the shower, and when you're accustomed to the feelings, perhaps with small toys and multiple fingers. Get used to the sensations, and be aware that a dick is going to stretch you even wider.
I'd suggest cleaning out beforehand, for your peace of mind, and for your partner's hygiene.
Above all, I'd suggest remembering that sex is supposed to be fun. You might not enjoy bottoming the first time--but it will rapidly grow more enjoyable. If it's embarrassing or painful, don't beat yourself up. Move on to another activity, and come back to anal another time.
Hypothetical situation: I have come to visit you and I offer to perform any one act you desire, what can I do for you?
Touch me and rub me all over with your hands, from head to foot, for as long as you can stand it.
It's probably the one thing I crave that I rarely get, and you'd be doing me a big favor.
This may be from an era gone by, but.... Have you ever been to a drive in movie? And if you have, what was the last movie you saw at a drive in? Is there one left in your area?
I distinctly remember seeing my one drive-in movie when I was four or five years old. It had Phyllis Diller in it, and she scared me silly.
There was a large drive-in in Dearborn, when I used to live in Michigan, but I never had the urge or opportunity to go.
What is your favorite flavor of Ice Cream?
I'm really fond of a red velvet cake-flavored frozen yogurt from a dairy store near me, but I found a recent contender for new favorite when I visited Pinkberry and discovered their peanut butter-flavored yogurt. It's nutty and, best of all, salty.
Generally I'm fond of coffee-flavored frozen desserts, too.
Reading your post about the guy whose mind had been overtaken by porn dialog, has porn and the proliferation of its availability been a net plus or minus for guys?
It's a mixed bag with a lot of plusses and minuses.
One plus would be that there's porn out there for everyone—every fetish, every kink, every body type, every combination of age and race and gender. It's also sanitary and means the only thing you have to clean up after is the messy discharge. You won't catch a disease from porn. And perhaps most importantly, it might expose a person to acts they've contemplated and not known how to go about, and it can act as an instruction manual of sorts, and even an encouragement to take action.
The minuses are just as plentiful. Porn often gives people unreasonable expectations not only about what their own bodies should look like, but what they 'deserve' in a partner—the number of men I've met in my lifetime who feel genuinely entitled to 'porn star quality' sex partners is astounding, particularly when they're not exactly porn star material themselves. Porn glosses over the messy and difficult parts of sex, so that when they happen naturally, the people participating can feel like failures unless they're fairly experienced. And the abundance of porn also has created a whole mass of people who stay at home and masturbate for hours on end, instead of meeting people and actually having sex.
As an enhancement to a sex life, I think porn is great. As a replacement for it, not so much.
What is your favourite accent? and why?
My favorite accent is the one I hear when my partner speaks with a pillow in his mouth.
I know you think I'm crazy for saying so, but it seems as if every time I head into the city, I run into someone unexpectedly. I head to a bar for the evening where no one should know me, and a reader will recognize me. I'll spend an afternoon at a museum, and then find later that someone's hit me up on Manhunt with, Think you're hot, were you looking at Venetian paintings earlier this afternoon?
Or, as happened Friday, I ran into a reader without knowing it. I went into the city for a show and went into Uniqlo, a clothing store, before dinner. I was there for about an hour, maybe, and then went on my merry way. Saturday, one of my most long-term readers sent me a message saying he'd seen me at Uniqlo and didn't want to startle me by saying hello. All I could really do was respond in the most predictable manner possible for me: I asked how my hair had been looking.
When the answer came that it had been looking pretty sensational, I was free to chew out the guy for not saying hello.
Because really—if you recognize me out there in the big wide world, the time to say hi is not after I've been away from the Venetian paintings for a few hours. It's not the day after I've been trying on jackets. It's when you see me at the museum or while we're both at Uniqlo.
There's ways to say hello and ways to say hello, of course. I'm not going to appreciate it if a reader yells across the cashmere sweaters, HEY AREN'T YOU THAT SEX BLOGGER?! Walking up to me, shaking my hand, putting a palm on my shoulder and telling me quietly that you're a reader, though? That works.
As a general warning, I'll probably be taking off the latter half of the upcoming week, what with the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S. Feel free to send me nude photos of you and your turkeys, if you dare.
(I'm kind of hoping that someone out there does dare.)
Let's get to some more questions from formspring.me, shall we? And please, feel free to ask your questions of me there—I've opened up the anonymous posting option once more.
Last time you bottomed for a man? How old was he?
The last time I bottomed to completion for a man was about 9 years ago. He was in his fifties.
Is there anything you find your partners are generally inhibited doing, that you wish they did more spontaneously / proactively?
All the damned time.
Oh, you wanted specifics? I think what irritates me most is when men are too inhibited to give me any kind of feedback during the act, whether verbal, physical, or even just a grunt here or there. If a guy's just going to lie there, I might as well bang a corpse or a sack of potatoes. And I'd prefer neither, thank you.
I also wish men were less inhibited about getting out from behind their computer screens and meeting in the flesh. The Internet might be great for porn, but it has created countless homebound prisoners, none of whom have been forced into electronic ankle bracelets.
A serious question from a Kinsey 6: Does the vagina really smell like fish?
No.
A vagina will acquire an odor when it's not washed. But you know, the ol' bait and tackle don't smell that great when not exposed to a shower, either.
My answer to this question will not stop me from yelling, when I feed my fat cat dried mackerel flakes, "It smells like a Korean brothel in here!"
what advice would you give to someone about to try bottoming for the first time?
I'd suggest playing with your hole--at first in a clean environment like the shower, and when you're accustomed to the feelings, perhaps with small toys and multiple fingers. Get used to the sensations, and be aware that a dick is going to stretch you even wider.
I'd suggest cleaning out beforehand, for your peace of mind, and for your partner's hygiene.
Above all, I'd suggest remembering that sex is supposed to be fun. You might not enjoy bottoming the first time--but it will rapidly grow more enjoyable. If it's embarrassing or painful, don't beat yourself up. Move on to another activity, and come back to anal another time.
Hypothetical situation: I have come to visit you and I offer to perform any one act you desire, what can I do for you?
Touch me and rub me all over with your hands, from head to foot, for as long as you can stand it.
It's probably the one thing I crave that I rarely get, and you'd be doing me a big favor.
This may be from an era gone by, but.... Have you ever been to a drive in movie? And if you have, what was the last movie you saw at a drive in? Is there one left in your area?
I distinctly remember seeing my one drive-in movie when I was four or five years old. It had Phyllis Diller in it, and she scared me silly.
There was a large drive-in in Dearborn, when I used to live in Michigan, but I never had the urge or opportunity to go.
What is your favorite flavor of Ice Cream?
I'm really fond of a red velvet cake-flavored frozen yogurt from a dairy store near me, but I found a recent contender for new favorite when I visited Pinkberry and discovered their peanut butter-flavored yogurt. It's nutty and, best of all, salty.
Generally I'm fond of coffee-flavored frozen desserts, too.
Reading your post about the guy whose mind had been overtaken by porn dialog, has porn and the proliferation of its availability been a net plus or minus for guys?
It's a mixed bag with a lot of plusses and minuses.
One plus would be that there's porn out there for everyone—every fetish, every kink, every body type, every combination of age and race and gender. It's also sanitary and means the only thing you have to clean up after is the messy discharge. You won't catch a disease from porn. And perhaps most importantly, it might expose a person to acts they've contemplated and not known how to go about, and it can act as an instruction manual of sorts, and even an encouragement to take action.
The minuses are just as plentiful. Porn often gives people unreasonable expectations not only about what their own bodies should look like, but what they 'deserve' in a partner—the number of men I've met in my lifetime who feel genuinely entitled to 'porn star quality' sex partners is astounding, particularly when they're not exactly porn star material themselves. Porn glosses over the messy and difficult parts of sex, so that when they happen naturally, the people participating can feel like failures unless they're fairly experienced. And the abundance of porn also has created a whole mass of people who stay at home and masturbate for hours on end, instead of meeting people and actually having sex.
As an enhancement to a sex life, I think porn is great. As a replacement for it, not so much.
What is your favourite accent? and why?
My favorite accent is the one I hear when my partner speaks with a pillow in his mouth.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Open Forum Friday: Cleaning Out
I'm going to name-drop, here. Bear with me. It'll pass quickly, and then we'll get to the topic for our open forum.
Yesterday I was on the phone with my friend, porn actor Jayson Park. I've plugged his thoughtful and well-written blog before, and I'll encourage you all to go and vote for him as Best Porn Star in the Cybersocket Surfer's Choice Awards. (If I'm not getting nominated for Best Sex Blog, it'd be nice to have one of Breeder's Readers win something, right?) Anyway. He and I were chatting about various things, and we happened on the subject of cleanliness and anal sex.
"I don't like making big sweeping generalizations about groups of people," he said to me. "Especially tops. But it always seems to me like tops don't have to do as much to prepare for a fuck. Not compared to us bottoms."
"No," I assured him. "You're totally right. I figure if my teeth are brushed and my breath smells nice, the rest of me doesn't stink, all I need to do is rinse off my dick and I'm good to go."
Which is not to say, by the way, that tops aren't without responsibilities and pressures of our own. We have to keep our dicks rigid for the duration, for example—something a bottom doesn't have to worry about. We're expected to know how to handle a bottom guy, which can be off-putting for guys wanting to top but don't have much experience. From some bottoms, we're under pressure to say the right things, hit the right buttons, follow every cue. But cleanliness isn't generally near the top of anyone's list of the tough things about topping.
I expressed to Jayson something that really doesn't get said enough, not by me, not by many tops in general. I truly do recognize and appreciate all the extra effort a bottom goes through in order to prepare for a fuck. The effort the good and thoughtful ones take, anyway.
We've discussed in this blog and in my comments before how the spread of easily-available pornography may have prompted the current taste for squeaky-clean assholes during fucking. Enemas and comprehensive douching certainly weren't the norm when I started having sex in the nineteen-seventies, at least not in the backwater town where I was growing up. I was lucky to have one of those holes that wasn't particularly dirty under most circumstances; the most I had to do in order to prepare for marathon fucks was hop in the shower, soap up the outside of the hole, and maybe insert a wet finger a couple of inches in and wiggle it around a bit. Maybe.
And of course these days, men go to much greater lengths to clean out before a fuck. They buy enema bulbs and install nozzles onto their showers. They go through cleansing rituals that can last for an hour or more. I've been through them myself, from time to time. Oddly, though I never seem to mind the noises and the smells when they're coming from someone else, when I've had to do it, I've found it embarrassing. It's a mortification of the flesh, essentially, and while it's happening I'm usually shuddering and pulling faces and wishing that I was anywhere but in that shower, or on that john, or bent over with my belly full and aching and with water shooting out of my backside.
No, there aren't any pics. Pervs.
So bottoms of the world, trust me. When I say I appreciate what you go through to clean up for me, I mean it. It's the reason I show up when we've made a date in advance, because I know you've built the time to clean out into that day's schedule. It's why I understand and accommodate when you need me to come over in ninety minutes, rather than the fifteen it would actually take me to get there. It's why I understand your massive frustration when you've made a date with another top and he's stood you up—it's not just because you need the dick in your hole, but also because you've made a pretty significant investment of time, effort, and a measure of personal humiliation, even before you found out he wouldn't be coming.
It's why, when I'm presented with a fresh-smelling and soapy ass, I really like to show my appreciation. It's why I love to rim and bite and get in there and make the hole sing before I lube up and thrust my meat deep inside you. You guys flatter me when you take the time and effort to clean up for me like that. I don't take it for granted. I want you to realize that, every time we meet.
I'm curious about the attitudes of others, though. Bottom men—is cleaning embarrassing and unpleasant for you, or is it a no-big-deal kind of thing? Do you find that most tops take your efforts for granted, and if so, how do you feel about it? Or don't you clean out at all?
And tops, how about you guys? Do you think about how clean the bottoms are when you're in them, and the steps they've taken to get that way? Or is cleanliness not quite the issue for you as it is for them?
I'm willing to bet there's a lot about the other side that both perspectives take for granted. It never hurts to open our eyes and think about things, right?
Yesterday I was on the phone with my friend, porn actor Jayson Park. I've plugged his thoughtful and well-written blog before, and I'll encourage you all to go and vote for him as Best Porn Star in the Cybersocket Surfer's Choice Awards. (If I'm not getting nominated for Best Sex Blog, it'd be nice to have one of Breeder's Readers win something, right?) Anyway. He and I were chatting about various things, and we happened on the subject of cleanliness and anal sex.
"I don't like making big sweeping generalizations about groups of people," he said to me. "Especially tops. But it always seems to me like tops don't have to do as much to prepare for a fuck. Not compared to us bottoms."
"No," I assured him. "You're totally right. I figure if my teeth are brushed and my breath smells nice, the rest of me doesn't stink, all I need to do is rinse off my dick and I'm good to go."
Which is not to say, by the way, that tops aren't without responsibilities and pressures of our own. We have to keep our dicks rigid for the duration, for example—something a bottom doesn't have to worry about. We're expected to know how to handle a bottom guy, which can be off-putting for guys wanting to top but don't have much experience. From some bottoms, we're under pressure to say the right things, hit the right buttons, follow every cue. But cleanliness isn't generally near the top of anyone's list of the tough things about topping.
I expressed to Jayson something that really doesn't get said enough, not by me, not by many tops in general. I truly do recognize and appreciate all the extra effort a bottom goes through in order to prepare for a fuck. The effort the good and thoughtful ones take, anyway.
We've discussed in this blog and in my comments before how the spread of easily-available pornography may have prompted the current taste for squeaky-clean assholes during fucking. Enemas and comprehensive douching certainly weren't the norm when I started having sex in the nineteen-seventies, at least not in the backwater town where I was growing up. I was lucky to have one of those holes that wasn't particularly dirty under most circumstances; the most I had to do in order to prepare for marathon fucks was hop in the shower, soap up the outside of the hole, and maybe insert a wet finger a couple of inches in and wiggle it around a bit. Maybe.
And of course these days, men go to much greater lengths to clean out before a fuck. They buy enema bulbs and install nozzles onto their showers. They go through cleansing rituals that can last for an hour or more. I've been through them myself, from time to time. Oddly, though I never seem to mind the noises and the smells when they're coming from someone else, when I've had to do it, I've found it embarrassing. It's a mortification of the flesh, essentially, and while it's happening I'm usually shuddering and pulling faces and wishing that I was anywhere but in that shower, or on that john, or bent over with my belly full and aching and with water shooting out of my backside.
No, there aren't any pics. Pervs.
So bottoms of the world, trust me. When I say I appreciate what you go through to clean up for me, I mean it. It's the reason I show up when we've made a date in advance, because I know you've built the time to clean out into that day's schedule. It's why I understand and accommodate when you need me to come over in ninety minutes, rather than the fifteen it would actually take me to get there. It's why I understand your massive frustration when you've made a date with another top and he's stood you up—it's not just because you need the dick in your hole, but also because you've made a pretty significant investment of time, effort, and a measure of personal humiliation, even before you found out he wouldn't be coming.
It's why, when I'm presented with a fresh-smelling and soapy ass, I really like to show my appreciation. It's why I love to rim and bite and get in there and make the hole sing before I lube up and thrust my meat deep inside you. You guys flatter me when you take the time and effort to clean up for me like that. I don't take it for granted. I want you to realize that, every time we meet.
I'm curious about the attitudes of others, though. Bottom men—is cleaning embarrassing and unpleasant for you, or is it a no-big-deal kind of thing? Do you find that most tops take your efforts for granted, and if so, how do you feel about it? Or don't you clean out at all?
And tops, how about you guys? Do you think about how clean the bottoms are when you're in them, and the steps they've taken to get that way? Or is cleanliness not quite the issue for you as it is for them?
I'm willing to bet there's a lot about the other side that both perspectives take for granted. It never hurts to open our eyes and think about things, right?
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Bound
We've been going at each other for long minutes. Passionate minutes, in which nothing seems as necessary as being next to each other. Not breathing, not the constant pulses of our own hearts. None of it is as important as my lips on his, my hands on his nipples, my cock thrust against the fur of his stomach.
There's a mirror standing in the corner of his bedroom, one that stands as tall as I when I'm on my feet. It's angled in a way that I can't see myself, though. I can't look to see if my lips are as red and swollen as they feel, like cherries ripe to bursting. I can't tell if my face is flushed, if my chest is prickled with the red heat he arouses in me. My dick feels not only engorged, but enlarged, an enormous monster on the loose, needing to devour and be devoured in turn. This is the way it's been for nearly an hour by this point, and we're just coming down the gentle slope of need and urgency into a softer and more restful place. "Will you do something for me?" I feel emboldened to say.
"What do you want?" He's anxious to please. "Anything."
Franco's collection of leather goods is laid out on one side of his large bed. They're for my convenience, my whim. I feel the cold ring of his harness digging into my back, where I lay on my side. His dick is in my hand. "Would you. . . ." I take a deep breath, and will myself to say the words. They don't come. ". . . dress up in a French maid's uniform for me?"
His dick doubles in size in my hand. Then, confused, he asks, "What?"
"Wait a minute," I tell him, stopping the proceedings. "Why's your dick getting so much harder when I ask you to dress up in a French maid's uniform?"
He's a little mortified, and laughs. "I thought you were going to ask me to dress up in my leather. Why are you asking me to wear a French maid's uniform."
"Because I'm using cheap humor to deflect what I really want to ask," I explain. This time it's the truth. He waits patiently for me to continue. He's got beautiful eyes. I don't think he knows how attractive a feature they are. They study me in a way that I find a little embarrassing. I want to remain highly regarded, in that gaze. I take a deep breath and try again. "Would you. . . ?"
It's tough to make this request. He and I have talked about this fantasy before, when we've chatted back and forth online. He knows it's something I crave. He knows the issues I have with asking for it.
It's unfair to make him guess, though. I screw up my courage—and it takes a considerable amount—and say the words aloud. "Would you put your blindfold on me?" I ask. My words sound humbled and quiet, to my own ears. "And would you cuff me?" There's a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Deep inside, those slightest of movements reignite the flames. "And then what?" he wants to know.
"And then make me feel good," I said, in a very small voice.
He fastens the hood around my face. The smell of leather fills my nostrils, sharp and familiar. When he fastens the velcro around the back of my head, it cuts out a portion of the sound I can hear. I feel him, though. The rub of his furry chest against my shoulder as he takes my hand, the reassuring pressure of his arm against mine as he raises my left wrist and wraps a cuff around it. I can't see when he lets it go; it drops like a stone as he reaches for the other hand. Once they're both wrapped, he lays me down gently against the pillows, and pushes up my arms so that they insert themselves through the slats of his head board. I feel a slight pressure, and the sound of a click.
I pull slightly at my restraints. I'm fixed there. I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my lungs inflating and deflating at a slow and regular rate. I'm trying quite hard not to think about the incident that's robbed me of this particular pleasure for the last twenty-five years. After my sexual assault, it's tough enough to admit that I crave this particular form of release. Tougher still to ask for it. Toughest of all to relax enough to enjoy it.
I trust Franco, though. I know he won't betray this exchange of trust. I know he'll use it, and use me.
I feel his hands traveling down the length of my legs. The hair on them riffles out from under his palms. There's warmth around my left ankle, then the scratchy enclosure of another cuff. My right foot trembles as he raises then caresses it, only to wrap it and set it down again. A cold chain traces a path across my thigh. When he tugs at it, it draws my ankles together.
He places the weight of a foot or a knee or some part of his leg on that chain, drawing my legs in as his mouth connects with my skin. He knows my knees are going to attempt to draw apart only to stop short, thanks to the cuffs, that I'm going to gasp with the surprise of it. His hands are on me, but his foot pushes at the chain connecting my ankles again. He's dragging it down toward the bottom of the bed, off the end, forcing my legs to be as close together and immobile as my arms.
I'm a long exclamation point of pleasure, quivering and trembling beneath his touch. I can't tell where his mouth will land next—my nipple, the underside of my rib cage, the softest part of my belly. His fingers rake against my skin. He pinches my nipple, hard, remorseless. He kisses me, making my back arch, my breath rasp.
My eyes are closed beneath the blindfold. I don't even try to cheat, to see beneath where the mask doesn't quite mold to my cheeks. My world is the darkness, the sensations, the touch of his hands, the bite of his teeth, the warmth of his breath and his tongue against my skin. His mouth engulfs my dick. I gasp, loudly and with abandon. I feel this hands on my balls, the nudge of his knuckles against my ass. My body wants to respond—to twist, to turn, to seize his head and point it in the directions I want it to go. When my hands instinctively move to do so, the short bond between them tugs against the headboard. I can't even bring my elbows below my ears.
He keeps his foot on the chain, too, restraining my legs from moving much. He feels me struggling against him, and increases the pressure. He lets me know he's in charge in a hundred ways. The pulls, the tugs, the little laughs to himself as he enjoys me wrestling futilely against him. I can't do anything more than remain hard and hope that he'll keep up that sloppy wet attention on my shaft, that he'll give me what I need.
I wanted this. He's giving it to me.
I can't control my breathing any longer. I'm gasping for air. My legs are shaking uncontrollably. There's a near-pain in my chest from the sharp intakes of air I'm having to take. And still I can't stop the burning where the corners of his pretty mouth meet the root of my cock. I can't control the wrack of the pleasure—almost too much of it—as it overtakes my body. I wanted this, but I didn't take into account how torturous it could be. How painful the pleasure could feel. It's the sweetest pain in the world, though. I want that kind of hurt.
But I realize I'm in trouble. I can't breathe any longer. The mask has slipped to an odd position beneath my nose. I'm recirculating too much air. It's making me dizzy, almost to the point of passing out. "I can't," I manage to wheeze out. "Do you need me to stop?" he asks, all concern. I feel his face near mine.
I need him to stop, yes. I don't want him to.
Still. I let him undo the mask. My face is wet as a newborn chick's, freed from the leather mask. I blink at the shock of the light and the rush of air over my face. My lungs expand and breathe in the fresh, cool oxygen. The dizzy sensation passes in a moment.
"Okay?" he asks, to check.
I look at him, at that handsome face, fuzzy and sweet and concerned. I stretch, my arms still over my head, and look at him lazily from the pillows where he's laid me.
"I'm okay," I tell him.
I am. I really am.
Then he smiles, and continues his attentions.
There's a mirror standing in the corner of his bedroom, one that stands as tall as I when I'm on my feet. It's angled in a way that I can't see myself, though. I can't look to see if my lips are as red and swollen as they feel, like cherries ripe to bursting. I can't tell if my face is flushed, if my chest is prickled with the red heat he arouses in me. My dick feels not only engorged, but enlarged, an enormous monster on the loose, needing to devour and be devoured in turn. This is the way it's been for nearly an hour by this point, and we're just coming down the gentle slope of need and urgency into a softer and more restful place. "Will you do something for me?" I feel emboldened to say.
"What do you want?" He's anxious to please. "Anything."
Franco's collection of leather goods is laid out on one side of his large bed. They're for my convenience, my whim. I feel the cold ring of his harness digging into my back, where I lay on my side. His dick is in my hand. "Would you. . . ." I take a deep breath, and will myself to say the words. They don't come. ". . . dress up in a French maid's uniform for me?"
His dick doubles in size in my hand. Then, confused, he asks, "What?"
"Wait a minute," I tell him, stopping the proceedings. "Why's your dick getting so much harder when I ask you to dress up in a French maid's uniform?"
He's a little mortified, and laughs. "I thought you were going to ask me to dress up in my leather. Why are you asking me to wear a French maid's uniform."
"Because I'm using cheap humor to deflect what I really want to ask," I explain. This time it's the truth. He waits patiently for me to continue. He's got beautiful eyes. I don't think he knows how attractive a feature they are. They study me in a way that I find a little embarrassing. I want to remain highly regarded, in that gaze. I take a deep breath and try again. "Would you. . . ?"
It's tough to make this request. He and I have talked about this fantasy before, when we've chatted back and forth online. He knows it's something I crave. He knows the issues I have with asking for it.
It's unfair to make him guess, though. I screw up my courage—and it takes a considerable amount—and say the words aloud. "Would you put your blindfold on me?" I ask. My words sound humbled and quiet, to my own ears. "And would you cuff me?" There's a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Deep inside, those slightest of movements reignite the flames. "And then what?" he wants to know.
"And then make me feel good," I said, in a very small voice.
He fastens the hood around my face. The smell of leather fills my nostrils, sharp and familiar. When he fastens the velcro around the back of my head, it cuts out a portion of the sound I can hear. I feel him, though. The rub of his furry chest against my shoulder as he takes my hand, the reassuring pressure of his arm against mine as he raises my left wrist and wraps a cuff around it. I can't see when he lets it go; it drops like a stone as he reaches for the other hand. Once they're both wrapped, he lays me down gently against the pillows, and pushes up my arms so that they insert themselves through the slats of his head board. I feel a slight pressure, and the sound of a click.
I pull slightly at my restraints. I'm fixed there. I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my lungs inflating and deflating at a slow and regular rate. I'm trying quite hard not to think about the incident that's robbed me of this particular pleasure for the last twenty-five years. After my sexual assault, it's tough enough to admit that I crave this particular form of release. Tougher still to ask for it. Toughest of all to relax enough to enjoy it.
I trust Franco, though. I know he won't betray this exchange of trust. I know he'll use it, and use me.
I feel his hands traveling down the length of my legs. The hair on them riffles out from under his palms. There's warmth around my left ankle, then the scratchy enclosure of another cuff. My right foot trembles as he raises then caresses it, only to wrap it and set it down again. A cold chain traces a path across my thigh. When he tugs at it, it draws my ankles together.
He places the weight of a foot or a knee or some part of his leg on that chain, drawing my legs in as his mouth connects with my skin. He knows my knees are going to attempt to draw apart only to stop short, thanks to the cuffs, that I'm going to gasp with the surprise of it. His hands are on me, but his foot pushes at the chain connecting my ankles again. He's dragging it down toward the bottom of the bed, off the end, forcing my legs to be as close together and immobile as my arms.
I'm a long exclamation point of pleasure, quivering and trembling beneath his touch. I can't tell where his mouth will land next—my nipple, the underside of my rib cage, the softest part of my belly. His fingers rake against my skin. He pinches my nipple, hard, remorseless. He kisses me, making my back arch, my breath rasp.
My eyes are closed beneath the blindfold. I don't even try to cheat, to see beneath where the mask doesn't quite mold to my cheeks. My world is the darkness, the sensations, the touch of his hands, the bite of his teeth, the warmth of his breath and his tongue against my skin. His mouth engulfs my dick. I gasp, loudly and with abandon. I feel this hands on my balls, the nudge of his knuckles against my ass. My body wants to respond—to twist, to turn, to seize his head and point it in the directions I want it to go. When my hands instinctively move to do so, the short bond between them tugs against the headboard. I can't even bring my elbows below my ears.
He keeps his foot on the chain, too, restraining my legs from moving much. He feels me struggling against him, and increases the pressure. He lets me know he's in charge in a hundred ways. The pulls, the tugs, the little laughs to himself as he enjoys me wrestling futilely against him. I can't do anything more than remain hard and hope that he'll keep up that sloppy wet attention on my shaft, that he'll give me what I need.
I wanted this. He's giving it to me.
I can't control my breathing any longer. I'm gasping for air. My legs are shaking uncontrollably. There's a near-pain in my chest from the sharp intakes of air I'm having to take. And still I can't stop the burning where the corners of his pretty mouth meet the root of my cock. I can't control the wrack of the pleasure—almost too much of it—as it overtakes my body. I wanted this, but I didn't take into account how torturous it could be. How painful the pleasure could feel. It's the sweetest pain in the world, though. I want that kind of hurt.
But I realize I'm in trouble. I can't breathe any longer. The mask has slipped to an odd position beneath my nose. I'm recirculating too much air. It's making me dizzy, almost to the point of passing out. "I can't," I manage to wheeze out. "Do you need me to stop?" he asks, all concern. I feel his face near mine.
I need him to stop, yes. I don't want him to.
Still. I let him undo the mask. My face is wet as a newborn chick's, freed from the leather mask. I blink at the shock of the light and the rush of air over my face. My lungs expand and breathe in the fresh, cool oxygen. The dizzy sensation passes in a moment.
"Okay?" he asks, to check.
I look at him, at that handsome face, fuzzy and sweet and concerned. I stretch, my arms still over my head, and look at him lazily from the pillows where he's laid me.
"I'm okay," I tell him.
I am. I really am.
Then he smiles, and continues his attentions.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Reader Assets: #22
Oh, my trusty readers. How I love you guys. I put out a call for more dirty photos for the Reader Assets feature and what do I get? A whole bunch more photos for the Reader Assets feature.
It's like Christmas in my email box, every day. So long as we all realize that the only the wrapped and under the tree is . . . well, it's all pretty much unwrapped in these photos.
I know you guys like this feature a lot and I'd love to keep it going. If you're interested in participating, all you need to do is send an email to the address in the blog sidebar with a subject of 'MY ASSETS.' All I ask is that your photos are of you, and not some random porn actor—unless you're a random porn actor, of course. I ask that you be of an age to release such photos, and that you realize that by letting me publish your photos here, there's the vaguest chance that they might be seen by your pastor, your significant other, your boss, and that cute barista you've been flirting with every Tuesday and Friday.
I ask you to take a moment to think about the last point (the visibility issue . . . not the barista) because lately I've had a spate of guys sending me photographs and asking to be a part of the feature—then turning around a couple of days later and asking me not to include them, after all. A couple of times it's happened after I've already posted the photos, and that's a little bit annoying. Not just for me, but for the readers who notice they've been pulled.
I think it's highly, highly unlikely that your sister is going to notice your nude ass on my blog. I doubt your boss is going to associate the birthmark on the inside of your pelvis with your weekly progress report. Your wife is probably not cruising the gay sex blogs (though to my married female readers, and I know there's a significant population of you: hi!). So far I haven't broken up any relationships or gotten anyone fired. But if you could think about that little issue before you hit the send button, I'd appreciate it.
Let's go! I have some hot ones this week.
Nick
Nick is one of my oldest readers. We've corresponded pretty basically since I started the blog. And he's a fine, fine man too, isn't he?
His ass is one of those perfect specimens: round, muscular, and of a shape that fills out a pair of jeans really well. What's sweet about Nick is that I don't even think he realized how hot an ass he has; you might not be able to tell from these photos, but he's pretty shy about showing off his goods. Why he's shy, I don't know. That last photo alone is enough to make my laptop start smoking from overheating.
Nick sent me a buttload (excuse the expression) of photos. It was hard to whittle them down to my favorites. I'll have to include more of him in a future round of photos.
Darwin
Our friend Darwin is a top man—so no ass shots in this set. You guys are getting a good look at his fucktool, though.
Darwin wanted me to point out that his legs are one of his best assets. The man jogs 30 or more miles a week. So you know he's got stamina.
It's nice to see one of my hot top readers showing off. We need more of you guys!
Ed
This is Ed. Ed is from the U.K.
It's my opinion that Ed should be in porn. Dirty porn. Nasty porn. The most rough-and-tumble kind of porn there is. And I should be in it with him, as his top.
Ed makes me want to do depraved things to him. Things involving my hard dick, those boots, that jock, and that beefy, furry ass.
Ed is pretty much my wet dream come true.
Readers, thank Ed for the photos and ask him for more. Ask him to star in that porn flick, while you're at it.
That's it for this installment. Remember to thank the contributors and let them know they're appreciated and lusted after!
It's like Christmas in my email box, every day. So long as we all realize that the only the wrapped and under the tree is . . . well, it's all pretty much unwrapped in these photos.
I know you guys like this feature a lot and I'd love to keep it going. If you're interested in participating, all you need to do is send an email to the address in the blog sidebar with a subject of 'MY ASSETS.' All I ask is that your photos are of you, and not some random porn actor—unless you're a random porn actor, of course. I ask that you be of an age to release such photos, and that you realize that by letting me publish your photos here, there's the vaguest chance that they might be seen by your pastor, your significant other, your boss, and that cute barista you've been flirting with every Tuesday and Friday.
I ask you to take a moment to think about the last point (the visibility issue . . . not the barista) because lately I've had a spate of guys sending me photographs and asking to be a part of the feature—then turning around a couple of days later and asking me not to include them, after all. A couple of times it's happened after I've already posted the photos, and that's a little bit annoying. Not just for me, but for the readers who notice they've been pulled.
I think it's highly, highly unlikely that your sister is going to notice your nude ass on my blog. I doubt your boss is going to associate the birthmark on the inside of your pelvis with your weekly progress report. Your wife is probably not cruising the gay sex blogs (though to my married female readers, and I know there's a significant population of you: hi!). So far I haven't broken up any relationships or gotten anyone fired. But if you could think about that little issue before you hit the send button, I'd appreciate it.
Let's go! I have some hot ones this week.
Nick
Nick is one of my oldest readers. We've corresponded pretty basically since I started the blog. And he's a fine, fine man too, isn't he?
His ass is one of those perfect specimens: round, muscular, and of a shape that fills out a pair of jeans really well. What's sweet about Nick is that I don't even think he realized how hot an ass he has; you might not be able to tell from these photos, but he's pretty shy about showing off his goods. Why he's shy, I don't know. That last photo alone is enough to make my laptop start smoking from overheating.
Nick sent me a buttload (excuse the expression) of photos. It was hard to whittle them down to my favorites. I'll have to include more of him in a future round of photos.
Darwin
Our friend Darwin is a top man—so no ass shots in this set. You guys are getting a good look at his fucktool, though.
Darwin wanted me to point out that his legs are one of his best assets. The man jogs 30 or more miles a week. So you know he's got stamina.
It's nice to see one of my hot top readers showing off. We need more of you guys!
Ed
This is Ed. Ed is from the U.K.
It's my opinion that Ed should be in porn. Dirty porn. Nasty porn. The most rough-and-tumble kind of porn there is. And I should be in it with him, as his top.
Ed makes me want to do depraved things to him. Things involving my hard dick, those boots, that jock, and that beefy, furry ass.
Ed is pretty much my wet dream come true.
Readers, thank Ed for the photos and ask him for more. Ask him to star in that porn flick, while you're at it.
That's it for this installment. Remember to thank the contributors and let them know they're appreciated and lusted after!
Monday, November 14, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Open Forum Friday: That Face
I got a lecture not long ago from a guy on Manhunt. Yes, a freakin' lecture, like I was all of fourteen years old.
I'd logged into the site and promptly done what I ordinarily do when I cruise Manhunt—which is not to cruise it at all, but put it in a background tab and go about my business. Every half-hour or so I'll check back to see if anyone's tried to hit me up. If they have, as long as they haven't done anything egregious like asking Do you and your buddies want to fuck me?, or haven't flown off the handle because of some imagined slight, I'll respond politely. If something happens, fine. If it doesn't, I don't feel I've wasted a lot of time.
So I came back a few minutes later—I'd been in the kitchen, cleaning up from the day, actually—sat down, sorted through the email, and looked through what had accumulated. One of them was from a gentleman whose profile I examined before I read the letter. He was one of those slightly stocky but not unattractive guys in his fifties, a clean-cut type with a fringe of hair shaved short around his head. In his photos he wore striped button-down shirts and slacks. The shirts were of slightly different colors, and the pants of fewer shades still. Although the photos looked a little like action poses from the Sears & Roebuck Khaki Line for the Older But Still Active Young Granddad, the guy had a nice smile and a good face.
In a positive mood, I went back to his letter, which started, I'm sure you hear how nice your dick is all the time. Promising (and true) enough. You're not going to hear it from me, it continued. I frowned a little. In fact, you're not going to hear how nice your profile is from me because I think it's shameful you feel it necessary to have a photograph of your penis next to one of your face.
And I was like, what? My penis next to my face? Am I self-fellating in some shot and I didn't know? Then I realized what he meant.
There are two attitudes about posting photographs in profiles for sex sites. There's the one extreme in which the guy shows absolutely nothing. No photos whatsoever. Or else they'll all be locked, and when you ask the guy to unlock them for you, he'll reply, I'm very very discreet and refuse. And then there's the opposite extreme, which me. I post it all and unless the sex site has specific rules about what has to be locked (like penetration shots or photographs of cum), it stays unlocked.
Now, this older guy went on to chastise me for five very long paragraphs (on Manhunt!) about how terrible an example it was for someone of my advanced age to show both naked shots of my hard dick and smiling photographs of my ugly mug, out in the open, where anyone could see them. I was without class, he wanted to let me know. I was exposing myself to risk at my place of work, if my supervisor were to happen across them. And not just that, but I was giving the youth of America the mistaken impression that my genitals were nothing of which to be ashamed.
Think of the children!, the note could have ended and I wouldn't have been surprised.
I wrote back a chillingly polite letter in which I included my stock answer that I use whenever anyone attempts to tell me what I must and must not include in my profiles. I thanked him for his concern and told him when he started paying my Manhunt subscription fee—no when he started paying for my cable modem subscription and my computer both—I'd start listening to his damn advice. But probably not even then.
He wrote back something huffy like, I'm just trying to save you grief down the road! No skin off my back!
I don't lock my photographs on Manhunt for a couple of reasons. The lesser of the two is that I get annoyed by the one-word emails I used to get when I had some locked photos, which simply demanded, "UNLOCK." (Though I still get them from the idiots who don't seem to realize that they can see thumbnails of eight or nine photos without pictograms of locks on them.)
The bigger reason is that I just don't really give a damn. I'm not ashamed of my face; I'm not ashamed of what's between my legs. I'm not particularly offended at the notion that someone might think I'm a sexual being. I am. I don't have a supervisor who is going to "stumble across" my profile. I'm not running for public office, ever. And I'm not trying to pretend that Manhunt is a genteel dating site instead of a place where horny guys meet when they want to fuck.
I understand that not everyone is in my position, or feels the same way about their looks or body or sexuality. Some people do have sensitive careers they shouldn't jeopardize by flashing their dicks on Manhunt so that their elderly female audiences won't die of heart attacks, Clay Aiken. Want to lock up all your photos? It's your dime. Go right ahead. I don't really care. I'll never meet you if you don't unlock them at some point, but I won't be dictating what you can and can't do with your profile.
Which is why I was surprised, I guess, that this fellow was so vehement about ragging on mine. Did my free expression of sexuality truly offend him so deeply that he felt moved to write a five-paragraph essay about it? Was my dick so raunchy that he wanted to write a letter to the editor? Especially, if you think about it, that my dick shot was what got him to open up the profile in the first place?
For this week's open forum, I'm curious. What's your take on online sites and profile photos? Do you show all yours, or keep some concealed? If you're half-and-half on it—which seems to be the prevailing style in this part of the country at least—do you show your pearly whites and keep your bait and tackle under lock, or vice-versa? What's your reasoning for not showing everything? Or, if you're one of the types who'd never have a profile at all, or one with photos, what's your reason for not showing?
I'm fascinated about your experiences and thoughts on the matter.
I'd logged into the site and promptly done what I ordinarily do when I cruise Manhunt—which is not to cruise it at all, but put it in a background tab and go about my business. Every half-hour or so I'll check back to see if anyone's tried to hit me up. If they have, as long as they haven't done anything egregious like asking Do you and your buddies want to fuck me?, or haven't flown off the handle because of some imagined slight, I'll respond politely. If something happens, fine. If it doesn't, I don't feel I've wasted a lot of time.
So I came back a few minutes later—I'd been in the kitchen, cleaning up from the day, actually—sat down, sorted through the email, and looked through what had accumulated. One of them was from a gentleman whose profile I examined before I read the letter. He was one of those slightly stocky but not unattractive guys in his fifties, a clean-cut type with a fringe of hair shaved short around his head. In his photos he wore striped button-down shirts and slacks. The shirts were of slightly different colors, and the pants of fewer shades still. Although the photos looked a little like action poses from the Sears & Roebuck Khaki Line for the Older But Still Active Young Granddad, the guy had a nice smile and a good face.
In a positive mood, I went back to his letter, which started, I'm sure you hear how nice your dick is all the time. Promising (and true) enough. You're not going to hear it from me, it continued. I frowned a little. In fact, you're not going to hear how nice your profile is from me because I think it's shameful you feel it necessary to have a photograph of your penis next to one of your face.
And I was like, what? My penis next to my face? Am I self-fellating in some shot and I didn't know? Then I realized what he meant.
There are two attitudes about posting photographs in profiles for sex sites. There's the one extreme in which the guy shows absolutely nothing. No photos whatsoever. Or else they'll all be locked, and when you ask the guy to unlock them for you, he'll reply, I'm very very discreet and refuse. And then there's the opposite extreme, which me. I post it all and unless the sex site has specific rules about what has to be locked (like penetration shots or photographs of cum), it stays unlocked.
Now, this older guy went on to chastise me for five very long paragraphs (on Manhunt!) about how terrible an example it was for someone of my advanced age to show both naked shots of my hard dick and smiling photographs of my ugly mug, out in the open, where anyone could see them. I was without class, he wanted to let me know. I was exposing myself to risk at my place of work, if my supervisor were to happen across them. And not just that, but I was giving the youth of America the mistaken impression that my genitals were nothing of which to be ashamed.
Think of the children!, the note could have ended and I wouldn't have been surprised.
I wrote back a chillingly polite letter in which I included my stock answer that I use whenever anyone attempts to tell me what I must and must not include in my profiles. I thanked him for his concern and told him when he started paying my Manhunt subscription fee—no when he started paying for my cable modem subscription and my computer both—I'd start listening to his damn advice. But probably not even then.
He wrote back something huffy like, I'm just trying to save you grief down the road! No skin off my back!
I don't lock my photographs on Manhunt for a couple of reasons. The lesser of the two is that I get annoyed by the one-word emails I used to get when I had some locked photos, which simply demanded, "UNLOCK." (Though I still get them from the idiots who don't seem to realize that they can see thumbnails of eight or nine photos without pictograms of locks on them.)
The bigger reason is that I just don't really give a damn. I'm not ashamed of my face; I'm not ashamed of what's between my legs. I'm not particularly offended at the notion that someone might think I'm a sexual being. I am. I don't have a supervisor who is going to "stumble across" my profile. I'm not running for public office, ever. And I'm not trying to pretend that Manhunt is a genteel dating site instead of a place where horny guys meet when they want to fuck.
I understand that not everyone is in my position, or feels the same way about their looks or body or sexuality. Some people do have sensitive careers they shouldn't jeopardize by flashing their dicks on Manhunt so that their elderly female audiences won't die of heart attacks, Clay Aiken. Want to lock up all your photos? It's your dime. Go right ahead. I don't really care. I'll never meet you if you don't unlock them at some point, but I won't be dictating what you can and can't do with your profile.
Which is why I was surprised, I guess, that this fellow was so vehement about ragging on mine. Did my free expression of sexuality truly offend him so deeply that he felt moved to write a five-paragraph essay about it? Was my dick so raunchy that he wanted to write a letter to the editor? Especially, if you think about it, that my dick shot was what got him to open up the profile in the first place?
For this week's open forum, I'm curious. What's your take on online sites and profile photos? Do you show all yours, or keep some concealed? If you're half-and-half on it—which seems to be the prevailing style in this part of the country at least—do you show your pearly whites and keep your bait and tackle under lock, or vice-versa? What's your reasoning for not showing everything? Or, if you're one of the types who'd never have a profile at all, or one with photos, what's your reason for not showing?
I'm fascinated about your experiences and thoughts on the matter.
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