When I moved to the city of Detroit back in the mid-nineteen-eighties, I was twenty-one and didn’t know a soul. I’d moved to attend graduate school, though, and from long experience I knew the easiest way to make new friends in a university setting was to hang out in the graduate library restrooms with my pants around my ankles and my mouth ready to suck cock beneath the stalls.
And that’s exactly how I got my first ‘boyfriend’ in the city that would prove to be my home for the next quarter-century. I’m using quotes around the word because it was a one-sided relationship. The guy wanted me to be his boyfriend. I just wanted him to fuck me. I know, I know, that sounds callous, but the fact is that the guy already had a long-term boyfriend at the time. He owned a home with a guy that he’d been involved with for several years. They had two dogs. He was unhappy in the relationship and said he wanted out, but I suspected, and I think he knew in his heart that it would take several more years for that to happen.
In the meantime, I wasn’t willing to be called a boyfriend by someone who was already attached, and especially to someone with whom I had lousy sex. Oh yeah. The sex was lousy.
I met Tom in the second-floor library men’s room near the periodicals. For a couple of years this out-of-the-way restroom was the hottest place on campus to get dick. The stairwell was quiet, so that you could hear from quite a distance anyone who happened to be approaching. Though the restroom was only a two-seater, it was U-shaped in layout, so that anyone walking in wouldn’t immediately be granted a view of everything going on there. There was a strategically-placed mirror above the sink so that someone sitting in the first stall could see quite plainly the faces and build of anyone walking in. And best of all, there was a huge, inch-and-a-half-wide gap in the first toilet on the side where the partition met the brick wall, right at about the spot where one’s knees would be when sitting down, so that anyone walking in could look through and see if the guy inside the stall was masturbating.
I liked the gap because when I occupied the stall (and I often occupied that stall for hours at a time) if the guy walking in was an ugly troll, I could just close my legs and lean forward and obscure any sign of my goodies. If he was hot—and the men who knew of that restroom usually were—I could just sit back and stroke and see if the guy showed any interest at the flash of big hard young dick that he couldn’t miss as he passed by.
And Tom was hot. He was a tall black man with a muscular build who not only craned his head as he walked by me stroking, but stopped to put his eye to the partition gap and check me out. Given that encouragement, I didn’t even bother to wait until he was in the other stall. I didn’t need to toe-tapping to confirm his interest. I opened the stall door, stood up, and let him look me over. He made me turn around and show him my ass—which excited me, since I was still mostly bottom then. He ran his hands over my skinny white boy ass, made sounds of appreciation, and then suggested that we go to a quiet spot he knew where he could, and I quote, “fuck the shit out of me.”
This is pretty much where things went off the rails with Tom and me. If I’d just sucked him off or bent over for him right there and then, I’d probably have a hot memory of a one-time thing with a good looking dude. But no, he convinced me to follow him to his car, where he drove us both to Henry Ford Hospital, less than a mile away. Tom was in his final year of residency there at the time, it transpired. Somehow he managed to get me into the area of the hospital where the male residents slept, changed, and bathed, where we drew the curtains to a shower stall and got naked together.
I know that the setup sounds hot as hell. It really wasn’t. The library restroom was at least quiet. We could’ve fucked there uninterrupted. Trying to fuck in the resident’s changing rooms was like trying to fuck on Sixth Avenue during the Macy’s parade. Guys kept coming in and out. Someone was snoring from a cot at the end of the hallway. Two residents had a lengthy conversation about their girlfriends over the tops of two other showers. A janitor came in to mop out the area. Anyone and everyone in the hospital trooped through that shower room during the hour we were trapped in that shower. The only thing missing was a Volkswagen full of clowns.
Finally we reclaimed our clothing and tried to take it to a toilet stall. I’d long before lost the urgency and lust that had made me attracted to Doctor Tom in the library, and by the time he bent me over the toilet and worked his dick into me, what I was feeling was more along the lines of impatience and shame.
The fact, racial stereotypes aside, that he had one of the world’s tiniest dicks didn’t help. Nor the fact that his idea of fucking the shit out of me was to insert himself, wiggle around for two or three minutes, then pull out his dick and cum a quarter-teaspoon of semen into his palm.
Doctor Tom was friendly, though, and for two or three weeks I let him take me out. He introduced me to the food phenomenon that is the Detroit Coney Island—basically a hot dog on a bun covered with chili and onions. He toured me around some landmarks I’d never before seen. And he introduced me to the hobby of salvaging. But one of the other reasons I didn’t want to be his boyfriend was that I found him sexually controlling, and not in the fun way. When I’d show up to meet him, he would reach down my pants and squeeze my testicles, hard. It wasn’t a show of dominance, or anything, but a masturbation check.
It was a scientific fact, he told me, that it was possible to tell by the density of a man’s testicles if he’d masturbated in the previous twenty-four hours. If they were hard and tough, they hadn’t shot sperm. If they were softer and larger, the subject had shot a load. I kind of resented the fact that this (already committed) man was trying to control the frequency of my masturbation—which was really none of his fucking business. I also had a sense that if he was this controlling so early in the relationship, it certainly was unlike to get any better as it went on.
Salvaging, though. I’d never heard about it before, but there were plenty of people in the Detroit area who indulged in it. The city was a nasty mess when I moved there. (And not much better when I left.) Blocks upon blocks of neighborhoods were nothing but empty and abandoned houses, lying in ruin. A lot of these homes had been crap to begin with, but in the older sections of Detroit were some formerly very grand estates that had gone to ruin. Many of them had the austere and haunted quality of old castles, gutted and left exposed for decades.
Doctor Tom always carried a toolbox and crowbar in the back of his car. Late at night, he and I would drive through neighborhoods where vagrant fires smoldered unchecked, under freeway bridges where the homeless slept behind shopping carts, through neighborhoods where the weeds in every direct grew shoulder-high. He’d select a home, park his car a distance away, and then the two of us would creep toward it. Brandishing crowbars and flashlights, we’d walk through these deserted stretches of inner city blight, disappear through the weeds onto the appointed property, and then carefully, very slowly, work our way through the house.
This was totally illegal, of course. If we’d been caught, we would’ve been fined for trespassing, or charged with burglary, or worse. At the time, the city was the murder capital of the world. Dead bodies were found in these houses all the time. The floors were rotted, the staircases dangerous. But oh, the riches one could find in these old houses, if one knew how to look.
I knew one salvager years later who’d managed to pry out an entire Pewabic ceramic fireplace from a ruined home. I knew a couple of others who had gotten gorgeous leaded glass windows, or elaborate plaster fixtures. Doctor Tom had never found anything so grand or so intact, but he did have most of a chandelier he’d salvaged before meeting me in his garage. On the three or four occasions he took me with him, the most he found were a few antique light switch covers and a glass doorknob. After creeping through these abandoned spaces, I would stand by and hold the flashlight steady as I watched him pry off his desired prize. Then we’d run back to his car, giddy, scared, and pulses racing.
It was my last salvaging trip with Doctor Tom of which I was reminded recently, though. It was the next-to-last date I had with him at all, because after that, I simply told him I couldn’t see him any more. We were in a terrible neighborhood east of downtown on a night that was so radiant with moonlight that we didn’t need our flashlights, even inside the gothic revival house to which Doctor Tom had led us. The upper floor of the house had suffered a fire at some point. On that dark and moonlit night, the faint tickle of rancid old smoke made our progress across the litter-strewn first floor an even more foreboding affair.
The place had been more or less picked clean. Some enterprising salvager had removed a good deal of the hardwood flooring from the dining room, so that when we looked through where double doors had once been, we could see straight into the dirt-floor basement. The fireplace was brick, so that was no good. Even the copper wiring had been pulled from the walls. The stairs were fairly sturdy, though, so we went up to the second floor very carefully, to see what might be up there.
And that’s when we stumbled into the room. A corner of it was open to the elements, burned away by fire and worn by weather and winters. There was moonlight enough, though, to show us what a grand parlor it must once have been; the wallpaper remaining was elaborately printed and gave the impression of flocking. There was no furniture left. Nothing on the wall save a thick and almost phosphorescent accumulation of bird poop in the corner that was open to the sky. It was a crisp December evening and I remember being able to see my breath curl in lazy whorls in front of me. When I followed their journey upward, I saw the cages hanging overhead.
Bird cages. Large ones. At least seven or eight of them. They’d been suspended from hooks in the tall ceiling, and were high enough that only the most determined salvager would ever attempt to claim them. Doctor Tom took a look at them and wrinkled his nose; they were no good anyway, he declared. All the cages had their doors open; one of them had either decayed in a strange manner or gotten tangled in its chain and hung at a distinct angle. None of them were entirely intact. They all had absences where bars had once been before they’d turned to dust. On the floor, in the exposed corner, I could see the remnants of a rusted cage mouldering away in pieces.
I turned. Doctor Tom stood inches away from me. “Drop your pants,” he whispered.
I obeyed.
He’d done this before when we’d gone salvaging. His dick seemed to get harder—and shoot even faster—when we were in a potentially dangerous situation like this, when we could be discovered by cops or the homeless or other enterprising Detroiters armed with a crowbar. His hands slid down the outsides of my thighs, and squeezed my balls. I resented his touch when he yanked at my testicles, testing them. But I bent over, and felt wetness against my hole, and then his cock inside me.
I reached out to brace myself against the wall. The whole house seemed to shift slightly when I did, and then the room was suddenly alight with motion and the heart-stopping noise of flapping wings. Neither of us had realized that the room was occupied by birds. In my crouching, bent-over position I looked up above me to see them stirring in the decaying cages.
A few woke up enough to flap with annoyance through the large gaps in their bars, or out the open cage doors to the exposed corner through which moonlight streamed. They were ghostly pale. Pigeons, probably. Doctor Tom didn’t seem to notice or care. He was too busy banging away, bringing himself to orgasm, paying no attention to me or the motion around him.
I looked up at the flurry, though, and listened to the birds’ subdued scolding. I turned my head as one returned from a perch on the ruined exterior and fluttered into a cage, then watched as it pulled its wings to itself and disappeared into sleep.
I remember thinking to myself with sudden clarity, When it has the freedom to fly anywhere, what kind of bird chooses a cage?
In large part, that moment is why I broke up with Doctor Tom, the next time I saw him.
Now that I’m older, I see we all choose our own cages. We cage ourselves in homes we can’t afford, in relationships we think hold us back. We cage ourselves in misery, and built bars of self-doubt around ourselves. We look for situations with walls to surround us, and a dome to keep us from flying, where we alight and pull the door to—and then we complain of our captivity.
But like the rusted contraptions I saw that night, hanging overhead like shadows in the moonlight, those cages are rarely fully intact. The doors are never tightly shut. We’ve merely forgotten that these coops are what we chose for ourselves because they’re familiar, they’re small, they’re contained.
What we need to remember is that just because something has the vague shape of a container never means that it is completely restricting. We need to remember how and when to fly.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Friday, March 22, 2013
The S
We’re two feet apart. Maybe three. I’m close enough to catch his scent, at any rate. Sharp. Sweet. Masculine. He’s dabbed on one of those high-end colognes that tickles the attention without theatrics. It makes me turn my head, check him out.
He’s a handsome devil, a mature guy with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed into a short, precision cut. A dark gray suit jacket hangs from his broad shoulders. Two buttons lie open on his slate-blue shirt; where one lapel overlaps the other, dark chest hair springs in abundance. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and shiny black shoes. Everything on him—the coat, the shirt, the denim—all looks freshly-pressed. It’s eight-thirty at night, and we’re standing in one of the busiest intersections of the MTA’s system of underground tunnels, and yet he looks like he’s just stepped out of a catalog.
The wait for the subway shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central separates real New Yorkers from the tourists. There are four tracks on the S line. The tourists stand along the length of Track 1, crowding between the pillars while they wait for the train to arrive from the other end of its short run. They watch the dancers who, even long past the peak rush hour, still caper and hold out their hats closer to the stairs by the downtown trains.
The locals, and those of us with a lot of experience with this particular route, stand above where the track ends. If the shuttle rattles in on Track 1, fine. We’re right by the first door. But if the subway cars round the curve on either of the far tracks, we’re in a position to take mere few steps around to the appropriate boarding place, while the tourists who’ve taken those attractive spots further away have to make a lengthy jog.
This guy knows the score. His eyes meet mine. Steel gray, they are. They match his hair. He looks me over, in my silly video game T-shirt, my leather jacket, my jeans and my sneakers. And he doesn’t dismiss me. We measure each other. Judge each other. Acknowledge each other for a fraction of a second, with lifted chins. Then we look away.
The breakdancers have attracted a crowd with their gyrations and their boombox. The man in the suit jacket stares across the station, pretending interest. While his sharp beak of a nose points in their direction, his athletic body is angled toward me. His hand drops to his waist; a thumb hooks into a belt so glossy it rivals the shine of his shoes. Then his fingers drop to the sizable bulge on his left side.
It’s thick, that bulge. I try to resist licking my chops when I see it, though I do suck in my lips and moisten them a little, unconsciously. His fingers casually rest along its side so that I can clearly see the length and thickness of it. Fuck, even soft I can almost make out the head, a soft flare beneath the dark blue denim where the tips of his well-kept nails run along the ridge.
He stops studying the dancers. My eyes flick up to his. Our glances lock with the finality of a deadbolt meeting its latch. He knows I’m watching.
I know he wants me to watch.
A few seasoned shuttle catchers hover near us at the track’s end. No one so much as meets an eye. Only he and I glance at each other, sharing our secret connection. It’s a strange city, Manhattan—where people are packed into small spaces, but pretend they’re not on top of each other. In any other American city, the space between this man and myself would be odd—too close, too intimate. Here, it’s what passes for normal. Practical. I could reach forward and touch him right now. My hand could easily swing out. The back of it could brush against that fat lump protruding next to his fly. In the blink of an eye I could even lay my palm on his chest, rest it atop that crisp cotton, and feel his heart beating beneath. No one would stop me.
But I just look. I keep my hands to myself, and watch his fingers scrape back and forth over the denim, and watch the lump swell and grow.
The next train will be departing from . . . Track 3, says a man’s jolly automated voice over the loudspeaker. Even before the tourists groan, those of us at the track’s end have already begun walking briskly to to the metal pillars in the station’s center. Further down and much farther away, the out-of-towners groan and begin to jog to catch up. The man moves first, looking sidelong at me before he departs. I’m on his heels, keeping him in my sights as the stream of departing shuttle riders push their way out of the train doors and scurry to their destinations. He and I slide into the first car. He stands in the closed door opposite. I lounge against the pole. And we wait while the train fills.
One of his hands casually holds the bar overhead. The other is back at his crotch. I make no shy pretense of looking away. I stare at it. I let my eyes caress that thick lump, where the flare is clearly defined now against the tight fabric. When he sees me staring, it fattens beneath his fingertips. He’s pointing at it, playing with it. Rubbing it. Letting me know it’s there. And he loves that I’m looking.
I turn my head, let it hang. I’m not even pretending to be discreet. No one around me notices. They’re too drawn into the invisible shells they’re erecting as the train grows more and more crowded. They’re staring up at the ads along the rooftop, or out at the breakdancers beyond the vanishing crowd.
I’m staring straight at the hardening cock of a man who looks like he’d be a mean fuck, once I stripped him out of those clothes.
The shuttle jolts to a start. It’s not a long ride between Times Square and Grand Central. I could probably have walked it in less time. We jostle back and forth, staring at each other. Halfway there, his own head drops. He tilts it sideways. Looks to my side, where my leather bag hangs. He’s checking out my ass. My own cock stiffens at the realization. I turn slightly. Show it to him. He recognizes what I’m doing. Nods. We don’t smile.
Over the loudspeaker, the conductor pronounces words that are intended to be Grand Central. They’re as indistinct as a teacher’s voice on a Charlie Brown special. The doors haven’t even hissed open before the crowd inside rushes for the doors, sweeping the both of us along. Even though I’m the tallest person in the crowd by a full head, and should be able to find him without problems, he’s short enough that for a moment, I lose sight of him. A moment is all it takes. There’s too much humanity surrounding the two of us, and even though I’m slowing down, trying not to separate myself too far from him—though what will I do? Share my phone number? Give him my name? Follow him?—he’s impossibly obscured.
I’m sure he’s behind me. I slow myself down even more. But no, there he is up ahead, his hands stuffed in his jeans as he turns around and cranes his neck to look at me. My feet automatically head toward the stairs up to Grand Central, where I can catch my commuter train to the suburbs. He’s obviously destined for the long corridor beneath the terminal that leads to the 6 line.
For a moment—just a moment—we both hesitate in our predetermined steps. We stop our feet on those everyday paths they’re used to treading. He looks at me from atop the ramp leading to the tunnel. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my hand on the railing.
It’s a juncture in which we both measure the possibilities, weigh the options. For one split second in our two worlds, anything could happen. Heat could happen. Magic, even. All the commotion around me is muffled; I see nothing but him. The universe seems to catch its breath, and waits to see what the two of us might do.
Then someone jostles against him, pushing him forward. We’re flotsam in a river of men and women. In a rush of babble that seemed to have vanished only moments before, we let the currents carry us away from each other. Our feet stumble forward to reclaim their familiar routes.
But I smile at him before he disappears completely. I nod quickly, in thanks, in recognition. In gratitude, even. He nods back, and beneath that beak of a nose, his lips curl and soften.
What a moment, indeed.
Now, weeks later, I wonder if he also thinks back to that night beneath Times Square, and meditates on me, or on those prolonged seconds when the world hushed and came to a crawl as it waited for our decisions. I’ve certainly thought about him.
He’s a handsome devil, a mature guy with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed into a short, precision cut. A dark gray suit jacket hangs from his broad shoulders. Two buttons lie open on his slate-blue shirt; where one lapel overlaps the other, dark chest hair springs in abundance. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and shiny black shoes. Everything on him—the coat, the shirt, the denim—all looks freshly-pressed. It’s eight-thirty at night, and we’re standing in one of the busiest intersections of the MTA’s system of underground tunnels, and yet he looks like he’s just stepped out of a catalog.
The wait for the subway shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central separates real New Yorkers from the tourists. There are four tracks on the S line. The tourists stand along the length of Track 1, crowding between the pillars while they wait for the train to arrive from the other end of its short run. They watch the dancers who, even long past the peak rush hour, still caper and hold out their hats closer to the stairs by the downtown trains.
The locals, and those of us with a lot of experience with this particular route, stand above where the track ends. If the shuttle rattles in on Track 1, fine. We’re right by the first door. But if the subway cars round the curve on either of the far tracks, we’re in a position to take mere few steps around to the appropriate boarding place, while the tourists who’ve taken those attractive spots further away have to make a lengthy jog.
This guy knows the score. His eyes meet mine. Steel gray, they are. They match his hair. He looks me over, in my silly video game T-shirt, my leather jacket, my jeans and my sneakers. And he doesn’t dismiss me. We measure each other. Judge each other. Acknowledge each other for a fraction of a second, with lifted chins. Then we look away.
The breakdancers have attracted a crowd with their gyrations and their boombox. The man in the suit jacket stares across the station, pretending interest. While his sharp beak of a nose points in their direction, his athletic body is angled toward me. His hand drops to his waist; a thumb hooks into a belt so glossy it rivals the shine of his shoes. Then his fingers drop to the sizable bulge on his left side.
It’s thick, that bulge. I try to resist licking my chops when I see it, though I do suck in my lips and moisten them a little, unconsciously. His fingers casually rest along its side so that I can clearly see the length and thickness of it. Fuck, even soft I can almost make out the head, a soft flare beneath the dark blue denim where the tips of his well-kept nails run along the ridge.
He stops studying the dancers. My eyes flick up to his. Our glances lock with the finality of a deadbolt meeting its latch. He knows I’m watching.
I know he wants me to watch.
A few seasoned shuttle catchers hover near us at the track’s end. No one so much as meets an eye. Only he and I glance at each other, sharing our secret connection. It’s a strange city, Manhattan—where people are packed into small spaces, but pretend they’re not on top of each other. In any other American city, the space between this man and myself would be odd—too close, too intimate. Here, it’s what passes for normal. Practical. I could reach forward and touch him right now. My hand could easily swing out. The back of it could brush against that fat lump protruding next to his fly. In the blink of an eye I could even lay my palm on his chest, rest it atop that crisp cotton, and feel his heart beating beneath. No one would stop me.
But I just look. I keep my hands to myself, and watch his fingers scrape back and forth over the denim, and watch the lump swell and grow.
The next train will be departing from . . . Track 3, says a man’s jolly automated voice over the loudspeaker. Even before the tourists groan, those of us at the track’s end have already begun walking briskly to to the metal pillars in the station’s center. Further down and much farther away, the out-of-towners groan and begin to jog to catch up. The man moves first, looking sidelong at me before he departs. I’m on his heels, keeping him in my sights as the stream of departing shuttle riders push their way out of the train doors and scurry to their destinations. He and I slide into the first car. He stands in the closed door opposite. I lounge against the pole. And we wait while the train fills.
One of his hands casually holds the bar overhead. The other is back at his crotch. I make no shy pretense of looking away. I stare at it. I let my eyes caress that thick lump, where the flare is clearly defined now against the tight fabric. When he sees me staring, it fattens beneath his fingertips. He’s pointing at it, playing with it. Rubbing it. Letting me know it’s there. And he loves that I’m looking.
I turn my head, let it hang. I’m not even pretending to be discreet. No one around me notices. They’re too drawn into the invisible shells they’re erecting as the train grows more and more crowded. They’re staring up at the ads along the rooftop, or out at the breakdancers beyond the vanishing crowd.
I’m staring straight at the hardening cock of a man who looks like he’d be a mean fuck, once I stripped him out of those clothes.
The shuttle jolts to a start. It’s not a long ride between Times Square and Grand Central. I could probably have walked it in less time. We jostle back and forth, staring at each other. Halfway there, his own head drops. He tilts it sideways. Looks to my side, where my leather bag hangs. He’s checking out my ass. My own cock stiffens at the realization. I turn slightly. Show it to him. He recognizes what I’m doing. Nods. We don’t smile.
Over the loudspeaker, the conductor pronounces words that are intended to be Grand Central. They’re as indistinct as a teacher’s voice on a Charlie Brown special. The doors haven’t even hissed open before the crowd inside rushes for the doors, sweeping the both of us along. Even though I’m the tallest person in the crowd by a full head, and should be able to find him without problems, he’s short enough that for a moment, I lose sight of him. A moment is all it takes. There’s too much humanity surrounding the two of us, and even though I’m slowing down, trying not to separate myself too far from him—though what will I do? Share my phone number? Give him my name? Follow him?—he’s impossibly obscured.
I’m sure he’s behind me. I slow myself down even more. But no, there he is up ahead, his hands stuffed in his jeans as he turns around and cranes his neck to look at me. My feet automatically head toward the stairs up to Grand Central, where I can catch my commuter train to the suburbs. He’s obviously destined for the long corridor beneath the terminal that leads to the 6 line.
For a moment—just a moment—we both hesitate in our predetermined steps. We stop our feet on those everyday paths they’re used to treading. He looks at me from atop the ramp leading to the tunnel. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my hand on the railing.
It’s a juncture in which we both measure the possibilities, weigh the options. For one split second in our two worlds, anything could happen. Heat could happen. Magic, even. All the commotion around me is muffled; I see nothing but him. The universe seems to catch its breath, and waits to see what the two of us might do.
Then someone jostles against him, pushing him forward. We’re flotsam in a river of men and women. In a rush of babble that seemed to have vanished only moments before, we let the currents carry us away from each other. Our feet stumble forward to reclaim their familiar routes.
But I smile at him before he disappears completely. I nod quickly, in thanks, in recognition. In gratitude, even. He nods back, and beneath that beak of a nose, his lips curl and soften.
What a moment, indeed.
Now, weeks later, I wonder if he also thinks back to that night beneath Times Square, and meditates on me, or on those prolonged seconds when the world hushed and came to a crawl as it waited for our decisions. I’ve certainly thought about him.
Monday, March 18, 2013
The Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated
The third anniversary of my online blog has come and gone. It’s been more than a month since I last wrote about my life. I’ve been licking my wounds during those weeks. I won’t go into the details of why, exactly—but I will say that betrayal has left a very bad taste in my mouth. Even now, it’s difficult for me to muster up any enthusiasm to write.
When I started this blog, it was from a combination of lofty intentions and basic braggadocio. It seemed to me that remarkably few people were talking frankly and unabashedly about real sexual lives. There were a lot of blogs out there tallying loads collected at the bookstores, or that combined unlikely scenarios with cheap porn-movie dialogue. There were a lot of blogs that were simply collections of porn clips, or unerotic erotica based on some black-and-white photo of a shirtless stud. But thoughtful pieces of actual writing about real sex, with its joys and pitfalls and its awkwardnesses and its humorous moments were few and very far between.
I think that’s a pity. Cultures develop narratives about the acceptable lives that individuals can live within its confines, and it’s easy to play out our existences against prefabricated stage sets that have little to do with what our stories actually are at any given moment. Little straight boys and girls grow up with the notion that they’ll maybe lose their virginity at the age of eighteen when it’s perfectly legal and aboveboard, that they’ll have a couple of—but not too many—sexual encounters in their twenties within the context of steady dating, and that they’ll then meet the great love of their lives, with whom they’ll settle down forever in bliss and sexual exclusivity for the rest of their lives.
We all know it doesn’t happen like this. We come from families that are broken, that have divorces and affairs. We have parents who’ve cheated on each other, and brothers and sisters who are total whores before they settle down. We know of marriages with swingers, and couples who are open, or who’ve made their own arrangements that have little to do with antiquated notions of sexual fidelity. We know marriages that don’t last forever, or that dry up sexually, or that just should never have been attempted to begin with. We all know, on some level, that this standardized domestic narrative doesn’t always work. Maybe it doesn’t even often work.
And yet, when it doesn’t work for us, we torture ourselves because we’ve been carefully taught that they ought to. When they don’t, too many people don’t blame the unrealistic expectations of the narrative. We blame ourselves, and our own lacks.
For years gay men and women had to invent their own narratives; we weren’t discussed in the mainstream culture except as monsters, or as invisible creatures dwelling on the margins on society. But look at what’s happening to us now: there’s an expectation (formed just over the last ten years, but now accepted as cultural gospel) that all the gay boys want to settle down forever with a nice boy and adopt a pretty baby to dress up, and that all the gay girls want to find a nice lesbian to move in with after the second date. We’re expected to hold our breaths for every marriage equality debate. On television we used to be silly, sexless fairies. Now we’re silly, sexless married couples with infants. We’re being accommodated into the mainstream—even if it’s a mainstream narrative that doesn’t ring true for so many of us.
What happens to those of us with stories and experiences that in no way conform to the mainstream narrative we tell ourselves as a society is that we’re regarded at best as oddities. We’re exceptions. Freaks. At worst, we’re demons and monsters, trying to tear apart the fabric of polite society. Never mind, mind you, that if a heavenly apocalypse befell the earth and our souls and thoughts and deeds were laid bare by some godly archangel, the number of those who failed to deviate from the mainstream would be vanishingly small, and would consist only of the timid and the unimaginative.
Face it. We’re all freaks. We want to do things with our privates that our parents told us we shouldn’t. We fuck in the dark and pretend we didn’t by daylight. We keep our sex lives—our real sex lives, not the ones we pretend to have for the sake of our families and our reputations—mum. All because we’re too frightened to let anyone think we’re one of those people. A deviant. A freak.
Over the course of the years of my public blogging, I’ve had no problems talking about all kinds of things I’d never seen anywhere else. I’ve discussed my pubescent sexuality, my sexual assault, my love affairs—the ones genuinely involving love, that is. I’ve celebrated my strengths, like my ability to read men and their needs even better than they can sometimes read themselves. Like the sexual fearlessness that’s made my life a great adventure. Like my ability to put men at ease, and to give them not only what they think they want, but what they secretly crave and can’t bring themselves to express.
But among the sexy confidence I sometimes exude, I’ve also been remarkably forthright about my own faults and shortcomings. I’ve discussed incidents in which I flatly fell short of both my own expectations and those of my partners. I’ve talked about times I’ve let down friends, or failed to do the right thing. I’ve explored the times I was a disappointment. Rather than disguise these blemishes with paint or to leave them in the shadows, I’ve put my own imperfections squarely center stage and shone upon them harsh spotlights for my audience of millions—I regularly expose my own arrogance, my competitiveness, my short temper, my selfishness. I don’t pretend to be virtuous, by any means. I know, without need for readers to inform me via emails to my Manhunt or Adam4Adam accounts, that my ‘looks are not all that.’ I’ve never pretended I wasn’t susceptible to flattery, or that my vanity wasn’t the Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors, always demanding to be fed. I know these things. Because I present them to you, you know these things.
In return for rolling over and exposing my white, soft, lard-like underbelly, however, I’ve always assumed there was an implied contract with my readers. I’m offering this to you as a gift, I thought I was telling them. I’m revealing you so much of myself, good and bad, ugly and hot. And all I ask in return is that you treat these offerings, and the men involved, with a little respect, and not to trample upon them. I never expected reverence, or to be showered with compliments and gifts (though I’m craven enough to enjoy that when it happens). I don’t get fortune for it. I don’t get fame.
Over the three years I’ve kept this blog, I’ve found that I’ve gotten repaid sweetly and amply by the friendships I’ve made. There’ve been men I’ve met in person who are dear friends of mine. There are readers whose friendships were like summer wildflowers—blossoming for a time and then fading and blowing away at the end of a season. I’ve had beautiful boys and handsome men and wonderful women reach out to me with their stories and their photos, to let me know that they’re glad to have me in their lives.
That is wonderful. I love that every one of these remarkable people who recognize that everything I present to them is a gift not only from my loins, but from my heart. Thank you all, very deeply and sincerely.
There’s another brand of person, however, for whom everything is never enough. I serve them so much of myself, and they don’t respond with thanks. They don’t push their plate away when I’m done and declare they’re full. Instead, they sit there with knife and fork in hand, napkin tucked in their shirt collar, pounding their fists on the table and demanding more, more, more. It’s not enough to know my sexual secrets, my history, my disappointments and joys. The abundance I give doesn’t satisfy them. They demand more.
They pry. They snoop. They break open doors I’ve locked and root through closets I thought were sealed. And really, it’s not as if they use what they find in order to understand me better. They grub around so that they can find things that give them what they imagine is control over me. Dirty secrets of which they think I’m ashamed. (I’m probably not.) Inconsistencies that they imagine will bring my house of cards a-tumbling. (When basically, I’m just inconsistent.)
I am totally aware that I am displaying the typical grandiose paranoia associated with most of the songs on sophomore albums released by former boy band members, but damn, bitch, when you’re all famous ’n’ shit, everybody want a piece of you, yo.
But seriously. When I encounter situations in which these people to get out of control, I find them draining. They suck my attention, and my energy. For the last month, one situation in particular has just left a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to my blog.
I want to enjoy writing again. I’ve got no bombastic delusions that what I do here is akin to Proust, or alternately is the Lord’s work. But in a landscape in which the frigid gyrations of Fifty Shades of Grey is what passes for wildly erotic, or real bloggers are trying to pass off awkward fantasies as anyone’s actual sex life, I think there’s a need for real voices talking about real sex lives—about real feelings.
If I’ve had a mission statement all along, it’s been to get down to the core of my encounters, past and present, and isolate those elements that make them important. I’ve wanted to preserve those sweet moments, the memories of which make life worth living during dark, cold days. The absurdities, the funny quirks that make an encounter more than just another load. Everything that elevates animal copulation into human intimacy—those are the things that are important to me.
Not caring enough to write about them—which is the pit in which I’ve been nursing my bruises for the last month—has just about killed me.
To those of you who were concerned enough over the last few weeks to reach out and ask if I’m okay, I offer my thanks. I’ll try to respond to those emails personally in the coming days. (Okay, let’s be honest. It’ll be weeks.)
I’m tiptoeing back into the waters, here. I can’t guarantee I’ll have the stomach to resume at the same vigor or frequency as before, but I think that as touch-and-go as it was for a while there, I’ve managed to convince myself that writing here is something I find worthwhile.
Convincing myself, I’ve found, is usually the biggest hurdle.
When I started this blog, it was from a combination of lofty intentions and basic braggadocio. It seemed to me that remarkably few people were talking frankly and unabashedly about real sexual lives. There were a lot of blogs out there tallying loads collected at the bookstores, or that combined unlikely scenarios with cheap porn-movie dialogue. There were a lot of blogs that were simply collections of porn clips, or unerotic erotica based on some black-and-white photo of a shirtless stud. But thoughtful pieces of actual writing about real sex, with its joys and pitfalls and its awkwardnesses and its humorous moments were few and very far between.
I think that’s a pity. Cultures develop narratives about the acceptable lives that individuals can live within its confines, and it’s easy to play out our existences against prefabricated stage sets that have little to do with what our stories actually are at any given moment. Little straight boys and girls grow up with the notion that they’ll maybe lose their virginity at the age of eighteen when it’s perfectly legal and aboveboard, that they’ll have a couple of—but not too many—sexual encounters in their twenties within the context of steady dating, and that they’ll then meet the great love of their lives, with whom they’ll settle down forever in bliss and sexual exclusivity for the rest of their lives.
We all know it doesn’t happen like this. We come from families that are broken, that have divorces and affairs. We have parents who’ve cheated on each other, and brothers and sisters who are total whores before they settle down. We know of marriages with swingers, and couples who are open, or who’ve made their own arrangements that have little to do with antiquated notions of sexual fidelity. We know marriages that don’t last forever, or that dry up sexually, or that just should never have been attempted to begin with. We all know, on some level, that this standardized domestic narrative doesn’t always work. Maybe it doesn’t even often work.
And yet, when it doesn’t work for us, we torture ourselves because we’ve been carefully taught that they ought to. When they don’t, too many people don’t blame the unrealistic expectations of the narrative. We blame ourselves, and our own lacks.
For years gay men and women had to invent their own narratives; we weren’t discussed in the mainstream culture except as monsters, or as invisible creatures dwelling on the margins on society. But look at what’s happening to us now: there’s an expectation (formed just over the last ten years, but now accepted as cultural gospel) that all the gay boys want to settle down forever with a nice boy and adopt a pretty baby to dress up, and that all the gay girls want to find a nice lesbian to move in with after the second date. We’re expected to hold our breaths for every marriage equality debate. On television we used to be silly, sexless fairies. Now we’re silly, sexless married couples with infants. We’re being accommodated into the mainstream—even if it’s a mainstream narrative that doesn’t ring true for so many of us.
What happens to those of us with stories and experiences that in no way conform to the mainstream narrative we tell ourselves as a society is that we’re regarded at best as oddities. We’re exceptions. Freaks. At worst, we’re demons and monsters, trying to tear apart the fabric of polite society. Never mind, mind you, that if a heavenly apocalypse befell the earth and our souls and thoughts and deeds were laid bare by some godly archangel, the number of those who failed to deviate from the mainstream would be vanishingly small, and would consist only of the timid and the unimaginative.
Face it. We’re all freaks. We want to do things with our privates that our parents told us we shouldn’t. We fuck in the dark and pretend we didn’t by daylight. We keep our sex lives—our real sex lives, not the ones we pretend to have for the sake of our families and our reputations—mum. All because we’re too frightened to let anyone think we’re one of those people. A deviant. A freak.
Over the course of the years of my public blogging, I’ve had no problems talking about all kinds of things I’d never seen anywhere else. I’ve discussed my pubescent sexuality, my sexual assault, my love affairs—the ones genuinely involving love, that is. I’ve celebrated my strengths, like my ability to read men and their needs even better than they can sometimes read themselves. Like the sexual fearlessness that’s made my life a great adventure. Like my ability to put men at ease, and to give them not only what they think they want, but what they secretly crave and can’t bring themselves to express.
But among the sexy confidence I sometimes exude, I’ve also been remarkably forthright about my own faults and shortcomings. I’ve discussed incidents in which I flatly fell short of both my own expectations and those of my partners. I’ve talked about times I’ve let down friends, or failed to do the right thing. I’ve explored the times I was a disappointment. Rather than disguise these blemishes with paint or to leave them in the shadows, I’ve put my own imperfections squarely center stage and shone upon them harsh spotlights for my audience of millions—I regularly expose my own arrogance, my competitiveness, my short temper, my selfishness. I don’t pretend to be virtuous, by any means. I know, without need for readers to inform me via emails to my Manhunt or Adam4Adam accounts, that my ‘looks are not all that.’ I’ve never pretended I wasn’t susceptible to flattery, or that my vanity wasn’t the Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors, always demanding to be fed. I know these things. Because I present them to you, you know these things.
In return for rolling over and exposing my white, soft, lard-like underbelly, however, I’ve always assumed there was an implied contract with my readers. I’m offering this to you as a gift, I thought I was telling them. I’m revealing you so much of myself, good and bad, ugly and hot. And all I ask in return is that you treat these offerings, and the men involved, with a little respect, and not to trample upon them. I never expected reverence, or to be showered with compliments and gifts (though I’m craven enough to enjoy that when it happens). I don’t get fortune for it. I don’t get fame.
Over the three years I’ve kept this blog, I’ve found that I’ve gotten repaid sweetly and amply by the friendships I’ve made. There’ve been men I’ve met in person who are dear friends of mine. There are readers whose friendships were like summer wildflowers—blossoming for a time and then fading and blowing away at the end of a season. I’ve had beautiful boys and handsome men and wonderful women reach out to me with their stories and their photos, to let me know that they’re glad to have me in their lives.
That is wonderful. I love that every one of these remarkable people who recognize that everything I present to them is a gift not only from my loins, but from my heart. Thank you all, very deeply and sincerely.
There’s another brand of person, however, for whom everything is never enough. I serve them so much of myself, and they don’t respond with thanks. They don’t push their plate away when I’m done and declare they’re full. Instead, they sit there with knife and fork in hand, napkin tucked in their shirt collar, pounding their fists on the table and demanding more, more, more. It’s not enough to know my sexual secrets, my history, my disappointments and joys. The abundance I give doesn’t satisfy them. They demand more.
They pry. They snoop. They break open doors I’ve locked and root through closets I thought were sealed. And really, it’s not as if they use what they find in order to understand me better. They grub around so that they can find things that give them what they imagine is control over me. Dirty secrets of which they think I’m ashamed. (I’m probably not.) Inconsistencies that they imagine will bring my house of cards a-tumbling. (When basically, I’m just inconsistent.)
I am totally aware that I am displaying the typical grandiose paranoia associated with most of the songs on sophomore albums released by former boy band members, but damn, bitch, when you’re all famous ’n’ shit, everybody want a piece of you, yo.
But seriously. When I encounter situations in which these people to get out of control, I find them draining. They suck my attention, and my energy. For the last month, one situation in particular has just left a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to my blog.
I want to enjoy writing again. I’ve got no bombastic delusions that what I do here is akin to Proust, or alternately is the Lord’s work. But in a landscape in which the frigid gyrations of Fifty Shades of Grey is what passes for wildly erotic, or real bloggers are trying to pass off awkward fantasies as anyone’s actual sex life, I think there’s a need for real voices talking about real sex lives—about real feelings.
If I’ve had a mission statement all along, it’s been to get down to the core of my encounters, past and present, and isolate those elements that make them important. I’ve wanted to preserve those sweet moments, the memories of which make life worth living during dark, cold days. The absurdities, the funny quirks that make an encounter more than just another load. Everything that elevates animal copulation into human intimacy—those are the things that are important to me.
Not caring enough to write about them—which is the pit in which I’ve been nursing my bruises for the last month—has just about killed me.
To those of you who were concerned enough over the last few weeks to reach out and ask if I’m okay, I offer my thanks. I’ll try to respond to those emails personally in the coming days. (Okay, let’s be honest. It’ll be weeks.)
I’m tiptoeing back into the waters, here. I can’t guarantee I’ll have the stomach to resume at the same vigor or frequency as before, but I think that as touch-and-go as it was for a while there, I’ve managed to convince myself that writing here is something I find worthwhile.
Convincing myself, I’ve found, is usually the biggest hurdle.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Open Forum Monday: The Big One
I had one of those birthdays last week. It wasn’t a milestone birthday in the traditional sense—that is, the year didn’t end with a zero. But it was one of those birthdays that’s ominous to gay men in general, because it’s a number at which time suddenly stands still and past which, mysteriously no gay man ever ages.
No, not 25. I can see your confusion, though. That’s the age that gay men ape in their dress habits, especially the fifty-somethings who stuff themselves into a Hollister T-shirt under the hope that the brand name will do a David Copperfield on their age and shave off twenty-five years before everyone’s marveling eyes. So no, not 25. The other number.
No, not 29. Yes, I know that’s the age that all women over 30 claim to be. That’s more of a female thing, though. Men over thirty claim they’re 32, all the way up until they’re my age. It doesn’t matter if they’re 39, or 42, or 46. If you look at their profile, or ask them in a bar late at night when the lights are low, they’re going to tell you they’re 32. But not either of those numbers.
And no, it’s not 43. Where’d that come from?
Look, I’ll just tell you. I turned 49. For-ty-niiiiine. It’s the last number to which gay men will admit. Men born in the year I was born—1964—are 49. Men born in the nineteen-fifties are 49. Guys who popped out of a Great Gatsby-era flapper wearing a shingled skirt and shouting twenty-three skiddoo! claim to be 49. Gay men hit 49 and then remain there until their deaths, thirty-five years later. It doesn’t matter that they’re hunched over and clutching a cane and looking like Young Mr. Grace on Are You Being Served?, who doddered around barely able to say his one line of the entire show. He’s 49, dammit, and 49 he’ll stay.
FOREVER.
I had an argument with my own brother about the age of 49 a couple of years ago. My brother has been 49 for almost a dozen years now, both in his online profiles and with new guys he meets. It made me more and more anxious about approaching the age myself—not because I feared the number itself. I don’t give a rip. It’s because I had this vision of my age matching his, then surpassing him. Then I’d be the older brother. And that’s a crime against nature. I’m too foxy to be the older brother.
So I nagged. And I pleaded. Finally he changed his age to 99, which in online profile land is basically a big fuck you to anyone who wants to get a general idea of how old someone is.
But it’s still older than 49.
I’d like to proclaim up front that my age will continue to change from year to year. Next February I will be 50. In 2015, I will be 51. Just you wait and see. Check in with in a decade and I’ll be 59. Still foxy, and 59.
I don’t like to let a number dictate how I feel about myself, see. I spent way too much of my early life doing that. It started the week I lost my virginity at 12, in my earliest encounter getting cruised in a men’s room toilet. The guy next to me, after peering through a gloryhole and looking at my smooth and hairless body, passed me a note written on toilet paper and wrapped around a Bic pen that read, How old are you???
Right away, I lied. 14, I wrote back. Because in my naive mind, there was a vast world of experiential difference between a callow youth of 12 and a seasoned sexual professional of 14, and I didn’t want to seem like a young newbie.
God, was I dumb. Not that the guy cared. He had his dick in me less than thirty seconds later.
I was always lying about my age to men in my teens. I added on three, four, five years to make men comfortable about fucking me. In college, because I’d skipped a year of high school and entered early, I added on a couple of years so that my classmates didn’t think I was contemptibly young. I had a baby face in grad school, where I the only 20-year-old surrounded by students in their late twenties, thirties, and forties—so I told everyone I was 25. I added on years until I reached 30, when I decided I’d had enough about apologizing for something as silly as how old I was.
And yes, at 49 I’ve had my share of rejection based on my age. Or more accurately, I’ve run across the guys to whom I’m invisible because I’m not 25 (or wearing that Hollister T to pretend I am). I’ve seen plenty of profiles of guys who absolutely positively will never ever meet anyone over 45 ever! You know what? Screw that. It’s easy to see the scores of those profiles and feel slighted. I don’t intend to waste my time bemoaning them. It seems to me the men who are missing out are those who sit on the sidelines and simply don’t try, because they’re too sensitive to rejection.
In the end, I’d rather be rejected arbitrarily so that I know someone’s a close-minded asshole, than magically accepted because I gave out a fictional number as my age. And that’s, as Edith Ann used to say (see, I’m dating myself), the truth.
So in this Monday’s open forum, I’m curious. Who out there has lied about his or her age in order to land a guy? For what reasons? Are you fibbing about your age now? Are you going older or, more likely, younger? How young do you dare to go—that is, how many years is it safe to shave off in the service of preserving one’s youth? And is there life after 49? I’d love to hear from you guys.
No, not 25. I can see your confusion, though. That’s the age that gay men ape in their dress habits, especially the fifty-somethings who stuff themselves into a Hollister T-shirt under the hope that the brand name will do a David Copperfield on their age and shave off twenty-five years before everyone’s marveling eyes. So no, not 25. The other number.
No, not 29. Yes, I know that’s the age that all women over 30 claim to be. That’s more of a female thing, though. Men over thirty claim they’re 32, all the way up until they’re my age. It doesn’t matter if they’re 39, or 42, or 46. If you look at their profile, or ask them in a bar late at night when the lights are low, they’re going to tell you they’re 32. But not either of those numbers.
And no, it’s not 43. Where’d that come from?
Look, I’ll just tell you. I turned 49. For-ty-niiiiine. It’s the last number to which gay men will admit. Men born in the year I was born—1964—are 49. Men born in the nineteen-fifties are 49. Guys who popped out of a Great Gatsby-era flapper wearing a shingled skirt and shouting twenty-three skiddoo! claim to be 49. Gay men hit 49 and then remain there until their deaths, thirty-five years later. It doesn’t matter that they’re hunched over and clutching a cane and looking like Young Mr. Grace on Are You Being Served?, who doddered around barely able to say his one line of the entire show. He’s 49, dammit, and 49 he’ll stay.
FOREVER.
I had an argument with my own brother about the age of 49 a couple of years ago. My brother has been 49 for almost a dozen years now, both in his online profiles and with new guys he meets. It made me more and more anxious about approaching the age myself—not because I feared the number itself. I don’t give a rip. It’s because I had this vision of my age matching his, then surpassing him. Then I’d be the older brother. And that’s a crime against nature. I’m too foxy to be the older brother.
So I nagged. And I pleaded. Finally he changed his age to 99, which in online profile land is basically a big fuck you to anyone who wants to get a general idea of how old someone is.
But it’s still older than 49.
I’d like to proclaim up front that my age will continue to change from year to year. Next February I will be 50. In 2015, I will be 51. Just you wait and see. Check in with in a decade and I’ll be 59. Still foxy, and 59.
I don’t like to let a number dictate how I feel about myself, see. I spent way too much of my early life doing that. It started the week I lost my virginity at 12, in my earliest encounter getting cruised in a men’s room toilet. The guy next to me, after peering through a gloryhole and looking at my smooth and hairless body, passed me a note written on toilet paper and wrapped around a Bic pen that read, How old are you???
Right away, I lied. 14, I wrote back. Because in my naive mind, there was a vast world of experiential difference between a callow youth of 12 and a seasoned sexual professional of 14, and I didn’t want to seem like a young newbie.
God, was I dumb. Not that the guy cared. He had his dick in me less than thirty seconds later.
I was always lying about my age to men in my teens. I added on three, four, five years to make men comfortable about fucking me. In college, because I’d skipped a year of high school and entered early, I added on a couple of years so that my classmates didn’t think I was contemptibly young. I had a baby face in grad school, where I the only 20-year-old surrounded by students in their late twenties, thirties, and forties—so I told everyone I was 25. I added on years until I reached 30, when I decided I’d had enough about apologizing for something as silly as how old I was.
And yes, at 49 I’ve had my share of rejection based on my age. Or more accurately, I’ve run across the guys to whom I’m invisible because I’m not 25 (or wearing that Hollister T to pretend I am). I’ve seen plenty of profiles of guys who absolutely positively will never ever meet anyone over 45 ever! You know what? Screw that. It’s easy to see the scores of those profiles and feel slighted. I don’t intend to waste my time bemoaning them. It seems to me the men who are missing out are those who sit on the sidelines and simply don’t try, because they’re too sensitive to rejection.
In the end, I’d rather be rejected arbitrarily so that I know someone’s a close-minded asshole, than magically accepted because I gave out a fictional number as my age. And that’s, as Edith Ann used to say (see, I’m dating myself), the truth.
So in this Monday’s open forum, I’m curious. Who out there has lied about his or her age in order to land a guy? For what reasons? Are you fibbing about your age now? Are you going older or, more likely, younger? How young do you dare to go—that is, how many years is it safe to shave off in the service of preserving one’s youth? And is there life after 49? I’d love to hear from you guys.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The Winner
I know my faults. I’m competitive. Too competitive.
Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are.
To fuck.
He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him.
“I love it,” he gasps out.
“You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow.
“I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches.
“Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?”
He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow.
That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?”
“Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.”
I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?”
“Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.”
Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me.
I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask.
“No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it.
“And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“
“I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.”
I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .”
“Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.”
“In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“Fuck.”
“Say it.”
“When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“. . . All I think about is you.”
He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.”
“And how you fill me up.”
“I love how you fill me up,” he breathes.
“And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.”
“Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him.
“Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to.
“He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.”
I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.”
He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.”
I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.”
“Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.”
“But you need it.”
“I need it.”
“And he doesn’t give it to you.”
“No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.”
“He never could.”
“Please.”
This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say.
“Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.”
“Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?”
“It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.”
“So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question.
“You win.”
“Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three.
Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am.
But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top.
Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are.
To fuck.
He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him.
“I love it,” he gasps out.
“You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow.
“I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches.
“Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?”
He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow.
That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?”
“Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.”
I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?”
“Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.”
Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me.
I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask.
“No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it.
“And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“
“I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.”
I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .”
“Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.”
“In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“Fuck.”
“Say it.”
“When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“. . . All I think about is you.”
He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.”
“And how you fill me up.”
“I love how you fill me up,” he breathes.
“And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.”
“Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him.
“Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to.
“He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.”
I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.”
He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.”
I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.”
“Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.”
“But you need it.”
“I need it.”
“And he doesn’t give it to you.”
“No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.”
“He never could.”
“Please.”
This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say.
“Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.”
“Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?”
“It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.”
“So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question.
“You win.”
“Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three.
Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am.
But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Phillip the Brazilian
The thing of it is: whenever I think about the guy, I remember the burst of excitement I got from the initial impression his photos made. Never mind what happened afterwards. When he pops into my head, I remember that curly short hair, the dazzling smile, the skin the color of teak. And I remember my instinctive reaction of Wow, that guy wants me? Okay then! Let's do it!
He was Brazilian. That’s even how he refers to himself when he texts me. Hi, this is Phillip the Brazilian. Come fuck me? I found it charming.
And I wasn’t really betrayed by false photos, either. He lived in a flat over the New York border, at the top of a three-story house that had been subdivided into private apartments. It was snowing out that morning, and when he padded around the house’s side to meet me and lead me upstairs, I was surprised at how handsome he was in person, too. He wore a pair of soccer shorts. made of that sleazy, drape-y fabric that shows every contour of a man’s cock if he’s not wearing underwear. Which he wasn’t. His dark and hairy legs were stuffed into a much-worn pair of gray sweatsocks, and his feet were girdled by sandals that slapped the wet pavement as he approached. He flashed me a smile—god damn, what a smile this fucker had—and asked if I’d found the address okay. Then he put his hand on the small of my back as he guided me into the house and up the stairwell to the top.
Once we were alone, and upstairs beneath the much-repaired plaster ceiling of his bedroom, he gave me another broad, toothy smile. I melted. “You are very, very handsome,” he told me. His words were warm and sweet, his voice like summer honey fresh from the comb. He pulled me down to his sofa and planted a kiss on my lips. His mouth was hot, and moist, and eager; when his tongue slipped between my lips and into my own mouth, I groaned and let him push me down on the cushions. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he told me, as he grapples with the buttons on my shirt. “I’ve kept looking at your profile and hoping you’d notice.”
“I wish I had,” I said, trying to catch my breath. He was making me feel so good.
“Oh fuck,” he breathed, when I reached out and started stroking the lump in his sleazy shorts. It was hard to miss that protrusion, that enormous mound of hardened flesh. He’s big, this guy. I wrestled with his waist band and yanked it down below his hips. His dick fell onto me like a tree branch. “You like it?”
“I sure as hell do,” I said. I pulled myself out from under him. I knelt down on the rag carpet and helped him to spread his legs.
It was a beautiful dick. A solid eight inches. Thicker than my own. Cut. Juicy. He drooled precum onto my tongue as he slid himself in. I sucked the upper few inches for a while, then engulfed the whole shaft to the base. He groaned as his head hit the back of my throat. “Don’t make me cum,” he begged. Then, after a moment more, he grabbed me by the ears and pulled my face off his meat. “Fuck me,” he said. “I need your big dick inside me.”
I had no problem with that.
We took ourselves into the bedroom, where he pushed me down onto the mattress, pulled down my pants so they hung around my ankles, and then slathered my dick with lube. “I’m gonna sit on it,” he promised, staring at me with those intense eyes of his. “I’m gonna sit on it and ride it all day.” His head lolled back when he lowered himself onto my shaft. He was tight, but he kept a hold on my cock until half of it was in, and then pushed himself onto the remaining inches.
We both groaned at the same time. It felt good. “I want to ride this all afternoon,” he promised. “Can we fuck all afternoon?”
“I’ve got nowhere to go,” I grinned at him.
“Good, because I want to make you my captive,” he said. “I’m gonna tie you up and keep you as my toy top. Just ride you all afternoon, baby. Take that big white dick up my hole all afternoon until—!”
And this is the point he painted my face with cum. Seriously. I didn’t see it coming. There was no announcement of it, no forewarning. No groaning or panting, no sudden rush of activity. I was just lying there, propping myself up on my elbows and egging him on, listening to him talk in a normal conversational sex voice, when suddenly my face was wet and dripping. I was vaguely aware that my shoulders were sopping, as well. Then he hopped up, hopped off, and scampered into the bathroom across the hallway as quickly as he could.
Now, I’m not exactly the slowest-witted of people, even when most of my body’s blood is concentrated below the waist in my engorged dick. But it really wasn’t until I heard him running the water that I realized what had just happened. My brain was stuck back in the Can we fuck all afternoon? part of the conversation to fully comprehend that I’d just had my face splattered with jism. Then he came back, smiled at me in his Brazilian way, and tossed me my shirt. “That was great!” he enthused.
And inwardly, I was lying there thinking . . . Wait. That’s it?
Whenever I write of these disappointing encounters, there’s always someone who says, “You should’ve just grabbed him and fucked him until you got your satisfaction, stud.” And in some circumstances, that’s pretty much exactly what I would’ve done. However, when your trick is studiously keeping himself out of arm’s length of you, it’s not all that easy. So I gathered my clothes, stuffed myself back in them, and let myself out. I looked at my watch when I got down to the bottom of the stairs.
I’d been there all of seven minutes.
More than a little ticked off, I took myself to lunch at a sandwich shop not a mile away. I’d barely gotten there and parked—it hadn’t been more than ten minutes since I’d exited—when Phillip the Brazilian started texting me again. Can you come back and fuck me again? he wanted to know. I’m horny. And, Can you come over this afternoon? Or maybe tonight? You could spend the night.
I had a vision of myself arriving at eight in the evening and spending the night until eight-o’-seven. I shook my head, thanked the attendant for delivering my sandwich, and just set down the phone.
He was Brazilian. That’s even how he refers to himself when he texts me. Hi, this is Phillip the Brazilian. Come fuck me? I found it charming.
And I wasn’t really betrayed by false photos, either. He lived in a flat over the New York border, at the top of a three-story house that had been subdivided into private apartments. It was snowing out that morning, and when he padded around the house’s side to meet me and lead me upstairs, I was surprised at how handsome he was in person, too. He wore a pair of soccer shorts. made of that sleazy, drape-y fabric that shows every contour of a man’s cock if he’s not wearing underwear. Which he wasn’t. His dark and hairy legs were stuffed into a much-worn pair of gray sweatsocks, and his feet were girdled by sandals that slapped the wet pavement as he approached. He flashed me a smile—god damn, what a smile this fucker had—and asked if I’d found the address okay. Then he put his hand on the small of my back as he guided me into the house and up the stairwell to the top.
Once we were alone, and upstairs beneath the much-repaired plaster ceiling of his bedroom, he gave me another broad, toothy smile. I melted. “You are very, very handsome,” he told me. His words were warm and sweet, his voice like summer honey fresh from the comb. He pulled me down to his sofa and planted a kiss on my lips. His mouth was hot, and moist, and eager; when his tongue slipped between my lips and into my own mouth, I groaned and let him push me down on the cushions. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he told me, as he grapples with the buttons on my shirt. “I’ve kept looking at your profile and hoping you’d notice.”
“I wish I had,” I said, trying to catch my breath. He was making me feel so good.
“Oh fuck,” he breathed, when I reached out and started stroking the lump in his sleazy shorts. It was hard to miss that protrusion, that enormous mound of hardened flesh. He’s big, this guy. I wrestled with his waist band and yanked it down below his hips. His dick fell onto me like a tree branch. “You like it?”
“I sure as hell do,” I said. I pulled myself out from under him. I knelt down on the rag carpet and helped him to spread his legs.
It was a beautiful dick. A solid eight inches. Thicker than my own. Cut. Juicy. He drooled precum onto my tongue as he slid himself in. I sucked the upper few inches for a while, then engulfed the whole shaft to the base. He groaned as his head hit the back of my throat. “Don’t make me cum,” he begged. Then, after a moment more, he grabbed me by the ears and pulled my face off his meat. “Fuck me,” he said. “I need your big dick inside me.”
I had no problem with that.
We took ourselves into the bedroom, where he pushed me down onto the mattress, pulled down my pants so they hung around my ankles, and then slathered my dick with lube. “I’m gonna sit on it,” he promised, staring at me with those intense eyes of his. “I’m gonna sit on it and ride it all day.” His head lolled back when he lowered himself onto my shaft. He was tight, but he kept a hold on my cock until half of it was in, and then pushed himself onto the remaining inches.
We both groaned at the same time. It felt good. “I want to ride this all afternoon,” he promised. “Can we fuck all afternoon?”
“I’ve got nowhere to go,” I grinned at him.
“Good, because I want to make you my captive,” he said. “I’m gonna tie you up and keep you as my toy top. Just ride you all afternoon, baby. Take that big white dick up my hole all afternoon until—!”
And this is the point he painted my face with cum. Seriously. I didn’t see it coming. There was no announcement of it, no forewarning. No groaning or panting, no sudden rush of activity. I was just lying there, propping myself up on my elbows and egging him on, listening to him talk in a normal conversational sex voice, when suddenly my face was wet and dripping. I was vaguely aware that my shoulders were sopping, as well. Then he hopped up, hopped off, and scampered into the bathroom across the hallway as quickly as he could.
Now, I’m not exactly the slowest-witted of people, even when most of my body’s blood is concentrated below the waist in my engorged dick. But it really wasn’t until I heard him running the water that I realized what had just happened. My brain was stuck back in the Can we fuck all afternoon? part of the conversation to fully comprehend that I’d just had my face splattered with jism. Then he came back, smiled at me in his Brazilian way, and tossed me my shirt. “That was great!” he enthused.
And inwardly, I was lying there thinking . . . Wait. That’s it?
Whenever I write of these disappointing encounters, there’s always someone who says, “You should’ve just grabbed him and fucked him until you got your satisfaction, stud.” And in some circumstances, that’s pretty much exactly what I would’ve done. However, when your trick is studiously keeping himself out of arm’s length of you, it’s not all that easy. So I gathered my clothes, stuffed myself back in them, and let myself out. I looked at my watch when I got down to the bottom of the stairs.
I’d been there all of seven minutes.
More than a little ticked off, I took myself to lunch at a sandwich shop not a mile away. I’d barely gotten there and parked—it hadn’t been more than ten minutes since I’d exited—when Phillip the Brazilian started texting me again. Can you come back and fuck me again? he wanted to know. I’m horny. And, Can you come over this afternoon? Or maybe tonight? You could spend the night.
I had a vision of myself arriving at eight in the evening and spending the night until eight-o’-seven. I shook my head, thanked the attendant for delivering my sandwich, and just set down the phone.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Sunday Morning Questions: Rhymes with Sham4 Edition
Anyone who reads my blog knows I’m a big ol’ show-off, particularly when it comes to my dick. I like whipping it out, getting it hard, and displaying it for others to stare at.
And when I’m not on public transportation (kidding!), I like getting on a chat channel cam and stroking for strangers. It’s just the exhibitionist in me. He needs an airing, once in a while. Besides, my dick likes the compliments, and once it starts getting its way, there’s really no controlling it. So I play along.
Anyway, last night I was indulging myself on cam—I know a couple of my regular readers saw me—in a site where I often go. Let it remain nameless. I like the site because it’s free, attracts a number of decently hot folk, and because I’ve met several guys from it in the past.
I can also predict, though, from past experience that’s been sore and hard-won, the arc in which my natural zest for performing will wane, and leave me a grumpy, teeth-gnashing misanthrope who ends up yelling the sex cam equivalent of You kids get off my god-damned front lawn! at everyone watching.
Oh, it starts off innocently enough. For five or ten minutes I’ll only have a couple of viewers. Iluvsexydads will make compliments about my dick, and I’ll say, “Thank you, Iluvsexydads!” and carry on a conversation with the guy. I’ll have the leisure to watch a camera or two, and check my email on other sites. It’s dull, really.
Then about fifteen minutes in, I start getting a trickle of viewers. Ten. Fifteen. I’ll be thanking fluffystud602 and sexynuddistman and NYHotJockDud for their compliments, and answering their every question.
Twenty-five minutes in, I’ll have about fifty viewers. By now when NCSexxxxy and LilThug32022 and NastyAssFukka tell me I have a nice dick, I’m shortening their names and saying, “Thanks NC. Thanks Lil. Thanks Fukka.” I’m spending more time typing out No, I won’t show my feet. No, I’m not putting a dildo in my ass. No, I won’t get a pair of panties and put them in my mouth than I am touching myself.
Thirty-five minutes. I’m on the site’s front page. I have a hundred and twenty-five viewers. The chat in my broadcast room is whizzing by. I’m saying Thanks guys! generically to the compliments, every so often. Viewers are starting to get frustrated when I don’t answer their every question immediately, so they’ll type in all caps, over and over again: SO HAS UR WIFE EVER COME HOME AND CAUGHT U JACKING????? I’ll be getting a barrage of private messages, most of them urging me to cam2cam with them. I’m not even bothering to turn down the multiple requests to show my feet and masturbate with my son’s dirty jock that I stole from his gym bag after he was out all night with the football team watching sexy MILF porn and drinking Gatorade.
(Some of their fantasies are very specific.)
Forty-five minutes. There will be close to two hundred people watching. Most of them are arguing about whether or not I’m even paying attention to the conversation in my chat room. I’ll have PrinceAmir202 announcing, IF U WANT 2 SEE A CAM OF A GUY WHO IS YUNG + HOT INSTEAD OF OLD + UGLY LIKE THIS GUY CUM WATCH ME. I boot PrinceAmir202 from the room. Not all the viewers are shooting compliments my way. A few prefer to come in and say things like, His dick’s not THAT nice, or I’ve seen better. A small contingent of people start yelling in all caps TO DEMAND I SHOW MY FEET!!!!! My ardent defenders will start trying to shout down the rude people.
The whole thing very rapidly becomes about as conducive to a boner as watching a History Channel documentary about amputation techniques during the War of the Roses. So I’ll flip off my camera and whack off alone.
And people wonder why I don’t shoot on cam for them.
Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me.
What is one thing that you’d be happy if you never had to experience again for the rest of your life?
A kidney stone. Sweet Jesus.
Have you ever had phone sex or would you?
If by phone sex you mean feigning excitement over the phone line while pretending that a sexual encounter is happening between the two people talking, yes. I've done it a couple of times. I found it so fake and unerotic that I've never done it again, and refuse to.
If I'm talking to a friend or an acquaintance on the phone about sexual encounters we've had, that's an entirely different beast. I like someone telling me who he's fucked that week and how it went down, or I like sharing with someone some of my past experiences. Having a dialogue about likes and dislikes can also be very intimate and erotic.
Faking sex, though? It bores me.
Seeing as how a blog is a diary are you surprised at how many people myself included are so voyueristic?
Having been a lifelong exhibitionist, I'm not surprised in the least by how many people like to watch, or get a vicarious thrill out of someone else's sexual experience.
What does surprise me is how many people obsessively return to blogs on a regular basis, but do so solely in order to abuse the people who write them. If one doesn't respect the author of a blog or like the things they do, it's time for one to move on to something else. Coming back day after day to leave abusive comments on a sex blog or to sneer doesn't make a reader superior, or virginal, or more virtuous; it just means that he has an unhealthy fixation.
What actor should play you in the story of your life?
My first choice would be James McAvoy. His hair is darker than mine, and we're not twins or anything, but I think there's something about his face that's reminiscent of mine. Plus he's Scottish, and I'm of Scottish heritage. I have no doubt he could pull off my bland American accent, though. Probably even better than I.
But if he’s not available, go for Bradley Cooper. Why, he’s practically my twin.
What race/class is your main toon in WoW? Do you still play it or other games often, and have you ever used an online game as a means to hookup?
It's been a while since anyone asked me about my gaming habits. My WoW main for a half-dozen years was a feral night elf druid. My current main is a worgen balance druid.
I have been playing WoW again in the last couple of months. I originally started playing about five or six months after the game was originally released, and raided all the way through Burning Crusade and WotLK. I then took a year-and-a-half hiatus when Cataclysm came out. There were a number of reasons I disliked that expansion, and I essentially quit because people were rude to my healers in random dungeons. MoP has addressed and corrected most of my issues—though I haven't had the stomach to run randoms or to heal yet again. Still, I've been having a lot of fun!
One of the things i've figured out about my WoW time is that I need to be able to approach it without feeling like it's enforced labor. I like taking my time and pursuing the stuff in the game that I really love, like fishing (no, really) and archaeology (no, really!) and making money. If I feel like I'm being pressured to run raids and dungeons and to churn through reputation grinds on a hundred alts, I start to resent it. In this expansion there's been enough variety to keep me engaged and happy puttering around and doing the stuff I like to do.
And I love pet battling.
I've never hooked up off of WoW; I think when I'm playing, I'm too much focused on the game and my next little goal to think about that. Unlike a blog, or Instagram, or a sex site, all of which are passively engaging (you post something, then you wait for responses), WoW and other online games are usually demanding your attention and focus in the present tense. There's also enough disconnect between a real-life person and his online presence as a gnome warlock in WoW that I don't find myself lusting after anyone I've met through it.
I don't mind sharing my BattleTag with others—if anyone wants to add me to his or her friends list, email me.
When you're feeling under the weather, is there one thing that seems to make you feel better? if so, what is it?
Matzoh ball soup. I love it. Even when I'm not sick.
And when I’m not on public transportation (kidding!), I like getting on a chat channel cam and stroking for strangers. It’s just the exhibitionist in me. He needs an airing, once in a while. Besides, my dick likes the compliments, and once it starts getting its way, there’s really no controlling it. So I play along.
Anyway, last night I was indulging myself on cam—I know a couple of my regular readers saw me—in a site where I often go. Let it remain nameless. I like the site because it’s free, attracts a number of decently hot folk, and because I’ve met several guys from it in the past.
I can also predict, though, from past experience that’s been sore and hard-won, the arc in which my natural zest for performing will wane, and leave me a grumpy, teeth-gnashing misanthrope who ends up yelling the sex cam equivalent of You kids get off my god-damned front lawn! at everyone watching.
Oh, it starts off innocently enough. For five or ten minutes I’ll only have a couple of viewers. Iluvsexydads will make compliments about my dick, and I’ll say, “Thank you, Iluvsexydads!” and carry on a conversation with the guy. I’ll have the leisure to watch a camera or two, and check my email on other sites. It’s dull, really.
Then about fifteen minutes in, I start getting a trickle of viewers. Ten. Fifteen. I’ll be thanking fluffystud602 and sexynuddistman and NYHotJockDud for their compliments, and answering their every question.
Twenty-five minutes in, I’ll have about fifty viewers. By now when NCSexxxxy and LilThug32022 and NastyAssFukka tell me I have a nice dick, I’m shortening their names and saying, “Thanks NC. Thanks Lil. Thanks Fukka.” I’m spending more time typing out No, I won’t show my feet. No, I’m not putting a dildo in my ass. No, I won’t get a pair of panties and put them in my mouth than I am touching myself.
Thirty-five minutes. I’m on the site’s front page. I have a hundred and twenty-five viewers. The chat in my broadcast room is whizzing by. I’m saying Thanks guys! generically to the compliments, every so often. Viewers are starting to get frustrated when I don’t answer their every question immediately, so they’ll type in all caps, over and over again: SO HAS UR WIFE EVER COME HOME AND CAUGHT U JACKING????? I’ll be getting a barrage of private messages, most of them urging me to cam2cam with them. I’m not even bothering to turn down the multiple requests to show my feet and masturbate with my son’s dirty jock that I stole from his gym bag after he was out all night with the football team watching sexy MILF porn and drinking Gatorade.
(Some of their fantasies are very specific.)
Forty-five minutes. There will be close to two hundred people watching. Most of them are arguing about whether or not I’m even paying attention to the conversation in my chat room. I’ll have PrinceAmir202 announcing, IF U WANT 2 SEE A CAM OF A GUY WHO IS YUNG + HOT INSTEAD OF OLD + UGLY LIKE THIS GUY CUM WATCH ME. I boot PrinceAmir202 from the room. Not all the viewers are shooting compliments my way. A few prefer to come in and say things like, His dick’s not THAT nice, or I’ve seen better. A small contingent of people start yelling in all caps TO DEMAND I SHOW MY FEET!!!!! My ardent defenders will start trying to shout down the rude people.
The whole thing very rapidly becomes about as conducive to a boner as watching a History Channel documentary about amputation techniques during the War of the Roses. So I’ll flip off my camera and whack off alone.
And people wonder why I don’t shoot on cam for them.
Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me.
What is one thing that you’d be happy if you never had to experience again for the rest of your life?
A kidney stone. Sweet Jesus.
Have you ever had phone sex or would you?
If by phone sex you mean feigning excitement over the phone line while pretending that a sexual encounter is happening between the two people talking, yes. I've done it a couple of times. I found it so fake and unerotic that I've never done it again, and refuse to.
If I'm talking to a friend or an acquaintance on the phone about sexual encounters we've had, that's an entirely different beast. I like someone telling me who he's fucked that week and how it went down, or I like sharing with someone some of my past experiences. Having a dialogue about likes and dislikes can also be very intimate and erotic.
Faking sex, though? It bores me.
Seeing as how a blog is a diary are you surprised at how many people myself included are so voyueristic?
Having been a lifelong exhibitionist, I'm not surprised in the least by how many people like to watch, or get a vicarious thrill out of someone else's sexual experience.
What does surprise me is how many people obsessively return to blogs on a regular basis, but do so solely in order to abuse the people who write them. If one doesn't respect the author of a blog or like the things they do, it's time for one to move on to something else. Coming back day after day to leave abusive comments on a sex blog or to sneer doesn't make a reader superior, or virginal, or more virtuous; it just means that he has an unhealthy fixation.
What actor should play you in the story of your life?
My first choice would be James McAvoy. His hair is darker than mine, and we're not twins or anything, but I think there's something about his face that's reminiscent of mine. Plus he's Scottish, and I'm of Scottish heritage. I have no doubt he could pull off my bland American accent, though. Probably even better than I.
But if he’s not available, go for Bradley Cooper. Why, he’s practically my twin.
What race/class is your main toon in WoW? Do you still play it or other games often, and have you ever used an online game as a means to hookup?
It's been a while since anyone asked me about my gaming habits. My WoW main for a half-dozen years was a feral night elf druid. My current main is a worgen balance druid.
I have been playing WoW again in the last couple of months. I originally started playing about five or six months after the game was originally released, and raided all the way through Burning Crusade and WotLK. I then took a year-and-a-half hiatus when Cataclysm came out. There were a number of reasons I disliked that expansion, and I essentially quit because people were rude to my healers in random dungeons. MoP has addressed and corrected most of my issues—though I haven't had the stomach to run randoms or to heal yet again. Still, I've been having a lot of fun!
One of the things i've figured out about my WoW time is that I need to be able to approach it without feeling like it's enforced labor. I like taking my time and pursuing the stuff in the game that I really love, like fishing (no, really) and archaeology (no, really!) and making money. If I feel like I'm being pressured to run raids and dungeons and to churn through reputation grinds on a hundred alts, I start to resent it. In this expansion there's been enough variety to keep me engaged and happy puttering around and doing the stuff I like to do.
And I love pet battling.
I've never hooked up off of WoW; I think when I'm playing, I'm too much focused on the game and my next little goal to think about that. Unlike a blog, or Instagram, or a sex site, all of which are passively engaging (you post something, then you wait for responses), WoW and other online games are usually demanding your attention and focus in the present tense. There's also enough disconnect between a real-life person and his online presence as a gnome warlock in WoW that I don't find myself lusting after anyone I've met through it.
I don't mind sharing my BattleTag with others—if anyone wants to add me to his or her friends list, email me.
When you're feeling under the weather, is there one thing that seems to make you feel better? if so, what is it?
Matzoh ball soup. I love it. Even when I'm not sick.
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