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My Birthday, Weddings, got fucked right after I got my 1st Job when I was 16, when I was getting surgeries regular id go get cock right after getting stitches/ staples out

Usually I prefer all the cum to be deposited up my ass. But in the case of being spit roasted, when I already have a dick in my ass I'll take a load or two in my throat. Not going to push one from my ass just to get another one.

I was around 13/14 when I started taking strangers cocks in random places all the time

Part 13: The Biohazard Number and a Husband's "Hey Honey" The evening finds you in bed, a knot of conflicting emotions so tight you can barely breathe. The day's events replay in your mind on a relentless loop: the disappointingly negative test result, the doctor's cold rejection, his seething confession, the way he forced your hand against his toxic bulge. Then the bathroom stall, the anonymous student, the feeling of his load of questionable status filling you. And finally, the doctor's return, his possessive rage, the intimate, terrifying connection as he flooded you with his essence. Your hand drifts down between your legs. Your hole feels wonderfully puffy, swollen, used. You press a finger against it, feeling the tender, bruised flesh. You can feel the wetness inside, a mixture of two distinct loads, a potent cocktail of student and doctor, still resting deep in your guts. The thought of losing even a drop is unbearable. You reach over to the nightstand and pull out your favorite dildo, a thick, veined thing that always hits the right spot. You skip the lube; there's more than enough left inside of you. You guide it to your sore hole and push it in slowly, a deep moan escaping your lips as it sinks home. You're not fucking yourself for pleasure; you're performing maintenance. You work the dildo in and out, shoving what is left of the precious, toxic loads deeper, making sure your body absorbs every last remaining drop of their gift. As you work the dildo, your mind races, fixating on the student. You replay the encounter in your head, trying to decipher his true nature. Was he just a horny kid exploring his newfound freedom at college, chasing the thrill of anonymous bareback risk? Is his excitement about the unknown just a newfound kink, a horny reaction to walking the edge of a cliff? Or is he something more deliberate? A calculating hunter, excited by the possibility of a permanent change, even if he doesn't know what he carries? But then the doctor's voice cuts through your fantasy, cold and clinical. That kid was negative. The doctor would know; he knew his lab results. And as much as you wanted to believe the kid was a secret legend in the making, you had to trust the doctor's diagnosis. The student was just a gateway drug, not the main event. A fun, dirty, but ultimately temporary stepping stone. Then you think about the doctor. He wasn't a bugchaser; he was a man who was pozzed unknowingly by the man he loved, a victim of betrayal. But in that office, something shifted. It wasn't your defiance that changed him; it was your submission. Your desperate, shame-filled honesty, your complete inability to hide your fear and desire—you didn't just challenge his medical authority; you laid your soul bare at his feet. But there was something more, something undeniable. Even in the midst of his rage, you were aroused by him. You couldn't stop staring at the bulge in his scrubs, a fact he couldn't have missed. And when he confessed his status, that he was poz and highly toxic, your own cock didn't shrink in fear. It throbbed. He saw it. He saw the raw, undeniable proof of your desire for the very thing that had destroyed his life. In your pathetic vulnerability and your unmistakable arousal, you showed him a new way to see his condition. You weren't horrified by his poison; you were drawn to it. You helped him discover that his "life sentence" could be wielded as power, that his poison could be a gift. You didn't just awaken his rage; you awakened his inner god. He wasn't just a man broken by it; he was a true toxic titan, reborn in that moment. Your eyes drift to your phone, lying on the nightstand. The memory of the biohazard symbol on the toilet wall flashes in your mind. The phone number written beneath. Who would leave a number like that? The possibilities are endless. A fellow bugchaser, looking for a connection. A true giftgiver, a dispenser of destiny. A poz guy who just got his own positive result and is looking to share the "good news." Or maybe it's just a troll, someone's idea of a sick joke. The uncertainty doesn't deter you; it intoxicates you. The thrill of the unknown pulls at something deep inside you, a primal urge to explore who’s at the end of the line. Your desire overrides your caution. You leave the dildo buried deep inside you, a constant, full reminder of the day's events. You grab your phone, your hand slick with your own leaking precum, and open your photo gallery. You find the picture of the number. Your heart hammers. A reckless, desperate urge takes over. You need to know. You need to hear the voice on the other end. You don't save the number. You don't give it a name. You just manually type the digits into the keypad, your thumb hovering over the green call button. This is it. An anonymous connection. A step further into the abyss. You start to stroke your cock. You are hard as hell, massaging your cockhead with the precum flowing from your piss slit. You are building up to a climax. You press it. It rings once. Someone picks up. "Hey honey." The world stops. It's his voice. Your husband's. The shock is so profound, so absolute, that it triggers a physical response. Your balls tighten, your ass spasms around the dildo, sucking it in to the hilt, your cock jerks, and you erupt. A thick, powerful rope of cum shoots from your slit, splattering across your chest and stomach. You almost drop the phone. It's a dry, shuddering, soul-crushing orgasm that feels more like a seizure than a release. You're gasping for air, your body convulsing on the bed as the waves of pleasure and horror crash over you. "Hey," you manage to choke out, your voice a strangled whisper, still panting from your unexpected climax. "I... I think I butt-dialed you. Sorry." There's a pause on the other end. "Oh, okay," he says, his tone completely normal, utterly unaware of the seismic shock and the simultaneous orgasm ripping through you. "No worries. Everything alright? You sound weird." "Yeah," you lie, your throat tight, your own cum cooling on your skin. "Just... tired. I'll, uh, I'll see you at home on Friday." "Okay, love you." "Love you too." You hang up. The screen goes dark. You're left in the silence of your bedroom, the phone feeling like a lead weight in your hand, your own load as damning evidence on your chest, the dildo still buried deep inside you. You're not just shaking; you're vibrating. The realization doesn't just hit you—it unravels you. You knew he was a slut like you. You saw him at the rest stop, heard him beg for a toxic load. That's your shared sickness, your unspoken bond. But this... this is different. The rest stop is a playground. The clinic is a reckoning. He wasn't just there for a quick, anonymous fuck in the dark. He was there in the light of day, sitting in the same waiting room, filling out the same forms. He was there with a purpose. The questions flood your mind, each one more chilling than the last. Was he there for PEP, trying to crawl back to safety? Was he on PrEP, building a wall against the very gift you both crave? Was he just treating another bug, a simple hurdle on the path? Or was he there for confirmation, just like you, and was he may be more successful? You have no idea. The ambiguity is a chasm of uncertainty, and you are falling into it. The rest stop made you partners in sin. But this... this makes you competitors. The clinic is no longer just a buffet; it's a race. And you have no idea who's ahead, or even what the finish line looks like for him. You lie there in the dark, the ghost of his casual "Hey honey" echoing in your mind, your own cum drying on your skin. But then, a new thought cuts through the haze of panic, sharp and cold. In this race, you might just have the advantage. You know about him. You've identified him at the rest stop, and now at the clinic. You've seen his secret life laid bare. Does he have any idea about you? As far as you know, you're still just his husband, his safe harbor. The thought sends a dark thrill through you. You're not just racing him; you're hunting him. And he doesn't even know he's being hunted. The call wasn't the end. It was the starting gun.

Years ago there was a Latino that I often saw at the sauna and he fucked me and bred me every time we met. He would usually first say hello and he would usually ask me until what time I was staying. He knew I barebacked and while he fucked me he would babble in Spanish stuff about giving me his milk (Leche), and when he was cumming he would yell "papito, papito...". It was pretty hot,

i bareback so i can take loads deep in my ass

Thanks guys. Indeed, it most likely is a combination of all three. Fortunately there is a big part of me that at least recognizes interest; even if MrHappy doesn't care to join me.

First time it happened I was being used by a group of 7 over summer lunchtime in their apartment near Central Park, some loads didn't go in my hole and they sprayed my face and hair alongside my body. when we finished I had 5-7 loads on me and the host decided it would be funny to kick me out like that. Oh well. was walking for a few blocks back to my apartment with soaked shirt and cum all over my face and clumped hair, feeling very proud of myself 🐷

OK. And he did that role unpaid and did so supporting a party which uncut one of his own businesses -- by eliminating the electric car subsidy. It's fair to call it idiotic but I don't understand the implied vitriol. Campaign finance sits in a the broader consideration of money and politics. That includes politicians who come to power promising to endless goodies. I've previous linked on this site the Penn Wharton analysis of Biden's school debt bill -- a $500billion give-away with the potential to surge past $1 trillion. Government and money go hand-in-hand. It's not great but the video's bias is also grossly evident. I couldn't watch the entire video, but did they even discuss the academic work summarized by the data-cliche: correlation is not causation? Here's an article I read awhile ago I was able to dig out: [think before following links] https://archive.news.ufl.edu/articles/2018/10/money-in-elections-doesnt-mean-what-you-think-it-does-1.html As for the Census article you site, I don't understand the math. If turnout was 65% -- a clear majority -- how can over half of the population -- another majority -- have not voted? I'm missing something or the article you're reading is missing a word... possibly, this line: "Over half of the adult population did not vote in 2024..." Maybe that should have been, "Over half of the adult population that did not vote in 2024..." so, the majority of those that did not vote did so for "x", "y", and "z" reasons. but they weren't the majority of the possible electorate. Maybe...IDK.

The thing about guys cuming on your face -- it looks like big white gobs of cocksnot only for a limited amount of time. Then it just looks wet.

WHEW!!!! Oh so hot!!!! Keep it going

Yes, condoms hurt! Latex is toxic to the body. So many of us have an allergy to it. Non-latex still have plastics that leach into the body, like drinking from a plastic water bottle. Both types hurt the bottom's inside walls.

Naked except for leather wrist and ankle, and collar, restraints

Chapter 24: Subject Was Not Compliant Mega-Mini Mart on 32nd and Broadway. 21:08 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location. Tex noticed the cruiser before he noticed anything else. It sat crooked outside the convenience store, nose half over the curb like the driver had stopped in a hurry and never came back. No lights. No engine. The driver’s door hung open just enough to catch the wind, rocking once with a soft, hollow creak. Tex slowed, killing his own headlights a block away and rolling to a stop. The night felt too quiet for a place that should’ve been humming—freezer units, passing cars, late-shift noise. Instead, there was only the buzz of the store’s fluorescent sign and the distant thrum of traffic somewhere far off. He stepped out, boots crunching on grit, and approached the cruiser carefully. No blood on the pavement. No shell casings. The radio inside crackled once and went silent again. “Shit,” he muttered. He edged past the cruiser and toward the store, keeping to the shadows. The glass front was bright, too bright, making it easy to see in and impossible to see out. Tex leaned just enough to peek through the window. His stomach dropped. Inside, the store was in disarray—cooler doors hanging open, shelves stripped bare and tossed aside. Several figures moved through the aisles with unsettling calm. He recognized them immediately. Former Black Sigma. Sticks, Lockjaw, Pixel, and Patch. Each towered over the shelves with pitch black skin, grinning with a sharp set of teeth. They weren’t acting frantic. They were shopping. Like it was a casual outing on a road trip. Near the counter, a uniformed cop lay on his back, dazed but breathing, one arm twitching as if he were trying to sit up and failing. There was no sign of the clerk anywhere—no movement behind the register, no body on the floor. Tex pulled back from the window, pulse ticking up. He reached for his sidearm, checking the chamber by feel. Solid. Real rounds. For once, no darts, no “non-lethal” compromises. “Good,” he whispered to himself, “I’m gonna need something more substantial.” He slid his phone from his pocket, thumb already moving to text Elias a quick sitrep when motion across the street caught his eye. Two figures stepped into the wash of the streetlight, walking straight toward him like they owned the night. Tex’s grip tightened. Gravestone was impossible to miss. Broad, confident, dressed like he wanted to be seen. Wearing what could only be described as a leather daddy outfit complete with his ass hanging out of the chaps. Beside him walked another smiler—Beau, the security guard that went missing after that bastard Jack broke free—quiet, watchful, matching pace without looking around. Dressed in a cowboy outfit. Gravestone spotted Tex instantly. He lifted a hand and waved, slow and mocking, a grin spreading across his face as if they’d just run into each other at a bar instead of a crime scene. “Well,” Gravestone called out, voice carrying easily. “Look who it is… Toby!” Tex lowered the phone, eyes never leaving them. Shit. So much for recon. Tex eased back into the deeper shadow beside the store, the glow from the windows washing over the asphalt like a stage light. He kept his shoulders loose, posture casual, even as his pulse kicked harder. The text to Elias sat half-typed on his phone, unsent. Gravestone didn’t slow. He didn’t hurry either. He crossed the street at an easy pace, boots scuffing lightly, Beau drifting alongside him with a predator’s economy of movement. They weren’t hunting yet. They were approaching—confident, unafraid. He watched as Gravestone pulled a large cigar out of his front pocket and began to light it with an air of ease and arrogance. “Oh, come on out,” Gravestone said, spreading his hands as if inviting applause, puffing greedily away. “Hiding’s not your thing, Tex. We both know that.” Tex shifted his weight, angling his body so the storefront reflection wouldn’t give him away. He could see Gravestone clearly now—too clearly. The outfit was deliberate, theatrical, chosen to be noticed. It made the grin feel sharper, the confidence louder. And the cigar just added to it. Beau’s gaze swept the alley mouth and the parked cars beyond, wordless and intent. No weapons visible. No need. Tex stepped just far enough into the light to be seen, keeping the wall at his back. “You go clothes shopping with your new boyfriend there, Commander?” he called. “What happened to subtlety?” Gravestone chuckled, low and pleased. “You always did like commentary. Gonna be fun fucking that mouth of yours later.” Tex lifted his chin, eyes flicking briefly to Beau, then back. “Village People called,” he said. “They want their costumes back. It's a bit sad you didn’t save the cowboy for me.” Beau didn’t react. Gravestone’s grin widened. “Oh, we’ve already got a cowboy,” Gravestone replied, tilting his head toward Beau without looking, blowing out a large cloud of smoke. “Which means when I get to you, you’ll have to pick a different character. Maybe a leather gimp outfit.” Tex snorted. “Hard pass. I’m more of a Swiftie.” For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The night seemed to hold its breath. Then Tex turned and ran. He broke left, sprinting for the alley as Gravestone’s laughter followed him—warm, amused, and entirely too close for comfort. Tex hit the alley in a full out sprint. The space swallowed him whole—brick walls pressing in, dumpsters looming, the ground slick with half-frozen slush. His breath rasped loud in his ears as he ran, boots hammering pavement, every step measured and fast. He cut right, then left, trying to break line of sight, trying to make himself unpredictable. It didn’t help. Footsteps echoed behind him—steady, unhurried. Gravestone wasn’t sprinting. He didn’t need to. That confidence crawled up Tex’s spine, needling his nerves worse than panic ever could. Tex rounded a corner and nearly slammed chest-first into a shadow peeling away from the wall. Lockjaw. “Howdy, Tex.” He swore, skidding sideways at the last second. The figure turned its head in the same smooth, synchronized motion Tex had seen too many times lately. Familiar face… Pixel. Black eyes. “Where you going in such a rush, buddy?” Another smiler stepped into view at the far end of the alley. Patch. “Stop and chat for a second.” Then another. Sticks. “You look worried, Lieutenant.” They weren’t rushing him. They were calmly closing in, tightening angles, cutting off exits with practiced precision. Old training. Black Sigma muscle memory, twisted into something colder. “Not tonight,” Tex snapped, heart pounding. He backpedaled, gun up now, barrel tracking as they advanced. “Back off! I swear to god—” They didn’t react. Tex fired. The shot cracked like thunder, ricocheting off brick and steel. He aimed low and close—warning shot, just enough to force space. The group faltered for half a heartbeat. Gravestone stepped into view through the haze of echo and cordite. The bullet tore through his sleeve, punching a clean hole in the leather jacket. The fabric flapped uselessly as Gravestone slowed to a stop. Silence fell. Gravestone looked down at the damage, fingers brushing the torn edge. He pulled out the cigar from his mouth, letting out a large exhale, and his jaw tightened. When he looked back up, the easy amusement was gone, replaced by something sharp and offended. “…You shot my jacket. I just got that!” Tex swallowed. “You’re welcome. You looked fucking stupid in it.” The other smilers shifted, muscles coiling, ready to surge. Gravestone lifted a single hand. They froze. “Go,” he said calmly, eyes never leaving Tex. “Back to the store. Finish what the Alpha sent us for. I’ll take care of him personally.” There was hesitation—brief, but real—then obedience. One by one, they withdrew, melting into side streets and doorways until only Gravestone remained. Tex took the opening. He spun and bolted. He burst out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, dodging a stack of milk crates, vaulting a low fence without breaking stride. His lungs burned, vision tunneling as he pushed harder, weaving between parked cars and cutting across a side street. Gravestone’s voice followed him, carrying effortlessly. “You know,” Gravestone called, “it always struck me as funny they called you Tex.” Tex risked a glance back. Big mistake. Gravestone was closer than he should’ve been—closing distance with long, ground-eating strides, expression almost thoughtful as he spoke. “Austin,” Gravestone continued, drawing on the cigar and flicking the ash on the ground. “Least fucking Texan city in the state. But I guess the name fits the attitude.” Tex’s fingers tightened around the grip of his gun. He veered sharply, bursting through the mouth of another alley—then skidded to a halt as Gravestone suddenly lunged. Gravestone didn’t just jump. He launched. Gravestone cleared the distance in a blur, landing hard enough to crack pavement right in front of Tex. “Though I will give you this,” Gravestone said, puffing away and calmly looking down at his sharp nails as he walked forward. “You do seem to have balls the size of Texas, even if you can’t hit the side of a barn.” Tex barely had time to curse before instinct kicked in and he spun, sprinting blind, straight into the street. Headlights exploded across his vision. A horn blared. Tires screamed. Tex dove. An ambulance barreled through the intersection, siren wailing as the driver slammed the brakes. Gravestone didn’t dodge in time. The impact was sickening. Gravestone was hit broadside, lifted clean off his feet, and hurled down the road. He hit the asphalt once, twice, then slid, coming to rest in a twisted heap beneath a flickering streetlamp. The cigar in his mouth went flying off into the darkness. The ambulance screeched to a stop. Doors flew open. Shouting filled the air. Tex lay sprawled on the pavement for a second, chest heaving, staring at the unmoving body down the street. “…holy shit,” someone breathed. Tex pushed himself upright, eyes locked on Gravestone. The world rushed back in all at once—sirens, shouting, the sharp stink of burnt rubber. Tex staggered to his feet as the ambulance driver jumped out of the cab, hands raised, face pale and stunned. The driver kept apologizing, words tumbling over each other, eyes locked on the dark shape sprawled down the street. “I—I didn’t see him until—Jesus, I tried to stop—” “It’s okay,” Tex cut in, voice rough but steady. He forced himself to breathe, to think. Training snapped back into place. Assess. Control. Act. Gravestone lay motionless beneath the streetlight. The leather jacket was shredded now, the body beneath it unnaturally still. Too still. Tex didn’t trust it—but he wasn’t about to waste the opening. The paramedic stepped closer, then froze. “Oh my god,” the man whispered. “That’s— I know him. My dad served with him. That’s—that’s Commander Briggs. What the fuck?!” “Marco.” Tex read the name stitched on the man’s jacket and seized it. “Listen to me. I need your help. Right now.” Marco’s eyes flicked from Gravestone to Tex, panic warring with recognition. “He shouldn’t be here. He—he… my mom just had lunch with his wife last week.” “Look, I need you to stop staring and focus on me,” Tex said, already moving. He flashed his badge with a practiced snap. “Army. This is an active containment situation. I’m commandeering the ambulance.” Marco swallowed hard. “Containment of what?” Tex didn’t answer. He was already jogging toward Gravestone’s body. Up close, the damage looked worse—limbs bent at wrong angles, skin marred and torn. But Tex watched the chest anyway, hand hovering near the trigger of his gun. No rise. No breath. “Get the gurney,” Tex ordered. “Every strap you’ve got. Wrists. Ankles. Chest. Neck if you have to.” Marco hesitated only a second, then nodded and ran for the back of the ambulance. Tex reached the open doors—and stopped. Inside, slumped against the wall, was the second paramedic. Rafi, according to the name on his jacket. His skin had gone ashen, lips tinged blue, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. A jagged bite marked his shoulder, the fabric around it torn and soaked through. Black veins spidered out from the wound, crawling up his neck like spilled ink beneath the skin. Rafi lifted his head weakly. “Marco,” he rasped. “Something’s… wrong. I don’t feel—” Tex’s stomach dropped. “Hey,” he said carefully, stepping back a half pace, eyes never leaving the veins. “Don’t move. Just—just stay where you are.” Marco reappeared with the gurney, breath hitching when he saw Rafi. “Rafi? Just stay with me, man!” Rafi didn’t answer. His gaze drifted—past Marco, past Tex—toward the street. Toward Gravestone. Tex felt it then. That prickle at the base of his skull. That sense of being watched. He turned slowly. Gravestone’s fingers twitched. Just once. Tex raised his gun. “Gurney and as many straps as you have. Now,” he said, voice flat and deadly calm. “Before he wakes up.” The gurney rattled as Marco helped shove Gravestone into place, straps cinched tight across chest, arms, and legs. The monster’s weight felt wrong—dense, compact, like stone wrapped in muscle. Tex kept his gun trained on Gravestone’s head the entire time, finger steady, breath measured. Marco swallowed hard and glanced at Tex again, really looking this time. His brow furrowed. “Dr. Kade?” he asked, voice shaky. “Trevor Kade, right? But… I just saw you an hour ago when I dropped off that kid with the peanut allergy—” Tex didn’t look away from Gravestone. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I get that a lot. That would be my twin brother.” Marco opened his mouth to ask more— —and Gravestone inhaled. Not a reflexive gasp. A slow, deliberate breath that lifted the straps just enough to make the metal buckles groan. Gravestone’s eyes snapped open. His grin came back instantly, sharp and pleased. He flexed again, harder this time. One strap popped loose with a violent crack. “All right,” Tex barked, gun still trained squarely between his eyes. “That’s enough.” Gravestone laughed, a deep, rolling sound that vibrated the gurney. “You always did like giving orders, Tex. Think you might actually hit me this time?” Tex didn’t respond. He turned his head sharply toward Marco. “I need everything. All sedatives. All paralytics. Whatever you’ve got on this rig. Now.” Reaching over, he grabbed one of the thick blankets and covered Gravestone’s head with it. Not chancing getting slimed by him. Marco hesitated—just a second too long—then Gravestone surged against the restraints again, the gurney skidding an inch across the ambulance floor. Marco flinched. “O–okay. Okay.” He lunged for the cabinet, yanking out the emergency drug bag and shoving it into Tex’s hands. “That’s—that’s everything we carry.” Tex ripped it open with practiced efficiency. Syringes, vials, labels—he didn’t read them, just sorted by color and familiarity. He glanced once at Gravestone, who was watching him with open amusement. “Asking for sedatives, Toby? Might want to be careful,” Gravestone purred from under the blanket. “Wouldn’t want to waste that. You remember how they didn’t work last time, don’t you?” Tex jabbed the first syringe into Gravestone’s neck without warning, stabbing the large gauge needle in as hard as he could, finally getting through the skin on the third try. Then another. And another. Gravestone snarled, body convulsing against the restraints as the drugs hit his system in a cascading wave. The fight faltered—just for a moment—before finally, Gravestone collapsed. Rafi groaned from the bench. Tex turned—and froze. Rafi’s skin had gone ashen. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused. The black veins at his shoulder had crept higher, branching along his neck like spilled ink. He was smiling faintly at nothing. “Oh, hell,” Tex muttered. Rafi lifted his head slowly. “He said… he said it doesn’t hurt if you stop fighting… He can see you through my eyes, you know…” “Nope,” Tex snapped, already moving. “Not today.” He grabbed another syringe and plunged it into Rafi’s thigh. Rafi cried out weakly, body slumping as the sedative took hold. Tex exhaled sharply. “Last thing I need is another one of his pets waking up.” Gravestone’s breathing slowed, restraints finally holding as the drugs dragged him down into forced stillness. The blanket had begun to shift down, now uncovering part of his face. His eyes stayed open a beat too long before finally sliding shut. Tex carefully moved the blanket back up, before he turned back to Marco. “Where’s the nearest hospital?” Marco, pale and shaking, answered automatically. “Clearview University Medical. The Steighn Campus. It’s—it’s about eight minutes if I push it.” Tex’s jaw tightened. Of course it is. Well, looks like this is going to become a family affair. He leaned forward, voice hard. “Then you’re going to push it. Lights on. Siren if you have to.” Marco nodded, already scrambling into the driver’s seat. As the ambulance lurched forward, Tex pulled out his phone with a steady hand and typed fast. Elias — meet me at Clearview. Where Trev works. Now. We have a situation. I have two of them. Gravestone and a new one. He hit send, slid the phone away, and finally allowed himself one tight breath. Behind him, Gravestone lay sedated but twitching faintly in his sleep. The ambulance tore down the road toward the hospital—toward answers, containment, and a reunion Tex had been hoping to avoid.

oh, yeah, there is all of that as well.. 🙂

White Athlete's Socks and nothing else. Boned-up just thinking about a Top just in sports socks.

My guess would be stress, generally. You described both physical stress (HIV, crypto, medication) and emotional stress (the drumbeat of political news). Stress can really fuck with your libido; it certainly does with mine. Rather than thinking of sexy fun time... (as a book I've been reading lately puts it). Ayup. Not the recommended treatment for stress, of course, but an understandable response.

May not be for everyone (though given swallowing cum is acceptable...) I love swallowing a guys spit that he dribbles into my own mouth, and then he deep kisses afterwards. Makes me an insatiable monster and I'll do anything for him. (well, maybe some limits...).

Well stated, and while nothing can be subtracted or taken away from what almost should be taken for granted, at least in the normative sense, is a thought as long gone as normality was in the wee early hours of 2015. Yet this is NOT a political rant. In fact just remove any and ALL political, civic and civil issues of equality and simply look at the state pf the queer experience. Now while you speak to the specifics of queer sex, intimacy, love--as it relates to you personally and indeed the real core of why we exist in the context of culture --and have a critical role that society at large cannot do without or you get what I'm already said I'm not brining up as part of the debate for the point I'm about to make. And that would be this: just as love/lust has an ultimate union that together opens the sum of its parts to be greater than the whole, in other words lust is better for love and love less lost for lust. And once unite3d these these two aspects are this wholy themselves and can be experienced as one and/or the other. The awareness you speak is a right of passage. My question or observation is this: On the App store search: gay -- and then overlay that on cultural development and then zoom in on interpersonal relationships (outside of pair bonding or sex) and then pry open the personal authority of appropriating a standard of behavior we ALL can give on and what do we get? It's NOT pretty. And it makes statements like yours ALL the more valuable and rare---and that's NOT the right direction. The fear I see I see is the fear that embracing one means giving up the other and that's NOTY the case. Yet when personal power is called into question and power is weilded by everything BUT what you mention, it's very difficult to convince power brokers otherwise. So change the system and everything else changes too. And this is my effort both large and small. Thanks for this opportunity to share.

I never look out for potential heavy loader as cum is cum, and as long as it tastes sweet I'll swallow any load - whether small squirts or Titanic loads. Licking-up my own spunk is a good replacement when I cannot get cock-sucking loads.