TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I notice his eyes before anything else. Big and wide, they are. In the dim perpetual dusk beneath the Boat Slip dock his pupils are so dilated and straining for light that they’re black marbles, shining and glossy as he stares. He’s fixed on me. Now that the French cocksucker has abandoned his post, I have men crowding in to take his place. It doesn’t matter that I’ve blown my load; it doesn’t matter that I’m temporarily spent. I’m still mostly hard, and I’ve got hand after hand groping for my spit-sloppy cock. I have mouths on my neck, fingers rubbing my ass. This guy has some serious competition. Those eyes, though. Fuck. Those eyes are black holes with their own gravitational force, and I’m over the event horizon, past the point of no return. There’s no escaping the pull of those eyes. That’s why I stare back at him, pull him close, and savagely press my lips against his. Come to think, he never had a lick of competition after all. The Frenchman had been a great kisser. This guy, though, is off the charts. My brain no longer registers the fact that I’m surrounded by two dozen men pushing and shoving to get my meat in their hands or mouth. All I know is that I’ve got my elbows resting on this fellow’s shoulders, my hands stretched out and languid, as my hips grind against his. We’re putting on two shows for these fellows. His is the dance of the victor. Mine is unhurried strut of the predator with his prey between his jaws. He’s a sexy fucker, too. I can tell that when we take a break from our kissing and continue to grind as we stare into each other’s eyes. He’s got short black hair swept to one side and one of those faces that would look impossibly good at any age—classically handsome in youth, dark and inviting in its prime, youthful and rugged as he gets older. I’ve known him for two minutes of intense tongue-fucking, and already in my imagination I can see the entire arc of his face through time. He looks good through it all. “How about that,” he whispers. “I guess I dropped my keys.” Slowly, inevitably, his dark eyes locked with mine, he drops down to his knees. He wraps his hand around my shaft and points it at his lips, claiming his prize. “Let me do this for you while I’m down here.” You know, I’ve just shot an enormous load down a stranger’s throat. The Frenchman still probably has the taste of my sperm on his tongue, it’s been such a short time. But I’ll be damned if in this guy’s mouth my cock is just as hard as it was before I came. Harder, even. He’s got major skills. Most guys have an issue getting the whole length down their gullets without choking or clamping down on head so obnoxiously that I’d rather be doing anything else than getting head. Nope, this guy knows how to handle me. He knows how to open his throat and admit me in. He’s not trying to get me off quickly, he’s not greedy for the load. He just wants to give pleasure, and he’s got the tools at hand to do it. He’s standing up again, jealously keeping my cock pressed against his body as he stands on his toes to make out with me once again. He’s got his prize. He intends to keep it. My hands are down the back of his jeans. His ass parts as my hands slide between the smooth cheeks. I remove my right hand, pause our makeout session for a moment, and transfer a glob of spit to my fingertips. It goes down the back of his pants and straight onto his hole. I can feel him gasp and squirm when my fingers go exploring inside the warmest and most private spot on his body. God, I want this hole. “Do you have a place to go?” I whisper in his ear. “I’m staying at the campground,” he tells me. Fuck. Is everyone in this town staying at the goddamned campground? I already know from the Frenchman that it’s apparently far enough of a walk that I don’t want to make it. “Damn,” I growl. “I wanted inside that ass.” “You want to cum inside?” he asks, teasing me. His lips brush my ear. “You want to spray your seed inside my hole?” Fuck yes, I do. I turn him around. He braces himself against the support beams overhead. He’s got his shirt yoked over his head and his pants down. I press my cock against the crack of his ass and grind. I mock-fuck him right there while he gasps and lets out little cries of need and want. And once again, the guys throng around. They try to insert their hands where our hips connect, to see if I’m inside him. They growl at me as if they think I’m inside the guy, instead of just humping him. They try to feel the connection of meat to hole, to get the smell of the fuck on their fingertips. I feel arms behind and beneath my balls, trying to grasp my dick from the underside. There’s someone lying in the sand, trying to slide along the ground between my legs. Doesn’t matter. I keep grinding. He’s letting out little moans that are sexual catnip to the crowd. Every one makes them press in closer, to handle us more roughly. A man pushes his way through the crowd to stand opposite me. He’s tall, and pale in the dark. He stoops down to look at my bottom. I’m feeling a little bit of a jealous fire burning in my breast when he stands up again, unzips, and puts his hands on his hips. Then my partner leans back, still humping my cock in his ass crack, and whispers, “That’s my husband.” Oh. That’s different. I reach out for the guy’s dick. It’s like a fucking blunt weapon. I can’t see it in the dark, but my hands are guessing it’s ten inches. A thick, heavy ten inches. Respect. No wonder this guy didn’t have any problems deep-throating my eight. It’s a cakewalk for him. The boyfriend disappears after a minute. My guy turns around. “I think I dropped my keys again,” he murmurs in my ear. Then the man with the eyes is back on his knees and impaling his throat on my cock. He’s worshiping the fucking thing, giving it the respect it commands. He doesn’t need to clamp his fist around my shaft, doesn’t need to beat it. He gives me pleasure just by using his lips, his tongue, the wetness of his mouth. He’s a pro. But I can’t shoot. It’s not due to his lack of skills. It’s not his fault at all, in fact. During all the groping and the snatching by the crowd that had been around us, someone had gotten a substantial amount of sand on my dick. I’d brushed off as much as possible, but a couple of the sharper grains have scratched up that sensitive area right beneath the head. I can’t tell if they’re still buried in the wet flesh somewhere, or whether I’m just puffy from the abrasion, but I know tomorrow I’m going to be hurting like hell. I pull the guy up to his feet. I kiss him. And I break the news. And you know what? He doesn’t move on. He doesn’t go hunting for more prey. Even though my dick’s ripped up and sore, his entire focus is still on me. “Let’s go sit a while,” he says, and he takes my hand. Fingers intertwined, zippers zipped and buttons buttoned, we scatter sprays of sand as we trudge back to the drive leading away from the beach. Moments later we’re sitting on a concrete piling by the hotel, legs pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, like lovers. And we talk. He tells me about his home city, his hobbies, his husband. I talk about my life and my family. I’m usually fairly easy to talk to, but I don’t open up to others quite as easily. With this guy, I feel as if I’ve known him for years. I’m telling him anecdotes like he’s an old friend. In fact, it’s not until I can’t suppress any more yawns that I look at my phone to check the time. It’s three in the morning. That’s how long we’ve been at it. My walk home is still a long one, so I say my farewells. He rests his hand on mine before I go, to tell me something. “You know what attracted me to you down there?” he asks. I shake my head. “Your eyes,” he says. “They’re beautiful. Even in the dark I could tell you had the most incredible eyes.” Funny, I think to myself, as I gaze into his. I was going to say the very same thing about him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This year I’m an old pro at this particular cruising site. I head down the drive toward the beach without trepidation, not even casting more than a passing glance at the tide creeping in. Last year, like a noob, I made the mistake of trudging through the sand to an entrance halfway down the dock, where everyone could see my slow progress under the harsh light of the street lamps above. This year I know exactly where to round the pillar at the drive’s foot, and I slip into the shadows before I’m seen. Last year I might have been the curious explorer. This year, though, I’m a seasoned pro. This is just as much my hunting ground as it is any other man’s. My eyes adjust to the gloom almost immediately. It’s after eleven, but there’s not much of a crowd here. Not yet. I saunter past a heavily-spectacled older gentleman with a pot belly. He’s got his fingers inserted in the fly of his almost phosphorescently-white shorts. When I pass by I feel the fingertips of his other hand brush my elbow. I can afford to bide my time a bit. Individuals lurk the furthest recesses beneath the dock. In the darkest of shadows they wait, checking me out as I pass. I’m not ready to commit to any of these guys. I can do better. Instead, I take a position in a niche right in the middle of the dock, away from the others. I hook a thumb through one of my belt loops, lean against the post, and wait. I’m not losing anything by waiting. I don’t go for the bait; I wait for my prey to come to me. I know my role in this sexual ecosystem. I’m the instigator. I’ll make my move when I’m ready. Not before. Men pass me by in the night, taking in what they can see of me in the near-darkness—my narrow frame, my long body, my hand casually cupping the bulge in my shorts. Occasionally they’ll pause in front of me, hoping I’ll reach out and pull them to me. I merely nod, let them pass, and continue to wait. I’ll know what I want, when I see it. It doesn’t take long before a man stands at the post opposite mine. I can tell by the way his head bobs and sways in the shadows that he’s trying to figure out whether I’m as good as I might seem. He’s checking me out as much as possible, using a peripheral vision that’s slightly sharper in the low light to get a better impression of me. I can tell more about him from where I stand. He’s blond. Maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. He’s got on a muscle tee. I can see his biceps, luminous against the dark. His hair is a light color. Blond, I think. I can’t really see his features, but I’m thinking he’s probably the best of the current bunch. Handsome, even. Yeah. This is the one. I’ve got both thumbs through the foremost belt hoops, framing my crotch. I can see his head weaving as he attempts to make sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. I unzip. Rub my hand over my stiffening dick. Stare right in his direction. Then, just to make sure I’m crystal clear, I beckon him over with a curved index finger. He obeys. Yes, the man is indeed handsome. Up close he smells lightly of expensive cologne and more strongly of soap. When he presses his mouth on mine, he tastes of mint mouthwash. The guy’s a good kisser, I have to say. The hunger I feel when we connect intensifies. I force his hands down on my cock and let him feel what he’s going to be getting. He groans at the feel of my hard meat, then even as we’re kissing, I feel his hips curve into a smile. He’s happy he’s getting a big one. I like that in a man. Like I said, I’m an instigator. Even though there are two or three dozen men milling around beneath the dock in the near pitch-blackness, no one’s having sex yet. No one except me, that is, with the hottest guy here. Right on cue, smelling the pheromones, just about everyone who’s staggering around by themselves converge on the two of us. I’ve got my hand on the back of the guy’s head as I pull him deeper into the kiss, but over the top of his head I can see the pirañas swimming nearer. He’s down on his knees to deep-throat his prize. Scarcely has he gone down when other men are vying to take his place. I feel hands reaching for my head, hands trying to pull my face to theirs. Hands run up my stomach beneath my t-shirt, fingers tweak my nipples. I pretend not to notice. I pull my head away so that I can gaze down on the fellow on my dick. He’s my focus. When I see the glint of his eyes as he gazes up at me, I know once again I’ve picked the right one. There’s quite a crowd around us now. Maybe twenty men are feeding from our sexual energy. My instigation is spreading as men begin to fondle each other, to kiss, to couple off, even as they attempt to pull me away from my quarry. The blond has to struggle to stand up, the crowd is so thick around us. He clutches onto my dick with his hand to keep anyone else from taking it from him, then he whispers something into my ear. The syllables are lush and sweet, like a scented summer breeze on a foreign isle. It takes my brain a moment to register that he’s spoken to me in French. I think he’s telling me I’m a handsome man. “Thanks,” I whisper in his ear. Then, “Do you have somewhere we can go?” He takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the drive. I take a moment to buckle up and then we push our way out of the crowd. I doubt any of those on the edges are aware that we were its epicenter. Then we’re free, and walking up the drive. I can see him better in the street lamps. He’s not just handsome. He’s hot as fuck. Blond hair, muscles, scruff on his face. “I wish to be naked with you,” he says, in what’s almost a comical French accent. It’s almost like someone attempting a Maurice Chevalier accent, but he’s completely for real. “Do you have the place to go?” “I thought you did,” I said. His face contorts with irritation. “I am at the—what is the words? Camp ground?” I know there’s a campground somewhere in the coastal town, but I have no clear idea of where it is. “We can go there, but it is a long, long walk. A very long walk.” Well, fuck. My dick is still wet in my shorts, and even though I’m up for a long walk if it means getting into the guy’s ass, he seems dubious. We’re still holding hands; his fingers are intertwined with mine. I’m touched at how much like a boyfriend he’s treating me. “Let me suck you more,” he says, in that charming accent. “Let me drink you.” I’m not going to say no to that. Hand in hand we return to the dark area beneath the Boatslip. The action is full swing now. We push past clumps of twos and threes and occasional fours and fives to the area where we were before. The crowd is dispersed, but the little niches against the hotel’s foundation are filled with couples. We find a new spot a little further on. He drops before me worshipfully, and hooks his fingertips into my waistband. I unbuckle, pull down my shorts, and let my heavy cock fall onto his face. He starts to suck, grunting with pleasure as he does. I lean back against the post and allow myself to enjoy it. My eyes are closed when I feel someone lifting up my shirt. My neck shoves through the hole; I feel the fabric wrenched back like a yoke, exposing my upper body to the night air. There’s a mouth on my nipple, a pair of bearded lips on my stomach. There’s wet suction on my other nipple. Then someone draws me into a kiss. Once again I’ve got a throng around me. Though I stay in place, I feel like a crowd-surfer at a concert. I’m throwing myself out to the masses, letting them buoy me safely in their grip. There are mouths all over me and men vying for my attention. Hungry faggots are trying to pull my Frenchman off my dick, but he’s not going anywhere. He’s planted in the goddamned dirt like a fencepost. He’s not going anywhere. I’m the center of attention. I’m the cock of the walk, right now, right here. And I’m confident enough to know I deserve it. When I have my orgasm, it’s not waves of pleasure. It’s almost as if I’ve got a kidney stone to pass, and the climax is the moment it leaves my system. I feel relief of the most intense kind. It’s gratification without the titillation. But the amount of cum I gush into the guy’s mouth is substantial. I can feel him gulping to keep up with it. When he’s done, he’s wiping cum and spit from his chin and panting. Once again he has to push his way up through the crowd; I let him hang onto my waist as he attempts to get his balance. “That is what I needed,” he murmurs into my ear. I can smell my sperm on his breath. “Thank you, beautiful man.” He holds my face in the curve of his palm, and then disappears into the darkness. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Very few people are awake in this beachside community at seven in the morning. As I walk down the main street out of the commercial district, I pass a couple of locals still wiping sleep and sand from their eyes as they trudge into town. Very few cars, though. Everyone in this community is on foot. It’s a sunny morning. Every now and then the clusters of seafront restaurants and shops give way to stretches of sand. Beyond the beach rolls the surf, which bears the cool breezes to shore. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt because I know the temperatures will soar once the sun rises above the rooftops. For now, though, it’s cool and almost chilly. There’s a spring in my step. I pass the town hall, the shops, the library. Where the commercial district peters out are a mixture of tiny, three-table restaurants and art galleries, then guest houses and the occasional old hotel from the nineteen-fifties. Finally even those disappear, and I’m surrounded by houses on either side. His place is past the ancient little grocery, a tiny hole in the wall where metal chairs on either side of the front door rust in the salt air. It looks like a regular Cape Cod home, but there’s an addition on the back that’s as big as a barn. A number of mailboxes by the sidewalk tell me that there are at least six apartments in the structure. I check my phone and read the note the guy sent me, then follow his instructions around the garden path to the back, then up the stairs to the second floor. A yellow welcome mat lies outside the door, as he said. I turn the knob and step quietly in. It’s not wood, I think to myself. His profile said the private glory hole in his home was solid wood. But what’s separating the kitchen from the living room where I stand isn’t a sheet of plywood sporting a hole, but an actual cloth bedsheet suspended from a rod that dangles all the way to the floor. It’s got a tribal print that I couldn’t picture on any of my mattresses, any time, but what the fuck. It’s all right. The only part I intend to dirty are the several inches just below the oval he’s cut into it, down at mouth level. I kick off my hiking sandals. Drop my shorts. Step out of my trunks. In the closeness of his apartment I’m a little sweaty, but that’s all right too. Then I align my junk with the hole and ease it through. For a split second I can see the guy on the other side, knees splayed out on a nest of sheets and pillows. He’s naked. Furry. Tattooed. In his forties. He’s got a sleeve that starts at the collarbone and insinuates itself down his arm to the wrist; it’s a thick layer of dark inks in a sinister design. In the split second before I fill the hole I can see the glint of metal through his nipples, his defined muscles and lean hips, the grizzled fur on his chin. His mouth drops open in anticipation. When his lips surround my cock, I let out an involuntary gasp. This is what I needed. I’ve got a three-day reward in my nuts if he can coax it out. He seems determined. With a steady sucking motion he nurses me to half mast, then fully erect. I can feel his tongue flick out to lick the underside of my balls. Yeah. This is going to be good. The guy’s smoking hot. He sucks long and slow, taking time to savor my shaft. I can feel his nostrils billowing warm air on the wet skin, as he backs off my inches. He’s determined to enjoy this encounter as much as I am. When I lean back, buckling my body into a bow-shaped figure, I can see that he’s a hell of a handsome dude. His hair might be prematurely gray, but he’s masculine as hell, with heavy brows and thick hair. I confess I originally thought the cloth glory hole was a bit of a sham, but he’s making it work for us. He’s cupping my balls in a sheath of the fabric so that as I gently thrust in and out, the sheet is rubbing against them and creating a sensation that’s making the seed in my nuts churn. I like this; I like the way the sheet allows me to thrust suddenly without resistance. I like the way I feel the heat of his body through it, only a thin layer away. I think I prefer the anonymity of the wood in general, but for this guy, fuck yes. It works. From time to time I pull out and make him beg for it. Silently beg, that is. We don’t exchange a word. I’ll take my meat in my fist and show off the red head, the inch or two of throbbing flesh protruding from my hand. He’ll try to dive for it, to snatch at it with his soft lips and tongue. I’ll hold it just out of reach, though, squeezing it hard so that a glob of pre-cum will ooze from the tip and slide down to join the wetness already making the head shiny. I want to make him hungry for it; I want to make him slaver. I like watching him pout, watching his lips tremble with frustration and need. Then I’ll relent, and remove my hand, and shove it back in the fucker’s mouth, just to hear him moan and burble with pleasure. Closer and closer he gets me. I’m in no hurry at this time of the morning. It’s my vacation; I’ve got nowhere to be, no work to get to. No appointments. No one even knows where I am; they’re all asleep back at the cabin. This load has been building up day by day, though, and it’s time to feed it to his hungry hole. I back off once more and jerk at it, showing it off. His entire world is a three-inch hole in an expanse of cloth at that moment. I can feel the laser-like focus on my cock as I display it for his approval. Then I grab his head through the sheet and pull it onto the eight inches until it strikes the back of his throat. One gush. Two gush. Three. He sucks and slobbers. I feel his drool running down my balls, hear the gulping, feel the muscles convulse around my shaft. The orgasm nearly blinds me. Some feel amazing and shivery, some are just a relief to have. This one’s almost painful, it’s so necessary; it feels like knives, or teeth gnawing at me, Alien-like, from the inside. At the same time, it feels so damned good. When I open my eyes, I see he’s got his tattooed arms around my waist, enveloping my lower half completely in sheet. He holds me there tightly, refusing to let my cock out of his mouth. Then slowly, gently, he lets go. The fabric sways back into place. My cock drops heavily down and points at the floor, drained. “Thanks,” I say, loud enough for him hear. I see his chin dip down in a nod. That’s all I need. I step back into my trunks, don my shorts, slide in my sandals, make sure I have my wallet. Then I’m out the door, where the smell of the ocean fills my nostrils and a breeze dries the sweat I wasn’t even aware was on my brow. Seven-thirty, my phone says. Invigorated by the morning exercise, I head back to town, with breakfast in mind. More...

I can't imagine going as a tagalong would be any fun at all. At least at this place I was already there on my own terms. The straight guys I've known aren't usually so direct in bar situations. Louis was pretty much like a gay guy in a straight man's body, when it came to being aggressive about meeting his goal.

Okay, you charmed my pants off, mister.

He must have a lot of interactions on there. I thought the BBRT free user limits were pretty liberal!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I always find that things ebb and flow, in my sex life. There’ll be periods of high sexual activities followed by lulls; I’ll be doing group after group for a while, and then none for a long time. Some weeks I’ll have so many offers that I legitimately couldn’t take them all if I tried, while others I can’t find a mouth for my cock if I wrapped it in bacon and a twenty-dollar bill. The quality of the interactions I have with men, both online and in person, tends to follow a sine wave, too. I had a great couple of weeks off on vacation in which I very easily met some incredible guys. Then I returned to normal life and a flabbergasting amount of outright rudeness. Oh, I’ve this week had the usual stand-ups and no-shows, the guys who come on strong and then, after we’ve made a firm date for coffee the next morning, manage to ‘completely forget’ about it when nine a.m. rolls around, leaving me sitting at the local Starbucks sipping my skinny mocha and tapping my foot until finally I just get up and leave. I’ve had a lunch date in which I seemed to get along with the guy and we made an agreement to get together and discreetly bang sometime in the future, only to get home and discover the other guy had not only Googled up articles about me online over a decade old that he presented to me with all the pride of a housecat offering up the fresh kill of a baby bird at my unsuspecting feet, but somehow managed to find three old phone numbers (one for a job I haven’t worked at in over fifteen years) and wanted to know which one was best to keep in touch with me. I mean, even Mr. Killer Stalker of 2013 wasn’t that thorough, especially in the space of an hour and a half. There might’ve been a time in my life when I would’ve found any of these experiences soul-crushing, but now I just have to laugh. No, really. Instead of feeling dispirited by the little-mindedness of it all, I try instead to find amusement and even delight in the ways that boys have of surprising me, even as they’re displaying both bad manners and bad taste. Take, for example, this brittle repartee that I am quoting verbatim: HIM: Wow! You have a really great smile! And dick! ME: I appreciate the compliments. Thank you. You’re a handsome man yourself. HIM: I didn’t say you were handsome. Technically he’s right. I shouldn’t have assumed. But ouch. Right? Trust me, laughing helps when you get a kick on the shin like that one. Or this: HIM: You have a hot dick. You kind of remind me of a guy on television. ME: Thank you. Which guy on television? HIM: The one about that family that moved to Hollywood. ME: Beverly Hills 90210 ? HIM: No. Oh, I know. You remind me a lot like a kind-of-hot Jed Clampett. Because trust me, you can’t make up that kind of comedy gold. Let’s get to some questions from readers, shall we? If you’ve got questions to ask your resident sex blogger, either get on spring.me and ask me there, or send me email to the address in the sidebar with Reader Question in the subject line. I have a backlog of these that I work my way through, but I’ll get to them sooner or later. Your child goes off to college and comes back during the summer. He's made a very attractive friend who happens to live in the same neighborhood. He shows interest in you. Would you ever consider fucking him? Oh please. I was already texting the kid and getting nuts-deep in his hole before I got to the word 'neighborhood.' I understand updating a profile keep it interesting, I've noticed guys abandoning their profiles creating entirely new ones. Is there a new trend emerging? 1 guy has had 3 on MH, 4 on Adam and Jack'd! Do you think a new moniker helps or hurts? I've noticed the phenomenon myself—though it's difficult to account for, in many ways. I can understand why some people have three or four profiles on a website like Manhunt, for example. It's a site that requires a paid account in order to do much of anything beyond read and respond to three or four emails a day; having a second or third account allows someone to double or triple the amount of activity he can undertake there. Why someone would need multiple accounts on a free site like Adam4Adam or on a GPS app like Jack'd is beyond me, though in the past people have attempted to explain to me why. I knew one fellow who kept two profiles because one was 'nice' (with only a face and a chest photo) and the other 'naughty' (the camera was pointed lower). I knew another fellow who kept one profile that said he was in the mood to bottom, and another profile for when he felt more versatile. And I've known a couple of people who flit between cities and keep a separate sex profile for each. There are legitimate reasons for a person to eliminate a profile and start anew. I'm not going to knock those in the least. I do find it slightly irritating, however, when someone will start a conversation with me on one profile and then assume I'll recognize them when they approach me on another—especially if there's no continuity between the photos in them both. In light of the recent murder using the Grinder App while sad and tragic I found it disturbing that a man of 25 in a 17 month relationship had an "open relationship" they weren't together long enough to have a relationship to open! Is monogamy dead? One of the things I've learned over the years is that there’s no shortage of people out there who are more than willing to invalidate other people’s relationships. I've got conservatives and fundamentalists telling me that gay marriages are an abomination. I've got gay friends who say that if a relationship is open, it's not a ‘real’ relationship at all. I've known people who had fancy weddings with extensive registries who look down on those of us whose weddings were much humbler and hastier affairs. I've known people who've become serious after a very short period of time, only to be told by outsiders that it wouldn't last. I'm not going to judge how long is appropriate for a relationship to be in existence before the pair open it up to others. For some couples it's bound to take a long time. Others might be ready for it instantly. That's a matter for a couple to decide on their own, and not for you or me to judge. What's disturbing is not the open relationship, but that someone would murder anyone else—and murder, sadly happens not only only to men on Grindr, but to people in all walks of life in the real world. It happens in families, and to straight people, and to people who are half of a monogamous couple. An open relationship did not cause this death. A murderer did. That’s what we should be focusing on. Do you believe there is such thing as "the gay look?” Not effeminate men but average looking men who are tagged gay cos of their general appearance. I believe it's possible to have a personal gaydar that's pretty accurate. I know people talk about being able to identify other gay men by having something they call 'gayface' or by the way the men dress, or by the way they walk or talk or, god help us, the way they cross their legs when they sit down. Perhaps some of those indicators actually work. (I personally believe in the 'gayface' thing myself.) I've always prided myself on my gaydar, however, but it's based not on the way men look, but on the way they behave when they think they're not being observed. From my teens I've always observed the way guys look at other people around them—whether they check out the women or the men, where their eyes linger on the body when they do look someone over. Is it at the guy's watch, briefcase, and car keys? Or is it at the guy's eyes, chest, and crotch? Because of those is what straight men do, and the other is what gay men do when they assume no one's looking. While straight men let their gazes linger on the bodies of attractive women, gay men's eyes wander over male forms. Even those men who think they've managed to button down and corral their desire do it for a split-second before habit and fear rein in a perfectly natural instinct. Some men might have some kind of external indicators that constitute a gay look, accurate or not. My own experience is that there are little behaviors that are a better indicator of secret desire. What age is the oldest guy you have recently fucked? As I hit 60 I find it curious what role age plays in sex. There’s a guy at one of my group sessions who has a monster dick. I’m not exaggerating. The thing’s at least nine inches and beer-can thick. I feel like a little pea shooter when I’m erect next to him. He’s an older guy with gray hair, but he’s got a good physique on him, is handsome as all get out, and has a pair of blue eyes that could make a guy do anything. I’d spent half a morning with him sucking his dick and fucking him and being rewarded with coffee-flavored kisses when he announced to the group that he had a birthday that week. “Happy fortieth!” I said, thinking I was shaving off twenty years and complimenting him at the same time. “How old will you be?” asked the group host. “Sixty-nine,” admitted the guy. Readers, if I’m still performing like that man when I’m sixty-nine, I’ll start taking the extra vitamins today, thanks very much. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So I’m sitting in a bar. It’s not a gay bar—it’s definitely not billed that way. It’s not entirely a straight bar, either, because I’ve seen a good third to half of the patrons at the area’s one gay club. It’s what they call typically ‘post-gay’ around here—we’re supposed to be so above it, so hip and welcoming, that gay bars are no longer necessary. Maybe it’s true. There are bars of all stripes in the New York suburbs, but very few of them are gay. No, this joint is one of many bar/restaurants nestling next to each other on a strip in White Plains, which after dark becomes busy with young metropolitans hopping from one establishment to the next. I like this place, though; the bartender’s cute, the drinks aren’t wildly expensive, and every now and again I get to stagger off my stool and sing some karaoke. Then a guy sits next to me. Over the loudspeaker some chick is caterwauling something off the top forty. The volume’s hair, and the effect is ear-splitting. I always try to be polite in karaoke bars when the singer’s bad—they’re not being paid for it, after all. But the effect to me is like iron tongs scraping blocks of ice, and I’m afraid I turn my face away from the stage and draw it into a rictus of pain. “Damn,” says the guy. “It’s a good thing she’s cute, because she sure sings like ass.” I give him a silent look that’s intended to say Amen to that. I look him over. He’s wearing a chambray shirt, worn but clean. Gray slacks. His hair is silvered, lush, curly. He’s a good looking guy. Smells good, too, like fresh citrus. His clothes occupy a space between white-color professional and blue-collar laborer. I’m not quite figuring him out yet. “I haven’t been to this bar before,” he says, as he grabs the bartender’s attention and orders a beer. “You?” “A few times,” I say. I look down. The guy’s got an impressive bulge down the left leg of his jeans. “I was next door, heard all the commotion. Thought I’d come see what was going on.” I can’t tell if he’s looking me over or not. He’s definitely looking at me. But he is looking at me? I don’t know. “You seem like the kind of guy who gets a lot of action. Am I right?” He’s right, but I’m not committing to coming off as cocky. I just grin, shrug, and take a swig from my glass. “Karaoke action, maybe,” I say, by way of modesty. “Right. I bet that’s not the only action. You singing?” “Already did. It’ll be a while before I sing again.” “Maybe we can talk some, then. I’m Louis.” My dick stirs in my pants as I shake Louis’ hand. I still haven’t figured the guy out. These so-called ‘post-gay’ bars in this sophisticated part of the U.S. are a mixed bag of blessings. The up, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody gives a damn who’s gay or who’s straight. The down, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody can really tell who’s gay or who’s straight without some name tags. Either way, I like talking to new people, so I give him my name and tell him I’m glad to meet him. He tells me he’s an engineer who studies drain lines. That makes sense to me—the clothes are a mixture of the down-and-dirty and the supervisor-in-the-yellow-construction-hat. “Seems like a great crowd in here,” he tells me. “Kind of a mix of hot chicks and gay guys, right?” I’m still wondering on which side his pachinko ball lands on when he adds, “I was down in the city a couple of weeks ago and I went to this bar in the Village, Marie’s Crisis?” I tell him I’d heard of it. “Place was fucking packed with the gays. They sing a hell of a lot better than this chick, though! I was pretty sure I was the only straight guy there.” There’s the name tag I was looking for. Hello, my name is Heterosexual. He leans in even closer, though, giving me a little bit of an erotic thrill. “With all those gay guys I’m sure could’ve got my dick sucked easy if I wanted at that place, know what I’m saying, though?” he murmurs. And even though I’m not the kind of guy who fetishizes sex with straight men, I’m still a little giddy and aroused at the confidence. I’m pretty sure he’s got me pegged, too; we both know what we are, and we’re both comfortable with ourselves and each other. It’s a post-gay bar thing, right? We listen to the karaoke singers for a while, exchanging small talk. He tells me about his place up the Hudson; I talk a little about moving from the distressed midwest to the swanky neighborhood where I now reside. Then he leans over and puts a hand on my shoulder, and moves in. I lean forward until my ear is near his lips. “So buddy,” he whispers, soft and intimate. “There’s a pretty lady at twelve o’clock. Your twelve o’clock,” he corrects, when I try to look behind me. “Check her out. Is she my type?” We’re within kissing distance, almost; the intimacy hits me like a sack of wet bricks. I find I’m totally erect as I look at the woman three seats down from him. She’s dressed up for an evening out. Her dress is cut low on top and cut high at the legs; she’s got a mane of glossy black hair hanging down her shoulders, a clutch in her left hand, left knee atop the right. “I don’t know what your type is,” I murmur into his ear, as the smell of lime tickles my nostrils. “Is she a blockaway?" he asks, soft and low. “What’s a blockaway?” “You know. A dude or a chick who only looks good from a block away or more.” He gives me a broad grin and a wink while I roared out loud. “She’s not a blockaway,” I assure him. “Then she’s my type. Do a brother a solid and help me out here.” He jerks his head toward the woman. “Soften her up a little.” It’s been a long, long time since I was a straight man’s wingman. My dick is still hard when I slide out of my chair with my glass in my hand and mosey over to the woman’s far side. Most of the crowd is up by the karaoke stage; it’s fairly quiet in the stretch of bar seats beyond where the woman has parked herself. I wave my glass at the bartender, set it down on the wood surface, and slide it back. Then I rest my arms on the seat beside the waiting woman. “So are you singing tonight?” I ask her. She gives me that automatic look of reproach that woman tend to use when they’re alone in public places and don’t care for strange men hitting on them. It’s icy, and distant. Then she turns to dig for something imaginary in her purse. “You should sing,” I tell her. “The hostess has a huge book of songs. She used to do karaoke at the gay bar way down the road until she moved here. That’s where I used to hang out. But at least this place serves food.” I watch as she processes the information. She looks around at the post-gay bar crowd and draws the correct conclusion, but I’ve already moved on. “Of course, some people find it’s more fun the drunker they are.” “I’m really not much of a singer,” she says, taking her drink from the bartender and sipping it prettily through the straw. “But I did do ‘Love Shack’ once.” Christ, everyone and their sloshed aunt has done ‘Love Shack.’ “You should totally do it,” I say, giving her a big smile. “Everyone would love you up there. You’re gorgeous.” She flushes, and flutters her eyelashes. Flattery from gay guys is always the best. What reason do we have to lie? “Oh, come on.” “Seriously, you are!” By now, my friend has moved up behind the woman. He’s standing upright, drink in hand, behind her shoulder. “Oh hey, do you know my friend Louis?” I ask, shamelessly stealing a line from How I Met Your Mother. Then I mumble something about seeing the karaoke hostess about when I’m going to sing, and leave the two of them alone. I’m down the bar, watching Louis talk to the woman. I’m struck by how close his approach looks to an outsider like the way he walked to me: posture open, leaning in, close, intimate. She’s laughing and smiling at her, and she’s smiling at him . . . though perhaps not as broadly as she’d smiled at me. Eventually I turn away and listen to the music again. He’s back five minutes later. “Nice work, my brother,” he says, slipping me a private secret handshake that I nearly fumble at the last minute. “You are a good, good wingman.” “But you’re back here,” I point out. “She’s waiting for someone. There’ll be another.” He sits down to wait with me, and we pass the time talking, inches from each other. He’s correct. Another woman makes her way into the bar and takes a seat at the tables in the back. I bring her to his attention. “Definitely not a blockaway," he says with approval. “You know I’d do this for you,” he said. “Though I kinda suspect you don’t need me to.” “What are wingmen for?” I ask, as I crack my knuckles and get to work. I use the same approach. Ask her if she’s singing. Let it slip that I’m likely not after her body. Introduce my friend. And leave them alone. This time, though, it seems to stick. He’s at the table for five minutes, flashing his pearly whites, staring her down. Ten minutes. Then he’s beside her on the bench. When I take the stage to sing at the fifteen minute point, he’s to his arms around her, and they’re absorbed in their own little universe. Job done. Three songs and I’m out. I give my buddy a wave on the way toward the door. I’m surprised when he makes an apology to the woman and skitters over to stand next to me. His arm’s around my shoulder and he gives me a hug and a toast with his glass. “I pretty sure I’m in this one. It’s all thanks to you.” Again, the intimacy of the embrace, of that shared common goal of getting laid, makes me hard as a rock. No matter what holes our dicks go into, he and I both share that need of getting in and getting the job done. My heart’s thudding as I show some demur to his praise. “I owe you one,” he says, looking me dead in the eye with his baby blues as I go. He points at me. “And I always pay my debts.” I’m doubting he pay this one in quite the way I have in mind. Still. It’s nice to be owed. More...

Amen to that, DrScorpio!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had the opportunity recently to spend an afternoon and evening with my friend Eeyore. Longer-term readers of my blog will realize that I am not myself a long-term resident of The Hundred Acre Wood, but am talking about an old, decades-old, old-old-old friend of mine who has a glum and dour disposition. He has a unique talent for making lemons out of lemonade; I’m not exaggerating much when I say his mere appearance at a Mardi Gras celebration could turn a happy festival into a mass suicide. Going out with Eeyore these days is really not that different from going out by myself, much of the time. No sooner will we have arrived at a place than he’ll whip out his smartphone and absorb himself, for half-hours at a time, in the seemingly dozens of GPS sex apps that occupy his phone’s first screen. There’s Grindr and Scruff, of course, and Growlr, but then there are a good ten more of which I’ve never heard. Mind you, Eeyore will never actually hook up with any of the guys he sees on these apps. The last time I checked in with him, he hadn’t actually had sex in two decades. But that doesn’t keep him from dreaming about it . . . in public, surrounded by men in a gay bar, in the company of friends who take him out because they want to socialize with him and not with the back of his phone’s case. So there we were, in a fairly quiet gay bar—just me, Eeyore, and Eeyore’s smartphone. I sipped my drink and watched his fingers move lovingly over the silicone-and-glass device. I looked away when he stroked it intimately, as it might a lover. “This one’s hot, huh?” he would occasional say, then show me a photo of a blue-haired, big-schnozzed twenty-four year old. “Where’s he from?” I’d ask. “He’s only thirty-six hundred miles away,” he’d sigh, and then lose himself in concentration for another half hour. I’d sit there, sipping and sipping, watching the gay men come and go while he’d hunch over and peck out conversations with ugly guys who lived just on the other side of the Urals. A very long and silent forty-five minutes later, he nudged me to show me a profile on Grindr. “Oh god! This one’s less than two hundred and fifty feet away!” he said, using much the same strangled, ecstatic tones as might a happy pilgrim upon seeing the Virgin Mary pop her head into Lourdes. “That’s because it’s the bartender,” I told him, nodding at the young guy at the room’s other side. The photo on the phone was of a twenty-five-year-old in shorts and hiking boots, his feet firmly planted on some rocky precipice. He had longer hair in his Grindr photo, but it was unmistakably the same guy in the jeans and the tee with the cut-off arms who was standing across the room. “If you actually looked up once in a while. . . .” “Oh god, do you think? He’s so, so beautiful,” mooned Eeyore. I thought the kid was all right. Nothing too special. I wouldn’t have turned him down if he’d come on to me, but I wouldn’t have turned into a crushed-out schoolgirl over the kid, either. “So go talk to him,” I suggested. I wouldn’t have minded being left alone for a few minutes. Hell, I’d been alone for the hour we’d been in the bar. He recoiled. “I couldn’t do that,” he said, horrified at the thought. Eeyore is a good seven or eight years older than I, if I’ve not mentioned it; he behaves as if he’s thirty-seven or thirty-eight years younger. “Look at him,” he said, over and over again, cupping his smartphone as if it were a religious icon. He stared at the photo for long minutes, not seeming to realize that the real thing was standing not twenty feet from his downturned face. “Less than two hundred and fifty feet away!” “Uh-huh,” I said, starting to grind my teeth. For another half-hour I sat there with Eeyore, staring at the top of his bent head. “Let’s go get some dinner,” I finally suggested. Without complaint he agreed. We sucked down the rest of our drinks, collected our things, and were on the way to the front door when I realized that Eeyore had stopped in front of the bar. “Hey,” he said. Then, louder, “HEY.” There were two guys behind the bar that evening. One was the one from Grindr; the other was older and closer. They both stopped what they were doing to look at Eeyore. “You ever been on a mountaintop?” Eeyore asked the younger bartender. “What?” said the older one. “On a mountaintop?” “I know what I’m asking!” said Eeyore. “You. You ever been on a mountaintop?” “Hey,” I said, realizing he was a little more drunk than I realized. “Let’s go.” “Why would I be on a mountaintop?” asked the older bartender, still not realizing he wasn’t the one being addressed. The younger bartender, in the meantime, seem to have finally realized what Eeyore was asking. He blinked and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Eeyore caught the gesture. “Oh yeah,” he said, way too loudly and nastily. “He knows what I mean. You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’tcha, sweetheart? Standing there pretending like you don’t know—” “We’re going,” I told him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out. Eeyore is a lot heavier than I, but I was a lot more sober, and had my balance. He tumbled out the door into the night. “What the fuck was that?” I wanted to know. He started to make excuses for his behavior, but I wasn’t having any of it. “That kid didn’t do anything to you,” I lectured. “There’s no need to be confrontational with him just because he’s on Grindr and you’re too afraid to go up and—“ “I can’t help it if I don’t know the etiquette of these situations!” he yelled at my back, then scurried to catch up with me. “Just be nice,” I suggested. “Not weird.” We went to dinner. Now, normally, when I go out with friends, I am the slow eater. Everyone else will have cleaned his plate and folded his napkin while I’m still rounding that final leg of my cheeseburger. By the time I’ve downed that last fry with small grunts of pleasure, they’re usually tapping their toes, avoiding my glance, and wondering when the entire ugly spectacle will finally come to an end. When I’m with Eeyore, however, he’s spending so much time staring at his phone and checking messages on Fuckr or Scrappr or whatever is the app du jour that I seem like a high-powered Hoover in comparison. I finished eating whatever the hell it was I’d ordered after twenty minutes; it took him a full hour and a half to consume a salad and a wedge of whole-grain bread. But once he had some food in him he started to become the charming guy I’ve known he can be—at least when the waiter was around, anyway. The kid tending our table was a student who was outright adorable. Cute face, lithe little body, a smile that lit up our corner of the dank little restaurant. Whenever he was around, Eeyore would set down his phone, come to life, and elicit some new little bit of information about the boy. That’s how we discovered the kid was a senior in college who worked seven nights a week all summer to earn his tuition for the next year of school; he was majoring in business; he loved to surf and planned to move to San Diego with his girlfriend after he graduated. I started to relax, thinking that maybe my lecture about not being weird had sunk in a little. The waiter enjoyed the interactions. It was a slow night, and he obviously enjoyed talking about himself. I’m sure he knew we were both gay, and even though he seemed pretty straight, he didn’t mind Eeyore’s none-too-subtle flirtation. Then came the check. “Oh thank god,” Eeyore said, grabbing it. For a moment I thought the waiter had discounted our drinks or something. But no. “His full name’s on it. Gimme.” He pointed to the kid’s moniker under a generic computer-printed line about how happy he’d been to serve us. He grabbed his phone and started to tap at it. I prised his fingers out of the folder and stuck my credit card in it. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Investigating,” he said, stabbing furiously at the glass. “Look,” he said, showing me the waiter’s Facebook profile. There was a photo of him with a surfboard, shirtless and looking good. Then another of him with a smiling girl. “I hate her,” Eeyore growled, looking at the other photos. “Come on,” I said, feeling the old dread settle over me once again. “You’re being creepy.” The cute waiter boy came over to collect the bill. He wore a big smile on his face. “Hey guys, thanks for being at my. . . .” The smile faded when Eeyore thrust his smartphone into the kid’s face. “Who’s the girl?” he wanted to know. “She looks like a skank.” “How did you . . . oh . . . you saw my name on the check,” said the waiter, all color fading from his face. “Then you . . . looked me up online. . . .” “Yeah, he’s a regular Hardy Boy,” I said, trying to lighten the moment with a joke. The waiter walked away expressionlessly to cash out the bill. When he was out of earshot, I stared at Eeyore. “Asshole,” I said to him. “What?” he asked, still looking at the boy’s photos. “You had a nice rapport going with that kid. Then you fucked it up. Why the hell?” “I don’t know the etiquette of. . . .” “That is bullshit,” I told him. “You are nearly sixty years old. You’ve had half a century to learn by now that if you want to stalk someone online, do it in private. You don’t do it, then share the results of your stalking with your victim. You don’t put them on the spot like that. You don’t—“ But I was too mad by that point to be coherent for much longer. I’d had enough for that night. I keep thinking about my anger from that evening, in a week where I’ve had several kinds of rudeness thrown my way by other guys. Each time something new and creative and shitty has happened, I keep wanting to put my hands on my hips and ask, What in the world were you thinking? to the guys. But I’m sure that I’d just get the reply of, What?! I don’t know the etiquette here. . . .! Which is bullshit. We’re all adults. By now we should know to play nicely with each other. We’re not theoretical constructs that exist only thirty-six hundred miles away. We’re not nerveless imaginary beings on the other side of a layer of glass. We’re all real people, and if we’re wielding our dicks at each other, we should be mature enough to treat each other with a little respect. We all know the etiquette here. We just have to understand that it’s up to every single one of us to apply it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The confession I’m about to make is more than slightly silly, but I’m going to blurt it out anyway: I have something of a schoolgirl crush on a local celebrity. I’m stretching the word ‘celebrity’ to the max, here. The actor in question is probably an E-List celebrity at most. Even the most avid TMZ devotee would be hard-pressed to come up with a mental image of the guy’s face were I to mention his name. He’s not popular enough to be a regular in People or Us Weekly, nor is he even highbrow enough to get a mention in a Broadway periodical. He’s known mostly for a single television show, but I still doubt he’d ever, even in a pinch, make the TV Guide crossword puzzle. No, a few years back there was a well-known cable drama that had a run for over half a decade. It got critical raves and had a stellar cast. My celebrity crush—let’s call him Davey—had a prominent role in the show for its entire run. He wasn’t the central character, but he got more airtime than most. Or maybe I just noticed him more when he was onscreen, looking all hot ’n’ stuff and stripping down to his underwear at every opportunity while his long blond hair hung down to his shoulders and the show’s directors lit him like he was some kind of Greek god. Excuse me. I need a quick cold shower. I liked the guy in the show. He was hot. He was frequently exposing his buttocks to the cameras. Do I really need anything else in a weekly TV cable show? Nope, apparently not. Oh wait. His acting was pretty good, too. There. Anyhow, the show went off the air, and Davey did a couple of tiny blink-and-you-miss-them appearances on a couple of other TV series, and then vanished altogether, never to be seen on the small screen again. I first became aware that Davey lived in my vicinity when I moved here, a few years back. I was grabbing a slice for dinner at the local hole-in-the-wall pizza joint on a busy Friday night. When I took my paper plate and plastic cup (that should tip you off that I only eat in the classiest restaurants) to the only open table in the place, I slid into my seat and found myself staring at the actor over whom I used to get wet on a weekly basis. I recognized him immediately; though he unfortunately had his clothes on, he still had his trademark shoulder-length golden hair and dreamy blue eyes. Since he was eating dinner with a pretty young woman and a couple of golden-haired kids I assumed belonged to him, I attempted to choke down my pepperoni pizza and act nonchalant as I immediately thumb-stabbed subtle texts to about a half-dozen friends that read, OHMYGOD I’M SITTING NEXT TO THE HOT GUY WHO NEVER WORE A SHIRT ON THAT SHOW WHO GOT RAPED BY THAT HOT GUY WHO’S ON THAT OTHER CRIME SHOW. Which, as a text message, I might have phrased a little more coherently, because most of my friends immediately texted back with I don’t know what the hell hot guy you’re talking about? or What?? or even Who are you and why are you texting me? I didn’t see Davey again until this summer, when he started making regular guest appearances in my life. Now that it’s summer and the building is empty where I do a little weekly volunteer work, Davey’s been renting a room a couple of times a week so he can have a quiet place to work on a screenplay. I wasn’t around when he made those arrangements, but the morning he started happened to be on my regular volunteer schedule. He strode in, tall and muscular with his golden hair pulled back into a ponytail, smiled at me, caught my name from my badge, and held out his hand to shake. “Hi, Rob,” he said in a manful voice, as he squeezed my hand. My knees started to go weak. “I’m Davey. I’ll be renting the office opposite yours, so you’ll be seeing me regularly over the summer.” He might have said more. I don’t know. The sound of the heavenly chorus singing kind of drowned it out. All I know is that he gave me a wink, let go of my hand (WHY, DEAR GOD, WHY?) and exited the office to shut himself into his own rented quarters. I wet my lips, swallowed, and finally said, very suavely, “Hhhhhhhiiiiiiii hot man. . . .” Every time I saw Davey the rest of that first day, he gave me a smile. A long, lingering smile. “How’s it going, Rob?” he’d growl, and I’d gulp and squeak out “F-F-FINE THANKS!” and in general react like I was a sixth-grade girl and he was one of the One Direction singers who happened to staying in my mom’s spare room. I’ve regained my composure since then. Somewhat. A little. Okay, not much at all. I see Davey pretty frequently, and though my stomach develops butterflies the instant I spot his glorious form, I manage to keep my cool outwardly. When I’m sitting on a rock and eating ice cream from the local scoop shop and Davey bikes by with his daughter, I have no problem waving and saying hello like a normal person. When he comes into the building where I volunteer and passes my office, I manage to keep my head on and my tongue in my mouth and ask him how the screenplay is going. We actually have a rapport. At the volunteer spot, all the female staff in the main office refer to Davey as ‘the hot guy.’ I was in there one morning when Davey strode by, dewy and glowing from his walk, his muscles rippling and his hair forming a mane of sunshine around his Apollo-like face. “Hi, Rob!” he called out as he walked by. Immediately all the females in the office turned on me and hissed, “HOW COME THE HOT GUY KNOWS YOUR NAME?!” “Ladies,” I said, in jaded tones. “I cannot help my allure.” As long as we’re confessing things, though, I have to admit that I did however have a recent mishap with my celebrity crush. A couple of weeks ago, I was taking my evening exercise. I’d chosen to do several walking laps around a local pond. It was a warm night, and the sun was brilliant as it sank down to the horizon. I was sweaty, and a little bit clammy, and listening to loud music through my earbuds. I was rounding the back half of my fourth lap when I saw him—my celebrity crush, cutting over the pond upon one of its bridges, heading in my direction. Was it the sun’s glare was bouncing off the water that blinded me, or was the brilliance that made me shade my eyes coming from his godlike profile and the silhouette of his golden ponytail? My heartbeat quickened and my stomach tightened into knots. I slowed down my pace in a ‘totally natural’ way. I shook my hair and wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. Then I decided to have ‘earbud problems’ that required me to remove them, just in case, you know, Davey wanted to have a ‘long, drawn-out conversation’ that involved him telling me that the proximity between us was driving him mad, MAD, and that he’d decided to leave his wife and kiddies and run away with me to Aruba. Or something like that, you know. When I reached the end of the bridge at exactly the same time as his sun-obscured figure, I had a smile on my lips and a look of ‘total surprise’ on my face as I prepared myself to say something like, “Why, Davey! Fancy meeting you here!”. . . . . . . and then I saw that the figure that had been crossing the bridge during my moment of sun blindness wasn’t Davey at all, but some gray-haired old lady with a ponytail who was looking at me with curiosity and a little bit of apprehension, obviously wondering what what sweaty crazy guy had been about to say to her. For the record, I went with ‘good evening’ and privately ate crow on my final lap around the park. Whoops. More...

Thank you, Slowfuck!