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!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When the late-night commuter trains out of Grand Central pulls into the last stop at the New York border, all the dumb white overprivileged Connecticut kids shout out derogatory comments. This stop is . . . Mexican Town!, they’ll giggle, like it’s the funniest shit in the world. This stop is . . . Little Puerto Rico! The village has a heavy concentration of Latin neighborhoods, though, and as I’m driving through the landmarks of one just outside the little downtown area, late one night on my way to a fuck, I’m suddenly struck by a thought. This street seems awfully familiar. A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site. The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck. Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little. He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers. The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior. It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say. The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked. Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.” “Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.” Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke. Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.” Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more. And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.” “Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs. “That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?” “I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two. “You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?” “I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“ Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate. I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.” I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out. From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment. “You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?” I nod. “How about you?” “I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little. “But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though. “But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.” “I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them. He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?” I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?” “Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.” I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again. “Thanks,” I say at the door. “Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?” Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My line of work involves long stretches of seeming inactivity during which I’m supposed to be generating my artistic output (though if you ever catch me swanning around in public like a total poseur talking about “my artistic output”, please feel free to slap me), punctuated by frantic activity around the times I’m either pulling up to a big deadline or actively gunning for a new commission. Since April I’ve been dealing with both a deadline and trying to land a new gig; it’s my career version of one of those special eclipses involving a conjunction of events that comes around every seventy-eight years. The result, sadly, has been that I haven’t had the leisure to devote much time to my blog. Or, more sadly, my blog readers. I apologize for that. I’m here to thank all of you for your patience with me . . . well, most of you. The ones that have been patient, anyway. I’m also here to request you all hang in with me a little bit longer, because I intend to take a break for two to three weeks. Part of that time I’ll be spending on an actual, honest-to-god, getting-the-hell-out-of-Dodge vacation that I haven’t had for a year or more. The rest of it I’ll just be spending decompressing, spending time with the family, and letting my brain vegetate without the pressure of a deadline or a duty to perform. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll even be able to get around to the backlog of email that’s accumulated in the last couple of months. In the meantime, let’s get to some reader questions. What's the worst lie you ever told? Did you get caught? I've told a lot of lies in my life. I think I wrote a blog post once about dozens of lies I've told to get sex. I'm at a stage of my life now, however, where generally I like living as authentic a life as possible—plus lying is so exhausting. Keeping track of the fake name. Trying to remember how a famous astronaut would talk. Very wearying. I think the worst lies I've told are those deliberately intended to wall me off from intimacy with perfectly nice guys. When I've determined that someone new I'm meeting will be just a one-time trick, and I've given him a false name or some reason why I'm not available to meet him more frequently than he wants, I tend to feel badly when he turns out to be a good person I'd like to know better. The worst lies aren't those about trivial things, but those that keep you from fully experiencing the world and other people. I've started hooking up with guys on the side. To my surprise, it's increased me desire at home and I'm fucking my wife like when we were newlyweds. Q1: Does this seem odd to you? Q2: Do I have to "come out" about it, or just let her enjoy the perks? The increased desire might surprise you, but it doesn't surprise me—nor would it surprise a lot of men and women who are in relationships yet play with others. So no, it's not odd at all. It's easy to fall into a rut at home. Daily living takes a toll on the sexiness of two people, no matter how blazing hot the heat was during their courtship. Your wife (or, for other folk, husband) has seen you slurp cereal out of a bowl without using a spoon. She's seen you scratch your gonads and pick your nose when you thought she wasn't looking...or when you didn't care if she was. She's seen you pee and poop and has listened and smelled your farts. She knows the stains you leave on your dirty laundry. Every little act of familiarity, no matter how comfortable it is, chips away at that façade of flawlessness and sexual desirability we present to another person before moving in with him or her. I don't care who you are. If you don't pay take exquisite care, your sexiness level is going to drop. But when you start playing with others, you start paying attention again. You shave more carefully. You groom other parts of your body. You dress better in the morning knowing you're going to see your new buddy at lunchtime or in the evening. Then you come home after a hot session where you've had hot sex and attention and compliments lavished on you, feeling infinitely younger and more seductive and more handsome than when you left. Of course that's going to pay off at home. If you're feeling sexier and looking better and roaring with erotic confidence, your wife's going to notice. You're going to want to spread it around and let her share in it. Unless the sex is totally dead between a couple, most people I know tell me they have much better sex at home when they're playing with others than when they aren't. And this goes for people who are in open relationships as well as those on the down-low. Whether or not you tell your significant other about your fucking around is up to you; I'm not your scowling priest, nor am I the man who intends to enable your adultery. It's your life. Live it how you want. I will say, however, that if you intend to keep your fucking a secret, don't be so foolish as to assume that it will never result in unintended consequences. Know what can happen to you, prepare for it, and If something adverse does happen, be prepare to deal with it. hallo mr. i've just discovered my red-neck hubby reading your blog. i’m wondering if he's bi or gay,i had hot sex with bi guys in college, so wouldn't really have any problems however should i ask, or leave it to him? he was extremely upset when i saw what he I'm kind of curious why you call your husband a redneck. It's not a very complimentary term even under the most generous of usages. Unless your husband is a sociologist (who happens to be a redneck) or a psychologist studying human sexuality (who likes six-packs of cheap beer and hangs a Confederate flag in the rear window of his pickup truck), I'm guessing he's bi. If he's reading my blog, I'm deducing he has impeccable good taste. If you've got no problems with it, good for you! Most men feel cornered when they're confronted with direct questions about their sexuality, however, especially when it's about activities they might not have known or expected to be observed; you might not want to tell him outright you saw him looking at my piquant prose. You might broach the subject a couple of other ways, however. Tell him you have fantasies of a three-way with another guy, and see how he reacts. Buy or rent some bisexual porn and masturbate to it so that he can see, or ask him if he minds if you play it during sex with him. If the questions and fantasies sound as if they're originating from you, he might be more likely to enjoy your suggestions, even if he’s pretending to play along with them. And hopefully you'd both learn something new about the other and be able to enjoy each other in a more honest and playful fashion. If you don't care for that approach, just make sure to make more noise when you get home early, and always leave a five-second modesty grace period for the poor guy to pull up his pants. When a guy sucks your cock, what percentage do you think can go nose to pubes? Do you try and 'encourage' guys who can't to take more? The percentage of men—or women—who can take my dick all the way down is pretty low. I'd say less than about five percent. Of those five percent, there are vanishingly few who can deep-throat me and do so in a way that isn't either excruciating to witness/listen to—that is, who don't gag or choke or make me look around for a nearby ball-point pen just in case I have to perform an emergency tracheotomy—or who don't actually make my dick uncomfortable by biting it, squeezing it too hard in their throats, or by wrenching it to a truly painful angle. I'd say less than one in a hundred manage to make me enjoy their deep-throat efforts. To be honest, I'd rather get really good head over five and a half of my inches than an indifferent-to-bad deep throating over all eight. Why are so many self-loathing gay or bisexual men so bitchy? There are a lot of self-loathing gay or bi men. And there are a lot of bitchy gay or bi men. But as I learned in two semesters of college statistics classes, a correlation doesn't imply causation. It may very well be that some men who've loathed their sexuality become bitchy. But it may just as well turn out that because some men are bitchy, they loath themselves. I became very aware, about a decade ago, that among my circle of gay and bi male friends there was a very popular form of discourse in which it was popular to let loose with all kinds of scattershot little quips and barbs directed at each other. They were supposed to be playful, but none of the bon mots were remotely affectionate or really all that witty; they were just put-downs. Some of the people I knew communicated entirely through them, it seemed. Once someone started, it'd be like wildfire—everyone would join in. Sometimes they'd all dogpile on one unfortunate soul who'd get picked apart mercilessly. To add insult to injury, the victim would be chided as a bad sport if he didn't go along with it. Now, I'm not saying I'm totally unbitchy. I definitely have my moments. I can be an ice-cold, sharp-tongued frost queen on the turn of a dime. I try save it, however, for the very small handful of people who have earned my sincere displeasure. I'll blast a person I despise with an icicle to his face; I don't send thousands of tiny, nearly invisible needles everyone's way every time I'm in public. So I withdrew from that kind of bitchy discourse disguised as 'wit' as much as possible. If other people did it, I wouldn't join in. Later on I got brave enough to say to certain people words to the effect of, "Hey, listen, I like having you as my friend, but I don't find much actual friendship when you talk about me like that." And hoo boy, did that ever offend people. It's not like I ever said "Wow, did you know you’re really a bitch-faced cunt?" No, I used adult language to express my discomfort with a particular type of behavior. Hearing it, some folk would fly off the handle and say I was weak, even though I'd had the strength to stand up to them instead of cowering and hoping no one would notice me. Others would try to misdirect their bad behavior by claiming that I did the exact same thing all the time—although they couldn't name a single instance when I had. Others doubled down and talked twice as badly about me as before, behind my back. So I lost friends—a lot of friends—when I finally took a stand and very mildly protested a form of bad behavior for which I no longer cared. And you know what? Good riddance. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life, and neither do you. When I meet people now who have a tendency to make a 'joke' that takes the form of laughing lightly and ending their sentences with "...and you're a whore!", I smile politely and make a mental note not to engage with them very deeply or frequently. When I encounter people who make cutting remarks about their so-called friends behind their backs, I don't make plans to meet them for coffee. I don’t invite them to parties. I avoid people who proudly call themselves 'sarcastic.' They're often just bullies who think the label gives them immunity to hurt feelings at whim, and that everyone should laugh along with them—especially their victims. There are plenty of unbitchy people, gay, bi, and straight, with whom I can surround myself. I suggest you do the same, even though it might mean making totally new friends. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When a real sex hound enters a room full of men fucking, he looks around to discover one thing. He’s not looking first for the best looking guys, the way a kid might. A real pig is seasoned and experienced enough not to need the cheap and needy kind of validation that comes from fucking around with a guy one or two grades higher on the scale than himself. Nor is he searching out the man with the best underwear, or the hottest chest, or the most worked-out body in the group. Some guys think those are the things that get a guy laid. They’re not. No, what a real sex hound does when he enters a room full of men fucking is to study the action for a moment and size up who are the likely tops and the bottoms. Then he works from there. If he’s looking to be plugged with cock, he’ll insinuate himself down on his knees in front of one of the men who appear to be taking a more active role. If he’s looking to top, he’ll approach a guy with his cock in his hand, ready for service. When this particular guy strode into the bedroom at The Professor’s home, one weekday morning, I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. There some something about the cocky way he held himself—furry, muscular chest puffed out, shoulders back, hips askew—that told me he was used to being the center of attention. The guy was built like a barrel: stocky, solid, gym-shaped to withstand a lot of use. I saw his eyes alight on the pair of men sixty-nining on the carpeted floor, then on the trio swapping kisses and fondling each other’s dicks in the corner. Then he looked at the low-slung queen-sized bed where I and four other men cavorted. He stood for a long time, his short fat dick sticking straight out in front of him, hands on hips, watching us there. Watching me, I should say. I was the focus of the other men’s sexual energy. I had one sexy daddy straddling my chest as he made out with me. My cock was wedged into his ass crack, where it thrust up and down, made slippery by the mouth of the sexy bald muscle man I always fuck once or twice at this particular party. The bald guy was crouched on all fours licking my stick and my balls, hungrily gobbling the head whenever it emerged. One older man knelt at the bottom of the bed, sucking on my toes; it’s what he likes to do while other men are pleasuring me. I can’t say I objected. The feeling of a warm mouth on my feet just amplifies whatever sensations other mouths and hands create. Finally I had an Asian boy trying to insert himself between me and the man on my chest. He grabbed kisses when he could, and chewed on my nipples when he couldn’t. The furry muscle dude looked at my cock, red and wet and big and much in demand, and looked at me, and looked at the guys competing for my attention. When his lips worked a little, silently, I knew exactly what kind of guy he was: a competitive top. I’m not judging competitive tops, mind you. I’m a highly-competitive top myself. Are there any true tops who aren’t competitive at heart? We want our cocks to be the biggest, the thickest, the hardest—the best. We want our fucks to be the most memorable. We want to be, more than the prettiest or the biggest or the strongest, the most desired in the room. At my cockiest and my most son-of-a-bitchiest, I get it. This guy had swagger, though. I had to give him that. After he sized me up and (correctly) determined that I was his biggest competition in the room, he made his way to the bed and hauled the bald muscle guy off my dick. The bald guy didn’t care about the rough treatment; he’s used to being manhandled. He’s got a built frame, but he’s pocket-sized and easily manhandled. His mouth was still in an O-shape from sucking me when he landed on his knees in front of the furry dude. The furry top roughly shoved him down on his dick, gave the back of the bald skull a push, and started getting the rest of the blow job I’d been enjoying myself. Then the furry muscle top looked at me without expression. I got the hot one now, he seemed to be saying. I wasn’t flustered. I don’t get threatened so easily. Besides, I’d already had my dick inside that hole he was currently fucking. I raised my hands up. Used them to cradle the back of my head. The daddy who’d been straddling my chest moved down to my dick and started to suck. The Asian kid took his place, eagerly thrusting his dripping cock into my stomach as he greedily made out with me. Meanwhile, the guy working my feet continued to do my thing. I didn’t look back in the furry dude’s direction, but I could tell he was watching. He decided to escalate it. He turned his little bald bottom around and shoved him forward so that the guy started edging me off the bed. Then he pried apart the bald guy’s ass, spat in his palm, rubbed it around, and shoved his cock in. I know how to fuck Junior Mr. Clean; I’ve been dicking him for over a year. Just stabbing it into him isn’t going to do it. My bald buddy’s face was screwed up not in that sweet mix of anguish and pleasure that lets me know I’m doing my job right, but in outright pain. He was pro enough, though, to bite his lower lip, close his eyes, and power on through. Then the furry top decided to poach another of my men—the daddy on my dick. He pulled his skull off my rod and pushed the daddy’s face against his broad pec. I found the move a little sleazy, to be honest. I’m not the kind of guy who asserts himself by showing up others. In a group situation, there’s plenty of fun to be found; when I’m on the playground, I don’t feel the need to snatch other boys’ toys just so I can climb to the top of the jungle gym. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let the guy see that he was irritating me. So I got up on my knees, turned the Asian kid around, and slowly started to lube his ass. I squeezed out a dollop of the stuff and rubbed it in. Another clump of the cold goo went from my palm to my dick. Then I pressed the head against that hairless hole and rubbed the tip around the dark fringe of hair before I started to slip it in. I went in slow, inch by inch. The kid rested on his palms and panted and groaned. The muscle bottom stared him in the eye. I wasn’t in a hurry. While the furry top kept humping away with little rabbit thrusts, I slid the length of my meat in and out of that tight hole. I was putting on a show. I just didn’t acknowledge the audience. The other top might have been making the bed jiggle more; he might have been making more of a ruckus and making his bottom hiss with pain, but my bottom was hitting low baritone notes of pure pleasure. I hadn’t seen the Asian kid before; he hadn’t attended any previous parties. He was a handsome boy, though, with a faint trace of a mustache and a lean body. His butt, though . . . fucking perfection. Round, smooth, blemish-free. And he fucked like a dream. I pulled him up so that his torso reclined against mine. “You love this dick, don’t you,” I breathed in his ear. “Yes, fuck yes,” he replied, his eyes slitted. That’s all the validation I needed. The other guys attending started to crowd around the bed to watch the double fucks. The daddy wrenched himself away from the other top’s nipple to kneel down and lick at my hole as best he could, while I fucked. I tweaked the kid’s nipples fiercely while I ground into him. They were as hard as pencil erasers between my fingers. The muscle bottom had reached out to jack at the kid’s uncut dick. “Crap,” I heard him say. “Oh crap.” Cum spewed from his dick in the way a carbonated soda erupts from a bottle after a vigorous shaking. It splattered the face of the muscle bottom, landed on the pillows, hit the cabinets behind the bed. The kid yelled as he shot, shuddering in my arms. I waited until he subsided, and fell forward, totally spent. Then I pulled out of him. My cock was wet, the skin flushed and slick from the fuck. I just let it hang there, unsatisfied. I liked the look. So did my blade friend. Even though the furry top was still jackrabbiting away at his ass, my muscle bottom buddy had had enough. He detached himself from the top’s dick, winked at me, and then lay on his back with his legs in the air. I grabbed his ankles and slipped right in. I don’t grab guys away from other tops. I don’t play that way. I let the bottoms do the choosing. It didn’t take long for my bald friend to shoot. My dick reaches his prostate perfectly, and I know him well enough by now to push that button perfectly. I slammed it again and again; he lifted his butt higher for me until he was holding his own legs for support. This is how an alpha top fucks. No bad sportsmanship. No poaching. Just good old-fashioned banging until the bottom is pushed beyond the point of no return. The bald guy let loose with a small load on his stomach, panting like a dog the entire time. I waited for him to recuperate, then slowly snake out. My dick was still wet. Still slick. Still red. Still hard. Still unsatisfied. The daddy tried to grab at it, and the Asian kid wanted to suck it, but I gently wrested myself away. I’d been at the center of the crowd for a while. I took myself to the edges, and let someone else occupy the vacuum I created. I’m not surprised when the furry top joined me on the sidelines after a moment. He looked down at my dick. “You know how to fuck,” he said in a low voice. He had a Long Island accent. “Thanks man,” I said, casually leaning against the wall. My dick was still a stiff length poking out in front of me. He licked his lips. His next question was more tentative. “Maybe you want to fuck me a little.” I let him wait long enough to wonder if I’d heard the question, before I reply. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be hot.” “Not here, though,” he said. I understood. He’s got his pride. I jerked my head. There’s another bedroom downstairs that The Professor lets me use when I want a little privacy. I don’t grandstand. I don’t poach. I stick to my own style. I let the bottoms do the choosing. I’m a competitive top, and today was the day I won. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I first started masturbating, all I knew how to do was rub. It rose from instinct when I first secluded myself in my parents’ attic one hot summer day, and in my itchy boredom straddled an old cardboard box that had held a guitar. Something about the position felt good; I had no idea what I was doing, but I knew I liked the pressure, and knew it would feel better if I pulled down my pants to get it. I humped that box until I had my first dry orgasm, and thought the wave of pleasure was heatstroke. I caught on pretty quickly, though, and once I’d battered that guitar box down into pulp, I was humping everything I could wrap my juvenile little legs around. The side of the bathroom tub was one of my first regular humping spots. I discovered I could lay a towel or rug on the cold porcelain ledge—which was perhaps four or five inches wide—then rest my erect penis atop it while I lifted my little rump into the air and let it grind against the tub’s cushioned hardness. Looking at certain pictures helped. The occasional cartoon male rump in a Mad Magazine would do, but the real jackpot would be if I could filch one of the two copies of old Playboys that my father kept hidden in his bedroom. The shots of boobies didn’t arouse my interest, but both copies had fleeting images of near full-frontal male nudity, as well as shots of a shirtless Burt Reynolds that set my prepubescent heart a-fluttering. There was a steel girder in my parents’ basement that proved another fruitful spot. I’d pull out a towel from the laundry basket, wrap it where my cock would go, and cling on with my thighs gripping tight. Like a little monkey, my prehensile toes gripping onto the girder’s inner ridge, I’d jiggle up and down with increasing rapidity until my skin would break out in gooseflesh and I’d go all shivery. Finally I happened upon the best rubbing place of all: my parents’ bed. They had a simple mattress on box springs with no headboard and nothing at the foot. Moreover, the mattress was on the softer side, and perfect for digging into with my couple of inches of hard boy dick. When my folks were both out teaching, or at meetings, and I was left alone in the house, I’d creep into their room, align myself with one of the corners at the bed’s foot, brace my bare feet against the wood, and hump away. The bed had everything—a soft place to rest my head, something to clutch onto as I rubbed my way to a climax, a comfort in something familiar. The day came months later, however, when at the conclusion of my usual daily gyrations I noticed that I’d left behind a dime-sized dollop of sticky fluid on my parents’ gold cotton bedspread. I made the stain worse when I attempted to wash it off with a wet sponge, and made a tiny moistness that would’ve dried in ten minutes into an ungainly wet spot that took nearly an hour to disappear—an hour I spent fretting that one of my parents would come home, only to immediately accuse me of sexual assault and battery on their mattress. Since I was producing semen, after that day I took my masturbation into my own bedroom, where I’d wad up my pillow and thrust against it until I finally climaxed. That technique suited me for a very long time. Readers who’ve been with me longer know the answer, of course, but I know at this point some of my newer readers are wondering to themselves, Why didn’t you just jack off like a normal kid? It’s because it simply never occurred to me to use my hands. I know. It’s dumb. It’s obvious, even. I learned early that humping was the way to go, to get to orgasm; I stuck with the tried and true. It wasn’t until I ventured into my first cruisy restroom in the basement of the downtown public library that I had a notion there were other ways to achieve the same goal. Once I’d locked myself into my stall and noticed the penciled scrawls on the tiles that told me that someone was there Thursdays to suck my sock (now I’m pretty sure that the original word had read cock, but some other wag had added an extra curlicue that confused me enough to make me think for a couple of weeks that sock was some underground slang for my penis), I settled my ass on the toilet seat and saw through a tiny peephole another cruiser pumping his erect meat with his clenched fist. And I thought to myself, Huh. It was really a moment of revelation. I remember it vividly. There weren’t any actual trumpet sounds, nor a chorus of heavenly angels—but if I were recreating the moment on film, there surely would be. I couldn’t believe that I’d wasted so many months rubbing and humping and clinging to a metal girder with my toes, when I could’ve just been going at it with my two god-given hands. I know from vast experience, though, that my technique has changed over the years. When I was a boy I used to begin by lightly sliding the balls of my thumb and index finger over the front and back of my dick. If I started getting close to orgasm from that light, tickly friction, I’d grip my skin more tightly and whip it back and forth until I came. In my mid-to-late teens I would get things started with a ring made by my thumb and pointing finger—but again I’d start with just sliding it up and down the shaft and concentrating it around the base of my head, until I was close enough to grab the shaft and let the cum fly. That became the technique I used for decades, until my forties. Since then I’ve been a full-fister who grabs onto the lower part of his shaft and beats lewdly. It’s a good way to show off on cam, and to my sex partners and potential sex partners at cruisy urinals. I can’t help but wonder, however, how much of my natural instinct as a top comes from those rubbing days, when I’d grind into it until I came. Even without direction, without porn as a visual aid or any kind of prose as instruction, my instinct was to mount things and wiggle around until I climaxed. It’s how I learned to shoot as a kid—and these days, it’s how I prefer to shoot as a man, though I would much rather have a sexy butt to plunder than a porcelain bathing fixture or a willing mattress. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh. We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it. I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute. His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.” I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right. He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations. I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet. “Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs. I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening. “Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet. My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck. I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise. I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him. “Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.” My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.” It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him. “I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress. Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep. More...

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To see Breeder's original blog post click here Orgies. Group sex. To a lot of people, myself included, the terms are no big deal. To others, they’re fraught with anxiety. Most of the sex I’ve had over the last six months, it seems, has either been in group situations, or with men I’ve met during big naked groups. I can’t say why this is, exactly—beyond, of course, the fact that I’m a top with a big dick, and big-docked tops are popular (and rare) in groups. Maybe there are more orgies in this part of the country? Maybe I’ve just stumbled into a handful of sex friends who are more inclined to throw groups when they know there’s a reliable top to invite? I don’t know. What I do know is that of the mail I get from readers, the topic that gets addressed the most, the topic which has people fretting and worrying more than any other, has to do with the etiquette involved in attending group sex functions. I’m not going to dismiss any of this anxiety as foolish or unwarranted. Meeting up with one stranger can be scary on its own. Walking into a group situation with a bunch of unknown strangers only multiplies whatever body anxieties and performance fears one might have; it’s enough to make a neurotic out of the most stable personality. If you’re considering following in my footsteps and attempting group sex for the first time, however, I think there are a few general guidelines to follow. 1. Don’t be afraid to say yes to to a group sex invitation. Group sex isn’t inherently deviant and perverted. Attending an orgy isn’t going to make you into an unredeemable slut or a bad person. Gay or straight, large group or small, it can be highly enjoyable and a great way to socialize. Yes, socialize. And network too, believe it or not. Overwhelming as the prospect of getting naked in front of group might be for a first-timer, however, I think it’s important to remember that most of the men attending a group sex event are really all there for the same reason—to get off a time or two, and to have an enjoyable couple of hours doing it. Chances are they’re all arriving with the same worries you might be feeling. Am I good looking enough? Am I hung enough? Will anybody want to fuck me? They’ll be worrying about whether or not they’ll have to make the first move, and how humiliated they’ll be when they try to reach out for some hot guy’s dick and the hot guy up and slaps away that filthy greasy paw. There might be some die-hard group sex aficionados in the mix like me, but chances are a lot (if not most) of the guys are new to it, just like you. If you get the invite, or if you see an opportunity while you’re prowling online, first relax. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Think about it. Then accept. You might have more fun than you think, and you probably will even come away more confident than you went in. 2. Pick an event that’s right for you. If you live in a big city, there are probably sex parties happening around you on a frequent basis. Some of them get advertised on sites such as Manhunt or Adam4Adam or BBRT, where it’s possible to browse through public boards or even to press a single button to get a listing of upcoming events. Others might appear in local sex blogs. Some are going to be private, by invitation only, and you have to know the right people. Anxious as you might be, however, to get your first taste of group sex, before you start worrying about whether you’ll fit in, make sure the event suits you. If you’re looking for guaranteed bareback sex, don’t sign up to attend a foot fetishists’s festival or a jackoff party. Don’t sign up for a group in which safer sex rules are strictly enforced. If you think anal sex is dirty and disgusting, don’t attend a fisting party. This advice might seem obvious, but believe me, I’ve been in a lot of situations in which guys showed up, convinced they could make the party suit their own desires, without any regard to what everyone else wanted. It ain’t cute, and the results ain’t pretty. There are a handful of events in which the people throwing the party very rigorously screen attendees. They may be searching for a certain degree of hotness, or excluding men who don’t meet a certain invisible requirement for looks, weight, or age. If you do submit your stats and photos for one of these and don’t get invited, don’t waste any of your time mourning when you get the rejection. You are not totally unfuckable. That party just wasn’t for you—and you can do better, trust me. 3. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up. And show up on time. Nothing irritates a man who’s spent a lot of his own personal time attempting to arrange a group sex party more than people who simply don’t show. My experience in arranging groups has always been pretty dismal; if I invite ten guys to come play at my place on a given date and time, I usually expect about three to show up, at most. I have friends who are more trusting. Don’t sit behind your computer wanking while you think to yourself how hot an orgy would be, if all you plan to do is get off and never show up, even though the host is expecting you. If you’re unsure you’ll be able to attend, don’t say yes. If you know the chances are slim of you emerging from beneath the rock where you live, please tell the nice guy inviting you Think of me next time, but I can’t be there on that date. Thanks. If the party’s one of those affairs in which you’re encouraged to show up anytime between eight p.m. and midnight, feel free to make a late entrance. Otherwise, show up at exactly the appointed hour the party’s supposed to start. It’s annoying for the host or one of the other guests to open and close the door repeatedly. You’re pulling them away from the action, when you show up late. If you do have a genuine conflict, tell your host as soon as possible—preferably before the event commences. Telephone, text, or email your regrets. Doing so as an afterthought might indicate how little regard you have for the host, but even that’s better than not showing up at all. 4. If you agree to attend a group sex party, show up ready to play. Don’t bounce into the room expecting everyone to be hugely interested in the traffic you just encountered. Don’t spill the hundred excuses you might have for being fifteen minutes late. Don’t assume that the motel room or the host’s house will have a working shower so you can clean up. Arrive with your cock ring on, your jock on your butt beneath your business suit, and your hole cleaned out and ready to go. Everyone’s time is at a premium these days; don’t waste it when it comes to others. Additionally, don’t even bother attending a sex party if you’re not committed actually to having sex. If you’re going to lurk in the corner and not remove your clothes, stay home. If you’re going to arrive only to check out the guys, decide they’re not good enough for your persnickety ass, and then flounce off, just don’t come in the first place. If you’re planning to whack off furiously watching others while growling like a rabid dog at anyone who attempts to touch you, you’d do better behind your monitor watching porn. I’ve encountered all three types of these guys at just about every party I’ve been to, and I can tell you from experience, none of them ever got invited back. If you are going to need lube for your adventures, bring lube. If you are requiring condoms, bring condoms. If the guy throwing the party has asked for a few bucks to cover the overhead costs, bring a few bucks. Don’t assume that others will cover for you. 5. While you’re at a group sex party, stay responsible for your own safety and behavior. Start off by being responsible for what you bring with you. If it’s a regular group of guys you trust, that’s one thing. But if you’re in a dark hotel room with a bunch of naked strangers, don’t show up with a Coach leather man-bag that’s holding your iPad, your smartphone, the one printed copy of your doctoral thesis due next week and the one backup, and the irreplaceable birthday gift you just bought your dear mother-in-law. You don’t know who’s going to take off with it while you’ve got your legs lifted to heaven. Leave your wallet in the car, or at home. Arrive with as little cash as possible, and with as little that a light-fingered stranger might be tempted to filch. If you’re attempting to preserve a negative serostatus at a group sex party, doing so is your responsibility. If you want your partners to wear condoms, it’s up to you to ask them. If you’re trying to bareback but to serosort your partners through some kind of superstitious voodoo ritual that convinces you that you’re immune to risk, be aware that a man’s answers to your question about his HIV status may be affected by exactly how few inches away his raging cock is from your raw hole. Don’t accept substances at a party you wouldn’t otherwise accept; don’t venture to a neighborhood where you’d feel uncomfortable, just for the sake of cheap and easy sex. When it comes right down to it, you are responsible for your own safety and welfare at a group sex party. Don’t let your dick or anybody else make those important decisions for you. 6. Be nice to the host. I don’t know how many times I can emphasize this particular point. Every couple of weeks I attend a group event at the home of a retired professor, at which fifteen to twenty guys show up on any given day. And every single time there’s always one asshole—he’s always a different person, but it seems like someone new is always occupying the Designated Asshole slot—who comes in, drops his drawers, and proceeds to rebuff not only the genial host’s advances, but even his attempts at conversation. The Designated Asshole will try to corner whoever he thinks is the hottest guy, get off quickly, and then disappear without even thanking the host. Grandmotherly though I know I sound, I think this kind of behavior is appalling. (I know, you’re picturing me in a housecoat clutching my pearls and intoning Whatever are they teaching the children these days!) But I know I’m not the only one. Not only does my host keep track of who’s being a rude son-of-a-bitch, but the other regulars at the party, when they see our host given the cold shoulder, are more inclined to shut out the Designated Asshole so that he’s not getting any fun whatsoever. We can be highly protective of our favorite professor. So if your party has a host, whether it’s the fellow whose house you’re using, or whether it’s the nice pervert who’s taken his time to arrange for the hotel room and to line up the list of guests, be nice to the guy. Give him some extra attention. Slip him a twenty to help pay for the costs, if he’s rented a hotel room for the day. Give him a blow job or your dick or make him feel extra special and hot with your compliments. Your kindness will be remembered, and you will be invited back. 7. For the love of god, play nicely with others. You’re not going to be attracted to every single person at a sex party. You’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you’re excused from treating them politely. That guy you think is a creepy old troll might be the boyfriend of the hottie you’re trying to get with, for all you know. Kicking him to the curb with a rude comment could backfire. Even if the creepy old troll is indeed merely a creepy old troll, you’re still not going to do yourself any favors by cutting him down with what you imagine is a witty and devastating remark. Mostly you’re just going to make yourself look like a cruel dick in front of your peers. The same rules your mom taught you on the playground when you were five years old apply here. Don’t shove others out of the way to get to your favorite toy. You are no more entitled than anyone else present to be first on the best rides. Don’t cause fights, don’t argue, don’t make a fuss or a scene. Do not monopolize any one person. You will be expected to share. I’ve always found that the camaraderie of men enjoying sex with each other is a bonding experience that can’t be beat; it’s a surefire way to make friends, earn respect, and to share joyful experiences that you’ll remember for a very long time to come. Group sex can be fucking amazing when everyone’s looking out for each other and helping each other to have a hot, sweaty time. And it can be lousy, frustrating, and godawful when one or two guys spoil it by behaving heedlessly or by trying to ruin the spirit of sharing with selfish behavior. Don’t be the Designated Asshole, and treat everyone as you’d like to be treated. It’s the Breeder’s Golden Rule. If you’ve got questions about group sex, ask them in the comments below. And if you’re experienced in it and have other tips to share, post those as well. We’re all here to help each other over these hurdles—and once those fears of groups are conquered, you’ll be on your way to having some great fun. (Just remember to invite me, too.) 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To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m just back from a visit down South. Yes, I’ve been visiting my dad again, which is never as relaxing as it sounds. He saves up chores for me during the months I’m up here in Yankee-land, then springs them upon me when I arrive. No matter when I go down, I know I’m in for a hectic few days of yard work, chauffeur service, handyman duty, and personal shopper assignments. Which is all well and good. But you know what I hate about the visits? Having to sleep in my old bed. Now, the bed in which I sleep when I go down there isn’t the bed I had as a kid. That would’ve been my dad’s old childhood bed, a creaky wooden affair that I inherited, ancient mattress and groaning bedsprings and all, when I graduated out of the crib. It only lasted until I was in my early teens when my parents decided to shell out the money for a box spring and a new mattress. I was grateful for the change, because by then I was painfully aware that every slight movement I made resulted in a symphony of springs straining and rubbing at top volume. Attempting to masturbate on that old bed would’ve brought the whole neighborhood running. If I wanted to get my juvenile dick off at night, I had to climb out of the bed, lie down on the floor, do my business, wipe up, and get back into bed again, just to avoid detection—and the gunshot sounds the springs released on my exit from and re-entry back into the sheets were probably a dead giveaway in themselves. With the new mattress, though, I could whack away for hours and no one would be the wiser. I only had sex once on that mattress, however. When I was living with my parents the year after I graduated college, I’d moved into their basement because it was an apartment unto its own self—it had its own bathroom, its own air conditioning, a separate entrance, and a lot more space than my old bedroom. One night I was bold enough to sneak home my old college boyfriend, who was two years older than I and for whom I had a soft spot, even though he had a tendency to treat me like gay dirt. I met him at the end of my block, walked him to my parents’ house after dark, snuck him in through the basement entrance, and had very mediocre sex with him until dawn, at which point I snuck him out again before my folks would be awake. But now, when I go back to my childhood house again and toss down my bag and look at the single bed that my dad has carefully made up for me, I think to myself, I actually had sex on that? How?! The mattress is so damned tiny. When I try to sleep on it, either my head or my feet dangle off one of the ends. If I attempt to flop my body over in the middle of the night, the same way I do at home, I usually wake up in a panic, mere milliseconds away from tipping off the side to the floor. I’m pretty sure I could have athletic sex on it without making a sound, but what’s the point? I’ve got an ottoman at home that’s bigger than the bed of my teen years. But let’s get to some reader questions. Thanks to those of you who’ve been sending in new questions for me to answer—I’ve added them to the queue and you’ll get answers soon. Eventually, anyway. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, whether they’re grand and general or short and specific, pop over to spring.me and type them in, or else email me directly at the address in the sidebar with the word Question in the subject line. I apologize if this is a duplicate: Are you still using your Aneros Prostate toy? Describe more recent experiences. I love to use mine in the jacuzzi tub weekly following my personal fitness training sessions. Aiming a water jet just right really works. You don't need the Aneros to get a good prostate massage with the water jets of a Jacuzzi. All you need to do is back your hole up to the jet, turn it on, and you get the massage AND a enema. Man, I miss my hot tub. I still use the Aneros fairly consistently. I like the extra stimulation it gives me when I masturbate. I've said a few times before that I prefer sex with someone else (or multiple someone elses) to solitary masturbation, so I tend to keep my solo sessions infrequent. When I'm looking for a good long self-pleasuring bout, though, I'll grease my hole, insert the Aneros, and go at it. Twitter, blogging, etc. can create a very lopsided intimacy between people. How do you deal with people who feel they have a personal relationship with you from reading your posts, yet are complete strangers to you? It's difficult. There's a huge lop-sided balance between most people who read my blog, and myself. They've had the opportunity to read over four years' worth of my writings—two big thick books worth of it—where I've talked about my childhood, my teen and college years, and my day-to-day sex life now. In many cases, the readers have already made up their minds about what kind of person long before I ever begin to interact with them. And that's okay. When I write, I know that my readers react. Sometimes it's positive and supportive. Sometimes I challenge them or turn them off. That's what opinions do. The problem, however, usually arises when the reader forgets that although they know everything about me from the age of ten up, I know very, very little about them. Sometimes I have a face shot. Sometimes not. Their expectations of deep and immediate intimacy—either conversational or physical—aren't something I can usually offer with so little to go on. When my readers and followers actually take the time to engage with me, to let me get to know them and their senses of humor or their quirks or interests, I'm usually much more at ease with them when we meet than otherwise. I'm wary when someone starts attempting to use the information I've shared against me; my problem with a stalker last year arose from a reader who exploited me based on what he'd read in my blog, and it not only made me think twice about my online fans and friends for a while, it made me not want to write anything anymore, ever again. So all I ask of my readers is a bit of reciprocity. I give a lot of myself. I'm not asking them to write me two books in exchange, but neither should I have to dig and wheedle and beg to get more definite information out of them in order to establish a friendly relationship. How do I start a sex blog? Do you make a lot of money from it? Starting a sex blog is easy. It merely takes three steps: 1) Have great sex. 2) Write about it. 3) Post what you write publicly for everyone to see. That’s it. Do I make buckets of cash from it? No. I don’t make a cent. I don’t make any money from advertising because the site hosting my blog doesn’t allow advertising on sites with adult content. Even if they did, I don’t like advertising flashing its message in the margins. So during the several years in which I’ve put my life out there, I’ve done it for the love of my readers, and for the love of the experience. Daddy likes his folding bills too, don’t get me wrong, but he ain’t gettin’ any from his blog. I accept gifts from readers who’ve wanted to look over my Amazon wish list and purchase something for me, but no one is required to do so, and very few do. I’m always grateful when it happens, though. So if you’re looking to start a sex blog because you want to have interesting dialogues with others, and occasionally meet new people, and because you like writing and you like sex, go for it. If you’re doing it because you want to have extra spending money . . . well, excuse me for a minute or two. I need to have a good giggle for a little bit over here in this corner. What's the weirdest request you've had... in bed? I suspect you were looking for an answer that involved kinky and depraved acts of sexual deviance. Oh, I’ve had plenty of those. The weirdest request I've had was a marriage proposal, though. It happened in bed, after sex. Apparently it was great sex for him . . . for me it was kind of eh-to-average. The whole conversation started with me pulling out of his hole, whereupon he started gushing about how fantastic I had been (naturally!), then asking me what color I'd paint the bedroom if I lived there. I told him I liked it as it was. Then he asked which side of the bed I slept on. I told him I slept on the right side, and he replied I'd have to learn to sleep on the left because he took the right, hah-hah-hah. Then he asked where I wanted to go on a honeymoon. Thinking he was joking, I started to name some actual location. Then I stopped and said, "You're joking, right?" He was not. Then he suggested I move in and that we get married. He had known me ONE HALF HOUR. I mean, I know sometimes I'm good, but damn! When You meet up with guys is it always for sex or do You just hang out with them. It's for sex. That's the short answer, anyway. When I meet up with friends—that is, people I've known for a long time, with whom I like spending my free time, guys who've opened up to let me into their lives in the same way I've let them into mine—we will hang out. We'll go to a bar and drink and talk. Or we'll watch television. Or we'll do a movie and dinner. Or we'll play video games together. Something friends do. On the other hand, if a guy has approached me online or on some app on my cell phone and has told me I've got a great dick and asks if I want to ‘hang out,’ I expect that ‘hanging out’ to involve his tongue hanging out of his mouth as I pound him from behind. If the sex leads to a friendship at some point, awesome. But I'm not going to drive a ways to the guy's house and sit around awkwardly while we both try to ignore the fact that we met only an hour before on pigsforporking.com. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm visiting my dad this week, I've put up a couple of reposts to keep you occupied in my absence. This one is from 2010.) His name is Steve; he prefers that I address him as Son, or Daddy’s Boy. Steve moved from the eastern seaboard to accept a job at a big hospital here in town. A friend of mine gave him my email address when he found out we lived only ten minutes apart; we’ve seen each other irregularly for a year, since, when his busy hospital schedule can accommodate a meeting. Much of his furniture’s still in storage, making his apartment a little sparse. I’m not there to see the furniture, though. The moment the door’s closed, he’s on me, moving my hands into his loose clothing. “Oh fuck, daddy,” he tells me. “I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you too, son,” I whisper when I manage to tear my mouth from his. “Do I look okay, daddy?" He's not pretending, with this question. He's earnest, and even worried a little. "I want to look good for you. I want to make you proud of me.” Steve always looks great. His face has the strong chin, easy grin, and jock-like good features of a sportswear model. Sometimes he’ll greet me wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and tight underwear, or a tank top and some slack sweatpants. Sometimes he'll be wearing nothing. Today he's greeted me in a black jock and a tight-fitting wife-beater. “Oh yes,” I hiss, pushing him in the direction of the air mattress lying on his bedroom floor. He's still not managed to take the time to buy a bed. “You look very, very good, boy. I want you to show me how good you look.” It’s ridiculous, this roleplay. He’s almost the same age as I. With his salt and pepper hair and dark brown eyes, he might even look older. No matter. He insinuates himself into my lap and has me slap his ass until it’s red, and snap the elastic of his jock to raise angry welts across his butt as he moans and writhes. It would take only one word to break the illusion we sharing together. One word, one refusal, one mistimed snort of disbelief. “I want to make my daddy feel good,” he tells me, pushing me onto my back and straddling my hips. “I want to be daddy’s best boy.” “Oh, you are daddy’s best boy,” I say. His hole is already lubed, loose, and ready. I wrap my fist around my cock and support it as he lowers himself down. Then I sigh as I sink deep into his warm, soft flesh. “You are making your daddy very proud, son.” His eyes widen as they stare into mine, then close entirely. His mouth drops into a gasp. His head jerks backwards, and he says nothing more. Not for a long, long while. This is the payoff, for me. I wear the daddy mask just for this moment, when I see him so lost in the bliss of his fantasy, beyond words and the cares of the everyday, that his body shakes with pleasure. After our long lovemaking, yesterday afternoon, I was drinking cold water from a glass mug as I looked at the largest of the photographs sitting atop his dresser. They're the only decoration I've ever seen in his spartan apartment; he must have dug them out fairly recently. The photo was of a young man with medium-length blond hair, handsome as hell, standing in a park with a hound at his side. The dog’s silky coat was glistening in the sunlight, falling around the dog's body like a pair of shaggy, bell-bottomed pajamas. There were matching glints in the young man’s wire-rimmed spectacles. “Is that you?” I asked Steve, letting the water soothe my raw and ragged throat. “That’s me,” he replied, settling down by my side on the air mattress. He picked up the frame and studied the photograph. His face wore the somewhat sad, somewhat wistful expression of a man looking at the picture of an old friend he once loved but hadn’t seen in some time. “The dog’s beautiful,” I told him. “She really was,” he said. “She really was.” He paused, lost in thought, while I waited for more. “Sally was her name. She was an afghan. I had two afghans, once. Both were beautiful dogs. Total couch hogs. If they wanted up next to you when you were watching TV, they got their way. But they were my babies. Then I had to have one of them put to sleep because she had cancer.” “I’m really sorry.” I waited a moment. “How old were you in that photo?” “Twenty. . . .” He calculated on his fingers. “Between twenty-four and twenty-six. I forget exactly. Almost twenty years ago. Yeah, the first dog died of cancer just as I was at the end of my relationship with my first serious boyfriend. He was twenty years older than me. A librarian. We were living in Texas and he had two job opportunities—one in Ann Arbor, at the University of Michigan, you know, and the other in Seattle. So I went to Seattle with him and I realized . . . well, it was kind of strange. I realized I didn’t want to be with him any more. He was so settled and I was just young, you know. I wanted to travel and see things. I thought that's what it would mean to live my life. Going to Seattle to his home, with his furniture and his paintings and decorations—none of it mine—made me realize how much I was missing. “So I told him that I was sorry, but I wanted to move out and see the world. He didn’t realize at first what I was saying. He thought he could kind of keep the home fires burning and that when I was tired of going new places, I’d come back and we’d live happily ever after. I kept telling him that I wouldn’t be coming back, but I don’t think he ever really believed me. “When I'd left Texas to join my boyfriend, I’d boarded Sally with a woman I knew, just for a little bit until I could ship her to Seattle. When I picked her up, she told me, ‘Hey, your girl is a sweetheart and a real beauty. If you ever want to sell, I know just the guy who would love to have her.’ She named a name and I said, ‘Hey, I know Tom!’ He was a guy I knew pretty well who had an afghan already. So I knew he’d take really good care of her. I couldn’t leave Sally with my boyfriend, you see. He didn’t like dogs. He never remembered to feed them when I was out late at school or anything. The afghans were totally my babies. So I called Tom, my friend, and we talked, and he was thrilled to buy Sally from me. It gave me just a little cash, you know, for moving expenses, and I knew he’d love her just as much as I did." He was silent for a while. At last I rested my hand atop his. When he spoke again, it was with a shaky tremolo. “So I said goodbye, and saw her off. That night my boyfriend came home. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked, and I told him Sally was gone.” Steve got quiet for a moment. “He was just standing there with his briefcase, and then he dropped it to the floor. It fell open and all his papers fell out. Then he burst into tears. Because it hit him right then, for the first time, that I was leaving and wasn’t coming back and that our relationship was really . . . over.” I reached out and pulled Steve close to me, until his head rested on my shoulder. I was afraid to speak, but after a moment of respectful hush I murmured, “How did you feel, giving up your baby?” “I knew Sally was going to a good home, and there was just no way I could take her with me, so. . . .” His voice trailed off into silence. “I still miss that dog.” He draped his arm over my chest, and kissed my nipple. “I don’t know why I told you that story. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about my baby, before.” I kissed the daddy’s boy on the head, and held him close while we both stared at the photograph in the darkening room. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So I’m fucking this guy. He’s sexy. I mean, not balls to the wall handsome or anything, but he met me at the door with a furry bare chest, a pair of furry pecs, and a knowing grin on his scruffy mug. He invited me in. Had a drink ready for me. Said some nice things, right into my ear, with a whisper. He made me laugh. He made me hard. And this is what he gets for it. He’s in the center of his bed, leaking pre-cum from his erect sausage in every direction. The fitted sheet has come loose from its corners; he’s got those satin linens balled up in his hands as he grips tight to the mattress, trying to grab onto something solid. His mouth is wide open in a rictus of—well, I don’t know what to reckon. Pain or pleasure. Either/or. I don’t really know and don’t really care, because my dick is feeling too good. That hole of his is wrecked. Gaping. Wide open. He’s so greasy from lube and spit and my juices that little frothy bubbles have formed on his butt cheeks. Whenever I plunge out, I’m looking not only at that hole puckered like a big fish mouth, but at those little bubbles surrounding it. Then I shove back in again with no resistance whatsoever. Just soft, silky, wet flesh. I’ve made him into a pussy molded specifically for my dick. He’s swearing. Maybe praying. Maybe begging for more. I don’t understand a word he says, though. He’s beyond comprehension, and I’ve got blood rushing in my ears. Every heartbeat sounds like a waterfall coming down on my head. He could be reciting the Gettysburg Address for all I know. Don’t care. Got to keep the fuck going. I’m pounding. I’m slamming. I’m slapping his ass. Then I reach down and grab his scrotum. It’s already red and bulging; his nuts are high and tight. Without really thinking about it, I wrap my thumb and index finger around them and give them a gentle tug. “Fuck yeah!” I hear him yell. Do the neighbors? Possibly. Again, I don’t care. “Dude,” he says. When I pause and let the waterfall’s rush subside a little, I can see his pupils are big. Enormous. Like saucers. “Seriously. The rougher you treat ‘em, the tighter I’ll squeeze.” “Yeah?” I ask. My eyebrows rise. I want to make sure he knows what he’s in for. “Yeah.” He’s flashing me that lopsided grin again. Challenging me. I like a challenge. So now I’m grabbing onto those nuts while I fuck. I’ve got him on his back, legs high up. I don’t even have to hold him by the ankles—that’s how good he is. He’s giving me full access to those nuts of his. And he’s right—the harder I play with them, the tighter he gets. I squeeze and twist them. He clamps down. It feels good. Feels so damned good. I yank them a little. He clenches. I yank back on them hard. His hole becomes a vise, gripping my inflamed meat so tightly that it nearly makes me shoot. “Do it,” he says, looking up at me with love in his eyes. “Just fucking use them.” All right then. I’ve used nuts harder than this, trust me. I pull them out as far as they can go, and then some. His hole constricts. Tight. So damned tight. He could make a diamond out of a fucking charcoal briquette with that kind of muscle action. But I’m not done. My left had is clutching that sac like I’m trying to make it pop, and my right hand hauls off. Slaps them. Once. Twice. Three times. He yells again. Looks up at me with fucking adoration. I let loose with a lot of fast blows to his abused nuts. Fast, but hard. Slap slap slap! Slap slap slap! The jizz just starts flowing from his dick. His hole feels like it’s trying to squeeze the meat right off of my body as he comes. His own semen is splattering him in the face, on the chest, making those dark blue bedsheets even wetter and more stained than they were before. My load joins it a couple of minutes later, when it leaks out of his ass. “Christ,” he pants, when we’re panting and lying side by side a minute later. He looks at the ceiling. “I love that so fucking much. Bust my nuts as hard as you want, man. I love it.” So now I’ve got his number, right? I know exactly where he wants to end up. My job is simply to take him there. And take him there I do in a few minutes, when we’ve both recovered. I’ve got him butt up. Ass wide open. Cummy hole begging for more of my seed. Nuts purple in my fist. I’m slapping them. I’m punching them. The only thing more painful to do to them would be to wear a hobnailed boot and slam down the heel on them. And the dude is in fucking heaven. He’s begging for more rough treatment. Telling me that no one else has the balls to treat him this way. I’m calling him a dirty faggot, telling him he fucking deserves it, and once again he’s leaking juice and getting close to shooting a second time from the abuse. Then I reach down with my right hand, under his rib cage, and run my hand through that thick black chest hair he’s got. I give his nipple a pinch. Just a little tweak. And suddenly, everything shifts. He’s jumping off my cock. Scurrying to the head of the bed and clutching the sheets to him like a wounded virgin. “Christ!” he shrieks in a high treble. “What the fuck are you doing?” My heart is still thudding away. My cock is rigid. Naked. Exposed. It doesn’t like the cold air. It had a warm home only seconds before. Wha’ happen? “I mean, Christ!” he’s yelling. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” “I tweaked your nipple,” I said, reasonably enough. “They’re sensitive!” he shouts. I just stare at him. I mean, this is the guy whose balls were about to burst like a couple of egg-sized water balloons, thirty seconds ago. “They’re sensitive?” I repeat. “You can’t just go assaulting them like that!” “I barely tweaked them,” I pointed out. “I mean, it wasn’t hard at all.” “But they’re sensitive!” He’s still clutching the covers like he’s a Victorian maiden caught in dishabille and I’m a randy satyr from the sylvan woods. A satyr with a particularly sordid reputation. “Your nipples are sensitive,” I say slowly, “but I can brutalize your nuts any way I want.” He thinks I’m mocking him. Maybe I am. It just doesn’t make fucking sense. I mean, okay, maybe they’re sensitive, but there’s no need for the outrage and horror. “That’s just the way I’m built. Where’re you going?” “I’d better get going,” I say. I’m tempted to wipe my hands and cock on his duvet, but I don’t want to hear the shrieking again. I do the gentlemanly thing and pad over to the bathroom, where I wash up briefly in the sink. The water’s cold, but that’s fine. Maybe it’ll deflate my cock—my cock is about five minutes behind the rest of me, still thinking about that warm ass. He seems to realize his error. “You don’t have to go.” “I’d better go.” “Can I get you a drink? We could start over again.” I decline. I’ve got my shirt on, my pants. My socks. Then my shoes. He follows me to the front door, still naked. “I guess I’m sorry if I flew off the handle. You’ll come back, right? Just don’t do it again.” I smile. “Oh, don't worry. I won’t do it again,” I assure him. Then I go. I won’t be back. There are always other holes to use. More...

And my other half enjoys that I have such a good (bad?) reputation for getting the holes I want. It's definitely not uncommon.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I started my sex blog I really didn’t expect anyone much to read it. Truth. I thought there’d be a couple of people who stumbled on it. I figured I might tell a couple of sex buddies who got off hearing about my exploits. But that was it, I reasoned. I’d have kind of a safe outlet where I could share my sex writings. The fact it was potentially public gave me a naughty little thrill, but that’s about all the exposure I expected. Nearly two million visitors later, I like to think I’m a leetle beet savvier than that. I get a lot of visitors here on a daily basis. The ones who’ve stuck around for a while are always keeping me on my toes, often remembering better than I what I’ve said in the past. Hey, they’ll poke me after I write a post. You said after that guy who squirted enema juice in your face that you weren’t going to rim the holes of strange asses any more. Then you rimmed that new guy. What gives? Or they’ll just rib me gently with Hey Breeder. Remember when you moved to the east coast and you were so sure you’d never meet any guys to have sex with again? How hard do your regular orgy buddies laugh when you tell them that story? I like my long-term readers simply because they’ve been on the same ride with me for a while, and we have that luxury of being able to compare notes about it. I like my new readers too, because they bring an enthusiasm to older material that I might’ve forgotten about. When a newer readers goes through my old Spencer entries, for example, and leaves thoughtful comments, I have a tendency to go back to the same entries just to see what they’re commenting about. Then I relive them in a way I hoped I might, when originally I wrote them. One of the reasons I started my Sunday Morning Questions feature was because when I started getting an avalanche of readers, they all had questions. Sometimes those questions inspired new entries. A lot of the time, though, the questions were so easily answered, or so beyond the scope of my usual blog entries, that I preferred not giving them an essay to themselves. Someone wanting to hear whose hole I plugged last isn’t going to tune in for much longer if he shows up and finds me writing about what type of food I liked best, or what musical instruments I learned as a kid. That kind of trivia was better suited in a semi-regular feature of its own. So please—continue to send in your questions. I enjoy answering them. Some of you seem to enjoy reading them. It’s a win-win situation for both of us. If you’re on spring.me, feel free to follow me and ask me questions there; if you’re not, just email them in. I’ll get around to them either way. Let’s get to some of today’s inquiries. Wanted your opinion on this.. I'd like to both fuck and be fucked. However I have an average dick size (5" but reasonably thick) … so I’m not sure if too many bottoms would dig me. I'd like to bottom too, but I've had issues taking in coz I'm tight and small. Not to disparage you or to make generalizations about horny bottoms, but let me assure you that there are a hell of a lot of bottoms out there. If you can get your dick hard and keep it hard, I can guarantee one hundred percent that there are going to be many many many bottoms who are anxious to go butt-up for you, regardless of your size. You could look like Ron Jeremy (sorry, Ron) and have a dick roughly the proportions of a bite-sized mini-Tootsie Roll, and there would be bottoms clamoring to service it. Not all of them, mind you. Being willing to top does not give you the liberty to expect to top whomever you please. And whether or not your partner will ask for a repeat performance depends on how well you treat him and how well you use the tool between your legs. In my opinion, those two things are what really matters. But yeah. Bottoms dig guys with hard dicks. You’ll get laid. Do you find nose rings attractive? Oh god yes. That is, I love men with septum piercings. They make me want to grab the ring and lead the guy around like Ferdinand the fuckin' bull. Those twee little nostril rings on either side, though? If you're a Nepalese woman, go for it. Otherwise they do nothing for me. YOU are the BEST! New question ... With so many men in open relationships if one is partnered is it better to be upfront about it including it in one’s profile or simply omit it? Does it influence you either way if the possibility of a hook up exists? Thank you. I agree. I am the best! It's a little more difficult, however, for me to come up with as firm an answer for your question. One of the things you have to think about when you're putting personal information about your home life on your profile is that publicly stating you're in an open relationship affects not only how people are going to see you, but how they're going to perceive your partner as well. If your other half is comfortable that you're putting up a personal ad proclaiming that you both are free to play around with others, even though he knows full well that a mutual acquaintance, employer, or person from your church or book club might see it, sure. Go for it. If he or she would be a little uncomfortable that someone local you both know might run across your personal ad on doublefistmymanflaps.com and assume that your partner's into similar fun, you might want to hold back announcing your relationship status. If your partner's feelings aren't a hindrance, and you want to make very clear to others that you're not looking to date, but just for casual sex buddies, I say stating your relationship status up front is the way to go. It's one less thing you'll have to reveal when you get to the negotiation phase, and it might prevent someone else from having unreasonable expectations about picking out flatware patterns with you in the future. You may find, however, that on some sites there can be a lot of antipathy toward a man in a relationship. I've noticed on many of the location-based apps like Grindr and Scruff in particular, the users often have off-putting rants about guys in relationships in their profiles—and they have absolutely zero inhibitions about messaging you (even if you haven't looked at their profile or pinged them in any way) and telling you what a lying scumbag you are for cheating on your spouse like a god-damned whore (even though you may not be). I don't necessarily advocate lying to guys to get laid, but sometimes a judicious omission is not necessarily a bad thing. I personally am not swayed by a guy's relationship status either way. What goes on behind closed doors in a person's home is his own concern; I'm not the morality police. My concern is merely how good their holes are. Do you ever get to the point where you just 'need' to unplug? If so, what do you do? Over the years, as the internet as grown in importance and abundance, I've found more and more of my time consumed in front of a computer monitor or laptop or tablet or cell phone. I've found it very helpful to maintain balance by unplugging from electronic devices for a significant portion of each day—sometimes for a day, a weekend, or even a week at a time. Hobbies are something I find valuable. Since I already spend chunks of my free time browsing internet sites and playing video games, I invest an equal amount of time in hands-on, constructive crafts and hobbies. i gardened for a long time until I came to terms with the fact that I truly dislike gardening. I took classes in paper making and calligraphy. I taught classes in stained glass art. I've had other enthusiasms and pet projects over the years. Some of them have been more successful than others. (I pity my household the year I attempted to learn how to play clarinet.) For the last two years, when I put away the phone and the laptop and ignore the electronic chirps of all the devices in my house, I'm either reading, exploring New York City, participating in one of my musical activities, or knitting. Most nights, probably knitting. Don't judge. GPS Apps – Get On – Hook Up – Get Off, right? On the days I don’t make a connection I opt off and check back rather than risk looking like day old baked goods. Does hanging out for several hours increase or decrease chances of securing a Hook Up? I suppose there's an argument to be made that if you hang around long enough anywhere, you'll eventually get a hit or two. However, I tend to be more like you—when I see guys who've been on one of the GPS apps all day long, I have a tendency to think of them as guys who are are probably going to waste my time, since they have no problem wasting so much of their own. It's unfair, I admit. Sometimes the GPS apps will keep a guy logged on—or give the appearance of it—for hours longer than he actually was active. And I have no proof that anyone who actually is on Grindr or Scruff all day is doing so just to jerk other guys around. I tend to use GPS apps either only when I'm in a new locale, or at home only after I’ve been logged off for a few days. I've noticed I get more sniffs when I'm giving the appearance of being new meat than an old troll. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m looking at him. A big ex-jock of a guy. Deep chest, big round biceps. Dark hair that’s arranged in waves around his ears. Strands of gray betray the fact he’s probably my age, maybe a little bit younger. His muscles might’ve been more defined and tighter a few years back, but even slightly out of shape, he’s a hot slab of Italian beef that probably turns a lot of heads. He’s standing there, khakis unzipped, chambray shirt undone, exposing his tanned torso. His balls are the size of eggs, nestled between the teeth of his zipper. And the dick. Fuck. It looks heavy. If you picked up that thing and let it fall on a flat surface, it looks as if it’d make a resounding thud. Thwack it down on a butcher’s scale, and the needle would probably fly off. Is he as long as I am? Not by a long shot, but a hungry cocksucker wouldn’t give a fuck with that hooded giant in his face. In fact, the cocksucker kneeling between us didn’t hesitate a half-second before unhinging his jaw and letting it drop, python-like, to engulf the man’s link. He’s a skinny twenty-something with short hair and a fitted plaid shirt. A true cocksucker. He’s rubbing himself through his jeans, but his focus is on the man’s meat. Getting it wet. Opening for it wide. Sucking it deep. He adjusts his crouching stance so that he’s at the perfect height to take that fat fucker down his gullet. He’s got one knee pointed toward the sky above, and one knee firmly ground into the damp grass and earth beneath his feet. That’s going to leave a stain. The cocksucker doesn’t care. “Yeah,” grunts the beef. “You like that Guido meat, huh?” The cocksucker grunts. Opens his lids wide, looks at the man. He might have a mouthful of dick, but the look in those eyes tells us this is prayer time for him. If that’s what he’s going to call himself, fine. I’ll call him that, too. The Guido’s looking at me. Those dark eyes of his scan up and down my body. He raises a hand to rub the back of his knuckles through my facial scruff. Lets his fist travel down. Tweaks my nipple between his index and middle finger. Lifts my blue T so he can get a better view of my cock. I’m newly trimmed, balls shaved. My dick’s arched out, rock hard. It flatters me he’s so fascinated by my rod; he grabs it, squeezes it, bounces it in the palm of his hand. My head flares from the attention. “That’s a beauty,” he murmurs. There are cars passing within earshot, but it’s mostly quiet in this little wooded area. He doesn’t have to speak up to be heard. “Look at that,” he says to the anonymous cocksucker, putting one of his meaty paws atop the kid’s head to turn it in my direction. “You need to be paying attention to that one.” The cocksucker obeys. He looks up at me, worship still in his eyes. Opens wide. Engulfs me in a single swift motion. The slab he’s already swallowed has opened up his throat. I slide right down. The Guido takes my hand and puts it on his dick. It’s hot and wet from the cocksucker’s slobber. Then he grabs me under the chin, pulls me in, and plants his mouth over mine. His lips are soft and pillowy; when his tongue invades my mouth I taste the distant remnants of coffee. He’s a good kisser. Seems almost unfair that a guy this attractive should be hung and a good kisser, too. I’m a little off-balance when the kiss ends. I blink a few times, surprised. He grins at me. Looks down at the cocksucker. “Now me again,” he says, grabbing the kid’s head and yanking him back onto his uncut slab. Back and forth we go with the mouth. That’s all the kid is to us. A mouth. We don’t know his name, don’t know where he’s from, what he does for a living. Don’t care. We just know he can suck. We know he can nurse on dick like a pro. So that’s what we keep giving him. More and more dick. We look at the other while the cocksucker sucks, grinning and playing with each other’s nipples, touching each other’s bodies. Kissing from time to time. The hungry mouth keeps his eyes closed, concentrating on the shaft he’s pleasuring. Waits for the command to switch, or for the pair of hands that pries him from one erection and forces him down on the other. When the Guido comes, it’s loudly. He growls like an animal as his fist clamps down on the base of his cock. When he pulls out of the mouth, his meat is dark and angry-looking. Just the tip is peeking out of his foreskin. He rests the base of his hand on the kid’s forehead, tips his face skyward. Semen gushes out and spills down on the cocksucker’s face, a great rush of it. Some of it puddles around the kid’s closed eyes, then runs down his temples to his ears. A spurt of it laces his forehead. The final slow ooze of it creams the boy’s mouth, trickles down his flat, waiting tongue into his throat. Then the Guido’s dick rests heavily on the cocksucker’s cheek. I shoot as well. It sprays out seconds later, landing on the other man’s dick, the kid’s face, the ground. The last spurt plops down onto my sneakers. We stand there for a moment, not moving, in this erotic tableau. Then the cocksucker pulls down his other knee and lets it rest on the ground. That’ll be a matching stain, I think to myself, as I zip. The beef has to tuck his thick meat down the leg of his pants when he stuffs it back in there. It leaves a bulge I can see over my shoulder as I take the trail back up to the parking lot. The cocksucker remains kneeling. My last vision of him before he’s obscured by the brush is of him lifting his face to the sun, as if in thanks for what he’s received. More...