TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He comments here fairly frequently. I know he’ll read this entry. But it’s all good. I’ve got absolutely nothing bad to say about the guy. Quite the contrary. He’s a stud. There’s a reader of mine who lives fairly close to me. I know this because we’ve exchanged messages on Scruff late at night, when we’re both at home.The GPS locator puts us at a little over a half-mile apart. We’ve talked on a couple of other sites as well. His pics show a handsome, muscular top man. The two of us have traded tips on some of the area bottoms from time to time. Since we live in the same neighborhood, more or less, we’ve talked about some of the local cuties as well—I know about the sexy young guy working the local party store because of his tip, for example. (And he is cute!) He’s read my blog before I moved here, I think. But we hadn’t gotten together ever, though we’ve known about each other for months and months. That changed this week. We were on a website, Monday. I wasn’t planning to stick around indefinitely—I had a few errands I had to run. He said hello, though, so we exchanged a few pleasantries via the site’s messaging system. I’m heading up to the Buy-More, I told him, naming one of the local supermarket chains. Then, semi-jokingly, I added, Come up and find me and I’ll blow you in the parking lot. As I said, I typed it only semi-jokingly. So there I was at the market, halfway through my weekly shopping, resting my forearms on my cart in the middle of the dried pasta aisle as I consulted my list to see what else I needed. I looked up, and there was an attractive guy making his way toward me. Wow, I thought to myself, grinning inside. This guy really called my bluff. I like that in a man. “Hey,” I said with a grin, when he came in speaking distance. “Hey,” he replied. He smiled as well, but kept walking. It was almost as if he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him in public—as if I might say something online like Track me down at the Buy-More and I’ll blow you, but in the flesh I’d just be one of those assholes that only nods and lets him pass by. I’m not that kind of guy, though. “I’m glad you came out,” I told him. “It’s great finally to meet you.” We shook hands, and chatted for a minute in the aisle. He said that he’d been between running errands himself when he got my message online, and basically had a reaction of what the hell, let me see if I can find him. I was where I said I’d be, and I look like my online photos, so it wasn’t difficult to track me down. He was parked at the far end of the lot, he told me. His car was between a line of hedges and a truck. Out of the way, out of sight. I looked at my list. “Give me five or ten minutes,” I told him. “Let me finish getting my groceries and checking out. I’ll meet you down there.” Easy enough. Ten minutes later I dumped my groceries in my car, drove down to the other end of the lot, and walked around the parked, empty truck to find the guy in his car. We climbed into his back seat and looked at each other. Then my hand went out for his crotch. His dick was hardening beneath the denim. I looked him in the eye. “Take it out,” I told him. His fingers raced to unbutton his jeans. He tugged them down beneath his nuts, and lifted up his shirt to show me his flat abs and his undeniably sexy body. “Damn,” I said in a whisper. “That is a beautiful dick.” It was a beauty. I hadn’t seen it clearly erect in his profile photos. In person, though, it was the kind of dick that made me want to suck. His balls eased out and separated as I leaned down to wrap my mouth around the shaft. He sighed softly as my lips made contact. The guy tasted good. He smelled like soap, from the tip of his stiff and dripping prick down to his shaved nuts. He was a lot like me in that he started to pump out the precum almost as soon as his dick started to get attention. Every time he rewarded me with a taste, I’d grunt instinctively, rooting for more like a French pig after truffles. He had moved the driver’s seat up to give himself leg room. It was broad daylight—just after lunchtime, in fact. While he kept an eye out on the parking lot, I knelt with one leg down on the floor and angled myself so that I was a little more squarely in front of him, and went to work on the dick. I circled it with a couple of fingers and my thumb and let the tight circle slide up and down, following the slickness my spit left behind as I slowly bobbed up and down on his meat. He grunted, and sighed; his fingers riffled through my hair. Then his hand cupped my head and gently pushed me down in a steady rhythm. He wanted it faster. I obliged. My grip on his dick tightened as I picked up the past. Glob after glob of salty fluid oozed from his dick’s tip as I increased the sensation. Whether or not he realized it, his knees spread further apart to give me more access. “I’m going to come soon,” he told me. I knew. The man was basically shooting already, with the sheer amount of precum his dick was producing. It only took a few determined strokes of my tight mouth and hand to bring him off, and then he was shooting, pressing down on my skull so that I took him to the base. He held me there as he pumped his load in my mouth. I let it accumulate on my tongue. Then I backed off and swallowed. And damn. I’ve got to say—that was the best-tasting load I have had in months. The stuff tasted so good that I went down and sucked the remains still dripping out of his slit. Then I kissed his flat stomach, just because it was so pretty. He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Wow,” he said. “Was it okay?” I asked. “More than okay!” he responded, still laughing and recuperating. “That’s a beautiful dick,” I told him. I watched as he put it away, and wiped off my mouth with the back of my forearm. “I’m hoping you’ll give me more of it, now we’ve formally met.” He agreed that there’d be more in the future. I adjusted my hard dick in my pants so that it wasn’t quite as visible, and waited as he finished snapping and buckling and getting back to normal. We sat there for a half-second of silence when he was done, then grinned at each other. “You know I’m going to write about this,” I told him, as we both got out of the back seat. He knew. This is exactly how it should be—two guys connect, go at it, and enjoy each other. If nothing else, now my reader knows one thing about me: I don’t bluff. I show up where I say I’m going to show up, and I follow through. This time with delicious results. And my gallon of ice cream didn’t even have time to melt. More...

In a good way, I hope. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part Two.) Over the several months I was seeing M. J. , the professor I’d picked up in the campus restrooms during my sophomore year, it wasn’t the presents that kept me going back. Good lord, certainly not. His offerings of clothing were so poorly-chosen that they inadvertently bordered on being calculated insults in a cardboard gift box. It wasn’t for the sex, either, those grandmotherly fumblings beneath the covers that left me feeling dirtier and a lot less satisfied than when they began. It wasn’t for the company, which mostly was stiff and formal and slightly uncomfortable. It wasn’t exactly because he was a professor and I was a student and we were each other’s forbidden fruit. I’d slept with a lot of faculty at that point (and would continue to do so all through college and graduate school), so our relationship wasn’t exactly a novelty. No, mostly I kept going back because I’d never had anyone before who took me on actual dates. The men I saw tended to skip the dinner and the wooing and skip straight to taking me home and fucking the daylights out of me. Though instead of ‘home’ we’d usually use a toilet stall or a dark space behind a park tree. Although the sex M. J. and I had wasn’t good, or even really competent, I liked being able to think of myself as dating someone. I liked being able to say, without divulging many details, that I was in a relationship. M. J. and I had never professed any affection for each other beyond “I like you in that sweater” (him) or “Thanks for dinner. I’ve never had Beef Wellington before” (me, and I never would again), but technically we were dating. I clung to that for a little while in my youth as a badge of honor. I also liked the fact that I was whoring around with one of my dad’s old classmates. I had nothing against my dad, but at eighteen I was still adolescent enough that putting out for someone he’d once known—and who didn’t like him for some mysterious reason—tickled my rebellious underbelly a little. It was a private defiance, and not the kind of thing he’d ever find out about. But in a juvenile way, I thought I was Sticking It To the Old Man, and it gave me a little thrill. By and large, though, M. J. and I stuck for a good three months to a repetitive cycle of Friday night gifts, dinners, and then a night at his apartment. And then one warmer day, he asked if I wanted to go on an outing with him. It was cold enough that I remember wearing one of his gift sweaters—a white cotton turtleneck with a neck hole so small that pulling it over my face exfoliated more cells than a strong acid peel, and left me red and raw for the rest of the day. But it was also warm enough that the sweater was all I really needed in the weak sunshine of the late winter. I would guess that it was about March. And M. J. suggested we visit a plantation that was only a couple of dozen miles from Williamsburg. That sounds lovely and romantic!, a good number of you are thinking. I was definitely not. I spent most of my childhood years visiting every damned plantation and Civil War battlefield within a five-state radius of home, and when you consider that I grew up in the former capital of the Confederate States of America, that’s a lot of damned plantations and battlefields. Nor did I trespass on these sacred grounds with an awestruck face and a sense of wonder at the scope of history I was privileged to relive thanks to the preservation efforts of historians like my parents. No, I had stomped around with a constipated look on my face and many long sighs of suffering. So when M. J. suggested we have a jolly afternoon’s outing to a plantation, my reaction was more like, Oh, fuck. But I knew how to swallow my dislike of American historical sites by then. I told him that sounded dandy, and together we drove off in his car on a sunny Saturday afternoon to our destination. If you’ve never seen a Virginia plantation, you’ve probably a picture in mind. A bucolic vision of a genteel country mansion with Palladian columns and classical revival proportions, facade whitewashed and gleaming, set back in a verdant paradise of greenery, where in times past gentleman farmers sipped mint juleps with their hoop-skirted wives on the verandah beneath the bougainvillea. Let me disabuse you of the notion. This place was no fucking Tara. It was a two-room shanty on a rolling bank of weeds and dead waist-high grass, located along a particularly smelly turn of the James River, where raw sewage from the Hopewell wastewater plant seemed to be collecting and stagnating. There was no bougainvillea. There were snarled black cherry trees and wild sumacs, both of which I’d always been taught were weeds. And there was a dispirited woman handing out a slip of paper with the plantation’s history printed on it (free) and selling souvenirs (overpriced) on the front porch. Touring the place didn’t take that long, but we gave our level best to make it last. With low spirits we peered into the plantation house, which had been furnished with chairs that had weathered for decades in someone’s barn and an old spinning wheel. We looked at the gift shop’s collection of corn husk doll kits and homemade lardy soaps and invisible ink books for kids. And finally we decided to walk by the James, where M. J. managed to get burrs all over his pants legs and cursed and threw a child’s tantrum about it. They were his good pants, he kept saying, though how he could tell the difference between them and any other of the countless pairs of ironed khakis he owned, I had no idea. Still, for late winter, the weather was nice. I’ve always enjoyed being outdoors. And burrs or no, it was still a welcome change from the usual routine into which we’d fallen. Then came the fateful trip home. I knew something was wrong when M. J. started the car and pulled down the dirt country road that led from the plantation back to civilization. His wheels made a terrible grinding noise, somewhere halfway between an amplified root canal drilling and a banshee’s curse. “What is that?” M. J. asked me. Like I knew? I didn’t drive then. I didn’t learn to drive until I was twenty-one. My parents were too cheap to let me. (It occurs to me now that M. J. had made some vague noises about teaching me to drive, too—which might have been another reason I kept seeing him until that point. And yes, if you were to call up my father right now and ask him why I wasn’t allowed to drive until I was twenty-one, he will happily admit, “I was too cheap.”) “I think you should stop,” I told him. He ignored me, and kept driving down the road. Every time he accelerated, the noise would get worse. When he slowed down, its intensity lessened a little, but it still sounded like the kind of thing Ellen Ripley might’ve heard right before the alien queen sawed through the hull of her spaceship. “I think you should stop,” I said. When M. J. turned onto the two-lane road, the mere act of steering around a corner made the sound triple in intensity. “STOP THE CAR!” I yelled at him, bracing myself against the dashboard as if the whole thing might explode at any second. We tumbled out of the car when he pulled it over to the side of the road. And there, in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia, we proceeded to have our first fight. “You can’t drive this the way it sounds,” I kept insisting. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, dubiously. Over ears still ringing by the decibel level of the ‘nothing,’ we argued back and forth for a few more minutes. Finally he said, “What do you want me to do? Call a tow truck? Go to some stranger’s house and call a tow truck? What are they going to say when they see us together?” He was hysterical, almost. It was the most heated I’d ever seen him. He kept pulling at his beard and throwing his hands in the air. “Who am I going to tell them you are?” He went on and on in this vein for a very long time. I listened to his hysterics in amazement. My mother had a motto that ran a little something like You don’t owe anyone an explanation until you actually owe them an explanation. In other words, some stuff is nobody’s damned business. It’s a stance that’s worked for a lifetime. When he was purple-faced and had worked himself into a tizzy, I turned and stomped off to the closest farm house—a good half-mile away—knocked on the door, and explained that my car had broken down. In return I got the use of their telephone, a good deal of sympathy, and a small bag of sympathy cookies. They’d been baked by Keebler elves, but still. “Funny, the woman at the house didn’t ask if I was a student fucking my professor,” I announced when I got back to the car much later. “I don’t know how she could’ve missed that.” In a sullen mood, I ate all the cookies and listened to M. J. ’s half-hearted attempts to apologize. Unsurprisingly, the tow truck driver didn’t grill us on our relationship when he finally arrived, either. He was a hearty, oversized guy who simply tsked at my tale of the strange noise, hooked the car up to his truck, and then agreed to tow us back to Williamsburg. Simple as that. However, I had to do all the talking, down to giving M. J. ’s address. M. J. merely glowered, stood by fretting, and wrung his hands in case I said something accidental like, Did I mention that this elderly homosexual is engaging me for illicit sexual intercourse? My memory of the driver is of something like Yukon Cornelius. Enormous, red-headed, and bearded. Once the two of us were in his front seat and he was driving us homeward, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. “So you and your dad were out looking at the plantation, huh?” he asked me, fairly quickly on. I was wedged between Yukon Cornelius and M. J. in the middle of the seat, arms crossed because I was still appalled at M. J. ’s behavior. This question tickled me, though, even though I could hear an appalled sigh from M. J. ’s side of the truck. He could’ve been my dad. They were only a year apart. “We sure were,” I said. “Dad’s not really into old stuff, but I like it.” Well, I thought it was a clever double entendre at the time. “Well that was real nice of him then,” said the driver. “You know, it’s real nice when a dad and a son do things together. My dad and I weren’t close at all, and time runs out mighty quick. Mighty quick.” “My dad and I are very, very close,” I said with a straight face. “That’s real heartwarming,” said the driver. “Enjoy it while it lasts.” “We do a lot of fun stuff together,” I remarked, ignoring the fact that M. J. was hyperventilating beside me. While the driver and I kept up a friendly conversation about nothing in particular, I did something daring. With my left fingers, which was crossed over my chest and tucked beneath my other arm, I tweaked M. J. ’s nipple. He jumped about three feet out of his seat. The driver couldn’t see anything. It was just some devilish stubbornness in me determined to make M. J. as uncomfortable as possible. It was a long drive. When minutes passed and the driver didn’t ask any awkward questions, or attempt to nail us on the validity of our supposed father/son relationship, or notice me rubbing my hand up and down M. J. ’s ribcage, M. J. finally relaxed. He even crossed his arms and let his fingertips rub and bob against my own. It was the tenderest moment of our relationship, honestly. Definitely the most spontaneous. The whole bad afternoon had an unexpected effect on M. J. . Once we were back in his parking lot and Yukon Cornelius was waving out of the window of his truck, M. J. had to turn to me. “Thank you,” he said. I shrugged. “You handled all that by yourself and you shouldn’t have had to,” he said. I shrugged again. “It wasn’t even your car. Your were right. I over-thought everything.” At least his apology was hitting all the right notes. I had to give him that. “It’s all right,” I said, unbending a little. “Hey,” he said. “What?” “I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I have right now.” Now, that part was a little bit of a surprise. “What?” I asked. “I want to take you inside,” he said, close up, his hand on my wrist, “and I want to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.” M. J. had always told me that word was too much of an Anglo-Saxonism, but here he was using it three times in rapid succession. “Well, okay,” I agreed, without having to think about it too much. We ran into his apartment. He shoved me roughly against the wall. I fell onto his carpeted staircase with one hip. We didn’t retire upstairs to the bedroom and hide under the blankets. We didn’t turn off the lights. He wrestled my pants off me right there in the hallway, pushed me roughly down on the staircase, and fucked my ass so hard that my knees got carpet burn. It wasn’t a long fuck, but it was violent, and animal, and the hottest thing I’d ever done with him. When pulled it out, he allowed me to clean him off for the first time with my mouth. That would have been hot enough, but then he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “Jack yourself off,” he ordered. Then, as he nodded to let me know it was all right, he watched while I spread my legs and whacked away at my dick. I came in my hand—I was afraid what he might do if I dared get it on the carpet, amorous mood or not. Barely had I finished when he grabbed my hand. “Get upstairs,” he said. “Get in bed and take off your clothes.” I did. He joined me shortly thereafter, and we did it all over again. It might have been the first time I was anxious to have sex with M. J. . But as time proved, it was also one of the last times. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here We laid side by side, afterward. I seemed to slide off his sweat-slick body and to melt, face-down, in a puddle beside him. He lowered his legs and raised his arms above his head, and stared for a long time at the ceiling. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to talk, just for the sake of making noise. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to move. I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said. The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured. “Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?” “Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered. Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since. That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt. “Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.” “I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort. “You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“ “Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit. “But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?” In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo. “That’s you, man.” “How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say. But I wanted to hear him say it. He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.” I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year. “But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do." I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right. "You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.” I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone. “That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .” Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point. My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye. “You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal." The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him. “Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?” “Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless. His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either. Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve known something is up. He’s asked to see me four times in the last month—three times during Thanksgiving week. Meet me, he texted on Monday. Then, on Tuesday, Free tonight? I had to put him off both times. Dude, I’ve gotta see that dick again, he messaged on Thanksgiving day itself. Can you get away today? It’s Thanksgiving, I texted him back. I’m surrounded by people. Sneak out late tonight, lol. I relented. Hit me up Friday, I told him. I’m not planning on doing any shopping. Yesssss, he sent back. Let the wives do the shopping while the husbands do their thing. Over the course of the last year, The Landscaper has contacted me roughly once a month. His interest in mansex seems to ebb and flow over a three-and-a-half-week cycle. He’ll hit me up over a weekend, typically, and we’ll set a date to connect sometime during that week. We’ll meet in a local parking lot somewhere, and I’ll climb into his van. Then I’ll masturbate for him. My pants never descend below my ankles, my shoes rarely come off, my shirt stays on. He’s still under the illusion that I’m one-hundred-percent straight trade that can be bought with his cash. I don’t disabuse him of the notion. When we meet, I wear my most beat-up athletic shoes, my most faded Levis, a baseball cap. I let him watch me jack. I pretend not to notice when he laps at my nuts as I get closer to orgasm. But I don’t do any of that so-called gay shit with him. Nuh-uh. No way, dude. Our meetings top out at a half hour at most. When we’re done, he’s satisfied for a while. I might get a rushed thanks later that day or the next, but then it’ll be radio silence. I release the internal sexual pressure for him for the better part of a month. Then the steam and the fantasy builds up and he’s texting me again for a meeting. But three times during Thanksgiving week? Unheard of, from him. Particularly since we’d just met for a session two weeks before. So we’re in his van after lunch, Friday, parked in a strip mall lot. It’s chilly outside, but he’s blasted the heaters until I arrived, so that the residual warmth lingers. I unbutton the plaid jacket I’m wearing, sit on it. Spread my legs. Kind of rest my hand on my crotch. I don’t like to seem too eager to get going. He likes to think he’s talking me into it. “How you been? You good?” he asks, in that verbless way men do when they’re trying to be bluff and butch with each other. I nod. Look at him. Look away. He gets more excited when he thinks I don’t entirely want to be there. Usually at this point he says something sexual. Asks how my big dick has been doing. Asks if I’ve fucked any pussy lately. This time, though, he just blurts out, “You ever . . . talk to a guy?” The question catches me off-guard, a little. We don’t usually go off-script like this. “I talk to guys all the time,” I say. “I mean . . . would you ever consider just talking to me a little?” I look him in the eyes. There’s hope there. He’s more nervous than usual. I’m wondering what’s up. “What about,” I say. The words come out flat, incurious. “Stuff.” “Stuff like . . . ?” “Close your eyes,” he says. I look at him, eyes wide open. “Please? It’ll be easier to talk if your eyes are shut. I won’t do anything weird. I promise.” I hesitate, then shut my eyes. “Stuff like what,” I want to know. “Do you kiss your wife?” he asks. I’m sitting there with my back against the driver’s seat, knees up, forearms resting there. I feel him shift to a spot beside me. “Sure,” I say. “She’s a hot little bitch? Your wife?” The Landscaper has a vision of my home life in his head that he’s generated out of my wedding band and precious little input from me. I let him have his fantasy. “You make out with her?” “Sometimes, sure.” I shrug. He clears his throat. “You ever made out with a guy?” “No.” I try not to sound too scornful. “You like to kiss though?” “Yeah, sure.” I want to open my eyes and see what he’s doing, how he’s reacting. This corner of the parking lot is quiet, though, and the van is cooling. I’m comfortable where I am. I like the sensation I’m getting up and down my left side, where he sits, as if his proximity is setting the nerves to tingling. So I keep my eyes shut. “It’s cool to make out during a hot fuck. Feels good.” “Yeah,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment. “My wife says I was a lousy kisser when I met her. She says she taught me everything.” I hear him laugh. “Funny that I didn’t get any complaints before I knew her though.” I don’t say anything. I don’t really know where this is going. “But you never kissed a guy before?” “Fuck no.” “Me neither,” he says. “I mean, my dad or an uncle or something, but not. . . .” I believe him. There’s a note in his voice, though, that clues me in. “Why are you asking me this,” I growl. But I keep my eyes closed. “You don’t gotta say yes,” he says, shifting his weight beside me. I can feel his sweatshirt against the back of my arm. “I thought maybe . . . .” There’s such a long silence that it grows awkward. I’m not going to help him out by finishing that sentence, though. It’s a long moment before he continues. “If you thought about your hot wife, or thought about my wife, if you’d let me. . . . You can pretend. . . .” I sit there motionless. Maybe he thinks I’m considering it. Maybe he thinks I’m stunned. Either way, I’m not too surprised when I feel his warm breath on my skin, and the lightest of touches on my neck. It’s a butterfly of a kiss, the merest graze. In fact, for a moment I’m not even entirely sure it really happened. Only I am. There’s another light touch, a little higher. Then I feel his lips and breath against my jawline. I want to sink into it. I want to connect to him eagerly, to let our mouths wander where they will. But instead, I turn my head so that my mouth is facing away from him, forcing him to breathe a trail to my ear.”I bet she’s real sexy in bed,” he whispers. “You thinking about her? Thinking about her kissing you?” Then I feel his nose, his cheek, against my beard. He’s resting his face there. I feel one of his hands between my thighs, where he’s balancing himself. It’s trembling hard. He’s shaking like a leaf. This is the closest we’ve ever been to each other. He might have his own landscaping company, might cultivate a Mike Rowe kind of image, but he smells expensive. Groomed. “Dude,” I say, protesting weakly. “I can’t. . . .” “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. I’m surprised that he’s the one reassuring me. “Nothing freaky’s going to happen.” Nothing freaky does. By my usual sexual adventuring standards, what he does for the next couple of minutes is damned tame. He pushes down my leg so that he can straddle it. I keep my face turned away from his, but I let his lips travel up and down along the length of my jaw, from one side to another. He plants kiss after delicate kiss along the bone. They’re sweet kisses. Surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly soft. For a couple of minutes I simply enjoy the pleasure of him touching me with his warm lips, the sensation of them lingering on my skin, the shiver he elicits as his nostrils breathe in and out and create goosebumps. I let him maneuver my head back and forth. I let him touch my own lips with his thumb. The ball of that digit rests there for a moment. If I wanted, I could lick out and taste its saltiness. By my standards, it’s nothing. By his . . . it’s a stretch that means everything, then a whole mile more. “You’re hard?” he asks. I feel him poke with a fingertip at the bulge in my denim. After a moment, I shrug. Yeah. I’m rock hard. He moves off me. I open my eyes, look at him. His own jeans are practically tenting. “Show me?” he suggests. I avoid looking at him as I shuck down the denim, pull down the shorts. I’m sticky and drooling, though. I can’t hide that excitement. I wrap my hand around my meat and beat at it. “Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says to me as he watches me stroke. “Letting a dude kiss you. I mean, it wasn't real kisses, not really.” I say nothing. I beat harder. I’m close to shooting. “I liked it,” he breathes. “My first time, seriously. Fuck, that dick is amazing, dude. That’s a porn star dick. You should be in porn. You don’t know how amazing that dick is.” I shrug like I don’t care. But I know. “You gonna cum for me?” he asks. I can hear the need in his voice. Yeah. I am gonna cum. It oozes out of the slit and down my dick’s underside, cascades over my clenched fingers, drips from the knuckles to the floor. It’s a fat gush of fluid, a flood of sperm that baptizes his van’s carpet. “Fuck,” he whispers as I shake and shudder. “Fuuuuuck. So fucking hot. Looks like you needed that, buddy.” I sit there for a minute, letting my head clear. Then I shake the cum from my hand. It flops onto the carpet. I wipe the rest on my jeans. “Shit,” I say. “I’d better go.” “Can I do that again?” he already wants to know. “Next time? Can I do it again?” When I don’t answer, and yank up my jeans around my hips, he hastens to assure me, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret, dude. Nobody’s got to know.” “I don’t know,” I say. But I do. Yeah. I’ll be letting him plant those little-boy butterfly kisses on me again. I think he knows it too. He watches as I gather my jacket, check for my keys and wallet and phone, my cash. “It’s okay. I’ll text you soon buddy,” he says. When he speaks the words, it’s not in the intimate, soft voice he’s been using for the previous few minutes. It’s not in his sex voice, that voice of need and yearning and intimacy. It’s in the bluff, masculine, hearty way that dudes speak to dudes. Impersonal. Clipped. The voice men use between themselves when they know someone might overhear. Then, in a lower voice, closer to the one he’d been using during our time together, he adds, “If you want.” I think he’s almost expecting me to disappoint him. I turn in his direction after I’ve climbed between the seats into the front, my knee deep in the passenger-side cushion as I look at him over the headrest. “When?” I ask. It only takes one word to make his face light up. His voice is hoarse with surprise. “Soon,” he promises. There’s something in the way he says the word that connects with me. I’ve given him a lifeline to cling onto. For the next three and a half weeks, anyway. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The bartender at my semi-local gay bar surely is pretty. His eyes are deep and soulful. His locks are wavy and lush. His muscles are abundant, his teeth a gleaming white. But as I've said elsewhere on these pages, he's also deeply dumb. So deeply dumb that whenever he speaks, whenever it's my turn, all I want to do is say to him with deep sympathy and a pat to his head, "Oh, honey." Though he's nearly my age, he reminds me of nothing more closely than an enthusiastic, hyper Dalmatian. He's all about jumping up and wagging his tail and licking my face (metaphorically, I stress) and getting his muddy paw prints all over my shirt when I walk into the bar, but I'm not sure I'd trust him to look both ways before walking out into the street—or pick up a stick I've thrown instead of coming back with a water moccasin in his mouth. "Hey buddy!" he panted with excitement when I walked into the bar the night before Thanksgiving. "Guess what? Guess what? Guess what? I'm going to have my iPhone accessories line!" Before I'd even removed my coat, he was outlining for me the latest of his harebrained schemes to make a quick million—this time by marketing high-end (e.g., tacky) cases for iPhones and iPads. He intends to call the line, for god knows what reason, iChicken. "I met with these people, right, who want to sponsor my new line for like, fashion shows! And television ads!" Then he went off into a long, long excited speech about how his iPhone cases were going to be the real deal. "Not that fake jewelry shit, but real Swarkovski crystals put all over the fuck of that shit! Real Swarkovski! It'll be hot, right? Real classy, right?" All I could really think of was a line from the Avenue D song, "Do I Look Like a Slut?" that runs, Shiiiiit, I love your Daisy Dukes! I think they're real classy! The bartender's questions are rhetorical, however. He doesn't even pause for a response, or for my gentle suggestion that it's Swarovski, not Swarkovski. "I got it all up here!" he said, pointing to his skull. "Hundreds of ideas for this shit. Hundreds! I was telling them to one of my buddies and he was like, 'Dude, you're a real resonance man!' And I was like, yeah! I am!" His voice dropped to a confidential tone. "That's like a Resonance Faire, right?" Oh, honey. Let's get to some Formspring questions, shall we? I'd like to try hooking up at rest stops. I live in CT like you (towards New Haven). Are there any good and safe places where I'd be likely to find some action? By its very nature, public cruising isn't safe. It's risky and unpredictable and even dangerous. If you have a high-stakes career, or a public image, or if you don't want to take any risks whatsoever when it comes to hooking up, you shouldn't be cruising in rest stops or other public places. However, if you do give it a try, I've noticed that the rest stops in our area tend to be very much park-and-wait experiences. Most of the cruising goes on in the backs of the parking lots, after dark. Men will turn off their engines, roll down their windows a little, and check each other out. It'll progress to a conversation between cars, and after that perhaps one man getting into the other man's car for some groping. The action is mostly taken elsewhere. If you're looking for a lower-risk experience, I would suggest some of the adult bookstores in the New Haven area. The men in the back rooms tend to be there for one reason only, and the stores aren't really policed all that closely, from what I've heard. How long since you've been on an airplane? That's a good question. A year and a half? I flew from Michigan to New York on my birthday, back in 2011. Why do you ask? Are you buying me a ticket somewhere? Would we ever see you at a karaoke bar? What song would you sing? Um, anyone who knows me would immediately reply that it's less likely to find me in a bar that wasn't a karaoke bar. I maintain in my phone a database of over 250 songs that I've sung in karaoke bars over the last decade. The database contains information on the song title, original artist, and the amount of half-steps that I request the KJ to change the key, if needed. I find that keeping the list helps me overcome that "I don't know anything in this karaoke book" block that I always get upon entering a karaoke bar. Though most of the songs on the list I've performed at least a good number of times, there are a few that, after giving it the old college try, I will never perform again. There are some that no matter how many keys I tone it down, are still way too high for me (I'm looking at you, Maroon 5's "Misery"—I certainly lived up to that title). And some, while fine on the radio, are just a snooze to sing, like Level 42's "Something About You" or White Town's "I Could Never Be Your Woman." Still. That's a lot of songs. Posted on Twitter was a comment that said, "Some of the best Tops were previous bottoms". Was wondering what your thoughts on that were. I think that if an observant guy who's willing to learn, experiments with the opposite role of what he generally prefers, he'll pick up a lot of nuances about the experience that will enhance his future lovemaking skills. Some guys like me who started as bottoms have turned out to be very good tops; we remember what it was that tops did to us to make us hornier for them, and to make us feel good. Then we put those things into action. I've known bottoms who have flipped and learned what it is that makes top men tick, and play upon that as well. Is it an automatic process? No, not at all. There are plenty of tops who were previous bottoms out there who are still lousy at both. Being attuned to the moment, and remembering the feelings and connecting the dots between previous experiences and future encounters, though, will make anyone better in bed. I was very touched by your recent gratitude post. Do you have a routine way you practice gratitude? And looking back on your life (sexual life it you want) what 10 or so things are you most grateful for? Writing about my life in a journal helps me practice gratitude. Rather than letting life rush by, I find that capturing moments from it really helps me remember them better, and to appreciate the good moments for what they are. Here are a few things for which I'm grateful, in no particular order. - I'm grateful that I've always been willing to take chances in my life, whether it's been in throwing myself into new situations and new parts of the country in my personal life, or simply to take a risk with another person and let them into my intimate sexual space. - I'm not wealthy, or famous, but I'm grateful that as a career I get to do what I love to do. - I'm happy to have had an upbringing that has helped me face most of the obstacles that stand in my way, and the support to endure those that seem unattackable. - I'm very lucky and fortunate to have been born with a sense of humor that, most days, keeps me from being bitter and overly cynical. Usually. - I'm really glad that the universe has seen fit to send my way people who can share their lives and secrets and most intimate fantasies with me at the times I need to meet them, and I'm glad that their sparks illuminate my life in ways I didn't even know were possible—or sometimes necessary—before our lives touched. - I'm grateful for the capacity to love deeply, and to continue to love others, despite all the pain opening up that way can bring. - Shallow as it might sound, I'm grateful to have been born with the dick I received, because it's gotten me a lot of places I might not have been otherwise. - I'm grateful for the bad times I've had in my life. They've only made me appreciate the good all the more. Anyone who doesn't practice gratitude on a daily basis is letting his life simply slip by, rather than living it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part One.) The first thing I found out from Professor Washington—M.J.—on our date was that he and my father had known each other during college. My father had been a year ahead of him. The coincidence wasn’t that far a stretch. I was attending my college because it was my dad’s alma mater; he’d really pushed me to attend because of his idyllic memories of the place. M.J.’s entire reason for hooking a visiting professor position at my college had been to assess whether or not he could wrangle his way back into the college as a faculty member. It really is the kind of school that people attempt to linger around,long past their expiration date. The second thing I found out from M.J. was that he didn’t like my dad. We were sitting in the King’s Arms Tavern, which is what passed for a classy dinner joint in town back then, eating peanut soup, when he let that little tidbit drop. “Why not?” I asked, when he made that announcement. I was sitting there in my clean but rumpled khakis—the only pair of ‘good pants’ I owned—and that black-and-yellow striped sweater he’d given me and ordered me to wear. My hair was combed neatly, though not on the side, as he’d done in my office. “Because he was a dick,” M.J. said, before taking a bite of his pork chop. And that was as much as I ever found out about that. I had to wonder if he was remembering my dad correctly. He’s a sweet man. Absent-minded, yes. Paranoid, absolutely. Unable to come within a hundred yards of a computing device without breaking it and then feeling the urge to phone me about it, guaranteed. But he’s not a dick. I’m frequently a dick. He never is. (Later on, when I asked my father in a casual way if he remembered M.J., his puzzled response was, “Who?”) The topic put a damper on conversation for the rest of the evening. He ate his dinner in silence and I ate mine looking around the room at the tourists and wondering if it was ever going to be over. Then he escorted me to his car, and drove me back to his apartment on the campus’ outskirts. Using the slightest and gentlest of touches on my bee-striped elbow, he steered me through the front door and up to his bedroom, where in silence he undressed me in the same unerotic manner he might’ve undressed a five-year-old nephew for his bath. He laid me in the bed, removed his own clothes, crawled in beside me, and turned out the light. For a moment, we lay there unmoving between the chilly sheets. I wondered if that was it. Then he was on me, straddling my chest and shoving his cock into my mouth. M.J. wasn’t gifted down there by any means, and his dick looked even shorter under the best of circumstances because he had pubes that would’ve made Rapunzel stop, pout, and ask his secrets. That shit was long. I remember once noticing that tendrils of it snaked through the fly of his underwear still, after he’d peed at some public toilet earlier in the day and undressed for me later in the day. When he was fully erect, his pubes were still longer than his dick. I’d feel them tickling my face long before I felt the nudge of a cockhead against my lips. It was a bit of a turn-off. What also turned me off was that M.J. had a mole on his dick. It wasn’t a flat discoloration, or even a beet-colored bump. No, this was a full-blown, juicy, dark red mole that sat like a cooked pea three-quarters of the length down his cock, and every time M.J. straddled my chest and inserted it between my lips, my goal was to do anything to keep that mole out of my mouth. I’m not really sure why I was so repulsed by it. I had some fear that my teeth would scrape it and I’d find myself spitting it out, maybe, or that I’d accidentally bite it off. Either way, I’d wrap my hand around the base and keep it from crossing my lips. Or else I’d talk him into fucking me. “Don’t use that word,” M.J. sniffed the first night, when I said it. “It’s Anglo-Saxon.” I wanted to point out, every time, that I was Anglo-Saxon, and that I was pretty sure the name he’d called my dad was an Anglo-Saxonism, but I didn’t see the point of pressing it. If I used words like fuck or shit in front of him, I found out that first night—even if I was beginning him, “Fuck me, fuck my ass,”—he’d stop whatever we were doing to lecture me like a maiden aunt about to wash out my mouth with soap. It was certainly a lecture of a sort I never got from my own dad, the alleged dick. But M.J. liked to fuck, even though he didn’t like to say the word. He would rub my hole with a tiny fingertip of jelly from the ancient jar of Vaseline he kept by the bedside, and then with me face-down and my nose in the pillow, he’d insert himself, raise himself up and down a few times, then gently squirt a load into my hole. It was about as passionate and erotic as pushups. Then he would roll over and fall asleep. Typically I would spend the night with him. In the mornings, he would either make sure I was back to campus in time for class, or if it was a weekend, he would take me into Merchant’s Square to the men’s department store there and pick out something for my wardrobe. His choices were always conservative, always something I didn’t want, and always something I’d never wear except for him. But he did like it when I wore his clothing on our dates. That first date was the hard template to all the many dates that followed over the following months. David would track me down somehow—either stumble across me on campus, or call my dorm—tell me when he’d be picking me up, and give me a time to be there. We’d have a silent dinner at a stodgy restaurant with good meat-and-potatoes food. He’d have a glass or two of wine. We’d retire to his place, I’d submit to being undressed, and then I’d struggle to keep his dick out of my mouth and try to maneuver it to my ass. There’d be five minutes of old-lady lovemaking, and then he’d lurch off of me and fall asleep. Yet for some reason I kept going back to him. For a few months I considered him my boyfriend, even. I think on a lot of levels it was because with M.J. I had a lot of firsts. My first actual dinner date. I’d spent a couple of nights at Earl’s during my teens to work parties, but M.J. was the first guy with whom I actually slept side by side, the way boyfriends do. His gifts weren’t great, or even good, but with M.J., for a while, I felt like I was being courted. He was a gentleman, and I was young and dumb enough to think that maybe a gentleman was really what I needed. Part of me, too, enjoyed the drama and intrigue of it. I’d always had older fuckbuddies, but now I had an older, even an elderly (at forty-three) gentleman caller! Someone who knew my father, even! The lies I told my roommate on the nights I spent away were at first elaborate tales of deceit and justification, but as time went on, I just left for the night or the weekend and didn’t bother to tell him in advance. I would’ve said that I grew devil-may-care and didn’t give a fuck what he thought I was doing, but I didn’t want to be accused of being Anglo-Saxon. This is how M.J. and I carried on our relationship, such as it was, for a good four or five months. Until the warm weather of spring came around, that is, and an impromptu excursion out into the countryside changed things. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here His name sounded like a weighty bludgeon of patriotic shout-outs: Franklin Madison Jefferson Washington. To me, he was always M.J. I met him on my knees in the second floor restroom of my college library, where I spent a lot of my cold winter nights. The restroom’s most active hours were shortly after dinner, when students and staff would casually pour into the building, disappear into carrels, and settle beneath the blanket of white silence to study. I would usually start the evening at my favorite spot—the desk with a direct view of the men’s restroom door, just down the aisle of British literature to its left. From there I could listen to the door’s creaky hinge and peek down the aisle to see who was entering and leaving. If some of the more notorious campus trolls were out and about that night, I could stay in my seat and get some studying done. If it was someone hot, all I had to do was scoop up my books into my backpack. I could be in the heat of the action in ten seconds flat. Watching was usually my goal, anyway. The reality was that I was so perpetually horny that I’d spent an hour studying—maybe—and then finally give in to temptation and spend the rest of my night in the restroom until I got laid, or satisfied . . . the latter took a lot more work than the former. It was on one of those evenings when I met M.J. I’d already given a couple of handjobs to unknown men beneath the marble partition when the door creaked open. There were only two stalls in that particular restroom; I liked to sit in the first of them, so I could peek at the men as they walked into the room. It had a perfect view of the urinal opposite. That’s where M.J. stood when he entered. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches, a pair of pressed khakis, and a button-down shirt. The faculty uniform of our institution, in other words. Over his shoulder hung a khaki-colored soft briefcase from Land’s End, with all four of his initials embroidered beneath the handle. He looked over his shoulder. Stared at me, through the crack in my doorway. I saw he was a short man. A very, very old man. (He was forty-three. Which is younger than I am now.) Bearded. Grizzled and gray at the ends. His forearms were covered with a thick, thick coat of fur, which I interpreted then to mean the rest of his body was hairy as well. (It was.) I really went after the older guys at that time, so I had no problems in opening my stall door and showing him that I was hard and stroking. He moved over to show me his hard cock. It wasn’t big, by any means. Four and a half inches, maybe, and I suspect I’m being generous in my imagination. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a size queen. I opened up and sucked him through the fly of his khakis, as he ran his fingers through my hair and looked at me fondly. He came quickly, shooting a sour load into my throat and then lingering in my wet mouth until he’d softened again. I’d closed the door to the stall and had wiped down my mouth when he tapped gently at it again. He’d zipped up and washed his hands, and he looked over the top of the door down at me. There was a torn-off slip of paper hand towel between his fingers. “Are you a student?” he wanted to know. I nodded and told him I was. “Can you come to my office tomorrow at two?” It was an unusual request, but I didn’t see any reason why not. The paper he handed me had an office number in Morton Hall on it. I did some recognizance that evening and found out not only his name, but from the department newsletter hanging in the hallway that M.J. was a visiting professor in Economics that year. It was the best I could do, twenty years before Google. When I appeared in his office door shortly after two, he looked up from his desk hastily. I suspected that he’d been anticipating my arrival for some minutes. “Come in, come in,” he said hastily. “I hope this wasn’t too much of a bother.” I told him it wasn’t, and asked if I should close the door. He looked shocked at the suggestion, rightfully picking up on the fact I assumed he wanted my mouth again. I’d blown and taken fucks from several other professors over the previous year. There was no reason to presume he was any different from them. “Good heavens no,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for oral attentions last night.” That’s the way M.J. always talked, when he spoke about sex. He sounded like someone’s maiden aunt, or a Victorian spinster reflexively smoothing down the antimacassars of her spotless parlor. “You mean the blow job?” I asked. He looked horrified that I’d refer to it by name. “I wanted to thank you with a gift.” From one of his desk drawers he pulled out a box. I recognized it as a gift box from one of the tiny Williamsburg men’s stores in Merchant’s Square. He pushed it across the table. “Open it,” he said. I’d been expecting more dick. Not a gift box. I pulled I across the desk and opened it. Inside was a sweater. It was a wool sweater of black and yellow horizontal stripes, each roughly four inches wide. It was pretty hideous. “Try it on,” he said. Now, in college I was not the best dresser. I was also not the richest kid around. I was working two jobs in the afternoons and on weekends in order to pay for my expenses, and clothes were not at the top of my priorities list. I had three pairs of corduroys between which I alternated, and a couple of clean but worn cotton shirts. M.J. stood up from his desk, shut the door most but not all of the way, and out of sight of the hallway, tugged me into the sweater. It had one of those tight necks that raked all the skin cells from my face as it went over the head. “There,” he said. “Very handsome.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic comb, which he ran through my hair. When my hair was longer, it always parted itself naturally in the middle. He made a very artificial part on the right side, and swept the hair over my forehead. “What do you think?” I looked in the little mirror hanging on the back of his office door. I thought I looked like a Young Republican. And in that sweat, I thought I looked like an enormous bumblebee. “I guess it’s okay,” I said. “You look very handsome this way. Now, I am going to pick you up tonight at seven-thirty and I am going to take you to my place,” he announced. “Where’s your dorm?” he asked. I told him. I was living at the very back of the campus, in housing supposed to be for creative artists. “Now, I want you to be waiting out front for me, and I want you to comb your hair nicely and wear this sweater and a pair of nice pants so I can take you out to dinner.” I’m afraid I gaped. This sounded like a date. Men didn’t date me. Men fucked me. I’d never been on a date. Somehow I stammered out an okay. “And wear nice shoes,” he added. I figured I had a pair of Top Siders that would suffice. Then the next thing I knew, I was being ushered out of M.J.’s office and deposited in the hallway. “No sneakers!” he warned me, before sending me on my way. I guessed I had a date. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It wasn’t even my car to begin with. I know better. When a light comes on my dash and stays on for a while, I mention it. I take it in to have it looked at. (Unless it’s the low tires light. That thing is always on. The dealer has gotten into the habit of resetting it, shrugging, and saying, What’reya gonna do?) When the tow truck driver asks, “Where do you want to take her, buddy?” I have to think a minute. One of the lingering effects of Hurricane Sandy on this part of the country is that the gas lines here have been impossibly long. Many stations in the tri-state area took a week or more to regain their power. Drivers slammed those that were open, draining them of their gas. Drivers from places hit worse than we have been crossing the nearby state borders to hit Connecticut’s gas outlets, causing impossible gridlock in every direction around every service station. A week ago Saturday I wanted to get out of the house for some lunch in the middle of the day and found I couldn’t get anywhere; I sat for ten minutes on a street heading north at the end of my block, not moving, even though the gas station everyone was trying to get to was over a half-mile away. I turned around and tried to head in the opposite direction to the tiny village I’m near, only to find the line to the mom-and-pop station in its center was just as long. I finally drove back home and made myself a sandwich. So when he asks the question, I really have to think about the answer. Finally I pick a local dealer. They don’t sell gas, so getting there won’t be an issue. They’re fairly far away, but close enough to a depot that I can just catch a Metro North train for a stop and walk the couple of blocks home. “I can give you a ride to the station after, if you need,” the tow driver says, when I explain to him. It’s a nice offer. I accept. He’s not talkative on the drive out there. Mostly he’s on his radio, calling in the tow to his headquarters. Or on his cell phone, listening to voice mail and steering with one hand. It’s not until I’ve gotten a receipt from the dealer and am back in his car that he says anything much to me. “You should’ve had that light looked at earlier.” “It’s not my car,” I growl. I’m just the guy who gets to clean up other people’s messes. “Oh,” he said, understanding instantly. He’s pulling down the street toward the station. Rush hour’s approaching. There’s a line of cars turning into the drop-off area with us. “Married, huh?” He’s looking at my left hand. “Yup,” I say. “Guy or girl?” The question’s amiable. And reasonable. This is one of those states where either’s a legal option. It’s not until he asks the question though, that he really snaps into focus for me. Until that moment I’ve regarded him as his function. He’s the tow truck guy. He shows up, he takes me someplace, he gets my credit card. I forget his face after. That’s how it usually works, after all. Now I’m looking at the person. He’s as tall as I. Six-three, six-four. He’s a burly dude. Goateed. Blond-gray. A big fucker. The kind of overalled, blue-collar guy you’d send in to a central casting call for tow-truck driver types. Undeniably masculine. “Why do you ask?” I say, kind of amused. His furry, thick arm is lying atop the steering wheel. He’s looking straight ahead at the line of taillights in front of us. “Just wondering if it’s a lucky chick or dude that gets you at home,” he says. When I get out of the truck, he’s got something else to ask. “You get texts at this number?” he asks, holding the work order he’s made out for me earlier. “I do,” I tell him. “Anyone else see them?” “They don’t,” I say. “Talk to you later, then,” he says, with a grin. It’s one of those promises that makes a long wait on the platform a little more bearable. It’s a week later. Now he’s here on my bed. Pants around his ankles. Sneakers still on. His black T-shirt has the towing company’s garish logo. He’s got his hand around his dick and he’s pushing down on the back of my head. “Suck it,” he says. I’m obeying. I’ve got a mouthful of his thick and powerful meat. He’s trimmed short his blond pubes; his balls are shaved smooth. His dick’s so thick that it’s tough to open my jaw wide enough to accommodate it. He doesn’t care. He slaps his palm on the top of my head and shoves me down. My eyes water as his cock head batters the back of my throat. My instinct is to gag, but I breathe through it. When I come back up, though, my nose and eyes are both streaming. “Good cocksucker,” he says. “Maybe I should make you a regular. You want that?” I’m too busy trying to get him in my throat to speak, but I nod and grunt. “My own pretty little married cocksucker. You want that?” He smells both like soap, sweet and fruity, and like the sharp metallic tang of motor oil. He takes his dick out of my mouth and slaps my face with it. It hurts. He’s got considerable meat. This isn’t some display of alpha pretentiousness. This is a fucking facial beatdown. It feels like he might leave bruises. “Yes sir,” I whisper. “Nice,” he said. “How long you been sucking dick?” When I tell him, it excites him more than anything I’ve done so far. He shoves my mouth back on his meat. When my head rises, he pushes it back down. He’s setting the pace, he’s showing me exactly how far to go down and how fast to rise. It feels like he’s dribbling my head like a basketball—his cupped hand touches it only at the peak, then releases it in a shove—but the novelty of that is kind of hot. Plus I’m really digging the squirts of precum he’s letting loose, the more excited he gets. “My own married cocksucker. My own personal married cocksucker,” he growls, bobbing me up and down. “My own pretty personal married cocksucker.” He keeps adding adjectives, like he’s playing a saucy version of some long-forgotten Victorian parlor game. “My own pretty cum-hungry personal married cocksucker. Sucks better than my own boyfriend by a long shot. Fuck yeah, you do.” Then he blasts. The load hits the back of my throat so hard that I nearly choke. I exhale as best I can, though, and hold my mouth down on the dick. When it’s safe, I swallow. His sperm is bitter-tasting. It’s the most acid load I’ve taken in a long time. I gulp it down, though, like a pretty cum-hungry personal married cocksucker should. His hand is on the back of my neck, holding me down there until he’s sure I’ve gotten every drop. Then it relaxes. He’s up. He’s on his feet. He’s pulling up his pants. Like I said, he hadn’t even taken off his shoes. I race to put on my clothes, since he’d taken them all off, and walk him to the door. Today a neighbor waves at me in the street, when I’m on the way to the store. “You been having a lot of car trouble?” he asks. “I’ve seen a tow truck outside your place a couple of times this week. I shrug. What can I do? I seem to say. Can’t help car trouble. Can’t help hoping I’ll have a touch more of it in the coming weeks, either. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I don't know if it's a certain increasing briskness in the autumn weather sparking people to contemplate a change from regular sheets to the winter flannels, but I've had no less than four emails this week from guys curious what I wear to bed. In fact, the timing on them was so close that I was half-convinced there was a blind item about me being caught starkers in someone's bed, in some Page Six column somewhere. To put your curiosities to rest: I sleep nude. I think I've mentioned before that my parents, who were of an age to be somewhat established hippies by the time the Summer of Love rolled around, were prone to nudity around the house. I mean, they weren't the kind of people who shucked every vestige of clothing the minute they were behind closed doors, but neither were they particularly interested in replacing anything they might've removed in order to take a mid-day shower, or take a nap, or after they simply scratched themselves. The sudden appearance of a nude parent is one of the reasons I tended to go to the houses of my other friends rather than have them to mine—though since a lot of my friends tended to be the kids of my parents other hippie-ish friends, they were often in similar situations. It's not a state of affairs that disappeared with the last of the love-ins, either, nor has it to this day. I still remember the first time I took home my spouse to spend a night at my folks' place, and first my mom and then my dad wandered through the living room where we were sleeping buck nekkid and casually brushing their teeth and wondering if we needed anything. Anyway. My parents slept nude. (And watched TV nude. And sometimes ate nude. My mother would put on an apron while cooking, though.) So I slept nude, and never thought a thing about it until my first night at college, when I realized with no little surprise that my unfamiliar roommate actually had pajamas. Except for that four-year hiatus when I slept very uncomfortably in my briefs, I've always slept in the nude. Yes, even on the coldest of nights. I do put on clothing when guests invade the house, though. Usually. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me, shall we? Is flirting on the net cheating? No. Sticking your dick in someone who's not your significant other, without permission, is cheating. Surrendering your holes to a man's dick when you don't have an agreement with your sweetheart, is cheating. Flirting on the net is just the taxi that drives you straight to the hotel room. What television show was your favourite when you were 6 years old? H.R. Pufinstuf. I made my parents reschedule my Saturday morning piano lessons so I wouldn't have to miss that psychedelic, weird-ass show. What is the earliest dream you remember fully to this day? How old were you when you had this dram? I remember very vividly having a scary dream when I was three or four about my mother rising up out of the bathtub with her hair hanging down like snakes in front of her face, and that she was some kind of Medusa-like sea serpent. That dream freakin' terrified me. And yes, I'm aware it's kind of Freudian. Would you let me draw you? Clothes on or clothes off? I'm good either way. Do you like popping a guys cherry and how often are you able to? It depends. There are indeed circumstances in which I very much like popping a cherry. When the guy is young and cute and eager to have the burden of his virginity taken away from him, I'll be licking my chops like Wile E. Coyote at a speeding Roadrunner. If I've got a guy with a reputation as an alpha top who's never been fucked before, I'm totally rock hard and anxious to get in there. However, if the virgin in question is a guy who's never been fucked simply because he's been too scared to get out there and meet guys have have sex with them, and if he's in his thirties or forties or later and is looking for me to give him the experience he's whacked off about and fantasized over and never actually done anything about, I'm not interested. It's not because of his age, and it's not precisely because of his inexperience—it's more because I'm turned off when people waste so much of their lives fantasizing about things easily within their grasps, without ever attempting to make them real. Without looking at a cookbook or online, what sort of things do you know how to cook/bake? How complex does it need to be before you require a recipe? I can prepare a lot of dinners without any kind of recipe—but it's only because I've prepared them so many times, at this point. There are probably a few cookie and baking recipes I could pull off without consulting a cookbook or online recipe, as well. And I'm always making all kinds of weird preserves without benefit of a recipe to follow. (Ask the people who tried my carrot cake jam.) I was impressed with myself this week when, after a hiatus of about three years when I didn't have anyone to make it for, I managed to prepare a really good chicken marsala from memory. It's all in there. Have you ever given some guy just a hand job or been given one and that's all that happen? Yes. And on its own, it's fucking boring. If I really wanted a hand job, I could give it to myself. How do I weed through the flakes online to find the guys who really want to hook up? Don't you think there should be a rating or referral service (half kidding)? Sadly, it just takes time, trial, and error. Since moving to the east coast, the proportion has drastically increased of men who seem to want to talk about hooking up, but not do anything about it. The number of guys who make solid dates with me and then fail to follow through is pretty astounding in this area—and I'm not even talking about the men who come on very, very strong one night when they're horny and online, and then disappear for another six months entirely and return with a single question on their lips, "Hey, how come we never got together?" It's because you disappeared on me, dumbass. There are guys out there who want to hook up, but the bad apples in the bunch (and lately, it's seemed like a lot of very vinegary bushels I've run across) make me wary of plucking them out. Doing so is the only way of finding the dependable fuck buddies we all need, though. And you know, once you get a network of friends with similar interests to yours, it's possible to compare notes on certain guys—talk to the men into the same things as you, and see if they're running into the same players and jokers. But also feel free to share with them your success stories. They might (and should) return the favor. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here His key ring is a mass of metal, a bulky collection that rattles and jingles as his fingers tango through them to find what he needs. He looks over his shoulder as he at last inserts one of them into the door. The knob turns. It’s fairly warm in this low-ceilinged, refurbished basement, but when he opens the door, a rush of chilly air sweeps past us. He looks up and down the little hallway. The lights are low. It’s deserted. There’s no one here. I can hear the hum and buzz of a city outside the glass doorway at the top of the stairway. In many of the other old townhouses on this street, the sub-street levels have been converted into storefronts, into little restaurants, into boutiques with chain names I’ve more often seen in upscale shopping malls. This old building, however, has only the stark and dimly-lit hallway, the door marked Electrical Closet, and the open door where now the kid is yanking out the key and putting the massive ring back into the pocket of his hoodie. I follow him past a pair of storage lockers that obviously belong to the stores above. At the end of the second hallway are a pair of restrooms. We step into the one marked Men. Our arms graze when he reaches past me to latch and lock the door. We’re not cramped for space. There’s a fair amount of room here. He steps back, and his hands nervously reach for the strings of his hood. It’s chilly in this underground washroom. It’s quiet enough that I can almost hear his heart thumping. “You want me naked?” he asks. It’s only the second sentence he’s spoken to me. “Take off your clothes,” I tell him. I lean against the door. Cross my arms. Wait. He seems doubly anxious at being watched like this. Off comes the hoodie. He kicks his sneakers from his feet, pulls off the gray socks. His jeans hit the floor; he’s wearing Fruit of the Looms. Finally he shucks his T-shirt and stands there in front of me, hands cupped in front of his package, hiding that already-hard bulge in those white briefs. His eyes flick up to mine. He stares at me, half with longing, half daring me to comment. “How old are you?” I ask. He’s taken aback by the question. “Nineteen,” he says. I nod. He could be. “Turn around,” I say. He rotates awkwardly until his ass is pointing at me. “Stop,” I say. He obeys. Then I’m down on the tile, knees spread, pushing down on his spine to get him to bend over. I yank down to the briefs. Spread the ass. He’s got orange-sized butt cheeks, each small enough to fit in the palms of my hands. His hole contracts in the cool air. When I breathe on it, the pucker distends. He gasps. When I lick out and let the flat of my tongue slide up his crack, he nearly loses his balance. We’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. Know each other. Fuck that. We don’t know each other. I’ve never seen this kid before. Mostly I’ve seen the back of his head. I know the taste of his hole better than I know what his face looks like. I’m not sure I’d be able to pick him out in a crowd, to be honest. But the ass sure tastes good on my tongue. I was visiting a strange city last week, a place I’d never been. I had three hours to myself in the downtown area—time to sightsee, time to kill as I pleased. I walked around, got my bearings, took some photographs, visited the gardens, and then decided to relax with my book and a coffee. I could tell the Starbucks on the main drag was busy when I walked in, but it wasn’t until I’d claimed my order that I realized there wasn’t a single seat in the shop. Thus it was that I and two other hardy souls were sitting outdoors, in about fifty-degree weather. But it was sunny, and I had on a sweater. The coffee was warming. I had my tablet in my lap as I alternated between reading my book and simply enjoying the vibe of the city and its people as they strolled past. Then the kid walked by. Locking eyes with him was like an electric shock. I woke up from my daydream, felt my bloodstream quicken. This sexy boy, this pale, skinny boy with the shaggy hair and the faintest wisp of a mustache on his lip, appeared from nowhere. His big blue eyes didn’t blink. They locked with mine. We stared at each other as he approached, neither of us looking away. He seemed so young; the young are usually nervous about staring at someone my age. I felt my breath catch when he came close. Only a rail stood between us. Either of us could have reached out and touched the other. And then he passed. As excited as I’d been moments before, the disappointment after he passed was palpable. Instinctively I sniffed the wake of air in he left behind, attempting to find some trace of him in it. It was there in the faintest whiff of berries or some sweetness in his soap or shampoo. But he was gone. I turned in my chair and found him looking over his shoulder. His eyes were sad and soulful. He, too, seemed to be melancholy at the increasing distance between us. People blocked our path. He moved further and further away. My last glimpse of him was when he turned the corner at the end of the block, still craning his neck in my direction. Some things are just meant not to be. I went back to my book. Five minutes later, he approached down the sidewalk again. I knew immediately he had circled around the block and come back. Our eyes met with a spark of recognition at the sight of each other. Book be damned. I stuffed my tablet into my messenger bag and tossed the coffee into a nearby wastebasket. By the time he reached the entrance to the Starbucks’ patio, I was standing there waiting for him as if I’d been loitering around for a friend to come pick me up. He licked his lips nervously. “You want to go someplace?” he asked. That had been the only other sentence he’d spoken. So I’ve been eating his ass for ten minutes. Maybe a little longer. He’s got his hands on the wall, his legs spread. A sizable dong points at the sink, between his legs. He’s trying to keep it quiet, but he’s doing a piss-poor job of it. Under his breath he’s cursing, and growling, and making noises like a beast in distress, or pleasure, or both. From time to time I let the chill air of the washroom shock his hole, as I turn my lips and tongue and breath to his cock. I yank it back between his thighs and slurp at the head. I let the salty taste of his precum coat my tongue. I yank at his balls, just to make him yelp. He wants to get fucked. He wants to let some total stranger bend him over and fill his hole. He doesn’t know who I am or where I’ve been; he’s operating on a primal level now, letting his body take over, letting his hole drive the bus. Or maybe he recognizes me—it happens occasionally, even in unfamiliar cities. Somehow, that would make it even nastier. When I drive a thumb into his wet hole, he groans, and pushes back. I feel the warmth of his insides around my digit. I know I want in. “Sshhh.” It’s the only thing I say to him as I stand and spit on my dick and start to work it in. I don’t need to worry. The kid knows what he’s doing. He grinds his hips to let me in, inch by inch. My dick swells even harder as it splits his little ass open. He’s no novice to fucking. He knows how to take a man’s dick. I can tell. Who is this kid? Some employee of one of the stores above, with his own key to the basement restroom? How many men has he brought down here? For how many has he stripped and spread his little legs? Fucking little whore, putting out in his out-of-the-way locked restroom for any big-dicked top he can get. He’s in control now, too. He’s got one hand digging into the sink, fingers clawing at the porcelain. The other’s bracing the wall. He’s looking back at me as he slams his hole up and down my shaft, setting the pace, keeping the rhythm. Inside, he’s doing something with his chute so that it feels like it’s clutching at the head with every thrust. Maybe I’m popping the second ring, again and again. I can’t tell. I’m not thinking too much about it. I’m just letting him do his fucking thing, because he’s doing really damned well. Now I’m the one making the animal noises. Letting out the grunts. I’m just standing there, getting my stick waxed by this kid as he bucks and grinds. He’s the one who’s getting what he wants. Big dick, and plenty of it. Every twitch of his little hips makes me harder and hotter, and he can tell. He’s picked up the pace. His ass isn’t teasing. It’s demanding. He wants the load. He wants it now. He shoots when I do. He brings his hand between his legs and with a very few short strokes, he brings himself off. His load drops to the floor in heavy, loud splats. Mine paints the inside of his ass. His hole continues to grab at me, to demand every drop. Only when I’m done does his insistence cease. His hips relax. His hole becomes looser. I slide out. A moment later, the better portion of my load follows, joining his on the green tile floor. He’s still naked as I’m leaving, using a wad of toilet tissue to wipe up the mess. He looks at me very serious, and nods. “Later,” he says, as if it’s a possibility. No thank-you is necessary. I know for a fact we gave each other exactly what we need. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So let me review what he looked like, when he stepped into my living room. The top of his head came up only to my chin, but what he lacked in height, he made up in bulk. The man was built of sheer muscle. He wore a tight black tank top beneath the puffy cold-weather jacket that he dropped behind him at the front door. It made his carmel-colored skin glow. When he strutted forward, walking slightly bow-legged, he curved his arms as if posing. His shoulders were round and full, his biceps bulging, his forearms ropy and taut. The narrowest part of him was the waist. Above it, his chest bloomed into hard and enviable masculine form; below, I could see how huge his thighs were beneath the ballooning fabric of his gray sweatpants. He kicked off his chunky sneakers, stuck his thumbs in his elastic waistband, and looked at me. His dark eyes stared into mine, glanced down, then danced back up again. “‘Sup,” he said in a deep voice, glancing me over. Seeing someone for the first time is always a little bit of a jolt. It’s the prick of a static shock on the back of a hand, on a cold winter’s day, when your eyes meet his for the first time in person—it’s an electric instant in which the brain compares his appearance to every photo he’s ever sent, to every stat he’s thrown your way, to see if any of it sticks. This guy stuck. He looked exactly like his too-good-to-be-true photos, those sunlit shots taken at some impossibly sunny beach, as if he’d been a model for a swimsuit brand, or a spokesperson for an Atlantis cruise. This was the kind of guy who, during that pinprick of recognition and assessment, makes me feel unworthy of him. My knee-jerk reaction to his kind of beauty is always going to be, for a fleeting instant, that I’m not hot enough, not pretty enough, not muscular enough. Just not enough. I’ve learned to make those thoughts disappear, though. And I did so that night, because he was looking at me on the sofa where I sat with my pants down and my legs spread, and looking at my fingers wrapped around my stiff, beet-red cock, and licking his lips unconsciously, and looking worried. Worried that I might be the one not into him. I could see it in the furrow of his eyebrows as he worked his lips wordlessly, those Frida Kahlo smudges of thick, square blackness above his staring eyes. “That looks real good,” he told me, as he took a step in. His hand caressed the flat planes of his stomach. I looked up from my masturbation. I’d squeezed a diamond drop of precum from the tip of my dick, and pointed it in his direction. “Take off your clothes,” I told him. Before he could shuck anything, I added, “Put on a show. Make me want it.” He nodded. To some internal rhythm, he started swaying back and forth. His hips bounced as he tucked his thumbs into his waistband again and pulled it down, slowly. He wasn’t so smooth as he nearly fell over, removing his legs. Beneath the sweatpants he wore a pair of basketball shorts. He pulled those down, and stood there in a boy-like pair of ankle socks, a pair of designer briefs, that tight, tight tank top. And one other thing that I’ll get to in a moment. But my dick and I, we were too entranced by the guy’s bulging muscles much to care about his sartorial sense, right at that moment. “Turn around,” I told him. He obeyed, shyly rotating so that I could get a look at his perfect, round ass. “Socks,” I told him. He stood on a foot at a time so he could hook them off with a curled finger. “Strip off the rest,” I said. The man shimmied out of it, giving me a look first at his flat abs, then the deep muscles of his chest, outlined with a light coating of fur. He crossed his arms and held his shoulders with his hands, as if cold. He wasn’t cold. He was simply shy. Then, with a self-conscious grin on his full lips, he dropped his briefs to the floor and kicked them. They skimmed the wood to land beneath my entertainment center. His cock was a fat sausage, thicker in the middle than it was at both ends, three-quarters excited, still sheathed in a thick layer of foreskin. It lolled to the side, rising up with excitement. He took a step forward, and spread his legs. “You like, papi?” “I like a lot,” I told him. I looked up at his face, and instantly got distracted. Because he wasn’t completely undressed. He still had on that hat. That hat. How can I describe that hat? He’d entered the house with it on, and apparently hadn’t given it a thought sense. It was not a baseball cap, or a knitted beanie, or any of the types of headgear that drive certain gay men crazy. No one in his right man would fetishize the fleece creation on this man’s head. It had more colors than Joseph’s dreamcoat, and seemingly more points than a cactus. It resembled a jester’s headdress, minus the jingling bells. I vaguely remembered the style being popular maybe a decade and a half ago, among the ski set and those who pretended to be a part of them. No one was going to fetishize that abomination of a hat. “Am I good enough?” he asked. The words weren’t ironic, or arrogant. He honestly wanted to know. I didn’t know quite what to say. He was more than good enough. He was a hot fucker. He was damned fine. But that hat. A couple of its fuzzy points flopped down over his forehead as he dropped to his knees. His mouth opened; I could feel the heat around my shaft as he lowered his mouth onto it. He waited until he reached the bottom before letting his lips wrap around the base. I could feel the hot wetness of his cheeks, his tongue, the gentle pressure of his teeth, as he eased himself up and down on it. I reached up to grab his hat, though. I wanted it gone. No sooner had I gotten my hand on it, though, that he decided for himself what I was doing up there. “Yeah,” he sputtered, around a mouthful of my dick. He put his own hand around the back of his head and clamped my hand down on his skull. “Make me suck it. Make me suck that big dick, daddy.” Okay, I thought to myself. I’m not going to get that fucking hat off that way. I let him slurp up and down my pole for a little while. I confess I was a little distracted. I liked the sensations and wanted to enjoy them. But every time I looked down, I was seeing a child’s fuzzy pajama fabric flopping around like a furry squid between my legs. No, strike that. A kid would’ve turned down that fabric pattern as excessively juvenile. “Oh, papi,” he said, coming up for air. “You got the big dick I like. You really do. I’m gonna want this dick every damn day, man.” His eyes were glistening with tears and effort and sincerity. But all I could do is both stare at that hat, and think to myself, you have to look anywhere but that hat. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Do you like what I do?” Maybe a non-verbal cue would do. “Hey,” I said, to catch his attention. I allowed myself to look at that hat, and then I jerked my head back in a way that I hoped would convey, Why don’t you take off that godawful chapeau? His face lit up. He leaned forward, balancing his muscular torso by gripping the sofa’s edge. His lips met mine. Kissing me is not what I’d had in mind, though admittedly I didn’t mind it much. He wasn’t too great a kisser—his lips were tense, his tongue too spear-like. That can be trained out of a guy, though, with time. A pity you can’t train them to take off the hat. “Let me show off for you,” he said, after we’d made out for a few moments. He stood up and turned around, then bent over. “You like that ass?” he asked between his open legs, looking back at me. All the points of that damned hat hung down to the floor. When he spanked himself, they wiggled obscenely. “You want that ass, huh?’ “I do. . . .” I growled. He stood up and grabbed the top of my sturdy TV cabinet. Once more he spread his legs and showed off his ass. This time he held his head back and stared at the ceiling. The hat’s tendril’s splayed down his back. “Oh yeah,” he grunted, as he ground his hips into the air. It would’ve been a sexy dance, if he didn’t have a jester’s hat flopping around comically atop his head. One of my cats entered the room, took a look at that hat, and walked away disdainfully. My new friend had just squatted down on the floor and begun to finger his hole with that hat dangling down and obstructing my view, when I’d had enough. I rubbed the bridge of my nose as if I had a headache. “Hey,” I said in a totally normal voice, the kind that destroys any kind of sexual mood. “What?” he asked, looking up. Several folds of the hat fell in his face. “Take off that fucking hat.” He blinked at me, then looked up. His face wore the most sheepish grin. “Oh my loooord,” he drawled, letting out a feminine giggle. “I forgot I had it on.” He whipped it off and tossed it with the rest of his clothes, snickering the entire time. “I bet I looked like a damn fool.” “Pretty much,” I agreed, grinning to let him know I didn’t really mean it. He knelt down prayerfully in front of me. “Do I look like a fool now, papi?” he asked. My dick hardened again. “No,” I decided. “You most certainly do not.” Then I reached for the back of his head, to direct him down on my cock. It was time for him to finish what he’d started. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It was quite an exciting week for those of us in the northeastern United States, what with the hurricane and all, last Sunday and Monday. Those of us in the tri-state area were particularly hit hard, which is why I was pretty much offline until yesterday. The worst of Sandy hit my neighborhood Monday afternoon and evening. We had no electricity, a fire in the street, huge trees coming down around the house, and flood waters lapping at the front yard. The neighborhood looked for several days following as if it had been hit by bombs; people here walked around stunned and shell-shocked—particularly when we found out how many houses were going to have to be demolished because of storm damage. Despite the lack of power for a week, and despite the dark and the cold and the inconvenience of having extremely spotty cell reception and limited access to electrical plugs, I'm grateful for a lot of things from last week. I'm grateful to have heat and light again. I'm grateful to be safe. I was also grateful for the many well wishes I got from readers after the storm, and the expressions of concern before it started. Know they meant a lot to me, and that I didn't take them lightly. As for those who used a natural disaster and some internet anonymity to exercise an opportunity to enjoy some schadenfreude—well, if you don't understand what that says about you, there's no hope. Let's get to some questions, and as life gets back to normal, hopefully I'll catch up on some entries this week. Did you have a job while you were in school? if so what was your first? Did you like it or hate it or whatever? How much time did it take? Did you want money for a specific reason, or just wanted to have some money, or something to do? My first paying job was as a page in the state legislature, when I was in high school. Not only did I get paid for two years, but I got to skip school for three months out of both my freshman and sophomore years. In college, I worked almost full time at a number of different jobs. The big money-maker was as a soda jerk at a local ice cream store. I also held down a part-time position giving campus tours to prospective students and parents, playing organ at a local church (a very small local church that was so grateful to have me that they didn't mind that I couldn't really play the organ), and lifeguarding and teaching swimming in the summers. I was usually holding down all those positions at the same time. What is your opinion of people who perform in porn videos? It depends on how well they perform. What’s a good ratio of bottoms to tops for an orgy? My friend who used to organize sex parties swore by a strict ratio of fifty percent total tops to fifty percent total bottoms/versatiles, and would allow no more, no less, to attend his parties. This is the friend who got really pissed at me for topping all the tops at at one of his parties and throwing that ratio completely off whack. Where did you parents meet? My parents met in graduate school, the week they both arrived there, when they were persuaded to go on a blind date with each other by their new roommates, who were dating at the time. She thought he was arrogant; he thought she was kind of slutty. Years later they had a kid who was both. If your partner was going to talk about your best feature while having sex, what would they be saying? "Damn, his cock is perfect!" Have you ever been to a nude beach? I have indeed. I like being nude outdoors, and I love the beach. However, I'm not really fond of the two of them together. It's tough enough to get the sand out of the crevices between my toes, much less my butt crack, my groin, and all the other parts of me that seem to collect sand when they're exposed to the free air. I prefer nude camping—a more relaxed and shady sort of pursuit. And it's generally cooler, too. Join me sometime. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I wanted to thank my readers for the emails and tweets and Facebook messages of concern that I've been getting, both before and after Hurricane Sandy. I am in one of those areas severely affected by the storm and managed to see it all—fires, trees crashing down, the Long Island Sound in my front yard (even though I live a mile away from it). I'm without power and without reliable cellular access, but the important thing is that my household is safe. (Cold, but safe. Thank goodness we still have hot water, though.) I'm hoping to get out some updates when I'm back online at home. Until then, all of you keep safe too, wherever you are. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So on Friday I found myself here, for lunch: Oh yeah. I was eating a tossed salad on Deep Hole Road. (And dropping that tidbit into casual conversation every chance I got, after.) Show of hands. How many out there think this road's named after you? And without further ado, let's get to some questions. What is the hottest yet non-sexual thing that turns you on? (i.e. knowledge or interest in something) This is really silly-sounding, but I find it irresistibly sexy when someone has an expertise in something and becomes wildly enthusiastic about it. It could be an IT guy who's totally geeked out about some new internet protocol that he's trying to explain to me at a party, or a guy into comic books who is outlining the plot of his favorite new issue to me. It could be an art historian trying to interest me in the history of a painting, or a playwright talking to me seriously about the intricacies of characterization. It could even be the dopey bartender talking about how tough it is to model underwear. If they are really into it, and if they have a palpable enthusiasm for their subject, I find it utterly charming and irresistible. Have you ever stolen a guy's underwear? A very long time ago I used to live in an apartment complex right above a pair of men who I'm pretty sure were just roommates. David and Joaquin, their names were. David was a lean jock, and Joaquin was a beefy, muscled, built Latin. I'd pass them when I was heading to my job in the morning and they were going to the gym together, and then I'd see them at night when they were drenched in cologne and heading out to the local pick-up bar. They weren't friends of mine, but we were friendly enough that they'd slap me on the back and call me 'buddy' as we passed. One day I went into the basement, where the laundry room was, and found that Joaquin had left his dirty laundry sitting in a basket on the table. Lying on top was a pair of very scanty red briefs. I immediately stole them and took them back up to my apartment, where I jacked off with them on my face. I kept that pair of underwear for years, thinking I'd be able to sneak it back in his laundry at some point—but I never got the opportunity. They moved out, and then I moved on, and eventually I discarded them. But damn, they smelled good when I snitched them out of that basket. Are you comfortable with the amount of body hair you have? do you wish you had more? Less? I've got plenty of hair on my head, plenty of leg hair, way too much ear hair, and nice pubes. But I've always wished I had more chest hair. Or, you know. Any chest hair. When I was growing up, I was fascinated by men who had acres of fur growing on their chests. I actually thought it was something to which men were entitled when they were grown—when really I should've been looking at my father's chest for a clue about how I'd eventually look. He's always had a hairless chest with a pouf of wispy hair in the center, like someone had thrown a tiny Brillo pad there. When I reached adulthood, I more or less had to consign myself to the fact that I was going to have nothing more than a lot of hair around my nipples and a few wispy strands in between. However, twice in the last month I've gotten compliments on my chest hair from men. I had to look at myself in the mirror to realize that the wispy strands had gotten a little more numerous and actually don't look too bad. However, I wish I still had more. Would you walk up to a stranger and kiss them on a dare? Nope. At what age do you think you were ready to have sex? I thought I was ready at 10, when I started hunting for it in restrooms and parks. I was ready for it when it finally happened, at 12. Sometimes it's late. Sometimes it's early. But sex is one of those things that comes to the person when he's ready for it, if he's left to his own devices. If you were an animal what animal would you be? (I worked for a company that asked that when interviewing for manager positions) I would be a lion—fiercely protective of my tribe while working with the other providers to ensure that everyone was protected and well fed. Serene and hard-working at heart, while fierce when threatened by predators from without. Okay, so that's my job interview bullshit answer. Did I get the position? I'd really be an old tomcat that lolls around in the sun, gets fat, and gets petted a lot before he sprays on people's back doors. What colors do you think look best on you? I tend to dress myself in earth colors—browns, slates, and forest greens. When I go for more colorful items, they tend to be deep purples or vibrant, but dark blues. If someone were writing an erotic novel about your life, what would it be called? The Encyclopedia. would you be my mr grey I've not read that series of books, nor do I really intend to, so I don't know exactly what that involves. Personally, I'd rather be your Mr. Steed—being myself is always much better than trying to fit someone else's mold. Have you ever travelled specifically to have a hook up? ie, not just had sex when travelling, but made plans to go a long distance because you wanted to have a liason with a specific person? Absolutely. There have been times in my life where I've thought nothing about driving across several states for a hookup with someone who was offering a specific type of sex. When I lived in Michigan, in the nineteen-nineties there were a handful of individuals and couples in Pennsylvania and Tennessee I'd make overnight trips to see, because I knew they'd give me exactly what I wanted. It's not something I do so much anymore, however. Guys come to visit me. I like that. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Worship. It’s a word a lot of wanna-be bottoms use around me. I want to worship that beautiful dick of yours, they say. The word appeals to me. Worship. Acts of devotion by true believers. Supplication before a deity. The thing is, I’m cock-proud enough to think my meat deserves it. My experience, though, is that when a bottom tells me he wants to worship my dick, I know what I’ll probably end up getting is five minutes of head—if that—indifferently given and accompanied by a too-hard grip. Then while the guy lies there like a lump, I’ll be expected to mount and fuck him, doing all the work, every step of the way. I think any minor deity would tell you the same thing: that’s not fucking worship. This kid knows what is worship, though. His big, plump lips are wrapped around my dick. They quiver and extend as he engulfs my rigid meat, inch by inch. When he reaches the base for the first time, those thick lips are still pushing out, nursing at the root, rubbing themselves onto my smooth nuts, grazing against my pubes. His breath is hot and moist. It warms my thighs. I can feel the pulse of his heart as his throat closes around me. His digs aren’t fancy in the least. Hanging on the walls are two posters of some tarty Spanish-language singer I don’t know, tacked there with Scotch tape. His tiny bedroom is mostly occupied by the mattress on the floor, covered with a cheap bedspread and a pile of thin, worn-out pillows. He’s got a student laptop on the floor, anchored by a spider’s web of wires and cables; it’s open to his mail program, and to one of the emails we’ve exchanged. If I turn my head, I can see a photo of my own dick on the screen. No, his room’s not very fancy—but he’s treating me like royalty. He’s doing the best he can. He’s carefully arranged the pillows behind my back and made sure I was comfortable. He’s undressed me reverently, clumsily folding each article of clothing down to the socks and stacking them on the cluttered floor. Only once I’m settled and relaxed, and once he’s kissed me deeply and thankfully for being there and urged a remote control into my hand, does he arrange himself between my spread legs to apply himself to the task at hand. His act of worship. I don’t need the remote. I’m not watching the porn playing on his little TV. It’s a distraction, if anything. I’d rather watch the kid go at it. I want to watch the ritual he’s set himself. I’m his omnipotence, observing those reddened lips that distend themselves around my shaft. I’m his all-seeing judge, watching him struggle to get it all in his mouth. I take pleasure as that pencil-thin trace of hair he fancies is a mustache turns into an upside-down arc—a horseshoe loses all its luck around my girth. What he’s giving me is worship. Long. Slow. Attentive. Present. Deliberate. He grunts when I cup my hand on his head. His barber has trimmed the front of his hair into a razor-sharp line. There’s dark bristles in a fade up the sides, longer on top, though still barely more than stubble. Beneath that demarcation, there’s nothing but the creamy, caramel-colored skin of his forehead, his narrow nose, his dropped jaw. The swollen pinkness of his spit-slick lips. His long-lashed eyes are half-closed. He’s almost humming to himself as he deep-throats my cock for long, sweet minutes. Down he goes to the root, impaling his own throat without seeming to care how viciously it’s being opened and stretched. Then up he comes again, slowly, carefully. Lingeringly. His eyes will open when he’s withdrawn it all, to catch sight of the very thing he’s been making a part of him. Occasionally he’ll rub his nostrils along the length, inhaling the scent of me. The scent of his own saliva and warmth. The both of us, mingled together in sweet perfume. Then down he’ll go again, gratefully losing himself in total obeisance to my stiff beast of a prick. He loves my cock. I know—I can tell—that right now, it’s the only thing in this kid’s world. It is this kid’s world. What he’s lived for. What he craves. What he needs. His narrow little hips are grinding into the mattress where he lies, but I know it’s just his body following its own instinct. Every act, every thought, every conscious flicker of brain activity is directed not at his own gratification, but mine. He’s not even trying to get me off. Not in the short run, anyway. He just wants to show me how much my cock matters to him. How insignificant he is in its mighty presence. What he can do for the thing he most worships. That’s the kind of attention I can handle, and for long, long periods of time. “Good boy,” I whisper to him from time to time. The words inflame him. He’ll grab my dick at the very base, but not to whack it crudely. To direct it, to point it, to angle it so that he has the maximum access. He could do this for hours. And from the look of things, he just might. It’s not until a long, long time later that he comes up for air. My dick’s a raw, savage red; it’s sopping and swollen, as if it’s been left for too long in the hot tub. But it’s still rock hard. Holy or unholy, it’s ready for more of his worship. “I gotta have you inside me, papi,” he says, looking at me with nut-brown eyes. I nod. I’m ready. I pull myself up from the pillows, ready to get on my knees and take over. But he’s pushing me down with slender hands, settling me back again onto the altar of pillows. His lord and master. His deity. “Please, relax,” he says. “I want to ride you.” His hand rests on the side of my face. I kiss the palm. This is what I want, this absolute devotion, this entirety of a handsome boy’s attention. I know that while he’s on me, while I’m inside him, the night and the stars will rotate around us. The universe will wheel and shift with us at its center. That’s what worship is. And I’m cock-proud enough to know I deserve it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I was a very small kid, my parents sat me down and had a talk about my genitalia and its synonyms. Penis was the preferred term for what I had between my legs, I was gravely informed. Some people were going to call it a dick, which was vulgar—not that a little vulgarity ever stopped my parents, mind you. What they absolutely frowned upon, however, was the thought of me using infantile phrases like wee wee or pee pee to describe it. In the end, they told me, it didn’t really matter what I called it in conversation. (So long as it wasn’t pee pee.) They were all just words. Penis was merely the correct term. I was maybe four at the time. This is the kind of dinner conversation with which I grew up. Now, my parents were a little more flexible on the words they used to describe bodily functions. My father was strictly of the number one and number two school, while my mother was a firm believer in airy euphemisms like tinkle or whizz to describe peeing, or an earthy Anglo-Saxon shit for the other stuff. I think one of the reasons they stuck to those phrases, infantile though some of them might have been, was because one of my mom’s friends was a crunchy granola whole earth type who’d taught her little tykes to use the clinically-correct terms . . . which I found absolutely hilarious. It only took a few times of me mocking them by saying, in the accent of some little British cherub of a previous century, “Mummy! I have to urinate!” or (and this was the one I thought was especially hilarious) “Father! I must defecate!” before we all settled on pee and poop as the socially-acceptable phrases to use around the house. I’ve never known an issue that causes such a wide divide, though, as what gay men call their holes. Their buttholes, that is. There are a few terms upon which we can all agree. Butt. Ass. Hole. Butthole. Asshole. But then we start to deviate. I’ve known a couple of guys who get a little put out when it’s called a shitter or a poop chute. They don’t like to be reminded that they defecate, apparently. Even I am likely to get a little bit smirky when someone gets too clinical during sex, and uses a phrase like rectum. It makes me want to taunt him, in Masterpiece Theatre tones, with “Mummy! This chap wants me to insert my penis into his rectum! Mightn’t I please play with his anus?” (But I don’t.) You know what two words create the biggest divide in the gay population, though? I bet you do. Cunt and pussy. There’s no middle ground with these words, it seems. The men who object to them do so with a vigor that’s clamorous; the men who love them identify with them with a passion. I think it’s quite curious how a man can be one of the biggest and most passionate pigs around—he can be dressed in stinking, sopping leather, covered with sweat and urine and semen, leaking the loads of a dozen men from both holes, smelling like a horse during harvest, uttering obscenities that would make ***** himself blush like a virgin. But growl something like, Yeah, boy, give me that mancunt, and he’ll turn into the prissiest, primmest, most disagreeable little old lady ever to wipe the tip of her white lace glove across the top of a hanging photograph to make sure it’s dusted. “I do not have a—a—a C-WORD!” he will sniff and intone, pretending he’s not sitting in a puddle of bodily fluids. These guys post their lexicon limitations in their online profiles, admonishing you in advance never, ever to use one of those forbidden words in their presences. They scold. I’ve known them to stop the proceedings dead in their tracks to give a lecture about how they refuse to be feminized . . . after a half dozen men have pounded dick into them for a couple of hours. I used to know one guy who refused to see or speak to anyone who had the temerity to use the words pussy or cunt in his presence, and would block someone online and cut them dead in person if he dared. On the other hand, the guys who are into it, are really, really into it. If they haven’t already made a profile online with a name like WarmSloppyCuntNYC or URPussyboi, they mention in their profiles how they need their cunts stretched and their pussies opened by monster dicks. Saying the words to them inflames their libidos; you can feel their holes become less rigid and more yielding. They want not necessarily to be feminized, but to be used. They want men to open them, to invade them, to put their holes to a purpose just like that uniquely female organ. Me? I tend to be somewhere in the middle. If a guy’s really into being called a pussy or cunt, sure. I’ll call him that. I’ll call him that a lot. If a man dislikes it—I’m not likely to bring it into dirty talk anyway, without some obvious hints dropped. I’m unlikely to refer to my own hole as my man-pussy. On the other hand, I’ve got no issue with describing the afternoon I lost my virginity as being cunted. Forty-five years after I learned about my penis, the point’s pretty much the same to me—they’re all just words. How about you guys? Where do you stand in the lexicon battles that are the pussy wars? Speak up in today’s open forum and let everyone know! More...

Or a professional, in this case.

I don't think he was a biological father, Hotload. I've been with many who were, though.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He’s got a tribal tattoo that covers his right bicep. It’s a splash of dark ink against what’s otherwise milky-white skin—skin nearly as white as his facial hair, which has been trimmed into a severe, snow-colored spike that projects from his chin like a lethal icicle. It’s deceptively soft as it brushes against my thighs. His head is completely shaved. My hands both rest on it as his mouth glides up and down on my pole. They don’t let him up. I don’t want him to stop. But I recognize the man needs air, so I release my grip on his skull. He stares up at me with eyes of a startling blue. “You like that, son?” he asks. The word sets me off like a lit fuse. Without thinking, I jut out my jaw and growl. “Fuck yeah I do, dad.” “I love my son’s cock,” he whispers. He holds it against his face so that I’m forced to look at it at him both. My engorged, red meat, glistening from his spit and hot out of his throat, and that handsome face. “I love sucking on my boy.” “Then suck it, dad,” I tell him. “Suck your kid’s dick.” And I settle back into the pillows as he goes down on me. The man’s only a handful of years older than myself. He’d picked me up online when I was spending an afternoon in the city at the museum where I’m a member. I go often enough that I don’t feel obligated to stay for more than a couple of hours in a single visit. If an opportunity like this pops up, I take it. The fact that his place was only a three-block walk was a plus, in this metropolis. The apartment’s a fucking mess. There’s clothing all over the floor, books and clutter strewn everywhere. He’d told me that he was cleaning out his closet, when I walked in, but if that’s the case, his closet is bigger than my old house. I’m not here for the tour, though. Just for his mouth, and his throat, and soon, his hole—that hairy little pucker that keeps pulsing in and out whenever I crane my body around to catch a glimpse. He’s off my cock again, and pushing me down into the depths of his pillows. His mouth is on mine. His saliva is hot as we open our mouths and crush against each other. He’s on fire; his skin seems fevered to the touch. “Bite it,” he tells me, as he pushes my head down to his nipple. “Bite your daddy. Make him feel good.” What can I do but obey? My incisors clamp down on that erase-shaped protrusion. My lips suck it out, my tongue swirls against it, and the edges of my teeth rake against the soft flesh. He sighs, and growls, and holds me down on his pec. He’s a muscular man, a man of very little body fat; there are photos of him at leather competitions across the room, on his dresser. It’s not difficult to imagine him winning. “Jesus,” he whimpers at last, when I’ve turned that tit from pink to red with my nibbling. “I got me the best boy in the world.” “You got a boy that loves his daddy,” I whisper. Then my face is in his armpit. It stinks. It smells of sharp, metallic body odor and tastes of salt. No deodorant there, that’s for sure. “You got a boy that wants his daddy’s ass,” I say. He looks at me, then licks out with a broad, flat tongue like a happy dog of an oversized breed. His tongue swipes up my face from chin to eyebrow, licking the stink off me. “Fuck it then, son,” he says, pulling himself off the bed. “Fuck your daddy’s ass.” He takes a moment to grab something from his top drawer. It’s a round-tipped syringe of sorts made from colorful plastic, in a shade of lime green one might find in a kid’s safety scissors. He submerges it into a bottle of lube, pulls back the plunger, and then hands it to me. The tip is dripping slightly, same as my dick. “Lube shooter,” he explains. I don’t need a tutorial to use the thing. Once he’s on his hairy knees at the bed’s edge, I slide the finger-sized barrel into his hole, working the stick in a circle to open it up a little. I’m squeezing out a little lube all the way in, but it’s once I reach bottom that I let loose. I hear him sigh as it fills him up. He sighs more loudly, gasps, and then lets out a long groan when I start to stretch his hole with my cock. The shaft slides in. He’s no novice at this, that’s for sure. I can even feel the lube once I’m all the way in; though his hole is warm and grips me slickly, my cock’s head feels like it’s dipped in Jello, or something remarkably cooler. Then I take a stroke, and another, and the coolness starts to fade and spread. The head of our bodies equalizes within a dozen strokes. I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I just know that he feels good, and that his hips keep rising to meet me with every thrust. “That’s right, dad,” I whisper into the half-darkness. “Make your boy feel good.” “Oh god,” he cries into the bed. And I do mean cries. I can hear the sob in his throat. “You like this dick?” I ask him. “You like this dick? I got it from you.” “I love that dick,” he moans. “You are making this dick feel so . . . damned . . . good.” He tries to rise onto his hands. He looks over his shoulder, that handsome fucker with the tough man appearance and the blue eyes of a little boy. “I love you, son.” “I love you daddy,” I whisper back. A grin crosses my face when I say the words, and my dick swells. When I shoot in him, minutes later, after a long fuck that leaves us both sweating and swearing, he’s holding me close and repeating the words. “I love you, son. I love you, boy.” Over and over again he says them, with his elbow locking the back of my neck against his chest. I unload in him as his legs seem both to repel me and to clamp me from leaving. Then, after he holds me in there for a minute, the fog clears. He chuckles. His beard tickles me as he sucks me clean. I collect my things from among the junk on the floor, then find myself stumbling out of the apartment and out onto East 83rd. My face still stinks of the man—my grateful daddy, whom I left half-asleep in the tumble of sheets seven stories above. I wonder if he’s dreaming of us. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I admit to having some ennui lately about my sex blog. Periodically the old Is It All Worth It? blues descend, particularly when the month is busy and even fucking seems like a chore, much less finding the time to write about it afterward. A lot of it is the usual gripes and complaints. (I know many of you have heard them before. Feel free to chime in on the chorus.) I’ll write an entry of which I’m especially proud and, even though I have nearly 900 followers and between five and six times that in unique visitors to my blog on a daily basis, I’ll get three or four comments from the same three or four people. Which is what, less than one percent of people commenting? Or I’ll write an entry that I think is good and someone will remark, I guess this is okay, but I want to hear more about the Landscaper, like I’m some kind of lounge player who is supposed to be expected to switch to requests on demand. And I don’t even have a tip jar on my piano! When I sat down yesterday and did some meditation on the subject, I realized that I’ve been muddling a lot of issues, though. Comments and the like are the least of my issues. I really don’t write my blog for the sake of the comments I get—though don’t get me wrong. I do like them when I get them. But no, what’s been hindering me most is that I’ve been indulging in an old and familiar pattern of behavior into which I fall when I’m trying to avoid confrontation with people who’ve been rubbing me the wrong way. I prefer avoidance over a face-off, every time. Believe it or not, I really dislike confrontation. I’ve had some notable instances in which I’ve given readers tongue-lashings (not the enjoyable kind) when I’ve felt they’ve crossed the line, but generally I’m not fond of the stress and the mental beating I’ll give myself afterwards, when it happens. And lately I’ve let a few bad apples really poison the brown betty. I haven’t had anything quite as crazy as when a former prolific blogger decided I was his mortal enemy and bombed my mailbox with schizophrenic emails threatening to expose me to the world, or quite as sinister as the bipolar fellow who’d email me constantly when he slid to the manic end of his scale to tell me that I was *****. Thank goodness for small mercies, right? But a handful of readers have been indulging in some unpleasant behavior. It’s made frequenting my Twitter account an unpleasant chore. It’s made me avoid logging into my Facebook account. And it’s really made me dread opening my email. I’m not going to get deep into details, but over the last six weeks I’ve gotten a lot of private messages on these various services that have crossed the line from inquisitive to intrusive. There’ve been folk who don’t seem to understand that just because I appear on their computer screens a few times a week and they accordingly have what they feel to be an intimacy with my life and the way I think, I’m not really their best friend, their husband, their dad, or their therapist. (I definitely am not getting paid enough to be anyone’s therapist.) I’m likely to put up walls when I feel battered and badgered in a way I think is unwarranted, and somehow that incites certain personality types to try even harder to get my attention in ways that aren’t entirely positive. It’s a bit of a vicious circle, I admit. There are some readers with whom I’ve had to establish rules. I’ll be very clear that I don’t intend to respond to them if they engage in certain negative behaviors—but frankly, if they’ve gotten me to that point, I’ve likely lost any incentive to interact with them at all. Then I’ve had those who crossed the line from intrusive to abusive. One reader over the weekend decided to send me several messages that were not only derogatory in tone, but accused me of forcing my partners into sex against their will. It was the equivalent of about a gallon of crazy poured into a half-pint container, and the spectacle of the spillover was pretty horrifying. I’m not trying to hold all my readers at arm’s length. I’ve made friends with many people through my blogging. I’d made real-time physical lovers out of readers. Getting to know people is one of the reasons I share my life—I find that sharing my experiences lets us all compare where we are on the spectrum of sexuality on various issues. It’s okay that we’re not all in the same place. Exploring those differences is what makes my journey amazing. I guess I’m one of those idealistic people who believes that, despite our differences in opinion, we can all get along. I don’t believe that people who don’t behave as I behave should be shunned. And I really don’t believe I should have to warn readers and people who interact with me that I’m not complacent about receiving libelous emails, or threatening tweets, or insulting comments, or just plain fucking crazy communications that overstep the bounds of reaching out in a friendly manner into clinical sociopathology. So let’s make a pact. You guys work on that end of things, and I’ll work on finding ways of eliminating the troublemakers from my life in a timely manner, so that they don’t sour me on social networking and most especially on my blogging. The latter is especially too important for me to quit. How’s that sound? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My readers, when sharing their experiences with me, often refer to the availability of porn in their households when they were at a formative age. Their dads subscribed to Playboy or Penthouse. Or they grew up in an age later than mine, when VCRs occasionally held a leftover skin flick that their parents had neglected to eject the night before. Or they grew up way later than I did, and just had porn on their bedroom computers from the internet. I know that people have often envied me for getting out into the parks and restrooms and bedrooms of strange men when I was in my teens, but it's simply because I didn't have any porn to keep me at home. I regard these tales of households in which the pornography flowed if not freely, at least with a little bit of regularity, with the same sense of exotic outsiderness with which I pick up an Amy Tan novel prepare myself for an education about life in some remote Chinese province during the late nineteenth century. I didn't even see real pornography until I was a senior in college. Yeesh. However, I did see these: It's hard to believe it, but the very gay-oriented books of Gordon Merrick were pretty widely available in mainstream bookstores all over the country during the late nineteeen-seventies. These sudsy, homoerotic covers were always turned outward on the bookshelves of the local mall B. Dalton. I used to wander in, position myself in front of the Ms in the general fiction area, stare at the covers, and dream about what lay inside. I never touched them. I didn't want to be seen picking up what was obviously and blatantly so gay a work of fiction. But man, I used to stare at those tanned bodies, and those bare limbs, and those pouty lips, and those scantily-clad acres of male flesh, and dream about the sizzling stories they must contain. Then I'd go home and jack off furiously. Or go to some sleazy cruising spot and suck dick and wish I were old enough or pretty enough to be the subject of one of those novels. It wasn't until I was an adult that I got my hands on some used copies of the Gorden Merrick bibliography. I licked my lips, unbuckled my jeans, got a box of Kleenex at the ready, and dived in. Hoo, boy. Was I ever disappointed. The books are kind of fascinating, but only from a Were gay guys really so desperate for representation that they enjoyed this crap? kind of standpoint. Let me spoil the plot of every Gordon Merrick novel written for you, so that you'll never have to read them yourself. There's a rich scion of a homophobic kerjillionaire, see. He's been to all the right schools. He's intended to the prettiest coed currently going to Vassar. But in a flashback we discover that he can't get out of his head the rough and brutal anal assault he endured at the hands of a former fraternity chum/French airline captain/anonymous Greek fisherman, and he fears that he must be A Homosexual. When he falls deeply in love with another well-off son of another kerjillionaire, he rejects that love, and instead marries the girl of his father's choosing. Much alcohol, deterioration, and precious few sex scenes follow for about three hundred pages. Then the scion understands at last what he needs to be happy and moves in with his much older but still tastefully rich true love. They're pretty dreadful. But I know a lot of men have a certain fondness for them—and I do too, really. More for what they represented than what they contain; to a kid in a small-town B. Dalton, they were kind of the promise of a much more exotic life tapestry than I could conceive for myself. Little did I know that my own life would be much more interesting and erotic than any Gordon Merrick novel. But then again, if I'd been sitting around at home masturbating to porn (if it had been available!), I wouldn't have been living it. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. If money was not an issue, is there a business you've always wanted to start? I'd totally start my own porn company. (As it is, anyone out there want to hire me?) Touching on the earlier question about finding your children's personal website and your response, how do you navigate online privacy, both for yourself and when teaching your children? I'm not so naive. Navigating websites leaves a history in the browser; keeping a volume of personal fuck shots on my hard drive means that someone might be able to find them. USB sticks with saved material can be lost. Personal diary entries can be found. When it comes to my own personal privacy, I keep those portions of my notebook computer locked and encrypted—and all its associated disks—with passwords only I know. I'm fortunate to live in a household in which we respect each other's privacy. I wouldn't think of looking through my spouse's emails or hard drive, and I get the same respect in return. I think a parent has every right (and indeed, should exercise them) to keep tabs on his child's computer usage, because young children in particular aren't prepared to make good decisions about what sites are appropriate, nor are they skilled at knowing how much time is appropriate to spend on the computer. Getting them into good habits is something that parents are supposed to do, so that when they reach a more advanced stage of adolescence, they really are able to manage on their own in a responsible manner. Do you prefer circumcised men or uncircumcised are you circumcised and if you are do you wish you weren't or did you have it done as an adult I don't really prefer either. It's like asking me if I like a vanilla or a chocolate milkshake. Just give me the milkshake already, goddamnit! That said, I wish I'd been left uncircumcised. I don't believe it's a healthy procedure, and I don't like that it's blithely done at birth for the spurious sake of 'hygiene.' I simply don't agree with it as a norm. How do you feel when you get declarations of love that you don't feel for the other person? I feel sad. Sad, mostly, that I don't reciprocate in the same way. Sad that I am letting down the other person. Sad that I am facing the prospect of either telling them outright that I don't feel that way and facing their disappointment, or of letting them find out gradually and having to imagine their let-down. There's plenty of love to go around. There are times, however, when I cannot love someone in the same romantic, permanent manner that they want. When that happens, it mostly makes me sad. Have u ever been double penetrated? Did you enjoy it? If u haven't, is it something u would do? I never have, no. I've had a cock in my ass and one in my mouth and a couple more in my hands, but that's the closest I've been to a double-penetration. I have, however, been one of the dicks that's double-penetrated. I just don't like it. It's never gotten me remotely close to shooting, and usually provided a lot more pleasure and sensation for the bottom than it did for either of the tops. What is the best trick to make anal sex as enjoyable as possible? (Serious question.) Want it. Serious answer. Want the dick inside you. And want the specific guy you're with. Don't want to watch porn more than you want to get fucked—want the guy who's standing behind you, or over you, or is in bed with you. Don't want poppers or drugs more than dick. Don't endure a fucking just so you can be held by someone after. Don't bend over out of loyalty or obligation or because you're bored or because your DVD stopped working and sex is second-best to the movie you wanted to watch. Do it because you want the guy, and because you want his dick inside you. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This is how it goes down. No complications. No strings. He’s wary of giving me too much up front. I get that. There are parts of my life I don’t hand out on request, either. I don’t share with guys my phone number on a first chat. Or a second, or third. Nor my address. If it’s hookup time, they’ll get the information they need. Otherwise, fuck it. I don’t know what they’re going to do with my numbers. So on the day he’s flown into town, I travel into the city. Take the 4 train down to Wall Street, then walk to place he’s staying. It’s a little boutique hotel across from Delmonico’s, where a porter peers at me through the glass in the front doors. I call him on the phone. “I’m here,” I tell him. “I’m ready,” he replies. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. It’s lighter than I’ve imagined, higher, more of a tenor than the baritone I’d expected. It has a bit of a flutter in it, as if he’s nervous. I hear him clear his throat. “I’m ready . . . what?” I ask. “I’m ready, sir,” he says. The three words are breathy. Excited. “Give me your room number,” I tell him. He does. I lower my voice, as if there’s a possibility I might be overheard. There’s not. Even though it’s midday, this particular little side street is fairly quiet. “Now listen, you little shit. After I hang up, you’re gonna have three minutes to strip down, get the lights low, and assume the position. You’ve got your blindfold?” “Yes,” he says. I can almost hear the gulp he lets out. “It’d better be on. And after I hang up, I don’t want to hear a word from you until I’m zipping up to go. Then you'd better fuckin' thank me. And you'd better fuckin' mean it.” “Yes,” he breathes. I don’t know whose pulse is louder—his or mine. “Any questions?” “No,” he says. “I’m not gonna romance you,” I tell him. “I don’t give a shit whether you come or not. Got it?” Then he adds, “I understand.” “Then let’s make it happen. Oh. You got my dough?” “Yes,” he says, for a third time. “Have it out for me or I’m not even sticking around. I’m coming up.” I end the call. It amazes me that anyone buys my tough top act. That it passes for genuine says something about how heavily invested men can be in their fantasy version of me. Then again, perhaps it is genuine. I pull it out often enough. I’m confident that this guy is going to follow my orders. I know exactly what he wants, and I say what he needs to hear. I’ve got no hesitation; I know that the sex is going to happen with no complications. No strings. Maybe the confidence to pull it all together all it really takes to be that tough top. The door’s cracked when I get up there. The lights are off. There’s enough daylight in the room that I can see everything in a hazy relief. His laptop on the desk. His suitcases on the stands. His suit, neatly pressed, hanging on wooden hangers just inside the closet door. And most importantly, this man kneeling on the bed wearing nothing but a jock. His head is at a level lower than his ass, but it’s craned forward, staring blindly at the wall. He’s got some kind of mask on his face. There’s a hole for his mouth, but he can’t see anything. The eyes are completely covered. The money’s in an obvious place. He’s tucked it under the elastic of his jock, so that the bills cover the small of his back. I let them stay for now. I don’t even stop to count them. I can tell by the sleekness of his luggage, the cut of that suit, the expense of the highest-end Apple laptop, that he’s not going to be stiffing me. The guy’s not ugly by any stretch of the imagination—not from what I’d seen in his photos. He’s built. He’s got a narrow waist and a little round ass that’s seen a lot of squats at the gym. His thighs are broad at the top. Muscular. His shoulders are strong; the arms that hold up his torso are well-rounded, powerful. When he’s originally contacted me and asked if my cock was ever for hire, I’d added to my affirmative that with his looks, he could get any dick he wanted in this city. I prefer to pay, he’d said. It makes for no complications. No strings. I get that, too. Sometimes it's worth shelling out a little extra for quality. That’s what I plan to give him. Value for the dollar. Sound is going to be his main sense for this encounter, to start. I let him hear me circle the bed. I let him hear me kick off my shoes. Unbuckle my belt. Pop open the button of my jeans, unzip the fly. I let him listen to the sounds of the cotton as it slides over my head and off the chest, and hits the floor. Taste. I open his mouth. Pry it open, with my fingertips. Cram my half-hard cock in. He gulps at it greedily, getting it hard between his lips, letting his tongue travel the length. He slurps at my balls. His hand reaches out to grab my shaft, but I shove it away. It’s the mouth and nothing else. He’s got to prove he deserves it. Touch. I slap his ass hard. He doesn’t know it’s coming until the split-second before, when the rush of air gives him only enough warning for his mind to raise a primal alarm. He cries out and chokes around my dick, but doesn’t say a word. I slap the other ass, harder. Instinctively, he lets my cock slide out of his mouth. His hips thrust higher in the air. He buries his face in the duvet. I walk around the bed’s edge. Yank him to the side. He puts up absolutely no resistance whatsoever as I jerk him into a position where I can fuck him without having to tiptoe, or to spread my legs to lower myself down to him. His neck’s at an angle; his shoulders are pinned down, their blades poking out his skin. He looks like a broken rag doll. The hole’s lubed up already. Good. I’m glad not to have to waste time with that. I spit on my dick to give it a little extra moisture. Line it up with the hole. Press in. I go a little faster than usual; I don’t really give a shit whether it’s too fast for him or not. His hole opens up, though. It’s been well-fucked through his life. The edges of the fifty-dollar bills scrape against my pubes when I sink to the bottom. They’re new bills, too. Crisp, clean, sharp-edged, fresh from the bank stack. I leave them there. I don’t really care if they get a little fuck juice on them. He’s trying hard not to talk, I can tell. He should’ve put a gag in. He starts to utter the first syllables of exclamations like Oh god or fuck or shit, but he’s got enough presence of mind to let them wash away. Ohhhhhhhh, it comes out, and fuuuuuh, and shiiiiiih. “That’s it,” I’ll tell him. “Yeah. Open up.” Or, “Squeeze down. Make it tight. Come on.” I grunt. I slap the ass. But mostly I make sure he feels fucked. Because that’s what they want. They want to know they’ve been fucked. They don’t want some guy climbing on and giving little rabbit thrusts that wiggle and jiggle their butt cheeks. They don’t want some novice who thrusts in twice and shoots. They don’t want a small dick that can’t do the job. I take long strokes, all the way in and a little beyond, then all the way out save for the tip. I let him feel the length of it. I squeeze the pelvic floor to make it swell when it’s at its depth, so that he feels the girth. Men like this could have anyone, but they pick me. They pick me because I’ll give them exactly what they want. No complications. No strings. I make this guy’s ass sing from my cock. It’s vibrating. He’s humming to himself beneath me, and there’s a dark wet spot on the fabric of his mask from where he’s drooling from the side of his mouth. He’s blind with that cover over his head. But he doesn’t need to see. Everything he needs to know is centered in one place: his slick little pucker and the eight inches of colon just beyond. All the knowledge in the world, all the money in Wall Street, all the power and trinkets and accoutrements of his lifestyle, the money flapping back and forth over the small of his back as I fuck in and out for endless minutes—it all means nothing while I’m there. What matters is my cock. His hole. And the rawest of sensations I’m producing by introducing one to the other. He remembers not to speak until I’ve pulled on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, and I’m zipping up. “Thank you, sir,” he says, in the meekest and most submissive of tones. I snatch the bills from his jock strap. They’re not as pristine as they were. I stuff them into my pants, and take a last look at the load spilling out of his ass. “You’re welcome,” I say. Because I can tell he means it. Then I turn on my heel and leave him there. And I wonder how long he’ll lie in that half-darkness, dreaming about what came before. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's your favorite feature and mine—that time of the week when some of my hottest readers (and considering how hot my readers are, that's a pretty select bunch!) strip down and show off their stuff. And I've got some really good ones this time around, too. Note that these guys aren't professional models . . . though they should be. They're showing their bare stuff here because they're bold and they're sexy. They should be admired for that—and rewarded with your compliments. If you'd like to join them, read the instructions in this post and send me your photos! Vince Now, I've known Vince for a while; he's one of my longest-term of my long-term readers. I've been fortunate to see several sides of him over the last couple of years, and now it's high time that you did too. And man, does Vince show off every side here. A juicy front side, a beautiful round back side, and a very sexy side side. But that's what I've always liked about Vince. This handsome man really loves it all! Rick Now Rick will attest to this: When I got his pics in my email, I immediately wrote back and said, "Damn, what a beautiful dick!" My reaction is the same today, looking at the photos again. Look how shiny it is in the top shot, as if it's just been yanked out of someone's wet hole and is ready to get shoved back in again. It's got a beautiful shape to it, and the proportions are perfect. Just one question for you, Rick—is that your handprint on the shower door in the last photo, or is it from some hungry cocksucker trying to get at you? After sharing your photos here, I'm willing to bet there are quite a few men who'd claw their way through a glass door to get at that cock. Dean Dean has shared just a single shot with us. He's entitled it, My cock being treated the way it should be. Um, you're not going to get any disagreement with me on that one, Dean. That's another truly amazing dick there . . . fat, beautifully-proportioned, and glistening with spit. My only complaint about the photo is that it's so hot, it's hard to know where to look—the sexy meat? Or the hungry boy's mouth servicing it? Either way. I'm willing to bet Dean would share more if you guys gave him enough compliments down below. I know I'd like to see more. J. Sigh. So beautiful. J. is a student who'll be visiting the New York City area next month. Can I ask my readers to start a write-in campaign insisting that he hook up with me while he's here? I'd take photos of us fucking. This boy is just damned fine, don't you agree? Sexy body. Beautiful ass. Chewable nipples. Scruffy, sexy face. And as a bonus, he has great underwear and definitely knows how to wear it. As for that locked cage—man. What wouldn't I give to be the man who kept the key. J., you are one fine, fine piece of ass. I say that as the highest compliment possible. Let's give this week's participants a hand, and show your appreciation for them down in the comments. I know the guys who've participated have all loved the admiration you've shown them in the past—so let's keep it coming! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've written about this in the past, but I was kind of a doofus about masturbation when I was a kid. I went from dewy-eyed innocent to masturbation fiend all in the space of a single hot summer afternoon, when in my single digits I first I got the idea to go somewhere private (my family's attic, which was about a hundred degrees), to pull down my pants, and to wrap my legs around a cardboard box in which my mom's guitar had been sold, and to hump it until . . . well, I didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but instinctively I knew that something had to, because it felt so good. When that first orgasm came, it was so unexpected and crazy that I thought I'd passed out from the heat, or perhaps had a heart attack. But if that was what heart attacks felt like, I wanted another. So for months and months and maybe even as long as a year after that, whenever I masturbated, it was by rubbing and humping. I would straddle the rounded corner of a mattress and push and rub and hump like a rabbit until I orgasmed. Or I'd put a rug on the edge of the tub, and wrap my little legs around the cushioned porcelain, and jackrabbit my way to a climax there. I humped an old vertical support beam in my basement, and a tree trunk in the back yard, after dark. Eventually I hit on the concept of folding my pillow in half and straddling it in bed, which was the most comfortable means of all—and I stuck to that for a long time. It wasn't until I started hanging out in the cruisy men's room on my parents' campus and saw men handling their own dicks with their hands—a totally novel concept for me—that it occurred to me that it might be digitally manipulated. It took me a long time to figure out a way to do it, though. I started out by making my index finger and thumb into a loose circle that I'd draw up and down the skin of my dick with a light touch. I'd keep that up until I was ready to blow, when I'd grip my meat with my thumb and forefinger only and quickly jerk it off. I didn't use lube (I still don't, when I'm going solo). I use a full-fisted approach now, but I've only gotten there gradually, over the years. I bring up the topic because I was chatting with a friend who was telling me how he used to masturbate pretty much exclusively as a kid by sticking his dick between the cushions of a sofa and fucking the fabric; I also knew someone else who as a kid stuffed Kleenex into a thermos bottle and fucked it like a proto-Fleshlight. It just goes to show you that when it comes to getting our dicks off, the most untaught among us will expend all of our creativity in making it happen. How about you guys? Masturbate in any creative and unexpected ways when you were kids and didn't know any better? Let's get to some responses from formspring.me. Have you ever met someone who's read your blog before a face to face meeting with them & had them expect an intimate relationship with you & were they pissed when you wouldn't give them what they expected? Yes. I won't go into detail—just as I haven't in my blog—because I don't want to betray that kind of trust. Having someone feel they know me, and having someone want to know me because of my writing, is a big honor. I don't take it lightly. Having someone become infatuated with me because of my blog has happened a few times, and usually I know—and they know—that it's not me with whom they're really infatuated, but some idealized version of me, a sexual superstar, a handsome super-stud, and a tireless lover that could never exist. (Well, maybe the tireless lover part exists.) When they find out I'm just an ordinary-looking guy who does attempt to relish the life he lives, but who also is vague about what day of the week it is, who forgets to pay bills, and who has a severe phobia about talking on the telephone, and who cusses like a redneck in expensive restaurants, it's disappointing both for them and for myself. On one level there's not a lot of disconnect between the way I present myself in the blog and the way I am in real life. The blog is very much the real-life me. But somehow it's easier to overlook the flaws of the blog me, than when the real me is stammering his way through yet another dull ol' story. You ween't hurt by your experiences as an adolescent regarding sex & you haven't become either a pedophile or homophobic so why do so many people seem to insist on informing you that these men you played with are monsters & pedos? Cultures tell themselves stories, and grow to agree upon them. Think of it this way. Half a century ago, the story our culture told about gays was that they were a menace to society, a shadowy subculture of a handful of subversive sexual demons and predators who all committed suicide from unhappiness and blackmail. We saw that theme everywhere—in our magazines, in movies, in novels and plays, on news programs. Over the years we've revised that story many times—there was a period in the eighties in which gays were well-meaning young men who came out and then died of AIDS, and then in the nineties in which we were every girl's asexual best friend. And look at how we as a culture are revising the story today—it's all about protection, whether of gay youth from bullies in the schools, or bullies trying to take away equality rights from the grown-ups. The problem with these stories is that we dislike it very much when someone deviates from the accepted narrative of the moment. People fifty years ago were scandalized and upset to find that there were gay men who were quite happy about their sexuality and didn't intend to pick up a gun and do the respectable thing. And in a turnabout, the dominant culture these days can be upset when finding a good man and settling down into a marriage isn't the first thing on a nice gay boy's mind. On television, you don't see prowling, sexual gay men—they're either in a marriage or marriage-equivalent, or yearning for a storybook wedding. That's a big shift in narrative. At the moment, the accepted narrative about adolescent sex is that the young people involved are all victims, and passive innocents at the hands of horrible monsters, at that. A century ago, the cultural narrative might've been that fourteen, or fifteen was the age a girl might start thinkin' about gettin' hitched to an older swain. Even in my youth, parents grudgingly distinguished between genuine abuse and kids just messing around; now it's all lumped into the same victimized category. As I've said many times before, doing so does a great disservice to youth who are genuinely abused and mistreated, and whose stories are mixed up with the likes of horny sluts like me. A culture often achieves progress by rewriting its narratives. On the converse, the dominant narrative can obscure and erase the very real stories of how people behave outside that accepted narrative. When we buy into myths, or contribute to that noise, we're doing nobody any favors. Have you ever played strip poker or a strip version of another game? I've never played a strip version of another game for real. I suppose Doctor doesn't count? The closest I game was challenging an online friend to Strip Carcassonne. However, we kind of just skipped to sending each other nude photos by the end of the third turn. You seem to have an almost psychological understanding of what people expect or want from you, did you study psychology or have you always been astute & able to read a person? Coincidentally, I was a psychology major in college. I say 'coincidentally,' because studying that subject really didn't give me much of whatever insight I can claim to have into behavior, whether anyone else's or my own. What a degree in psychology gave me was a grasp of statistical analysis, the chance to babysit obnoxious and violent teenagers in the wards of a local psychiatric hospital, and a fervent desire not to enter an actual psychology-related career. What is your personal policy around tipping? Do you tip every shmo who has a hand out, or do you only tip for excellence, or somewhere in between? It's often true that some professions are, quite legally, paid well under the minimum wage with the expectation that they'll make up the difference with tip money. For that reason, I will tip wait staff and bartenders and drag entertainers a good amount, without hesitation. Not to do so is pretty willfully rude, I think. However, if my service is bad—if I'm forced to wait an especially long time, or if the waiter is snappy or dismissive or manages to bring down my dining experience—I will leave almost no tip. (I won't leave out a tip completely; I don't want them assuming I simply forgot.) And generally I will tell their manager why. I will occasionally tip people like ice-cream scoopers who don't traditionally earn tips if I'm in a good mood and/or they are super-cute. Do you own something you are truly proud of? I don't get a lot of pride in ownership out of objects. I don't buy cars to show off my tastes or (god knows) my wealth. I haven't lived in the flashiest neighborhoods in the biggest houses. I don't wear rings or jewelry or expensive watches that I show off proudly, the way some people do. If there are any physical objects I own of which I'm proud, they're objects I've made myself—the results of my artistic career, for example. Those I can display with a lot of pride. Handmade objects I use to decorate my home? I'm proud of those. If I can make something myself that other people enjoy and that's beautiful, I'm proud as hell of it. More...