TheBreeder

We'll shock you yet, Hotload!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I swear to god, if I turn on the radio or television and have to hear the phrase butt-chugging again, I’m going to take a gun and blow out the speakers. It’s not that I’m offended by the phrase itself, inelegant as it is. What bothers me is the way that most of the newscasters speak it, as if wrapping their lips around syllables so closely related to the evacuatory channel is beneath them—though it’s very plain that most of them get a thrill out of being able to get away, finally, with saying something so crude on the air. Even Anderson Cooper, when he started talking about butt-chugging on his program, wore a little raised eyebrow that indicated he thought the whole thing was. . . . Wait. You don’t know what butt-chugging is? Let’s back up. There was a news article earlier this week that reporting about an incident at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity at the University of Tennessee. I don’t know about your colleges for those of you who went, but back in the day, the Pi Kappa Alphas were the target of many a jack-off fantasy of mine, because at my school they were a uniformly hot bunch. Whenever I’d see one of them coming my way in those maroon-colored sweats with the gold greek letters on the outer thigh, I’d melt. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were also uniform assholes, I would’ve almost regretted never rushing. Anyway, the incident involved a near-fatal poisoning from an alcohol enema. Alcohol, when douched into the rectum, gets absorbed into the bloodstream very quickly; it’s possible to get much more drunk rectally than it is by actually drinking. Naturally, the report was bizarre enough to mainstream America that it couldn’t be treated as an isolated incident. No, it had to be classified as a trend, and given the name of butt-chugging. Any news outlet would have you imagining that all the cool kids are butt-chugging on college campuses these days. Hell, they’re probably butt-chugging in the men’s and women’s rooms between seminars, and butt-chugging in their dorm rooms instead of doing what coeds did in the good old-fashioned days when canasta, flagpole-sitting, and goldfish-swallowing was the height of craziness. Twenty-three skidoo, and all that. Parents are now supposed to educate their children on the dangers of butt-chugging. Priests will need to sit down with younger members of their flocks when they sense trouble and ask the question, “My child, are you a butt-chugger?” It’s all ridiculous, of course. Alcohol enemas have been around forever. It’s never going to be a ‘trend’ because come on, let’s get real. How many frat boys are so un-homophobic that they’re going to give each other enemas? No, people. I’m talking about real frat boys outside of one of those streaming pay-per-view porn websites. I encountered the phenomenon first back in the late nineties, when a guy who’d share his bottom at small parties would first buzz the boy up with a beer enema. The younger guy was still in training in taking multiple big dicks, so a quick flush to the colon with a Fleet bag and a cheap beer (I have a memory of it being a generic brand, because like his top said, he wasn’t going to have to taste it), and the hole was ready for a couple of hours of fucking. No nausea, no risk of puking—just a quick buzz followed by two or three men piling on to fill him up. At the other end of the spectrum was a fellow I knew in Chicago who would invite me to his apartment when I was in town, who fancied himself a kind of specialist in the art of the wine enema. He kept a kind of log of his experiments in oenophile colonics, and was as much of a snob about what vintage went up his shitter as if he’d been a member of the Windy City Wine Council. Desperate to impress, he would keep the bottle from which he’d decanted his expensive douche by the bedside table. When I’d be undressing on my arrival, he’d bore me a little by telling me about the label, its history, and the year of its creation; he’d also offer me a glass—as if I wouldn’t be tasting the remnants on his butt cheeks in a few minutes. On the whole, I had more sympathy for the guy with the generic beer. At least he didn’t have any pretense about what he was doing. Now, alcoholic enemas aren’t something I’m recommending. They can be dangerous, or even fatal. I don’t even find them vaguely erotic; about the best I can say for them is that at least they don’t leave one’s breath smelling foul. But to pretend they’re something that’s done only by crrrrrazy frat boys is to do a disservice to the vast spectrum of sexual behavior among both gay and straight people (oh yes, straight people do it, too). It reinforces the act as a fetishized, marginal behavior. It sensationalizes what is really not that exceptional an experience, and makes it titillating. But you know, maybe it’s a little bit worth it, if only to see Anderson Cooper try to keep a straight face while saying the words butt-chugger on the air. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The Runt’s got on his collar, like a good boy. He’s naked and sitting on my living room floor, his little butthole exposed and scraping against the carpet. His knees are drawn up; his hands hang between his legs. He’s squatting like a monkey. No inhibitions. No self-awareness. His mouth is on my cock, and the only mind he has for the moment is centered on that shaft of meat. He sucks at it greedily, his jaw opening as far as it can, as he struggles to take my dick to the base. I’ve got his warm spit running down my sac; its skin contracts from the touch of his smooth chin, then expands from his hot, steady breath. My fingers run through his long hair, trying to clear it from his eyes. It just flops down again. I’m not saying anything, but I sigh. I gasp when he uses his tongue in what he clearly fancies is an exotic manner on the underside of my head. Finally I allow him to push me back into the depths of the armchair, where I sink into the cushions. Pleasure shackles me down. For long, endless moments, I’m his sweet prisoner. “Do I make you feel good?” he asks after a long, long time. The Runt rarely speaks when we have sex. We might make small talk when I pick him up from his place and drive us to whatever destination I have in mind. The minute he’s naked, though, his only remarks have been indications of assent. Breathy yes sirs. The occasional please. A fuck yes that’s little more than an exhalation. A question like that? Never. I drift to full consciousness like a man beneath layers of blankets waking to a cold and sunny morning. “What?” I ask. “Of course you do.” When I open my eyes, he’s got his right hand wrapped around my cock. It’s slimy from his throat, big, distended. He’s still sitting on the floor, lips cherry red from the work they’ve been doing. His own cock, untouched, stands straight up. It points at his navel. It’s rigid, deep pink. There’s a slight browning at the tip of his foreskin. His eyes glisten with moisture from all his effort. “I want to make you feel better than anybody else,” he pleads. “I want to be the best you’ve had.” I reach out with my hand. Like a puppy searching for a pat, instinctively he leans forward and rubs his cheek against my hand. I cup his chin in my palm, and pull him forward. “You want to be the best?” I say. He nods. I can tell from his eyes that he wants that more than anything. He wants to give me pleasure. He wants my pleasure more than his own. He wants it more than Christmas. “Then suck me.” He looks at me with adoration, then opens his mouth and engulfs my still-stiff shaft. Briefly he looks up at me to see my reaction to his mouth, but I’m already lost in the rapture of the boy’s slick throat. My left hand hooks under his collar; my right holds the back of his head, pulling him down until I feel myself hitting a wall of resistance. I pull. His body buckles. He chokes, spitting a fine mist onto my pelvis. I can feel the noises of his gagging deep inside, but I keep him held down on my dick. “Make me feel good, son,” I urge. “Make me feel real, real good.” I watch him struggle. His body is telling him to flee, to clear his mouth of the huge obstruction making him coke and gag. His dick, though, strains in the air and thrusts into nothing as it grows even harder and more needy at the command. His back arches in at attempt to push away; his hands clutch at me, refusing to let go. He’s releasing enough saliva from his pretty little lips that it’s slopping down my nuts and leaving a wet spot on the armchair cushion. It’s nothing, compared to the wet my meat is producing. At last he comes up for air, his lanks of hair all but obscuring his eyes. His lower lip is trembling. It’s swollen and red. Almost beestung. He’s overcome with phlegm, and spit, and pain. “What do you say?” I asked. “Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Thank you.” It’s the little amen to the silent prayer he’s been saying on his knees, this last half hour. “You’re welcome,” I tell him, looking him straight in those tear-filled and unblinking eyes. “Now,” I add. “Make me feel good. Make my cock feel real, real good.” He knows what to do. He scrambles to his feet and bends over, exposing his little pale ass. I apply my mouth to it and wet his hole. He tastes clean, like soap and detergent, and whatever body spray he’s applied in the belief I care how he smells. I could eat him out all night, but he waits until he’s slicked up, and then disengages. I’m still wearing my T-shirt. He’s naked, and still stiff as an iron rod. He lifts a foot and steps onto the chair. The other foot follows. His toes dig into the space between the upholstered arms and the cushion as he lowers himself down. It’s an awkward position, but he’s young and flexible. “Do you really want to make me feel good?” I ask him. “I mean, really want to?” He nods. He’s apprehensive about the fuck, I can tell. He always is. I watch him struggle between the need and the knowledge of how much it’s going to hurt, going in. The need wins out. “I want to be your best,” he whispers. “I want to be the best you have.” “Then do what you have to do, son,” I tell him, stroking his cheek. He looks at me, trying to gather his nerve. I stroke his cheek, nodding. Giving him permission to do what he wants. He takes a breath. His fingers grope for my cockhead, aligning it with his hole. Up and down his hips raise and lower as he makes a couple of false starts. Then he takes the head, and hesitates. “Do it,” I command. “Do I have to force you, boy?” Although for a moment, he looks as if he’s considering it, at last he shakes his head. Another deep breath. Then I feel all of his weight pressing on my cock. I make it swell, to withstand the assault. I feel the first ring open, and he begins to slide down. Then, after some struggle, the next tight ring of muscle gives way. He’s around me, and the pressure of his little hole is tighter and sweeter than anything else I could wish for at that moment. The assault on his hole, self-inflicted though it was, makes him cry out sharply. The sound reflects around the wood and plaster of my living area, bounces into the dining room, echoes from the kitchen. His hole is twitching, he’s bucking around with his eyes closed, his nose wrinkled in a rictus of agony. “Fuck!” he yells out, with a wet catch in his throat. He sinks all the way down until I’m buried in him. For a moment, he relaxes. Only for a moment. Because as it always does, the pain of entry triggers his first orgasm. He’s openly sobbing. The moisture in his eyes is now tears. His lips are stretched wide, pulled into an ugly shape. But he’s the prettiest sight in the world, right now. I feel the warmth of his semen on my chest, my left nipple, my belly. It slides down and puddles around my navel. He hasn’t touched himself once. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he says, like a little boy at the end of a spanking. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.” “Ssshhh,” I tell him. The feel of my hand against his chest calms him. His breathing subsides. His sobbing slowly ceases. His eyes open, and stare into mine. “It’s good,” I say. “It’s okay. You can’t help it.” He shakes his head. Whether it’s to say he really can’t help it, or that I’m wrong and he’s still sorry, I don’t know. “Now show me what my best boy can do,” I tell him, sinking back into the cushions once more. I let his warmth blanket me. “Show me who’s my best boy.” He brightens at the words, and shines like that sun on a cold morning, bright, clear, and intent in its purpose. Then his eyes close, and his head tips back at the sensations he produces as he begins sliding up and down on my shaft. I know I’m going to be in for a long, long ride. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Is there any better sensation than a pair of freshly-shaven nuts? I know from experience that such a seemingly innocent question will raise all sorts of controversy. Is there any deeper divide in our population than over the question of manscaping? No! shouts a vocal chunk of hair-lovin' hirsutes. Keep them nuts natural! Yes! shout an equally avid proportion of guys who keep afloat the business of porn featuring young guys with bodies freakishly devoid of any trace of follicularity. Hair is icky! Ordinarily I tend to fall in the middle of the debate. I like a guy to keep his natural body hair. I think it's beautiful stuff. I wish I could grow it. Belly hair, chest hair, small-of-the-back hair—it can all be very sexy. At the same time, I enjoy the sensations of a cleanly-shaved hole, or the flat of a pelvis from which all the public hair's been shorn. The sandpapery sensation of a shaved chest against the flat of my hand can be sensual. I love rubbing my hand over a shaved skull. It's your body, I say. Do what you want to do with it, and with the stuff that grows out of it. But I like to keep my nuts clean, generally. Though most of my hair is very soft and very fine, my balls have some genetic throwback to a Viking forebear, apparently; any hair that grows there comes out red-blond and coarse to the point that each strand is roughly the thickness of a small twig. I can picture some ancestor of mine, after a good night of pillaging and raping along the medieval coastal regions, plucking one of his scrotal pubes and using it to pick his grotty teeth, or perhaps employ it as a crude lockpick. So I shave. Every week or so I grab my razor and have at it, hacking away at the undergrowth like some kind of explorer in the African wilds. I used to use a safety razor, but the results were less than optimal—plus I was occasionally slicing myself, and that one area from which one just doesn't want blood oozing. I tried a very gentle depilatory. While its results were fantastic, the very gentle chemical burn it produced didn't encourage me to use it again. And it left me walking bow-legged for a week. Now I use a body razor—one of my readers used my wish list to replace the one I had that'd given up the ghost after having to thwack its way through the jungle tangle for several years. When it's done, I feel free. I feel clean. I feel civilized again. Another confession: I occasionally trim the hair that grows around the ring of my nipples as well. But only when it's so long that I can braid it. Where do you guys come in on the shaving thing? Do you like it on yourselves? Prefer it on others? Think it's an abomination unto the Lord? While you discuss, I'll get to some questions rounded up from formspring.me. First experience with rimming? Doing it and getting it done? This is an interesting question about which I had to think long and hard. I seem to recall that I was very much resistant to rimming when I first encountered it in the years after I started having sex with men. The majority of the sex I was having in my early teens was in public restrooms and in the woods, and in those situations there wasn't any rimming whatsoever; the guys who occasionally took me home during that time apparently weren't big on it, either. I don't think it was until right around the time I met my mentor, Earl, that I learned about rimming. Whoever suggested it to me first—I don't remember the name—described it as 'you lick my dirty butthole and I lick yours back'. It did not sound at all appetizing, and I wouldn't agree to do it. It was several men later that someone explained that it wasn't about dirty buttholes, and then he flipped me over and did it to me. I was kind of amazed that it felt as good as it did. It took a few more encounters with rimming before I tried it myself, though. I'm grateful that I had clean asses to perform it on pretty consistently, because otherwise I would've run feeling from one of life's greatest pleasures. We know from your blog a broom handle has been used up your butt, was there any other non-traditional items used as a dildo in your youth or today? I haven't used an anal toy on myself in at least a decade. The last time anyone used one on me was a guy in a bathhouse who had a bookstore's worth of adult toys in his play bag, and who relaxed me enough to get a few finger-sized butt plugs and a very pleasurable inflatable vibrator inside my hole. But those aren't non-traditional. As a youth I had my broom handle, but I also experimented with vegetables—a cucumber, a zucchini, the narrow end of a summer squash, a carrot. I was afraid to try anything fragile, like a glass bottle, or anything that I might accidentally lose in there, like one of my mom's lipsticks or something similar, because I'd read in one of my parents' sex manuals that homosexuals were always inserting stuff light bulbs up their rear ends and requiring emergency surgery. That manual was stupid, of course. But then later on I knew someone who was playing with a dildo on cam and lost it up his butt and had to go to the hospital. (He was a dumbass. He should've just relaxed and let it work its way out.) So maybe the author wasn't too far off. Do you believe bi-sexuality is a choice or do you believe that most people are bisexual to some extent but choose to ignore same-sex or hetero attractions in keeping with their most dominant attractions? I believe when it comes to sex, we don't get to make a choice about what desires we have, but we can choose whether to act upon them, and with whom. That is, I don't believe that someone chooses to be bisexual. I believe that people have an innate set of attractions, and that a certain proportion of the human race is sexually drawn to both men and women. Some people will embrace their feelings and sleep with both sexes; others may recognize the impulse, but confine themselves to sleep with one sex while simply recognizing the attractiveness of the other. Someone else might choose to honor a monogamous commitment and forswear the other sex; another person might be frightened of his feelings, squelch his same-sex attraction, and pretend it's not there and never act upon it. (This also happens with gay men, by the way; I've known many who've been curious about having sex with a woman, but who never act upon it for some reason or another.) The choice in sexuality, from my perspective, is either to have it, or not to have it. Anti-gay foes would prefer that we not. When they talk about choice, they seem to believe that not having the evil gay sex is all it takes to make someone straight. It does not. Those desires are always going to be there, acted upon or not. Personally, I don't think that inaction makes one more virtuous, or restrained, or saintly. It is simply a denial of the rich abundance that life offers; it is slamming the door in the face of opportunity, and intimacy, and experience. Do you think you look more sexy naked or just wearing underwear? Anyone ever tell you one way or the other? I think generally—and I'm swimming against the mainstream here—men (and women) look sexier naked than in their underwear. Underwear has been fetishized too much, I think, in the last ten or fifteen years. Ever since Marky Mark posted in his Calvin Kleins, in fact. Guys seem to think they don't have to bring anything to the table other than a photo of them in designer underwear and it automatically makes them super-sexy. Whatever works for them, I'm happy to encourage. But for me, when I'm lying in bed with someone and we're enjoying that post-coital haze, the first thing out of my mouth isn't going to be, "Wow, your underwear was really amazing." If it is, it's because they were doing it wrong. Why are so many obsessed with your home/family life I don't know that many are obsessed with it. I think some are fascinated by it in the same way audiences were fascinated by strippers like Gypsy Rose Lee, in the golden age of burlesque—she showed her audience quite a lot, but not everything. As a consequence, men were obsessed with what remained under wraps. I think additionally a lot of people aren't used to seeing someone live his life as he damn well pleases, for the most part. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the reasons I have a weekly-ish bit in which I answer reader questions is because I get a lot of questions. A lot of questions. Guys find one of my sex site profiles and shoot me queries there. My email inbox gets snowed under, sometimes, with inquiries from well-wishers or just the curious. You know, there’s nothing wrong with the curiosity. I invite the questions by keeping so open a record of my sexual adventures. I know I write in a way that some people find personal and engaging. I tend to do things for a reason, rather than just random spur-of-the-moment randomness. I know that to some, the combination of my ordinariness and my sexual bravado encourages intimacy. That’s fine. But I have to admit that there are some questions I get asked over and over and over again, to the point that when I see them, all I want to do is roll my eyes. Any regular reader of my blog knows the answer to these questions from memory, I’m certain. The top five go a little something like this: What are your fantasies? My fantasy is never to be asked this question again. My impression of guys who enjoy talking about fantasies is that they clearly intend to leave them in the realm of the unapproached and the never-acted-upon. My sex life sailed from that particular dock many years ago. If you’re asking my fantasies just to see what makes me tick, you’re taking the wrong approach. Pick a handful of entries from my back log at random and read them. That’ll teach you more about me than any fantasy I could share, if I had any. I see you like kink. I’m kinky too! What kind of kink do you like? I don’t have a set agenda, or a pet fetish. I’m very open to all kinds of sexual activity. Almost every time I’m asked this question, it’s a set-up for disappointment; I think I’m about to discover someone who’s into something so vile and perverted and exotic that the activity has only been described once, in a Latin scrivening found only in the locked archives of the Vatican. I’m prepared for all kinds of unholy revelations that will make me recoil and cover my ears and search fruitlessly for something to take the taste of sweet sin from my mouth. Then the guy will say something like, Yeah! I’m into sniffing feet! Or Yeah! I like rimming! People, rimming is not kink. The basic rule of thumb here: if you’ve looked at my profiles and you’ve read my blog and you still have to ask me what kind of kink I like, chances are very good that your definition of kink and my definition of kink are on very different scales. How do you find the time to have all the sex you have? I’ve answered this question more than any other. The facts are these. While I have a lot of sex, I’m not at it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I do make time for sexual encounters because they’re important to me—the same way I make time for my work, my family, for meals, and for reading. You make time for things in your life, whether it be working out, or hitting your local bar, or playing Angry Birds. Chances are that if you spent less time in front of your computer looking at internet porn, or masturbating, you could find time to have actual sex as well. It might be scarier and less of a sure thing than your right hand, and sure, you might have to face rejection every now and then. But chances are you’d find it better than that free porn clip site you have no problems visiting for multiple hours a week . . . or a day. Does your spouse/family/parents/co-workers know about your sex life? What do they think about that? I don’t talk about my home life on my blog for a reason. I don’t respond to the question when people email me privately to ask. This is really an area that’s pretty much off-limits, period. I know that the fact I draw a line frustrates some people. They don’t seem to realize that I’ve given over a lot of my personal life and my history in the pages of this sex journal. I share a lot of information. Instead of being thankful for what I do share, however, with a certain subset of readers the fact that I don’t share all the information that piques their curiosities, upon demand, infuriates them. They push, and push, and when I remain silent on the matter, they stomp off angry. Sometimes very angry. All I really ask is please recognize that I do draw occasional lines. I’m consistent about them. Challenging me, or damning me when I do, won’t make me change my mind. As I state in the sidebar of my blog, your assumptions about my home life are simply that. Assumptions. I’m not asking anyone for details of his life than he doesn’t want to share. Please respect me in the same way. It’s crazy that you invite guys back to your house for sex! I can’t believe that happens!! I’ve written about my teenage whoring, getting paid to jerk off for a married guy, getting rimmed by someone’s over-intimate dog, a guy who serviced my feet while I wore his dad’s socks, and a fellow whose fetish was to shampoo my hair while I sucked him off, and you’re balking at the notion that I’d have sex in my own home? Seriously? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There’s a billboard I see in the South Bronx every time I take my commuter train into Manhattan. Right before we clatter over the bridge into Harlem, it looms over the squat brick rooftops. On it is a single word, in all capital letters: GRATITUDE. I’ve noticed the sign many times during my trips back and forth from the suburbs into the city. Never before had it come so sharply into focus as last week, when I seemed to see every detail for the first time. The sharp serifs of the letters. The rusts and oranges of its construction. Its one-word message—or maybe it’s a warning—rises from a background of confusion and clutter, like so many messages do. But it’s there among the rooftops and the water towers, rising above the graffiti and the junk yards and the boarded-up windows, waiting to be seen. On that day, that one noun threw everything into focus. I’d gotten a message from Spencer, the young dancer who had been so much a part of my life in 2010 and 2011, when I was living on my own and trying to sell my home to rejoin my household on the east coast. We were constant companions then. We spent every evening together, watching movies and television. He shared my bed, nights. We fucked constantly; I had my hand inside his ass many times. For a spell Spencer was mine, and I was his without reservation, without straying. Then my house sold, and the bubble burst, and we went our separate ways. I loved Spencer. I still do. From time to time he’ll send me one of his poems. When I read beyond his images to discover messages of lost affection and of separation, I’ll spend most of the rest of my day fighting back tears and trying to pretend to the world that nothing is wrong. Whenever I’ve thought of him, and of how I had to leave behind his face, his beautiful body, and his sweet presence, I ache inside. It’s a genuine, deep-down hurt that never seems to lessen in intensity. The wound has widened as more and more time passes. Even as I wax sentimental about our relationship, I have to remember this: we both knew from the start that its duration was limited. I also have to keep in mind that the moment I left town, Spencer started to get his life together. He’d had aspirations before; what he didn’t have was direction. Within the month after I left the area, he landed a job teaching ballet at a local college. He moved out of his parents’ house and into his own apartment. He began choreographing pieces that had existed only his head, when he’d tell me about them. When I left, Spencer started becoming the success I knew he could be. My departure was the nudge he seemed to need to venture to the edge of his comfortable nest and contemplate taking wing. Then he went and landed himself a graduate school scholarship abroad. That's a definite honor, and just the beginning of something big in his future. School starts this week for him. He needed to spend a week in New York City, last week, to expedite the red tape for his visa. He texted me upon his arrival and suggested that we get together in the city his last day there. I suggested lunch. Sure, he texted back. Or maybe we could just get a hotel room or something. My heart ached at that message. I stuck to lunch. I don’t think I could’ve stood rekindling a physical relationship with Spencer, and then having to give him up for another two years. So there I was, commuting into the city, dreading the meeting. I mean, really dreading it. All I could think of were the tears I wanted to cry whenever I think about Spencer, and the tears that were certain to follow when I said goodbye to him a second time. I thought about the potential awkwardness of meeting an old lover after a year and a half, and of the things he might say to me and the hurt I might feel. I wondered if we’d outgrown each other—or worse, whether upon meeting again we’d discover that we’d never fit as well as I thought we had. I worried about how I’d react if I had to hear that he’d fallen in love with someone else. In short, I’d fretted and sulked and backed myself into a mental corner over this meeting. Finally I’d decided that I was going to endure it with a smile on my face, but that I wasn’t likely to enjoy it, under any circumstances. Then over the Bronx I saw the billboard with its message. It caught my attention as we jostled over the trestles. GRATITUDE. The word made me think. It made me remember the tenderness I had for the boy when we were together, and how determined I’d been at the time to enjoy the sweetness of our time together without worrying about the future. I remembered how hard I’d fallen for him, and how fast. I recalled the love I had for him during the best times, as well as at his most frustrating. I thought with fondness of how I could buy a refrigerator full of groceries for him on a Monday and have it empty by the end of Tuesday night. I reminisced about how I’d introduced him to Doctor Who and how we’d watched the entire new seasons together, snuggled under a blanket on my sofa with the cats, and how he’d excitedly outlined the plots of all his favorite anime series to me. I thought about how he used to kiss me, and the hunger his body and his touch aroused. I thought about how he used to gasp at my cock inside him, and of the aroma of his just-soaped skin when he would join me, steamy and still wet, from his shower at night. I thought about all those things that made him so precious to me during those months together, and as the train sped into the dark tunnel that leads to Grand Central, I remembered how we’d clung together like lost boys in the dark of my old house, in an embrace so tight it felt as if we’d never let go of each other. I was grateful. I was so grateful. And I was so happy to have had him in my life. In the Starbucks in upper west side where we’d agreed to meet, I saw the back of his head when I approached the door. I knew it was Spencer immediately, even from a distance. My heart skipped a beat at the sight. When I stepped inside, stood in front of him, and held open my arms in an embrace, the last of my doubts fell away. I was nothing but happy. I’d been a fool ever to doubt how right we’d been for each other. We fit perfectly, puzzle pieces that interlocked and formed a complete picture together. I didn’t have to endure his company, that afternoon. I was free to revel in it. I took him to lunch, and listened to him talk excitedly about his plans for the future, and about his new school. We caught up on television and gossip. We laughed. We opened up. He told me he missed me, but that my absence had taught him to appreciate what he had, when he had it. I told him, as I had in the past, that I loved him, and that I always would. I told him that he’d always have a place not only in my heart, but a place to visit when he needed a home away from home. Because of gratitude, I was able to tell him all these things, and mean them. Hours later, when we had to part, because of gratitude, I was able to take the train home with a light heart and no tears in my eyes. My mind was already running over the memories of an afternoon that had been spent in the company of someone I love dearly. He’s a fledgling perched at the edge of a nest, my Spencer. I’m proud to know him. I’m grateful to have had that time with him before he takes what is sure to be glorious flight. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I keep forgetting exactly how busy I get when the school year starts back up. It'll calm down some within the month, but dang. It cuts down on my writing time. That's why I'm hopping straight to the chase with this week's round of questions collected from my page at formspring.me. Won't you pop over there and ask a few of your own? What are the questions that you get repetitively & what is a question that would shock you and one question that you would love to be asked but haven't been asked yet 1. The questions I get asked repeatedly are 'have you ever been caught masturbating/fucking?' and vague, generic questions like 'what position do you like best?' or 'what do you like to do during sex?' I get asked a lot of questions about my home life to which I don't respond. 2. I'd be shocked if someone asked a question based on reading my blog and actually synthesizing what I put out there, in a non-abusive way. That is, if someone had a critical follow-up question to some point I posed. 3. I don't really have a single question that I am dying to discuss but am waiting for someone to ask about. I am a self-starter, and if I'd wanted to talk about it that much, I probably would have already. That said, I like questions that let me ruminate about sex but that aren't mundane or fall into the first category here—in-depth questions that let me draw on my experience and offer my opinions. I like personal questions that don't pry into my home life. And I like questions that let me be silly. If you could have an orgy with the cast of a tv show, which show would you pick? If you had asked me this question when I was a kid, the answer would've been Gilligan's Island. I know, so embarrassing. But The Professor was my first TV crush, and I had some vague Gilligan/Skipper fantasies that I couldn't explain, in my presexual single-digital days. Plus Ginger was hot. These days? Probably Firefly. Everyone on that show was pretty damned fine. Did you watch any of the Summer Olympics? If so, what is your favorite sport to watch and why? I just turn the sound down low and watch the sports featuring the men with the least clothing. It's kind of like socially-acceptable porn. Do you sleep on the left or right side of the bed? Does it matter for you when making out with someone which side you are on? I sleep on the right-hand side of the bed. Even when I'm alone, I stick to that side. During sex, though, I don't really care what side I'm on. I've got other stuff on my mind. When did you understand that sexuality is more fluid than most people think? and I don't mean the bodily ones..LOL Although I was born in the relatively repressed early nineteen-sixties, I was lucky to be born into a household with parents who thought rigid gender roles were pretty much utter nonsense. In other households the boys played with certain types of toys and the girls with others; I recognized pretty early on that it was unusual for me to be able to play with any toys I wanted. Even a doll or an Easy-Bake Oven. I remember reasoning at a very early age—before I started school—that the rules weren't 'rules' per se; they were just constructs that different families adopted for themselves, and my family played fast and loose with such things. And if that applied to toys, then it had to apply to other areas of life. I didn't discover sexuality until I hovered around my double-digit years, but even then I could sense that my family was different. My parents were anxious to talk to me about the facts of life, where other parents wouldn't even allow them to be mentioned. When I started playing around, the sheer number of married men I had sex with made me realize that there were clear-cut societal rules about fidelity, and then there was the actual way married men behaved when their wives and families weren't present. The fact I recognized such a thing didn't surprise me at a young age. It wasn't really that different from learning that although at home a male friend of mine would have been scorned and punished for playing with a Barbie, at my place he'd put the doll through its paces as if he'd been playing with it all his life. How much time a day/week do you think you spend looking for a sex partner? Very little. The answer might be surprising, given the amount of sex I sometimes have, but I put very little investment into it. If I go onto a hookup site online, I do not sit at my computer and pore through the profiles hunting for the ideal partner; I simply log on, and if there's an option to set my availability to 'looking for now' or something similar, I'll do that. Then I let guys hit me up. In the meantime, I'll do my work in another computer application, return every ten or fifteen minutes to see if I'd gotten any offers, and otherwise go about my business. It may take an hour or more to get the right offer, but the amount of time I actually spend looking is next to nothing, and all I have to do is write back a handful of short emails in response to the ones I collect. I tend to get a lot of inquiries from horny bottoms, but a lot of them are of the 'nice cock!' variety, another huge bunch are along the lines of 'I wish I were closer to take that monster!', and a handful are 'Looking for now?' I tend to be pretty disciplined about not actually hunting for sex, but casting the net and getting the sex to hunt for me. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here You asked for it! And here it is! Well, okay. Technically, I asked for it. I begged and cajoled and pleaded for you guys to send in photos of your assets—your butts, your dicks, your chests, your fuck shots. Whatever it is you wanted to show off to other readers. And, ahem, to me. Thanks to my smooth and somewhat shrill pleas, I got enough entries for a couple of columns. Go you guys! It only goes to show what great sharers you are. And what great-looking guys you are, as well. A reminder: if you'd like to participate in the feature, just read my instructions in this post and send me your junk! I'd love to see it. Let's take a peek at a few of you. And as a reminder: if you click on the photos, they'll get bigger. Like so many other things. Leatherman Now, I have to confess that Leatherman is a buddy of mine with whom I've swapped photos and stories for quite a long time. He hails from the city of Toronto, one of my favorite metropolises—and don't think I'm not disappointed that he and I never met during my visits there. What I really love about Leatherman is how perfect that ass of his is. Round. Hairy. Beautifully framed by that black jock, which is one of the few pieces of gear that really turn me on. And in that second photo, he's obviously ready for mounting. If it can't be me, it should be one of you guys. Any volunteers? Breedmeup When I see photos like this one, I just sigh, and sigh. Now seriously. Isn't that beautiful? Look at how the hole peeks out from that sexy forest of hair. And look at how that hair covers those hot thighs and the small of his back. I mean, you can't get made-to-order guys with hair like that. I've tried. This ass is one of the most fuckable I've featured in this column. Mr. Breedmeup goes by the same name on BBRT, for those of you who are inclined to get in touch with him to arrange a meeting. (And if you do, let me know the details!) Shyandquiet Let me give you guys a little general hint about guys who send me email who happen to have nicknames like Shyandquiet. They usually are anything but. Or maybe he is the quietest and shyest exhibitionist I've ever had. I don't know. Maybe he blushed several times before he flopped back on the floor next to his computer and remote and lifted his legs to show off his hole to several thousand readers. Maybe he was really, really abashed to flip over and raise his butt in the air as if he were about to be drilled. Or maybe, like so many of my readers, he's a normal guy—a sexy guy to be sure—who might be a little bashful when he's out in polite company . . . but who turns into a total wildcat slut when his pants drop. Either way, he's turning me the hell on. Seph My occasional commenter Seph, with whom I share a delightful correspondence, is a handsome fucker. He suggested that his rear end is perhaps not his best asset. After this video, I'm inclined to agree that he has a hell of a cock. There's something awesome about watching a guy masturbate, isn't there? It really shows how he likes to receive pleasure, and the types of touches and squeezes that will lead him to orgasm. Seph's hand action isn't at all the straight up-and-down beating motion. He twists his fist around the knob with a slight circular motion that I find really, really sexy. And the deep bass grunting noises he makes when he unloads? Fucking pricesless. Thanks for sharing this, Seph. Thanks to all of our exhibitionists, shy and otherwise, today. I hope you guys will let them know in the comments how much they're all appreciated. More...

Thank you guys. It's nice to hear appreciation.

I think in those situations we just have to realize that A) they knew what we looked like before they showed up (at least, my photos are pretty recent!), and they're there for a reason. So I just take it on faith that they want it from me, and give them what they need. It usually works out.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The man is huge. I know his stats from his profile. He’s 6’5”. Forty-two. Two hundred and forty pounds of muscle. Body fat that puts the percentage of my breakfast cereal milk to shame. But neither the raw numbers nor the pics in his profile prepare me for the sight of him. I’m sitting on the steps of my front porch, where I’ve been waiting for him for a few minutes. Whatever greeting I’ve been intending to make dies on my lips, unspoken, when I watch him unfolding that mammoth body from the interior of his car. He’s wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of shimmering track pants. His feet are size fifteen. His athletic shoes look like small watercraft. As large as his body is, his enormous hands seems disproportional to everything else. They’re like clubs, or pendulous blunt weapons hanging from his arms. They’re like cured hams, hanging from a rafter. His face is carved with the broadest and craggiest of features. It’s handsome—everything about him is handsome—but it’s tough, and masculine. He’s a brute. The man looks like a walking Tom of Finland illustration. Every feature is exaggerated to its most masculine proportion. His shoulders, his chest, his butt, the tree trunks of his legs. He looks like a cartoon character. Bluto from the Popeye comics. Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. When finally I do collect my senses and greet him, I’m not surprised when his voice is a deep, rumbling bass. Yet he’s not there to chat. We shake hands and exchange polite hellos. I lead him into my place. He glances around, looks at me, and without prelude hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his track pants. They slide down to the floor in a silky, synthetic puddle. He’s wearing a jock underneath. Its bulge is considerable. I’m usually pretty confident in my skin. I look like my online photos. I don’t overpromise and underdeliver. I’m also usually taller and larger than most of the men I meet, though. Next to this brute, I’m a 98-pound weakling. But I don’t let it show. “Take off the shirt,” I order. He obeys immediately, pulling the tank over his head and letting it fall onto the coffee table. He’s wearing nothing but those enormous size fifteen beat-up shoes and his jock, now. His chest is sculpted, the muscles taut. “Turn around,” I say. Obediently, he does. His ass is fucking beautiful. The elastic straps of his jock perfectly frame the cheeks. My glance glides upwards from those round globes to the narrowness of his waist, the perfection of his back, the broad shoulders. His arms hang by his side. He waits more orders. “Come with me,” I tell him. “We’re going to the bedroom.” My shorts hit the ground by the bed. I hop up onto the mattress, lift my knees, and spread my legs. He lowers that hulk of a body between them until I feel his breath on my groin. I’m soft when he starts to suck me—perhaps I’m more intimidated by the brute than I care to admit, even to myself. It’s mere seconds, though, before I harden and fill his mouth and throat with cock. He sucks with vigor. He sucks not because he only wants the load, but as though he relishes the feel of my meat sliding in and out of his lips. He likes that piehole opened and stuffed with dick. He’s not anxious to bring me off. His throat collapses and expands around my shaft; when he reaches the bottom, he makes little grunting noises. But he’s unaware of them; he’s lost in his pleasure. His hips grind and thrust against my mattress. His hands reach up beneath my shirt to play with my nipples. “You like that?” I ask in a low voice. “Is that what you wanted? That cock?” His lidded eyes open, lift in my direction. There’s adoration in that look. “Tell me,” I order. “Yes. I love your cock,” he says, barely comprehensible with my inches in his gullet. “What?” “Yes, Sir. I love your cock. Sir,” he says. “Show me yours.” He lifts himself to his knees and pulls down his jock. His own meat, hard and dripping, outclasses mine by a mile. It has to be a thick nine inches, and it’s at full attention. His balls are enormous. When I reach out and hold that shaft in the palm of hand, it’s hot as a fever. He’s on fire. Inwardly, I curse whatever gods gave him all the physical goods. He’s not there to have his own dick serviced, though. It might as well be a puny pinky finger’s worth, for all he cares. He wants me, and he wants me inside him. When I push his face into my pillow and part his cheeks, he groans like a man in agony. When I lick and suck his hole, he pushes back with need. He reaches behind and holds his ass wide apart to give me access. He buckles and moans. His hips fly up, while his shoulders and middle arch into the mattress. He’s ready. It doesn’t take much for me to slide in. His hole is juicy and primed by my spit. “Oh yes,” he whispers as I go in. “Oh yes.” My reward for every inch I deliver is another small plea, another whimper, another cry of need and delight. I’ve got him at the mattress edge, muscular thighs spread like an inverted V. All he’s wearing are his shoes. For some reason, they make him look more exposed and vulnerable than if he’d been nude. His hole stretches around my meat. The flesh is soft, pliant. Accommodating. When I thrust in, his head lifts and he lets out animal sounds from his throat. When I pull out, all but the head, his chute withdraws with me so that there’s a rosebud around my dick. He loves the long strokes; he begs for more. “This is what I needed,” he tells me, over and over. “You’re what I need.” I know. I know that big and masculine as he is, all he wants is for someone like me to make him his bitch. This brute needs to submit to dick like this, to be made a man’s cumhole. “You like being my cunt?” I ask. The brute grunts in reply. The word makes him open further to my cock. “You like me opening up that pussy like that? You like me fucking you like the whore you are?” The questions are rhetorical. I know the answers. His body is covered in gooseflesh. He’s shuddering with the impact of every hard, deep thrust. I’m not even trying to keep down my load. The man is hot to be loaded that I’m finding it impossible to hold it back. When I shoot, it comes not as a burst or an eruption, but ever-increasing waves of pleasure. My cries become just as inhuman as his; we both sink into the moment, clutching to the mattress, to his hips, to the pillows. Like drowning men at life preservers, we cling to whatever’s at hand and at each other, to keep from losing ourselves entirely. His hole snatches desperately at my cock, trying to keep it in there, to drain every drop of the semen flowing from me to him. I stay still, and let him grind and squeeze, as I shudder. “I’m taking this home with me.” As my shaft pulses and lengthens inside him, vows in a whisper, “I’m taking your seed home inside me and I’m not letting it out.” I have to let my head clear. It takes a moment. “Do you want to cum?” I ask, when I’m more myself. He shakes his head. “I got what I want.” Together we disengage. His hands hold his ass tight, right around the hole, as I pull out. He’s desperate not to let any of the sperm go to waste. Without a word, he pulls on his jock and walks tight-legged out of the room to collect his other clothing. It takes me a minute before I’m dressed and join him. When I do, his hand’s already on the doorknob. “Thanks dude,” he says. Then he’s gone—without a handshake or a peck on the cheek, the brute. He’s thinking of me all afternoon, though. You’re still in me, he texts, an hour later. Then an hour later, I still feel you in there. I get bulletins all through the day. Brute he might be, but the brute’s got a soft spot. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here While I was taking my blog vacation (which went well, thank you—I survived family, heat, black flies, and a number of other surprise hurdles), I met up with a reader in Manhattan for an afternoon of fun. Nice guy. Sexy ass. Great mouth. And most importantly, on a blistering hot New York City afternoon, working air conditioning. We’d fucked for a couple of hours and enjoyed ourselves immensely and then, in the casual and comfortable way that two men will, when they’ve enjoyed each other’s bodies and are basking in an afterglow of intimacy and confidence, started swapping stories. We talked a little about some of our old lovers, and griped about the vagaries of guys online. Somehow we started talking about escorts. After listening to one of his stories on that subject, I laughed a little and mentioned that I met up with a guy every few weeks who would drop a whole lot of cash just to watch me jack off in the back of his van. His eyebrows went up. Not for the reason I thought. “Yeah,” he said. “I read about that.” “Oh,” I said, laughing again. I’d forgotten that he was one of my readers. I felt kind of dopey, to be honest. It’s very easy for me to forget that when I meet readers, they usually know a hell of a lot more about me than I ever learn about them. Most of the time I forget that we’ve already met, so to speak, on opposite sites of the computer screen. “Sorry.” “But . . . but that was for real?” he asked. His eyebrows were still sky-high. “I mean, that wasn’t just a story?” I had to explain that no, it wasn’t just a story. This blog is not fiction. I make that statement right there in the sidebar. But as I gear up again to start sharing some of my more recent experiences, I think it bears repeating. So here goes. What I write in my journal, and what I post publicly in this blog, is what happens to me in my real-life fiction. It’s not made up; it’s not fabricated. I change some details in order to protect my partners. They don’t ask (usually) to be represented here. They don’t always know that I keep an online record of my sexual encounters, when we meet. So I change their back stories a little, if I put them here. I alter the descriptions of their houses a little, so that other readers don’t say, “Hey! I know that house in the Bronx with the two concrete lions out front!” and immediately know their neighbor’s a big ol’ fist pig. I change the descriptions of their tattoos, or sometimes alter their hair colors or speech patterns, if it would help mark them as one of my sex partners. Those little amendments that have no effect whatsoever on the thrust (so to speak) of the material, I feel free to alter. That’s all the liberty I take, though. When I write here about my sex life, I share just about everything. The amazing, the rotten, the confusing, the romantic, and the downright nasty. It’s all fair game to me. We don’t talk about our sex lives honestly enough, I feel. A lot of us have amazing encounters—either with one chosen partner, or with multiple fuck buddies—but we feel compelled not to talk about them openly or honestly, especially not in front of polite audiences. We stick to the polite narrative that we’re all too busy to enjoy carnal relations of the sort we all fantasize constantly; we think ourselves as good boys and good girls who would never have sex with strangers, much less talk about it. For a lot of us, that’s bullshit. It’s important for me to discuss one of the most vital and important aspects of my life in an open fashion. I wish more of us did so without fear of being shamed or slighted. Keeping silent about sex is assenting to its oppressors; stepping out into the daylight and saying I am a sexual being, and these are the things I do is, these days, a bold—and yes, liberating—act of assertion that, in the eyes of the more conservative and of politicians, is something akin to civil disobedience. We live in a culture of must nots and can’ts. We’re a population, increasingly, of want tos and don’t dares. My sex life, and my blog, aims to be a record of yes I cans and why don’t wes and why haven’t yous. My not so secret aim is to change the world, one fuck at a time. Won’t you join me? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (I'm nearly back from my vacation, but in the meantime, enjoy this story from the archives.) When he steps through my front door, he avoids looking at me. Instead, he turns away and removes his thin wool hoodie, barely enough to keep his narrow frame warm on a cold night like this. Though the room is dark and the shades are drawn, the perigee moon has risen just above the rooftops across the street. Its brilliant, blue-white light reflects from his pale skin, giving it the iridescence of pearl. Down drop his ragged khakis, puddling around his ankles, followed by his shorts. When finally he turns, I can barely make out the familiar tattoos covering his young skin. The insides of his forearms arms are trellises for vines of roses, thickly flowering and studded with thorns. There’s a crest in the center of his chest, just above the sternum, elaborate, heraldic, and covered with scrollwork. His biceps are decorated with curlicues and intricate designs. On his shoulder is a dark splotch of a design—a Celtic cross, it would seem. And on the outside of a thigh, a woman’s face, surrounded by hair. There was no question we’d do it any way other than in the dark. This twenty-year-old boy, Jason, and I have still never seen each other’s faces directly. The many times we’ve played have been in restrooms around the county, where I’ve only seen the extended shape of his lips around my dick, beneath a metal partition. Once I had him over to my house. As on this night, I invited him over late, after dark. I’ve turned off all the house’s lights, save for the porch light over the address plate. I’ve drawn all the shades and curtains. The house is already on a silent street with very little light. Tonight, it’s as dark as it gets. I’m sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, my inches hard and ready in my right hand. He shuffles across the oriental rug in his socks and kneels down before me. After a deep, deep breath, he impales his mouth on his dick. There’s not timid preparation, no licking or kissing or slow entry. He throws himself down on it like a disgraced samurai upon his own sword, taking it to the hilt and letting out a deep, groan from his diaphragm when it can go no farther. My head lolls back on the sofa’s cushions, resting there. I feel his saliva dripping down my nuts, and then trickling beneath my sac. Though his skin is almost luminescent in the moonlight, I can’t really see anything of his face. I’m fine with that. All I need to know is that the boy wants me, and is doing his best to make me feel good. He’s not trying to get me off, here. He’s wetting me up, getting me slick for his ass. To accentuate the point, when I reach down between his legs to grab his stiff cock, which already has a tip that’s wet and getting slicker, he grabs my wrist and yanks it down, down between his legs. His fingers press mine against his hole, which opens and closes around the tips. He’s already lubed down there, but I want to taste him, first. I shove the boy onto the sofa and take his place on the floor, where I spread those perfectly round twenty-year-old cheeks and bury my face between them. He gasps at the roughness of my beard against his tender skin. I can hear him muffling his cries in the cushions before at last he lets his forehead rest on their back. “Fuck me,” he begs in a soft voice. “Stick that big daddy dick in me and ram the fuck out of me. Please.” His boyhole is tight. Very tight. I’ve had the forethought to put a small bottle of lube on the coffee table. I squirt a glob of it onto his hole and work it in roughly, making him cry out and squirm, as I spread more on my meat. When I go in, it’s with a savage push. I know he likes it to hurt. His head flies up. His jaw opens wide. The cry he lets out is at first soundless, a phantom scream that makes no noise, though its presence cannot be missed. He twitches, and shudders, and finally relaxes. When he lets out a noise, it’s only the word yes, sibilant and long, deep and in the chest. I hold it there until he completely relaxes, then begin pumping. “Let me sit on it,” he begs after a moment. “I need to sit on that daddy dick.” He’s used to sitting on me that way. In every restroom where we’ve fucked, he’s had me push my knees and legs beneath the stall so he can straddle my dick and ride. That’s what he does now—lowers his tiny frame on my outsized dick until it reaches the bottom. Then he begins to ride. He bounces, and thrashes, and squeezes that super-tight hole around me as our lips meet. We’re making out when he shoots, spraying semen all over his chest and mine. The spasms of his hole drag me kicking and screaming over the edge; my release is sweet, and deep, and silent. When he at last stands up, my load slides from his hole and lands on my shin. I grab my T-shirt and wipe it up, then mop him down. He takes the T-shirt from me and catches the spots I’ve missed, then hands it back. I sniff the soaked garment, then shrug and pull it on. He dresses facing away from me, not wanting me to see his face, or for himself to see mine. His legs are still shaking like a newborn calf, attempting to walk for the first time, but he manages to step back into his khakis and pull on his shirt. “All right, dad,” he mumbles at the last. “Thank you, sir.” “Be careful,” I tell him, and then let him out the door. I can only see his back, through the blinds, as I watch him stumble to his car. He’s walking almost bow-legged—a slip of a boy sneaking back home, by the light of the perigee moon. More...

I don't romanticize the 'what might have beens' so much; I think it's more important to focus on what's good and what's real. But I do like those moments in which the possibilities balance on the knife's edge.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (I miss Scruffy. We still chat from time to time, and at the end of every conversation he tells me that no one fucked him the way I did. True or not, I still like hearing it. While I'm on vacation this week and being flooded by Hurricane Out-of-Town Family, I'm reposting a couple of old favorites, like this one.) I got a text message from Scruffy, Wednesday morning. What are you up to today, handsome? I was in the middle of something and couldn’t get right back to him. A couple of minutes later he sent another: I’ve really missed you and hope you’re free to get together. Text me? My dick was hard in my jeans when I punched out a message back: My bed is yours. Come over. I hadn’t seen Scruffy in too long. He was last here two weeks ago exactly. I’d invited him to come spend the next night while the spouse was out of town, but he came down with food poisoning or something at the last minute and had to cancel. It’s unusual that we’ve gone so long without seeing each other—for the last three months or so, it’s been at least once or twice a week, minimum, that he’s been naked and in my bed. Often it’s been more than that. I met Scruffy on Manhunt when one January morning he opened his photos for me without comment. The photos showed him as a tousle-headed, fair-skinned blond boy with an shy grin and a chin covered with a growth of bristly fuzz. The kid was completely adorable to me, though he resembled no one else more closely than Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. I wrote and told him he was extremely cute; he was naked and at my place in less than twenty minutes. If only all online hookups were as quick and simple. Wednesday I met Scruffy at my side door and let him in. Once the door was shut, I leaned down from the upper stair where I stood and took his face between his hands. His mouth pushed out to meet mine; I felt his teeth rake against my lower lip as he sucked it in. “God, I’ve missed you,” I said, pulling him into me. He rested his head against my shoulder. “I missed you too. So much.” We made out by the door for a little while longer before I took him by the hand and guided him through my kitchen and living room to the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my waist, and grinned. My hand shot up to stroke his adorable face once more. “You are so damned pretty,” I told him. He always flushes when I praise his looks. He doesn’t believe me, I think, because he doesn’t yet believe it can be true. Part of Scruffy’s charm is that he doesn’t know how truly attractive he is; I think he looks in the mirror and sees a tall, awkward dork barely out of adolescence, an overgrown kid in dirty jeans and a Cereal Killers T-shirt. I look at him and see a handsome young man. Uncertain, perhaps. Undecided about what direction to steer his life, yes. But I see the prettiness and the sweetness of his face, and the sweet white skin of his body, and I can’t help but sigh with admiration, every damned time. “You’re the good looking one,” he said. I wouldn’t let him shrug off the praise. “Don’t make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments. You’re beautiful. Seriously. Own it.” We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he swooped down and devoured my mouth. His lips traveled down my jawline to my neck, to my ear, around the back of my head, to all the places he knew I liked. His hands reached for mine, and our fingers curled together. Then he forced them up and over my head until he had me pinned. Hungrily we kissed. Our tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Then, with a fluid and beautiful motion that would have done a gymnast proud, he arched backward and raised his hands into the air. “Watch your fingers,” I said, warning him to avoid the ceiling fan overhead. He ignored me, crossed his hands at the back of his neck, and pulled off the Cereal Killers T-shirt and discarded it on the floor. Then he sat there and waited, watching me look at him. I took in his long, pale torso, with its pink little nipples and the trim waist. I looked at the little puffs of hair beneath his armpits, and the natural muscles beneath his arms, and the scuff on his elbow, and said, “You really are beautiful.” Scruffy’s grin is crooked, and bashful, and I’m always glad to see it. It was my turn to take control. I pulled him down to the mattress and held him in my arms, letting my fingertips dance up and down his stretched-out stomach as we continued to make out. Then my lips began to follow them, moving up and down his torso. I licked at his nipples and bit them gently to elicit his shivers. I ran my furry chin up and down his sides, and dug it into his ribcage, so that my beard could give him goosebumps. With his eyes closed he lay on the bed and sighed, and groaned, and writhed like a fish needing water as I kissed his soft, sweet stomach. My left hand expertly tugged at his belt and undid it, then unfastened the button of his jeans before I pulled down the zipper. Beneath the jeans he wore a pair of blue briefs. His cock was almost popping from the elastic band. I put my mouth on his hardness and exhaled. He gasped at the sudden feel of the warmth blooming around his dick, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him; instead I pushed him back down, softly, quietly, and stood on the floor by the bed’s edge. My fingers hooked beneath the band of his briefs and prompted him to lift his hips. As if I were undressing a boy for bedtime, I pulled down his pants until they had cleared his waist. Then I tugged at the hem of his right leg, then his left, and gently removed his pants. Whether he believed it or not, Scruffy was beautiful just then. His right hand lay on his stomach as if he was abashed of his nakedness, with me still in my jeans and T-shirt. His dick lay in curve, looking like a thick, pink comma. His balls, shaved and smooth, hung low between his legs. I took his dick in my hand and squeezed. Immediately it began to harden and swell. His hips thrust in the air, involuntarily. He wanted to be sucked. I gripped the shaft right at the base and hooked my little finger around his nuts, pulling them up so they brushed my chin as I opened my mouth and worked my way down the shaft. Scruffy’s cock is almost as large as mine, though he prefers to bottom. It always hits me at the back of the throat an inch before I’ve swallowed it all, but I always manage to get it all in. He grunted when my lips touched bottom. To add to the sensations, I reached between his legs and tickled his hole. For a long time I sucked and played with his tackle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to eat his ass. I pushed Scruffy over so that he was lying face down. The kid has a beautiful, round, slappable butt, and he likes it treated roughly. I let my hand land on the right cheek with a loud smack that made him shudder and whimper. Then the left, leaving a red mark behind. Once more on the right, and then the left, and then I alternated between them with deliberate hand slaps that made more noise than caused any pain. Each time he jumped, and clutched the blanket. When his cheeks were blushing, I pushed them apart with my hands and dove in. I love to rim. I tell guys that I can rim for a long, long time, and they never believe me; I licked and sucked at Scruffy’s hole for over a half hour and I still wanted more. I’d dig my tongue in as far as it could go until I reached the slightly metallic-tasting inside of his hole. I spit in the hole and blew cool air in it to drive him crazy. I bit and nibbled at the cheeks just so I could listen to him yelp and moan. Then I’d bury my face in between those beautiful buttocks and lick and munch and gnaw and rub my beard over his skin while he breathed pleas and filthy obscenities. My own cock was rock hard while I worked him over. I could feel a puddle of my own precum in my shorts where I lay. When he tried to struggle free, I switched position and sat on his shoulders and continued rimming him from the other direction, just so he couldn’t escape. When I came up for air, he was begging. “Please,” he said. “Please let me see your dick. Let me taste it.” I didn’t say anything. I merely undid the top button of my jeans, then yanked open the other buttons of the fly. He was shaky as he sat up. “I really dig your underwear,” he said, burying his face between the denim flaps. I was wearing a pair of cheap Gap trunks with horizontal stripes in different shades of military tans and greens. “Can I have ‘em?” “Maybe,” I said. “If you do a good job.” He proceeded to do a very good job. I let him ease down my jeans and remove my socks. Then he proceeded to suck me. I’ve said before that I find it difficult to shoot from getting a blowjob, but with Scruffy I have been getting increasingly closer and closer to losing it in his mouth; I think he’s due to get a gullet full any time now. He also does this thing—words fail me at trying to describe it—with his mouth on my nuts. He’ll take my entire sac in his mouth and suck and suck and somehow manipulate it with his lips and tongue so that I end up squirming. He won’t touch my dick at all while he does it, but it still feels like those cum-churning last moments before I start to lose my load. For long minutes he kept me on edge until at last he very gently spat out my balls and said, “I want to eat your beautiful hole.” “Really?” I said, hopefully. “Fuck yes.” Without any ado he pushed my legs up in the air so that my ass met his mouth. "I love your hole!" Then he proceeded to rim me twice as vigorously as I’d done him. I don’t remember much about it. I just remember it felt very, very good. At some point he flipped me onto my stomach and ate me from behind, but then I found myself lying on my back and rimming him while he licked me out. Both of us were harder than cement and dripping all over each other by the time I lowered him onto his stomach. I sat beside him and played with his wet, open hole. “You know what I’m going to do.” “Yes,” he whispered. “You know I’m going to leave my seed in you.” “I know,” he said. “I want it.” “What do you want?” “I want your seed in me.” “What?” I said, feigning temporary deafness. “I didn’t hear you.” Louder and more clearly, he enunciated. “I want your fucking seed in me.” I didn’t have to lube him. I spread spit on the head of my dick, swung my legs over his, and began sliding in. “Go slow,” he said. “I haven’t been fucked since the last time we. . . .” I didn’t have to go slow. After a tiny bit of initial resistance, his hole opened wide and welcomed me. He let out a guttural noise that was more animal than verbal, and sank deep into the mattress. He pulled the pillow close and hugged it; I thrust my fingers beneath his armpits, guided them under the pillow, and ended up clutching his hands with mine as I began slowly to grind my hips. “You feel good,” I whispered. His voice was near tears. “I love sex with you. I love it so much.” "You need it, don't you?" His head nodded. "I need it bad. I need you. It's like your cock was made for my ass. Ever since the first day." I continued fucking while I whispered low and close into his ear. “I know you’ve got your own life. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re my boy. I own you here.” “Yes,” he said back, nodding. I honestly thought he might cry. “Who are you when you’re here?” “Your boy,” he said. “Always and forever. Your boy. Oh god. I want it to keep on going and never stop. Don’t let it . . . stop . . . .” Still holding his hands, I fucked him sweetly. I used my knees to push his legs together and moved in and out. Scruffy excites me. He overexcites me, actually. I hadn’t been in him any longer than ten minutes than I began feeling the old familiar sensation, dragged up from the soles of my feet, that made my balls thrum like a speeding freight train. He knew by my increased breathing and the vigor with which I fucked him that I was getting close. “Breed me,” he said. “Please breed me. Please let me have your cum.” He kept begging for my sperm. When it finally came, I was silent—too busy trying to catch breath to make noise. I exploded in him with four or five gushes. “I can feel it,” he said, laughing and delighted. “I can feel it in me. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I was still rock hard when I rolled over with him onto our left sides. My arms held his chest. He tugged at his own dick maybe six times, and then contracted. His own orgasm was not quiet. In fact, my first panicked reaction was to remember that I’d neglected to close the windows, and that the whole neighborhood could probably hear. But I didn’t care. When he was finished yelling, he shivered all over, and lay very still and quiet in my arms. It was maybe four minutes later when he finally said, “I shot all over your pillow.” He rolled to show me the globs of semen that had soaked into the navy blue sheets. I didn’t care about that, either. I stayed in him, still inserting myself and withdrawing very slowly, until he began to move his ass in time with mine. It didn’t take him long. It never does. Spooning we lay there as I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re so wet,” I said. I took his hand and made him reach to feel where my dick was sliding in and out of his distended hole. “You feel that?” “Fuck yes,” he said. Over and over the said the words, sounding as if he spoke from the depths of a very good dream. “I love it. I love being with you. I’ve never had sex like this.” “You are so beautiful,” I told him again. I hoped he believed it. He twisted his neck so that we could kiss over his shoulder. I continued to fuck him until I came again. My second orgasms tend to arrive quickly. The sensation of my dick sliding in and out of my own wet, warm cum always excites me. I love the slippery sensuality of it. When I shot this time, he reached around and pulled at my ass, trying to drive me deeper inside him. “I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy,” he said, when I wiped him down with a towel. “I’m not busy." To prove it, I held the back of his head and pulled him to me. We intertwined and made out. Scruffy is one of those boys who doesn’t turn off once he’s shot. I love that about him. The kissing after we’d both come was as intense and passionate as it had been the moment he’d walked through the door. “I love being yours,” he whispered to me at last. “I like being your boy when I’m here. I think about it all the time.” “You are mine,” I told him, as I stroked his cheek. “Your hole,” he said. “Your cum dump.” He knows the words to say to arouse me. Within a few moments he was straddling me and sitting on my still-hard cock while jacking furiously at his own. “I wish you’d been the one who’d cunted me,” he said. “I wish you’d been in me first.” I held onto the wooden slats of the headboard, helpless. “I'm in you now.” “Yeah, I’ve got you, and you don’t get to go anywhere until I’ve got another load.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have a third in me, but when he really started to buck and slam his butt against my hipbones, I suspected I might. “I’m going to fucking take you captive until you give me what I want. I'll fucking rope you to the bed if I have to. Your boy wants another fucking load.” “My beautiful boy,” I echoed. “Your goddamned hungry boy.” He pulled his feet forward and lay them flat on either side of me, then squatted over my dick so that he could bounce his ass up and down over it. The bed creaked in protest. “Your owned boy who wants another fucking load out of you.” I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations he was milking out of me, but he was too pretty to block out. Our eyes locked. “Give it to me!” he demanded. I usually dislike bottoms or cocksuckers who demand a load on a schedule, but I fucking love Scruffy. He does stuff to me few others can. I nodded, then grunted. A third load oozed out of my dick and into his hole. He felt my dick contracting and expanding and slammed down, greedily gobbling up every drop. I could feel his muscles trying to suck it in. “I’m going to keep it in there,” he said, beating himself wildly “I’m going to keep your hot sperm in me all day, the way I do every time we meet. Because that’s where it belongs. If I can’t have your dick in me all day, I want your nut in there.” “Promise me,” I said. “I promise you,” he said, loud and fervent. “I am never, ever going to push any of your sperm out of me.” “Why not?” I asked. We’d been through this catechism before. “Because I’m your boy,” he said. “You own me. Your boy.” He begged me to sit on his face while he jacked himself off. I lowered myself down on top of him while he continued to thrash his own meat in his fist. By the time he came a second time, he’d managed to make my hole feel as if it was having its own mini-orgasm. I was actually sorry it had come to an end when he panted, and heaved, and went limp, like a rag doll. We lay and talked for several minutes before he had to get up and leave. “Whose boy are you?” I asked before I let him out. He kissed me deep. “Yours,” he said. “For always.” My upper lip smelled of Scruffy all afternoon and evening. From time to time, whenever I had a private moment, I’d curl it up and breath deeply, and think about my beautiful, beautiful boy. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm on vacation this week, I'm reprinting a few favorite old entries. I hope you like this one from a couple of years ago.) His name was Bobby, and he played basketball. Those are the only two substantial facts I remember about the guy. In the days I used to keep my high school yearbook, I could have picked his photo out on the page—a picture of a handsome black kid with skin the color of caramel and a face shaped like the business end of a fist, squared-off and flat and just as confrontational. I stood out in high school for two big reasons. It wasn’t because I was especially popular, or because I was well-liked, or because I had notoriety as the class brain or clown. No, I stood out because I hit my full height when I was fifteen, well before anyone else in my school had reached such a monstrous size, and because I was the whitest kid in school. The only white kid in my otherwise all-black school, in fact. At that age, kids who stand out tend to get the brunt of the bad treatment, but I cultivated the art of being invisible. I slunk from class to class without attracting attention. I found quiet corners to eat my lunch. In the classrooms I was fine. The dangerous areas for me were the hallways, the boys’ room, the school bus, and anywhere on the school grounds not normally monitored by the teachers. That’s where I would worry about being picked on, or called out, or worst of all, beaten up. I wasn’t a strong kid, or particularly trained in fighting. Being beaten up seemed about the worst thing that could happen. It never did happen, though. I managed to glide through school without being noticed much at all. Bobby was one student who did. I sat in the middle of the school bus. Not close to the front, where the extremely timid would lurk, and not in the back where the rougher kids would congregate loudly. The middle was a safe, invisible place to be, overlooked by the more boisterous. Until the that day my sophomore year, when I was minding my own business and looking out the window, and suddenly found myself inhaling a scent that was at once sharp and intimate. The cotton fabric smelled like urine and musk; I found myself jerking my head away. Bobby had boarded the bus, his athletic bag slung over one shoulder. He was still wearing clothes from a basketball practice—and in 1980, we didn’t wear long shorts for basketball. No, we had tiny little shorts that barely covered our business, accompanied by white socks with stripes of color around the top that came up to our knees. I hadn’t paid attention as he’d terrorized the freshmen at the front by holding out his dirty jock at them. So it was something of a surprise to realize that he’d decided to thrust it under my nose. “You like it? You can have it,” he said, dropping it on my lap. I remember want to drop the dirty jock like a hot potato. My strategy when irritated or threatened, then as now, however, was merely to show as little reaction as possible. I pinched what looked like the cleanest portion of the waistband between the very tips of my fingers, and with an expression of remote disdain, dropped the jock into the aisle, right on the dirty bus floor. Bobby’s friends had been laughing at his antics before, but when Bobby scrambled to retrieve his athletic supporter, they laughed even harder. I wrote it off as one of those moments in which my invisibility had inadvertently become opaque, but there were a few other incidents that followed. Once or twice, Bobby sat down on the bus next to me. I was certain that there’d be harassment to follow, but no. He just sat there, saying nothing, and seeming to expect nothing. Even when I had to push my way past him into the aisle at my stop, he didn’t push me, or yank down my pants, or do any of the terrible things featured in my imagination. It wasn’t until the day of a school assembly that I suspected anything was up. For some reason the two of us were seated in the front row of the auditorium, next to each other—which strikes me as odd, given that he was two years older and we didn’t share any classes. The assembly was long and boring. At some point, very early on, Bobby moved his leg next to mine, pressed his bare, basketball shorts-clad leg against my corduroys, and kept it there. His leg was lightly hairy. I could feel its warmth through the fabric of my pants. I must have made some vaguely move to slide away from him, but his knee and calf followed, and very firmly adhered to mine as he sprawled out with his legs spread. I didn’t pull away again. For the rest of that assembly I let him remain that close to me, knee to knee, wondering what it could mean. I’d already been having sex with older men for four years, by that point; I was no innocent by any means. But the only sex I’d had with someone else my age was with a sad boy lost in a haze of drugs, at the request of my older friend Earl; I’d certainly never had anyone else in school make any kind of erotic advance to me, and it really threw me. It was about a month later, close to the end of the school year, that Bobby made his move. He spied in me in the hallway between Algebra II and Civics. “I want to show you something,” he said, over the hustle and bustle of boys and girls slamming their lockers and cutting loose. “I’ve got class,” I mumbled. “Come on,” he insisted, and gestured to me. My high school was shaped like an upside-down T. The bulk of the classrooms were along the horizontal cross-bar, while in the back were a few of the advanced science labs, the orchestra and band rooms, and some meeting rooms where Key Club and the National Honors Society held court. Bobby strode through the hallway toward the back as if he owned it; I slumped behind, invisible and unnoticed, as the numbers of people began to peter out. I watched as he made his way down a staircase at the very rear of the building. The bell rang. The hallways quieted down as the last people fled to their fourth-period classes. Only Bobby and I were in the stairwell, and I followed as he disappeared under the metal stair. The only way we could have been seen is if someone had come up to the windows set in the doors leading outside. I was in real distress. I cannot stand to be tardy for anything—I never have been able to tolerate it, even as a child. And there I was, deliberately absent from Civics, and getting to be more of a truant by the second. I had never been in that section of the school before, and I didn’t know what Bobby wanted . . . though I hoped I suspected. “I’m late,” I stammered. “I want to show you something,” he said in his lazy drawl, as he stared at me. His eyes stayed fixed on me as his hands reached for his pants. He wore no belt. All it took to open his jeans was a quick flip of the uppermost button and the almost-silent rending of his zipper. He yanked down on the elastic waist of his white briefs, and hooked them under his balls, so that he could show me his dick. It was not the largest dick I’d seen, but it was thick; thick and two shades lighter than the rest of his skin. He’d been hard before he’d unzipped for me, and his head was bulbous and full. Without touching himself, he made his shaft leap up in the air. “What do you think?” he said. I was too wary to respond. I thought it might be a trap of some kind. I said nothing. He curled his hand into a fist and drew it over the upper half of his rod. “You like it?” Again he made it jump in the air. “Touch it.” I didn’t move. I wanted to touch it very badly, but I didn’t want him to know. In a soft whisper, almost a growl, he repeated, “Touch it.” When he reached out for my hand and pulled it toward him, I resisted only slightly. He rested my hand on his shaft, which was so hot and rigid that it felt like an iron bar left to bake in the sun. I felt a stirring in my own pants as my fingers wrapped around it. “It likes you too,” he whispered. Almost immediately after I grabbed hold, he started to shoot. His cum flew and landed several feet away on the stairwell tile; it dripped from his head and grazed his sneakers. Finally, it oozed slowly from the tip as he buckled and shook. I’d already retrieved my hand and backed away, careful not to let any of the stuff on me. “All right,” he said at last, nodding at me. He stuffed his still-hard dick in his pants, zipped, and buttoned himself. “Later.” I remained standing in the stairwell, stunned, for a minute before I proceeded to class. I slipped in with excuses ready on my lips, but I didn’t need them. The teacher must’ve assumed that if her top student was late, it must’ve been for a good reason. I never had another close encounter with Bobby. He didn’t sit with me again after that, and he graduated that year. But I remember smelling his sweat and oils on my hand the rest of that day, and how I would cup my fingers and palm close and inhale discreetly, whenever I could. And I remember looking over his yearbook photo after that, and wondering what in the world became of him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm on vacation, I'm re-running a few of my favorite old essays for your pleasure.) He knelt down on the floor, naked, staring up at me. His knees were spread as far as they could go, spreading the perfect, halved cantaloupes of his butt apart so that from my position on the sofa, I could almost see the pink pucker they normally hid. He rested the weight of his his naked, muscled torso on his fingers and palm as he leaned it and rubbed his face against my dick and balls. From his broad, solid shoulders, his chest tapered to a slim waist. His arms bulged and narrowed in all the right places, the products of hours and hours of weights and push-ups. From my view above him, as he bowed to worship my dick, his body was practically perfect. “Nice,” I whispered into the half-darkness. “Thank you sir,” he said, and raised his head to look into my eyes. That fucking ugly face. Ugly-sexy. There’s a certain kind of look that makes me weak at the knees every time—the kind of guy who spends a lot of time at the gym, who takes time to pick out clothing that’s going to show off his body, and who has a plug-ugly face. No, not even a face. A mug. He might have a crooked beak, or a lop-sided smile, or a mouth that’s simply formed from the tricks of genetics into a permanent sneer. His eyebrows might be too thick, too dark, and too close together; his eyes might be too dark, too mean, too beady. Sometimes he’ll have a rock cliff of a forehead, uneven and broad and craggy. His chin might be too much of a stub, or his ears too big. He’s just not handsome in that traditional, movie-star way. And I fucking love it. Pretty boys—I’ve got nothing against them. They make my life a little happier when I see them walking down the street, or when I watch them undressing in my bedroom. But a less comely gent with a killer body will turn my head when he walks into a room, and keep my attention riveted, every time. My cocksucker had lips that looked as if they’d been smashed into a permanent rosebud with a rubber band as a baby—a Sylvester Stallone pout, with the dark hair and scraggly eyebrows to match. His eyes were too far apart. His skin was too pale to be tan and too dark to be pale. His head was almost too small for his body. The nose that was the crooked, bumped crowning glory of his face had been broken at least twice. Sat next to one of the handsome Italians that undoubtably had to be in his family, anyone would’ve winced. But damned if I didn’t think he was the hottest thing on earth at that moment. “Suck me,” I ordered. He knew what to do with that pouty mouth. It traveled up and down the length of my shaft for long, slick minutes, never stopping to utter complaint or ask for a rest. From time to time he would pause and lap at my nuts and stare up at me with those blank, beady eyes that didn’t so much see me as behold me. I’d run my hand through his hair, which was crispy from product and left a residue between my fingers, and pull him onto my dick again. I liked the look of him better from behind, when he had his face in the pillow and his ass in the air. I fingered his pretty hole and watched it twitch at my touch. My mouth and lips made it jump. It relaxed and blossomed as I licked and dug at it with my tongue. Then, after spitting in my palm and slathering the saliva over my dick, I raised my cock to the hole I’d wanted from the beginning and slid in. He accepted me with a long, drawn-out gasp that made him claw the pillowcase. “Fuck me,” he groaned, as I started to slide in and out. His shoulders and head rested on the mattress while his hips rose higher in the air. I had to push him down before he got them too high to continue fucking. I lifted my right knee and rested on the left as I continued to open wide his hole with my dick. As I thrust in and out roughly, not really caring if he enjoyed it or not, he started to jack at his dick, getting more and more aroused. “I’m not ready yet,” I warned him. “If you come, I’m not stopping.” “You don’t have to stop,” he promised. “You don’t have to . . . ah, fuck!” Ropes of semen began to shoot from his dick onto my blanket, and his hole grabbed at my dick to suck it in as deeply as it could. He was true to his word. Once his spasms had subsided, he kept his butt in the air and let me pound away. I positioned him so that neither of us was inconvenienced by the puddle of cum in the bed’s middle, and fucked away. After a while, he pushed himself up on those beautifully-sculpted arms and looked over his shoulder at me. “You are so damned good,” he said, sounding as if he genuinely meant it. “So fucking good. My hole feels amazing right now.” The sight of that plug-ugly face turned me on even more. I pulled his face around with one of my hands, and drove my tongue between the same ugly lips that had been around my dick only a few minutes before. My heart rate increased, as did my breathing. Before I knew it, I felt that scratched-out, diffuse feeling of expansion and diffusion that accompanies the best of my orgasms. Dimly was I aware that I was shooting a thick load of cum in him. All I could really feel was the snapped rubber-band tension of my dick, fire-red and still throbbing, and his mouth panting into mine. His own hand was jerking at his dick again. While I inhaled deeply and attempted to regain my good senses, he shot another load onto the bed. A few moments later, I lay back on the bed and watched him dress. First his jockstrap, perfectly white and probably never used for actual exercise. Then his shiny blue sweatpants that made his cheeks seem even rounder and perkier. Finally his gymnast’s T, sleeveless and designed to show off his guns. But then there was that face. He flashed me a grin that exposed one front tooth skewed and protruding in front of the other, and raised the caterpillars that were his eyebrows. “You are fucking good,” he said, wiping sweat from his enormous forehead. “We’ve gotta do that again.” “Oh yeah,” I said, turned on by the contrast between how he appeared from the shoulders down and the neck up. “Definitely.” Ugly-sexy. I wanted more of that. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm on vacation, I've picked one of my favorite entries to re-visit with you guys. My memories of this guy are especially sweet—I wish I knew what happened to him.) “My little brother,” the guy named Tom used to call out as he dragged me across the closed-off street in front of the Hibbs Building, my neck snared in his rigid embrace. He didn’t know any of the students lounging beneath the trees or sitting on the concrete benches waiting for their next classes to start, or who’d bought sandwiches from the cafeteria on the building’s second floor and were trying to relax in the still-warm afternoon heat. “This is my little brother, everybody. Look!” He just yelled out for the silly joy of it, hauling me around in the meaty crook of his arm, making me trip and stumble to keep up. We didn’t look like brothers at all. I was lean and narrow and fair, and he was dark-haired, short and brawny, a jock in his prime, one hundred percent pure Italian. He didn’t care how different we looked. Occasionally he’d ruffle my hair with his knuckles, or stop to plant an exaggerated smack of a kiss on my forehead—exactly the sort of thing a playful older brother might have done to embarrass his shy younger sibling. I think he did it for the pleasure of seeing me blush. I never failed him. Whenever I think of Tom, I picture him wearing one of his red shirts. Primary red—not one of the lesser, adulterated shades. He wore a red polo shirt the day I met him, one of the thirty students sitting somewhere in the middle and back of one of my father’s seminars. When I was fifteen and starting the tenth grade, my parents sat down to look at the high school’s graduation requirements and reasoned out that the only thing keeping me from skipping the eleventh grade and graduating in three years would be a single credit each in English and social studies. The former I could take care of in summer school; the latter I made up by auditing one of my dad’s introductory seminars in American History for a semester. I was miserable my first day in that class—obviously younger and more out of place than the other students, and worried about having to participate at their level. Then Tom, who was sitting next to me, turned during the break, leaned his arms on the scratched wooden surface of my classroom desk, and spoke before I could sneak out and hide somewhere. “What’s your deal?” he wanted to know. “You a kid genius or something? Graduating college at thirteen?” I flushed furiously and said no, I was taking the class for high school credit, and that I was older than thirteen. “Cool,” he said, nodding. Tom was a junior at the time, I found out later; he was already twenty-two. It was tough for me to look at him, he was so attractive and masculine. His eyes were dark and his hair was shaggy and long like mine, but hours playing sports and lifting weights had turned him into one of those athletes whose attentions I’d avoided at school, for fear of taunting and maybe even possible beatings. He bulged in every place imaginable, where I was stick-thin. I thought that if I said too much, I'd betray exactly what I was. Having him so close made me unable to meet his gaze, like a dog wary of a possibly hostile presence suddenly invading its space. “So why this class?” I blushed even more and admitted that the professor was my father, expecting the conversation to end with a flash of scorn and brief enough small talk for him to make a getaway. “Okay,” he finally said. Then, unexpectedly, he laid one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the front of the writing desk, and pulled it a couple of inches closer. “You can be my little brother this semester. I’ll look out for you. All right? How's that sound? Cool?” “All right,” I replied automatically, out of politeness and a lack of anything contradictory to say. I already had one brother, much older than Tom, whom I'd come to depend upon. I wasn't seeing much of Mikey that year. I liked being protected, and it felt good that Tom being so friendly. “All right,” he repeated. “Let’s go get a Coke, then.” Being Tom’s little brother apparently consisted of twice weekly accompanying him to the classroom building snack bar during the two-hour class’s ten-minute break. He’d buy a cellophane-wrapped packet of Lance crackers there, or a Slim Jim, or a orange drink in an ice-filled Styrofoam cup, half of which he’d usually share with me, though I’d protest I had my own pocket money for snacks. Then he’d suggest we get some fresh air. Out in the quadrangle in front of the building, he’d act as if he’d been released from some sort of cage. His massive chest would expand as he took a breath of deep air, and then he’d become silly. “C’mere, kid!” he’d bellow, and then I’d find all hundred pounds of myself snatched up and bench-pressed over his head, as easily as if I were a rag doll. Or he’d sling me over his shoulders and jog around, laughing, like some kind of frat prank. His easy physicality always came as a shock. There would be long moments between finding myself lifted up and spun around and the laughter that eventually came . . . but it always did come, in the end. After classes, in the long minutes in which my dad would fend questions from the students who crowded around the lectern, Tom would take me outside, where he'd sit down with me while I waited. He’d ask me questions about my life. What I studied in school. What subjects I liked best. What TV shows I watched. Or, “So, do you like girls?” He’d crack his knuckles over that one, or watch me slyly while I’d color and fumble for words. “It’s cool,” he’d say, when I’d stammer out something. “You don’t have to answer if you don't want.” Of course I liked girls, I finally managed to say. “You have a girlfriend then, huh?” he asked. Because I thought I ought, rather than because I wanted to, I made up a romantic interest. Her alleged name was Beth. I’d known her since third grade. We just hadn’t done anything because . . . because she was Catholic. “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding with the wisdom of seven more years. “Those Catholic girls are the worst.” Then my father would come out of the building, blindly peering around to find me in the haze of students. Tom would stand up, puff out his chest and gather his bag of books, and cuff me around the neck. “See you later, little buddy,” he’d call out, before striding off. Tom wore a red T-shirt the day he asked my dad if it would be okay if I went to the library with him for a couple of hours after class, early in the semester. “He can be like, a real college student. If that’s cool with you,” he told him. My father didn’t mind; he was thrilled that I was socializing with another classmate. So once a week Tom and I would take off to the newly-built library and find a brightly-lit, quiet corner with a table we’d share. He’d pull out his books and study for a while, pulling faces whenever someone would invade our solitude, or asking me whispered questions about that week’s reading or lecture. Eventually he’d get restless and playful. Sometimes he would tear a sheet of paper from his spiral notebook and fold it into a triangular wedge so that we could flick it back and forth, playing an impromptu game of tabletop football. Sometimes we’d skip the library altogether. Tom would take me to the student gymnasium, where he’d show me the basketball courts and the locker rooms where I’d avoid looking at the guys in the steamy showers. He showed me how he lifted weights and where he swam laps. Sometimes he’d join in a game of hacky sack outside the gym entrance, dancing and pulling faces as he attempted with the others to keep the little footbag in motion, showing off his moves for his little brother. One afternoon we were walking to the library together after class he stopped outside the building’s entrance, hands on his hips. I watched him bite his lip for a moment. Then he studied me. “So,” he said. “How about we go to my place?” “Okay,” I said, automatically, because I’d never disagreed with any of his suggestions. “Yeah?” he asked, not betraying any emotion. “You wanna?” I thought about it, this time. “Yeah,” I said. I really wanted to. The campus didn’t have much in the way of dormitories, then. Tom lived a few blocks away in a townhouse divided up into student rooms. His own little home was in the basement, with only a panel of window at the top admitting light. “So this is it,” he said, throwing down his bag and letting the battered door close. The room was neater than I expected, but that could have been because there was so little in it. Some free weights sat on the floor in the corner. He had a crate full of LPs acting as his night stand, next to a mattress and box springs that sat on the floor. The week’s laundry sat packed into a basket by the door. “I don’t have much in the way of chairs,” he apologized, flopping down on the bed. His legs sprawled off the side. He kicked off his sneakers. I watched them land beneath the window well. “That’s okay,” I mumbled. When he patted the mattress, telling me to sit down beside him, I obeyed. My own feet remained firmly on the floor; my elbows rested on my knees while I waited for what I hoped would come next. He sat up, too, so that my back wasn’t to him. “You’re not really into girls, are you?” he asked, his voice husky and soft. His fingertips softly swiped my cheek as he brushed my long hair away from my face. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to tell the truth, nor did I want to lie to him. Tom absently rubbed his biceps, exposed thanks to the red shirt from which he’d hacked off the sleeves, and nodded. “It’s cool, little brother,” he said, patting my back. After a moment, the pat turned into a rub, long and slow, up and down the outline of my spine. Then I felt something soft on my neck—his lips, softly planting a kiss there. Then another, just below my ear. Acknowledging what he was doing, I reached out and put my hand on his knee, barely a butterfly’s touch. He rested his own hand atop mine, and after a moment, pulled it up his thigh to the denim covering his crotch. I felt nothing but heat there, heat so intense it felt like I’d raised my palm to an uncovered oven burner. “It’s cool," he whispered. "Don't worry. It's only if you want to.” I looked at him, square in the eyes, while he brushed away more long, blond straggling hair from mine. And then slowly, gently, I helped him take off his red shirt. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I just wanted to let you guys know I'm going to take a brief vacation from new blog entries—the rest of August, that is. There are three reasons I'm taking the break: one is simply because I've got family visiting for part of that time, and I know from experience that trying to sneak in some blogging time is rough under those circumstances. Another is because this is the time of year when my readers are vacationing as well, or simply huddling by their air conditioners, and I feel like I'm typing in a vacuum. And the third reason—and I confess it's the most emotional of them—is because I found myself having a bit of a bad reaction to reader responses to Friday's entry about The Runt. It Hurts was an entry into which I poured a lot of time, and I was pretty proud of it until the moment it hit the web. Then my first two responses were along the lines of "Send me a picture of the Runt" and "Can I have a picture of the Runt?", followed by a I-guess-it-was-supposed-to-be-funny "Pics or it didn't happen." Not Thank you, or I really liked the entry, or even Good morning, how're ya doing? Just demands for pics. I'd started the day out bright and cheerful, but I let a few thoughtless assholes reduce me to a grumpy stompypants. When that mood didn't lift until sunset, I figured a short vacation would do me good. In the meantime, I'll queue up some popular older entries that some of you might not have seen before—and which others of you might graciously pretend not to have read on a previous occasion. Thanks to those of you who've been sending me photos of your assets for the Readers Assets feature. I've got a good few of you ready for the next couple of features—but I could use more! If you haven't shared photos of your cock or ass with my readers yet, and you want to, check out my plea behind the link and send me your photos! I'll still be around on Facebook, Twitter, and via email, and I'll be trying to use the time to catch up on my backlog of correspondence. See you in September! And now, a few questions culled from my formspring.me profile. Have you ever done it with a tranny? You know, for the longest time, I would not have sex with a cross-dresser of any sort while he was wearing women's clothing. I like fucking women, and I liked fucking men. I didn't have any philosophical objections to cross-dressers, and I loved my transexual and drag queen friends, but I didn't really have any sexual attraction to a man in woman's clothing, for some reason. After encounters a few years back with a couple of female-to-male transsexuals, however, my views on sex with people outside of traditional gender norms began to change. I enjoyed a couple of meetings with a muscled guy who liked to dress pretty for me, and with a few other men who liked to make themselves attractive in women's clothing, and whatever had been holding me back in the past from taking that step seemed to have been erased. If you ever wanted to post a photo of your bare feet on your blogger page I know one follower that wouldn't mind :-) Oh man. My feel are nothing special. They're just large! "Oh man. My feel are nothing special. They're just large!" That just makes them even sexier! Awww, thanks. They're size 11, by the way. Not clown feet. Bottom question: What size is too big for you? These days, anything over a pinky is too large for me. And I'd be eyeing that pinky dubiously. In my bottom days the only cock I turned down was the largest cock I've still seen to this day; it was about 13 inches long and roughly the thickness of my forearm. It was also hard as concrete, with no give. I tried to suck it and couldn't get my mouth around the thing. Then I tried to bend over for it, thought the better of that rash decision, shrugged, and apologized for changing my mind. The guy was okay with it. Apparently with his size, he rarely fucked because of the issues of getting it inside anyone's hole. Do you think tattoos are sexy? If yes, which ones are the sexiest? I think tattoos are very sexy, though I'm too wishy-washy to try to pick out one for myself. I went through a phase (the same phase as all the guys who got them, I guess) during which I thought tribal tattoos were very hot and erotic . . . I don't think so now, however. The tattoos I tend to think are sexiest are those that involve writing on the skin. When I see a tattoo in script, or in a fancy typeface, and it's more than just MOTHER or a VENGEANCE or a single word emblazoned on the chest, I want to read it and know the person better. I think that's very sexy. Do you smile or laugh during sex? Or do you have one of those "serious faces?" Or . . ? It totally depends on the guy, the mood, and the situation. I think in my most natural state, I tend to be very playful during sex, and if the guy's of a similar mindset and is articulate and responsive, I'll joke and talk and hope we leave with grins on both our faces. At the same time, I have absolutely no fears or hesitations about being the serious top, the grim top, the aggressive rapist top who takes what he wants and holds back nothing, or the serious romantic. All of those are elements of my personality, and can be summoned with the right stimuli. Maybe someone who's had sex with me could better answer the question. Do you have some favorite singers or groups who are *not* popular or mainstream? Who is it, and what sort of a genre is it? Do you remember how you found them? Absolutely. No one ever listens to my stuff. Unfortunately for my reputation, a lot of the crap I listen to is either Swedish pop music, or the tunes a British schoolgirl circa 1983 would've been playing on her Walkman. A man can't salvage a reputation built entirely on Army of Lovers and owning every Bananarama 12" single in existence. Why do you think so many people want to know if you've ever been busted whether wanking or with another person? I don't think it's anything personal; I don't think I give off a vibe of "Oh, he's so careless he must be busted ALL the time." Instead I think it's simply a pretty common fantasy that men have—specifically passive men who prefer to masturbate and fantasize rather than go out and get it. They don't want to hunt down a three-way with a man and his wife, so they fantasize about getting caught by the wife and forced to do all kinds of unspeakable acts. They don't want actually to initiate sex with someone they've fantasized about, whether it be a family member or a nun or a teacher or a stranger in a bathroom. For men who are too fearful to act upon their urges and have actual fun, I think this fantasy of being 'busted' has a few powerful charges. It sexualizes what they already perceive as shameful or even criminal, and it puts them in fantasy situations in which they have no choice but to admit to and act upon their forbidden urges. The fantasy makes the uncontemplatable, unavoidable. For someone like me, who just does whatever the hell he wants, it's simply a mystifying and weird obsession. No, I've never been busted. I can fucking hear the sounds of cars in the driveway and footsteps in the hall, moron. I recall that you received the 2010 cast recording of A Little Night Music a while back. Do you have favourites for stage musicals? Any reason for your choices? Yes, I do. I've loved all kinds of theater since I was a kid, musicals included. I'm not particularly apologetic about it, either. So here's a few long-time favorites. I love She Loves Me for the sweet score and the unapologetic romance—plus the plot's been used in at least three movies (The Shop Around the Corner, In The Good Old Summertime, You've Got Mail) and is pretty indestructible. Candide is a favorite because I love the score, and the same for the more obscure The Grass Harp, which is based on one of my favorite novels. Sometimes I'll have a fondness for a musical because I love a certain performer. So I like On a Clear Day You Can See Forever and The Apple Tree because of Barbara Harris—and Barbara Cook was in all three of the musicals I mentioned in the previous paragraph, come to think. Some other favorites: Little Shop of Horrors, Hedwig & the Angry Inch, Once on this Island, 110 in the Shade, Bells Are Ringing, and The Full Monty. I also have a soft spot for Mame, the all-African-American production of which was the first show for which I played in the orchestra. So yeah. As unfashionable as it is to admit, I'm kind of a big Broadway hound. It seems to me that you like fulfilling other people's sexual fantasies. Do you have any of your own fantasies that remain unfulfilled? Yes, absolutely. I've stated before that the one fantasy I have that has never been attempted, much less fulfilled, was of being restrained and blindfolded and then serviced and forced to top a bottom guy who could do anything to me he wanted. Or more ideally, a bunch of anonymous bottoms. Guys always say "I'll do it!" But they never do. Do you think your sexuality was shaped by your experiences or do you think you would have had an attraction to men if your first sexual experience had been hetero? The logic behind this sort of question seems to imply that if a kid encounters a homosexual early in his life, he's 'imprinted' in a way that can't be shaken—and that if he'd encountered a good, decent girl, he'd be an upstanding heterosexual instead. Sexuality doesn't work like that. We like what we like. We seek out what we like. If I'd wanted to have sex with a girl, I would've sought out sex with a girl. I wanted sex with men, so that's what I chased after. My earliest sexual impulses came as young as kindergarten, when I had vivid fantasies—not explicitly penetrative, but all of them involving nudity—with some of the daddies of the other kids on my school bus. They weren't a result of any contact with a homosexual. They were my own. Of course my sexuality has shaped my experiences throughout life—that's absolutely undeniable. However, my sexuality isn't something that happens to me, while I stand by as a passive observer. Nor should it be. More...

Thank you, Hotload. I'm really humbled.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “It hurts.” The Runt’s brow is furrowed low. His lips are trembling; they’ve been pressing themselves into tight, wordless circles as I worked my fat head and most of the thick, engorged shaft into his skinny little butt. His legs are nominally perched on my shoulders as he stares up at me, but really they’re hovering. The hair on his calves is so wispy that it’s barely there, but it tickles my neck and collarbone in little butterfly landings as his feet tense and flail in the air. He speaks again. “It really hurts.” It’s not a complaint. I can tell by his tone he’s not whining, not mewling like a child. The words are simple statement. They’re a prayer. Breathy. Sincere. His dark, clear eyes stare directly into mine. I pause. This boy is so pretty. He’s been letting his hair grow a little long and wild this summer. It’s spread across the pillow in dark chocolate waves. He stares at me like I’m the only sun in his universe—though we both know I’m more the crescent moon, three-quarters shrouded in darkness. I cock my head sideways, like a bird. His gaze follows. “You are so beautiful, son,” I whisper to him. Joy and relief spreads across his face like a splash of watercolor paint into a clear, clean glass. I watch it unfurl until it tints every reach of him. He wants to show me how grateful he is for the praise. He strains to lift his head. I help him by slipping my fingers beneath the leather of the dog collar around his neck. It’s the only thing he’s wearing. The leather creaks and strains as I pull him into a kiss. Our lips mold to each other; our tongues connect. I shove mine into his mouth, deep, all the way. He goes limp again, reminded of the invasion taking place below his waist. “God, it hurts,” he whispers. “You want me to pull out?” I ask. I have no intention of pulling out. “I’ll do it. It’d be a shame to pull out, though.” I have absolutely no intention of pulling out. “It feels so damned good, but if you’re in pain, I will pull out.” There is no way I’m pulling out. His cock lies on his abdomen, untouched. The stiff, red, wet muscle jumps, leaving another sticky thread of precum connecting its tip to his stomach. Deep down, the Runt needs to please me. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He knows that if I pull out, it's because he’s letting me down. It’s a weak and vulnerable point to which I apply the chisel, then hammer away. “It’s just that you feel so good,” I tell him in a hush. “And you look . . . so . . pretty. It drives a man like me crazy, just looking down and seeing how pretty you are. How . . . fuckable.” The word drops slowly, like a leaf. I feel his hole twitch around me. His entire body shivers. “But if you want me to pull out—“ I move a few muscles, as if I’m fixing to withdraw. But I have no intention of pulling out. “No,” he says. His fingers claw for my thighs, my arms, my hands, anything to keep me inside. “Don’t.” “You sure, kiddo?” He nods, uncertain at first. Then with more vigor. “All right then,” I say with a smile, pretending it wasn’t going to end like this all along. When I shift him back into position, he winces for a split-second. His meat jumps again. “How much more?” I pull his hand around and up to where the two of us connect. “Two inches,” I say. “Maybe three.” Our eyes never unlock. He nods. I know how this dance goes. I’ve fucked him for months, now. He’s tight, but he’s not as tight as when we first started. I know that all I need to do is push, and smile at him, and coo encouragement, and keep the pressure on his hole. It’s the last stretch, the roughest part of this particular road. The last two inches. He’s straining and shoving back, determined that I should break past that second ring and into the deepest part of him. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He wants it as much as I do. Hell, he wants it probably even more than I do, at this very moment. “Oh god, it hurts.” I feel his muscles rearranging themselves, inside. There’s a clutching at my cock’s head, a last show of resistance. Then I strain through. I sink all the way into him. My eyes flicker down briefly at the sight of his balls contracting, the sac moving from fluid to tight, to almost non-existent. His eyes close. His head rolls to the side. His throat strangles a low cry. “Yes,” he tries to say. Then it happens. It always happens at this point, when I’ve opened that second hole. His hands are on his knees, nowhere near his cock. But his shaft pulses and jerks. His hips buckle. His knees open wide, then scissor shut, over and over again. A jet of sperm erupts from his dick. Another. Then another. He’s got pain and pleasure permanently hardwired together. One elicits the other. “It hurts.” It’s barely a breath. I can only hear the words because the world around us is silent. “Oh fuck, it hurts.” I stare with satisfaction down at the scarlet, distended flesh engulfing my shaft. We both know it’s a lie. He’s never felt so good. More...

University libraries have really changed since I was in school. These days, larger institutions have an 'undergraduate library,' which means 'the loud library where people snack and pretend to study but really just socialize.' Which usually leaves the 'graduate library' as 'the boring place with all the books.' I mean, jeez. When I was in school, I used the library for its god-intended purpose: to pick up strange dick in its restrooms.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve been back to my old alma mater many times in the nearly thirty years since my graduation. I barely recognize the place, now. As long as I’m in the old section of campus I’m fine, but once I wander past the boundary line of the old, historical buildings, I have a tendency to get lost. There’s been so much construction there since I left, you see. The library had a whole new facade constructed around it; there’s a huge student center in the center of campus that wasn’t there during my matriculation. Where there used to be a large and deserted stretch of grass for field hockey is now a veritable Times Square of activity, where new air-conditioned dormitories and tall classroom buildings shadow student-crowded sidewalks. I guess on a solipsistic level I expected it to remain the same forever. I was young; I didn’t know any better. Plus during my time there, the only construction that took place was during my sophomore year, when my freshman dormitory burned to the ground and had to be rebuilt. Then there was the Muscarelle, the art museum that sprung up the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I’d spent the previous summer back at my parents’ home, working at King’s Dominion up the road, but I’d taken on extra hours at my job in the ice cream store and in a burst of independence had decided to spend that summer shoving sticky cones in thirty flavors to tourists taking a break from their colonial sightseeing. I loved my summers in Williamsburg. Despite the fact I was working most days for a good eight-hour shift, I had plenty of leisure time. My female friend Perry was in town that summer as well; she and I spent a good deal of our hours off exploring the little town, wandering places we weren’t supposed to, and investigating every open door on the college campus—occupied or not. The Muscarelle appeared almost overnight, like a July mushroom. One minute there was a marshy stretch of land next to Phi Beta Kappa hall, and then suddenly a pocket-sized museum. The Muscarelle attracted attention because of an installation of plexiglass tubes all along one side of the building. They were filled with water dyed in a number of vibrant colors that immediately began blooming with a vicious and unbanishable algae that made the spanking-new building look like some kind of target of a post-apocalyptic bio-terrorism attack. But Perry and I liked the Muscarelle simply because we were poor, hungry, sometimes bored, and could count on a good museum reception—they had many, right after it opened—in order to score an evening’s worth of free wine and cheese. If we saw that the museum being prepped for a lecture or a private event, we’d dress up in our very best (and honestly, I shudder to think at what my very best was, in those days, even by Southern standards, compared to what the actual adults were wearing), smile and slither into the museum, mingle with the strangers, and position ourselves at the refreshments table while we stuffed our gullets with free food and boxed rosé. Ah, my salad days. I don’t miss them a bit. It was at one of these events that I locked eyes with an older gentleman—very handsome, very tall. He had curly salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed beard, in a decade when the only men really sporting beards were either fishing for bass on Sunday morning television or driving tow trucks and wearing overalls with their names sewn on. There may have been a lecture that night; I seem to recall a bunch of the people present circled around some guy yammering on about something. But this guy was outside of the group, and I was over by the cubed Swiss with a plastic cup in my hand. He kept looking at me, and smiling. I was slightly tipsy, and smiled back. I remember thinking I was particularly dressed up that night, in my khakis, my short-sleeved turquoise-blue shirt, my best Docksiders, and my (here I sigh, and remind everyone it was the nineteen-eighties and I was only eighteen) bolo tie with a hammered copper clasp. I wasn’t really the kind of guy who kept up these flirtations indefinitely. Not now, not back then. If I sniffed blood in the water, I was in there like a hungry shark, and this guy was chum to me. After I’d made sure that Perry was occupied elsewhere, I jerked my head in the direction of the men’s room. He followed. We went right at it, in there. He unbuttoned the bottom two-thirds of my shirt and yanked down my pants and went down on my cock. I fell back against the wall and dizzily let him blow me. I seem to recall the Muscarelle really only had one men’s room, and it was the sort that had no stalls or urinals, but only a single toilet and a lock on the door. It wasn’t long before someone rattled the doorknob expectantly, but we weren’t deterred. With our trousers around our ankles, we ground against each other, big cock to big cock, mouth on mouth, enjoying the tastes and smells and new, exciting scents of the unexplored. His hands groped my skinny ass. “You wanna go somewhere?” he murmured. They were his first words to me. I did, but I hadn’t considered anything long-range, not beyond getting this guy alone and seeing his cock. The two of us were in a locked bathroom with only one exit. Anyone just beyond the door would be certain to see us leaving. I had Perry waiting for me, out there. Plus I was living in a dormitory with my born-again Christian roommate; I had nowhere for us to go. He solved the problem by exiting the bathroom after instructing me to count to thirty before I came out. Then he left me in the dark. (Now, as I reflect on it, I’m thinking the guy was an ass. It’s courtesy to let the boy out first. I mean, jeez. That’s what I’d do.) I followed my instructions and was relieved to find that no one was really in the vicinity, or raised an eyebrow when I came out. I found Perry and told her I had a stomachache and that I’d meet up with her the next day. Easy enough. As for the last issue, the guy had that covered. He had his hands plunged deep into his slacks to cover up the boner he was sporting when I met him outside. He apparently knew the campus quite well, because without any backtracking or hesitation he led me to Morton Hall, which was home to the economics department. On the building’s first floor was some kind of graduate lounge with a sofa and a study table. It happened to be one of the few public places on campus with a door that locked. (I remembered that important fact for the future. I had more fucks on that graduate lounge sofa than anywhere else on campus, eventually.) Once the door was shut, we stripped all the way down. He mounted me on the sofa; I’d wanted to make out with him, to get smoochy and romantic, but he had my ass in mind. The moment my back hit the cushions, he had my legs up and apart and his sizable cock probing for my hole. He wanted to shove in raw, without lube. Off-balance as I was from his hands on my ankles, I managed to stop him and slick myself up with a little bit of spit. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing—and I was grateful for the chance to get it in there before his cock forced its way in. I was infinitely more adept at taking fucks back in my bottom days, but even his dick hurt. He didn’t care. He just spied something young and fuckable and easy, and his intention was to breed it as quickly as possible. To make his mark and move on. He didn’t ask if I’d done it before, didn’t ask if I enjoyed getting fucked. He just lifted my legs, shoved in his meat, and went at it. He huffed and puffed heavily as the lower half of his lean body pistoned in and out; he got both my ankles in one of his hands and used the other to steady himself against the wall. Without so much as a word or a gesture, without asking if I was doing okay, he took his pleasure from me. And I was one hundred percent good with that. That’s what I was made for, back then. I wasn’t thinking about the locked door, or wondering who might have a key. I wasn’t worried about Perry or the fact I’d left my bike in the Muscarelle rack. I just wanted cock. It was what I was there for. It was my purpose. He didn’t come with a big climax. I felt his cock pulse a couple of times. He stopped thrusting and closed his eyes. He let out the smallest and most minute of sighs. If I hadn’t been quiet, I would’ve missed it. He held himself inside for a moment while the last of his sperm drained into me. Then he pulled out, hopped up, and started dressing. “Thanks,” I said, reluctantly pulling on my own clothes. He didn’t say anything. “Maybe I could see you again sometime,” I said. He pulled on his pants and sat down to tug on his socks. “Are you on campus a lot?” I tried. “Listen, kid,” he said. His voice was gruff. “You were just a fuck. That’s it.” He made sure he had his wallet. “That’s all this was ever going to be.” Then he walked out. Thinking about it now, I realize he was pretty much an asshole. At the time though, with my boner still bobbing between my legs and an ass full of his sperm, and the taste of him still on my lips, I thought it was one of the hottest and most romantic things a guy could’ve said to me. Like I said. I was eighteen. And definitely not as smart as I thought I was. More...

Oh man, Hotload. That's an awful story. One of the reasons I usually wear my contacts to the baths is simply because I can't wear my glasses into a steam room (if they have one), and my eyesight's so awful without them that I'd be non-functional if something happened. I usually keep my previous pair of frames around so that I can wear them to bareback parties or when I'm out cruising if I have to, on the theory that if I misplace those or if they get stolen/stepped on/lost, I'm not going to feel the pain as deeply as if I was parted from my current pair.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my Sunday-morning questions yesterday reminded me of a story that took place in Toronto, years ago. It was during the late nineteen-nineties that I discovered the city of Toronto as a good sex vacation destination. The U.S. economy was so strong then that one could get almost two Canadian dollars to the U.S. dollar, even at the crappiest exchange spots. It was a cheap, cheap vacation. And in Detroit, I lived all of ten minutes from the Canadian border. I knew plenty of people who thought absolutely nothing of popping across the river for a dinner in a foreign country. I wasn’t one of them. Even before 9/11, when crossing from one country to another was still a simple matter of presenting your driver’s license, answering a couple of vague questions, and being waved blithely through, I would get the flop sweats whenever I’d go through Customs. Maybe it was the way the Canadians would peer at me when I rolled down my window and would ask if I was carrying any firearms. Maybe it was the way the U.S. officers would peer around in all four corners of the interior of my Malibu as if I was harboring Canadian wetbacks scheming to enter the country and take all of the red-blooded American jobs in the logging and donut shop industry, eh. Or it might have been that until that point, the only reason I had for going to Canada was for drug smuggling. Oh yes. I was a drug smuggler. I needed the stuff I could get only over the border. I needed it bad. Especially in the spring and autumn. I’m talking about, Claritin, here. Yes, the allergy drug. In my country at the time, it was a prescription-only pharmaceutical. You had to jump through hoops and go into the doctor regularly to get a regular supply. In Canada, you could just walk into any drugstore and cheaply (so cheaply!) buy as much of the stuff as you liked. I’m not at all convinced it was illegal to bring back Claritin from Canada into the States, but I was reluctant to declare it at the border, and paranoid about being busted with the stuff, so I’d shove it under the seat (I didn’t say I was a very good drug smuggler) and flop-sweat through the interrogation I was sure to face at the border. Then somehow I discovered the world of Toronto and its gay district, and the trips there made having to be grilled by men and women in uniform all worthwhile. Toronto had a very concentrated gay district back then—several blocks up and down Church Street that was nothing but gay bars and baths and gay-owned restaurants. It’s still there, but it’s not as long a stretch, and it’s not as gay. My favorite bathhouse was The Barracks, a leather and wild-side-oriented establishment (since closed) that was a bit like a bathhouse opened up in a couple of old downtown brownstones. It was so far from Church Street, though, that I’d have to plan my visits to that side of town. When I wanted a spontaneously, late-night whoring session, I’d choose the Bijou, which was near the gay district and my hotel. I’ve written before about my other favorite spot, the old Toronto Bijou. When I started visiting, it was still calling itself a bar—though basically it was a clothes-on basement bathhouse that served alcohol. There were booths down there with peepholes and gloryholes carved in every surface, including the doors; there were labyrinths of hallways that led to dark corners where men fucked and sucked. There was a large, open pitch-black room that could only be accessed through a series of increasingly-darker rooms leading to its interior. And between bellyfuls of semen, men could hit the bar for drinks. (Later, after the place was raided, the bar was removed and the place was officially classified as a bathhouse.) My favorite room in the Bijou, though—and I’ve written about this before, too—was the slurp ramp. The slurp ramp was a walled platform accessible by stairs, around all sides of which were holes right at cock height. Men standing below the slurp ramp would find these holes were right at mouth height. Well. You can imagine what went on. As much as I love fucking—and my readers know I love fucking—I also love sucking cock, and the slurp ramp afforded me the opportunity to exercise that side of my personality. I loved standing in the darkness behind the ramp for hours, claiming my gloryhole, and sucking off anybody who stepped up to it. Sometimes at the end of the night I’d exit the Bijou and find my shirt covered with dried semen. Caked with it, really. And that would’ve been just a small portion of the stuff I’d actually swallowed. One night I was working the ramp from the suck side when a total stallion of a man climbed up on top. He wasn’t tall, but he was built like crazy. His biceps were roughly the size of my neck; his hands, as they clutched the top of the slurp ramp wall, were enormous and meaty. He looked like a living Tom of Finland illustration, all overblown muscles and hyper-exaggerated masculinity. The only light in that room came from a TV screen in the room’s front. It was possible to see how fucking handsome this guy was in its dim bluish light. He had a shaved head and the dark, thick eyebrows of a Greek native. He regarded the throngs of hungry cocksuckers below with a critical eye. Like the many guys around me who wanted a piece of him, I looked up at him with adoration and prayed that he’d pick me. He didn’t. He picked the guy at the hole next to mine, a good-looking boy in a tank top. I watched as the guy’s cock disappeared down my neighbor’s throat, envious. I wasn’t envious for long, though, because the Greek saw me watching. He put his free hand on my head—his other hand was on the boy’s crown. He riffled my hair, holding me still and indicating through his body language that I shouldn’t go anywhere. Then he pulled out of the boy’s mouth, put his dick through my hole, and fed me. His dick wasn’t long, but it was thick and uncut and hard as stone. I could taste the other boy’s spit on it, but I didn’t care. I just wanted that meat. I sucked him all the way down and gave it my best effort, and was rewarded when I heard him grunt with pleasure. He withdrew again, and fed the boy some more. Back and forth between the two holes he went. The boy and I were his chosen mouths, and he liked us both. Eventually the boy came over to my hole and we slobbered over the Greek’s dick together, making out and letting our tongues flick against the other’s. The boy was into me, too. His hands thrust down my shorts to haul out my dick; he was well-hung himself. When the Greek would take one of our heads and thrust it down on his tool, the other would go down to our knees. I’d suck the boy hard and deep while he was on the Greek, and he gave me some of the same treatment when it was my turn to service. We all lasted like that for a very long time, while around us men pushed by and lingered and watched and tried to get in on the action. Eventually, though, I could tell the Greek was picking up the pace. His grunting increased, until he sounded like a pig rutting; the amount of precum flowing from his dick went from rivulet to gushing stream. And his thrusts got more and more violent. At one point he was holding the back of my head while he powered his dick down my throat, before releasing me as I started to gag and doing the same to the other boy. “I’m gettin’ close,” he said. When he spoke, it was with a thick and unexpected accent. He grabbed the back of my head, and pulled it down, hard, onto his cock. He’d been aiming for my mouth, of course. But whether I’d turned the wrong way on my trip up from between the other boy’s legs, or whether he was just too hasty in his thrusting, all I know is that I felt—rather suddenly and inexplicably—the jarring sensation of bone (his) against bone (my skull), a blinding flash of purple light, and a hell of a lot of pain from my left eye socket. The pain was so awful for a moment that for a moment I wasn’t even sure that my eyeball was still there. Clutching my face, I staggered backward into a wall of bodies, the men who’d been surrounded the pair of us as we’d been servicing the Greek. Neither of my partners seemed to notice I’d left. Cursing and panicking, I managed to make my way to the men’s room. It was the only place inside the Bijou that was lit. My eye was streaming with tears and I panicked to see a lot of fluid on my chest. For some reason I was convinced it was squishy eyeball juice. Reason eventually took over and I figured out it was just a mixture of cum, precum, and general slobber. It seemed to be taking forever for my left eye to come back into focus, however. After a moment and some hunting along the surface of my eyeball (once I could open my lids), I realized that I’d lost my contact lens. It didn’t seem to have been pushed elsewhere on my eye (other contact lens wearers will know what I’m talking about, here). I didn’t want to get all dramatic at two a.m., but there I was in a foreign country, with only one contact lens and a difference in vision between left and right that was eye-watering at best and maddening at worst. I didn’t have my spectacles back at the hotel—they were sitting on my bedside table at home. And I had to drive back to Detroit the day after. So I did what any sensible faggot did. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, figured I’d work it out in the morning, and went back to a sucking dick, cock-eyed, for another two hours. I stumbled back to the hotel at roughly four-thirty in the morning, smelling like the inside of someone’s jock. Yeah. Good times. What I learned from that experience, though: seriously, don’t let someone fuck you in the eye socket. It hurts like hell and bursts a few blood vessels. Also, carry your eyeglasses with you in case of emergency, when you travel, as well as a pair of spare contact lenses. And finally, if you do lose your contact lens, head to the nearest optometrist. They’ll call your doctor, get a confirmation of your prescription, and give you a sample lens, gratis. Whether or not you make up some fictional story about losing it while drinking, or tell them that you lost it at the Bijou’s slurp ramp . . . that’s up to you. More...