TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There aren't a lot of fast food chains close to me. The county in which I live is snooty enough to look down its nose at them and forbid them permits. And for the most part, that's fine—though I really miss the Pei Wei chain. Recently a Chipotle franchise managed to sneak its way in, and so fabled and exotic it was that the residents here spoke of it in hushed tones, as if its burritos had received Michelin stars. Meanwhile I, who'd had too many Chipotle branches nearby when I lived in the Midwest, always thought of Chipotle as that place I might go to if I guess I was parked nearby and my favorite real Mexican restaurant was closed and I didn't feel like driving to Taco Bell. There is a Boston Market very close to me, though. For those unfamiliar with it, it's just a roasted chicken restaurant that serves a few other things—roasted turkey, meatloaf—along with a lot of traditional side dishes like stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn. It's not all that special, but the quality is decent—and a couple of weeks ago, when I was a bachelor here for a few days, I was feeling lazy enough that I didn't want to cook, and didn't want to drive. Boston Market seemed like a good fit. I went in, ordered a plate of something, ate it while I read a book, and went home. Simple enough, right? Earlier this week I got on Adam4Adam and found a message from someone there I'd been pursuing for a while. He's handsome man whose schedule doesn't quite mesh with mine, so we mostly exchange brief messages of regret. This time, though, he'd written, Didn't I see you at Boston Market not too long ago? It turned out that he'd been there when I'd walked in, thought he'd recognized me, but didn't say anything. I, apparently was too set on getting turkey into my belly or on my book to look around and recognize him. I told him that next time he should make an effort to come up and say hello, at least, and then we rekindled our promises to get together at some point. It was two days later that I got an instant message from a guy on Manhunt. Hey, he said. I think I saw you at Boston Market a while back. After a little questioning I found out that he, too, had been eating his meal at the place when he'd spotted me. Talk about weird coincidences. Then last night I got another Manhunt message. You look familiar, he said. I think I saw you out and about a couple of weeks ago. I was totally going to be freaked out if he'd seen me at the same place. I asked him if it was at Boston Market. Nah, he wrote. But it's weird you mention it. I met my ex-bf at that place. So single guys. Stop hitting the bars, stop trolling online. There's a chicken restaurant near me you should check out. Apparently it's where all the action's happening. Let's get to some questions that have been accumulating on formspring.me. Do you think piercings are sexy? Where do you like them best? The first body piercing I ever saw—other than the standard pierced ears on women—was a P.A. on one of the first dicks that fucked me, back in the mid-nineteen-seventies. Piercings on men were pretty damned exotic then, and not only had I never seen one before, I'd never even conceived it was possible. So I was fascinated by it, for the thirty or so seconds before the guy started ramming it in me. I still think a P.A. looks hot on a guy. When other forms of body piercings started to be popular in the nineteen-nineties, I thought they were hot for a while, but they became so commonplace that the novelty wore off. Nipple and scrotal piercings neither turn me on or off; weird ear piercings, bridge piercings, and eyebrow and navel piercings just make me want to dab the person off with a cotton ball and some disinfectant. However, I am for some reason a sucker for a nasal septum piercing on a man. That's hawt. Have you ever banged a man whose/wife or kids were in the house in another room? Have you ever been busted at your home by your wife or kids? In answer to your first question, yes, I have had sex with people who had other household members in nearby rooms. I've played with men and women both who had sleeping children in other parts of the house, and a few times with couples who'd invite me over after they'd put their children to bed. I've fucked younger guys living with their folks, while their parents were around (typically, upstairs, while we'd screw in the guy's grungy basement 'apartment'). A few times I fucked men in their dens, garages, or basements, while their wives were sleeping upstairs. And a fewer times than that, I did it while their wives were around and knew about it and didn't really care. I don't get why I keep getting asked if I've been 'busted' or 'caught' at home. It's not like masturbation makes me suddenly deaf to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, for the love of god. Weirdest place u ever got banged ? This is like that ."In my left eyeball." (He was aiming for my mouth.) Have you ever been caught in the act by your spouse or someone else's spouse/partner? Nope. But I had a couple of close calls. And once I had a guy drag me across the kitchen with me still in his butt when he got a call from his wife mid-fuck telling him she'd be home in ten minutes and asking if he'd taken out the ground beef from the freezer for dinner. He hadn't. That's why he sprinted for the fridge with me in tow. If, given the opportunity to meet one of your social media friends who you encountered online and with whom have solely had an Internet relationship, would you take it to meet them? If so, who? I have several times taken relationships that had been online acquaintances into real-life friendships, or one-night stands, or ongoing fuck-buddy relationships. I think it's preferable simply to knowing someone through their tweets or through an instant messenger, in fact. I'm very glad to be able to know people of so many different backgrounds, and from such diverse parts of the world, thanks to the internet. But there's nothing that beats meeting someone face to face and enjoying them as the whole person. What's one goal you've set for yourself in 2012? To get through it without hearing someone slaughter "Bad Romance" at a karaoke bar. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Apparently, when it comes to crushes, I have a type. And that type is big, pretty, and stupid. Also, it doesn’t hurt if the guy’s a bartender—but perhaps (and I hate to generalize, here, because I know some clever people who work on the opposite side of a sprawling bar) bartending is one of the last refuges of hope for the pretty and stupid. But after the last couple of years, and after the last couple of serious schoolgirl crushes I’ve endured, I’ve come to realize this about myself: take some pretty guy with dark, floppy hair and big brown eyes who’s never finished high school, put him in a tank top, and stick him behind a counter and ask him to make drinks for me, and boom, every night the guy is slinging liquor, you’re sure to find me there gazing at him mutely, with my chin in my hands and little pulsating heart-shapes where my dilated pupils used to be. I wrote about my last bartender crush while I was still living in Michigan—pretty Lenny, he of the the long brown hair and the big brown eyes and the lanky body. Lenny, king of the vacant expression. Lenny, whom I watched with longing from across the bar on so many nights, and who I was so certain harbored some vibrant inner light that kept his soul nourished—a yen to become a serious artist, or a journalistic photographer. Lenny, who, when I finally sat at the bar and attempted to strike up conversations, stood there clutching a giant Tupperware container of liquid to his chest and spooned it into his mouth. Then who, in the same dopey tone as the abominable snowman in the Bugs Bunny cartoon when he squeezed Bugs hard and said I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him!, said through a mouthful of the stuff, “I like soup! Soup is good!”, forever ruining my vision of his secret artistic and sensitive nature. Because the only thing nourishing that boy was Campbell’s Chicken Noodle. Sigh. And now I have a crush on another bartender. Tommy, his name is. Tommy used to be an underwear model. He used to appear on the pages of Men’s Fitness. He’s got that classic combination of enormous brown eyes, sloppy longish hair, and muscles that makes my chest tighten and my heart go pitty-pat; when he slouches around the bar in his ratty jeans and a T-shirt, I stare at his biceps and long for the day when I find them holding me tight around my chest while he whispers the sexier sonnets of Shakespeare into my ears. When he wears a tight tank top and lifts it up to wipe his face and reveal his tanned abs, I’m reduced to a gibbering idiot who can only drool and say ‘Whuh?’ in response to any conversation directed my way. But Tommy has, I’m not that surprised to have to relate, about the same mental acuity as a soggy baked potato. I kind of became aware of it the first time I asked him to make me one of the speciality drinks listed on the bar’s menu, and I watched him scrunch up his eyebrows and furrow his forehead as he peered at the ingredients and worked his lips as he silently sounded out the words. I haven’t had him tell me in a caveman manner that he likes soup, yet, but our conversations usually run a little something like: HIM: So I got an audition in the city tomorrow! ME: That’s fantastic. What’s it for? HIM: It’s for a movie film. ME: A movie film? HIM: Yeah! Like you know, in the movie film theaters. It’s for a Road Warrior movie film. I guess it's supposed to be like Mad Max? ME: The Road Warrior was a Mad Max movie fil—I mean, movie.. HIM (confused): Nuh-uh? ME: I’m pretty sure. HIM: So they like that I got this longish hair so should I like, grease it down or leave it the way it is? ME: Which is going to look more post-apocalyptic? HIM (confused again): Apo—? ME: Apocalyptic. HIM: Apo—? ME: Apoca. . . HIM: Apoca. . . ME: Lyptic. HIM: Lyptic. ME: Apocalyptic. HIM: Apoppapoptic. ME: Apocalyptic. HIM: Apocaclyppic. ME: Apoppapipp—which is going to look better for the movie film?! It’s a good thing he’s so pretty. This week I sat down at the bar and Tommy immediately asked how my week was going and what I’d done that day. I made some small talk. “Ask me how my day is going,” he said. “How’s your day going?” I replied obediently. “Fantastic,” he told me. “You know why? Because I’m an ideas man. I got all kinds of ideas just like, coming out of my brain! Because you know what the brain is, right? It’s spirits! And once you got those spirits in you, it’s like a genie in a bottle! You rub it, and rub it, and rub it—“ And here, to demonstrate what the word rub meant in case I wasn’t clear, he started moving his palms all over his chest, so that his tank top revealed his nipples and navel. I’d been carrying a copy of Next Magazine in my hands, but at the sight of what typically one has to pay a monthly subscription to see streamed live from LiveJockFratDorm.com, it slipped out of my hands and onto the floor, along with my jaw and my dignity. “Then you rub it right and make your wish and boom! It might not come right away but it comes on its own time and when it does it rushes all through you and outside of you and it feels like a goddamn orgasm, that’s what it feels like.” Well. I basically stood there slack-jawed, having heard only one word of that entire speech (I’ll let you guess which one). He went to take someone's drink order; I stared and stammered until someone jostled me into a seat. Tommy came back over after a moment. “It’s like when I was a dancer,” he said earnestly to me. “There were dancers, and then there was me. I’d give ‘em a little of this—“ Here he held his hands on his abs and bit his lower lip and did some sexy little thrusting motions with his hips. “And a little of this—“ He put his hands behind his head, sneered, and ground his package at the freezer. “And I’d be thinkin’ outside the box with each and every client because I’m an ideas man, and that’s why they kept comin’ back to me instead of to those other dancers. Because I think outside the box!” My throat was dry. I couldn’t speak. Somehow I got the impression that his dancing career had not been in the New York City Ballet. I was having ideas. Most of them were dirty. I noticed he was looking at me expectantly for some kind of reply. I tried to work my lips, but all I could do was look in those big brown eyes and at those bulging biceps and stutter out, “Um . . . huuuh . . . whuh?” Which frankly makes I like soup! seem like a quip worthy of the Algonquin Round Table, in comparison. So you know the kind of guy that makes me go moony, speechless, and head over heels. This is a Friday open forum, though. What about yours? Do you have a type for which you have a perpetual weakness—not so much as an object of sexual desire, but more for an unrequited schoolkid crush or a serious case of puppy love? Or have you had a thing for a dumb but pretty bartender, too? Let’s hear about it in the comments! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It only takes one word to change the situation from good to bad. I’m lifting up my pelvis, pulling down my shorts, when the man in the driver’s seat next to me says, “Cops.” I turn my head to the right, toward the entrance of the parking lot, and sure enough, a tan sedan’s pulling in through the entrance. In the other cars I can see a flurry of activity. Men pick up their phones and suddenly pretend to be involved in phone calls in which they weren’t, seconds before. The man parked by the entrance who had been staring lasciviously at anyone and everyone driving in is suddenly involved in a crossword puzzle. The man in the black compact who had been zooming around the parking lot like a maddened beetle, parking by car after car so that he could look into the windows and check out the prospects, zooms out and toward the parkway. “Shit,” I say. I’m naked from the waist down. My cock’s pointed at the ceiling of this guy’s SUV. This won’t do. I’d pulled into the lot only a few minutes before. It was one of the long, lingering August dusks I’ve learned to expect here, when daylight ebbs away, but night seems reluctant to fall. It had been dusk when I’d pulled away from home a half-hour before; it was dusk when I drove my car into the cruisy lot and to its far end. I could tell it was busy. I’ve only visited this spot a handful of times, and I’d never seen it quite as busy as it was that night. Usually there are at least two to three spaces between the parked cars. Tonight, there’s only one at most. I’d pulled up next to the van simply because it was parked at the lot’s far end, far away from the unattractive troll sitting by the entrance who’d basically done a double-take when he’d seen me. My windows were down. I’d turned off the ignition. When I looked at the SUV next to mine, I was relieved to see that the guy was rugged, and handsome. His face was covered with scruff. The rest of him I couldn’t see, but he was sexy enough that when he leaned over and called through his open window, “Hey there,” I didn’t mind replying with a friendly hello. “What’re you doing tonight?” he asked. “Just killing some time,” I drawled. “Want to kill time over here with me?” He didn’t have to ask twice. I’d left my car and hopped into the passenger seat. He was a lean and sexy man, I found, and from the moment I was in his car, his hands were all over me. He grabbed my crotch and felt the hardness within. He rubbed his hands over my legs, seeming to like the abundance of hair there. His hands crept over my stomach, my chest, my shoulders, my biceps, squeezing and testing and prodding. “I’m like you,” he said. “Lean, mean, and with a major piece.” “Show me,” I urged, in a whisper. He’d unbuckled his shorts and flashed his dick at me. He’d been wearing a leather cock strap wrapped tightly around his engorged meat. It was by no means as long as mine, but it was a respectable seven. And fat. It was one of those superior dicks I see every once in a blue moon—a dick that’s just got beautiful proportions above and beyond the usual run-of-the-mill dick. A dick nearly as superior as mine. Yeah, that was a major piece. “Let me see yours,” he’d said. “Zip up,” I’d told him. And that’s how, when the cops pulled into the lot, I’d been caught pants down when he was discreetly covered. It doesn’t take me long to zip up. But here I am, in a stranger’s car, seat back, heart pounding and face flushed, dick tenting in my cargo shorts, with my own vehicle a good ten steps away. The cop has pulled directly into a spot past the car beyond mine. “I think I’ll go back to my car,” I say, more as a test balloon than anything else. It sounds good when I say it, though. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. “Follow me,” suggests the man. “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts down the road. Follow me there.” I look at him. He’s so scruffy and handsome; he looks like James Denton from Desperate Housewives. “Okay,” I say, though I have no idea where we’re going. There’s a flurry of activity as I exit the man’s car. A vanload of college-aged kids in a day in the city arrives, and the youths disperse from its side. I take advantage of the confusion to slide back into my car. My buddy in the van pulls out behind me and heads toward the exit. When I pull out to follow, the cop car shifts into reverse, turns around, and joins the exit queue between the van and my car. Crap, I’m thinking. What if the cop wants to pull over my new friend? I’m making calculations in my head about what I could and should do. I’m figuring that if the squad car follows the van, I’ll simply turn in the opposite direction and head home. That sounds sensible. My friend in the van turns left. The cop car and I advance. The cop turns right. Finally I flip on my signal. Left it is. The Dunkin’ Donuts is about a mile down the road—it’s a pretty long drive, that’s for sure, especially when you’re looking in the rear-view mirror expecting to see flashing red and blue lights at any minute. The lot was empty, though, save for a few stragglers going in and out of the liquor store a little further down. Once again, I pull next to his car. He’s already in the back seat; he opens the door for me from the inside, and I join him in the darkness. “Fuck,” he says. “That was too close,” I agree. And then he’s on me. That’s all the dialogue we have. He’s unbuttoning my plaid shirt until it hangs to either side of my chest, yanking off my shorts. I’m not wearing underwear. I’m lying on the leatherette of his SUV’s back seat wearing nothing but an open shirt and a pair of sneakers, and he’s on top of me. I’ve ripped open his shirt so that we’re chest to chest, our mouths hungrily consuming the other’s, making out so hard I’m sure my lips are bruise-red. His pants are own, tangled around his ankles. His fat dick is pressed against mine. We’re leaving sticky webs of pre-cum strands between us as we grind and thrust and go at each other. We’re like animals in heat, working off the fear and anxiety of the parking lot with each other. We’re hungry, and desperate, and happy to be free. Nothing could feel better than the pressure and hardness of his dick against mine, as we make out and hump like horny high-schoolers. Then we freeze. On the seat behind us there’s a steady pattern of flashing lights. After a moment of stillness, we both jerk up and clutch at our clothing. My hands go for my shirt. He gropes for his pants. Then, at the same moment, we see the source of the flashing lights. There’s a tow truck slowly trundling down the road. We look at it, and then at each other, and laugh. And then we pull up our pants, and put back on our shirts. Two close calls in a night is enough. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Usually on Sunday mornings I like to wedge into my Sunday Morning Questions essay the detritus of the week—something silly someone said to me in a bar, the annoyances of that week's attempts to score sex online, some less weighty anecdote. That kind of thing. Today, I'm begging you guys. I want some photos of you. I haven't had a Reader's Assets feature in a loooooong time. Partly it's my fault; I haven't been campaigning for you all to send in photos of your naked selves as aggressively as perhaps I should. We haven't had the feature in a while, so some of you might not even remember it, or might have come to the blog after the last time some of my foxy readers showed off their goods. (It was March, if you're keeping count.) But I love you guys! I want to show you off! I know those blog entries featuring nude shots of my readers were always hugely popular when it came to web page hits, too—so why not join in the fun? You don't have to show off all of yourself—just send in some naughty photos with which you're comfortable. Ass. Cock. Ass and cock. Ass, cock, and hole. Ass, cock, hole, and your naked chest, and your big old smile grinning in our directions. I'm not picky. Send a few of your best shots to the address in the sidebar, and put 'MY ASSETS' in the subject line, so it'll filter into the appropriate box. All I ask is that the photos are of you, and not some random porn actor or hot guy on the net—unless you're a porn actor or hot guy on the net, of course. Be of an age appropriate to share such photos. And please, realize that your mother, your pastor, and your boss are probably not going to see them shared here. Unless they're in the habit of cruising gay sex blogs. Well, maybe your pastor. If you've participated before, by all means, send in some new photos and show off again! Let me know if there's anything special about you that I should be sharing with my readers. Maybe you'll get a potential soulmate (or at least fuckbuddy) out of it! I'm the Dolly Levi of sex bloggers, that way. Do I have to beg? I will. Pwease? Okay, let's get to some questions rounded up from my account at formspring.me. Thank you guys who've been sending me some pretty stimulating questions of late—I appreciate the mental challenge. Did you ever reject someone because of their looks? I have some self-esteem issues and one of problems I deal with is feeling as though I'm not good looking enough, or that I'm not interesting enough. Yes, I have rejected someone because of his looks. I've done it many times. I don't think that's a particularly shameful thing to admit; not to do it would imply a total lack of discrimination. You're attracted to the guys you're attracted to, and no amount of mental gymnastics can overcome it. I dislike, though, when guys have so narrow a definition of what they find 'acceptable' or 'fuckable' that it applies only an extremely narrow demographic, like when guys my age only want college jocks, or when chubby guys with beards want only other chubby guys with beards who look like every other chubby guy out there with a beard. That just smacks to me of fear—fear of straying away from other men who look like oneself in case one's rejected, or fear of what other people might think if anyone selected a partner who was less than some imaginary concept of perfection. I like old guys and young guys, and big guys and skinny guys, and I've had a lot of fun with guys others might consider unattractive, who had great personalities and adventurous sexualities. I consider myself only modestly good looking at best, but heck, men and boys have a good time with me. Every once in a while, though, there will be someone to whom I just don't feel any chemistry. I'll politely decline sex. About the latter half of your question: I have self-esteem issues myself, but you know what? Fuck those. If you mope around and act as if you're not good enough for others, chances are you're giving off a vibe that is saying, loud and clear, KEEP AWAY FROM ME! I'M DAMAGED GOODS! Guys are going to react accordingly, which will affect your confidence if you let it. Pretty soon you'll find yourself in a self-defeating situation. Know your strong points and accentuate them. If you've got a big dick, show off the big dick in photos. If you've got a great smile, flash it as often as possible. If your personality sparkles, get out and make friends and let it shine. Don't look at yourself in the mirror and think, "Not good enough." Train yourself to see the best parts of yourself, and keep the negativity at bay as much as you can. It's possible —and maybe even probable—that you're wasting a hell of a lot of time dwelling on negative shit that no one else sees, much less cares about. There will be men out in the world who appreciate what you've got to offer. You simply have to get out there and let them see it. Have you ever slept with your kids teacher? Lord, no. Not an attractive one in the bunch. If you came across a diary or blog written by your kid(s) would you read it and if it was similar to your own experiences would you let them know you'd found and read their journal? Nah. Everyone needs his own private space in which he feels safe, so he can express his reaction to his life without unwanted people inhibiting him. For some people that might be their own heads. It might be Facebook. Or it might be a private journal or online blog. I'd just let it be. What's your favorite song to fuck to? Whatever the bottom's yelling out as I drill in. I'm not fond of music playing during sex. My entire life doesn't require a soundtrack supplied by the music industry. Can you talk about one of the more challenging situations you've had to work through in order to make things work with another person? For example, a wheel chair, prosthetic limb, or muscular difficulties? I could probably talk about it in depth, but I have a curious reluctance to do so; I feel protective toward the men who were my partners in such situations, and don't want to answer in a way that would indicate I felt like they were some sort of curiosity, much less a freak show. I've had encounters with several men who've faced physical challenges. With one sexy gentleman who had no legs below the knees, the major difficulty (from my perspective—he was having no problems) was getting him from his wheelchair to the bed in a graceful manner, after he'd let me in his front door. Once we were on the mattress, there wasn't really much of a difference between the way I made love to him and the way I'd make love to anyone else. I've had sex with a guy who had an artificial foot (and to be honest, I didn't even notice until about about an hour into the orgy where we met), another with an artificial leg, and a few who, because of various issues, had to avoid certain positions because they inflamed some condition or another. You just work around those things. I think the most refreshing sex I used to have was with a paraplegic who was so tired of hooking up with men who treated him like a glass oddity that he would pay me really good money just to come around regularly to his place and bang the holy shit out of him. I'd manhandle him and verbally dominate him and throw him around the way he wanted. He fucking loved it. He didn't want to be abused because of his condition; he wanted to be abused in spite of it, and found that most people were too tender-hearted and concerned to bitch-fuck him the way he needed. I, of course, had no problems with that. Do you think humans are inherently polyamorous? At the suggestion of one of my readers, I'm currently reading a book by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jetha entitled Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality. Its authors posit that mankind's origins were never intended to be monogamous and that the entire institution goes against the evolutionary biology of our instincts and our genitals themselves; it's an interesting read in favor of a polygamous view of human behavior. That was my long answer. The short answer is 'Yes.' As someone who came to sex early I find many people who know feel more comfortable seeing me as a victim of abuse. How do you react when your disclosures have people questioning your childhood or insist you were used and abused? You are correct that some people are infinitely more comfortable talking about any kind of early sexual exploration in terms of abuse and molestation, rather than recognizing it as part of human behavior. I'm not at all suggesting that all expressions of pubescent sex are healthy, or appropriate, or commendable; but neither are they all scary for the participants, nor uniformly disgusting, nor harmful. My own early sexual experiences were joyful and liberating. I went after they with gusto, and I was treated (by and large) quite well by the men with whom I had them. I learned a lot about navigating my way in alien adult worlds that served me well when I grew older. Plus I had a hell of a lot of fun. I encountered more abuse, more shame, and infinitely more mental anguish from other kids in non-sexual situations at school than I did from any adult dick I saw or pleasured in my teens. The men I was with never made me feel ashamed of my looks or my body, as did my peers in gym class, and they never fucked with my head and my emotions in the way a typical seventh-grade girl can. I'd rather a hundred times over endure the worst fuck from the nastiest park pick-up I ever had as a teen than I would ride the school bus home a single afternoon more. That's my experience. It's different for everyone, and I recognize that for others, the prospect of sex so soon after puberty would've been terrifying. As I've said before, though, classifying every instance of adolescent and pre-adolescent sexual exploration as abuse and molestation, however, marginalizes and does a severe disservice to those who actually suffered from real abuse. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here We’re playing a game. One. Two. Three. I count off the seconds. They’re slightly longer than seconds. They’re heavy seconds—fat drops of water seconds that cling to the faucet before they fall with a two-ton plop. Four. Five. Six. His lips are wrapped around the base of my dick, pressed deep into the skin. Against my pelvis I can feel the pressure of his front teeth, his nose, the tip of his chin. Bone against bone. My bone deep in his open throat. Usually I don’t like guys attempt to deep-throat me. My dick’s not a monster, but it’s long. Men who attempt to open their throats and take that extra two-three-four inches use too much teeth. They angle me badly. They expect me to batter open their gullets, they put too much pressure against the sensitive head. It often hurts. But he’s opened up and I’ve slid right down. The sensation is tight, and warm, and wet. His throat’s a perfect pussy, opening and closing around my shaft. Through the walls of his esophagus I can feel the beat of his heart. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. He’s looking up at me, this stranger, this handsome man. Muffled sounds resonate along his ribcage as he regards me with glazed, watering eyes that stare blindly at me with adoration. His nostrils flare; his mustache widens its arc around my shaft as he leads me further inside that tight wet place deep inside his chest. Deep into his core. Nineteen. Twenty. I feel it around my cock before he’s even aware what’s happening. His throat contracts suddenly. He gags. He’s choking. Great dollops of drool and mucus slop out of the sides of his mouth. “Twenty-one,” I say. With my hands cradling his skull, I gently pull him away from my dick. His lungs heave and grasp for air, taking it in great ragged gulps. He’s panting, unaware that there’s a long web of slobber still connecting my dick to his lips. “Good boy,” I murmur. “Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you. Thank you.” I’ve never met this man before. This is the game he likes, though. Since it leaves my dick wet, and fat, dripping, and horny for more, I’m willing to play. “Suck it,” I say, when I know he’s ready. "Suck my cock." His head is shaved and smooth. He looks up at me with those beautiful, trusting eyes, and widens and flattens his tongue so he can lick up and down my shaft like my meat’s a creamsicle. I’m sitting on the mattress edge. My feet are almost touching the floor. He’s kneeling between them, reverently, a supplicant in a religious medieval painting. “You like my cock, don’t you?” I growl. His head’s in the cup of my palm again. I’m guiding that cue ball around and around the head, showing him where to pay his best attention. “I love your cock,” he grunts. “Tell me,” I demand. “I love your cock,” he says. He slurps on it. “I love your demon dick. I love it when it’s part of me, deep in my throat.” He slides the underside along his face. We stare at each other. “I love the flare of the head. The way it scrapes my throat.” I nod. “I love the thickness, the way it swells to my touch. It’s so fucking beautiful.” As if it hears him, my dick swells within his clutch. He sucks on the head and then tilts his head. Every word he says is simple and sincere. “I love that it’s a part of you, and that when I take it . . . you’re part of me.” Now I’m the one staring at him, almost enraptured by his touch, his mouth, his breath against my wet skin, his words. “I . . . love . . . your . . . dick,” he breathes. He waits for a response. I pull myself up, put both hands on the back of his head, and slowly pull him down. “One,” I say, low and soft. Then, I count aloud. Two. Three. Four. Again, they’re long seconds. I draw them out, let him know it’s not inevitable another will follow. He’s down at the base again, engulfing my inches deep inside his throat. Nine. Ten. In a low, slow voice, I tell him, “Your capacity for cocksucking is exceeded only by your sense of poetry.” He looks at me with gratitude, both for the compliment, and for the quantities of precum coating his throat. Twelve. Thirteen. So soft. So snug. So slick. Twenty. Twenty-one. He starts to gag, to attempt to save himself by backing off. I can hear the noises of choking deep in his throat. I keep my hands on the back of his head. Detain him there. Hold him still. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. I release him. He flies back, again gulping down bucketfuls of oxygen. He’s got tears on his face. Drool on his beard. Spit on his chest. “Thank you,” he says. He repeats it in a rush. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. My cock’s in my hand. It’s the same temperature as his mouth, a deep, deep purple, and so wet that it splats against my palm where I strike it. “You knew what to do,” he said. “You knew I needed you to hold me down on it. It felt like—“ he waved his hands. “Flying. It felt like—you were God. I love your cock, man.” He’s babbling now. He’s kissing the head and looking at me with worship in his gaze. “I love your cock.” I nod. “I like this game,” I tell him. Then I pull him down again. Slowly, while his mouth and throat open wide. We start again. One. Two. Three. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When he pulls his car next to mine—and I’d known he was going to pull his car next to mine—he noses it into the parking space an inch at a time, pulling it to a slow stop. He powers down the windows. Turns off the ignition. The sedan’s purr subsides. He stares straight ahead into the woods beyond. I can tell right off he’s a big, big guy. Even with his seat pushed back, he’s still filling up most of the space between where his chest and belly end and the steering wheel begins. He’s wearing a shirt with some kind of island print; there’s a forest of chest hair spilling out of the collar. He has a head of curly red hair, and a thick beard to match. Yeah, he’s a big ol’ bear, but he’s a sexy man. I watch as his hand casually rests against the window ledge. His eyes wander to the left, in my direction, but still looking at the woods. Then his neck twists to follow. Slowly, slowly, he turns his head. Then our eyes meet. We’re staring at each other. We don’t drop the glance. Seconds pass. Men don’t look at each other like this from the safety of their cars. Not for this long. We’ve passed that point at which we were supposed to stop, and we’re bathing in each other’s gaze. He wants me. I can see it in the hard glittering of his eyes. I want him, too. My dick’s hard. I break the gaze and, as my hands paw and press at my meat in my shorts, I stare down at it. There’s no mistaking what I’m looking at, for him. When I lift my head up again, his mouth is twitch. I nod at him. He slowly, slowly nods back. I get out of my car. Elongate my lean, lanky body. There are other men in this lot, this park-and-ride off the parkway, all looking for the same thing. I can feel their eyes on me as I thrust forward my pelvis and arch my back in a traveller’s stretch. I’m wearing only a thin T-shirt and a pair of shorts. My feet are in an almost oversized pair of high-top Converse. Knowing that the solitary men in their spaced-out vehicles are staring, I stride around the front of my car, past the sedan, and around to its passenger seat. My long, hairy legs swing into the car and I close the door behind me. “You’re hot,” are his first whispered words. I look around. We’re in the corner of the lot; there’s no one who can see what I’m doing. I unbutton my shorts. Unzip. Hike down the elastic of my trunks and pull out the dick. It’s hard—the head is full, the skin taut and shiny. There’s already a bead of pre-cum on the slit. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck!” Unconsciously, his hand rubs over his body. He pulls up his shirt. His belly is enormous. He’s a Santa Claus of a man—and it suits him. He’s like one of those idealized bear cartoons that big furry guys caption with annoying titles like Woof! My Future Husbear! The chest hair at his collarbone is almost a snowy white, but the further south it goes, the more fiery red it becomes, until it blends in with his flame-colored pubes. I’m turned on. “Show me,” I tell him. Instantly he snatches down his pants. His dick is rock hard. It’s not large by any means, but it’s fat, and inviting. I look around. Then bend over. He smells clean, as if he’s just gotten out of the shower. I inhale deeply, getting high on that scent of soap and musk and slimy cock spit. “Fuck!” he says. It’s his only vocabulary. “Fuck!” This park-and-ride is too busy for me to continue deep-throating him for very long. After a minute I come up for air. He stares at me. “Fuck, man,” he says. “Where did you come from?” I grin and shrug. “No, seriously . . . men like me don’t get to have sex with men like you.” “That’s ridiculous.” “No, I mean really, I. . . .” I didn’t come out to heal anyone's self-esteem issues today. Men waste so much fucking time deciding they’re unworthy of each other. “You’re hot,” I tell him, meaning it. “I want you. You’re hot. Just fucking enjoy being a hot guy.” He’s staring at me, judging my words. “Yeah,” he says at last. “You’re hot too. Damn. You’re hot.” I’m stroking. Showing off for him. Wrapping my hand around my knob and squeezing. “I want to be in a bed with you,” I breathe. He looks around. It’s instinct, in places like this. We’re both always looking, always turning our heads. Always aware. It’s too dangerous not to keep an eye out. He rubs his hand over his belly. It’s big, and round. He looks almost pregnant, but like I said, it suits him. It’s a turn-on, and he can tell by the way I swallow, the way I lick my lips, that he’s my type. I’m producing pre-cum like crazy. It’s always been an issue with me, and one that many partners have found pretty messy, but he’s digging it. He reaches out with his thumb, presses it into the slit, and comes away with a glob on his thumb tip. He offers it to me. My lips reach out and snatch it off, then close around his thumb so that I can suck on it. That’s what we do for the minutes after. We’ve both got our pants open, our cocks hard and out. I stroke, and he scoops the long strings of pre-cum from my slit and feeds them to me. I devour it hungrily. He’ll vary my diet from time to time with his own modest output. His pre-cum is sweeter than mine. It’s little dabs of moisture, especially compared to my obscene fountain of cock slime. I eat it all, though. I eat it from his thumb, I eat it from two of his fingers, three, four, when he shoves them all in there. “Cum for me?” he begs. And I do, almost on demand. He has his hand below my cock head as I spurt and ooze. He catches the enormous quantity of cum in the cup of his palm. His fingers are sticky with the stuff; his hand can barely contain it. He raises his hand to my mouth. I’m ready. My jaw is wide open, my tongue outstretched. The fluid slides from his hand directly into my throat in one massive glob; I almost choke from the sudden impact. But instinct kicks in and I gulp it down. He shoves his hand in my mouth, making me lick clean his fingers, making me scrape my beard over his palm. Then it’s gone, and I’m still shuddering from the throes of climax. My legs are turned in and clenched together, my dick is squeezed to purple in my fist. I’m covered with sweat. And I have drying cum and spit on my face, and breath that smells like sperm. “Are you a porn star or something?” he asks. I laugh. The spell’s broken. I zip up and button. “No, really,” he asks. “Are you?’ “Nah,” I tell him. “Just a guy.” I nod, and thank him, and wheel my long legs out of the passenger-side door. “A hot one,” he says, as I round the car. I take the compliment, wave, and drive away. More...

Just about everything can be a story, HotLoad. The talent lies in recognizing the bones of those stories, wherever you go!

Thank you, Pig!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Today’s essay is courtesy of a reader who wrote in the following question: Give hope to the hopeless & tell us the funniest time you've mistaken someone's approach as something sexual when it was as mundane as wanting directions. If you have failures I may end up with one or two successes—and wouldn't you wanna help a brotha out? I always want to help a brotha out. Here goes. I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t learn to drive until I was in my early twenties. It wasn’t out of any particular timidity on my part to climb behind a wheel, believe me; I wanted to drive very badly, and concealing my lack of a license during my college years was both shameful and almost more work than the college courses themselves. No, my dad very simply didn’t want to pay the exorbitant insurance rates on a teenager. I think he would have been quite happy to let me rely on him and on my mother for rides, and kept me on the mercy of the Richmond public bus lines until I was thirty, if he’d had anything to say about it—but when I moved to Michigan to attend graduate school there, I’d been working for a few years, had a little money saved up, and bought my first car from one of his colleagues. It was a dark blue 1979 Chevrolet Malibu with whitewall tires. Despite the fact it was over a decade old when I bought it, it only had something like 12,000 miles on it; the professor from whom I’d purchased it was a little old lady with a cane who drove it a mile back and forth to the campus every day, and then to church on Sundays. Before I had my own family, and when my mom was still alive, I used to visit my parents in Virginia for all the big holidays. It wasn’t a small undertaking. It was the same thirteen-hour drive that I was still making when I started writing this blog, in fact—across the Ohio and Pennsylvania turnpikes, then snaking down through Southern Pennsylvania and West Virginia to avoid D.C.., and finally into Virginia to Richmond. In those pre-internet days I didn’t have a cell phone to talk in, or email to check, or Twitter to keep me amused. I didn’t have an iPod. My car stereo consisted of an AM radio that seemed somehow only to pick up Spanish-language channels. So what I would do would be to spend a few days beforehand recording seven or eight mix tapes of my favorite eighties hits (this was during the actual nineteen-eighties, so they weren’t retro, then). Then I’d put my ginormous boom box in the back seat of my car along with a bag full of D batteries and all those mix tapes, hop in the car, and then start the looooong trip to Virginia with the Thompson Twins or Vanity 6 blaring from the speakers. I’m a very neat person (generally), and I keep my cars immaculate (usually), but between the boom box and the tapes and the batteries and the bag of snacks I’d bring and the maps I’d keep in the passenger seat because of my conviction I might get lost—a conviction that’s been proved correct more times than I’d like to admit—my car could be a mess when I was making one of those trips home. Again, in those pre-internet times, picking up men was a very different thing than it is now. These days, if I wanted to hook up on the way back to Virginia, I’d maybe place a Craigslist ad beforehand, or fire up Grindr or Scruff or Adam4Adam on my cell phone when I’d reached a suitable resting place. In those days, I could stop at one of the numerous truck stops or rest areas along the way and try my luck in the men’s rooms. Or I could simply look out the window as I drove. Oh yeah. Those were the glory days of car cruising. It was not at all unusual for me to find men to fuck around with simply by locking gazes with a man in the passing lane and pulling off at the next exit to drop trou in the woods, or behind a barn, or fuck in a car. Especially when I’d drive through West Virginia or the rural parts of Virginia. One trip, a platonic gay friend of mine was making his way to Florida. I’d agreed to drive him to Richmond, where another buddy of his would be taking him the rest of the way. We crossed the West Virginia state line and the cruising started. Guys were leering and winking at us from their cars. We drove into Virginia and one not-too-attractive fellow followed us for over twenty miles, leaning over to open his mouth and circle his O-shaped lips with his slurping tongue, to indicate he wanted to blow one or both of us. He’d speed ahead, slow down to let us overtake him, then repeat the invitation, over and over again. (It probably didn’t help that my friend kept winking at him to tease him, when we’d pass.) Anyway. So I was on the way down to Virginia for one of the holidays—Easter, I think it was. It was fairly warm. I had my boom box playing something embarrassing in the back seat. The greatest hits of Ta Mara and the Seen, maybe. I’m driving down a lonely stretch of West Virginia highway with nothing in front of me when a man pulls up beside me in a red pickup truck. It was like one of those red pickup trucks you’d see in country videos—not too shiny, not too beat-up. Well-worn. Obviously used, and not an affectation. And that the wheel is the most fucking gorgeous slab of beef I’d seen in a dog’s age. I still remember what he looked like. He wore a yellow T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out so that they showed off his big ol’ muscular shoulders and biceps. His hair was short on top and had been trimmed with a precision level, and a little bit longer in the back. Yeah, he had a mullet of sorts, but they were more fashionable then. Shut up. Even from a lane over I could tell that his eyes were an intense blue. And he had one those square faces that one sees on professional wrestlers—just big, handsome features so broadly painted that his good looks could be recognizable from a football stadium away. I had my mouth open, singing along to some cheesy song. I snapped it shut, when our eyes locked. And then I swerved because I’d gone a little astray, and I’d overcompensated in steering back between the lines. Whoops. He zoomed ahead and pulled in front of me. I followed a while, then passed him. When I turned to look at him, he stared back. He nodded. I nodded in return, with my heart pounding. This guy was a stud. He passed me again. He looked down in my direction. Stared. My cock throbbed in my pants. My throat was dry. Still looking over his shoulder, he passed me again. For about twenty minutes we passed each other, back and forth. He didn’t lick his lips or do anything so obvious, but every time I’d pass, he would stare, and stare. Finally he passed me a final time, then cut in front of me. He put on his blinker about a half-mile before an exit, and pulled off onto it when it arrived. I bit the bullet and followed. He pulled into some kind of former gas station or something, right off the exit. It wasn’t open, and there were no cars there. My heart was still racing. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, I thought to myself. I would do anything for this guy and my car is a fucking MESS. I don’t know why it mattered to me; I think I was thinking that he wanted to screw, it’d be easier to do in the back seat. That Malibu was fuckin’ big enough. I could’ve hosted a small orgy inside and still had room left for a DJ. So for a frantic thirty seconds after I pulled into a parking space, I was leaning over in the back trying to dispose of a boom box, D batteries that had fallen out of their paper bag and were rolling everywhere, a grocery sack of snacks, and what seemed like a thousand mix tapes. There was a tap on my window. The guy had gotten out of his truck and sauntered over. He stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his 501s. My view of him was of a sturdy but trim waist, his big basket, and that tight yello T-shirt broadening out into his big ol’ chest. I unrolled the window and looked out and up into those blue, blue eyes. “Hi,” I said. Only I’m sure it came out more like “H-h-h-h-h-huuuhh-h-h-h.” He put his hands on his thighs and bent over. I could smell him. He smelled like armpit and motor oil—and that was fuckin' perfume to me! “Hey there,” he growled, in a deep porn star voice. “What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I stretched out my legs so that he could have a view of the hardness in my pants. “I noticed you back there on the freeway,” he said, but my Mental Sex Translator interpreted it as Boy, I’m gonna fuck that slutty little cumhole of yours ’til it bleeds. “Oh yeah?” I asked. My Mental Sex Translator went Please, daddy. That’s how I need it. “Yeah,” he said in his gravelly bass. “You should probably know your back left tire’s a little low.” My Mental Sex Translator had already interpreted that as, Down on your fuckin’ knees, son, and choke on my big fat hog. But then I heard what he’d actually said and I was brought up short. “Wait, whuh?” “Probably about five pounds flat, I’d guess,” he said. “Maybe seven. Just thought you should know.” He flipped me a two-fingered salute at his forehead, and turned to go, as my hope sank like the Titanic. Then he faced me again. “Oh. By the way.” My heart went pitty-pat at his about-face. “Yeah?” “Your gas cover door’s open, too.” There was the crunch of his feet on the gravel, and then a cloud of dust as the pickup truck started up and turned down the state road. My dick wilted in my shorts. I’d never felt so dumb in my life. And I was still finding D batteries on the car floor for weeks and weeks afterward. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This is the last of the Mr. Goldberg series. It is not necessary, in your comments, to point out the appropriateness or the legality of the man's actions, or lack thereof. I think it's plain to everyone that they were neither. Thank you in advance.) I’ve kept a journal since 1983—that’s nearly thirty years, if you don’t want to do the math—and I’ve always intended to write about Mr. Goldberg. I didn’t when I was younger, because I feared I didn’t have the language yet to do justice to how I felt for him. I’m still not sure I do. In more recent years I’d avoided reflecting about him on the page because writing is, for me, an exercise in commitment. Once it’s on the page, my thoughts and fears and yearnings leave that realm of the unspoken and become documents. How could I document something so far past and so confusing? I feared that if I wrote about Mr. Goldberg, whatever audience I had would totally miss the message I very much wanted to say about him, namely, No matter how inappropriate his attentions, this man was very important to me. He helped me take first steps toward becoming who I am today. When I walk among my memories of him, I tread on hallowed ground. Writing about something in my journal anchors it into the narrative of my life—it makes the event more real, in a sense. I don’t mean to imply that the things I don’t record in my diary exist in some it’s-all-pretend Neverland, but when something makes it into the pages of my journal, it’s because I want to remember it, or because I feel it’s significant enough to warrant recording. Vanishingly few people in my life have known about Mr. Goldberg. I could probably count on two hands’ fingers the number of people over the last thirty-odd years to whom I’ve confided our dalliance. Inappropriate as it was, and seamy as it might be to some, I think my life, and this record of it, is the better for giving the man his due. Conversely, sometimes when I have something in my head that eats away at me—a fear or an anger that won’t dissipate—writing about it in my journal feels like opening the windows and doing a spring cleaning of my brain. It blows away the cobwebs and chases away the shadows. That’s what I did with this series of entries, all because of something that happened some months ago. Here goes. One of the things that makes me squeamish on Facebook—my real Facebook account, as opposed to my sex blog presence—is receiving a friend invite from one of my old school friends. Part of me is grumpy because, after all, if I really wanted to remain friends with someone from fourth grade, or high school, or college, wouldn’t I have attempted to keep in touch with them all these years? Another part of me gets grumpy at the grumpy part, because he’s such a curmudgeon, and why is there any harm in getting back in contact with people I liked a hundred years ago when I was young? A while ago I accepted a friend request from Gus Greer, one of my old grade-school acquaintances. I knew Gus from the fifth through the seventh grade; after that, his parents took him out of the public school system and sent him off to boarding school. (So many parents of my friends removed them from the public schools before they hit ninth grade.) Where I was quiet and bookish during those years, Gus was a boisterous boy. He was loud, mischievous, and if we’d had a prescient-enough poll, easily would have been voted Most Likely To Be On Academic Probation His First Semester Of College For Drinking And Screwing To Excess. I was a little bit surprised that he hunted me down and added me as a friend at all, because I always remembered being a little bit afraid of him, with his flannel shirts, his muscular Pennsylvania Dutch build, and his messy thatch of surfer-blond hair. I may have visited his house a couple of times since he lived in my neighborhood, but we certainly weren’t the bestest of buddies. Well, he talked as if we were. In his memory, we seemed to have been inseparable during those three years. Through email we talked about our old band days, and mutual friends, and I grinned at some of the really horrible photos from our yearbook he posted. Whether or not our memories of how close our friendship had been were in synch, Gus seemed to have grown into a genuinely nice guy—married and with a little girl he obviously adores—who seemed not only glad to have found me again, but also seemed pleased that I had a career and relationship that made me happy. Emboldened by the correspondence, I asked Gus about Mr. Goldberg. We’d both been in sixth-grade homeroom together, and I was hoping I could, with a couple of sidelong questions, find out something that had been bothering me for years—I couldn’t remember Mr. Goldberg’s first name. I’m absolutely certain I knew it at some point, though I never used it. In my head, I always thought of him simply as 'Mr. Goldberg.' (And I should have learned my first lesson about relationships from that alone—never get involved with someone you can’t call by his first name, right? From a practical point of view, how can you Google-stalk them decades later if you don’t?) Oh wow, Mr. Goldberg! Gus wrote back. I always thought he rocked! He seemed old when we were kids, like all adults, but he was really so young! I remember at the beginning of the year he would give me rides home after school and the music he liked to listen to on the radio was the same as the stuff we all liked. Once when he stopped to get gas I snooped in his glove compartment and found an old joint and thought he had to be the coolest teacher ever. Now, when I’ve heard the old saw about seeing red before, I’ve always accepted it as some kind of figurative metaphor. However, when I read Gus’s note, for a good thirty seconds my blood pressure elevated to such an extent that it felt as if I was peering at the world through a scarlet gel. My temperature rose. I sweated slightly. My throat went dry and my lips worked as I gargled out sounds of incomprehensible outrage. Mr. Goldberg gave Gus Greer rides home?! It honestly felt for a few minutes as if the ground beneath me had dropped away, leaving me teetering in some kind of gravity-free void. I was upset. No, I was more than upset. I felt betrayed. I hadn’t been the only boy Mr. Goldberg had lured into that beat-up hatchback, the fucker. “I’ve always liked blonds.” Well, fuckin’ Gus fuckin’ Greer was about as blond as a head could get. What, had Mr. Goldberg letched after every tow-headed little shit in his sixth-grade classroom and met with rebuffs until finally he had no other recourse than to borrow my fuckin’ Timex? Was I just sloppy seconds? Thirds? Fourths? How many other boys was Mr. Goldberg juggling in his fuckin’ pubescent fuckin’ harem? I was angry, and hurt. For decades I’d assumed that I was special. Now I felt like the mere flavor of the month. That feeling vanished of uniqueness and of being needed that had sustained me during my friendship with Mr. Goldberg. Those memories no longer existed on hallowed ground. At that moment I felt like a huge chunk of my life, melodramatic as it may sound, was a lie, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, GUS GREER. My rage lasted for oh, about a half hour. Then it burned itself out with a suddenness I didn’t expect. After a moment of consideration, I chuckled at myself for being an idiot. Gus wasn’t at fault. He was clueless about the impact his words would have on me. All he knew when he was in sixth grade was that Mr. Goldberg was a rockin’ guy with an ancient joint in his glove box. Had Mr. Goldberg recited the one hundred and sixteenth sonnet to Gus? No. The nuances of Shakespeare would’ve gone right over his head. I laughed it off and genuinely thought I was over it. But I was still a little bothered. So when I decided to write about Mr. Goldberg, I set to write myself out of a corner—to shine light in the dark places, and chase away the shadows. Writing is therapy, sometimes. And in writing about the man I think I discovered a few things. Forcing myself to sit down and record my relationship with Mr. Goldberg helped me remember him more clearly than I have in years. Some of the details I resurrected—the football pool, the hatchback—were things I hadn’t thought about in decades. Remembering the way that Mr. Goldberg looked at me so that I could record it—the nervous glances, the moistness of his eyes when he’d hold my hands, that bright spark when our eyes would connect across the empty classroom—convinced me that no matter how many rides Mr. Goldberg might have given Gus, I genuinely did mean something to him. Remembering my teacher’s smell, the warmth of his hands, the way he’d call me ‘sport,’ only endeared him to me once again. I was able to recapture and appreciate that first flush of possibility he awakened in my life. I might have thought that Gus had rendered barren the grass on the fields of those memories, but where I walked there, it flourished once more. I had several relationships in the second decade of my life that I ended up mourning. There was Mark the friend I lost when I saw something I should've have. And David with whom I couldn't bring myself to connect I used to think that what they all had in common was my yearning for what might have been. I’m pretty convinced, though, that it’s regret for my own actions—or my lack thereof—that I’ve been afraid to examine. It’s impossible to build a solid foundation on If only I coulds, or If only this had beens. Life’s made of This is what happened, and This is what I have now, and This is what I should celebrate. I can’t help but think I didn’t offer enough in those relationships, or reach out at the right time. I thought I knew what Mr. Goldberg wanted, and was ready to give it to him, but somehow I missed the mark. I regret that. Poor Mr. Goldberg. How could I not feel a mix of pity and affection for the man? Handsome as he was, he was a gay Jewish man living the South, hardwired to desire blond boys in the throes of puberty. Even when he had what he wanted right in front of him, willing and eager to please him, he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it. How can I begrudge him for trying to find his happiness, when all he did was make me feel supremely special? I’ve never harbored any illusion that I’m a handsome man; I never thought I was a beauty of a kid. For a few months, though, at a time of my life when I needed it most, Mr. Goldberg made me feel not just special—he made me feel beautiful. While writing these journal entries, the one thing I hoped more than anything else was that when we knew each other, I might have returned at least a small portion of the intangible gifts he gave me. I fear I didn’t. I can only hope I did. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I don't know whether it was the rain we've been having here in the northeast, or whether it was Mercury in retrograde (as my brother informed me), but damn, I ran across some rude men, Friday morning. I'd logged onto Adam4Adam for maybe all of five minutes when I got this mysterious message from a local: Him: 200 YUSAWME YUWANTME Y N UCHUZ OK here NOSTALL 61 bodybuilder TOP Smooth ERECT My own gym YUSUKME I FUK yu decide after 195 jokers clowns skunks DOIT I looked at the guy's profile. The comprehensible part of the message seemed to imply that he was 61 and a top. Bodybuilder . . . was debatable. Maybe if he was building his body out of marshmallow, sure. But the rest of it? I penned a response that you'll agree was, I believe, fairly restrained: Me: What? And in response, got this: Him: one word massage ASHOLE joker I called YOUIR bluff HUH NOW GET LOST GET A CAR GET A JOB the search goes on Republicains n 20012 Ill be great tonight at the club stripping11-200am What he says ASHOLE The BLOCK IS ON gye girl Um, okay. I blocked him quickly. The other guy at least I could understand. He didn't have a very attractive photo, and his information was at a minimum. Our conversation went thusly, to begin: Him: hi Me: Good morning. Him: bdsm? Me: If you're asking if I have experience with it, the answer is yes, but it's not what I'm usually looking for. Him: hot think you could get into the idea of tieing me facedown spread eagled to your bed hooding me and ball gagging me and using a double headed dildo on my hole then taking a flogger to my helpless bare ass before you rape my holes? Me: Just so you know, I do not have a hood. I do not have a ball gag. I don't own a double-headed dildo or a flogger. My profile clearly states that I cannot host. I wasn't saying these things to be contentious or a smart-ass. I just encounter so many guys with these elaborate fantasies who expect me to have all the equipment and do all the work for them—and after getting it time after time, my attitude is pretty much along the lines of "Fuck that!" He apparently thought I was trying to goad him, though, because he wrote back, Him: I'm the one with the hood and gag don't you think it would be UNWISE to let a total stranger tie me up in my own place what would stop you or someone from ripping off my belongings and then leave me helpless to escape or scream for help or maybe even MURDER me you fucking asshole??? Is there a reason as to why you cant host for an hour or are you one of those assholes with a boyfriend whose cheating and afraid hes gonna find out what a retard you are!!! I tried to be very polite in my response: Me: I don't know you at all, and therefore the reasons why I cannot host are really none of your business. Further, I was not commenting on the wisdom of allowing a stranger to tie one up in one's own home. I think that would be very unwise, indeed. Instead, I was merely stating facts. If stating a few simple facts arouses such hostility, I am pretty certain we would not work out in person. Thanks, and good luck to you. Then I blocked the fuck out him, too. Hey, universe. I've had enough of the psychos lately. I could do without the random strangers calling me an asshole—I get enough of that from the people I know, okay? Now, let's get to some questions from formspring.me. have you ever slept with anyone just because you felt sorry for them I have slept with guys because I felt sorry for them many times. I often did so because I thought it would be a genuinely charitable thing to do; I've also done it because I felt backed into a corner and didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings by saying no. The latter is manipulation of the most passive-aggressive kind, and it happened to me so often and engendered such negative feelings that it took years before I realized how to recognize it from afar and stop it before it got to that point. I've slept with people to cheer them up, and to offer them solace after a loss, and to make them feel better during stressful times. I've slept with guys to help them actually sleep, and out of mutual boredom, and simply because I wanted to see what they were like in bed although I had no physical attraction to them. I've even slept with guys because it was easier than talking to them. have you ever been overseas,what nationality in your experiences are the most sexually docile & the most sexually aggressive & insatiable? do you mind the scrutiny you find yourself under due to choosing to blog? Two very different questions! All of my travel abroad has been, sadly, limited to the north and central Americas. I'm not sure it's really a hugely wide sample from which to make broad generalizations, but the men of Mexico were some of the most sexually aggressive I've encountered. They act as if they'll fuck anything, too. When I visited the Dominican Republic, the men there were all quite plain that they expected to fulfill the 'feminine' role for me, as they tended to call it. I suppose they were the most submissive. Canadians like to pretend they're prudes, but boy, can they be nasty when the doors shut and the lights go out. The scrutiny question is interesting. I don't really reveal anything in my blog that I wouldn't reveal to a trusted friend over a couple of drinks at a local watering hole. I'm not the kind of person who says online what he would never, ever allow to pass through his lips to a real, live person. At the same time, I don't really have much control over who reads my blog, which means that quite often I will encounter readers in the strangest of places in my everyday life. (Yes, there are people who recognize me with my clothes on.) Even when that happens, I don't feel 'scrutinized.' It's just a startling moment. What I do mind about choosing the blog are the men who write contentious comments not because they have a genuine point they wish to debate, or a even a point at all, but because they feel they want to knock me down a peg or two. I mind the people who feel entitlement to be mean and ugly simply because I post my experiences publicly. By and large, blogging has been a positive experience for me that's let me make many friends and meet all kinds of interesting people. It only takes a few psychotics to spoil all that, unfortunately. Have you ever experienced what it's like to be 'fucked awake' while sleeping? Or tops: Have you ever did that to a bottom? No, I have been on the receiving end of a wake-up-fuck. I did used to see a man, as I wrote in my blog long ago, who would spank me awake in the middle of the night, then fuck me. I have taken my pleasure of men sleeping with me. They weren't sleeping for long. I used to love to wake up Spencer in the middle of the night with dick sliding into his already-slick hole. so how do i get a pice of your arse,yes englands wet, rainy & cold but you'd never notice cos you'd be kept out of any naughtiness This is another of those offers I'd love to accept, once you've invited me, gotten me a good flight, and have found a couple of willing bottoms to put me up for a couple of weeks! What do you like about being a Breeder? Or maybe a better way to ask is "What does being a Breeder mean to you?" To put it simply, I like the intimacy that comes with sharing my essence with another human being. Seed is powerful stuff; it creates life. Sharing that with someone who wants it—well, nothing is more special. Have you ever gone backpacking? Would you like to? I enjoy camping, so I like to think I'd enjoy backpacking too. But I'd prefer to do it in the nude, and finding spots for that is pretty tough in this country. Planning on traveling anywhere this summer? Most likely I'll confine myself to my new area of the country, and explore parts of the northeast I've never seen before. I'm hoping to get to Provincetown at some point, as well. More...

Thank you, sir. I believe that to be true myself—but my parents weren't convinced back then! (And I wouldn't be with any kid of mind, either, perversely.)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Guys are always asking me to tell them my biggest sexual fantasy. For me, it’s not really a question that carries a lot of weight. Perhaps it might have been when I was younger—a lot younger—and hadn’t really explored as much. At that point I would’ve been able to say, “Hey, I haven’t had a three-way. That sounds exciting.” Or, “I’ve always dreamed about sucking off a pair of twin brothers. Let’s find some!” I might’ve been able to talk about double-penetration, or gang-bangs, or any of the stuff that the untaught typically bring up as the object of their inquisitive and dirty minds. I tend to be realistic about my fantasies. I’ve always fantasized about stuff that could actually happen at some point. So I don’t moon about unattainable Hollywood icons, or being mounted in serial fashion by all five of the Backstreet Boys. (Maybe Kevin. He was dreamy.) I’m not going to stroke and think about Jessica Rabbit. I’m not going to wish that I could find a sexy giantess whose enormous creamy bosom I must climb and conquer like Sir Edmund Hillary. Anything involving a couple of horny humans and a Mexican donkey, though? Sure. I’m down for that. I’ve always been a Dr. Frank-N-Furter kind of guy with a “Don’t dream it, be it” attitude; I’ve always felt that sexual fantasies weren’t mean to remain in the realm of daydream forever. If I think about something, there have to be other people out there trying to find the same thing. Why not meet them and let it happen? That’s what I’ve done, and at this point there’s not really that much I haven’t explored at least once. Fantasies are for masturbators, has been my dismissive and knee-jerk response to the question of what I yearn to do, when I’m asked. They’re for folk who are too frightened to go after what they wish for. Now, I realize that’s not the entire truth of the matter. There are many reasons people fantasize, and I’m always telling people that when it comes to sex, it’s important to recognize and delineate one’s comfort levels and stick to the things that don’t exceed them. Sometimes people genuinely don’t have access to what they want; sometimes they don’t have the mobility, or the health. Sure, we often use our circumstances as an excuse to start off a sentence with the words But I can’t. . . . When that happens, those words are the kiss of death to a fulfilling life. Quite often, though, stuff can genuinely get in the way of us pursuing what we want and crave. So no, I’m not being judgmental of you guys out there with fantasies yet unfulfilled. All I’d remind you is that no one leaves this life thinking to themselves, “Man, I really wish I’d never tried a three-way. That was a waste of time.” But there are an awful lot of people who come to their ends of their lives with a lot of regrets of promises unfulfilled, and adventure unchased. So think about that the next time you sit down to watch internet porn instead of make a connection with a genuine person. When readers asked me this question back near the genesis of my sex blog, I did admit that I had one fantasy that had long, long gone unfulfilled. I explained that I had a fantasy that’s very much the flip side of one that bottom men have long confided in me (and which I’ve helped come true several times—so you’d think there’d be some good karma coming my way). They want to be tied up, blindfolded, and forced to service as many anonymous top cocks as possible. I, on the other hand, have always wanted to be blindfolded, restrained, and forced to be at the mercy of a bunch of unseen cocksuckers and hungry holes. I’d prefer there be one guy there I knew, pimping out my dick to others. Other than that, I don’t particularly want to see the men climbing on to ride. The first time I mentioned this fantasy, I had a ton of readers tell me hell yeah! I’ll do that for you! Still hasn’t happened. So I thought I’d throw it out there once more, because I believe that the universe has really no way of knowing what an individual wants unless he puts it out there. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe not. But I guess the thing is that if I go to the grave and that’s the only fantasy I haven’t checked off my bucket list? Then I’ll have done a pretty good job. Ask the Mexican donkey. More...

Your grades would've been more mediocre, like mine.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here During my sophomore year of college, I fell in love with a girl in my dormitory. Amy, her name was. Sweet Amy, with the Cupid’s-bow lips and the round, porcelain face of a dainty nineteen-twenties postcard beauty. My infatuation for her was utter and complete. I would hang out in her room and have meals with her; her friends were my friends. But I never told her I was in love with her. It was obvious to everyone else. I’m certain there was eye-rolling whenever I’d show up with infatuation in my eyes. I was Amy’s confidante, her sounding board, her bestie in every activity, but never her boyfriend. And that would’ve been because she in turn was helplessly in love with a guy in the dorm named Bob. Bob was a bounder, a bad boy, a drunken lout who thought very highly of himself and his looks. He lived two doors down from me, and I would watch him preen and primp and check his muscles in the mirror for long, long minutes while carrying on a monologue about what a lady-killer he was—despite the fact that he was basically a roly-poly chubby boy. But he had confidence, and a certain swagger, and a beard in the remote early nineteen-eighties, when full beards among youth were exotic and rarely seen. Bob didn’t love Amy; he didn’t want her as a girlfriend. But he liked her mooning after him, so he kept her on the hook by tossing small intimacies her way from time to time. She’d chase after them gratefully, and then confide her infatuation to me, which in turn kept me on Amy’s hook. She didn’t love me, and didn’t want me as a boyfriend, but on a certain level she liked the attention. When isn’t it flattering to have someone who’ll drop everything to be with you, no matter how maddening you may be? I, at the time, had an economics professor on the hook. He was wildly in love with me and followed me around on campus like a puppy dog. I didn’t love him, and didn’t want him as a boyfriend, but I was flattered that he wanted me so badly. I’d give him my ass every now and again to keep him on the hook, and I’d accept his odd gifts, and then I’d tell him I couldn’t be with him because I was hopelessly in love with Amy. Pathetic. A chain of people keeping each other on the hook is never a good thing, people. Amy took a junior year abroad at a university in Scotland with which our college had a reciprocal exchange agreement. Her announcement of it broke my heart. While she was gone, I wrote long and witty letters keeping her up on what was happening at school, letters into which I poured heart and soul. In return, I got short notes asking how was Bob? I was a dumbass, true, but that hook was in me deep. And to be honest, part of me relished the adolescent angst aroused by the love triangle. This was life, adult life, of the sort I’d read about and seen in the movies for years, and there I was, right in the middle of it, hurting, aching, and bleeding. I should’ve been a Goth. The upside of an entire year away from Amy was that when she returned for our senior year, my infatuation had faded somewhat. Oh, it was still there. There were times I would talk myself into the notion that it was time to tell her how I felt and get it out in the open . . . and then I’d do absolutely nothing about it. Which was probably for the best. I gained a certain detachment from my romantic woes, though. Amy wasn’t quite as necessary to me as she had been my sophomore year. If I fucked around with guys—which I was doing basically, you know, constantly—I didn’t feel as if I was betraying my porcelain-faced kewpie doll. It was her tough luck for preferring that doughboy Bob instead of me. During my senior year, Amy came up with the grand idea of our circle of friends spending the holidays at her home in the suburbs of New York City. It was my very first time in New York, and gosh, it was exciting. I got to see the Christmas lights of Rockefeller Center for the first time, and Fifth Avenue all done up in wreathes and greenery. We would take the train in and see the sights; we saw the Royal Shakespeare Company perform. We stayed up late at night and talked and made cookies without a recipe and sang along with Cyndi Lauper on the radio and played endless games of Trivial Pursuit. Then halfway through the week, Nigel arrived. Nigel was one of Amy’s odd ducks. He was a student at the university where Amy had studied her junior year. Now it was his junior year and his university had told our college, “Here, take him off our hands for a year. It’s your turn.” Amy hadn’t really known him when she was there, but when he’d arrived on U.S. soil at the start of the autumn, their very slight acquaintance prompted her to make some kind of vague offer of American hospitality. He’d not taken her up on it, though, until around nine o’clock on the night of December 29, he simply showed up at Amy’s front door. We had no idea how he’d found her. Amy’s parents didn’t mind another guest, though, and there was a spare twin bed in the room where I was sleeping, so he simply stayed. Nigel was of a type I think of as the silly-ass Englishman. He was a Londoner who hated Scotland, hated the U.S., and constantly complained in a toffee-nosed accent how no one on this side of the pond knew how to brew a really topping pot of tea. No, really. He carried thick books with incomprehensible titles plainly displayed so that everyone would know how intellectual he was. Yet in a household of girls, he would never close the door to the bathroom when he peed, and he left the shower rod covered with his dirty underwear and sad-looking socks. He spent long minutes staring off into space, doing nothing, humming to himself. He might’ve talked like Hugh Grant, but in demeanor and looks he was pure Russell Brand. Stoned Russell Brand. Nigel’s one vanity was his mustache—that’s what he called the fuzzy caterpillar that had settled onto his upper lip, anyway. It was little more than very fine and downy peach fuzz that he cultivated very carefully. He had, and I recall it with crystal clarity, a little silver mustache comb for it. Several times a day he would rise from whatever abstraction had been keeping him drooling for the previous few minutes, head to the nearest mirror, and withdraw the silver comb from its leatherette case. Then, carefully, very carefully, he would peer at his reflection and daintily rearrange those imaginary mustache hairs until they suited them. The first few times, our little group would watch with awe. Then, as we realized that Nigel was a big lump who was simply following us around and expecting us to buy his meals and theater tickets, we weren’t quite as charmed. New Year’s Eve came. We spent the day listening to Dick Clark’s Top 100 on the radio, baking brownies without a recipe, and preparing for our venture into the city. Because yes, we had decided it’d be a big lark to head to Times Square to see the ball drop. It was the one and only time in my life I will ever attempt such a thing. It was cold—not just cold, but fucking cold. It was crowded. Obnoxiously crowded. We were deep enough in the crowd that escape was impossible, but not so far in that we could actually see anything. We only could tell that the ball had dropped by the sound of millions cheering. By the time the crowd had dispersed enough that we could consider heading back to the train, we’d lost Nigel. He’d simply disappeared. We wasted another hour walking around Times Square and environs on the useless blocks of ice that were our feet, trying to find him. And then we figured, eh. He found Amy’s house once. He’d find it again. Probably. In my memory we didn’t get home to Amy’s until about three in the morning. It must have been five-thirty or six when Nigel finally stumbled in. We must have left the door unlocked or something, because I don’t recall anyone letting him in, and I seemed to be the only person in the house who was awake when he stumbled into the bedroom. He’d been drinking somewhere. I could smell it on his breath and clothing. “Where were you?” I asked him. “We looked and looked for you.” Nigel shrugged. He wasn’t in much of a condition to form a coherent sentences under the best of circumstances, much less after a night awake and drinking. He started peeling off his sweater and shirt. The complexity of it made him unsteady. I noticed when he turned around that his wallet was sticking three-quarters out of his back pocket. Manhattan’s Times Square back then was not quite the Disneyland it is now; walking around a city then known for its muggings with his wallet on prominent display seemed like quite the silly-ass Englishman thing for Nigel to do. “Nigel,” I said in exasperation, as I watched him strip down to his underwear. “You need to be more careful. It’s dangerous to. . . .” My rant was cut short as Nigel lifted the covers and slid into the twin bed. Not his bed. My bed. He was wearing his floppy tank top, or vest as he called it, and a baggy pair of underwear. I was so astonished that I didn’t quite know what to do. I’d made the lightning-fast decision that it probably would be best to get out of my bed and finish out my sleep in his, but the thought of sleeping in his sheets was giving my fastidious self a bit of a pause. That’s when Nigel put his arms around me and very drunkenly began to nuzzle the back of my neck. Now, I have to say that I wasn’t attracted to Nigel. He was just odd enough to repulse me a little, and that caterpillar on his lip gave me the creeps. But it seemed pretty obvious that as a graduate of a couple of the U.K.’s finer public schools that Nigel knew something about the fine art of buggery. His hands tugged down the elastic of my shorts. Once they were bare, he rammed against my butt cheeks with the very hard rod tenting in his own underpants. And I weakened. I know, I know. It’s not a moment of which I’m proud. But I’d spent a sexless week in Amy’s house as her only male friend. I hadn’t even dared to use my own hand at night during the time I’d been alone, and with Nigel snoring across the room I’d lost all chance at relief. I was fucking horny, and there was Nigel pawing at me. He was graceless and smelled slightly of body odor. But he was there. So I relaxed, and huddled in the cold under the covers with him, and helped him down with his pants. It was dark, so I couldn’t see anything. He would have rammed in dry if I’d let him, so I used my own spit to slick his uncut cock. He drove it home without mercy. Nigel was barely awake for what followed. He hugged me as if he were afraid I’d get away, yet fucked me like he hated me. Five, six, seven savage jabs that were for his pleasure alone, and definitely not mine. Eight, nine. On the tenth thrust, he came, squeezing my chest so tightly I imagined ribs cracking. “Oh Amy,” he moaned softly as he flooded my ass. “Oh Amy, Amy.” I’m not sure if the sound of a needle scratching off the record was quite the meme then that it is now, but it would’ve been an appropriate sound at that point. I sat up as best I could as he slipped out of me. “What?” I asked in a normal voice. Nigel had a crush on Amy? Beneath the silly mustache, Nigel’s face wore a smile. “Thank you, Amy,” he murmured, as he tried to snuggle closer to me. “I love you.” I waited a moment, horrified, until he fell asleep for good. Then I pulled myself out of the bed, cleaned up in the bathroom, grabbed an extra blanket, and then went downstairs to the family room sofa. I was curled up there when Amy padded down early. “Nigel’s in your bed,” she said, amazed. I said that yes, I knew, and that’s why I was down there. Amy came and joined me on the sofa, and pulled part of the blanket over her feet. “Honestly, I don’t know why he showed up here,” she complained. “I barely know him.” I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. Nigel had let me know exactly why he’d shown up at Amy’s house, even if he wouldn’t remember or admit it when he finally woke up later. “What?” Amy wanted to know. I shook my head, and then looked at Amy with affection, and for the first time, it seemed with clarity. She was dear to me, then—and still is, though after college she continued to moon after Bob for years until finally she married a man who looked exactly like him. But on that New Year’s morning of 1985, as we cuddled together on her parents’ sofa, I knew with certainty that Nigel had once and for all cured me of being in love with Amy. More...

Thanks for the compliment, slowfuck!

You're very kind. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part IV. To repeat what I said at the beginning of these essays: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them. “You know what I think about, sport?” By now I knew what he was going to say, almost word for word. “I think spending the night with you. Like, you coming over after school, and us grabbing a bite to eat, maybe watching some television or seeing a game, and then . . . spending the night. If only we could, huh?” It was the winter of sixth grade. The school year’s first few months had burned away from the heady atmosphere of sex and attraction, like tissue paper over an open flame. Three months before the same confession had made me melt. By now, though, I’d heard it so many times—always the same thing, always the after-school, always the bite to eat, always the vague euphemism of ‘spending the night’—that all I could do was look at my homeroom teacher with hard and jaded blue eyes and think to myself, Why can’t you just fuck me? As an adult, I look back on that year and think that if Mr. Goldberg was some kind of hardened, predatory hebephile, he was really incredibly bad at it. If sex were all he wanted, if all his flattery and rides home and supplications of chewing gum had been orchestrated solely so he could get his dick in my ass, it could so easily have worked. He could have had it. I would have given my body to him without question or hesitation, nervous and inexperienced as I was. If he’d wanted to see me naked, to fondle me, I would have let him. If he’d announced he wanted to tie me to his bed and pee on me, I might hesitated, but I would’ve gone along with it. I was ready, and anxious, and chomping at the bit for him. He had me in the palm of his hand, but for whatever reason—fear, an unwillingness to cross the line with a student, a genuine moral repugnance at his own feelings, whatever—he refused to consummate the affair. Mr. Goldberg’s idea of enjoying our relationship was not the same as mine. I intuited fairly quickly in our relationship that Mr. Goldberg wanted to court me. His tribute of sugared gums was as colorful as any bouquet; the manner in which he would hold my hands in his car, while he looked at me very seriously and told me again and again that we had to take things slow, reminded me more of Almanzo Wilder courting Laura Ingalls than anything I’d witnessed in the twentieth century. I liked our secret romance, though. When I’d sit in his classroom during before first period, waiting for the roll call to be done, he and I would exchange smiles and knowing glances, and indulge in the intimate satisfaction of the something special between us. It was sweet, and fun. It didn’t have to announced, or talked about. A quick wink or a smile was all it took to make me weak for him again. And in the afternoons, parked behind my parents’ house in his hatchback, he’d often read to me, or recite poetry, when he thought I was pushing too hard for anything more than our amorous kissing. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” he’d say, holding my hands between his. With big, dark doe eyes, he’d speak meaningfully and from his heart. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.” I would listen, and nod, and keep a sober, attentive face while I tried to convince myself that holding off was all for the good. All the while, though, I was thinking, Less poetry. More fucking. Close to the time one of my parents was due home, I’d stumble out of the car, hard and tenting, wave him off, and then rush to my room. There I’d sodomize myself with the broom handle until I’d shot the loads that should have been his. I was one frustrated twelve-year-old. I suppose lots of gay men, at the blossoming of their sexual feelings, wish for someone strong and experienced and tender to take them in hand and educate them in the act of love. I was one of them. I’d fantasized for months about getting up the nerve to give myself to one of those older men haunting the several tearooms on my parents’ college campus. I hadn’t trusted any of them enough. In Mr. Goldberg I had not only a handsome, athletic man who was something of a physical ideal—he was masculine, built, and handsome—but a man who was totally infatuated with me. Over and over he told me of the dreams he’d had about me, of his visions of a future where we could be together and do whatever we wanted. He made me fall in love with him, hard. Yet he seemed unwilling to indulge in any physical activities. Beyond, that is, some tender yet rather adolescent demonstrations of affection in the back seat of his car. He liked to hold my hands, and stroke them. He would lower his head next to mine and rest our foreheads together as he ran his short, stubby fingers over my face, or let his fingers trail over and over again through my long and sloppy hair. Sometimes he would let his hands drift to my neck, or shoulder, but they never ventured to the areas I begged him to touch. If I became too importunate, he would terminate our make-out sessions altogether, and merely nuzzle at my neck and my ears. The more desperate for sex I grew, the bolder I got. When he would nibble at me chastely, my hands would wander all over his body. I would marvel at the firmness of his muscles. I’d never touched a grown man’s developed chest before, and here was one of the best, warm beneath my hands, separated from them only by a layer of cotton. I would run my palms over his biceps, and let my fingers walk up his solid thighs. Eventually I got so bold as to grab between his legs. He resisted at first, but I was persistent, and eventually he let me wrap my hands around the thick—but not extraordinarily long—bulge in his pants. The first time it happened, he was so surprised at my forwardness that he gasped, pulled away, and pursed his lips in a round O shape. A long hiss of air escaped from his lips, and his eyes popped so wide open that for a few seconds I was convinced I’d damaged him in my enthusiasm. But then he began to shudder, and shake, and convulse, and I realized what was happening. As he gripped my hands and wrists I could actually feel the heightened pulse of blood through his body. Then his eyes closed. Though the shudders continued for a few seconds more, they gradually subsided. “You shouldn’t have done that, sport,” he panted. “I didn’t want you to see that.” “You came,” I told him. “You had an orgasm. I know what it is. I’ve wanted to do it to you.” “I’m sorry,” he said. He kept repeating the words over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He shook his head, and soon shooed me from the car. From then on, he’d let me repeat the performance every once in a while, but it was as if he allowed himself a small ration of it and no more. One orgasm through his pants every two weeks, followed by massive apologies and promises that we’d never do it again. That was my allotment. For a forbidden couple, we actually were as chaste as Puritans in a bundling bed. It frustrated the hell out of me. Time after time I’d limp from the car with a hard-on so red and distended that it was painful to touch as I rammed the broom inside me in the privacy of my bedroom. I wanted dick, not Shakespeare. Virginia’s mild winter turned into spring, and the days grew warmer and longer as my sixth grade year petered out. “I keep thinking about that idea I had,” he would say week after week. “About maybe getting a bite to eat and going out to a game, then, you know. You at my place for a sleep-over. If only I could figure out a way to get your folks to agree. I know it’s tough. It’s all I think about. If only we could.” Every time he would shake his head, and sigh, and we would go back to our hand-holding and nuzzling and, if it was one of my lucky days, my brief and always successful frottage of him. When it was over—even while he was still in my presence—I would pity the man. There were a lot of firsts in my life that came with my relationship with Mr. Goldberg, but not least among them was a certainty that even at the age of twelve, sexually I was vastly more mature than he would ever be. I knew that he’d invested all of his fantasies into that one vision of a perfect night together. The meal, the basketball game, the inevitable moment when our sleep-over would begin—he’d committed so thoroughly to the vision in his head that he never was able see that I was willing, wanting, and just as infatuated as he. I was in front of him, in his hands, right there and present. Yet even when we were alone together, the me he wanted was dozens of miles and hundreds of if-only-we-coulds away. That I was able to see, understand, and mourn it at the age of twelve is something of a miracle. June came and school let out. I lost my virginity that month in a less-than-ideal way, and that was okay; my top accomplished in the space of a few minutes what I’d ached to happen for almost an entire semester with Mr. Goldberg. It might not have been perfect, it might not have matched anyone’s idealized fantasy of how a deflowering should go, but it was real. Reality is what I needed. Within days, I’d abandoned the broomstick and was taking dicks in restrooms and down at the park. I’d gotten over that hurdle of fear and was having an actual sex life. The following school year, when I was in seventh grade, I was a jaded young thing. I’d spy Mr. Goldberg in the hallway and regard him with much the same mingled annoyance and regret as someone who took home a two a.m. trick from the bar for some really mediocre sex and ran across the guy the following week in the same spot. We would talk. He’d still slap me on the shoulders and call me sport. He’d still look at me with those shining dark eyes and I could tell he still dreaming of that perfect, unattainable night when he could let himself go and be what he wanted to be, with me. But we didn’t have any quiet classroom time, and he didn’t give me any rides home. We never talked about it, but we both seemed to sense the window of opportunity had closed. By the time I was in eighth grade, Mr. Goldberg had transferred to another school. We heard it was a higher-paid position. I never found out where he’d gone, or what happened to him after that. Our time together ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, and it was a shame. But I never begrudged a moment I spent with Mr. Goldberg. After that not once did I think of him with anything but fondness, and a great deal of gratitude. I learned from him that to the shiny promise of sex, beautiful and exciting as it is in that initial rush, we humans bring all our weaknesses, fears, and fallibilities, and that the end result is not always what we imagine. That’s not so a bad lesson to learn right from the get-go. But oh, for over three and a half decades how I loved the man, and looked back on our clumsy times together through an unabashed haze of nostalgia and affection. Save for one brief moment some months ago, however, when a few chance words made me reevaluate everything I thought I remembered. (This series will be concluded next week.) More...

Thanks guys!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m just going to throw it out there in a way I haven’t, before: I don’t like to 69. Whew. That was liberating. Let me say it again: I don’t like to 69. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not repulsed by the idea of mutual simultaneous oral sex. If I’m in the heat of the moment and a guy whisper’s in my ear, Let’s 69, baby, I’m not going to wrinkle my nose, scoot myself away from him in repulsion and declare, “Icky-poo!” If I’m sucking on a guy and all of a sudden he makes a dive for my junk, I’m not going to inform him in a chilly voice to get the hell out and never return again. The act of 69ing is fun enough, I suppose. It doesn’t make me lose my hard-on. It’s not repulsive in itself—certainly not like a guy squirting his leftover enema juice in my face, or someone asking me to drive finishing nails through his scrotum. (Both of which have happened to me, by the way.) In fact, on the list of Things I’m Officially Not Into, it probably ranks as one of the more arousing and enjoyable activities. But the simple fact is, I’d rather do just about anything else but. Sometimes it seems that when I look back on all the guys who’ve hit on me during a one or two-week period, I can sense a statistically-skewed distribution of some sort. A trend, if you will. A couple of years ago I hit on a streak of guys who came to me with pre-lubed holes, which is something I haven’t encountered since; week before last I had several guys tell me something I hadn’t heard before, which was slight variations on, “You’ve aged really well.” (Thanks a bunch, fuckers.) I’ve had weeks of flakes, and weeks of slutty bottoms who want multiple cocks. This last week was the week of the 69. I logged onto Manhunt a couple of times and I’d come back to find my inbox had accumulated a couple of letters with the subject line 69??, but no body. A reader sent me a lot of photos he’d collected from somebody’s Tumblr of guys going at it in a 69 position, and emailed them to me with all-cap message, THIS IS WHAT I WANT US TO DO. Guys kept mentioning it in their come-ons in a way they haven’t in a very long time. It was as if Oprah had featured 69ing in her book club or something, and suddenly everyone was hot to try it. (Is there a lot of 69 in Fifty Shades of Grey? Is that what’s going on?) As I said, I like oral sex. I enjoy receiving it. I enjoy giving it. There have been times in the past, when I was much younger, that a guy would be sucking on my dick and I would feel guilty simply laying there and enjoying it. It’s tough for me sometimes simply to enjoy something without giving back. So if the guy’s meat was within sucking distance, I’d reluctantly suck on it too, mostly out of guilt. I’d rather have been sucking on it while he lay back and relaxed and enjoyed, not while he was working on me. My experience of oral sex is entirely pleasurable until the moment comes when I take another man’s dick into my mouth. At that point, it’s almost too much sensation for me. Where before his tongue running over my cock head would make me gasp and groan and arch my back and wish for more, if I am having to divide my attentions between my own dick and his, suddenly that tongue simply feels like sandpaper—unpleasant and even painful. What’s a delightful slippery sensation when I’m sliding in and out of a mouth solo, suddenly becomes awkward and grating on my dick when 69ing. It’s almost as if the pleasure centers in my mouth when I’m giving head switch off the receptive pleasure centers of my dick when I’m receiving it—except that if a third party is sucking me while I’m eating dick, I’m totally in hog heaven. I don’t know what the difference can be, unless it has something to do with the upside-down positioning required in a mutual 69. I’ve done quite well managing to talk my way out of 69ing through most of my life, since I’ve pretty much always felt this way. Yet I feel slightly guilty when I encounter men for whom the position is a main course, who think that more than anything else it represents deep-down wallowin’ pig sex. Two dudes chompin’ on each other’s hogs. Yeah man! That’s the stuff! When I’m with one of those fellows I feel as if I missed the boat somehow. I’m throwing this out to my readers to find out what they have to say about the matter. Is 69ing overrated? Am I doing it wrong—or is there something I should be doing to make it better? (And if so, do you want to help me practice?) Or is there a relatively mild act of which you’re not fond, yourself, and feel mildly embarrassed about admitting? Let’s talk it over in today’s open forum. More...

That's primarily the fuck I give him, every time.

Yes, I know what I wrote, and I am correct. He paid me $300 to watch me stroke off. Then I state, "He’s offered me double my going rate just to suck me off, the last couple of times." That would be an offer of $600. Which I have so far turned down.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part III. To repeat what I said at the beginning of that essay: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them. The day a man first touched me—when a hand swung out sideways and glanced on the tiny bump in my pants in People’s Drug Store where I’d stood browsing the magazine rack—I went home and masturbated furiously and repeatedly. I still hadn’t figured out at that point that it was possible to use my hands to get myself off, so all I could do was rub. I donned a pair of my tightie whities and straddle my pillow and fuck it into senselessness until I came. A dry orgasm, it was then. I went into the bathroom and humped the porcelain tub side, using the bathmat as cushioning. I grabbed onto a support beam in the basement and frotted it for dear life. A record seven times I came that afternoon and evening, thinking about that man and what could have happened. I matched that record the day Mr. Goldberg and I made out in his car, in the back alley behind my house. By then, though, I was a master of efficiency when it came to masturbation; I could go from zero to orgasm in thirty second flat, if I put my mind to it. My sixth-grade homeroom teacher had left me in overdrive. It seemed that the slightest touch to my dick would set me off, and there I’d be again, wrapping my hands around my tiny dick and jerking it until I shot a juvenile load all over my knuckles. Seven times I came that night, pausing only for dinner. My brain was afire with all the possibilities. I dreamt of Mr. Goldberg inside of me, fucking me, shooting in me. Calling me ‘sport’ as he held me tight, after. I fantasized about the two of us going off together, living our lives in some remote place where no one knew where we were, or came knocking at our door. I alternated between the sweet and salacious, fantasizing about him wearing my watch while we made tender love one moment, and then imagining him savaging my little boyhole the next. I know he thought about me, too. Here’s the closest, most intimate and precious memory I have of Mr. Goldberg, after the day we kissed. It was perhaps a couple of weeks later, in the few minutes after school when the hallways were a rapid current of movement as students spilled from their units in the direction of the exits, and filled with noise of cheerful babble, lockers slamming, and the shrieks of the liberated. It was as ideal a situation to have a quiet conversation as a solitary room, for all the notice either of us were afforded. Mr. Goldberg stood with his arms crossed, so that his meaty forearms seemed even bigger than they were. “You know what I think about, sport?” he asked, speaking softly and intimately. “If only I could get you over to spend the night. You know, maybe after school, you and me go out and get something to eat, then go see a basketball game or something and, you know. Then you spend the night over at my place. A sleep-over.” The idea made me melt. I wanted nothing more than to spend the night with him. The car had done us well that first time, and for the two or three make-out sessions we’d had since. I knew from television, though, that doing it in bed was the proper way of having sex. It’s what they did on Fantasy Island, anyway. Mr. Goldberg had been staring at the floor and talking, but then he looked up and met my gaze. “You think . . . you think your folks would ever go for that? A sleep-over?” Before I could answer, he shook his head and sucked in his lips. He spoke with such yearning. “Of course they wouldn’t. God. I don’t know. Maybe I could tell them it was a class thing. Something all the school was doing. You think that might work? If they thought it was a class outing? I don’t know. But I think about it. I think about it a lot . . . I think about it whenever I think about you.” Thinking about Mr. Goldberg over the years, I’ve realized that the day I recognized his attraction to me was the day I started becoming a conscious being. I don’t exaggerate a whit when I say it was the first step I took toward adulthood—and I don't make that claim because of the illicit sexual tension between us. When I discovered the world of underground gay sex two summers before, I began having to maintain a separate inner monologue that no one else would ever hear. With Mr. Goldberg in the picture, that inner monologue blossomed, and in my head was a running commentary on what was happening between us. I was analyzing things, and judging them, in ways I’d never before known possible. I can’t recall ever having that third-person observer in my head before that moment, who knowingly managed the appearance I was trying to project, as well as parsed through my interior stream of consciousness and tried to make sense of it all. Even in the midst of the school's noise and chaos, as Mr. Goldberg made his confession to me, that burgeoning new awareness had an insight far beyond my actual maturity: I realized that this little speech, this moment together, was going to sum up all of our time together. I understood with a certainty born of I-don’t-know-what that while Mr. Goldberg was hopelessly romantic and totally infatuated with me, in the end, he was going to be utterly unable to bring himself to do anything about consummating our affair. If I wanted anything to happen, I was going to have to make it happen myself. If I’d been a little wiser, I might have understood that self-realization would sum up the rest of my life, as well. We’d had two sessions a week in his car for the three weeks after that first kiss. We’d climb into the back seat, sink down below the seat backs, and make out like sixth-graders—only one of us was the appropriate age for that, though. Usually he would lie down and I’d be on top of him. I’d hold down his arms on the seat and aggressively kiss him deeply. Through his pants I could always feel the rock-hard bulge within. I’d rock back on it with my ass and grind there, getting my reward in increased passion and wet spots. At some point I’d be bold enough to grab for his cock, to try to massage it through his trousers—and then he’d protest, tell me I was going way too fast, and that I needed to cool my jets. At first, I did. It was tough. My body was on fire for him. At school I couldn’t think about anything save for when I might see him again, smell him, feel his arms around my little body. I stumbled through the school day, getting my work done somehow, responsibly moving from task to task. I had an easy facility with schoolwork without actually learning much that served me well during this period. At home I’d lock myself into my room and moon about him. I wrote poetry and masturbated, because that’s what kids did in the days before the internet and video games. Us geeky kids, anyway. And I snuck a broom into my room. I was a fairly neat kid anyway, almost to Felix Unger-like proportions; it wouldn’t have surprised my parents to find a broom in my closet. They would assumed I was trying to keep the wave of their untidiness from crossing the threshold. What might have surprised them, though, was the notion that I was using the rounded wooden broomstick end as a makeshift dildo. I’d drag myself into the empty house after being forcibly ejected from Mr. Goldberg’s car, panting and erect and desperate for any kind of sex, and then I’d lock myself in my room. With a jar of petroleum jelly I’d snitched from the bathroom, I’d lube up the broom handle, and then try to impale myself with it. My first few times were spectacularly unsuccessful. I worried about splinters, and I wasn’t all that clear about how flexible a hole could be. But the more unconsummated sessions I had with Mr. Goldberg, the hornier and more desperate I got. It only took a week for me to learn how to take an inch of the broom, and then two. It was hard and unyielding, and hurt like hell, but when it was in me I could close my eyes and imagine it was him violating me. That broom handle was my Goldberg stand-in, and when it fucked me, it was thick and brutal and it made me cum three times as hard as when I masturbated without it. I didn’t enjoy the broom handle dildo, exactly. But I wanted to be ready for the real thing. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the annual events in the little community in which I live is a fireworks display around Independence Day, every year. From miles and miles around people congregate in the town park—across the street from where I live—and bring picnics so they can listen to the town band play John Phillip Sousa marches from a bandstand festooned with red, white, and blue ribbons. The local church serves lemonade and popcorn. Kids run around with sparklers. Then after dark, we're treated to about an hour's worth of fireworks over the town pond. It's very, very New England. In my much younger days I used to date a guy who was involved in the fireworks displays that used to take place over the baseball stadium near my parents' house in Virginia. Those were nothing like the ones here—a few straggling bursts of light and a lot of duds is what I remember about them. But I recall complaining to the guy once about the fireworks I particularly disliked. The stadium seemed to have a lot of them, too—the kind of firework that would burst low in the air, produce nothing but a quick flash of bright light, and an immense, deadening boom. Spaced out, they might have been fine, I guessed. I found out from the guy I was fucking that they were intended to be filler, and were really supposed to be for sporadic effect. Not the soul-deadening, ear-splitting, obnoxious percussive assault accompanied by nothing of real interest that they turned out to be in that context. They were cheap, though, and that's why the stadium bought so many of them. It occurred to me during this year's display that a lot of what I encounter on the internet is like those flashy, booming nothing fireworks. They attempt to make a loud noise. They call attention to themselves. They explode and request—nay, demand—that we take heed. But you know, nobody likes them that much. Nobody attends the show saying, "Gosh, I hope they have those big obnoxious boomers this evening—and lots of them!" When I see sites trying to produce an extreme reaction simply by making a big, loud noise, I don't think to myself, "Man, that guy knows how to put on a show!" I don't look forward to more of the same. People stir the pot solely to call attention to themselves, with the notion that a sensational notoriety is better than no attention at all. It's not. It's cheap, and when it's done again and again, it's ultimately dull, and soul-deadening. Just one man's opinion. Don't take it as gospel. And as always, enjoy what you enjoy and don't let anyone else, including me, tell you otherwise. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. What's your favourite underwear brand? I tend to like Calvin Klein, just because they're durable and classic. For everyday wear, however, I tend to stick to Uniqlo. have you ever slept with an inlaw would you sleep with an inlaw,have you ever slept with your kids friends parents or teacher I can state with absolute certainty that I have totally slept with one of my kid's parents. So we all know you're often up for a playful romp. Do you have any fetishes that some people might find unusual? Some people find unusual and squicky activities that I find rather mundane, like rimming, so the answer to your question is an unqualified yes. I'm sure people would find some of the stuff I like unusual. I enjoy—I really enjoy—having my feet serviced, for example. It's something that happens rarely, and which a lot of people would find super-kinky. I don't find it particularly kinky or taboo. Just pleasurable. Likewise with fisting, an activity that brings associations of men in leather chomping cigars in seedy barroom dark rooms. Many people consider it outrageous, invasive, and a sign of depravity. I find it very sensual, intimate, and an expression of love, respect, and trust between a man and his partner. So I no longer pretend to be the arbiter of kink or unusual activities. They're all part of human expression, and thus of interest to me. u need 2 cum 2 arsetralia i'll show you how real men bottom U need 2 send me a plane ticket and put me up for a couple of weeks and we'll see about that. When it's really hot outside, do you go outside barechested? No, because my mother was susceptible to skin cancer, and I don't want to trigger anything by having my lard-white complexion exposed to the sun's direct rays. dude, I feel like the line in "the hours" - like I'm unravelling. just had a bareback experience..felt good. strangely that one step of faith.. now gets me more confident and daring to try to hookup. Taking a step in the direction you want to go—whether sexually, or in any other aspect of your life—is going to make you feel more confident, happier, and at one with the world. I hope you realize from your experience that making yourself happy is within your means. And the same goes for anyone out there. More...

Thank you, Hotload!