TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Which one?” he asks. “That one?” He’s pointing to the waitress, a woman of about forty who’s trying to shave fifteen years off her appearance by wearing about five pounds of hair extensions, and nearly as much makeup. She’s got on a flimsy camisole top and skimpy short shorts. As a forty-year-old in normal clothing, she’d probably look fairly attractive. Dressed up like an extra in a Katy Perry video, it’s comic that anyone would think so. I watch the waitress balance two large plates of mussels on her forearms, while her hands clutch a pair of lobster rolls. These aren’t the cheap-ass kind of lobster rolls they serve in lesser dives, with mayonnaise. No, the lobster’s steeped in melted butter, here, and are served with little bowls with even more butter, ready to be slopped on. I didn’t know a thing about lobster rolls until I moved to this state. It’s all the locals talk about, sometimes—and I’d gotten an extensive talk about them from the tattooed and muscled bartender, on an earlier visit. The Landscaper is watching me watch her get her payload to the table of rowdy, beer-drinking locals. “You like her?” I roll my eyes. Get serious, the look says. “Which one, then?” He and I are sitting side by side at the bar, our backs against the railing. He’s got a gin and tonic in his hand. I’ve been nursing a beer for a while. I don’t like beer, but he’d ordered it for me when he’d seen me walk in. It’s the same bar where we’ve met a couple of times before. I think he gets off on the idea of being seen in public with me; he probably goes home and masturbates furiously at the notion of being out in public with a pussyhound like me. On one level it’s ridiculous. The Landscaper is a handsome man on his own merits—far better-looking than I am. If he were so inclined, he could attract just about any woman he wanted. At the same time, I know that the reality of the situation isn’t so much what matters here. It’s the story he’s told himself, over and over again, in his fantasies. He’s told himself that I’m some big-time player, a straight guy fallen on slightly hard times who’s allowing the Landscaper the smallest of sexual favors in exchange for cash. He’s told himself I only do that stuff because I really need the dough. He’s made himself believe that he’s lucky that I’m willing to hang out with him once in a while. And you know, it’s odd, but when I hang out with the Landscaper at this dive, this little restaurant/bar that skulks on the Saugatuck river beneath the shadow of an I-95 overpass, I really kind of am a pussy magnet. While I ponder his question, one of the married women sitting at a nearby table pauses to talk to me as she stumbles on her way to the restroom. She’s blond and pretty, though her skin is coarse from the sun. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the loud music coming from the bar’s far end, “I love your singing.” “What?” I ask. I could hear her perfectly, but I cocked my head as if I couldn’t. The woman moves in closer, as I thought she would. She touches me on the shoulder with her right hand. Her other hand drops; her fingertips touch the top of my leg three inches above the knee. She’s standing between my god-damned legs, a detail that’s not lost on the Landscaper. “I love your singing,” she said. “I love Duran Duran.” I always sing Duran Duran on karaoke nights at this place. It reduces all the cougars to their fifteen-year-old selves. I touch her on the arm. “Thanks!” I say. And that’s all I’ve got to say. She wavers for a minute, undocks from the port between my thighs, and sails away, a little unsteadily. “Fuck,” says the Landscaper as he watches her go. “You could’ve had her. She was hot for you!” I shrug. I don’t point out that she was also extremely inebriated and smelled like a distillery. “You could’ve been all up in that. You want to finger her? You want to lick her out?” He’s actually pretty loud, but he can’t be heard over the singing and the noise by anyone but me. Maybe by the bartender standing nearby, but he’s probably heard it all at this point. “You could get that killer dick of yours up in her, man. She’d ride you like a fucking bitch. Fuck. I bet some nights you go home smelling like strange pussy.” I shrug again, and smile, and act like I’m flattered and not in disagreement with him. And I think to myself, is this really the way straight guys talk to each other? We sit there for a while. “That one?” he’ll ask, every time a pretty woman comes into the bar. “Eh,” I’ll say. Every time I’ll have an excuse. Too old. The tits are too big. The tits aren’t big enough. Too nasty. Too uptight. Sometimes he provides the answer for me: Too skanky. Too damned skinny. Too fucking fat. He likes this routine of sitting in this bar and checking out the chicks, before we do anything together. It gives him a sense of security. We’d been there about an hour when he’s had enough gin and tonics to ask, “How about me?” “What about you,” I grunt back. My eyes are half-closed. “How about me?” he asks again. “You want me?” I snort. “You’re a guy.” “Come out to the van,” he says. “Did I tell you how much I like your short hair? It looks amazing.” I look at my second beer, appearing embarrassed to be given a compliment by a dude. “Come out to the van.” This time it’s a plea. There’s a note of neediness in his voice. I sit there, and say nothing. I sit there, and let him wonder if I heard him. I sit there, and I look at the waitress, who’s cleaning up all the mussel shells and a huge amount of wadded-up paper napkins covered in dried butter, and I let him wait for the answer. Then I stand up, adjust the hang of my jeans, and walk out of the place. He’s only two steps behind me. He’s parked in the commuter lot of the train station, in a dark corner. There are other cars around, but they’re all there for the Westport nightlife, such as it is. We don’t even bother to pretend to get in through the front doors; he unlocks the back and we crawl onto the carpet. He’s grabbing for the button on my jeans even before I’m settled against the back of the seats. “Whoa, whoa!” I tell him, sounding alarmed. “What the fuck?” “Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “Sorry, man. Just got a little excited.” When I’m with the Landscaper, I’m good at looking disgusted at the notion some dude would put his hands on another dude. Exploitative sure. But you know what? It’s what he wants from me. I give him what he wants in a way no one else has. That’s why he keeps seeing me. “You know—“ “I know, I know,” he says. He’s trying to placate me in the dramatic, overacted way that the inebriated assume. “Ssshhh. Besides, we should take care of this, right?” He reaches into his back pocket. He’s already got some fifties ready for me. Six of them, rolled up and squashed into a long rectangle from having been sat on. I count them out, nod, and stick them into my shirt pocket. “All right,” I say. “Can I take them off?” he asks, crouching over me. His fingers want to go back to my jeans button. This is the concession I’ve made for him in the last couple of months; I let him take off my pants. “Shoes first,” I order. Lovingly, he removes my sneakers. He places them side by side at the van’s edge. Then my ankle-high socks. Those he folds and puts into the mouths of my shoes. Grudgingly I lift my hips up as he undoes the jeans and pulls them off. I’m deliberately not wearing shorts. He’s staring at my erect dick as he folds my jeans leg over leg, then in half, then in quarters, and lays them atop my shoes. “Can I?” I pause for a moment. I like to let him think there’s a doubt. Then I spread my legs so that he can position himself between them. He lies on his belly. I can feel his breath on my nuts as I begin to stroke. He wants to do more. He’s asked to do more. He’s offered me double my going rate just to suck me off, the last couple of times. Each time he’s proposed the deal, I’ve let him see me wrestle with the offer. I think he can tell the money’s attractive—and six hundred bucks just to get head? Fuck yes it is. But part of me—the sadistic part of me—enjoys fucking with him more than I’d enjoy the flow. On some level, I know he’d respect me less if I’d accepted right away. That’s why we haven’t gone there. This part of the transaction is pretty straightforward. I stroke myself, putting on a show for him while I make a big pretense of him not being present. I jerk with both hands, I tug at my nuts. I double-fist the shaft so that the head and a good two inches are sticking out at the top. I play with the precum, though I don’t eat it, the way I might in my own private masturbation sessions. He’s going crazy the entire time. “Yeah,” he’s whispering. “You’re thinking about pile-drivin’ that pussy, aren’t you. Getting that big dick all up inside that whore and fucking her until she’s got a pussyful of seed. Banging the shit out of her, man.” Crap like that. He thinks it’s exciting me to think about fucking some housewife out on a Monday-night spree, and doesn’t realize I’m getting my pleasure from dragging him down into the depths of his own private world. He’s showing me the parts of himself that his wife and kiddy never glimpse, the parts that none of his bluff and hearty buddies ever guess, the parts that he might not even want to admit to himself. That’s the payload for me. And for him, the payload’s when I shoot. He always gets his mouth on my nuts right before I come—I allow that, and pretend it’s not happening, though the hot and wet slide of his tongue over my smooth sac is what really gets me off in the end. Then there’s cum jetting out of my slit, and down the shaft. My eyes are totally closed as I let him clean it up. My hands are around my meat, protecting it from the man’s touch, but he licks it off my fingers, off my wrist where it’s flown. He’d fucking lick it off the van carpet if I shot it there. Some day I might. When he’s stopped and it’s safe for me to open my eyes without seeing some dude on my seed, I do so. “Gotta jet,” I say, reaching for my pants. He watches me dress again. I look like a mess, but my car’s not too far away. “Gonna fuck the wife?” he asks. He sounds hopeful. “Gonna give it to her?” I shrug. “Later, dude,” I tell him. “Gonna give her what she needs? I bet you give her what she really needs,” he says, as he opens the van doors. There’s a distinct and pronounced bulge in his pants that I’m sure he’ll be taking care of, the moment he’s alone. “I bet you do. I bet you always give all your fucks what they need, huh?” I smile. That’s a bet he should know he’d definitely win. More...

So many fucked-up people, EQP. It's crazy out there.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part II. 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 afternoon we’d awkwardly kissed in his classroom, Mr. Goldberg drove me home and parked his hatchback in the alley behind my parents’ house. Most of the houses in the neighborhood had had shrubbery dividing their back yards from the alley. We could sit there for a long period of time without being observed. My parents weren’t due home for a couple of hours. We’d ridden without a word between us. Once he’d pulled out of the faculty parking lot, he’d driven for a quarter-mile before he reached over and tousled my hair. Then he rested his hand on my knee. Not my thigh. My knee. And he left it there, like it had been super-glued. I wanted that meaty hand to travel up my thigh, to prod at my hard and raging dick. I wanted it down my shirt and touching me all over my skin. But not while he’s driving, I reasoned. Once we were in the alley behind my house. That’s when we could do stuff. Once he’d turned off the motor, he coughed nervously. “I don’t want to rush this,” he told me, once he’d turned off the motor. “I know you’ve got to be feeling overwhelmed.” Perhaps I was, but it wasn’t stopping me. I pulled myself closer to him. Ever since he’d kissed me, all I’d wanted to do was taste those lips again. He smelled like Old Spice and spray starch. The three o’clock shadow on his face had turned his skin into sandpaper. He could’ve left me raw and burned from that stubble for all I cared. I just loved the feel of his lips surrounding mine, of his tongue slipping between them. I had no practical training in kissing and I knew that this open-mouthed avec tongue method was the exotic, French kissing I'd heard so much about, but it came so naturally and felt so very good that it could’ve been Scandinavian or Yugoslavian kissing or something all the way from Easter god-damned Island and I would’ve been okay with it. I don’t know how long we made out, in the overgrown shade of the alley. It seemed like an afternoon, or a year. It wasn’t long enough. His arms surrounded me and his mouth seemed fixed on mine, immovable, unshakable. Then, like the little would-be slut I was, my hands wrestled themselves out from his clasp and tried to undo his zipper. Instantly I found him pushing me away. He pressed himself against the driver’s side door almost as if he were contemplating escape. “Hey, hey, sport!” he protested. He raised his hands and patted the air with them. “Cool it, now! You don’t know what you’re doing.” I knew exactly what I was doing. “I know how to do stuff,” I said, thinking all the sexual activity I’d witnessed on one side of the campus glory hole. “How?” he sounded alarmed. “Did someone else—? Have you—?” I knew what he was asking me. I shook my head. “Are you still a virgin?” He spoke the last word with a certain hush, as if it might shock my tender sensibilities, and as if we hadn’t been macking on each other like madmen not thirty seconds before. I told him I was. “Then how do you know?” “I just do,” I assured him. My inner observer, in its infancy as it was, somehow intuited that he didn’t want to hear about my voyeuristic public sex adventures. I’d shocked him, though. He remained plastered against the door as he readjusted his zipper. I wanted more of him, though. He’d lit the flames. It seemed only fair he dealt with the wildfire he’d started. Even if it was just kissing, I wanted more. I was hot, and greedy, and my youth had me moving like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil—all purpose and motion and fury. Mr. Goldberg was astonished at how hard he had to work to fend me off. It was for all the world as if he were the virginal young thing and I was the dirty old man. “Gosh, sport,” he said. “Slow down. Let’s both enjoy this. Okay?” I thought we both had been enjoying it. With reluctance, and a haze of sex-clouded confusion, I agreed. “Now, let’s cool off,” he suggested. His shirt was rumpled; the hot car and the passion had given him sweat stains at the pits. He tried smoothing things down, but it wasn’t really any use. His voice became more gentle as he reached out and stroked my face. His fingers trailed down my cheeks, as he looked me in the eye. “I want it to be special. A first time’s supposed to be special. Will you let me do that for you?” It took me a moment to answer. My heart pounded hard. In my head, it sounded like a herd of rhinos had invaded the alley. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, the tell-tale thudding would betray how very badly I wanted him, and how desperately I was thinking about what he’d said, just then. He wanted to give me my first time. Mr. Goldberg wanted to take my virginity, and he wanted to make it special. More than anything in the world, I wanted him to have it. And soon. More...

Thanks! I'm just outside NYC.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Whenever something weird is going on in my life, I can count on my big brother to explain it for me. Of course, his explanation is always astrological. If all my friends are contentious with me, or if everyone seems to be in a bad mood, my first instinct is to look at myself and wonder what I'm doing to get that kind of reaction—maybe I'm being a real bonehead in the first case, or maybe I'm the one with the bad mood in the second, and I'm just projecting it on others. For him, though, the causes are pretty cut-and-dried. Mercury's in retrograde, or Uranus is in the moon's third house. Or something like that. I have another friend who blames everything on the full moon—the obvious blame for all manner of lunacy. If things are particularly crazy in his life, he'll throw up his hands and say, "Well, it's only a few days before the full moon." Or, "Whaddaya expect? The full moon was just last week." Once when he said "It's gotta be the full moon!" when some drivers were acting particularly strange on the freeways and we'd almost gotten into our third collision of the day, I yelled (with my fingernails clawing the dashboard) "It's a NEW MOON TONIGHT!" And of course he blamed my crankiness on that. So I don't know whether it's a full moon or Mercury in retrograde in what this week, but dang, the internets have been weird. There were the usual ho-hum rude comments in the blog—those I'm used to, and even the commenters didn't seem particularly inspired to say anything interesting or even that sensical. But the guy who wrote me three emails to chew me out for being a race traitor? That took some seriously inspired craziness to pull off. Plus I don't think I've ever heard the offensive phrase (and excuse my use of it) 'nigger-lover' outside of To Kill a Mockingbird before . . . and I was raised in the South.) I'm not sure how to explain except by the phases of the moon the guy who sent me two emails asking me if I was into chubby guys wearing pink bunny outfits. Because the answer is that of all the many things I have been into in my lifetime, that simply is not one of them. The guy who went on a email tirade about me using my blog as self-validation might have had a point, but it'd have been a point I'd take better if he hadn't preceded them with a dozen needy, attention-grubbing, stalkery emails demanding that I validate him instead. Or maybe it was the constellations, driving him batty. And as for the strange coincidence of no less than seven guys hitting me up Friday for sex, all of whom had in their online profiles some variation of the phrase, I am not looking for hook-ups so be classy and don't ask me!, well, it has to be some occult juxtaposition of the stars making it happen. Why else would men so staunch in their resolve weaken and ask for that they so firmly insist will never take place? All I'm asking is for my astrologically-inclined readers to use what sway they have and shove those planets back in their proper houses next week, because I am not sure I can cope with too much more crazy. I've got enough of it in my real life without it crawling out of every USB port. Okay? Now, let's get to some questions from formspring.me. do you have anal sex with women & if u do are the sensations different from arse banging a man I've noticed that while men will often shoot without touching when they get butt-fucked, women often (it's not a universal, but it is definitely a trend) climax harder anally than vaginally. For the guys, it's a physiological thing that comes from having the prostate hammered in just the right way. For the women, I suspect there's a bit of a taboo coming into play mentally, but they also tend to get a lot more direct manual clitoral stimulation than when there's a dick in the way. Gamer that you are, and an apparent science fiction fan (if I may use the word,) have you ever played EVE Online? I have not. I like the idea of SF-based games; Traveller and Gamma World were the only RPGs I played in my pre-video-game-era teens, and I used to love the Escape Velocity space trader games on my Mac. The only MMOs I've ever played were World of Warcraft (for six years) and Lord of the Rings Online (for one month), and I was such a WoW fanatic for a while there that I didn't think I had the room in my life for another MMO such as EVE Online. The main reason I never attempted to get into EVE is that it has—and don't try to convince me otherwise, because it's a consistent bragging point for its players—a pretty steep learning curve. I'm also enough of a carebear that I don't like the sound of losing a ton of assets and invested time playing because of some asshole blowing up my ship. You'd probably guess from that statement I didn't like the WoW PvP servers. You'd be right. I got a warlock to level 60 on one of them in the pre-expansion days, then abandoned it because I was tired of Alliance making me kill them when I was trying to collect herbs in the Eastern Plaguelands. And besides, I can't start EVE now. I'm too busy playing Diablo 3. You're a sexy funny man,please tell me you find horny slim dark haired women ok,cos you surely broke the mould when you were born You are right on all points, one hundred percent. I'm so glad to appeal to you, baby. Now what penis cream or herbal pills are you trying to sell me? When you go out, what do you usually wear? When I go out of the house, you mean? Usually it's something of a novelty if I wear actual clothing. When do you find yourself most inspired to write? I have always tended to do my writings in the early mornings. I don't often find myself 'inspired,' though. I treat it as a task to be done, and I pay full attention to it. I'm more of a believer in perspiration than inspiration. I recently began talking to a man who has children and likes being called sir. He was emphatic that he should be called daddy. Has having offspring influenced how you connect with others on an intimate level? 'Daddy' is a word that guys start using when you reach a certain age. In porn, it's when you hit thirty. In real life, it's a decade later. And it happens whether you like it or not. I've known men who were truly, truly offended when someone used it on them. Some guys get really turned on when they find out a guy's sired children, though. In those cases, the use of 'daddy' gets a little more literal. And it's exciting to turn a guy on who loves consuming daddy dick. More...

This is so much the truth. It's crazy how many men need someone else to give them permission to enjoy themselves the way they want. They'll never agree to it verbally, no matter how much you talk to them; I find it easier to drive them straight to the situation they fear and crave the most, and make them step over that line. After that, there's not a lot of challenge.

Oh, I'm nice. Until my pants drop, anyway.

Thanks eman2005!

"Horny fucker" about sums me up.

Thanks buddy!

I'd venture to say that most want to be guided. And thanks for your positive appraisal, Hotload!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Like so many of the couples I meet, the top guy is the older. He’s in his late twenties, vaguely scruffy, wears a pair of thick-framed glasses that lend him an air of nerdiness until he takes them off along with the rest of his clothes to reveal a pair of metal blue eyes and a dick of steel. He’s Clark god-damned Kent. The bottom guy is younger. He’s lean, and pale, and sandy-haired. Smooth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter their studio apartment on the upper west side, wearing nothing but briefs. His leg is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer, from nervousness. They’ve never been with a third before. I’m the guy they asked to get the job done. Most couples, when they decide to bring in another man to join them, have a strict agenda in mind. They set up their limits; they decide with what they’re comfortable. Some have long discussions about expectations beforehand. Some of them just have a driving partner who drags the less aggressive into it. Many have a very long list of what they will and won’t do with with the third. Some of them come up with safe words, for chrissakes. But when they pick me, they don’t do it to play safe. They approach me because they know on some deep level that I’m dangerous. That I’ll push them past their limits and into new territory. It’s an unspoken contract, and I’ve rarely been wrong. These two, for example. They think they’ve worked it out. Sweet and playful fun is the catchphrase they’ve decided on. We just want to have sweet and playful fun with a big-dicked guy! Definitely no anal! Making out. Licking. Sucking. Smooching and giggling. Let’s be honest . . . there are dozens and dozens of men they could’ve chosen with much more vanilla intent. Yet they’ve decided upon me, and have gone to the trouble to invite me to their place. They picked me from my profile, with its photos of my big dick shown off to best advantage, my broad list of likes, my narrow list of dislikes. They don’t look at the photo of my erect cock and think, Gosh, he must be nice. They’ve picked me, and let’s be frank, because I play hard and I know what the fuck I’m doing. It might be sweet and playful to begin, but by the time I’m done, we’ve had my kind of fun. They know it, deep down. But they might not admit it, not even to themselves. We exchange introductions and nervous greetings. I sit on the bed’s edge, joining them. “He’s pretty,” I tell the top, running my fingers through the bottom’s hair. He’s got blue eyes, too. Nervous as he is about a strange top in their apartment, I can tell he likes to be admired. Some bottoms thrive on that. “Very pretty,” I said. With my hand cupping his chin, I lift up his face. His lips purse slightly to reach for my own. When they meet, the kiss qualifies as sweet. He’s eager to try another man than the one he sees day in and day out. He’s anxious to taste me. I rub my hands over his scrawny body, his rib cage, the little cold pencil erasers that are his nipples. He’s hard as a rock through the cotton of his briefs. He’s not just bulging, he’s got a tentpole down there. My eyes remain open enough to see his partner rubbing his back, letting him know he’s there, encouraging him to give in to me. While we make out, my mouth completely surrounding the bottom’s, the older guy strips down. He’s got a sexy enough body beneath the baggy clothing, and a patch of sparse hair in the middle of his chest. Like his lover, his dick is probably the stiffest it’s ever been. I pull away from the kiss and look into the boy’s eyes. “Undress me,” I tell him. Obediently he drops down to unbutton my jeans, remove my sneakers, and pull down the denim until it tangles around my ankles for him to tug off. He stares at my dick, breathless at the sight. I’m only three-quarters hard and it’s already much bigger than the boyfriend’s. The boyfriend is looking at me too, while he absently runs his fingers up and down the length of his shaft. The bottom’s taking too long. I kick off my socks, pull off my shirt. “Let me see that little butt,” I tell him, as I sit back down again. It’s perfect. Round. Smooth. The palest white I’ve ever seen. I pull down the elastic of his waistband to expose it. Where I breathe over his skin, goosepimples rise. He and his lover and looking at each other. There’s an unspoken question in the bottom’s face. The older man nods back in reply. Yes, he’s saying to his partner. Yes. This is okay. What they really want is someone else to do the dirty work. Someone else to insist on the things they can’t ask of each other out of politeness, out of familiarity. I’m not supposed to be touching this ass so openly. It’s not sweet. It’s not fun. It wasn’t on the approved curriculum. But here I am, running the flat of my hand over it, and the bottom is responding by bending forward and letting out a low exhalation. The top isn’t even protesting. “You need to get up on my lap,” I tell the bottom boy. “Lie over it,” I correct, when he thinks he’s going to sit on my knees. “Face down.” He obeys, reluctantly. It’s a humiliating position. He’s like a little kid about to be punished. I’ve got his briefs pulled down and his butt exposed. “Is he a good boy or a bad boy?” I ask his partner. The man’s got a rasp in his voice when he replies. There’s the tiniest ball of precum at the tip of his dick. “Bad boy,” he grunts. “Bad boy, huh?” Without warning, I raise my hand and smack the bottom’s right buttock. Loud. Hard. It resounds through the sex-charged silence, and it’s followed by a loud bellow of protest from the bottom. This isn’t nice. This isn’t sweet. That spank had to sting like crazy. But the bottom’s not in charge here. I raise my hand again. The top’s eyes are locked with mine. “Yeah,” he says. It’s not the voice I’d heard over the phone, friendly and approachable. It’s not even the voice that greeted me minutes before. It’s a voice made deeper by the scarlet emotions coursing through his mind, by the hormones causing his heart to race. It’s ragged with need. His hand is clenching his meat now, so tight the head’s purple. “He’s a real bad boy.” My hand comes down again. I’m not being playful. This hurts. The bottom’s got tears in his voice when he protests. His lover reaches down, lifts his head. “Keep it down,” he says. My hand comes down again. Another howl. “Shut the fuck up.” Another slap on the rear. The skin there is reddening painfully. This time, there’s only a whimper and a clamped-down sob. “Yeah,” says the top, as I continue to spank. “Bad boy. You don’t know what a fuckin’ bad boy I got.” I smile to myself. I’ve only been there what, ten minutes? Already I’ve breached the fortress. Fuck sweet. Couples like this bring in men like me because they want someone to take charge and take from them what he wants—without either of them having to take responsibility. If an outsider goes beyond their timid prearranged limits, everything that happens is his fault. He’s the bad one, not the innocent couple. Fault, right. The pair might both walk away with their wildest fantasies put to rest for a while. Neither of them have to speak up and confess to their partner how dirty they like it. Neither of them has to lose face in front of the other. But everyone gets what he wants. And what I want is the hole. It’s an hour later, and the top and I have been sitting next to each other at the head of the bed for a while. Our knees are lifted, our legs are spread. The bottom’s been moving back and forth between our dicks, sucking them, while the top and I have been talking and making out. The talk’s been pretty perfunctory. Shit like, Your boy’s got a great mouth, or You like the way he sucks, huh? Nothing deep. But then I say, “You mind if I look at his ass again?” The bottom lifts his head, alert, almost frightened of another spanking. I can feel the top’s dick harden and flex against my thigh. “Do it,” he says. So I’ve got the bottom with his face in the pillow. My mouth’s all over that hole, slobbering it up, making him gasp and moan. It’s muffled by a thick layer of goose down, but it’s still loud. The top’s on his hands and knees watching up close, like I’m some kind of live porn star with a hole he wants so see used. I pay him no nevermind while I haul the bottom’s ass into the air and chew on his hole. There’s a gasp of a different kind as I push my thumb in there. I’m looking at the top. He doesn’t protest. I’m spreading the bottom’s cheeks with my hands, exposing the hole. I don’t know whether the bottom’s really prepared for this happening, and I really don’t care. He’s clean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done some extra cleaning down there in the hope that I’d be doing exactly this to him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I say, pulling myself to my knees. I make it look like I’m just repositioning myself, but really it to get my dick up there, next to the ass. The guy grunts. “You’ve really got a pretty boyfriend,” I tell him. “Great ass.” I pause. “Beautiful ass.” I pull apart the cheeks even further. Then I let my dick rest on the cheek. The top is mesmerized. I move back and forth. My dick slides up and down, flesh on flesh. It naturally glides along the crack. I pause when the head’s pointed at the little pucker. “Whaddaya think?” I ask. There’s a pregnant pause. The bottom looks around wildly. He's not saying now, but he doesn’t want to be the one to say yes. The top grinds his jaw. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, the words of permission and encouragement. I rub my precum around the head of my meat, add a little spit to it. I nudge it against the hole. Then I look at the top. After a moment, he nods. Then I push. There’s a lot of resistance, but I get in there. There’s a hell of a lot of noise, but none of it is No. This is what they want. Both of them. It’s not sweet. It’s not playful. It’s nasty and raw and they both knew it was going to happen all along. That’s why they picked me, instead of some nice guy who’d play along with what they said they wanted. Their real desire was this, right here—the sight of big dick stretching a tight hole, of a dicking-down neither would confess to the other he wanted to happen. They wanted someone willing to be dangerous, and that’s exactly what they got. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my readers very kindly bought me a gift from my Amazon wishlist last week. It's a Phillips Norelco Bodygroom Shaver. Or basically, an electric razor for your balls. I had one of these for years, and it worked really well until it went kaput on me a couple of months ago. A standard beard trimmer just doesn't cut it when it comes to keeping delicate areas smooth—and I don't recommend depilatories, either. For the sweaty summer months, it's nice to feel smooth and clean down below. Thank you, kind reader! It'll be put to good use! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part I. 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. I might not have known the rules of football, or even how to bluff my way through a middle school NFL betting pool. Despite being the tallest in my class by a head, I might have been the most uncoordinated sixth-grader ever to attempt playing basketball. At sports I simply lacked confidence and experience. I disappointed on every count. But I was an Olympic-level reader. The year I was in Mr. Goldberg’s homeroom class, he made me feel as if I was better-read than most of his adult peers. Once a week or so, Mr. Goldberg would keep me in conversation so long after school that the only thing he could really do to make up for missing my bus was to drive me home. After the second or third time, I began to relax when I saw him approaching me at my locker, after the final bell had rung. Then I began to anticipate it, and hope to see him striding around the corner from his classroom, clipboard in hand, shirt white and still crisply-pressed. We talked about books, those drives home. He was more interested in what I was reading that had been the children’s librarian at the public library branch I frequented. He was particularly impressed, for some reason, by my deep affection for murder mysteries. I’d already devoured most of my mother’s Agatha Christies by then, and was working my way through Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter novels. He leavened my affair with the British cozy murder by suggesting I investigate Sam Spade and Nero Wolfe. He’d drive slowly, but not slowly enough to suit me; those few minutes alone with him meant more to me, and I learned more from them, than all six periods of school ever did. Sometimes at my home I’d linger in his car a little longer, grateful for someone adult to talk to about something I clearly loved so much. My middle school had a system for independent students that was pretty unique for the area. We were called Responsible Movers. Students who qualified for the Responsible Mover program through good grades and behavior signed a contract every two weeks with every single one of their teachers, specifying what work we’d get done in that two week period. So I’d carry my contract around to Mr. Hedgepert and he’d write down what lab experiments and textbook chapters I’d need to do, and Miss Christian would give me my reading assignments for English. My math teacher might give me a chunk from the pre-algebra textbook to cover, and my social studies instructor would give me some reports to complete. Over the two-week contract, a Responsible Mover could complete the work in any order he wanted, at any time he wished, and pretty much anywhere he cared to be. If I preferred to do all my work in the media center, or in the cafeteria, I could. If I wanted to spend all day in the science lab working on my chunk of assignments one day, and the next day doing nothing but my social studies report, that was fine and dandy. The only classes I had to attend at the same times every day were those that required everyone’s presence—which for the most part meant merely band. The system was intended to lighten the classroom burden for teachers and to heighten bright kids’ autonomy. Largely it worked, because the Responsible Movers were largely bookish and independent students who would rather have cut off a finger than lose their privileges. I, of course, was one of them. By the autumn I found myself shyly asking Mr. Goldberg if I could work in his classroom during his free mid-day period before lunch. He had one of the few classrooms in the building with a door that closed and locked; my rationalization was that with the extra isolation, his space was quieter than the hum of the larger open-school spaces. Quite simply, though, I enjoyed being around him. I’d sit in the back of his empty room, working or reading, while he’d grade papers or look over a copy of Sports Illustrated at his desk. I liked looking at him; he brought pleasure to my eyes. Sometimes I’d watch him while he worked with one of his hands curled against the side of his face. Once in a while I’d catch him watching me. He’d smile, and nod, and return to his work, apparently unbothered that a kid was intruding on his one quiet period of the day. At the end of the period, when the bell rang, he would open the door and walk out with me, a hand on my back to escort me into the hallway so I could join the others for my lunch period. “You’re very lucky,” he said unexpectedly, one quiet day, as we both were sitting and working, “to be blond.” My hair was many shades lighter then than now. I was born with almost white hair. In sixth grade it was still a shade of bright yellow. “Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “I just always wanted blond hair,” he replied, shrugging it off as if it was no big deal. He went back to his reading, as did I. “I always liked blonds,” he said to his papers. It was a remark that made my heart yearn for something I didn't have the vocabulary to express. That sentence, more than anything he’d ever said to me, made me want to burst into song, like someone in one of the movie musicals with which I'd grown up. I felt like he’d reached out with those words and drawn fingers across my heart, only to make it ring out with a rich, lost chord. But when I looked up at him, hoping for I don’t know what, he wasn’t paying attention to me. It was a few days after that incident that he stopped me at my desk before I rose and left for lunch. “Hey, sport,” he said, giving me just the briefest touch on my shoulder. “Mind if I ask you a favor?” I nodded. “I’ve got to give a test later on today and need to keep an eye on the time. But I forgot to wear my watch, and there’s no clock in here. Would you let me borrow your watch? Just for a couple of hours? I can give it back to you at the end of the day.” My watch was a Timex that my grandmother had given me the previous Christmas. I’d never particularly liked it, as it was cheap plastic and both the strap and face were an unusually ugly shade of blue plastic. Still, though, it was a timepiece in a progressive school that had some kind of philosophy against clocks in classrooms, so I didn’t see the harm. “Thanks sport,” he said, clapping me on the back. I secretly enjoyed it when he called me by that nickname. Perhaps it wasn’t so secret. I had a tendency to blush deeply around him, and I’m sure the reddening of my skin gave it away. “Come back before the final bell, and I’ll let you have it back.” That afternoon I Responsibly Moved my way out of whatever work I’d been doing to stop by his classroom before the last bell rang. “Oh. Hey buddy. Yeah,” he said, when he saw me appear in his doorway. “Just a second, guys,” he told his classroom, as he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Although we were out in a public space, we were totally alone and unobserved. The whole school was quiet in that calm-before-the-storm way it always seemed to be, right at the end of the day. “I really appreciate you letting me borrow your watch, man,” he told me, as he unfastened it. His wrists were so much thicker that he’d had to fasten the strap on the hole closest to the end. “It’s kind of tough in this school sometimes, without a watch, especially when I’m trying to give a timed test.” While he smoothly talked, he took my left arm with his hands, extended it, and casually began putting the Timex back on me. I felt like I was being dressed. I shivered a little when I realized it implied that at some point earlier, I’d been undressed. My wrists were so thin that he had to pull the strap snug. I felt breathless at our proximity, at the sensation of him standing so close, of his hands on my wrist, my elbow bumping so casually against his stomach. The back of the watch was still warm from his body. “There,” he said in a low voice. His hands were still on me, for just a little too long. We stood so close to each other at that moment. His forehead was bowed low, almost next to mine. It felt so intimate that it seemed wrong—but how could it be, out in the hallway where anyone might have seen something so innocent? “Thanks again.” It was at that moment, when his fingers were still on my arm, that I understood everything. I’m not sure what triggered my intuition, especially with the mere anthill of experience I had in the mysteries of what brings two people together. But I knew, and I knew with concrete certainty, that Mr. Goldberg was attracted to me. I knew for certain his attraction was sexual. I’d had absolutely no exposure to the art of flirtation between men at that point, though I’d received months and months of education in the act of fucking, glimpsed through a gloryhole three inches wide. Yet in the space of two eternal seconds of his fingers lingering on me, I knew exactly what he wanted, and hoped for, and what he yearned to have. It felt like the first adult intuition of my life, and it stunned more than frightened me. Until that moment, I’d had absolutely no idea. We were only inches apart, but when I looked at Mr. Goldberg after that moment, I felt as if I’d grown feet higher and decades older. “Sure,” I said. “You’re welcome.” And then without a word more, I darted off to my bus, French horn banging my legs, heart in my throat. The next day, Mr. Goldberg borrowed my watch again. He kept me a few moments after homeroom so that he could undo it from my wrist himself, and fasten it on his own. He returned it to me in the same manner as the day before, that afternoon. For three days running I melted whenever he’d take my arm and fasten or unfasten that plastic blue snap. I felt as if I were being disrobed. I wished I were being disrobed. I wanted that more than anything, and hoped my trembling didn’t betray me. It wasn’t until Friday that he varied the ritual. “Listen,” he said, keeping me back before I went to lunch. “I’ve been using your watch all week and I know it’s got to be a pain in the butt. I need to pay you back somehow. So how about it, sport?” He dug around in his briefcase and, after a moment, held out both hands. They were spread with one of every known brand of gum. There was Dentyne, and Big Red, and all five flavors of Fruit Stripe gum, as well as sticks of Wrigley’s Spearmint and Doublemint and Wintergreen, Chiclets, Bubble Yum, and several flavors of Trident. "Take your pick." I blinked at the sight. It looked as if—and I suspect he had—he’d visited a candy store and come back with every flavor available, simply so he could guarantee there’d be one I liked. Deep inside me, a very soft but adult voice whispered to me, Look how badly he wants you. “I can’t,” I said, agog at all the sugar. “Oh sure you can. I’ve got plenty.” “I mean. . . .” I found it difficult to find the words, and I was certain I was blushing again. For me, a genuine, deep-down blush was (and still is, though they come pitifully rarely now) almost more powerful a sensation than orgasm. It tickles me from my jawbone and the backs of my ears down to the base of my spine, making me feel pink and tiny and tender and thoroughly alive; it licks across my skin slowly and mercilessly, making me shiver and flush from the simultaneous hot and cold. “I did it because I like you. Not because you were going to give me stuff;” Mr. Goldberg looked at me for a moment, and then closed his hands. All the sticks of gum tumbled together like pick-up sticks before he tossed them onto his desk. “Come here,” he said, and pulled me away from the door, into the corner of the classroom that was all cinder blocks. It was the room’s blind spot. Anyone looking through the glass panel from the outside would’ve been unable to see us there. My heart was racing. I felt out of breath and as if I’d run the six-hundred-yard dash for the yearly President’s physical fitness challenge. “So if I asked to borrow your watch again today, you'd maybe let me?” “Do you need it for a test?” I asked. He seemed surprised at my question. He paused. The pause turned into a wait, and the wait into an eternity. When he answered, it was his honest response. “No, I don’t.” His voice had become husky and hushed. “Did you need it for tests the other days?” It was maybe the first time I’d ever called an adult on a fib. Neither he nor I realized, though, what a big step I’d taken. “No,” he said softly. He stared in my eyes as he spoke the next words. “If you want the truth—well, listen. I just liked . . . having something of yours . . . with me.” He waited to see my response. When none came, he said in a very small and defeated voice, “It made me feel good. I hoped that maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe you like the idea of me having it, too.” From the way Mr. Goldberg’s shoulders slumped slightly, and from the husky way he spoke, I knew for the very first time in my twelve years that I was utterly and absolutely in control. What he'd given me could be used as live ammunition. I intuited that it could cause pain. It could destroy. Yet the sensation of total sway didn’t make me feel cruel, or manipulative. Rather, it made me feel tender toward him. It was the first time a man had opened to me his most private inner landscapes. Instead of seeing only the vulnerable points where I could strike, I saw tender spots that I felt obligated to protect, as best I could. “Yes," I said. “Yes?” he asked, looking at me like a doomed man. “Yes. I—I like when you borrow it,” I said in the smallest possible whisper. “You do?” I nodded. “Really?” I nodded again. “Maybe I . . . could give you something too? What do you think? Would you like it?” “Yeah,” I said. "I would." My blush was furious now. Every tingle inflamed my skin further, so that it felt as if the blush was reigniting itself, circling around me over and over and over again. “I don't have anything like a watch. But . . . I was thinking of this.” He leant down, his face coming closer to mine. And then he gave me the most amazing kiss of my life. At least, that’s the way I wish I remembered it. What really happened is that he leant down and seemed about to kiss me, but then at the very last moment, he balked and began to pull back, thinking better of it. Then I lurched up, hoping to encourage him, but instead decided against it when I saw him pull back. Then he made another move when he realized I'd moved in, but pulled away. Again I responded a second too late. Back and forth we bobbled, like a mechanical toy made asynchronous by a lop-toothed gear. Eventually, awkwardly, our lips grazed. It was a tentative and delicate thing, the merest breeze from a butterfly’s wing. It wasn’t the most amazing kiss of my life. I’d had kisses from aunts that had more passion. But it was my still my first real kiss, for better or worse. My heart thudded as I stepped away from him. I was nothing more than percussion and red skin and heat and hardness at that moment. “Can I give you a ride home today?” he asked, trying to clear his throat of the husky emotion still trapped within. “Please let me.” “Yes,” I told him, over the timpani of my pulse. “I’d like that a lot.” (Part III will appear next week.) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's Pride Sunday here in this part of the country, and later today I'll be joining the hundreds of thousands in New York City to watch the parade, get a little sunburnt, and get a little giddy. Not all my readers are gay men, here. Nor are all of you men! Some of you are bisexual, some straight. Some of you are probably most comfortable without feeling attracted to anyone at all. And you know, all those things are pretty darned good things to be. This time of year I see so many tired whines from men embarrassed to be seen in the company of drag queens and leather men at the parades, who claim that they give the rest of the population the 'wrong idea' about what gays are. You know what I'm going to have to say about such sentiments: screw that! Playing good boys and girls in the hope of getting a pat on the head and a dab of praise here and there has never gotten anything accomplished. I'm personally proud to be part of such a diverse, widespread, and amazingly creative population. If you want to celebrate with me—welcome! Whether or not you celebrate the event, and whether or not you're gay, straight, or somewhere in between, what's important to take away from this time of year is a sense of joy and acceptance of your own sexuality, whatever wondrous forms it takes. Sex is an amazing gift. Too many people are afraid to take out that gift and actually use it, so that it molders away like some weird wedding gift, still in its original box, tarnishing and growing dimmer and less attractive by the year. Whip it out, polish it up, and don't be afraid to get it dirty. That's my motto. (I have a hundred mottos. You may have noticed.) If you're not proud of your sexuality, you're ashamed of it. It's possible to waste a lot of time on shame and fear. That is time you're never going to get back. So celebrate your sexuality—not just today. Every day. And take photos of yourself doing it and send them to me. Let's get to some questions, courtesy of formspring.me . . . and many thanks to those of you who wrote in with some especially provocative questions this last week, which will appear here in a few more installments. what is one question that will piss you off I believe that there's more than one question that will piss me off and set me on one of my infamous rants. It wouldn't take a lot of reading back in my archives to discover them, trust me. Any chance you'll move back to the Midwest? I never say never, but I have no intentions of moving again for many years to come. (I should note that I do intend to change houses later this year, but I'm not moving to a completely different area, this time. Just down the street. That's bad enough.) Hi Rob, Does your submissive bottom offer assertiveness training? Unfortunately, hesitancy seems to be the nature of the submissive beast. the best, Linda Submission is very much an act of trust. It's a gift from you to the one you're allowing to dominate you. It's not going to work, however, if you don't completely trust your partner. If you're hesitant, or holding back, or setting endless limits, or interrupting the flow of the play to modify his or her expectations, it's a little bit like giving a gift with a lot of annoying strings attached. Like saying, "Here's a hundred bucks. Spend it any way you want! As long as it's at Macy's. In the women's perfume department. At counter three. And oh, don't go without me to approve the purchase. And I want a thank you note afterward. Every three months. At least four pages long." If you're not prepared to give wholly, and to give willingly, either you're not ready for submissive play, or you're not playing with the right partner. It's up to you to examine yourself, and your situation, and decide which. Then you need to do something about it—either modify your own need to play in this area, or find someone you do trust and to whom you will offer your submission. I will say this: if you feel that you're holding back because of a lack of trust, don't automatically assume it's all coming from you. Your partner might not be giving you the support you need in order to surrender your last traces of hesitancy. Talk about it with him or her and see what can be done to make you feel more comfortable. If you crave this experience, the work will be worth it for you. have you ever gotten it wrong meaning have you ever thought a man was coming on to you only to be mistaken Quite often. The last time was at lunch a couple of months ago when I was checking my email and the handsome middle-eastern guy next to kept staring at me and smiling. I smiled and did my sexy-eyes thing back, and got him to smile at me with beautiful, white, perfect teeth. Just as my loins were stirring and I was about to say something provocative, he leaned over and wanted to know where I'd gotten my iPhone case. Sigh. Did you ever get off on the daddy/son fantasy that you provide for others today, when you were younger? Was being called son, and calling him dad, ever a turn-on for you? Absolutely. One hundred percent. I still remember the forbidden thrill I got the first time a guy referred to himself as 'dad' while I was servicing him, and I'm sure he got off on that hesitation and subsequent vigor that I gave the task at hand, because he kept on doing it, over and over again, calling himself dad and me 'son' or 'boy.' Even though most of us don't really lust for our own biological fathers, the dad/son fantasy is very much something that resonates very deeply for a lot of gay men. Are you jealous or turned on by hearing of your boy's hook-ups? I don't know what boy you mean, exactly. However, I'm not really a jealous guy. Listening to accounts of someone else's hookups doesn't generally inspire me to that angry kind of possessiveness that makes me want to track down the trick and kick his sorry ass for ever having god-damned touched my god-damned keep-your-fucking-hands-off property. That kind of thing used to be something I'd experience a long time ago, when I thought it was the appropriate reaction, but even then I couldn't invest a lot of vigor into it. I learned to follow my own instincts, which was simply to let my loved ones enjoy their fun. Sex is supposed to be giving and joyful. I might be envious that someone else gets to experience something of which I'm not a part, but in general I think it's great when two (or more) people—neither of whom has to be me—get together and have an enjoyable time. That's what it's supposed to be about. So when someone I like a lot hooks up and I hear about it, I'm generally happy for him. If the trick treats my buddy badly, though—that's when I'll track him down and kick his sorry ass, or at least threaten it. More...

Pierce Daniels was my first porn star crush. I had an issue of Honcho in which he had a spread, and it made me seek out his movies in the late eighties. He was a handsome man.

He really knew how to fuck, too. He had a kind of savage brutality that I used to admire in my early topping days.

Al Parker's beard was actually very unusual for its time. Beards were not that much of an option on guys with his looks and guys his age, during the era. Dick Fisk, definitely. Chad Douglas....that's a pornstache.

I don't find many of the images that come up on Google very helpful or representative. Freddy Mercury? Yes, that's a pornstache. Tom Selleck? Sure. Ryan Gosling and Paul McCartney at his most fey? Um, no.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The thirty-year-old had sent me many photos before we met, all of them so different they might as well have been of different men. There was a shot of him in fishing boots, brandishing a large and glistening catch at the end of a hook, facial hair trimmed into wild-man mutton chops. There was another in party boy attire, sparkling and spangled, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, hair cropped and slicked down, holding aloft a colorful cocktail. There was one of him staring soulfully at a grainy, light-deprived camera in some kind of classic MySpace pose, staring up at the ceiling, his hair long and cascading down to his shoulders, scruff on his face. There was one of him in business attire, almost parodying some kind of Sears Catalog action pose. There were others of him in various stages of undress, showing off his sexy, built body, his handsome face, his round ass. All of them had his hair at various lengths, his facial hair in every configuration, his locale from snowy to summery, in every kind of archetypal pose there is. He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock. The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip. He had a pornstache. I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face. Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild. The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012. Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?” Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb. “I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?” “Look and see,” I suggested. I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.” He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked. “Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts. “How bad you want it?” The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.” As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted. He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again. “Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft. I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment. I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him. Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment. It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the several reasons I started a sex blog long ago was that I didn't really have an outlet in which I could comfortably share sexual memoirs such as the ones I regularly post. This next series of three or four posts is among those I haven't felt secure sharing widely, before. Chronologically, my sixth-grade adventures fit in roughly after and concurrently with the events in A Sexual Education: The Gloryhole, and long after the events in A Sexual Education: The Bump. To summarize, I'd already discovered that men were interested in me, and I'd put in a lot of long afternoons watching men, mostly faculty and students, having sex in one of the cruisiest restrooms I'd ever seen (and have ever seen since). As of yet, though, I hadn't gotten up the courage to join in, or to lose my virginity. I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of essays. 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 first thing I remember about Mr. Goldberg, when I think about him, is his shirts. He wore white cotton shirts—always white—so crisply pressed that when he’d pass, he would still smell of spray starch and the tang of a hot iron. Their collars were sharp and pointed, and the buttons at the cuff gleamed. A tie always accentuated the planes of his broad, deep chest, and a thin belt of faux alligator showed off his narrow waist and his round, muscular backside. His hair was dark, and parted in the middle, and swooped over his ears like a perfect advertisement for The Dry Look. Mr. Goldberg was a handsome, masculine man, and only twenty-nine when he was my sixth-grade homeroom teacher. For both of us, it was our first year at Anderson Middle School. I only saw Mr. Goldberg in the mornings, for the most part, when we kids would stumble into school before eight, sleepy and reluctant to be there at all. He’d take attendance before we'd head off to our first class. Our school was one of those new, modern buildings; it had very few closed-in classrooms and bragged about a philosophy of open learning. Kids within the half-partitioned sixth-grade science area could look across an open space and see their peers in the social sciences area, or studying math, or practicing for a spelling test. Changing classrooms wasn’t so much a matter of spilling into the halls and running across the building as it was shuffling a few dozen feet across the large carpeted enclosures. But Mr. Goldberg taught remedial reading, and for that reason occupied of the few classrooms with a door and a lock, and blinds that could be drawn so that the slower learners could have their privacy. He was a guy’s guy. When he greeted other male teachers, it was with a confident, casual high-five. On the sly, he operated a running NFL football betting pool in which almost all the boys in his homeroom participated. No money exchanged hands, of course, but there was some kind of running point tally that mystified and frightened me a little, since I didn’t understand football and disliked having to maintain any pretense that I did. He played basketball on a teacher’s league and was supposed to be very good at it, despite the fact he wasn’t any taller than five-foot-eight. On warm days, when he’d roll up the sleeves of his white shirts in neat, geometrical rectangles, they would cut into the muscles at his elbows and expose his brawny forearms, covered with a thatch of dark hair. I really enjoyed looking at him. He was handsome, and not only was he younger than most of the other teachers, but he carried some ebullient youthfulness that made my other teachers seem positively ancient. I already knew, though, that I couldn't be caught staring at him. I didn't let my eyes linger over the planes of his chest or the roundness filling out the fronts and backs of his tight pants. They'd snatch a glance, move away, and have to be content. One of the highlights of grade school for me was the Scholastic Book Club—a racket in which the publisher would send around fliers with a selection of books for purchase at discounted prices. The offerings ranged from the supposedly-good-for-you Newberry winners to the goofy kinds of joke books that kids love. I don’t even remember most of the titles I ordered from Scholastic, but I remember that one day in the autumn I ordered Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Mr. Goldberg asked me to stay a couple of minutes after homeroom that day, when I turned in the slip. “You know, the novel Frankenstein is really not like the monster movie,” he told me, proffering the slip. I nodded, and said that I knew. I did know that the novel was less Karloff-y and more philosophical, somehow. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed, when you got it.” “I’ve read Dracula. The real one, by Bram Stoker,” I told him. “The original? The Victorian original? With all the letters, and journals? All right then.” That information seemed to impress him enough that he nodded, and filed the order slip along with the others. It seems right to me that the Scholastic sale must have been part of some pre-Halloween promotion, because it was still mild and summery when Mr. Goldberg showed up in my last-period science class a few weeks later. “Just stopping through,” he called out to Mr. Hedgepert, the teacher. He then pointed to me, and then at an object in his hand. “Book for you,” he said. “Pick it up on your way out.” His classroom was already empty by the time I dropped off my non-essentials in my locker and ran to his room. The school bus pickup point was all the way at the far end of the building, so I didn’t have much time to spare. “Thanks,” I told him, expecting to grab the book and run. Mr. Goldberg held the book in front of him with both hands, not relinquishing it. “Do you know the story of Frankenstein?” he asked. “I mean, how it came to be written?” I shook my head. Missing the school bus is one of my recurring bad dreams still, even although the last one I rode was thirty years ago. The walk home from school was only a half-hour on a good day, but I was anal enough that the thought of missing the bus made my stomach twitchy. “It’s really kind of interesting.” “I need to go,” I said, or words to that effect. Still he held onto the book, which I remember having a lurid cover straight out of a horror movie. “Oh. Sure.” He seemed disappointed, and that made me feel badly. “Or you know. I could give you a ride home if you wanted to hear about it.” I must have hesitated. Getting a ride home from a teacher seemed like a horrible imposition. “You live not too far from the seminary, right? I go jogging around that area after school most afternoons. It’s not a problem. You wanna?” I thought it over a moment. At that point, flying across the school with my backpack and my French horn to catch a bus would have left me a sweaty, panicky mess. If the bus were still there when I arrive, which was doubtful. Part of me still felt as if accepting would be a terrible imposition. The other half was relieved not to have to make the dash. Reluctantly, I nodded, and told him I did wanna. “Cool,” he said, as if he drove students home every day. At last he handed the novel to me. “So. The story of Frankenstein. Mary Shelley . . . the author . . . had a father who was an anarchist and a mother who was a feminist, you know, one of those ERA types. Both were totally crazy—ahead of their time, really. And their daughter married Percy Shelley, a famous poet. One summer the Shelleys were visiting another poet, Lord Byron. . . .” As he gathered up his papers and put them into the black shiny briefcase that usually occupied a space beneath his desk, he continued to talk to me, telling me the genesis of the novel. He spoke to me not like one of the kids in his homeroom who needed to be settled down for attendance, and not even like a student he was lecturing. He wasn't dry at all. He told me the birth of Frankenstein in a way that almost made it seem as if he knew the protagonists of the English Romantic movement, and was relaying their gossip. It was such a comfortable and interesting description that I don’t think it’s any coincidence that when I was in graduate school, my master’s thesis was a study of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft. By the time we’d reached his car in the faculty parking lot, he’d finished the story and was asking me how I liked my other classes and teachers. He drove a shabby tan hatchback, I remember, and after he pulled up the rear door, he simply took my horn and my backpack and set them within. Then he put a hand on my shoulder, escorted me to the passenger side, and opened the door. It was unexpectedly gallant; I blushed at the thoroughness of his attention. I don’t really remember what else we talked about that afternoon. It seems to me that mostly he dropped little tidbits of information about some of the other teachers—nothing scandalous, but I remember learning that Mr. Hedgepert had a wife who was in and out of the hospital, and that Miss Christian (or, as we kids called her at a safe distance, Miss Un-Christian) was nowhere near as mean as she sometimes appeared. My route home was mostly a straight shot down Brook Road. I directed him down the appropriate turn-off to get to my neighborhood. “Are your folks going to be home?” he asked. “Are they going to mind me dropping you off?” I withdrew the house key hanging on a length of twine that hung around my neck, and explained that both my parents were teaching, and that as long as I got home before they did, it’d be fine. “No worries there, sport.” He reached hand over hand as he turned onto my street, and pulled to a stop in front of my house. “That handle’s tricky. Hang on.” Before I could stop him, he leapt out of the car, dashed around, and once again opened the passenger door for me like a gentleman on his best date behavior. Then he unlocked the hatch, took out my stuff, and deposited the horn on the grass and helped me on with my backpack. “Thanks,” I said. I’d felt comfortable enough in his car, but the sense of worlds colliding with a teacher standing in front of the place I lived felt as if it should be a little weird. “Oh hey. No problem!” He touched me gently on the shoulder blade. “Like I said, I go jogging at the track.” He pointed in the direction of the seminary’s recreational park. “Tennis sometimes, too. You play tennis?” I had to admit I did, although I secretly hated it. (Perhaps it wasn't that much of a secret. My father has long commented to this day on how endlessly I complained about my tennis lessons.) “Nice. You can give me pointers sometime. I’m not too graceful at tennis. You teach me how to handle a racket, and I'll teach you how to shoot hoops." He mimed making a shot. "All right, sport. See you tomorrow.” He waited for the oncoming traffic to pass before walking around to the driver’s side once more. There he raised a hand, and waved goodbye like me might one of his adult friends. “And hey, buddy-boy. Enjoy the book.” I nodded and waved, and wandered into the house, dazed and shaking a little. Nothing untoward had happened at all, but somehow I felt like I’d transgressed some sacred code of student/teacher apartheid. I’d felt the same way when once my father and I had run across my fourth grade teacher at Thalheimers buying wool for her knitting. Mr. Goldberg said nothing about the lift he’d given me the next day, or indeed anything out of the ordinary at all. It was perhaps a week later that I finished Frankenstein—or at least worked up the nerve shyly to mention it to him at the end of home room. “Oh, fantastic,” he said. “What’d you think? You wanna come back at the end of the day and tell me about it? Hang around a little after school? I can give you a lift home again. It's cool.” And I, happily knowing that I’d again riding in that beat-up little hatchback that smelled of his pressed shirts and aftershave, said yes. More...

I know guys have used the block button of me, and Ipm philosophical about it. I mean, like you said, it's there to be used. I think the guys who block me, as far as I can tell, tend to do it because I'm not one of those always-available men; I like a little planning and warning before I hook up. So I'll get a 'LOOKING???' message, and I'll reply with 'I'm not available right now, are there other times you can meet?" and find a little later that the sent message and the profile of the guy I'd sent it to are missing—as in, I've been blocked. His loss, I figure.

I think your conversation sounds a lot more interesting, Hotload.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here From time to time, my sets of blog friends and real life friends overlap and collide. There was one memorable instance after I first started blogging here, a couple of years back, when I got a fan letter from someone who said some very nice things, and then enclosed a few photos of himself. He looked familiar. Very familiar, in fact. He was a professor at Yale with whom I'm friends. I wrote him back to say, Um, we know each other, you know. I know to a lot of my readers that sounds like an absolute nightmare. One of the recurring phobias that a lot of readers present me is their fear that someone might recognize them here—they're afraid to post a comment because someone might recognize it as theirs. They're afraid to send in a photo for publication in case their boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/sister/grandmother/spouse might identify them by a microscopic pimple on their backside. In my case, though, it just led to the two of us becoming even better friends. Saturday morning, my buddy stopped through town so we could catch up and have breakfast together. We'd been talking for a couple of hours when, in a gently-affronted manner, he mentioned someone we both knew who had used him as a reference on a job application, without asking. "Well," I said. "You have to admit. It sounds impressive as a reference. Yale Professor!" I neglected to remind him that when I'd sent around some teaching resumes last autumn, I'd included him as a reference for just that reason. (I asked first!) "It just sounds good. I touched a Yale Professor." I poked him across the table, on the arm. "I'll never wash this fingertip again!" Then I coyly stuck it in my mouth and sucked it. My friend kind of rolled his eyes at me. But I was on a roll. "Yale Professor is like a space on the Sexual Bingo card," I riffed. "Right next to, I don't know. Astronaut, and College Quarterback. Only two more in a row to go for Sexual Bingo!" He cocked his head and regarded like a particularly curious exhibit in a museum. "You're making a blog entry about this in your head even as you speak, aren't you?" Guilty as charged. But my point remains. Sexual Bingo could be a pretty damned fun game, for the sport fucker. There are all kinds of professions and archetypes to fuck one's way through. Corporate Lawyer. Computer Nerd. Hotel Desk Manager. Catholic Priest. Protestant Minister. Rabbi. Tax Preparation Guy. Student. Semi-Hot Homeless Person. Waiter. Airline Attendant. Hairdresser. Republican Congressman. And of course, for the center space on every card, Sex Blogger. Because we're so easy to score, we might as well be the free space. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. ok wat can we do to get your sexy arse to australia maate I'm thinking that taking up a collection and buying me a plane ticket, then finding me a host or two while I'm there, would be a very good thing. Have you ever fallen in love with someone who was supposed to be just a casual hook-up? Yes. Several times, through the years. I don't believe that people are 'supposed to be' any one role in our lives. If you want to live right, and stay aligned with the universe and its purpose, you have to take people and the many gifts they bring, for what they are. It's when we begin to ignore the reality of others, and impose our own wills and desires upon them, that we run into troubles. you are awesome and sooo hot i masturbate to your pictures Thanks! I might masturbate to yours if you sent me some. But you haven't. So it's kind of one-sided that way. So, I've been thinking of starting to blog about my sexuality and my deep appreciation and adoration for the male physique. Any pointers, tips on how to do this - especially anonymously, considering that you've done is so well, and successfully. I think writing about one's sexuality is a valuable experience. When one does it, does it regularly, and does it honestly, it's a valuable record of a subject that gets very little frank and honest attention. Doing it publicly, or blogging about it, can be valuable for others; they get to see that someone else has the same impulses or affiliations or thoughts or fetishes. Even if they have completely different experiences and desires, it still can open up the eyes of a reader with an open mind. So if you decide to turn your writings into blogging, I advise a few things. 1) Write regularly. 2) Write honestly. 3) Make a commitment to your blog, in the same way you'd commit to a weekly choir rehearsal or play practice. Decide on a schedule that's good for you and stick to it. 4) Treat your readers well, when they're courteous and nicely-behaved. 5) Don't blog because you want the approval of your readers. Don't blog because you want my approval. Don't blog because you want to be notorious, or famous. Write about your life and your experiences because you have something interesting to say, and because you want to share it on a regular basis. Be aware that blogging also has its down side. If you're trying not to be discovered, know that there are people out there who will do ANYTHING to try to figure out who you are. (And they might succeed.) Be prepared for that. Know that some of your readers will be fucking crazy. Be aware that the fantasies some readers impose on you will not at all resemble anything you do in your everyday life. And know that readers and haters alike can wreck the pure and noble desire you have right now with just a few words. If you're not afraid of adversity or, more importantly, honesty, by all means. Blog away. do you have a tattoo I do not! I love inked skin, but apparently I am too wishy-washy about what to choose for a tattoo design, and where to place it. When is your birthday? Just the day, not the year My birthday is on the sixth of February, but you can buy me presents year-round! Do you get guys you've never met in person, writing to you and telling you their sexual fantasy of you were to meet in person? All the time. Absolutely. And I've met more than a few of them. One of the unexpected benefits of being a sex blogger (at least, I was naive enough not to expect it) is that the occupation gives one a little bit of swagger; guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger. And of course, one of the unexpected drawbacks of being a sex blogger is that guys (and gals) want to bag a sex blogger. So there's a brand of sexual collector who will say just about anything to sweet-talk me into it, and then drop me like a hot potato after. More...

Yeah, what exactly is up on Manhunt with guys from Xoqatillo, Peru, winking at you?