TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In my checkered sexual history, I’ve many times orchestrated the fulfillment of a particular type of sexual fantasy for a particular type of man. I’ve made black men whimper at their request by whipping out the N-word. I’ve made Middle Eastern men shoot by calling them towelheads. I’ve met Asian guys who reach the peak of their arousal only when I growl down at them that if they weren’t already slanty-eyed little faggots, their eyes would be crooked once I finished fucking their chink asses (which for some didn’t technically make sense, since they were Korean or Japanese). I laugh to think about it, but I once made a Latin guy—a Los Angeles television executive who was far, far better off than I—highly, highly excited a few years back when he showed up at my house hot to fuck, and I made him strip off his Hugo Boss dress shirt, address me as sir, and weed my back garden for a half-hour while I kicked back on the deck with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. No, really. That was the best day ever. I got laid, he came a bucket, and I didn’t have to weed the garden. I’m used to the sounds of protest from some men when they hear I engage in this kind of play. Dick pigs who are usually mopping the floors of skanky bar back rooms with their testicles sudden become prim Mrs. Grundys as they clutch their Sunday best pearls and mouth words to the effect that they are shocked, shocked that anyone would have so little pride that they’d degrade themselves that way. Whatever, cocksuckers. What gets a man off, gets a man off. If in my bedroom or between my toolshed and back garden plot my partners like to flirt with a type of roleplay ordinarily taboo and forbidden to them, so what? It’s not hurting anyone. And my hostas really needed dividing, yo. I encountered a guy this week, however, who kind of threw me for a loop. I’m looking for a guy who’s all top and dom, he wrote. Is that you? Yup, I wrote back. Because it was more diplomatic than, Sure, why not? The guy wanted me, basically, to be a big butch American man who denigrated him based on his nationality. He was from the United Kingdom. Could I do that?, he wondered. I typed back, I don’t understand a fuckin thing you’re saying with that annoying accent, asshole. Did you step out of a goddamned Merchant-Ivory flick or what? He signed off immediately after. I assumed he hadn’t gotten the joke. But no. A couple of hours later I got an email saying that my (intended-to-be-flip) remark got him off immediately. He sent a phone camera shot of the proof. Well, okay then. It really doesn’t take much to get the guy off. A couple of general, short vulgarities, followed by one practiced insult. And while I’m not at all into cybersex, I find this guy kind of amusing. God DAMN, I’ll type to him, for the money shot. Do American guys really let you suck their big dicks with those nasty-ass English teeth of yours? I wouldn’t let that dental tragedy you call a mouth anywhere near my Grade A dick, you little shitstain poof. Instant orgasm for him, giggles for me. Or, All your pasty ass is good for is taking big U.S. dick, you piece of crap Limey. What do you expect from a country where all the men sound like fuckin faggots? That went over well. Or, Don’t come at me acting like you can backtalk a red-blooded American real man. How the fuck did you people even get the Olympics, when you couldn’t tell your pansy asses from your boots in the Falkland Islands? Pure comedy gold, frankly, and every time as a reward I get in my email box a photo of the huge loads he’s splattering across his desk at my insults. He’s enjoying himself, though I don’t think he’s getting that I’m treat the situation like a joke. Usually I take requests for domination and degradation seriously—I think it’s an honor when a guy can open up enough to admit he enjoys that type of roleplay. This guy, though, isn’t in on the farce. Or maybe he is, and my utter amusement at the crap I say to him is part of the thrill? Either way, it’s working. I’m trying to craft something with a Downton Abbey theme for the next time I encounter him, but after that, I’m not exactly sure in what direction I should go. I’ve discarded the Spice Girls as too outdated, Shakespearean quotes as too literary, and puns on Dickens as too obvious. And Chaucer is too much of a boner-killer, right? Yeah, I think so too. More...

Just because they speak without thinking doesn't mean I'm just as unthinking. Whether they intend it as insult or not, backhanded compliments are insulting, and thoughtless. The volume of comments doesn't bug me so much. But there's a huge difference between "Hey, I like your new hair!" and the offensive "YOU LOOK SO MUCH BETTER." That said, I'll always take the hug. :-)

I'm surprised you actually expected him to show, with that track record. I would've double- or triple-booked.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve been feeling a little scattered this last week and a half. I haven’t been able to concentrate. My libido has been zero. All I’ve really wanted to do was turn on my music and curl up with some of the books I’ve been reading, away from people, isolated. This urge to insulate myself from the world happens late in every March, and I pretend that I don’t understand it. Then April first rolls around, and I have to confront what’s been getting me down. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death, you see. It’s been eighteen years—Jesus. But it still creeps up on me. Every year I manage to fool myself into thinking I won’t be affected. Every year I find out that I am just kidding myself. So if my entries haven’t been particularly sexy this last week, I’m explaining why. My mother was a woman with a deep and perverse sense of humor, and April Fool’s day was one of her favorite holidays. Every year she used to plan her one good trick, weeks in advance; she’d conspire with me on one really good trick to play on my friends. I’m kind of convinced that during her last long illness, she held off on expiring until April first because in a very, very twisted way, she knew it’d be her last and best joke ever. One of the things my mother used to do, particularly during my teen years, was to make what she called Fuck-You Lists. Now, I’ve known people, particularly those in recovery programs, to make lists of things for which they’re grateful, at the end of every day. These vaguely inspirational lists are always filled with things like I’m grateful for the touch of warm sunshines on my shoulders this afternoon, telling me that spring is on the way, and I’m so grateful for the love of my husband because he keeps me on my path, and other similar sentimental Hallmark sentiments. I kid. It’s good to be grateful, and to be aware of what’s good in one’s own life. My mother’s Fuck-You Lists, though, were kind of the opposite of these; if she was having a particularly frustrating day, she’d grab a sheet paper, a pencil from one of her crossword puzzle books, and sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. She’d scrawl FUCK YOU at the top of the page, and then jot down the four or five frustrations uppermost at her mind. Then she’d tuck the paper in the napkin holder, or behind the telephone, or beneath a paperweight, and go about her business. I think the reasoning behind the exercise was that her troubles and irritations didn’t seem so ponderous when they’d been reduced to writing on a coffee-stained slip of paper. She could get them out of her system, then leave them behind and head off to work or to one of her hundred political activities. I think it astonished relatives, neighbors, and my friends when they’d come over, wander into the kitchen, and see hundreds of slips of paper in my mom’s exquisite handwriting labeled FUCK YOU! at the top, but hey. It’s what made our home the popular place to be. All this preamble is simply in order to say that in honor of my mom and her passing, I’ve decided to come up with a Fuck-You List of my own today, so I can get a few things off my chest and hopefully move on to better things in the coming week. So. Without further ado: 1. Dear Manhunt Guy who hit me up last night begging me to drop everything and drive thirty-nine miles to fuck him: I’ve got about ten public photos on Manhunt, all unlocked. Your only visible photo was a shot roughly the size of a postage stamp of your chest, in which you’ve used some kind of graphic program to scribble out your face with black pen. Given that imbalance, it’s perfectly reasonable for me to ask you if I may see your locked photo before I commit to a drive, and frankly, I was pissed off by your response of lol you haven’t earned that honor yet. I don’t have to ‘earn’ anything from you, kiddo, especially when it was you hitting on me. And thus I say, fuck you. 2. Dear BBRT Guy who unlocked his photos for me very late last night, and who then mocked my grammar when I commented on how good his photos were: Dude, really? On a sex site? I wrote in complete sentences. How often are you getting that on BBRT? And you know what? When it’s two-thirty a.m. and I’ve got insomnia, I really don’t care if I’ve used the subjunctive correctly or not. What’re you getting out of coming at me so aggressively, anyway? I think I’m heartily justified at giving you a hearty fuck you. 3. Dear woman who runs a local artist’s league where I was investigating a teaching opportunity: I should’ve known something weird was up when I mentioned my involvement with three of the biggest professional organizations for our particular craft, and you looked at me blankly and made me explain what the acronyms were. I’ve got more teaching experience than anyone else leading workshops in your podunk little guild. I’ve had more national exposure, and have a longer track record than you or your other instructors. Why you’ve ignored my several polite emails and phone calls suggesting you let me take you out to coffee so we can discuss me perhaps teaching a couple of courses for you is beyond me, but I’m not chasing you any longer. Fuck you, babe. 4. Dear reader who collected our handful of times together like some kind of prize he could brandish before his buddies: I was astonished at by how very hard you chased me, and I am astonished at how very hard you dropped me once you had what you wanted. You know, I’m not even angry about that, in particular. I’m upset because you never bothered to read the lovely entry I wrote about you—not because you were apprehensive about what I might’ve said, but because you were ‘too busy.’ I’d tell you fuck you, but I’ve already fucked you. So I’ll just say this, though I know you’re ‘too busy’ to read it: you let me down. 5. Dear other reader who devoured my blog from start to finish and initiated a real-life friendship with me on the basis of how well you thought you knew me, afterward: Your infatuation with my life was fueled mainly by the fact you read so much of my journal so quickly, in such a short period of time. I knew that when you were attempting to convince me that you could be my new best friend. I knew that your fascination would cool a little when you reached the point that you’d have to read my entries one at a time, when I wrote them. What I didn’t expect was that the start of that friendship would freeze altogether, and that you’d simply stop speaking to me altogether when you were forced to slow down to my everyday mundanity. You don’t read me any longer because of it, so you too won’t see this, but I was hurt by the way you broke stuff off by trying to make it seem like I was the one who was after something unreasonable, just because I’d say hello and ask how you were doing. It’s with regret that I never got to fuck you, but hey, that was never on the agenda anyway. 6. Dear everybody local who feels it necessary to comment about my haircut: I'd totally forgotten how much I absolutely dreaded going to school the day after I got a haircut when I was a kid, because everyone comments on it. Everyone. To the handful of people who say something like, Hey, you got your hair cut—I like it!, I am grateful. However, to everyone who phrases their surprise in a form similar to You cut your hair! It looks SO MUCH BETTER!—and that's a lot of people who simply shouldn't be opening their mouths—I offer a hearty fuck you. You don't see me walking up to you and saying "Ohmygod you look SO MUCH BETTER now that you've lost that extra five pounds you put on eating all those Girl Scout Tagalongs a few weeks back from that big lard ass!", do you? No, you don't, because it's fucking rude to tell someone they used to be ugly. Back-handed compliments aren't compliments. Learn it! I liked my hair long. I like my hair short. One way is not better than the other. They're just different. No matter how long my hair is, I still look extra-super-foxy. No matter how long your hair is, you're still an asshole. Whew! I think that’s all the things that have been bugging me lately. Now they’re off my chest, I hope I can walk away and leave them behind for a little while, to see if it works. Anyone else have any other Fuck You messages to add to the list? As long as they’re not to me, add ‘em in the comments below, and then we’ll tuck them behind my mom’s avocado-green Princess phone and let someone else stumble on them, down the line. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm running a little late this morning—okay, a whole lotta late—and I've already accidentally deleted this column once (thanks Blogger!) so I'll keep today's Q&A session rather brief. A couple of things, though. Thank you guys for the pleasant variety of questions I received at formspring.me this week. You can either see the answers at the website, or check back here in another three or four weeks when they get incorporated into my weekly round-ups. Another thing—thanks for all the thoughtful answers to Friday's forum about early shame. Some of the stories you folks shared are funny, touching, and thoughtful. If you didn't get a chance to read the comments, take a chance and do. That's what the forums are all about! If you have a "smart phone", what are the apps you use the most on your phone? I use Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and my email and camera apps the most. I also make heavy use of my web browser, and peruse my RSS feeds with an aggregator called Reeder. The game I play the most at the moment is Ascension: Chronicle of the Godslayer. Do you prefer hairy or smooth asses? I prefer asses that are on my face, actually. Do you like to ride roller coasters? If so, what is the name and amusement park of your favorite? I love roller coasters. My favorite is a sentimental choice—The Grizzly, at King's Dominion in Virginia. It's a wooden coaster that rattles your bones as it takes every corner at breakneck speed. It's probably my favorite because I associate it with the time I spent working at the park, and the nights after closing when employees could ride the coasters without lines for hours at a time in the dark, until long after midnight. Working in the park was not a great experience overall, but those employee parties were a great deal of fun. You mentioned that at one time you played WoW...I was wondering if you ever played LotRO? And if so would it be possible to connect with you there? I played World of Warcraft for six years, since the beginning, and then gave it up last April. I was not a fan of the Cataclysm expansion at all. Giving it up was tough, and I still miss the game, but not enough to go back at this point. I played Lord of the Rings Online for about six months, after it opened. It was a vast world, but I didn't really enjoy it a whole heck of a lot. So after I bought my hobbit's player house, I let my subscription lapse. I had a lot of issues with the leveling experience—namely that I'd get a kerjillion quests and they'd all be worthless before I was even vaguely finished with a region—and with the respawn time on trash (way too fast!). I also didn't like the weirdness of the character classes. The archer who was required never ever to move in order to fire at maximum strength was just bizarre. I believe the game fixed a lot of my concerns later, but by then I was gone. What do you feel is the single greatest invention of your time? Plain and simple—the internet. The ability to communicate with parts of the world immensely far away, and on the most obscure of topics, has sparked a change in the way we all live. It's a scope of change that I feel we won't even be able fully to appreciate in our lifetimes, either. Whenever I've thought of moving to the NY metro area, the cost of housing made it seem unattractive, unless I moved into something close to the size of my college dorm room. What are your longer term housing plans, should you stay about where you are? Housing is expensive in the NYC area. If you're moving from somewhere with a low cost of living, like pockets of the midwest or south, it's positively obscene. Originally my plans were to buy a house here. I think now I'm looking at condo options, or I may continue renting for a while longer. To be honest, since I had to sell at an all-time housing depression, the home-owning experience did not turn out to be all-American dream of prosperity I was always promised as a young person. Grower or shower? I'm a grower, but I can do some fairly good showing from time to time. Is there any TV series that miss and wish was still being made? I really think Firefly was canceled before its time. And Angel, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Oh, just throw Dollhouse in there too and we'll have a Joss Whedon wake. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I was having a conversation with someone earlier yesterday about the concept of sexual shame—whether it’s appropriate, when it’s a hindrance, and how it develops in our psyches from the very earliest age. I was fortunate enough to have incredibly sexually-progressive parents who felt that what adults did in the bedroom was pretty much their own business. Nudity was pretty common in our household. I was educated not only in the proper words for the genitals and what came out of them, but in the concepts of foreplay and birth control, long before any of the other kids had gotten beyond the stork and cabbage patch concept. Even in my teen years, my mother’s advice about marriage tended to be, “For the love of god! Don’t get married until you’ve lived with someone for at least two years! Only after you’ve got the fucking out of your system will you know whether you’re good for each other!” True dat. When you get right down to it, it’s about the most practical relationship advice you can give a young someone. The conversation yesterday did bring to mind an incident from my youth, though, involving my grandmother—my mother’s mother. Now, my mother came from a deeply religious Southern family. Her grandfather and her father were Southern Baptist ministers. Her multiple brothers also went into the ministry, though they all broke away from it in one way or another later on in their lives. My mom was the first member of her Georgia clan who finished high school and got herself a college and then a graduate-level education; combined with her political activism, she had a reputation among both her own family and her in-laws as a firebrand radical. My grandmother, however, couldn’t have been more opposite. Both women were equally stubborn, but where my mother was inquisitive and loved to laugh, my grandmother was sour and stern, and looked no farther for news than what she could hear over the bingo tables at the local Eastern Star lodge. My mother couldn’t stand cooking, and pressed me into kitchen labor when I hit the double-digits in years; my grandmother’s main talents had been birthing babies and baked goods. They fought like cats when they were in close proximity. More than once did my mom cut visits south short by tossing me and the suitcases in the back of the car and driving off (“For good!”, she’d yell, every time) in a huff with a squeal of brakes and a flurry of dust from the dirt road on which my grandparents lived. I had to have been in first or second grade when the one incident of shame I remember from my very early years took place, because in my memory we’d just moved into the house where my dad is still living. I was in the basement with a boy from the neighborhood—I don’t remember anything about him except that he lived nearby and that I was trying to make friends with him, because I was new enough to the area that I didn’t have any. And my grandmother was visiting, which is the kind of thing she’d do immediately after a move, to maximize the chaos and discomfort. My parents had bought (maybe for moving, maybe just for their offices) a Dymo label maker. Label makers in those days were heavy devices that look like the radar guns cops use on the sides of the highways, mated with the Starship Enterprise. One fed a narrow strip of plastic into these things, turned the wheel containing the alphabet and numerals and a few rudimentary punctuation marks until it reached the letter of one’s choice, squeezed the handle really, really hard, and distended the plastic tape with a die so that it embossed a character into it. When one had finally finished laboriously spelling out a word, one would advance the plastic tape, cut it, peel off the backing, and then stick the label on whatever it was that needed to be identified. Back in the days before videos games and even electronic calculators, this device passed as nifty and high tech. Naturally, kids loved them. I’d taken my parents’ label maker and this other kid and I were down in the basement playroom messing around with it. One of us had come up with the brilliant idea of making a label that said KICK ME! on it, and we were taking turns sticking it on each other. I’d stick it on his forehead, and he’d giggle. He’d stick it on my shoulder, and we’d both laugh hysterically. I know! You’re envying the sheer hilarity of it! And I don’t blame you! I stuck the label on his chest. Then he stuck it on my butt! Can you imagine? Walking around with KICK ME on my butt all day? What a laugh riot! We were laughing up a storm when I stuck it on his groin. Hilarious! Then I looked up, and saw my grandmother standing on the basement stairs. She wore on her face the expression I always associate with my grandmother, pinched eyes, prim lips pressed into a grim line—the same expression she had almost twenty years ago when I drove overnight, all night, from Michigan to Virginia the day my mother died, and I stumbled out of the car and her first words of comfort to me were, “You sure have gotten fat.” But that day, when I was no more than six or seven, I suddenly knew that I’d done something of which she hadn’t approved. I’d played around with another boy’s crotch. I knew that in her eyes, without so much as a word from her lips, that it was w-r-o-n-g wrong. If it had been my mother, or my father, or any of their friends, such tomfoolery wouldn’t have gotten even a raised eyebrow. But my grandmother stopped there on the stairs, face pressed into that disapproving and disappointed expression, laundry in her hands, and stared. I stopped laughing, and backed away from the kid. Only when I was a good distance away, and she was certain she’d squelched any proto-homosexual orgies that might’ve arisen from the labeler incident, did she finally leave. For the first time—maybe the only time—in my young years, I remember feeling flushed and shamed by the incident. She hadn’t said a word, but somehow she’d convinced me I was doing something wrong, something dirty. On a certain level I knew that my parents wouldn’t have cared about a kick-me label to the groin. They would’ve found it juvenile, but not worthy of condemnation. And in a lot of ways, it was the first time I was aware that my household was a little bit different in that respect than other households. I sure as shootin’ never stuck another label on a man’s dick after that. I’ll tell you that. For today’s Friday open forum, I’m curious about other people’s childhood experience in shame. I know mine is rather tame compared to some I’ve heard. But when was the first time you experienced sexual shame as a kid—and did it come from your parents? Your peers? From within? How did it change your behavior, after? Or did it? Do you feel shame is necessary, when it comes to sex? Or can it be a turn-on? Let’s hear from you guys in the comments. More...

I agree, Slowfuck. There are ways to express dissent without resorting to a type of hyperbole that leaves behind nothing but scorched earth. It's a shame that the only kinds of public discourse we see of late leaves no room for shades of disagreement, but forces dissenters to characterize their opponents as liars and criminals.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Last Friday I had the leisure and privacy to do a little something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I turned the lights low, drew down the blinds, pulled off my pants, dropped my drawers, and then settled down for a long, sloppy session of masturbation. Just me and my greased-up inches. On camera. In front of a good, oh, hundred and twenty people. Getting on cam and showing off my stuff was one of the things I did a heck of a lot back in the days I was first keeping my blog. Before that, even. I was showing off my dick on CU-SeeMe back in the early nineties, and over proprietary software before that. Hell, I was taking moving pictures of my junk to Eadweard Muybridge back in the days of the magic lantern, son, in what was the industry’s first example of the ‘long shot.’ Bam! Anyway. It had been a while. But as I said, I had the time, and the person I’d been expecting to meet that afternoon had been forced to cancel and I didn’t have the heart to meet anyone. On camera seemed like the place to be. I started off on Manhunt, where the video cam rooms can be either very hot, or deadly dull, with no in-between. They were deadly dull. I took my dick over to my cam4.com account, where I started off with a very small but appreciative group of viewers, including a regular reader of my blog. Soon this group swelled into a mob. By the end of an hour, the mob was so overwhelming that I was having to spend more time clicking off private messages demanding that I show my feet or my hole, and accepting friend requests, than I was actually beating my meat. That’s when I know it’s time to go. I was still all boned up with nowhere to go, though, so I took it to Skype, where one of my cam4 viewers was begging me to meet him. He was a Latin boy, all of twenty, and pretty and furry in all the right spots. He had a killer smile, a lean body, and an enormous curved uncut dick I wanted to get to know better. Once I had Skype fired up, I accepted the kid’s friend request and let him call me. Within seconds, that enormous curved dick was filling up my screen. “Hola, papi!” he growled. It was right then that I remembered why I don’t show off on Skype all that often. For one thing, I prefer the places where I can show off to a bunch of different folk at once. For another, on Manhunt or cam4, I can turn off my sound. I don’t have to talk. On Skype, they expect you to talk. And when I start talking during sex, I sound like a completely different person than what normally I am. Oh, it’s not so bad in one-on-one sex. On camera, though, or on those three to five occasions I’ve growled obscenities in someone’s ear over the telephone, something happens to my carefully modulated tones. I start drawling. If a word ends in -ing, you’re sure as hell not going to hear that -g sound. I start using phrases I never employ in my everyday life, like Spread those ass cheeks for me, cowboy!, or Hoooo-eeee! That dick sure looks mighty good! In short, I become very, very Southern. Now, I grew up Southern. My mom married my dad straight out of the back hills of Georgia with the red clay still wet on her bare feet. As a child I had the cutest little Southern accent. I ate grits, growing up. I’ve lost the outward appearances of that cultural identity over the years, though. When I moved to the midwest for graduate school, I realized that no matter what I said, people weren’t taking me at all seriously because of my accent. I could put forth a linguistic assessment of a passage we’d read with all the correct jargon, using all the faddish theorists of the time, and I’d look around the classroom and see people beaming at me, right down to the professor, who’d eventually shake his head and say, “That accent is so cute. What part of the South are you from, again?” So I trained my accent out of my voice. For the most part. It’s still there in there way my voice appears to be softer than it really is—it’s just the way my vowels are resisting curling up into a full Southern drawl. I developed a very neutral way of speaking that doesn’t really call much attention to itself, so that people could hear the message rather than the dipthongs of where I grew up. But hoooo-eee, cowboy, does that all fly out the damn window when I’ve got my pants around my ankles and Skype fired up. Suddenly I sound like I’m Bo Duke behind the wheel of The General Lee, tryin’ to get outta the way of Boss Hogg before he up ’n’ starts causin’ some goddamn trouble again. It’s fuckin' appalling. I’m not embarrassed about my background. I don’t feel particularly self-conscious when I’m showing off on cam. But neither do I understand why, once I see that little green light glowing above my screen and I know someone’s listening to me, suddenly I’m making the exclamations “Daaaaaamn!” or “Shiiiiiiiit!” have three syllables apiece, or why I take on a good ol’ boy affect that I never had even at my most Southern-bound. I don't know why I start hootin' 'n' hollerin' like a redneck yokel. It’s not a matter of dropping the acculturation that’s stuck to me since, like barnacles. I don’t speak like that at my angriest, or my most depressed, or my most unguarded. Why do I do it at my horniest? All I know is that it’s got to stop. If I regress any further, I’ll start babbling about not knowin’ anything about birthin’ no babies, at the height of some jerk-off session. I'm pretty sure I'm correct in assuming that’s a turn-on for nobody, right? More...

Thanks guys!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's been a big week here at the blog. We climbed to over 800 public followers, and then kept going. We hit a million unique visitors. And then, to cap off the excitement, I went and had my head shaved. No, really. I'd been threatening to do it for some time. My hair was long. I'd worn it long-ish for about a decade, but this year and last, it got long. Friends and family would comment on how long my mane was and when I'd retort that I was considering cutting it all off, they'd laugh politely as if they knew I'd never do such a thing. One problem with long hair, though, is that it starts to get in the way. It hangs down in your face, when you're banging someone. It'll look great one moment, and then a brisk breeze from the wrong direction will mess up everything. It tangles when you brush it. Your bathroom walls become plastered with long curlicues of hair that drifted there on the billows of shower steam. You have to plan your days around letting the stuff dry. So Friday I woke up and realized I was going to cut it all off. I dressed, pulled the stuff back into a ponytail, hopped in the car, and drove to the barber, where I sat down in the chair and told him to grab his electric shears and crop it all off. "It's going to be really short if I do that," he said, staring at me in the mirror. "Ye-es," I replied, since that was the idea. "I mean, really short," he said. This was one of the Latin barber shops in the area, and it was fairly crowded for a Friday morning. I couldn't tell, though, whether I hadn't made myself clear enough, or whether he was trying to make certain I knew what I was doing. "Yeah," I said. "Go for it." "All right," he said, shaking his head at the crazy white guy. So the first time around he used the shears on the side of my head, and trimmed off maybe an inch. Then he paused expectantly. I shook my head. "You see my beard?" I said, which I'd just trimmed down before I'd come. "That short." "That short?" he asked. "That short," I told him. So he cut it that short—perhaps a quarter of an inch. Then he did the other side.I still had a long lank of hair down the middle, like I was lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls or something, but finally I convinced him to cut that down, too. When he was done, I beamed in the mirror. It looked awesome, and I told him so. It wasn't until I got home and was examining it in the mirror that I realized I should've asked him to take it even shorter on top. I know some of you out there are mourning the loss of my Byronic locks, but hair grows, and switching things up keeps one on one's toes. And nothing's more welcome in the spring than a little change, right? Let's get to a few questions from formspring.me. (And in honor of the milestones we crossed this week, how about you head over to the site and ask me an anonymous question I haven't been asked before? It'll be fun!) What is your age and what is the oldest person in which you've had sex ? I am forty-eight. The oldest person with whom I've had sex was in his mid-seventies when I was in my early thirties. He was a professor emeritus at a well-respected university, and he was a damned fine lover, too. Highly energetic and very attentive. Have you ever lifted someone up upside down and stood up to perform a standing 69? No. It sounds like way too much work. I have lifted someone up and shoved them against a wall while they wrapped their legs around me, in order to fuck them, but they were considerably smaller and lighter. What is that meal that you loved as kid, but do not care for as an Adult? Spaghettios with franks. Why I loved this gummy, tin-canny mess with the weird-tasting hot dogs is beyond me. It tastes like upchuck. I used to love mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch, when I was a kid. The thought now makes me shudder. And some of the things I used to get away with as a kid, like eating an entire pint of ice cream instead of having a good dinner, just make me shake my head and wonder what I was thinking. Other than your home town or city, where is your favorite geographical location to meet others for "no strings hookups" or sex? Chicago, Toronto, and Atlanta. The men are plentiful and piggier. Have you ever made a sexual phone call to someone you had a crush on and hidden your number or disguised your voice? That kind of behavior seems to cross the line from crush-y to stalker-y, to me. I'm more likely to have a crush on someone and never speak of it or give any indication, only to find out five or six years later that he had a crush on me at the same time. That seems pretty typical. I'm fascinated that your brother "pimps" you. Have you ever shared guys at the same time? Have the two of you ever played with each other? I think most of your questions would be answered if you clicked on the 'mikey' tag either in my sidebar list of tags, or at the bottom of that particular post. You'll see a variety of posts I've made about him. Did you participate in sports teams when you were in school? What sport(s)? What memory or experience surrounding your participation is still important (or most vivid) to you? I played lacrosse and tennis in school, and disliked both. For the former, I lack the team mentality that's so popular in both sports and corporate America. I'm sure my former employers could attest to it, too. I was fairly good at tennis, but because I only did it because my father had played on his high school and college teams, and pushed me into taking up the racket. Because I was a snotty teen who didn't want to please him, I never enjoyed playing it, and resented getting up at five in the mornings, summers, for him to coach me at it. The one sport that meant the most to me in school and after was swimming. Not with a team—but I enjoyed teaching swimming to boys at the YMCA, and lifeguarding. The experience taught me a great deal about interacting with others, helping people face their worst fears, and about responsibility. More...

Hit me up!

A fly with an erection?

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Early in the day yesterday, my blog passed the million-visitor mark, with eight hundred people publicly following me through Blogger. That's not page hits—that's unique visitors. It's taken a little less than two years to get there, but hey. That's a lot of people who've made their way through my little back alley on the internet. Although if you think about it, I've only slept with about eight of my readers during that entire time period. Eight out of one million equals . . . me not getting laid from this blog all that much. So to remedy that, I'm hosting a special smut celebration. My Latin buddy, The Mover, gave me a copy of the 51 Photos he took of me last month—and I'm sharing some of the highlights here. I hope you guys enjoy. Happy million! More...

I know the symptom, but I didn't ask. He seemed too focused (on styling my hair) to have been a serious tweaker. Some people hide it better than others, though.

I got a couple of hair tips out of it!

I disagree. Since I cannot read the minds of others, I don't claim to speak for 'most' people. But many people do not admit to having good memories of early sexual experiences with older individuals, because the only acceptable form of discourse in our society when it comes to that particular strain of narrative is one of abuse and molestation. Any other stories are ridiculed and derided and suppressed. I don't condone those behaviors, either; I think we all recognize they're inappropriate. At the same time, I'm not going to pretend that my own personal youthful experience were either unwelcomed or not enjoyed, nor am I going to apologize for sharing them publicly.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m a little surprised I forgot to write about this one. Last year, sometime in the fall, I started talking to a local guy from Manhunt. He was in his late twenties, lived less than a mile away, and was astonishingly handsome. He knew it, too, because he had a large number and variety of photos displaying him at his best angles. And by best angles, I mean bent over, showing off a perfectly-round jock butt that complimented his classic Latin looks. In these photos his body was muscular, tattooed, and perfectly complected all over. He had big, almond-shaped dreamy eyes of an impossible shade of green—whether from genetics or colored contact lenses, I couldn’t say. He came on strong, too. His initial emails to me were full of compliments, telling me how handsome he found me, and how big my dick was, and how much he needed me to fuck him. He loved married men, he said. He was looking for a compatible, attractive man to meet for no-strings, regular meetings. That was fine by me. We had a couple of late-night talks in which he told me that he couldn’t host, because he was living with a family member, and he couldn’t drive, because he didn’t have a car. However, he was more than willing to get a room at the local Marriott for the both of us, since it was within walking distance of his home. No, it would be his honor to get the room, he told me when I protested at the expense. It was the least he could do if I provided him with my beautiful dick, and besides, he made a good living as a hairdresser. He insisted. We swapped phone numbers and exchanged texts for a number of weeks. Yet I noticed whenever I pressed the issue of meeting and getting this regular no-strings thing started, he’d drag his feet. He wasn’t available, one week. The next, he wanted to know if I had any poppers, and that he couldn’t get fucked without poppers. (I don’t use ‘em and I don’t even know where to buy ‘em around here, so guys, you’re on your own in that one.) I’d make tentative dates that he’d break. Then he started saying, yeah, it would be nice for us to meet sometime. Why didn’t I pay for a room for the two of us? After that initial conversation, there were a too few many balks on his part and way too many hints that I should be pulling out my wallet in order to meet him. I automatically classified him as a hustler, and stopped saying hello to him when I saw him online. The text messages dried up. I hadn’t heard from him since about November when suddenly I caught him online, at the beginning of this month. It was right around the time of my two poopy encounters (which were so grim that I’m not surprised they pushed this one out of my mind). My Latin friend made the mistake of coming at me in the kind of passive-aggressive way that really gets my back up—a kind of “I guess you don’t want to sleep with me any more since you haven’t talked to me in months,” kind of deal that made me get just plain old aggressive in return. I laid it all out on the table for him. I pointed out that I’d tried making dates and that he’d never kept them, that he’d dragged his feet too many times, and that I didn’t like the way it had traveled from The Marriott! My treat! to Get out your credit card and try to impress me with the room you pay for, without any mutual way-station in between. To his credit, he apologized for his behavior. Then he asked if I could host right then. As it happened, I could. I thought it would be a good option to call his bluff, so I invited him over. I was a little surprised when he agreed, and then showed up at my place driving an expensive SUV just a shade smaller than a Hummer. I met him at the street. When he stepped out of the car, he was even more handsome than his photos, and although he’d apparently bathed in strong cologne, I instantly found him attractive. So attractive, in fact, that my jaw dropped down to the ground and, like Wile. E. Coyote from a Looney Tunes oldie, I was conscious that I might have been licking my chops with an oversized tongue. “Wow, it’s nice finally to meet you,” I said, by way of greeting. “Is my ride going to be safe here?” he asked, looking around at the neighborhood like I lived among crack houses. Now, the little community in which I live is one that’s so wealthy, homogenous, and small-town New England-y that the residents don’t lock their doors. No, I’m serious. They don’t. I get laughs and comments of Oh you might have had to do that in Detroit but you really don’t have to do that here! when I pause at my back door to turn the deadbolt. I know of one little old lady here who’s paranoid about crime, and even all she does to protect her house from marauders is to keep the screen doors (plywood, flimsy) on a hook-and-eye. (If there’s a sudden crime wave in my neighborhood after this, I’m going to know it’s one of you guys, you know.) Locking doors is something they do where people aren’t nice. People are nice, here. There are people here who actually, honestly drive horses and buggies. No lie. I live in Mayberry Fucking R.F.D. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked him. He snapped at me. “I just got these wheels and I don’t want them stolen.” I was slightly taken about by the vehemence in his tone. “It’ll be fine,” I told him. “Come inside.” He followed me in, peering around the immaculately-manicured shrubberies of my neighbors as if carjackers lurked within every rhododendron. When we got inside, I took his coat and invited him into the bedroom. He undressed all the way without a word, then lay back on the bed. I followed suit, hoping that things might warm up once we got the naked party started. I erred on the side of optimism, apparently. Although he’d claimed in his profile he loved to kiss and was a great kisser, he didn’t like to kiss and was pretty lousy at it. He employed that weird approach of so many men who think they’re good kissers, who purse their lips, stick a rigid tip of their tongue through it, and jab at me like they’re trying to use an ice pick on my face. He didn’t suck well, though I made noises and groans and pretended he did, in the hope that it might inspire a little more enthusiasm in him. Somehow, despite the lack of chemistry I was feeling on my part, we got to the point where I was fucking him. He was lying on his back. His legs were draped on my chest and shoulders. I fucked away, trying to concentrate on how hot he was and to keep my mind off how I was finding this a disappointing fuck to begin with. He, on the other hand, was playing with my hair. Not in a sexy, oo-baby kind of way. First he reached up with two hands to pull it back, as it hung down around my face. I should probably confess here that my hair is at a length that it’s causing me some concern—though I’m fundamentally too lazy to worry about it overmuch. I can pull it into a four-inch ponytail when it’s in the way. I like to pretend I’m Bob Sinclar, but honestly, I probably look like a homeless person, or at least that I should be handing out Scooby Snacks and sayings Zoinks! a lot while I chase after cheesy-looking ghosts in haunted mansions. So I thought, okay, he’s just getting that mess out of my face. Then he used his fingertips to part the top of my head, and experimentally comb a sweep of it to the left side. Then he used his fingernails and parted it to the right. Then he reached behind my head, pulled my hair back, and looked to see what it was like when it was smoothed down against my head. After that, he fluffed it over my ears. Finally, he pulled the long side lanks down and tucked them behind my ears, seeing how that looked. While I was fucking away, people. While I was fucking away. Every time he changed my hairstyle, as I banged away at his hole, he’d tilt his head and look at me with the eye of a professional, while he judged which coif looked best. Finally, frustrated, I simply stopped. “I'm sorry, is my sex distracting you?” I asked, pointedly. He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Slightly, mind you. “Ooo,” he said robotically, and without any real enthusiasm. “Yeah baby. I like it.” I just stared at him with disbelief. After that, I really wasn’t into it. I mean, what’s the point, right? “Is that your car alarm?” I asked—which was a mean thing to do, since the neighborhood was shrouded in dead silence, but it caused him enough upset that my dick dropped out of his hole as he pulled himself into an alert posture. After that, it was easy enough to tell him that I could tell it really wasn’t working for either of us. Why he came over, simply to show me how boring he found me, I still can’t figure out. Bad sex is one thing. Sometimes it happens—one has to be philosophical about it. Completing sex merely for the sake of being polite, though, is its own excruciating plane of hell. I’d rather cut it short while I’m slightly ahead of the game, any time. But you know, at least there wasn't any poop involved. More...

Can I quote you on that?

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had a long day in the city yesterday, and I didn't get back home until after midnight to check my email and attempt, vaguely, to play catch-up. What I found were a number of comments waiting for approval on a few of my recent posts that, as good-intentioned as they might have been, were simply unacceptable. I thought perhaps I was reading them through a filter of crankiness and weariness, but upon going through them again this morning, I still find them offensive. So I'd like to make a blanket statement, for now and the future. I like my readers to comment upon my posts. When I receive comments, it lets me know that people are reading and digesting what I write. It encourages me to write more. Thank you for the comments you make, very much. However, you are guests here—not only in my blog, but in my bed, and in my sexual history. I don't find it acceptable to visit and to be accusatory and rude, or with the express purpose of lecturing me. When I'm writing about events that occurred over 35 years ago, I'm simply writing about things that happened to me, as I remember them happening to me. It's impossible for me to go back in a time machine and change my responses or choices, distressing as you may find them. It's not acceptable to develop psychosexual histories of my partners in your imaginations and then react to them hysterically, as if they were god-given fact. It's not acceptable to claim that my patterns of sexual behavior are 'criminal.' There are no laws against having many sexual partners, nor against fucking raw. In the future I simply will not be publishing comments that are impolite, whether to me or to the people I write about in here. Even when it comes to disagreement, there are ways to state your opinions in a respectful manner that does not bludgeon me—or the vast majority of my peaceable commenters—over the head with your moral superiority. I encourage you to explore those avenues instead. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I was a wee little Breeder, and piecing together my first pieces of the sexuality puzzle—what exactly it was that men did together, how they did it, and where I could get in on some of that action—reading was how I figured out most of it. I read, for example, in a godawful sex manual that all homosexuals met each other for sex in bowling alley men’s rooms, which I took as gospel. Since the one bowling alley in Richmond I knew about had closed in the late nineteen-sixties, I quickly figured out that I’d probably have to improvise on that count. So I checked out all the men’s rooms of everyplace I’d visit with my folks. The shopping mall restrooms were fairly barren of activity, as were the men’s rooms of my Presbyterian church, for some reason. But I hit pay dirt when I wandered into the basement restrooms of the downtown public library and saw all kinds of obscene graffiti decorating the walls. The first scrawl I read, in fact, said, I NEED SOMEONE TO SUCK MY BIG HARD SOCK. Titillating, yes, but I was still uninformed enough at that tender age to figure out exactly what sock-sucking was supposed to be. Frankly, it didn’t sound too appealing. My socks smelled. (It took me a couple of years of staring at that legend before I worked out that some wag had added an extra curlicue to the first C of cock.) There were enough penciled-in dates and times on the dirty tiles of the restroom stalls, however, for me to figure out that the library was an acceptable bowling alley substitute, and that men probably met there. But on my first pre-teen detective venture into the bowels of that building, another scrawled sentence sent me off in another direction. hotel jefferson basement men’s room, it read, followed by a date that was relatively recent. The Hotel Jefferson was only a few blocks down Franklin Street, in what was then a somewhat-marginal neighborhood. Today that same neighborhood is squeaky-clean, having been swallowed by the university and turned into dorms and shiny new classroom buildings, but back then, it was about as close to a red-light district as genteel Richmond got. The hotel had once been a showcase, a gracious and beautiful place to stay during the century’s first half; it had exalted guests, a grand staircase that allegedly was the model for the one that Scarlett O’Hara tumbled down in Gone with the Wind, and alligators in the lobby fountain. By 1975 or so, it was near the nadir of its decline. Transients shuffled in and out of a lobby that was a shabby copy of its once-grand self. The bored desk clerk didn’t give a crap who came and went. Prostitutes rented a lot of the rooms. And in the basement men’s room, the walls were covered with enough graffiti that I knew I’d hit pay dirt. (Later I was to have my first money-for-sex exchange in that restroom . . . but that was still a year or so down the road.) It was in the Hotel Jefferson that first day that I read another scrawl of graffiti telling me to try the restrooms in one of the classroom buildings at the university down the street. When I followed up on that a few days later, I found my first gloryhole, where for months and months I chastely watched men fucking and sucking on the other side. So all in all, not bad for my first investigation as part of the Horny Boys detective agency—I only had to follow two clues to solve the mystery of where men in my town were having sex. In a similar manner, I discovered the local park that was my number one source of sex for most of my teen years. Although I learned to ride a bicycle at the age of five (without training wheels, thank you very much), it wasn’t until I was ten or eleven that my parents allowed me to go anywhere other than around our residential block on the sidewalk. Even then, my mother gave me a warning. “Don’t go down to Bryan Park,” she warned. “It’s not safe.” Well, Bryan Park was a mile away, which seemed a vast amount when I was ten. I figured getting out that far away from home was remote, at best, when all I wanted was the freedom to bike to the dime candy store in order to fill out my Wacky Packages collection. Only after I’d begun my sexual treasure hunt did I figure out what my mom had meant. One of the homework assignments I had all through sixth grade for social studies was once a week to clip out from the local paper news items, which we’d bring in to class and read aloud to each other until we were all bored to tears. I’d been making quite a reputation for myself by finding the goofy items about the man who grew the county’s largest watermelon, or stupid thieves who’d rob a bank but leave behind their wallets with their licenses and credit cards, ripe for the tracing. Well, some other kids had horned in on that act, so I was forced to go reading actual news items for my assignment. While I was doing my homework at the very last second, in the few minutes before my bus arrived on the day it was due (a sad pattern I’d follow all the way through college), I ran across an item buried deep in the local news section about how over a dozen men had been arrested in Bryan Park, for soliciting homosexual activity. I pretty much had the skinny on what homosexual activity was by that point, and it only took a quick glance in the American Heritage Dictionary to figure out what soliciting meant. From that I figured out that Bryan Park was the place to be! Suddenly that mile didn’t seem like quite the obstacle it once had been. I biked down there soon after and scoped out the place, figured out from the men’s room graffiti and the traffic where the action was taking place, and had received a few solicitations myself. I turned those down, though. I was still too chicken-shit. Sixth grade was a frustrating year for me. I was itching to have sex and had settled on the man with whom I wanted to have it—one of my teachers—though I couldn’t get him to follow through. He’d work me up, then leave me high and dry with no option but to return home and masturbate until my dick was sore and chafed. When school was out, my summer resolution was not to be jerked around like that any longer. I lost my virginity within the first two weeks of the holiday, picked up my first restroom fuck (and my first pierced dick) within a few days after that, swapped sex for a cool fifty dollars at the Hotel Jefferson by the end of the week, and once I could walk again, hit the park for my first sex there. I’d figured out by that point that most of the sex action in the park happened in the heavily wooded area at its rear, in and around a little brick, stinky public restroom. I was still too shy to do anything more in the restroom than pop in, see if I heard noises of men hastily separating and adjusting their pants in the stalls, and dash out again. But I liked to sit in the picnic shelter nearby, atop one of the tables, and watch the men come and go. Before, when the occasional curious cruiser would start to meander my way, hands plunged deep in his pockets to conceal his erection at the sight of a boy near the cruising area, I’d casually but quickly collect my bicycle and act as if I’d just been using the shelter for a quick place to rest. On the first day I went to the park with my three experiences beneath my belt, I strutted into that shelter like the little man I thought I was, set my bike beside the table, and decided to wait until I had an offer for sex. I was determined to follow through on it, too. It didn’t take long. I watched a man in a Dodge truck drive up the long and winding path. He parked, entered the empty restroom, and emerged less than thirty seconds later. For a moment it seemed as if he’d return to his truck and drive away, but he spied me, several dozen feet away. His body faced his vehicle, but his head was turned in my direction, frozen. I knew which part of him would win out. “What’s going on?” he asked me when he approached. He had one of those Richmond accents, broad and sweet and spread thickly as honey on a Ritz cracker. “Enjoying your summer vacation, huh?” I indicated that I was, though not in many words. Despite the truck, I could tell by his dress shirt and polyester slacks that he was a white-collar guy. He sported a wedding ring on his left hand. “What’re you looking for back here?” he asked. His tone was low and insinuating. When I didn’t reply right away, he said softly, “You lookin’ for a mouth around that dick of yours?” I didn’t answer again, but I didn’t shy away, either. He put one hand on my right knee and the other on the left, and pulled them apart. Then he cupped where he judged my cock to be. He made a pretty good guess. I was already rock hard, and he squeezed what dick I had back roughly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You want a hot mouth around that hot dick bad, don’t you?” He spoke the words like they were the dirtiest he knew. The tactic worked. I didn’t have to tell him I needed it. He’d already made the decision for me. He let go of my legs and leaned over to pick up my bike for me. Before I knew what was happening, he’d walked away with it. He lifted it up and placed it in the back of his truck, and jerked his head for me to follow. Well, he had my bike. I didn’t have a choice, right? He didn’t live very far away—no more than a quarter mile. I recognized the street as one I’d biked along before. He stopped the car in front of the house, removed my bike and wheeled it to his back door. I followed along silently, waiting while he unlocked the house and guided me through the kitchen and hallway. We ended up in a bedroom at the home’s other end. It was obviously a girl’s bedroom. The sheets were decorated with Holly Hobbie, a illustrated urchin popular in those days who wore a sun bonnet and plain-spun gingham dress, like a refugee from Little House on the Prairie. The curtains were white and had frills. “Get undressed,” he told me. Then he disappeared. I pulled off my shorts and my shirt, and was wondering whether I should remove my tube socks when he returned with a towel in one hand and a tub of something in the other. I recognized it as Vaseline. He’d removed his pants while he was out, but he still wore his shirt, a pair of bulging white briefs, and his dress socks. He scanned me up and down. “Turn around,” he ordered. I did so. He slapped my thin little ass, hard. “Nice,” I remember him saying. Then he pulled apart my cheeks and jabbed his fingers in there. They were coated with a thick, grease glob of the Vaseline. It was cold, and I jumped. I’d thought that the deal was that I was going to get my dick sucked, not that I was going to get fucked. Part of me, though, was greedy to get fucked again, and my ego inflated at the notion that I was good enough that he wanted me that way. I wasn’t going to get much choice. He’d thrown the towel onto the bed and I went sprawling on it at his shove. He pushed my head down into one of the Holly Hobbies, all while I protested at his bony fingers greasing up my hole. Then he fucked me. I couldn’t tell you how big he was, because I never saw his dick. I couldn’t tell you how long it lasted, because most of the time I was struggling with the pain of it. I wanted cock inside me, back then. After my first fuck I wanted more—I wanted to try it again and again, despite the fact that it hurt like hell every time. It’s tough for me to explain so many years on what drove that compulsion to keep doing it, even when it caused me no little amount of pain. A lot of it was because I knew that it was needed. And some of it was because once I’d endured all that suffering and distress, I knew that it started to feel very, very good, and that the good part, no matter how short it was, vastly outweighed all the bad. In this case, I am pretty certain that the good part was fairly short. His fuck was sweaty and unromantic. Once he was inside, he humped me like a rutting rabbit, jabbing away at me in short stabs that quickly brought him off. He smelled of dirty armpits and spray starch, I remember. Suddenly it was over, just as I’d gotten over the ache of it and had let him fuck me into an erection. He pulled out, and had tugged up his briefs before I could slide off the towel and turn around. “Get dressed,” he said. “Then get out and don’t ever come back to this house again. You hear?” I heard. He spun around and left the room. I fumbled for my clothes, achey and sore. Somehow I managed to pull them on and stumble out of the room and find my way to the back door, where I climbed on my bike and pedaled home. It was a ride home of several firsts—the first time I had to ride for a mile with a freshly-fucked hole on a bicycle seat, which wasn’t without its challenges. It was the first time I used an outdoor faucet at an empty house in the neighborhood to clean myself off before returning home. And it was the first time I had to dispose of a pair of underwear in another neighbor’s trash can so that my mother wouldn’t launder them and discover how messy they were. The first of those I quickly learned to avoid by learning to pedal standing up; the third I managed to avoid after a couple of times by taking over my own laundry. Cleaning off in strange faucets, however, was one of those things I did until I moved away to college, at which point I just began cleaning up before I returned home in other people’s bathrooms. I learned quickly. It happens, when one has the proper motivation. More...

All that means is you make the bottom clean you off, then you do it again!

My experience with slings is always with other men's slings, Belfast, and they've never been positioned properly for my height (and I'm pretty tall). Even when they're not well-adjusted, they're still pretty great for fucking though, I agree.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the most common questions I get—so common that I really should revisit that idea of creating a FAQ that would cover topics like “How big is your dick?” and the ever-popular “How do you find the time to have so much sex and still do anything else?”—is “What’s your favorite way to fuck?” My smart-ass answer is, inserted. No, but really. When it comes to positions, as long as nothing’s causing actual pain or distress (to me, anyway), it’s all good. If I’m enjoying myself, the position in which the pleasure is taking place is pretty secondary to me. I’m not going to stop the proceedings, sniff, and insist that we shift to the downward-facing reverse cowgirl in order for me to have a good time. If we come right down to brass tacks, however, if I’m control the situation and get to choose how my partners are giving me their holes, I’m going to rely on a few personal favorites of mine. Roughly in order of preference, they would be: 1. The bottom with his butt up, lying down. I like the intimacy of this position. The angle of my dick and of most asses are at their best alignment here; I don’t have to grope and search for the hole, only to find it about forty degrees away from where I thought it might be. I just spread the cheeks, push, and there it is. I also like pulling the guy’s legs together and straddling him with mine, giving me maximum penetration. All the warmth of a guy’s skin, from his shoulders to his thighs and calves, is beneath me. If he’s a smaller man than I, and just about everyone is smaller than I when it comes to height at least, there’s a sensation of dominance and power that gets me off. There’s flexibility too, in this position. If I want to put my weight on the man and grind away, I can. If I want to prop myself up on my hands for some extra maneuvering legroom, it’s simple. Nothing’s there to impede my hip action, and if I want roughly to shove the guy’s legs apart and fuck him that way, it only takes a couple of shoves with my knees. Most guys can last in this position more or less indefinitely, which is also a plus. And of course, with me on top, the bottom ain’t going anywhere. 2. The bottom with his butt up, on the knees. For long-dicking—that is, pulling all the way with my cock and then sliding back in again, so that with every thrust the guy feels my entire length invading his hole, rather than just a good three or four inches—this position can’t be beat. The depth of penetration, as well as the total amount of shaft with which it’s possible to penetrate a guy, is superior. Plus there’s just something about the sight of a man on his knees, face in the mattress or pillow, ass in the air, isn’t there? It’s the ultimate submission. A guy lying on his stomach with his face down might be sleeping. He might simply find it the most comfortable position in which to relax. A guy lying on his back with his legs spread and his knees bent and pointed to the ceiling might be doing naked crunches. When a man assumes the position on his hands and knees, though, there’s absolutely no mistaking what he’s doing, what he expects, and what he truly craves. The downside of this particular posture is that its success depends quite a lot on the guy’s endurance. If he has a trick knee, or the mattress is particularly hard, he’s eventually going to give out. And that’s no fun. 3. The top on his back, the bottom sitting on his dick. True confession time: during my teen bottom years, I hated this position. I found it horribly uncomfortable. I’d have to grope around to get the guy’s dick in me for what felt like hours, and half the time the guy couldn’t even keep it up by the time I got him in. It required a certain strength of the thigh and calf muscles to maintain a position that was a little lower than a squat, but not as low as actually sitting down. As a top, though, I really love it when bottoms can sit on me and ride for a very long time. The depth of penetration is unparalleled. If the bottom grinds just right, going back and forth instead of merely up and down, my orgasms are extremely intense (and, generally, arrive faster than any other position). I don’t have full control over my thrusting, which can be a problem unless the bottom is extraordinarily skilled. And lying on my back is comfortable enough for me that I can enjoy it for as long as the bottom can dish it out. Plus, I confess it’s kind of hot just to lay back and watch a guy enjoy himself, at his own pace. Those are my top three. There certainly are others that I enjoy—both of us lying on our sides, standing up with the bottom bent over. There are exotic positions—bottom pinned against the wall with his legs wrapped around the top’s waist while the top fucks him face-to-face standing up, or an upside-down bottom being fucked by a top who is standing normally while his dick is being bent down to point to the floor—that look hotter in porn that they work out in real life, unless the bottom is extraordinarily small. And there’s one position that I find less enjoyable—though still a hell of a lot of fun—with most men, which is missionary, with the bottom on his back and his legs in the air. A lot of men like it because of the intimacy of being able to kiss during the act, and look into each other’s faces. I get that. It’s also easy to pin down a bottom, missionary-style. I enjoy it at the edge of a bed, if the bed is at a height at which I can stand without being on tippy-toe the entire time. I enjoy it when the bottom is unusually flexible. It was my favorite position to fuck Spencer, for example, because his dancer’s legs would fold back as if they were hinged, and he’d hook his prehensile toes onto the headboard. The Runt is good at it, too. If the guy and I end up wrestling against each other to see who’s going to be more off-balance during the missionary position, though, I’d rather just skip it. I’m not every man, though, or even every top, and everyone has his preferences when it comes to position. On this Open Forum Friday, I’m asking you guys to let everyone know which positions are your favorites. What are the old standbys to which you turn when you’ve got your clothes off and your mojo on? Which ones do you avoid, and for what reasons? And are there any exotic Kama Sutra-like tantric postures I should know about? Share it all in the comments! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m going to start at the climax. His climax. When it’s close, we’ve already been fucking for over two hours atop his bed, in a posh hotel on the upper east side. The pillows are in a haphazard pile. The windows are slightly ajar; sunlight is pouring in. It’s a beautiful, spring-like afternoon, but neither of us care about the weather. We’re naked and covered in a thin film of sweat from our exertions. I’m on my back, hips slightly raised, knees bent slightly and pointed at different angles to the ceiling. My dick’s jammed all the way into him, as deeply as I can plunge. And then an inch more, out of lust and spite. He’s sitting on top of me, head tilted back, hand on his thick, hard dick. His knees seem so firmly planted into the mattress that they might have taken root there. His body quivers and quakes as it determinedly grinds down on me. His nipples are dark whorls, the size and shape of half-dollars, that pucker slightly the closer he gets to his orgasm. “Do I belong to you now?” he whispers. His eyes are closed. His face is pointing to heaven. But he’s praying to me. “You belonged to me the minute I dumped that first load in your hole,” I tell him. “Yessss.” It’s a long, drawn-out hiss. Relief and joy, wrapped in luxurious sibilants. “Please. . . .” “Oh, you’re mine, boy,” I tell him. He’s a year older than I, but he’s getting called boy nonetheless. “You’ve got me for a master now.” This man could have anyone he wanted. Anyone. I’d told him so when we’d ripped the clothes from each other and I’d first seen that perfect body in person. The planes of his massive pectorals, the broad shoulders, the muscular arms. His waist was narrow, his ass round and bulging from discipline and work. He looked like he’d been sculpted from dark river clay by the hands of an artist, an aesthete who had shaped him into a perfectly proportioned sculpture. I’d seen that body in the short videos he’d sent me—little greetings he’d taken in front of his bathroom mirror in his California home, in which he’d stripped down to a very self-consciously-selected pair of expensive briefs, held up his iPhone, and shyly spoke to me for a few moments. I lost a little part of my heart to him with each one. I hesitated to tell him how much. Those videos alone had told me so much about this man, one of my readers. They told me he was a man torn between a natural desire to exhibit his beautiful, picture-perfect body, and a fear that I or someone else might laugh at him for doing so. They told me he was a man who was sincerely and objectively beautiful, but was frightened to believe it of himself. Buff and muscular as he was, every one of those sweet and touching video clips made me want to cup him in my hands, like I might a fluffy, newly-hatched chick, and protect him from the world. He doesn’t need my protection, though. He’s not a fluffy chick. He’s a hot man who wouldn’t look amiss in any porn production. I’m a little overwhelmed at the notion that a man this handsome, a man this built, a man this hung, could walk into any bar and leave with the stud of his choice—and yet he’s flown to Manhattan for the express purpose of meeting and spending a day with me. No, protection isn’t what he needs. What he needs is my approval. My ownership. My dick. “You are going to compare every fuck to this one, from now on, hear me?” I promise him, so fervently it comes out as a growl. “I want to make you regret any cock after mine.” When he opens his eyes, there’s a film of happy tears across them. “I’ve never had sex like this,” he says. He sounds weak, and helpless. “I’ve never had it so good.” I’m not immune to compliments like that during the act. I stabbed upwards, plunging my rod deeper into a hole that had grown progressively looser and sloppier over the hours I’d been inside it. “Damn right you haven’t, boy,” I growl. “‘Cause you haven’t had it from someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing.” I’ve always thought I was the biggest pre-cummer around, but this man has me beat. His cock is leaking with sticky goo. It adheres in threads to the hardness of his abdomen, connects to the lightly fuzzy skin of my own. At my words, another glob slides down his meat, like melting ice cream on a scorcher of a day. “This is what you’re made for, isn’t it?” I find myself snarling at him. “Taking a stranger’s dick in an expensive hotel room in the city? Taking a strange man’s cum up your sluthole?” “Yes,” he whimpers. “Yes. Yes.” “Fuck, is this what your ass is made for?” I ask this man, this successful, wealthy paragon of the business world. The words work magic on him. He’s getting closer and closer. “Sluttin’ in up with raw cock pounding away at you? This is all you’re good for, huh?” His head tilts back to heaven again, as he becomes lost in the sensations taking over his body. “Yes.” The word is half-murmured, half-sighed. I recognize it as his amen. “Yes. All I’m good for. It’s all I’m good for,” he echoes. When he comes, which he does seconds after, it’s the biggest load I’ve ever seen come out of a dick. It seems like a half-pint of semen overflows my chest, my stomach, my pubes in warm, sticky jets. He’s panting and grinding and clamping down on my dick like he never wants to let it go, all while from the enraged tip of his cock gushes a flood of the stuff. I’m so overwhelmed that I shoot immediately after, deep inside. It’s my third. By the time I leave him later in the day, he’ll have collected two more. Afterward, when he’s in my arms, holding me so tightly that I wonder if he’s afraid of ever letting me go, I realize to myself how fiercely I meant those words I spoke at the height of our passion. I do want him to regret every dick he takes after mine. It’s a selfish thought. Regrettable, even, for someone like myself who claims to have a philosophy in which sexual jealousy plays no part. But there it is, a nugget of post-coital insight, unannealed and raw—the realization that I wish I did own this man. That I could keep him to myself, for my use only, whenever and wherever I wanted. Or is it that I’m the one who frightened to believe that I could have given him something that good—something better than he’d had from anyone else? I don’t know. Perhaps I am. It’s moments like these, in the quiet times after climax when I couldn’t be any closer with a very special man, that I feel the melancholy of the two of us, lost boys, adrift upon the sea, stranded upon a life raft of our own making. How we cling to each other for comfort, and solace, and company. I run my hand over the short, cropped hair of his head. He murmurs, and nuzzles closer. Relaxing in the warmth of his body, I allow myself to close my eyes and bask in the sunshine and the sound of life coming from outside the windows, and drift. And drift. He’ll be leaving the next morning. These moments of touching, of kissing deeply and wetly, of holding each other as we listen to the distant sounds of New York’s streets a dozen stories below, will begin receding the moment the hotel door closes between us. Next to him now, I’m already anxious about it. But for now, there’s just the two of us, and time. My dick’s still hard, even after that third load. Maybe it’s because he’s kissing me on the neck. Or maybe it’s because he’s down there between my legs, sucking me clean with his amazing, unceasing mouth. How can he be so tireless? He looks up at me with that handsome face, his eyes pleading. “Let me give you pleasure,” he begs. “All right,” I say. It’s an easy agreement. And he begins again. More...