TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Hang on a second,” I say, as we’re walking down the aisle, between supersized pails of cat sand on one side and stacks of small cans on the other. I pick up a box of Fancy Feast. Might as well, while I’m in the Petsmart, right? I’m pretty sure we’re running low at home. At first I tuck it under my arm. Then I realize I’ve got someone to do the work for me. “Make yourself useful, boy,” I suggest, and toss the box to the young guy at my side. He catches it, and hugs it to his chest, his face turning a deep shade of pink. It’s endearing on him. In my head I think of him as the Runt, still. He’s got a name, but I don’t use it much. Because the guy is younger and slight of build, to his face I call him boy. Son, sometimes. He loves the nicknames. Even now, I’m certain he’s flushing because I’ve used one on him. The people around us probably think of him as my son—and he technically could be, admittedly, by his age alone. We don’t look alike, save for a certain leanness in the body. He’s shorter, and small, slight in the shoulders. Soaking wet, probably most of his hundred and fifteen pounds would come from the halo of dark brown hair in a bush around his head. He’s smooth where I’m scruffy, dark where I’m fair. His eyes are big, wide, and brown, while mine are blue and narrow. Still. The human mind takes immense comfort in being able quickly to classify and sort what its owner sees. When one passes a well-dressed older guy walking along the aisles of a pet store with his hand pressed between the shoulders of a much younger guy, one automatically thinks, dad and son taking home some food for the cat. One doesn’t think, I wonder if that older guy is going to being fucking the brains out of that boy in another twenty minutes? I’m guiding him, though. I know this Petsmart well—it’s the closest pet supply store to my home, a mere half-mile away, across from the Starbucks where I’ll hang out in the afternoons. I take him past the banks of cat treats and down the aisle in the direction of the pet groomers and the doggy daycare studio in the back. Then, the pressure of my hand a constant against his back, I steer him down another side aisle. It’s when we stop in front of the display of dog collars that it suddenly dawns on him why we’ve made this detour, and that it wasn’t merely because I was nearly out of Fancy Feast. He looks at me, swallows, and then laughs a little. Once he realizes I’m dead serious, the laughter fades. While he stands there, nervously watching me, I study the collars, look at the Runt, and then finally reach out to lift one from the display. It’s a deliberately-humiliating choice, made of narrow pink leather studded with some kind of sparkly plastic imitation gems. When he looks at it, then at me, I can see in his eyes he’s worried I’m serious. I put it back. I go through several other collars until I make my choice. It’s a sturdy brown collar, broad and made for a big dog—or a smallish male. I tug at it as if to test its give and its strength, pretending I know what I’m doing. It’s all for display, though. He’s watching my hands surround the leather, not saying a word, but no doubt imagining where that collar will be in just a few minutes. I exchange vague pleasantries with the clerk as we check out; I don’t need a back. Without a word between us, we head to my car and drive down the road, past all the industrial installations and the self-storage warehouse and into the quiet residential neighborhood beyond. We’re parking again at the far end of the train station commuter lot. It’s dusk on a winter’s Friday night, long enough past rush hour that most of the cars have emptied out. I pull into a space in the darkest corner, far from the road, and turn off the ignition. “Get in the back,” I order him. When he opens the car door and still has the Fancy Feast in his hands, I add, “Leave the cat food.” He puts it on the floor. I join him in the back, after I’ve pushed up the front seats to give us as much room as possible. “Clothes off,” I tell him. He scrambles to obey. Through his curls he looks at me after he’s shucked off his T-shirt and hoodie all as one. He pulls off his scrubby gray socks, one after the other. They join his top on the floor of the car. Then he loosens his oversized belt and shimmies out of his jeans. I stop him before he yanks off his underwear. I pull down the elastic band in the front. His small cock, erect and already dripping with pre-cum, snaps out like an obscene jack-in-the-box. He lifts his hips as I pull off the blue briefs from his narrow waist. I’ve got the collar in my hand. It’s still stiff and unworked, so I run it as a tight curve through my fingers a few times as he looks at me with wide eyes. “Is that for me?” he asks at last. It’s rhetorical. I don’t have to reply. He knows what the answer is. He’s just filling the quiet with words. I’ll be filling it with his cries, soon enough. “Lean forward, son,” I tell him. My hands loop around his slender neck. The leather’s edge scrapes a trail down the nape until it rests where I settle it. I’m pulling the leather through metal, gauging where to close it. When it’s finally fastened, it hangs a little loose. There’s enough give for me to slip all four of my right fingers through and pull his face to mine. “Whose are you?” I whisper to him. He hesitates for a second. I can tell his eyes are glistening with tears. They’re not tears of fear, or of terror—though maybe there’s some of that, mixed in. No, those are tears of gratitude. This stupid gesture of mine, unexpected and so far from any of the tame experiences he’d had before me that it’s practically alien, this cheap collar that’s put me thirteen dollars out of pocket, has resonated so much with his needs that he’s trembling with gratitude. “Yours,” he whispers. He’s brimming with emotion. I’m not having any of that. Roughly I shove him back until his head is nestled where seat and door meet. We don’t have much foreplay, the Runt and I. He’s there to be fucked, and I’m clear that I regard him as my hole, whenever I pick him up from home and drive him somewhere. I’ve got a tube of Astroglide in the console between the two front seats. It’s been chilling in the winter weather for over a week. It’s cold on my fingertips. I know it’s got to be torture for his hole when I jam my index and third finger inside him roughly. I’m so hard that it’s difficult to pull down my pants in the cramped confines of the car. I manage, though. I’m desperate to shove inside him. “You ready?” I ask. Another rhetorical question. I don’t really give a shit if he’s ready or not. I can feel the lips of his hole separating from the pressure of my cock’s head. The Runt is super-tight. Not so tight that he can’t be opened, though. He’s trying to be a good boy, a quiet boy here in this silent parking lot, but the pain of my cock tearing into his hole is almost too much; he’s panting and gritting his teeth and letting out cries of pain and anxiety and of deep, deep need. My dick, steel-hard and driving in, shows no remorse. But I’m not the only one who’s hard. His own dick is pointing in the air and letting loose another glob of pre-cum. His thin legs are flailing in the air, trying to buck me off, to keep me from entering too deeply. At the same time, though, he needs it, and he knows it. His hands are clutching to the sides of my thighs, not letting me go. Pulling me in. It doesn’t take me long to reach bottom—though it probably seems like an eternity to him. I feel my cock nudge against that spot of his deep within. His cock jumps. I pull out slightly and then shove against it again. Once. Twice. Three times. That’s all it takes. Everything conspires against him—the collar, the darkness, the pain of my dick. Pressure against that point pushes him over the edge, even if he hasn’t touched himself. He lets out a cry that’s more anguish than pleasure, and then his cock begins unloading all over his midsection. I hold still while he gives in to the sensations of orgasm, feeling his tight hole spasm around my meat. When his legs stop moving and I feel his body relax a little, I begin moving again. He groans at the discomfort of it, so soon after his climax. “My turn,” I remind him. “It’s what you’re here for.” He doesn’t protest. We fuck for over an hour. His three climaxes come at random, when I batter his prostate with the head of my dick at a certain angle. Mine are more deliberate, more calculated. Both times I grab his collar and pull him up so he can see my face as I shoot. I make him stare into my eyes and see what his hole is doing to me. Only when my dick stops throbbing and swelling and letting loose the seed it’s delivering do I lower him by the collar back down again. I make him remove it once his clothes are back on. At my instruction, he tucks it into the glove compartment. I can tell he wants to take it home with him, though. I can tell he wants to wear it when he’s alone, and to think of me, and the damage my cock can do. Perhaps another time. For now, that collar is mine, something I can keep in my back pocket for when I need it. Just like I keep him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The response to my anniversary post, The Handsomeness Experiment, was so overwhelmingly positive that I was a little bit buoyed by all the nice comments you guys left on it. Thank you very sincerely—both for your support over the last couple of years, and for your receptiveness to my hippie-dippie philosophies. In a sex blog, gawd help us. At the same time, my mailbox got barraged with emails that were all very similar. They'd begin, Thank you for your thoughts in your anniversary post, or some variation thereof, and then continue, I want to think of myself as handsome, but I can't. Everybody's story varied—and people do like sharing their stories with me, which is flattering and an honor. But they were all stories that had in common the refrain of I can't. As in, I want to meet men, but I can't. Or, I want to have better sex, but I can't. Or, I'm unhappy with the sex I have with my spouse, but I can't say anything. I sympathize. But to a certain extent, I think this kind of thinking is bullshit. I don't talk about my career much on these particular pages. But my particular creative career is something I've wanted to do ever since I was in my teens, and discovered I had a certain knack for it. I can't say I had a lot of parental support in my aspirations. They weren't exactly repelled by my grand dreams in the way they might have been if I'd announced I was going to make a go of a job course in high-visibility masturbation at the side of public school playgrounds, but they did kind of regard me with sympathy and suggest that I have a nice stable back-up career that would never go away in mind, like computer punch-card operator skills, or learning how to use a Dictaphone. So I went to grad school, and made myself miserable. The only time I was happy was when I was doing what I instinctively knew I was supposed to be doing with my life. I made the big leap one summer when I ignored school completely and spent three months doing just that. I worked away at a big project and had a blast doing it. I'd never been on such a sustained high. Along the way I got the attention of an artist's representative—an agent, if you will. She came on strong and told me how talented I was, and of all the things she could do for me. My head swelled. My hopes soared. She dropped names and made me see stars. When she was done, I didn't exactly write nicely-penned notes to all the bullies I'd ever known in high school and college that said, TOLD YA I'D BE RICH AND FAMOUS, SUCKAHS!, but I was pretty close. Then the agent dumped me. No reason why. Just a month later, after I'd been cherishing notions of myself on The Today Show and Phil Donahue (this was the nineteen-eighties, after all), I got a postcard from the representative's assistant saying that they'd changed their minds, because on second view, they weren't as impressed with my summer project as they'd thought they were. That it was self-indulgent and self-conscious, and basically kind of sucky. Well. I hate to admit it, but I let that incident shape the next twenty years of my life. It became part of my life story, in fact—for a long time, the focal incident of my life story. I could've just gotten up off my feet and gone at it again. New project. New representative. I didn't, though. Over the course of time I would simply centralize that one failure so that it was an excuse for not ever really trying again. I'd think to myself, I can't start this new project and see it through—I had my one shot and I blew it. Or, I can't think about trying to get an agent to look at this thing. It's obviously just not in the cards for me. For close to twenty years I lost all inertia, because the story I was telling myself about my life was all about defeat. It was an I-can't story. I was defeated before I even tried to begin—if I couldn't do it, why even try? Eventually, when I realized what I was doing to myself, I made it into an I'm gonna story. As in, I'm gonna carve out another project for myself, see it through, and see if I can make a break for myself. And as in, I'm gonna keep going until I've really given it my all. Can't is such an unassailable word. It might remove responsibility from your hands, in a way—it has a tendency to persuade us that we don't have any alternative. It's just something we can't do! But a lot of time, can't is just a damned lie. The things we can't face are really things we won't confront, or which we're too frightened to consider. When I hear you guys saying I can't meet men, what I really hear is I'm too afraid. When you say I want to have sex that's more adventurous and fun, but I can't, I hear, There are a lot of reasons I won't allow myself to do what I want. When you tell me, I can't fool around on my significant other, you're really telling me, I could if I really wanted to, but right now I'm choosing not to. And when you say, I can't tell myself once a day that I'm handsome, and try to believe it, you're really saying, I want to, but it hurts. You can do any of those things. They might not be easy. They might not be right for you. But you can do them. So this is my hard-won advice: don't tell yourself you can't do things. When you do, you'll start making it an official part of your own narrative. Can't is a seductive deceiver, a mask, an enabler. Be honest with yourself about these things, and recast your narrative as an I haven't yet story, or even an I'm afraid to tale. Fears and lapses can be overcome, if you work at them. Can't, can't. All right. Enough of my hippie-dippie nonsense, and onto some questions from formspring.me. How often do your co-workers irritate you? During the years I did office work, constantly. It was my prime driving factor in taking my creative work full-time. I was just thinking about this issue yesterday, in fact, when I was remembering the awful man who was my supervisor for a good three or four years. He was the vice-president of my division of the university where I worked, and was so beloved by everyone that we referred to him as 'the lisping troll' behind his back. That is, when we weren't referring to him simply as 'shithead.' Writing articles for a university publication was part of my job at the time, and once he summoned me into his office and screamed at me for forty minutes straight because he disliked a headline I'd written. The headline was innocuous: Jones to Helm Animal Investigation Committee, or something very similar. He screamed and spat and swore and said I'd embarrassed him and embarrassed the university, ranting and raving so direly that he had me convinced that I'd put in the wrong name of the person who was going to be the committee chair, or something dire. Then it turned out that his entire screaming fit was because he didn't think helm was a real word. Really. I stood up, took the dictionary off his shelf, opened it to the definition, dropped it in front of him, and left the office. Do you own and wear any jewelry? What pieces do you wear every day? Do you have any special pieces you only wear for special occasions? I have a ring on my left ring finger I've worn for twenty-two years. Once in a while I'll wear a watch. If I have French cuffs on a shirt, I'll wear cuff links with them. That's the only jewelry I have, though. If you could inhabit anyone's body for 24 hours - male or female - in order to experience (and give) physical pleasure as that person experiences (and gives) it, whose body would you pick, and why? I don't have a specific individual in mind, but I know how guys work—despite slightly different wiring between various guys, the plumbing's all the same. I'd enjoy being a woman for a day, simply to experience the differences, and to seduce a few straight guys. Have you ever fooled around with somebody on grindr? Yuh-huh. I surely have. I haven't found it as effective in hooking up as other internet sites, however—and as I wrote about recently, I've actually had more hookups from the non-sexual Instagram than I have from Grindr, which was made expressly for that purpose. When you dislike someone, do you normally let them know or do you hide it? I'm not really very good at hiding dislike. There's always going to be a certain frosty reserve in my manner when I have to deal with people I dislike. I'm not one of those people who feels it's necessary to be liked by one hundred percent of people one hundred percent of the time, so I don't much care. If someone's behaving in a manner that's rude or heedless, and it's causing me to dislike them, I'll typically point out the behavior and suggest it stop, but not mention that it's driving a wedge between us. What's one new thing you want to try -- sexual or other -- in 2012? I'd started the new year with a resolution to bottom sometime before 2013, but I've already busted that one. So to speak. Let's just call it mission accomplished, and ask me again next year. What was your first car? What color was it? Did you buy or was it given to you? The first car I ever drove was a metallic green 1974 Dodge Demon that belonged to my parents. Man, that thing was a bucket of bolts. I hated it. The first car I ever owned was a 1979 Malibu. When I bought it from a colleague of my dad's in 1991, it had less than 20,000 miles on it. The woman who'd owned it drove it a half-mile to work, three times a week, and that was pretty much it, so it was in fantastic condition. Until I got it, that is, when it decided to go through tires like potato chips and sputter and die whenever the temperature got below, oh, fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Man, I hated that car, too. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here You know what? It's been a damned long time since we had a Reader Assets column up in here. How long, you ask me? Four months! That's way too long! Let's rectify the situation with some of the photos my butt has been sitting on—pun intended—since then. These photos are of actual readers who've decided to share their naked goods with the rest of you. So let's hear it for them in the comments . . . and see below how you can share you own goods in a future edition. Marky Marky's been posted on the Reader Assets page before. He tells me that after all the nice compliments you guys gave him, he found the whole experience so liberating that he's totally reassessed his feelings about his own nudity and his own body. I think that's pretty damned impressive, especially for a guy of the age of fifty-six, don't you? Of course, if I had a dick and load and ass like his, and the fur to go with it, I'd be reconsidering being nude as much as possible too. Kellogg If this were RuPaul's Drag Race, I'd be trying to think up comments for these photos like Ru does during the final runway. In Kellogg's case, they'd be remarks like, "Mmm, dish me up a bowl of that!" or "I'm in the mood for some . . . Special K!" Or maybe I should've just gone with a simple, "They're grrrrrreat!" All I know about this gentleman is that he's also in his fifties, that he works out every day, and that he's got some boyfriend at home who's no doubt made very, very happy by having that bowl of Sugar Pops in his bed. (RuPaul, are you reading this? I'm available for freelance work.) Jordan I don't know much about Jordan; he didn't tell me a lot in his letter, other than that he's read my blog for quite a while. What I do know is that he's a bottom. And he's got quite a bottom! I love the roundness of that ass. And what's that hanging out from between his cheeks? Oh yeah. A big old dildo. Hard to argue with that. Pakistani Pussyboi Our friend Pakistani Pussyboi is a fairly frequent commenter within these pages. I think he's one of my finest, hottest readers; I envy the man who got to empty his load into him between the first two and the last photo here. He's got the prettiest, firmest, hairiest ass, doesn't he? Damn. His photos get me right where it counts, every damned time. Let's give all our assets for the day a big round of thanks and applause! If it weren't for them, people would be using the internet for dreary crap like Wikipedia and homework. Send me your assets! If you're interested in participating in this feature, all you need to do is send an email to the address in the blog sidebar with a subject of 'MY ASSETS.' All I ask is that your photos are of you, and not some random porn actor—unless you're a random porn actor, of course. I ask that you be of an age to release such photos, and that you realize that by letting me publish your photos here, there's the vaguest chance that they might be seen by your pastor, your significant other, your boss, and that cute barista you've been flirting with every Tuesday and Friday. I've basically got no more assets to run through, guys—so unless you start sending me yours, it'll be another long, dry stretch until the next round of porn here. Share with me! It's fun! More...

Awwwww! Thank you, EQP!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I love taking photographs. I have absolutely no training or formal education in photography. I'm not particularly good at it. But that doesn't stop me, when I see something I’d like to remember, or a scenario that I find striking, from taking a snapshot. Actually, whenever someone shows me his fancy SLR camera and begins talking about exposures and f-stops and shutter speeds, my eyes start to glaze over. All I know is that I like taking photographs, that I take hundreds of them a month, that I take most of them with my phone and am fairly happy to keep doing so, and that Instagram is the most absorbing app ever invented. For those of you who aren’t using an iOS device, or who haven’t discovered the app, Instagram is a deceptively simple service that lets one share photos with other users around the world. One takes a photo—it’s possible to do so from within the program itself, though most of people I know do it with their dedicated point-and-shoots or with the phone’s camera app—labels it, and posts it for one’s friends to see. It’s possible to touch up and frame one’s shots with one of Instagram’s built-in filters that will make the shot look distressed, or aged, or from a Instamatic camera circa 1972. And in fact, whenever I see Instagram in the press, or whenever I see someone disparaging it, they make a big deal about these filters, as if they’re the entire point of the app. They’re not. It’s possible to find applications with filters all over the damn place. Instagram doesn’t need them. Hardly anyone I know uses them. The point of the program is its endlessly fascinating ability to connect the most unlikely of people in very personal ways. If I’ve just taken and posted a fascinating study of the train tracks down at the local Metro North station, I can click on the photo’s geotag and see who else has posted shots from the same location. Users can add hashtags to their photos so that people with similar interests can find them—so if I want to spend a nostalgic hour looking at photos of my old home town, it’s ridiculously easy. If I want to find photos of people flying kites, or classic architecture, or of guys working out, or just of sexy guys with beards, they’re only a search away. I like the Instagram community because it’s supportive and encouraging and, by and large, pretty tolerant of each other. I don’t run into the huge flame wars I find on Facebook and other similar social networking services. Either you like a photo—in which case you can double-tap it to affix a little heart by it to show your appreciation—or you move on to the next. No hard feelings. And damn, is it ever easy to get laid from it. No, seriously. I’ve made a couple of comments in the past about how I’ve had more hookups from Instagram—on which no photo is anything more than R-rated lest one’s device be locked out—than I have from Grindr or Scruff or any of the apps classified as ‘adult.’ Each time, I’ve received some incredulous replies. Instagram? Really? How’s that even work? It’s a god-damned mystery to me. There are a certain proportion of male users on the service whose feeds are nothing but self-posed shots of themselves. Hey look! I’m shirtless and twisting my body to its best advantage in front of my bathroom mirror! Hey look, it’s me, shirtless, sitting down on my workout bench at the gym! Look, it’s me with a skimpy shirt on at the club, taking my hundredth photo in front of another mirror! I follow a few of those guys, if they’re especially pretty. But I am not one of them. No, my photos tend to be landscapes. Shots of the neighborhood around me, or the vistas afforded down the street at the local beach. I take photos of Manhattan and of bridges and clocks and machinery, none of which is arousing in the least. The only thing I can think of that might be even vaguely sexy about my photos are the shots of skyscrapers I often include. Perhaps the phallic imagery just makes people horny. Yet I have men on the service flirting with me all the damned time, almost as much as if I were actually contorting my body in the mirror to hide the flaws and snapping myself in jock straps to pander to a . . . hey, wait a minute. . . . So I can’t tell you why it goes down, but I can tell you how. Along with the basic information and photo I put in my Instagram profile, I’ve included my Kik nickname. Kik is just an instant messenger phone for the iOS platform. There’s nothing special about it. A lot of Instagrammers use it to send quick messages to each other about contests and the like. Every once in a while I’ll get a message from someone like the one I got last week. Hey sexy, it said. I looked at the little icon by the name, which I didn’t recognize. It was of a kid in his late teens or very very early twenties. Handsome kid, despite the puppy-sized ears he still had yet to grow into. Thick, black hair. Dark eyebrows. Soulful eyes. Gangly, lean body. What’s up? I asked him. I liked your photos, he said. Now I’m thinking about your cock. I’d like to take the opportunity that the photos I’d most recently posted were a sunset shot of a local beach, and a night shot of the Empire State Building. So maybe my phallic subliminal message theory holds water. Have you ever seen my cock? I asked him. I knew the answer was no. So I sent a shot of it directly to him. I want it, he wrote back. I want to sit my ass all the way down on that. Where are you? I asked, expecting the answer to be Utah, or Texas, or Vancouver, or somewhere impossible. But he was in Rye, not more than fifteen minutes away. I didn’t wrestle with the decision. I had a nineteen-year-old hungry for my dick, and whether or not he had a clear idea of what I looked like or was into, I was horny for his ass. He lived in some kind of dump above someone’s garage—a parent? A grandparent? I didn’t care. All I knew is that he answered the side door naked, looked me over, nodded, and held open the door so I could walk up the stairs and into his little space. The room was over-warm and smelled like old pot and dirty laundry. The bed was unmade and littered with cords connected to the laptop that was running in the middle of it. He had the radio running, but turned it off when I entered the room. “Let me see that dick,” he said. I obliged by unbuckling my belt, dropping my pants and my shorts, and standing there with my hands on his hips. He went down into a squat instantly, taking my dick in his mouth and worshipping it. He was good, too; he knew what to do with a cock. He didn’t squeeze with his hand, or try to beat me off while applying his lips to the tip. He sucked it down, and sucked it deep, and closed his eyes as he went deep along the shaft. His own dick hardened between his smooth, almost hairless legs. He didn’t touch it. It was one of those dicks where the foreskin never quite separated from the dick’s head; it looked like the skin there was fused around three-quarters of the perimeter. “I don’t meant to be blunt,” he said finally, bouncing up to both feet. “But I don’t got a lot of time and I want that in me. Is that cool?” I shrugged. Fine with me. The kid was taller that I’d expected from his Instagram photos (which mostly were of him sitting down and smiling into the camera). Standing, he was my equal in height, though he was even slighter in build. I didn’t resist when he pushed me down on the bed, though, moving the laptop aside at the last moment to accommodate me. His legs were narrow but strong; he positioned his knees on either side of me once I was lying down, applied some lube to his hole from a bottle at the bedside, and started sitting down on me. Once I reached down to hold my dick steady while he settled on it, but he pushed my hands away. “Let me,” he said in a tone that seemed to assure me he knew what he was doing. He did. There was some serious resistance at his back door as my cock head pulsed against it, but after some grunting and pushing down on his part, the hole opened and I plunged inside. He went all the way to the base in almost one single, smooth motion, pausing only once to bounce up slightly when it got too much for him. Dick in his hole is what he’d wanted, though, and now he was getting exactly that. He kept his eyes closed during the whole fuck. His upper teeth bit against his lower lip; from time to time he would nod, when I was hitting the right places. Once in a while, across that puppy-dog face would flash a smile, a moment when he’d seem to be completely happy, his needs met. I liked those little smiles. I’d thrust my hips up, or twist so that my dick went in at an angle, or swell my girth, just to get him to toss one at me from above, like someone angling for gleaming beads at Mardi Gras. It wasn’t a long fuck. His big dick with the fused head kept flopping against my stomach as he bounced up and down. Eventually he grabbed hold of it and beat it off until it sprayed its load all over my chest and face. It didn’t take long. I came shortly after. He pressed his hands down onto my chest and held me there after he’d shot, and then picked up the pace with his ass and hips. “Give it to me,” he kept whispering. He wasn’t going to let me up until I did. “Give it to me.” When I did, it was softly, with a little laugh of surprise. I didn’t dare say no. “You hooked up with other guys from Instagram before?” I asked him, when he was walking me down the stairs. Naked, still. “A couple,” he admitted in a gruff voice. “Just not a lot of bullshit there. You know?” I nodded, and pretended to understand. But I really still don’t. How is it easier to hook up on an internet service not intended to be used for that purpose, and on which this photographer, at least, rarely shows a photo of himself? It rings true somehow, but I still don’t get it. Though quite frankly, if it’s scoring me hole like that, I’m not questioning it too deeply, either. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's always been a tradition of mine to thank readers for their gifts in this space. It's also been a tradition of mine, in the last year or so, to be horribly late about getting around to all the things I need to get done. So, in the spirit of honoring one tradition, and trying to eliminate the other, let's share a few images of me wearing, in this case, gifts chosen for me from one generous and sweet-hearted reader who really likes his underwear. Thank you, reader! I've been wearing them in good health. The black-and-white jock in the middle made an appearance in my "Flood" entry a few weeks back, in fact. I'll be getting around to my other gifts soon, I promise. In the meantime, let's check in with some questions from Formspring.me. Stop by the site and ask me your burning questions, and you'll be able to read the answers both on the website and, eventually, here. Are all the stories you posted on your blog, such as the delicious, "Cherry" non-fiction? At the top of my blog, there's this statement: "And yes, the events of this journal are factual." Are those words really not plain enough? I don't write in my blog about the sex life I imagine I could have. I don't write about an idealized sex life I want to have. I write about my sex life, as I experience it. It's non-fiction. I often change names and details to protect the identities of my sex partners. But as those who have met and romped with me and found themselves featured in here will attest, my entries are pretty damned accurate about what transpired between us. In your days as a bottom, or even the few times you did as an adult, did you ever orgasm through bottoming? No, I never did. I came close a few times. And there were times that I had extremely intense orgasms while bottoming as a result of either masturbating, or being masturbated by the top. But I never had a spontaneous orgasm like the ones I've often induced in my own bottoms, nor did I experience the 'anal orgasm' that some of my piggier bottoms get when they're being banged right. What if a man wants you for your mind, not your body? What do you think of it, and how do you feel about it? How do you/would you react to this attitude towards you blog? I'm not really convinced that anyone would hook up with me for my body. My dick, sure. I've traded with that commodity my entire life. My body? Eh. I'm more accustomed to—though not blasé at the notion of—people desiring me because they've been in my head through my blog. It's highly flattering to be desired in that way. Except, that is, for the times that I've been told by people that they could 'overlook' my appearance because my writing is so hot. Thanks for nothing, right? Have you ever considered writing a piece that answers questions from the famous "Proust Questionnaire"? Why should Vanity Fair Magazine and its elite fossils have all the fun?! I'm afraid I'd stumble over 'The military event I admire the most.' I'm not really in the habit of assigning an admiration rating to military events. Many of the other questions on the Proust Questionnaire are intriguing, though. Some I'm sure I've answered here. Others, someone could certainly ask me. Do you, in your heart of hearts, wish you were living back in Michigan? Much as I miss my family and friends there, no. I don't. Every news story I see coming out of Michigan lately is either about the anti-intellectual or anti-gay politicians who've taken over the state assembly and who are working hard to limit the freedoms of not only the sexual minorities living within its borders, but also its teachers and workers. I regret leaving friends, fuckbuddies, and familiar places behind, but after having lived in a more enlightened area for nine months, I can see that I'm in a better place for now. Everyone does--on what occasions do *you* lie? You've asked a difficult question. You're correct in that everyone lies, at times. I try to keep my falsehoods to a minimum, but they sneak in. I lie socially, most often. I pretend to remember names when I don't. I say I'm enjoying myself when I'm not. I agree to do things I don't want to do, and pretend I'm glad to do them, to keep peace. I will lie with anonymous sex partners about certain things—which should have been obvious when in May of 2010 I wrote a blog post about Forty Lies I'd told to have sex. Nowadays I don't lie to expedite getting into a person's pants. If a guy has a specific fantasy in which he needs to believe, however, I'm more than willing to let him believe it of me. That's lying. I would never lie about my HIV status, however, or tell someone that I love them when I don't. I will quite often tell "I'm busy" lies to guys who are pests online. These are the most frequent lies I tell. If they jibe with what you thought I might say, excellent. If you think I'm lying now . . . that's your perception. More...

They tend to get interested pretty quickly. :-)

Yeah, I believe that too, EQP. I understand why guys want me to do more pictures, more videos, more cam shows. It's enjoyable to watch. The pleasure of fucking, though, way outweighs any pleasure I get in doing the pictures and videos. There are a lot better things I could be doing with my hands to pleasure my partners when I'm getting close, than holding and pointing my phone at the action. (That said, I still enjoy making pics and videos.)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here All last month I kept thinking, Hey, my second blogiversary is coming up. I need to remember to write something about it. Then the week before it happened, I several times thought, Next week’s the second anniversary of my blog! Don’t forget to say something to your readers! Of course, the day actually rolled around and I was more or less oblivious. Typical. I’ve thought about several different things I could say about keeping a public sex blog for two years running. I could write up a list of all the readers I’ve had the privilege to meet, and those I’ve had the privilege to get inside. After the mid-year debacle in which a certain other prolific former blogger hate-bombed my email box when I gently suggested in an entry that it’s probably not a good idea for bloggers to chew out their readers en masse on a regular basis, I could’ve written a rather length screed about the unpleasantness of being on the receiving end of the manifestation of someone’s mental illness. I could be writing a grateful and humbled thank-you note to my readers, blessing them for the abundance of fun, fellowship, and kindness they’ve shown me over the last twenty-four months. This entry that follows is more in the vein of the latter. Because I truly am grateful for everything my readers give me, and because I’d like to have a sense that I’m giving back a little, I have an anecdote to relate. I made love to someone recently—it was in these pages, but who it was doesn’t matter. While we were fucking, I kept telling him how beautiful he was, and how handsome. I didn’t say the words simply to get into his pants. Those pants had hit the bedroom floor a couple of hours before. I was telling him how deeply attractive I found him because I really felt what I was saying, right at that moment. I wanted him to know how much I wanted him and how good he made me feel. I could’ve gone all day without touching the guy, if he’d granted me the favor of letting me lie there and look at his sweet face, his handsome features, his deep and kind eyes. There was a moment when we were slowly gyrating against each other, enjoying the slow and deliberate pleasure of it, when he looked up at me in wonder. “I never think of myself this way,” he said. “You make me feel like a completely different person.” I stared at him for a moment. “So why don’t you allow yourself to be?” I finally asked, before kissing him. It was one of those moments that could have easily been forgotten. We both could’ve returned to our homes that night sated and stinking of each other, content to let the evening remain a memory. He took it a little further than I expected, though, when I heard from him last week with this email. You don’t know this, but I fell asleep that night replaying that short conversation in my head. I probably acted like a lovesick fifteen-year-old. You wouldn’t let me go. “Why don’t you allow yourself to be?”, I kept hearing in my head, again and again. Did I feel like a completely different person, through your eyes? I did. Did I feel beautiful, and handsome, and desirable, and all the things I always feared I’d never be? I most certainly did. The next morning I woke up and I thought, "What if I really am all those things?” And I thought, "Why not assume that you are? Why not get up and get through the day assuming you’re all things he said you are?" Handsome. Beautiful. Sexy. Remarkable. Sweet. Hot. It felt like I’d woken up in someone else’s bed. I was giddy as I thought to myself, "It won't hurt anyone. It won't break laws. Why not try it? What if you did it as an experiment? Say, a week? One week of thinking of yourself as handsome?” It was strange. I really wanted to try it, to listen to this unexpected voice—your voice—urging me on. But then my own voice intruded. “It’d be ridiculous because you’re not handsome at all,” it said. “You’re as far away from handsome as it’s possible to get. That’s why.” Your voice spoke up. "Do you think I was just kidding with you? Pitying you? Being kind, in a moment of passion?” I wanted to listen to your voice in my head that morning. Not my own. I stepped into the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. I had sex hair. My face looked slept-upon. But I was handsome. I didn’t have to believe it. I didn’t believe it, yet. I just had to say it to myself. I am handsome. I was walking down the street during rush hour on the way to work. "Lift your head up," I told myself. Have you ever noticed you always look down as you walk, to hide your face? Stop looking down. You're handsome." I do it. I am handsome. In the coffee shop. The server is amazingly cute. He could have anyone he wants. “Don't tilt your head down when he speaks to you. Look him in the eye. You're handsome." I look him in the eye. I smile. I wink as I wish him a good day. He gives me a free cookie. Well, now. I decide to let myself be handsome all that day. Then all that week. And I swear to god, it’s working. I haven’t changed physically, but the world is changing around me. People react to me differently—men and women both, and not just in a sexual way. It's not my imagination. The more I say it, the more I believe it. The more my confidence grows, the more inclined the world is to get out of my way–or, better, to help me step aside and admire me as I pass. It’s novel, and it’s sweet, and I love myself in a way I haven’t for over thirty years. I am handsome. You were the start of this. You did in a few hours what a succession of expensive therapists had never been able to do. You changed the world for me. You and your words. Thank you. Now. I have some disagreements with the basic moral my lover has drawn here. It wasn’t me or my words that changed his world. He did that all by himself, by being open to the truth, open to the universe, and showing a willingness to believe in the best parts of himself rather than to run away from them. And if I can get pseudo-mystical for a moment: you can do that, too. I get so much email from readers who wish their lives were like mine. Or if not exactly like mine, richer and more free, in a direction they perceive mine as being. If there’s anything I wish to have accomplished after blogging for two years about blogging about my sex life, it’s to impart a very specific message: your life is not entirely on rails. You are in control of many of the aspects of your existence that make you unhappy. If you’re dismayed with the way things are going, seize the wheel and steer in a direction that’s better for you. Good things can happen to you. You deserve every single one of them. You are handsome. You are beautiful. You are a wonderful person with an abundance of good qualities. (Well, a couple of you are real shits, but chances are that if you were one of them, you wouldn’t have read this far. You’d already have written your snarky little comment about how I should get a real job, and gone on your merry way.) I have encountered so many men in the last two years alone who long to subscribe to these truths about themselves, but are so frightened to believe anything good they hear—or are so used to ignoring the compliments—that they shy away. They cringe, and deflect, and discount. Anything not to hear what they so desperately wish was true. Yet it is true. You are beautiful. You are handsome. You have a good, sweet soul. Why not believe it for a day? It won’t hurt anyone if you do. Why not believe it for a week? You won’t break any laws. Why not act as if it’s true, for good, and watch how the world changes around you? Because it can, and will, if you so much as allow it. That’s what I wish for each and every one of you. What gift could be sweeter? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After two encounters in a row, within a couple of days of each other, that ended up as a poopy mess, I have to confess that I was a little gun-shy about hooking up again. With anyone. But when my local Puerto Rican fuckbuddy, the sexy, muscular furniture mover, messaged me last Thursday night, I couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of longing down in my pants. sup lover?, he asked. I was sitting in a Taco Bell at the time, having a solitary early dinner. I had the evening to myself, and didn’t have either the inclination to cook or to spend that much time or money on my meal. I’d planned to head home and work on a couple of projects I have cooking. But this sounded better. How are you, sexy man? I wrote back. let me have your big dick my love, he texted. i got my own room now we can meet. That was right. I hadn’t seen my little Rican lover in a few weeks because he’d been in transition. He’d been living with his sister—along with her husband and her husband’s mother and her two daughters—in a cramped two-bedroom apartment when I’d first met him. Since the new year, he’d found a place of his own, which would make getting together easier. Let’s do it, I texted, after a moment’s hesitation. Those projects at home could wait. My dick was hard, and needed a place to unload. I picked him up in front of his sister’s high-rise a very few minutes later. He’d been having dinner there. He hopped into my car and, to my surprise, gave me a big kiss on the lips right then and there. His hand went straight to my thigh, and squeezed. The street was dark and its sole lamp was at the far end, but I could tell my mover looked good. He wore a pair of sweatpants that fit tight around his round rear, and hung slack over his muscular legs and thighs. His pecs were barely contained in a wife-beater scooped low enough that I could see the religious tattoos inked on his chest. “Papi,” he breathed, as he put his hand on the back of my head and pulled my face down to him. I had hastily to put my car into park so that I wouldn’t lose control of it during our kiss. His new place was only two blocks away. (“Remember the ice cream store and that is my street. Now when you think of ice cream you will always think of me!” he said with delight, on the drive over.) I followed his directions and parked the car in front of an auto shop that was closed for the night. We walked up the street, and paused in front of a large bungalow that had definitely seen better days. He stopped right when we’d stepped through the uneven swinging front gate that needed a coat of paint. “Stay here, papi, while I check to see if it is clear,” he told me. I was a little taken aback when finally he came back and snuck me through the front door and down the stairs into the basement, past a vibrating washing machine and through a door at the cellar’s far end. When he meant he’d gotten a room, he meant a room. It was a square box of a room with no bathroom, no sink, no kitchen. Just a small window set high near the ceiling, a mattress on the floor, a TV propped on a plastic milk crate, and a closet full of his overalls and casual clothes. On the mattress was spread a fleece bedspread printed with a giant picture of Jesus, holding up a pair of fingers either to bless someone, or perhaps test which way the wind was blowing. My mover smiled at me with delight. “Now we can be alone when we like, my love,” he said, pushing me down onto the floor and the mattress. “And I get your beautiful cock all to myself.” When he put it that way, there wasn’t much to which I could object. Right? Personal confession time. One of the things I rarely write about is how bad my eyesight really is. I usually wear contact lenses, but a couple of times a week I’ll switch things up with my glasses, which are spectacularly nerdy and (I think) rather cool, but without which I’m pretty damned helpless. I was wearing my glasses that night. But I have to admit—once my mover had gently removed them from my nose and ears and folded them up in a safe place on the floor, I wasn’t paying attention to the shabbiness of that room anymore. Nor to the fact that he was removing my clothes while someone from upstairs was sorting their laundry not four feet on the other side of the locked door, or that he was holding down my hands over my head and licking out my pits right there on Christ’s face. “This is my dick,” he kept saying, after it was loose and free. He put it into his mouth and sucked it all the way down before coming back up for air. “This dick belongs to me, right, pa? All for me?” “All for you,” I murmured dreamily. Not being able to see him put me into something of a dream state. I just allowed myself to enjoy the sensations, to ride the crest of the wave of pleasure. “All for me,” he agreed. He had a small bottle of lube on the deep window sill high above the bed. He spread some on his hole and then a little more on my dick, surrounding it with his fist. Then he straddled my hips with his knees and slowly lowered himself down onto my. My eyes opened when I felt the tight ring of his hole surround my flared head. They opened further when he settled right down onto me and slid to the base. His hips wriggled as he reached bottom. He leaned forward, forced my arms above my head and held them there once more, and kissed me. We fucked like that for a long time. I would thrust up, and he would grind down. It was slow, and unhurried, and languorous, like a summer afternoon’s fuck. When we came, it was together—him slightly ahead of me, as he jerked his uncut dick until it spewed droplets of clear fluid all over my chest, me only a little behind, with his ass still contracting around my meat. Then we remained connected together as if the orgasms hadn’t happened, for a very long time, still grinding, still moving our hips in their circular orbits around each other’s suns. When he finally rested on his knees and lifted himself up, he went for the windowsill again. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but after a moment I felt something cold and wet and soft on my dick. He had a packet of baby wipes that he was using on my dick and balls, and he cleaned me off so sweetly and thoroughly that all I could do was sigh and dream and enjoy the sensations against my dick, my pelvis, my balls, my taint. Even if he had been dirty (and I don’t think he was) that was the way to take care of it after. “I want a photo of you inside my ass, love,” he whispered, when he was done. I was game. I shrugged and told him sure. He ran to his closet and a moment later emerged with a battered digital SLR camera. I was a little surprised at how expertly he fiddled with the lens, but I should have remembered he’d told me he’d gone to an art school, in Puerto Rico. “Can I?” he asked, pointing between my legs. I relaxed. “Okay,” I said. Then with pleasure, I watched as his blurry outline knelt down on the floor, pointed the camera at my three-quarters-hard dick, and snapped a shot. “Let me take pictures of you, love,” he whispered. “So I can remember.” Normally I’m wary about letting guys snap photos of my body and face after sex, because I’m not that convinced I’m porn material above the waist. There have been also a couple of times in the past when I’ve seen photos of myself that men have snapped that make me seem as if I’m nothing but a big dick and a couple of huge cavernous nostrils, or who manage to make me look as if I have the worst outbreak of acne possible, even on days my complexion is clear. But my mover was so sweet, and what I could see of him naked and crouched before me was so sexy, that I just held my dick in my hand until it was hard again, pointed it up for the camera, and posed. The shutter clicked, over and over again. He eased me back against Jesus and shot photos of me smiling at him, my hair wild and crazy. He lifted my legs until my knees pointed at the ceiling, and took shots of me masturbating for him. He cuddled down next to me and made out with me while he held the camera at arm’s length and captured the moment. He took photos of me sucking his dick, of him sucking mine. And he had me take the camera and point it at his hole while I slid into him. Then he would grab the device and look at the photos while we fucked again. I didn’t see any of the photos. He showed them to me, to his credit. But I simply couldn’t see them. My mover would hold out the viewfinder at arm’s length, and flip through the shots. “That is a good one, my love,” he’d say. Or he’d hiss with pleasure and murmur, “Oh, yessssss. I like that. So beautiful.” But I couldn’t see them, because my eyesight is simply that bad without my glasses. I would have had to pull the camera down and peer at it through one eye, two inches away, to see anything sharply. My vanity couldn’t stand that indignity. Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t really care what the photos looked like. If he was happy, I was happy. I like to think that’s the reason I just lay there, and listened to his grunts and watched his smiles from up close, as he reviewed our moments together. “How many photos did you take?” I asked, two and a half hours later, when I was pulling on my socks. I was sitting on the corner of his mattress, legs spread, naked, disheveled. He was standing. He looked at his camera. “Forty-nine,” he said. “Make it an even fifty,” I told him. He grinned wide, and pointed the camera at me, so he could take another photo of me in that unglamorous pose—hair hanging down in front of my face, knees spread, cock hanging so low that the tip almost scraped the floor. Then he said, “One more.” And he reached down, and smoothed away my hair, and lifted my chin high in the air. “Like that,” he breathed, backing away. I heard the shutter click a final time. Fifty-one photos. None of which I actually saw. And you know what? For now I’m good with that. More...

Yes, but I was able to leave out the stream of cursing that I did on the drive home and for the two days later!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here His online profile claimed he was 39. Framed by my front door, he looked 53. His Manhunt and Adam4Adam profile photos had shown a handsome, lean man with dark hair, a married man, a man with a twinkle in his eye and a big dick between his legs. In person, he was an okay guy, a guy with gray and grizzled hair, a schmo whose eyes kept darting back and forth shiftily, as if he were casing the joint. He said he liked to kiss, but apparently his idea of making out was pursing his lips into a tight point, and pressing them hard against mine in as chaste an exchange as I used to get from a great-aunt as a child. He wouldn’t allow my tongue to cross that impenetrable fortress. It would’ve been easier to get into Fort Knox’s main gold vault. I probably should’ve stopped at that point, cut my losses, and called it a day, but I confess I let my horniness get the better of my common sense. I had a day off, and an opportunity to host. My last encounter with the banker who’d pooped all over the floor hadn’t gone so well, and I hadn’t gotten off in the interim. So what if the guy shaved a few years off his age in his online profiles? So what if he didn’t exactly match his older photos? He wasn’t hideous, and I had a dick that needed to get off. So I led him into my bedroom. He went down on his knees the moment my belt buckle crashed against the floor. His mouth wasn’t the best on my dick—too much teeth—but it was a mouth, and I needed some relief. “You like that?” I asked. “You like that dick?” His eyes were closed as he bobbed up and down on the shaft. Thinking he was too far lost in some kind of sexual daze, I repeated my question. “You like sucking on that big ol’ dick?” He opened his eyes then, gave me a look of annoyance, and went back to his substandard blow job. All right, I thought to myself. So he doesn’t like chatter during sex. I’m good with that. I pulled him up on the bed and, while he continued abrading my dick with his incisors, removed my long-sleeved T-shirt. He took a moment to shuck himself out of his jeans and sweatshirt. Even his dick didn’t look as big as it had in his photos, I noted. None of that seemed to matter at the moment. Because I was getting laid. At least he was showered—and clean enough that I felt comfortable eating out his hole a little bit. He bucked and groaned at the attention. “Shove it in,” he begged me, but instead I kept tonguing his hole. It was the first thing I’d done that got much of a reaction, frankly. He slipped off the bed; his hands were braced against the floor as I kept my mouth against his hole. Then his torso slid down the side of the mattress, until his butt and legs were the only parts of his body still at my level. The side of his head rested against the wood floor. His eyes were closed. He sighed with contentment. He was ready. I had some lube at hand, but all I really needed was a little spit. “You cleaned out, right?” I asked, will gun shy after the previous encounter. “I’m totally clean,” he promised. I slid in without a problem. His hole was tight and slick, and when he clamped down on it, I felt right about inviting him into my home. The crappy pics hadn’t mattered. They were just window dressing. This is what we both wanted. This fucking like dogs, this rutting like a pair of animals in heat. His head was back, his eyes closed, his mouth was open. He made the smallest sounds of pleasure and exquisite pain with every thrust. “Let me sit on it,” he begged, after a few minutes. I had no issues with that. I pulled out of him very slowly and carefully. Then I clambered onto the bed and threw myself against the pillows. My dick pointed straight in the air. My ceilings are very, very high in this place; he was able to stand up on my bed without having to bend his head, as he positioned himself above me. “I want you to eat me out some more,” he said, as inch by inch he started to bend his knees and lower himself down. “Eat my hole, man.” And that’s when it started. As his cheeks began to part, stuff started to drip out of his ass. Let’s use an apt phrase that’s been floating around U.S. current events in the last couple of months and call it a frothy santorum. It was the consistency and color of hot chocolate. Not the kind made by any Swiss Miss, however. And it was sloshing down onto my chest. My first thought: Jesus christ, not again! My second thought: How the fuck do I get out of here? It’s surprising, the way our brains work. I recall very analytically, very quickly, running through a number of calculations. It’d be faster to escape by scooting down toward the bed’s foot—but I’d run the risk of getting the stuff on my face, or in my hair. Pulling my body up toward the head would take a lot longer, but I’d have a lot less chance of getting that shit in my mouth or eye. In the end, and after only a split-second of decision-making, I seized his ankle, yanked it up, and did a roll-and-crouch like an action hero off the side of the bed and onto the floor. The guy managed to keep his balance. More of the hot chocolate squirted out of his ass onto the bed blanket. Enema juice, it basically was—probably less disgusting than the banker had been, but this time I was gagging and having to clench down on the contents of my stomach. “Are you crazy?” I screeched at him, my face screwed tight with (I think) entirely justified indignation. “That is no way totally clean!” It actually took the guy a moment to figure out what was going on. He looked at me blankly, then turned to one side to see the brown trail of splotches on my formerly white blanket, then turned to the other side—presumably so he could lawn-sprinkler the entire bed, rather than just the portion of it he’d soiled before. Finally he looked at me. “If you let me use your toilet for a couple of minutes, we could finish up after,” he said. It was an offer I turned down, mysteriously enough. I had him in his clothes and out the door less than a minute later, and within three minutes, all the bedclothes were in the washer and I was in the shower, both set on hot. So I’ve got to put it out there. Men of the tri-state area: what the fuck? Is bowel control not a thing here? Am I being super-picky for asking you guys to make sure your asses are cleaned out before we meet? Do I need actually to put the words Please don’t shit on me in my online profiles? What the god-damned fuck is going on with you guys? This former mid-westerner really wants to know. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had recent two stories to related in which the end result of a couple of unfortunate sexual encounters was me being both grossed out and humbled. The "Fudge" entry of Friday was the first; the other will be my next blog installment. But since I had another recent incident in which I was left with poop on my face (metaphorical, this time), I thought I'd round it out to a trio. I'm always trying new recipes at home. Usually it falls to me to make dinners, because I'm the only good cook in the house, and because I keep the meals well-balanced and somewhat light. There's a baked spaghetti recipe I've been liking lately, for example—and I'm one of those people who associates that particular dish with midweek church potlucks, and always think of it as greasy and heavy and disgusting. The version I've tried, however, is mostly vegetables, and whole-wheat pasta, and just a touch of cheese. Delicious. And then there's the dish I served the other night. It's a brown butter gnocchi dish that's heavy on the garlic. I like it because it calls for a lot of wilted fresh spinach, and because it's one of those meals I can throw together in 20 minutes after being out all day. I dashed home on Friday evening to whip it up, there was a made whirlwind through the kitchen of people eating before they went off to their Friday night activities, and then I was left on my own. So I stuffed my iPad in my bag and headed up to the local Starbucks. It's one of those Starbucks with a drive-through, located immediately off a busy highway exit. There's more traffic through the drive-through than there is in the building itself, which is why I like it. I'm always guaranteed one of the comfy chairs, and reasonable quiet to catch up on my reading. And of course, there's the barista there on whom I totally crush out. He's about twenty. He has very long, curly blond hair that he attempts to keep tamped down with a baseball cap. He's got very dark eyebrows, and a clear complexion, and a skinny frame. And whenever I come in, I get a little bit of a vibe that if he's not exactly itching for me to jump his bones, he doesn't mind talking to me as he prepares my skinny mochas, and he certainly doesn't mind the tip. "Big plans for the night?" I asked him, as I leaned on the counter and watched him play with the various espresso machines. "Probably heading home and reading some new comics I picked up today," he told me. I tried to ignore the fact that I was hitting on a boy who still reads comics, and gave him a suave smile. "Sounds like a wild Friday." "Uh-huh," he said. I'd actually thought he was going to say something else, but he was staring at me. Well, well, I thought. Maybe he's looking for another kind of wild Friday. "You can't thinking of anything more interesting to do than that tonight?", I asked, letting the open-ended question dangle. It wasn't overly suggestive, after all. Just vague. And for a moment I thought he might be buying into it. He kept staring at me with a certain intensity that seemed almost . . . sexual. Like he was lost in some kind of erotic reverie. Then finally his little pink lips parted to speak. I waited to hear what he was going to say. "Dude," he asked, fascinated. "Did someone knock out one of your teeth?" Of course, it proved that one of those leaves of nutritious fresh wilted spinach had completely wrapped itself around one of my incisors, resisting even the swish of mouthwash I'd taken after dinner. I had to scrape it off with a fingernail in the men's room. Mortifying. Let's get to some questions from my readers, courtesy of formspring.me. Do you actively seek out other women-besides the wifey-to sleep with? I have enjoyed recreational sex with women in the past outside my relationship, and I probably will again. My preference in recent years has been to meet with couples (whether married, or in a relationship, or something similar) rather than meet single women. There are a number of reasons for that, but the foremost is kind of big-headed; I've had a few occasions on which single women became possessive to the point of being stalkerish, and I'd prefer not to have to replay the scenario of Fatal Attraction, thanks. Women in a relationship are usually just looking to have fun, or to bring to their relationship something it's not getting on its own. That speed suits me much better. Do you own an Amazon kindle? Is there any chance you would be willing to publish your blog on the kindle? I have, and I use, the Kindle reader on my iPad. I'd be curious about hearing why anyone would think a blog transcribed to a Kindle book file would have any advantage over just reading the site at its web page (aside from portability, for Kindles without fancy web access). I recently got a job that involves me dealing with the public a lot more than I've ever been used to. I have the ability to write things down for some folks who need a receipt. Would it be unwise to slip my phone number on a receipt? You mean, like you're a waiter or a barista? Heck, I say go for it. I've always gotten a thrill (and often a follow-up fuck) when I've gotten a phone number on a receipt. One thing, though. You might want to make clear that you're flirtatious and interested when you're dealing with the customer—there've been a couple of times I've found a phone number from someone who barely looked at me, and I wasn't certain exactly if they expected me to call and come on to them, or whether they'd scrawled it down accidentally. Give the guy a nice smile and your number, and he'll give you a call. What's your favorite reality tv show? The Amazing Race. I would love to go on it with someone who A) could drive stick shift, and would be willing to take on all the solo detours that involve anything cold and/or icy. I, on the other hand, have no issues with bungee jumps, high-wire balancing acts, snakes, or gross food. Any takers? Have you ever gotten a woman pregnant? And how many kids do you think you've fathered? Yes. Three. What is your favourite porn movie and actor? I really, really like Jesse O'Toole of several Treasure Island movies. He's got more ink than a newspaper and about a mile of dick—more importantly, he knows how to kiss and take his time. If I could suddenly morph into a porn star, he'd be the one I picked. Because of him, Breeding Mike O'Neill would probably be my one desert island porn DVD. What did you get for Christmas? My blog readers bought me NastyPig underwear, restraints, chaps, CDs, and a DVD. The best present I got from a blog reader, however, was a pair of Bose headphones that I refuse to take from my head. What music do you like playing while you're having sex? I'm not fond of music playing during sex. I find it really distracting. I also don't like trying to set a mood through music when I'm enjoying sex with someone. I like making a mood through the style of lovemaking, and if Japanese techno is thudding out while I'm trying to create something intimate and sweet and memorable, it's just working against me. Can one tell the difference between bad sex and sex with a virgin if one had no obvious knowledge? Absolutely. Most people who give bad sex manage to bluster and talk a good game, as if they're trying to distract their partner from the obvious badness of it. Virgins who are trying to conceal their lack of experience either tend to clam up during the actual act, or apologize a lot. I don't want to give the impression that sex with virgins is always bad sex. It's not. Sometimes it can be tender and quite passionate and very fulfilling for both parties. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So I’m at this guy’s weekend house. Weekend house, mind you—one of those Victorian two-story New England-type deals originally built in 1860, with a cupola and a grand front porch and a plaque next to the front door stating that it’s part of this hamlet’s historic district. He’s a Manhattan banker who already owns an apartment in the east seventies. (“Don’t hate me,” he begged, when he confessed his profession.) A weekend house that’s been renovated to the gills inside and decorated with tasteful white pine furniture and inoffensive works of art. I’m a little surprised, after I arrive and beg to take a quick pee in the bathroom, to see one of those signs on the sink that asks guests to help conserve water by hanging up towels if they plan to reuse them, and to leave them on the floor if they wish the maids to provide replacements. Later I figure out that during the summers, he probably clears out his personal belongings and uses a service to rent the place out. It’s in that kind of waterfront neighborhood. Across the street from the docks, you know. If one had a sailboat, it’d be heaven. But he’s here now, and I’m here, and we’re undressing each other next to the suitcase he’s got spilled out all over the floor. I’m pleased because he looks like his photo, which is a refreshing change in this area. He’s pleased because I’ve got the big dick he wants. He’s on his knees, leaning across the suitcase to get at it. Then he’s tackling me, arms around my waist, so that I fall back onto the bed with its hundred decorative accent pillows. There are so many pillows, in fact, that there’s a bit of a pillow explosion when my long frame hits the mattress. He has to take a moment to select which of the fussy cushions gets to stay, and which he’s tossing over the suitcase to the other side of the room. Then we’re making out like demons. He’s a good kisser. Very good. He’s one of those silver foxes, an older guy with a head of gray hair and a gym-worked body, a handsome urban professional who’s probably made a good name for himself along with the wads of cash it would take to buy a weekend house like this one. He’s all about my dick, too. He goes down on it like he’s hungry and it’s the first good meal he’s seen in weeks. I’m groaning and moaning and my eyes are rolling toward the back of my head, as I arrange one of the remaining pillows behind my neck. He smells good, too. Like soap, or as if he’s stepped right out of the shower. I notice it when I pull him up to kiss me again, and then suck on his nipples. I flip him onto his belly and kiss his shoulders, his back. I scrape my beard down his spine, and let my chin part his ass cheeks. I lick at his hole, and he shivers. Then I bite at it, and it growls and pushes back against my face. He’s getting into the rim job. His hips buck and quiver, his hole opens. I shove in a couple of fingers, and he lets out a low growl from deep within his core. He wants it. He’s ready. Some lube. Some shoving. It doesn’t take much, and then I’m in. He’s got a sweet hole, and damn, does he ever look good there perched at the edge of the mattress, his ass in the air, his knees spread wide. He looks like a porn actor. He’s loving the fuck as much as he loved going down on me, as much as he loved my mouth against his. He’s no buttoned-down banker, now. He’s a fucking whore, pussying up for a real man’s dick, and he’s letting his pleasure be known. He’s howling and panting and begging me to go deeper. I’m matching him obscenity for obscenity, thrust back with stroke forward, matching every roughness with a pound at his hole. “Let me get on my back,” he says. “I wanna watch you fuck me. Let me get on my back.” I pause, and nod. This is when the unspeakable happens. He pulls off my dick so quickly that it makes a sound like a cork coming out of a wine bottle. Only when it does, a geyser follows. A brown geyser. It’s the consistency of canned beef stew and just as chunky, and not only am I aghast as it splatters out and hits me right between my pelvic bones, but I have to watch as another squirt of it dribbles down his backside and drips onto the floor. Somehow, he hasn’t even noticed. “Come on, man,” he’s begging. “Stick it back in.” “You’re dirty,” I tell him. “Oh shit,” he says, looking up and noticing that his guest has been splattered in the stuff. Pun not intended, I’m pretty sure. I’m not gagging. I’m not even grossed out, except in an abstract, mental way. I just don’t say a word and I walk into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and step in. I let the hot water clean away the worst of it, and only then do I reach for the soap and begin to lather up. When I leave the bathroom, I drop the towel on the floor. He’s managed to clean up a little while I’ve been in there. “You want to keep going?” he says from the bed. He’s on his back, legs up, playing with himself. Still hopeful. “No.” “Let me jack off then,” he says. I’m too polite to say no, so carefully watching where I step, I walk over to the bed and sit there beside him while he wanks. It doesn’t take long, thank god. My own dick is limp. The mood’s gone. He might be a handsome banker to everyone else, but now, to me, he’s forevermore that guy who had a chocolate fountain coming out of his ass, and somehow that’s not all that erotic an image. “Next time I’ll make sure to clean out all the way,” he promises, as he leads me down the stairs and through the kitchen to let me out. Which makes me wonder—how far did he clean, exactly, if that was a partial job? And what would’ve it been like if he hadn’t cleaned at all. “Can I get you anything? Do you want some fudge?” I turn around, thinking he’s making a badly-timed joke. But no, he’s got a cookie tin open. It’s full of squares of dark chocolate. I decline. I’ve had enough fudge for the day. More...

Aw! Though technically, I'm not in Detroit any longer.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post, the second of two, I originally wrote in my journal about a decade ago. I went searching for it over the weekend when I was thinking about its subject. One of my readers in particular will know exactly who I'm talking about here—you know who you are.) “Tell me you can come over.” Angelo's voice rasped low over the phone, early this morning. “I need you today.” Right. I would turn him down. As if. “I need to hop in the shower,” I told him. “Can you give me a half hour?” “I need to get in the shower too, bud,” When Angelo talks in that way gay men imagine straight guys speak when they’re being casual with each other, it’s totally convincing. I never smirk at his buds, bros, or dogs. “Clean up and make myself reeeeeeal pretty for you.” No words could have been more calculated to make me hop in the shower more quickly. Angelo, The Handsomest Man In Detroit, has an arrangement with me. Every two or three weeks, he’ll call on the days I’m most likely available to play with him, and he’ll invite me over. He’s not a planner; we can’t set a date for three days later and meet then. He wants me when he wants me. Thirty minutes after his call, I’ll pull into the driveway of his tiny house in the east suburbs, walk in through his open back door, and find him either in the shower, singing to himself in an off-tune voice, or sprawled on the bed in musky gym clothes. Just hanging, as he likes to say. Hey, bro. I was just hanging, waiting for you. Then we fuck. It’s our standard practice, though there’s nothing routine about the sex—that’s outstanding enough to keep me going back. I love the broad planes of his chest, his porn-star good looks, the deep blue of his eyes, the little cleft in his chin; I can’t help but admire the perfect roundness of his ass, or the way he responds when my hand drops to his buttocks and squeezes. He’s a loud lover, a man who likes his pleasures heated and his appetites addressed instantly. I might say no on occasion when other regular sexual partners of mine call, but not to Angelo. Not to The Handsomest Man In Detroit. Him I make time for. I expected our usual agenda when I pulled into his driveway today and turned off the ignition, but before I could open the door, Angelo padded around the corner in workout gear, his hands making a circular motion, telling me to roll down my window. “Hey,” I said. He wore a three-day growth of stubble, dark blond and gray. Instantly, when his full lips pulled into a grimace, I knew something was wrong. “My dad is here,” he whispered. “Oh.” That put a damper on my anticipation. “He stopped by just a couple of minutes ago.” “Hey, that’s okay,” I said. “We can do this another time. Really.” “No.” His hand shot out to clutch my forearm. “I don’t want you to go. I just . . . I don’t know what to introduce you as.” His hand on my arm was a subtle reminder of why I enjoy being with him—his grasp was firm. He was close enough that I could smell the Dial he’d used in the shower. At the same time, all I could think was, We’ve been fucking for two years and he doesn’t know my name? “Rob,” I said at last. He gave me the look of patience that people reserve for the slow and the hard of hearing. “I know your name, dumb-ass,” he said. “I meant, I didn’t know how to say why you were here. Maybe I’ll tell him you came over to take me to breakfast? Yeah, that could work. Only, he might invite himself to eat with us. Did you eat?” I could only stare. Angelo was breaking our routine on so many levels. He was actually appearing outside his house, he was introducing me to family and talking about them going to a meal with us . . . where the hell was this going? At the same time, I was amused and intrigued enough by the situation to say, “Sure, that’s fine.” I’d barely let the words out of my mouth than Angelo was back around the corner of the house saying, “Hey, Dad! This is Rob! He was kind of going to take me out to breakfast.” I found myself getting out of the car and wandering around the back, where I shook the hand of an old Polish man with an enormous waxed mustache, who greeted me and promptly went back to examining the transformer for some low-voltage outdoor lights. Angelo put his hands on his hips, sucked in his upper lip, and listened to the electrical advice his dad gave him. It was wrong. All wrong. I don’t know where Dad Of Handsomest Man In Detroit might have learned about electricity, but I do know for a fact that you don’t measure electrical load by multiplying 120 volts by 12 volts, dividing by 15, and asserting that you can get “Ninety-six, probably a hunnert little lamps on this line.” “I don’t think that’s the way it works,” I said, but when I saw Angelo strutting around and kicking at stray pebbles, his head nodding, I knew that he was simply tolerating his dad’s advice the way I put up mine, when he’s on a verbal tear about things I already know, like how storm windows save money. I kept my mouth shut, and let the old guy rant on about where the zinnias should be planted, and how the water hawthorn’s leaves looked limp, and how amazing it was that goldfish could live all through the winter in that frozen pond and still be around come spring. From time to time, Angelo would look at me with apology, but his attention was on his father; he was full of uh-huhs and yes sirs and of courses as we slowly walked around the garden, looking at the new pond Angelo had dug to expand his water garden. “Let me show you the lighting system I’m installing,” Angelo said. He turned and jogged back to the house, his moccasins scuffing the stony path. “I got it at Home Depot yesterday,” he called. Once the back screen door had slammed shut, Angelo’s dad poked at the hole in the ground with the stick he’d been carrying around to illustrate his points. “So,” he finally said. “Are you dating my son, or what?” “Oh gosh.” I was genuinely caught off-guard by the question. Every response that sprang to mind was of the off-color variety. No, I’m just bitch-fucking him. “I’m just . . . taking him out to breakfast,” I said at last, trying to look at anywhere but the man’s face. Then I realized how evasive that seemed, and met his frank gaze square on. “We’re just friends, you know.” “Breakfast sounds like a date to me. Doesn’t that sound like a date to you?” “It’s just breakfast.” “ Angelo’s a good boy,” he said, pointing the stick in my direction. “He deserves a good man in his life.” I felt on the defensive. Was he saying I wasn’t a good enough man for his son? Or was he implying that, you know, I should be taking Angelo to expensive dinners instead of cheap-ass breakfast at Coney Island? “He deserves a real good man.” I nodded sagely into the back of my fist, and pretended I appreciated the gravity of the moment. Though really, all I wanted to do was press the rewind button on the remote control of my life, and insert a new movie starting at the moment Angelo had called, an hour earlier. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m kind of busy this morning. Maybe next time? The back door slammed, and Angelo came out, his short legs sprinting over the driveway. “I’d better let you boys have your breakfast,” his dad said. “Are you hungry?” Angelo asked. “Did you eat?” Again, his eyes were full of apology as he glanced at me. I really liked him at that moment, inviting his dad out to the imaginary breakfast. He’d probably expected his father to decline—as he did—but it was still sweet of him to ask. And to assume I’d play along with it. “No, no, I’d better get going and let you boys have your fun.” He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Nice meeting you, Bob.” “It was great,” I said, not correcting him. “I’ll walk you to the car,” Angelo said. I’d been prepared to follow, but he grabbed my shoulder as they strolled by, and murmured in my ear, “Go in the bedroom and get comfortable.” I kicked off my sandals once inside, and rested on the bed. My heels dug into the metal railing of the frame while I waited; I heard them exchanging goodbyes outside the bedroom window, and then a few moments later, the sound of the dad’s truck slowly pulling past. The back screen crashed shut, followed by the slow, soft catch of the inner door. I heard one, then a second moccasin hit the utility room floor. And then there came the sound of Angelo’s bare feet padding across the wood floor as he came to me. “I am really sorry about that,” he said. “It was really unexpected. I was over at their house yesterday and I said, come by anytime, you don’t have to phone, and I really didn’t expect for him to take me up on it so soon.” “It’s no problem,” I told him. “Your dad’s a nice guy.” He stretched and yawned. As his arms flew up, so did his shirt. He tugged it over his head in a smooth motion, and shook out his hair. “I’ll make it up to you.” “No, really,” I said, from the bed. “It’s no problem.” “No,” he said, standing in front of me. His thumbs hooked inside the waistband of his jeans; his fingers fumbled for the metal button. As the denim slid down over his thighs and calves, they made the slightest of sounds. He pulled first one leg, then the other out, and tossed the jeans aside. He stood totally naked, an arm's-length away. “I mean, I’ll make it up to you, buddy.” Then he shoved me back onto the bed, one of his knees between my legs as his full weight landed on top of me. His soft lips met mine, and his tongue slid into and out of my mouth. “For being so nice,” he murmured. His hands slid under my t-shirt until his thumbs and forefingers found my nipples. “Okay,” I said, trying to catch my breath. So I let him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post, the first of two, I originally wrote in my journal about a decade ago. I went searching for it today when I was thinking about its subject. It's interesting how my attitudes about certain things discussed here, such as my feelings about my own attractiveness, have changed in the interim.) He’s way out of my league. Men I already consider out of my league, would think him way out of theirs. His name is Angelo, but I call him The Handsomest Man in Detroit. The Handsomest Man in Detroit lives up to his title. He’s fortunate to possess the blond, affable movie star good looks of Robert Redford in his younger days. When he smiles, his eyes sparkle and his lips frame perfect, even, white teeth. His cropped dark blond hair always looks as if he’s just run a hand through it. He’s much shorter than I, no more than five foot six or seven, but his compactness suits him; he’s concentrated sex appeal—bite-sized eye candy. And he likes me. Beautiful people either intimidate or scare the shit out of me, quite honestly; my lifelong experience has been that like attracts like. In congregations where pretty people gravitate to each other’s shining lights, I’m shunted to the sidelines like the bastard love child of Shrek and Buddy Hackett, feeling fit only to spend the remainder of my days high in the towers of Notre Dame, filing away the hunchback’s corns. Yet the Handsomest Man in Detroit manages never to make me feel as if I’m his community service project, nor does he contrast the muscular flawlessness of his body to the pale imperfections of my own. Nor do I spend much time emailing him or phoning him to tell him how hot he is; I’ve sensed that other men have turned him off with their groveling. I bide my time and ignore him. Then every two or three weeks he’ll simply call me and in his low, growling voice, ask, “Are you free tonight?” I was free Monday. “I’m going to leave the back door unlocked for you,” he said. “I’m heading home from the gym now, and might still be showering up when you get there. Just come on in and get comfortable.” When I arrived a half hour later, I parked my truck in his driveway. Audible through one of the house’s back windows was the percussion of splashing water against a tub floor, accompanied the sounds of humming; through the screen came the scents of steam and soap. The back door was cracked open, as promised. I stepped through and into his laundry room, where on the floor lay a pair of gym shoes, battered, worn, and still warm, as if kicked off when he’d entered the house. Dark blue sweat shorts with a legend of University of Michigan lay draped over the short flight of stairs up to his living room; a few feet further away, a discarded gray jockstrap, its edges worn and frayed, decorated the carpet. Angelo still sang to himself when I rapped at the bathroom door. I could see the hazy outline of his body behind the transparent shower curtain, and his hands as they reached behind to clean himself out. “Hey buddy!” he said. I felt warmed by the happiness in his voice. “Why don’t you go to the bedroom and get comfortable? Wait,” he added. The curtain slid back with a hiss of the metallic curtain rings. “Whatcha wearing?” He took in my oversized camouflage shorts, my gray t-shirt. “Keep it on . . . let me undress you when I get there.” The curtain slid shut again. I kicked off my sandals and lay down on his bed in the next room, my hands cupped beneath the back of my head. It was only a matter of a few seconds before I heard the water slow to a trickle, then stop, followed by the clatter of the curtain rings and the sounds of Angelo stepping onto his bathmat and drying himself off with a towel. I kept my eyes closed while I listened to him padding down the hallway in my direction. “Hey,” I heard him say. And then he was on top of me, straddling me at the waist, his mouth on mine. Warm moisture still rose from every square inch of his skin. He smelled clean, almost sweet, as if he’d just stepped out of an ad for grooming products. “So hungry for you,” he murmured, his back arching as his squared-off jaw traveled down my chest. His fingers fumbled at the tie of my shorts, losing momentum when it became obvious they’d formed a knot. “Sorry,” I murmured, embarrassed and trying to help. He pushed away my hands. “Sssssh.” As his own fingers continued to work at the puzzle, his mouth pressed against my stomach, his lips pulling at the hairs there, tickling and teasing my skin until all I could do was sigh. Finally I felt my zipper’s release. Unfettered by underwear, my cock sprang forward. He caught it expertly in his mouth, and began to slicken it with his tongue and lips. “I’ve wanted this bad, lover,” he said, detaching himself from me and diving for my balls. Soon my legs lifted into the air as he wrestled my shorts from them, and then he was on top of me again, cock against cock, his taut, narrow hips grinding against me. We crushed our pelvises against each other, our gyrations meshing in rhythm and increasing in pressure; our lips met again, eyes closed. When finally I unearthed myself from beneath him and flipped him onto his front, my cock left a shimmering snail’s trail where I slid across the black bedspread. He knelt down, perfect butt high in the air, still gyrating his hips. “Please,” he whispered. “I need it bad.” “What do you need?” I asked him. He doesn’t answer until I slapped his ass, and then he responded only with a gasp. “What do you need?” I repeated. “Your cock,” he said. “Inside me. Now. Please.” Within a minute I was inside him. Then finally I said, “You’re beautiful,” I whispered. It’s the only moment I ever allow myself to make the compliment. The two words instantly made him relax and groan, then step up the intensity of our act. I didn’t have to thrust—he did that for me, backing himself onto and off of my meat like an animal in the throes of heat, his hole contracting and squeezing more strongly than almost anyone I’ve been inside. “Oh god, thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you, thank you.” I raised up his torso so that he was still kneeling on the bed. I stood behind him, feet on the floor, still deep inside as I craned his neck around to kiss him. Then I pushed him down again, thrusting with more vigor. Both his hands clawed the bedspread; I felt a splash of wetness on my foot. He had shot, spattering the bedspread and the floor. But he kept grinding and groaning, urging me to my climax. When I came, it was with violence, my teeth clenched, my butt cheeks taut. We both stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he spoke. “Let’s get in the shower.” This was the part I almost liked best . . . him with a washcloth, bent down in the tub with the spray stinging his back, tenderly washing my penis and my balls, occasionally leaning forward to kiss or lick my only half-flaccidness. His finger lingered in my navel; he gently bent me over to drag the washcloth’s rough surface between my butt cheeks. And then he helped me dry, and brought to my shorts and my t-shirt, and assisted me back into them. “You really know how to help a guy clear his mind,” he said. I wanted to tell him that he really was The Handsomest Man in Detroit, but I slipped back on my sandals and said merely, “Thanks.” That’s the way he likes it played, I’ve learned. Casually. As if I’d condescended to do him a favor, rather than the other way around. “Later?” “Fuck yeah.” He leaned over to give me one more long, grateful kiss. Post-orgasm, I again felt almost unworthy of attention from such a beautiful person. On my solo return trip out the door, I paused by the discarded jock strap The Handsomest Man in Detroit had been wearing only an hour and a half before during his workout at the gym, and considered whether or not to pick it up and stuff it in my pocket, as a souvenir. More...

Yeah, I'm constantly amazed at some of the nasty remarks I've received on the online sites, including the time someone told me I had a serial killer vibe (and then didn't understand why I was offended), the time a kid who had looked at my profile over two dozen times in a single week gave me an LOL when I said hello to him, or any of the numerous times I've gotten something like, "You'd almost be worth fucking if you changed your.... [hair/weight/look]". Asshats, all of them. It's really not that tough to be civil.

Hey, GayButt—that's seriously one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me, at any time in my life. Thank you. I'm a little speechless (for a change).

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A short note to guys on Manhunt: I know it's a rough world out there. I know that the sex sites are the rootin'-tootin' Wild West of the online frontier, where the men are gruff and the sheep run scared. I know the result has prompted many of you to take it out on others in your profiles. When your Manhunt profile consists only of two paragraphs, however, with one saying you're looking to meet nice guys, and the other reading, "Why is it so hard for men to be polite to each other on this site? Kindness and respect goes a long way with me!", and then you hit me up and respond to my comment of You are a handsome young man with one that reads That's the funniest thing I've ever read! How old are you, ninety? You sound like my grandpa and he's DEAD!!—well, I'm pretty much going to think you're a total asshole. Don'tcha think? Now let's get straight to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. And please, if you have any questions you'd like to ask about me that don't have to do with my dick size or my family life, head over to the site and feel free to ask anonymously. Have you ever met anyone who tested as average (IQ, SAT, etc.) but still really impressed you as a mind? If yes, how do you think such people differ from those whose test scores stand out? Some people test well, and are generally pretty smart. Some people test well and are as dumb as a couple of potatoes in a bucket. Some people don't test well, and have seemed smarter than some of the guys with Mensa-level IQs to me. You know, I've run across all kinds of smart people in my life. Some of them have been told repeatedly how stupid and unteachable they are by teachers throughout their life, and by parents, and so-called friends. They've come to believe it, all because they didn't do well on standardized tests, or because they weren't all that great at writing essays. When asked to articulate carefully their ideas, though, they can be as sophisticated as any of their peers, or even more so. My dad, who is one of the smartest men I know, was told throughout his childhood that he was stupid because of a mild dyslexia that causes him to spell (even still) like a fairly uneducated third grader. He tests badly on standardized tests, and his unedited essays are tough to read because of the spelling. He's a brilliant scholar and a had a long career in academia, though—he's just had to work twice as hard and overcome a lot of feelings of inadequacy because of his circumstances. What was at the top of your Christmas list? Peace on earth, and goodwill to men. And by 'goodwill' I mean Uniqlo no-wale corduroy jeans in every color, size 31/34, and by 'men' I mean me. When you're at the gym, how can you tell if a straight acting guy is Straight or Gay? I'm usually pretty sure they're open to gay sex when they're going down on me in the sauna. Do you reckon you'll still be a top at 60 or 70+ ? Probably. What interests me more is whether I'll still be attracting the bottom boys at that age. How did your upbringing differ most from the norm, and how did this shape your adult personality? I grew up in a household in which the sensibility was decidedly liberal, actively political, and in which sex was not a taboo topic nor was nudity rare—which was relatively uncommon in the nineteen-sixties and nineteen-seventies, but not unheard of. Usually when you find that combustible combination, though, the kid who grew up in has a name like Sunflower or Autumn. As a kid I used to have to apologize to my peers for the differences between my house and theirs. Now I think I had a pretty awesome upbringing that's left me adaptable, open, and free of a log of bugaboos that cloud the minds of many people I know. I'm also aware that in other people's eyes, some of the things I see as my virtues—my candor, my sexual openness, my tendency to make a stand and defend it—come off as less than virtuous rudeness, crudeness, and jackass stubbornness. I'm glad for my hippie-dippie upbringing. It wasn't a bed of roses, but it taught me more about the world than any Leave It to Beaver household. Have you ever found yourself in the position of willingly giving up something you never thought you'd give up? if so, what was it? I've given up a handful of friendships I thought would last forever, because they changed and were no longer real friendships. That hurt. I've given up pursuing someone when it became plain that my attentions were causing him emotional distress. That hurt a lot. I gave up a home and a place I really liked living so that someone I loved could pursue a dream. That was painful, but worth it, in theory. Learning to let go of things when it's time is part of a life's journey. It's never without its anguishes, small and large, but it gets easier to contemplate, the more one does it. Did you have a favorite gift as a kid? What was it? I had several Christmas gifts when I was a kid that brought me a lot of pleasure. One was a miniature printing press, which I used to write my own newspapers for several years. Another was a chemistry set with which I laboriously worked through every experiment, though strangely it never helped me understand high school chemistry later on. Another was an electronics set, that let me perform various scientific experiments using a transistor, several diodes and resistors, wires, and a AA battery. Mostly I loved getting board games, though. I still have every board game I've ever received—mostly Parker Brothers classics from the nineteen-sixties and seventies. The best Christmas gift I ever got was probably an Atari 2600, when the originally came out. I played the heck out of that thing for several years—it probably got more utility than any other Christmas gift I ever received. Do you wear cologne and if so what kind? I rarely wear cologne. When I do, it tends to be something extremely light and barely noticeable. Have you ever been caught by someone, preferably a female, and then had that someone join in? The whole scenario of 'being caught' seems to be a popular fantasy for a whole bunch of men. It seems to be fueled by an undercurrent of shame and a desire for humiliation—and I've never been particularly ashamed by anything I've done sexually, nor am I into being humiliated. That fantasy has never done anything for me. I've written in my blog about an incident in my mid-teens in which I was taken home by a couple of police officers for having sex in a park restroom. That was the one and only time in my life I've ever been surprised at anything. So other than that, no, I've never really been caught by anyone, at any time, doing anything, because mainly I know how to close the door and/or lock it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There are times I will hook up with a guy even though my better judgment tells me to run in the opposite direction. Then I wish I’d listened to my better judgment. I spent Wednesday in the city. The family’s away for a few days. I took myself shopping, to dinner, to a show. I hung around in a coffee shop trying to connect with one (any one!) of the guys who keep telling me that when I’m in Manhattan, we should get together. Then finally, frustrated, I boarded my train back to the suburbs. I thought it might be easy to score some sex online. Unfortunately, all the offers I got were from guys in Manhattan, who were suddenly interested in me now that I was twenty miles away. The closest I got was a Latin kid who was listed as being in my city, but then who revealed he was really in New Rochelle, twenty-five minutes down the road. (In Michigan that would’ve been nothing. Here, it’s a long-ass haul.) And that he didn’t have a car. And that he couldn’t host, so I’d have to pick him up, bring him back to my place, then take him back after. At one in the morning. I was about to give up and just hit the sheets when a guy much closer started hitting me up. He was all top, he told me, but he was in love with my dick and he wanted to give it the expert treatment it deserved. I’m cock-proud enough to enjoy such blandishments, certainly. But I’m usually looking for anal, I told him. Two tops can have fun together too, he wrote back. I would love to give you a long, sloppy blow job for as long as you like. I enjoy getting head, I typed. But it doesn’t usually get me off, and I don’t like the guy expecting me to shoot when it’s not likely to happen from a blow job. Guys say that to me all the time, he said. Then I show them what a real blow job is like. I said, All right, as long as you know what you’re doing, and you’re not planning to try to beat my dick into submission with your hand. I use nothing but my mouth, baby. For as long as you want it. Up to you. So I shrugged, gave him my address and some very explicit instructions on how to find my house, and told him to text me when he pulled up, and that I’d meet him on the front porch. I didn’t need him ringing the bell of my upstairs neighbor at one-thirty in the morning. Then I flipped on the porch light. Now, I should explain something about my current living situation. I live in a big old house in the middle of nothing. I mean, really. There’s a vast wilderness surrounding the house—nothing but flora in every direction. You know that Andrew Wyeth painting, “Christina’s World”? Well, that’s pretty much what my current living situation is like. Only I have indoor plumbing and cable. It’s really hard to miss me, in other words. And I give very good directions. The guy only lived ten minutes away. My phone vibrated fairly quickly with the notice that he was outside. I opened the screen door, and went out on the porch to greet him. And I waited. And I waited. I could see his car. It was parked on the street where I’d told him, right in front of the slate stones that lead up the vast grassy knoll to the house. But I couldn’t see him. I texted him to ask if he was coming in. Nothing. It was five minutes before he texted again. I can’t find your house. I’d had one unfortunate late-night encounter last year with a methed-up individual who had been pounding on the front doors of my neighbors across the street , while texting me that my road had nothing but even-numbered addresses on it and my address was odd. I was already dreading a repeat of it. I texted some terse comments about how my house was the only fucking house in the area and I was freezing my ass off on the front porch. I’m at a building with a mail slot that says book deposit on it, he texted me. The idiot had parked directly in front of my house. And then he had turned, walked five minutes down the street, and arrived in front of the public library. What. The. Fuck. I wasn’t all that happy when, a good ten minutes later, I finally got him into the house. He wasn’t all that attractive a guy—definitely there was some disconnect between his fairly good-looking pictures and his actual appearance. But I stomped into the bedroom, kicked off my pants, and let him go at it. I was slightly relieved he didn’t remove his own clothes, since that would make it easier to get rid of him if I had to. I was pretty sure I was going to have to, fairly quickly. For one thing, the guy’s ‘long, sloppy blow job’ technique consisted of grabbing my dick in his fist and letting his lips travel as far as the ridge of my head. And apparently ‘for as long as I liked’ was approximately two and a half minutes, because that’s when he started beating me off like he was frantically auditioning for a Shake Weight ad. “You gonna come?” he growled, in none too sexy a manner. “You gonna blow that big beautiful dick for me?” I pulled myself up, unattached his death grip from my tender meat, and led him back to the front door with a gentle thanks, but no thanks. So, guys. I’m advising that you not oversell your oral skills. There’s such a thing as good, hot oral sex, and then there’s such a thing as a guy between your legs with his mouth on your dick, not doing anything sexy or that even feels good. Believe it or not, I’m actually going to notice the difference. When I do, I’m not going to hesitate to boot you out the front door—and make sure that you find your car, so that you’re not wandering around the parking lot of the local public library down the road. More...

I give him exactly what he wants, and a little less, EQP.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m sitting in the Mexican food joint, solo, three-quarters of the way through the burrito I’ve ordered for dinner, when he walks in. He’s wearing jeans from Neiman-Marcus, pressed to within an inch of their denimed life. A leather jacket the color of caramel, and softer than butter. And one of those plaid, J. Crew shirts that are the weekend uniform of married dads throughout this county of Connecticut. His hands are in his pockets. The burrito flippers behind the counter usually call out to each customer as he enters, but right now they’re too engrossed by the scene on the TV. “Is this an actual Superbowl commercial?” one girl asks the manager. She’s all of seventeen. “I think so,” he says. The landscaper looks up at the screen as he sidles into the seat opposite me. I tear off a bite of my burrito, stare at him, and chew. “I’m late,” he says. “Sorry, dude.” I say nothing. I’m eating. “I was going to take you out to dinner. Kind of like a date.” I stop chewing, and stare at him. Then I look at the screen, trying to pretend to be rapt in the pre-game chatter. Look, I’m going to be honest. I know shit about football. I don’t know how it’s played. Oh, my dad tried to teach me in that obligatory dad-son way when I was a kid, but the rules are so fucking complicated, and there are so many of them, and it takes so long between plays that by the time the ball actually moves a yard or two, I’ve given up and gone on to some far more interesting activity. I grew up playing (and hating) the two games my dad loved the most as a kid—lacrosse and tennis. And it should tell you something that even after playing on a tennis league all through middle and high school and into college, I never did quite understand its scoring system. I’d just keep swinging until someone was vaulting over the net to shake my hand, at which point I understood the game was over. There’s just some part of my brain that shuts off in the face of the prospect of learning how to play competitive sports, and football has never been on my radar. My football knowledge is so poor that it wasn’t until about an hour ago that I even knew who was playing. So while I’m probably competent enough to fake interest in the pre-game commentary, I’m just glad there’s no actual football going on above our heads about which I’d have to make conversation. “I’m good,” I tell him, as I finish up all I want of the burrito. I put the remainder on the plate and push away the tray. “Told the wife I was going to my buddy’s for the game,” he said. Even though he’s attempting to act casual, his eyes are dancing all over me. I dress in a certain way when I meet the landscaper. I don’t wear the kind of stuff I’d wear into a trip into the city, for example—boots, moleskin overcoat, natty trousers, tight shirt, my garish scarf. I wear Levi’s. And a flannel shirt. And sneakers. “What’d you tell yours?” “I tell her I’m going out,” I say flatly. “She doesn’t ask where you’re going?” I shrug, very slowly. “Does she need to know?” He’s not paying attention. He’s looking at my body. Unconsciously he licks his lips. “Want to go out to the van?” “Not yet,” I say. “It’s the national anthem.” The burrito wranglers are all rapt in Kelly Clarkston warbling her way through the song. I don’t really give a shit. But I like the landscaper thinking I’m a red-blooded, all-American type of guy. He gives all his attention to the television screen during the song’s duration. I watch his pink little lips move along with the words. He even puts his hand over his heart. “All right,” I tell him, when it’s over. “Let’s go.” It’s freezing outside, but his van is still warm from his drive over. He must have overheated it, actually. The back of the van is surprisingly toasty after he shuts the doors. I fall to the floor and leg my legs sprawl apart so that my crotch is prominent. My back leans against the rear of a passenger-side seat. I let my hands fall negligently between my thighs, and play air drums with my thumbs. When he reaches out for me, I draw my legs together. What light there is is coming from the Mexican place and the AT&T store beside it, but it’s enough that he can see my face. “Oh yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, and peels off three from the top. He pushes them into my outstretched hand, and I bury the identical Ben Franklins in my pocket. After that, my legs are more pliable again. I let him rest his nervous hands on my calves as I unzip and shuck the denim down my legs. “Fuck,” he whispers, at the sight of my hardness. I love this moment with the landscaper, this inevitability, when he drops all his defenses and carefully-built lies and comes face-to-face with what he truly desires. He can’t bring himself to admit how badly he wants sex with another man. I like knocking the everyday cockiness out of him with my cock. “Fuck!” he repeats. My eight inches are Svengali to his Trilby, though he’s more thoroughly mesmerized by them than by any swinging gold watch. I pretend to ignore him, though it’s impossible. He’s already breathing with a rasp. It’s been a while since we last met, and he’s been deprived. He needs this. “You told me I could touch it this time,” he said. It’s a child’s plea. He’s begging me. I act as if I’m considering changing my mind. He rolls over and exposes his right hip, and thrusts a hand into his pocket. A fifty-dollar bill grazes my ball and lands beneath them. Then a twenty. Without a word, I scoop up the bills and shove them into my shirt pocket. His fingers are cold, but on my red-hot dick they’ll warm up soon enough. He squeezes—too hard, in fact. I make little noises to tell him to back down, and he lessens his death grip so that it’s soft and almost feather-like. He’s lying on the floor of the van in an uncomfortable-looking posture, absorbed by what he’s holding. I’ve been with young guys before who’ve never played with a man-sized dick before, and the same kind of fascination has taken hold of this guy. His thumb rubs over the head, smooths the bead of precum at the tip, plays with the shaft. “Is this gay?” he asks, suddenly. I think it’s pretty gay, yeah. Guys having sex with each other is pretty much the definition of gay. But I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m too busy saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” because he’s scooting up and approaching my dick with his mouth open. “I’m not going to suck it,” he says. Then, foxily, “Unless you want me to.” “Fuck no,” I say, as if offended by the very idea of a dude slobbering down on my hog. “I’m just going to lick the balls while I stroke you,” he explains. He’s already thought this one out, I realize. Planned it all along. He knew exactly how’d he work it, how he’d put the married straight guy at ease. Throw enough cash at him, make it sound convincing, take it a step further. “You’ve let me suck your nuts before. Same thing. Just my hand this time.” “I don’t know,” I say, with the maximum amount of doubt in my voice. “Come on, dude,” he says. He’s wheedling. The need is almost plaintive. I pause for a moment, then nod. He can have his way. I just lay back against the seat and let him work. His breath is hot and soft of my nuts, and then there’s the sensation of his tongue working against them. His hands are warm now, and they surround my cock and jerk at it clumsily. The scene is hot, though, and I’m turned on by the scam we’re both working on the other. So it doesn’t take long before a steady flow of precum is leaking down my shaft and onto his hand. He doesn’t care. I let him play with my dick for a long, long time in the back of that dark van. Then I take over. I remove his fingers with the least amount of touching him possible, then grip my shaft in a firm fist and begin to jack it. He’s grunting softly to himself with his eyes wide open as he still licks at my nuts. I put on a show for him. I tip my head back. I shiver and quake as I stroke faster. I pretend not to notice when his tongue moves from the safe area of my balls to the lowermost inch of my shaft. “It’s all good,” he urges. “Just two regular dudes. Doing stuff. The women don’t got to know about it. Doesn’t make anyone less of a man.” The words are making a pleasant buzz against my balls, but they’re annoying. “Come on, buddy. Score that touchdown.” “Shut up,” I say, not having to feign the annoyance in my voice. The warning works. He resumes his licking. In the quiet it doesn’t take me long to climax. I let out a long growl from my diaphragm, hiss through my pursed mouth, and shoot. The load drools out of my dick and slides in a long rope onto his cheek. Then another joins it. A third is building up at the tip and pooling out when I slump back violently against the seat. When he sits up, he’s got my load on his face. He seems a little bit panicked by it. He reaches for the roll of paper towels he conveniently has beneath the seat, and wipes the stuff away as if it’s burning. “Didn’t expect that,” he says. “Gotta go,” I tell him, sounding brusque. I’m zipping and adjusting my shirt already. “Fuck,” he says, looking at his right hand. “I touched a dick. I touched a dick. I mean, I’ve touched my own.” “Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question. “You want to go back in, watch some more of the game, get a bite to eat?” he asks, as I crawl over to the door to let myself out. “Gotta go,” I repeat. Then I’m in the cold air, and hitting the remote on my car to open the doors. I’m barely on the road when he’s texting me. dude u r the hottest!!! I don’t know about that, but I’m a forty-eight-year-old guy with money in his pocket from putting on a jackoff show, and that’s not too bad at all. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I wanted to thank all you guys who made my birthday week a big ego-boosting success. I received in the U.S. mail quite a few packages containing small gifts from readers—which, in time-honored tradition, I'll be modeling on here when I can get some time to take photos. Those were fantastic gifts, and I thank all those who sent them. I'd also like to thank the many, many, many readers who took time out to send me birthday greetings on or around the day, either through email or Facebook or an instant messenger or notes on various sex sites, or comments here. Lots of you sent naked photos, just like I requested for my special birthday gift. And I do mean lots of you. If you haven't heard a thank-you from me yet, it's merely because I'm still working my way through the stack—but I greatly appreciated them all. It's a little overwhelming and humbling for me to know that so many readers actually give a damn. So thank you for that. But lest you think that my notion of self-worth is ballooning beyond all safe proportions, let me assure you I get it pricked at regular intervals. Allow me to lift the veil on my domestic arrangements a little and share a story of yesterday, when I was window-shopping at Macy's with the family. I was trying on a Calvin Klein sports jacket and looking super-foxy, when I noticed an attractive woman checking me out. I smiled. She smiled. Her glance lingered. Maybe it was the jacket. Maybe it was me. I turned, feeling like James Bond, and had this exchange with the spouse: ME: Honey, that hot chick is totally checking me out. THE SPOUSE: Really? She must be an undercover security guard. Insert rim shot here, folks. That's how they keep me biddable around here. Let's get to some formspring.me questions. Lots of guys love jocks, thongs, underwear, or speedos to get in the mood for sex. During sex, do you (a) take them off & put them away nicely, ( leave them on & try to keep clean © leave them on & get dirty, or (d) rip them off & render unwearable? I would never rip another man's underwear unless he has specifically asked me to. Nice underwear isn't cheap. I don't go through strange wallets and rip up another man's twenty-dollar bills, either. If asked or invited, then yes, I've done it. Usually when it comes to underwear, I like to get it wet with my mouth as I eat the guy's dick through it, or munch at his hole. Then I'll take it off and do what comes naturally. Why are you comfortable with the risks you take? I could ask you the same question. Why are you comfortable with the risks you take, whether they're walking on icy patches without adequate traction, or driving over the speed limit, or eating a poor diet, or smoking, or speeding through a yellow light just as it flashes to red? Why are you comfortable living near a power plant, or eating processed foods, or accepting a job that causes your stress levels to go through the roof? Just because some of the risks with which I'm comfortable are sexual does not automatically make them morally worse, or even more dangerous, than the ones you accept as everyday risks without a thought. I try always to be aware of risks, and not to push the ones with which I'm not comfortable. You should be doing the same. Have you ever slept with somone 10 years or more older than you? Over 10 years younger? When I was first having sex, the guys were all two to three times my age. Now most of them are less than half my age. It's worked out well. Have you ever been or ever been in a 3-way where someone or you was double penetrated (2 cocks in 1 hole)? I've been in double-penetration scenes many times as a top. Because of my length, usually I have to be the top who lies down with the bottom sitting on my dick, while the other top enters from behind. As a result, I've usually got several hundred pounds of flesh on top of me and absolutely no ability to thrust or control the sensations. Which would probably explain why I don't like DP scenes. Morning wood: Pee or jerk-off? Discuss Pee. At my age, when I've gotta go, I've gotta GO. After you jerk off, do you eat your load? Often I do, yes. When I was a kid I learned to do it after masturbating not only because I liked the taste of sperm, but because it was an easy way to get rid of the evidence. If a guy wanted to borrow a weeks worth of underwear from you, which pairs would you lend him? What's he going to do with him? That's what I'd want to know, first. If he's just going to wear them and return them, I'd probably give him a variety collection of some of my slinkier and more expensive pairs. If he's going to do something dirty with them, though, I'd probably lend him the cheaper stuff I have from H&M and Uniqlo. Those I can replace more easily if things get out of hand. How do you accomplish all that you do and also play the piano? You seem never to practice, yet good enough to make a little money playing. Do you practice, but just never mention it? One of the things about my blog is that it really shows a very narrow slice of my life--a few minutes out of the day, really. Twenty minutes here. An hour there. An episode from my past. There's a lot I do that I don't really write about in the blog. I don't write about the minutiae of my day-to-day work, for example, or discuss some of the insane projects I undertake around my kitchen (I make my own jams and yogurt like a crazy person), or the artsy stuff I do in the evenings to keep my hands and mind busy, or the crazy amounts of reading I do, or the video games I play. I don't talk about the time I spend with my family at home, or much of the craziness that sometimes comes with the activities I do for them. So no, I don't really discuss playing the piano in my blog, and unless you're living in the apartment upstairs from me, you really don't know how much I practice. I started playing at the age of six, did it all through high school and college, and made extra money on Sundays playing for a small church for a few years. I'm not a fantastic pianist. I'm a terrific sight reader and a great accompanist, but there are certain things I can't do (improvise, play by ear, read chord sheets without great pain for everyone involved, or transpose) that keep me from being sought after for anything other than grade schools, show choirs, and churches. But I do play for pleasure, and that's not a bad skill to have. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Online is how men find each other for sex these days. Sure, it’s still possible to cruise public parks or restrooms to find some occasional dick. One can still head to the bar and pick someone up. Okay, I suppose it’s still possible to meet people at places like the job or while doing things like volunteer work or attending church, but let’s face it. Going online, whether on one of the many sex cruising websites, or Craigslist, or a phone app like Grindr, is these days the fastest and most expedient way for most horny guys looking for man-on-man action to get laid. That’s one of the reasons I do it. But it’s also so ripe for the mocking that I can’t resist going at it, on occasion. Which is basically my set-up for saying, I was going to write today about a fuck I had this week that was less than stellar, but then I decided to be an old curmudgeon instead, as if I were starring as a sexed-up Mr. Wilson in a reboot of the Hank Ketcham comic strip called ‘Dennis the Leather Menace.’ So. Without further ado, I present: 4 Things I Wish You Wouldn’t Write Me in Your Hookup Notes 1. UNLOCK It’s usually a one-word note. Not even that. Just a subject line in an online email, on a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam. UNLOCK. What it means is that the guy wants you to flip the switch that permits him to see any private photos you might have that aren’t on view to the general public. Simple enough, right? Sure, there might be more polite ways to ask such a thing. Hey, I find you attractive. May I see your locked pics? comes to mind. Unlock strikes me as abrupt and imperative, but hey. At least it’s not coy, right? The thing is that I don’t lock my photos. They’re all out there in the open, X-rated and G-rated alike, shots of my goofy face rubbing up next to photos of my nuts and dick on proud display. I know that most guys, particularly in my area, don’t do such a thing. They have either their faces and torsos on display and their gonads behind the lock, or the reverse. Not me. I’ve received email lectures about doing it from local guys who are shocked that I’d be so trashy. Screw ‘em. Don’t ask me to unlock. I don’t have anything to unlock. You look like a dumbass, saying it. It’s like walking up to a naked man and yelling at him, Take it off! Note: I do have locked pics on my BBRT profile—but only because the site asks that users lock penetration shots. It’s also the one site where I don’t have people sending me UNLOCK emails. 2. Picture Inequity I suppose I shouldn’t really complain about notes with twice the number of words as UNLOCK. But I’m gonna complain about this one: MORE PICS? I do have more pics. I have a lot more pics. I have a decade’s worth of digital shots, dating back to the days when I had a Sony Mavica that recorded photos on floppy disks. But see, sir, the thing is that while I have—oh, I don’t know—eight or ten photos on my profile, you’ve got exactly zero. Or maybe one. And if you do have one, that one is a particularly small and grainy shot of what could be your chest, or might be your elbow. Again, I don’t know. It’s tough to tell when it’s so blurry and out of focus that it seems to have been shot through a field of dirty beer mugs. With my old Mavica. So here’s the thing, guys. If you really want someone to send you more pics, why not make the first and more generous move? Say, I really like your pics. What’s your email so I can send you a few more? Do you have any others to trade, too? Not only does it make you sound as if you’re trying to do the right thing, but it tells the guy that you’re willing to give a little to get a little. That’s a good thing, because MORE PICS? always gives me the impression that you don’t think my existing pics are good enough for your blurry ass. 3. Are you still interested? There’s a certain type of personality online that needs constant reassurance. I find that type of personal fucking exhausting. There’s always a good initial fit, it seems. Mutual interest on both sides. But there’s something that keeps us from getting together right away. That something is usually distance—I’m where I am, and they’re in Pennsylvania, or Boston. Or it could be scheduling—he’s in Manhattan, but he’s only available weekends, and I usually only go into the city on weekdays. So then will come the barrage of emails. Hi, I thought we were a good match the other day but I need to know if you’re interested in getting together sometime. There still aren’t any concrete suggestions of what to do, on his end. Just a general need to know if I’m interested. Nothing wrong with that. Once. But the more extreme types of this personality require constant reassurance. Usually within about ten seconds of me logging on. Are you still interested in meeting sometime? I need to know. Or, I really need to know if you still want to meet. Dude, listen. I’ve told you I’m interested. I’ve given you ways to contact me. I’ve given you my schedule and probable best days to hook up. The ball’s in your court. We’re not a Victorian relationship with a decade-long engagement; it’s not my responsibility daily to assure you that my intentions have not changed, or that I don’t have my eye on that saucy minx who shows a bit of ankle from under her bustle. If propping up your fragile ego is becoming a bit of a full-time job, chances are that you’re going to be put on my block list real soon. 4. Lookin Another one-word note. LOOKING. Or sometimes, LOOKIN. Sometimes with a question mark, often without. Yeah, I might be lookin’. I might even have found you attractive under other circumstances. But for some reason, those one-word notes, usually no more than a subject line, I find really off-putting. Or off-puttin’. If you can’t be bothered to write even a simple note like, I can host and I’m horny, want to come over?, chances are that I really don’t want to meet you. You’re just telling me you’re a lazy fuck, basically. And who wants to labor over a lazy fuck? Man, apparently I am Mr. Wilson. So readers, tell me. What’re the notes you dread getting online? Is it the ‘sups, or the UNLOCKS? Is it the constant requests for you to top when you’ve plainly stated you’re a bottom? I declare this Open Forum Friday. Gentlemen, start your engines. And may the best griper win! More...