TheBreeder

I think so. Thanks, EQP!

I know some of it probably is foreign objects up his hole. He's had a few dicks other than mine, though.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The runt’s hole is a sloppy little pucker, red and raw from my teeth, tongue, and beard. When I draw my face away from between his ass cheeks, the car’s cold air hits the wet flesh. The shock makes it contract and expand, like a winking eye. It’s quiet at this end of the parking lot, which runs alongside the New Haven line. Every few minutes a Metro North train roars by, obscuring his whimpers as it rattles along on the tracks and stops at the station this parking lot services. A few commuter cars still pepper this remote section of the lot, but by and large, this time of night it’s empty. In the back seat of my car, parked in a pool of shadow, we’re invisible from anyone who might drive by. Invisible from the banks of apartments that rise four stories above us, over the lot. Invisible from the world. I’ve been eating at the runt’s hole for a good half-hour. He’s been loving it. His cock is dripping pre-cum like a faucet. I’ve told him not to touch his meat. His skinny legs are up in the air, sometimes resting on my shoulders, sometimes resting on the back of the driver’s seat. Most of the time, though, his completely naked body is curled into as tight a ball as possible. He’s conserving heat. He’s pushing up that hole, exposing it, giving me the maximum possible access. He wants more. He wants my face buried in that private place, and he’d take it forever, if we had that kind of time. But I haven’t picked him up from his folks’ place to munch on his butt indefinitely. It’s awkward in the back seat, even with the seats pushed up, but I perch my left leg on the seat as my right squats on the floor. I raise myself up and align my dick with the boy’s hole. My left hand cups, then covers his mouth, pressing down firmly. I feel his head make a dent into the seat cushion. Then I cock my head, like a curious bird. Ready? I’m asking him silently. The runt begins to nod. I’ve already anticipated it. Before he’s given his answer, I’m driving in. I hadn’t planned it, but an Acela speeds by at that moment. The high-speed train is a rush of noise and wind that shakes my car as it passes—or perhaps it’s the runt’s attempt to escape the cock stretching open his asshole. He’s still yelling when nothing’s left of the train’s passing but a few still-vibrating signs. “You want me to stop?” I ask him. No. He shakes his head no, panicked I might pull out. His eyes have a watery film covering them that reflects what traces of light seep into the car. “I could pull out and drive your scrawny ass home,” I tell him. “Is that what you want?” No. He shakes his head more desperately, trying to dislodge my fingers. “Do it,” he says. It’s cold enough in the car that his breath spirals up toward me, like smoke. “Fuck it,” he begs. "Fuck that hole." He brings out the sadist in me. I shove the rest of my meat in, without mercy. My hand claps down on his mouth to muffle the rest of his yell. His legs flail helplessly in the air to either side. For a moment there’s panic in his eyes, but he knows there’s a price to pay for all that pleasure I’ve given him. He’s paying, now. Soon enough, it starts paying back to him. Mere seconds after I’ve hit bottom, his body is shifting and accommodating me in ways that only come from an experienced hole. Then he starts nodding. Yes, he’s saying without words. Yes. Yes. It’s okay to remove my hand. I pull it away from his mouth. His breath is ragged and heavy when I take one stroke, then another. His hole is the warmest thing on the earth, at that moment, and my dick is growing harder and hotter by the moment. The third stroke triggers something in him. He’s already breathing like he’s run a four-minute mile. Now his chest heaves, and his hips buck so strongly that I almost slide out of him. His hands grasp at my hips, though, keeping me in. He’s shooting. The first spurt arrives with such velocity that I can hear it hit his skin, like a tightened drum. He shakes and quivers through the rest of it, loud in his pleasure. I haven’t even touched him yet. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I can hear him trying to moisten his lips. “Why?” I ask. “Because I came too quick?” It’s more of a question than a reply. “Do you think we’re done here?” I ask. I pull my dick out, all save for the head. That I leave inside, marking my place. “No,” he says, in a tiny voice. Even in the silence, he sounds like he’s speaking from the bottom of a well. “No. . . ?” “No sir,” he amends. “That’s right, son,” I tell him, pushing him back into the seat. Then I drive back inside him, hard. I’m awarded with a cry of need that borders on distress as once more I split open that hole. Because I was just getting started. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a continuation of previous posts, Allan, Part 1, and Allan, Part 2.) It’s August of 2009, and I was in the grungier of Detroit’s two bathhouses. (It had been years since the gum incident at the older and cleaner facility, and I’d not been back since.) It was a Tuesday morning, and although I’d had a lot of sex since my arrival a couple of hours before, it hadn’t been that good. There’d been a weird guy who kept coming into my room every few minutes to ask if I want any company, while he showed me the tiny mushroom sprig that was his dick, barely visible beneath the thick bush of his pubes. I keep telling him no, but he wasn’t getting the message. Then there’d been the black guy who’d used so much teeth on my dick that I would’ve sworn he was trying to scrape off a layer of dermis. Then a tall, thin guy had entered the room. The place had been pretty dark that morning, so I wasn’t able to see much about him. He wore a baseball cap. Once, when he removed it, he proved to have a very close-shaved head beneath. He didn’t say much. He softly pushed me down onto my back, on the thin mattress. He kept a hand on my chest as he straddled his legs and ass over my hips. Then he wriggled his hole down onto my dick, and began rising and falling in a regular rhythm. And I thought to myself, Allan? Because there was something in his size and general build, and in the way he moved, and especially in his hunger for my dick, that brought to mind the boy I’d known nearly a decade before. There was enough to give me doubt, though. Allan rarely kissed me when we fucked, and this guy kept his mouth firmly on mine. Allan had always been into he sex for the pleasure of his own hole. This man in the dark kept asking me questions—Do you like that? Does that feel good? Should I keep doing that? Questions that made me suspect my pleasure was coming before his. And hot as the sexual haze might have been in which Allan had dwelled, years before, he never really struck me as completely present during sex. This guy was not only present, but he was responsive, and sweet, and tender, and gentle, even as he milked two loads in a row from my dick, sitting on it. He wasn’t intending to let me up until I came. And again I thought to myself, Allan? At the end of two hours of really good sex, all of which took place with me on my back as he attended to me with a very, very skilled hole from above, he got up and shuffled out. He closed the door to all but a crack on his way out. I was too weak and spent to get up and close it all the way. A few moments later, the door opened again. I was ready to shoo out the guy who’d intruded, but it was the baseball-capped guy again. He handed out a slip of paper. “You should text me on Tuesdays if you want to fuck,” he said, pushing it into my fingers. “I think we’d have a really good time.” Then he was gone. I didn’t recognize the number on the slip, to be honest. I kept it in my dresser throughout the week, and then got up the nerve to text it the following Tuesday. I got a reply back almost instantly, with an address, and the instructions to come on over. The address, of course, was Allan’s. So I knew. I was willing to return to his tiny little house, however, because I recognized something had changed about him. I wanted to find out what. The changes were evident when I stepped into the living room. He invited me in rather formally, I thought. “The place looks great!” I enthused, honestly, when I looked around. I’d never seen the curtains and blinds open in his living room before. The sun was warming the room and its old furniture. The living room was clean, and tidy. When I’d known Allan in the old days, he’d kept sheets thrown over everything, and there’d been layers of dust and cigarette smoke residue everywhere. Not now. There wasn’t even an aroma of smoke. The room looked as if someone actually lived there, rather than was camping out there and having sex on someone else’s furniture. “I thought we’d go in here,” he said, shyly taking my hand and leading me down the postage stamp-sized hallway to the bedroom. The door was open. The room was dim, but not dark. Like the living room, it was completely clean and fresh. “What happened—?” I started to say. I’d meant to ask, what happened to all your drag queen stuff? Because the last time I’d been in that room, it had been filled with it. There weren’t any dresses spilling out of the closets. In fact, one of the closet doors lay open, and I could see there were only regular old shirts and pants within. The vanity that had occupied the wall opposite the bed was just gone. Completely gone. Any trace of Allan’s sequined past had just vanished. It was when I saw him looking at me blankly that I realized something. Allan had no idea who I was. He didn’t remember me from the decade before. He didn’t know we had a history. He didn’t know I knew him, and was arriving with all the preconceptions I’d carried from before. I know that people are thinking, If you guys fucked so much, how could you not know each other, even after a few years? Allan had changed, though. He’d been boyish when I knew him. He was a man, on our second go-round. He was leaner, and more muscular. His head was shaved. And he even fucked differently. We made love in his bed that first morning, for the first time ever. It wasn’t all about him getting his hole stretched to the maximum, either—though he certainly craved that. Between fucks (and we did fuck multiple times that morning) he would go down on me, and suck me from ass to mouth. He licked my nipples, and chewed them exactly how I liked. He touched me with the flats of his hands, all over. He rubbed his mouth and lips over my neck. He even kissed me. Deep, sensual kisses that lingered, and tasted of mint. At no time during the sex did he light up a cigarette or joint. He was there, and present, and responded to every one of my thrusts and jabs with keening and moans of pleasure, and gratitude in his stare. It was like fucking the best possible version of Allan, and it turned me on beyond belief. Yet he didn’t recognize me at all, even when I stabbed him into his first anal orgasm with me since the reunion. I watched and held him as he shook and shivered and clung to me with his arms and legs both behind my back. “It’s been a long, long time since anyone did that to me,” he panted, laughing to himself. But no recognition at all. The truth is that I’d changed as well over those years. I’d weighed about two-twenty-five when I knew Allan the first time around, and I’d slimmed down to one-sixty. I was dressing better—or at least in clothing that didn’t swamp me. I’d grown a beard. My hair was longer. Something Allan said to me that morning gave me a better key to the whole situation, though. I was hinting around, trying to find out whether I was so forgettable, when he said something about his past: he told me that when he’d been younger, he’d been a messed-up kid. Constantly on drugs. Even dealing. (That I knew.) “I was pretty much in a haze for five years,” he said. “But then I cleaned up and got my act together.” He had. For a good six months I was Allan’s Tuesday-morning lover. He knew about my home situation, but didn’t care. He wanted a part-time boyfriend, not a full-time husband. So on Tuesdays, we belonged to each other. We’d spend hours in his bed, making love to each other, exchanging honeyed words, gently encouraging each other to orgasm. My climaxes were loud and explosive and left him juicy. His were more private, and intense, and always anal—I still never saw him blow a load, or even grow hard very often. But he never remembered me. I kept thinking, Okay, this’ll be the fuck that brings it all back to him. Nope. Never. Allan didn’t like talking about those days before the millennium. He would evade when I brought up his past, or tried to get him to talk about a possible drag queen career. He didn’t want to go there. After a while, I didn’t see any reason to try to take him out of the present, which he so very clearly was enjoying. So I stopped asking. My story of Allan ends with a whimper. The winter semester after we started to fuck was kind of hellacious for me, scheduling-wise; I was teaching what was for me a full load, and I wasn’t as free on Tuesdays as I had been, the semesters before. I can’t remember why, but Tuesdays were the only day Allan could meet me—so there were a couple of weeks we missed being together. Allan didn’t like that. I’d tell him a couple of days before when I’d have to cancel, and he’d seem resigned and sad about it. After a couple of weeks, it turned to petulance. I tried explaining that I wasn’t avoiding him, or fucking someone else, but that it was just work-related shit keeping us apart, but he didn’t want to hear it. The third time, he was outright angry. You know, he texted, just don’t bother texting me any more. Or calling. Don’t contact me at all. I was irritated enough that day that I thought, You know, enough, then. I won’t. So I didn’t. Then, three weeks later, I got another text from him. You were the last person I expected to treat me that way. Goodbye. “You mean, to obey your instructions not to contact you again?” I snarled, and erased his number from my phone. And that was the end of Allan. Looking back, I regret it all. I couldn’t help the scheduling, of course, but I wish we’d found another day or night to meet—I tried, but he couldn’t. I wish we’d not parted so rancorously—that I’d been less irritable, that he’d been less dramatic. I wish he could’ve known how much I loved making love to him when he was off the weed, and also that he could’ve known how much I admired him when he was a mere boy, slutting out his hole to all takers in the baths. It’s probably no coincidence that I started keeping a public sex blog shortly after the demise of my relationship to Allan. I had a keen and pervasive sense, then, of how easily encounters could be completely forgotten, and how time sweetly and slyly erases from the memory people who had meant everything and then some during the space of an encounter. I had a sense of things slipping away. And I didn’t want that to happen again. Allan, I loved you, quite sincerely. We weren’t meant to be together for very long, but the universe was kind enough to bring us together twice, and to give us many moments of shared passion and intimacy. I hope somewhere in your memory there’s a tiny space for me. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Longer-term readers of mine might recall, from a couple of months ago, an entry entitled A Fucking Rock Star, in which I was pawed, manhandled, and all but assaulted by a drunk in a gay bar who thought I was the hottest thing since a spilled cup of McDonald's coffee. (And really, I'm perfectly ready to overlook the fact that he was stinking drunk and concede that he was perfectly able to make a totally accurate judgment call on that last point.) To save you guys the trouble of running back to read the entire encounter, I'll just remind you that his sales pitch ran roughly, I've got a wallet full of money, I've got a 1992 Benz sitting outside, and I've got a real big dick, so you are gonna get in the back seat of my car and I'm gonna fuck you underneath the underpass down the street. I know. Irresistible, right? Well. I thought I'd lived down the gentle humiliation of that particular evening now that my friend's blow-by-blow Facebook postings of it have faded from his immediate timeline. But there we were again this week. Same bar. Same friend. And in walks the same guy. I winced slightly at the sight of him. "Isn't that—?" I turned to ask my buddy. But my question was already answered when I saw him fishing for his phone and firing up Facebook. I pretended not to have noticed the man for a few minutes while he stood in line for a drink. I pretended not to hear my friend tell me every single time the guy looked my way, in the interim. And then I pretended to be oblivious when Mr. Gooddick was making a beeline in my direction, drink in hand. I was prepared for the worst, actually. And you know what? I was pleasantly surprised to get the best, instead. The guy was actually pretty mortified at his behavior during our previous encounter. He seemed to remember every awful thing he'd said, and he stumbled over himself in an effort to apologize. He was sincere, and very low-key, and actually very humble about the whole thing—plus he was more than a little surprised that I remembered his name. His humility was so overpowering that all I could do is laugh, hug the guy, and tell him that of course I didn't bear any ill-will about him, or think any the less about the stuff he'd said. I told him that I was flattered he thought me fuckable, and didn't let him leave until it was clear all was well between us. "I know you said you were taken," he said, nodding at the ring on my finger. "Your significant other must be an awfully good sport." "Well," I drawled, with mock arrogance. I used my hand to indicate my hair, my clothes, my body, the whole Breeder package. "When you're married to a trophy stud like this, you've kind of got to be, right?" Laughter is the cure for a whole lot of ills, I tell you. Let's get to some questions collected from my formspring.me outings, shall we? Have you ever had sex with a guy and you both left your shoes, boots or sneakers still on? Oh, so many times. I love just to drop my pants around my ankles and go at it. The daddy/son fantasy, turn on? or wrong? If it's wrong, then about 95% of the men out there are pretty sick bastards. Fantasy is just fantasy. In sex, fantasy is supposed to provide an element of excitement and fun. If no one's getting hurt and everyone's into the same fantasy, why question it? Just enjoy yourself. Have you ever been someones' first? Was taking their cherry anything like when you lost yours? I've had a lot of cherries. Some I knew about and tried to make as good as possible. Some I didn't know until afterward, when I'd find out they'd bluffed their way through because they didn't want me to think badly of them for not having bottomed before. For most, the experience has been satisfying. I've had a couple who let their fear overtake them, and that always leads to a sore hole and a less-than-optimal fuck for the both of us. You're on Craigslist checking out m4m adds, you are a bit horny. Some guy is in a hotel room blindfold and wanting to get fucked. When you get there you realize he's you best friend, do you fuck him? Do you let him know it's you, before or after you cum? If he's blindfolded, obviously he doesn't want to know. Of course I'd fuck him, but he'd never hear it from me. Favorite male celebrity you'd love to make your bottom boy? Top three? I'm usually not attracted to the Hollywood prettyboy type—though I have had an attraction for Bradley Cooper since his 'Alias' days. The typical male actors for which I fall are usually scruffy and have a certain hangdog expression. Jake M. Johnson of 'New Girl' is pretty much my dream beau. I get more of a crush on him every time I watch the show. Chris D'Elia of 'Whitney' is also dreamy (and it's a shame that I find his show unwatchable). I also have a huge crush on Andrew Lee-Potts of Primeval. I'll put his little rabbit teeth to good use. For what celebrities do you guys have the hots? Do you like watersports? Have you ever pissed in someone's mouth? I do, and I have, quite often. I won't do WS with someone on a first meeting, generally. There have been exceptions. What is one thing that you have done sexually that makes you blush when you think about it? There's not really any particular act of which I'm embarrassed. If you're ashamed of something, just don't do it—or learn not to be ashamed of the things you enjoy. Life is too short for that shit. There are, however, many things I've done sexually that bring blushes to the cheeks of other people when I admit to them. Top tips for organizing/participating in an orgy? My first question is, are you sure you want to organize one? I know it sounds like an awesome amount of fun, but the organizer usually isn't enjoying himself as much as he thinks he will be. Consider where you want to hold it, first of all. If it's at your home, even if you think you know and can trust the guys, you're going to have to be constantly on guard that no one's making off with your valuables. Have the party in a space in your home that's relatively blocked off and self-sufficient, to minimize people wandering off. A bedroom suite with its own bathroom and perhaps a mini-fridge or a cooler with drinks works, or a basement playroom with a bathroom. If you're uncomfortable about having people into your home in those circumstances, consider a hotel or bathhouse orgy. You'll still have to be on guard about your personal items, but it's a good way to get your toes wet with hosting an orgy. Think about who you'll be inviting. It's often difficult to find total tops to attend a party, so at least get a few guys who enjoy switch-hitting so that you don't have a bunch of bottoms sitting around staring at each other. Make sure the men you invite are going to show up. Avoid inviting freaks and weirdos, or guys who are simply going to stand around, never undress, and never participate. And most of all, it helps if you ask a very good buddy to act as your backup host, so that you can enjoy the proceedings from time to time. After a hook-up, have you ever received the line "I think we're too different/incompatible"? Have you ever used it? If I'd heard those words from some guys that, in my younger years, I chased after only to get a rebuff of silence, it would've been a mercy. I'd rather get the news straight out like that, than be kept on the hook and never let off except with repeated disappointment. I've never used exactly those words when the vibe hasn't been right with someone. I have, however, said, "I don't think this is working out" and taken my leave, politely. And when a guy has been after me to see him again and I haven't wanted to, I've often told him that I didn't think we were really a good match for the other. More...

I think the conclusion to the story is even sadder in a way, Inception (and no, he didn't die or anything). I think there's actually a lot of romance to the ways in which men can interact in settings like public bathhouses or bookstores. The sex might be anonymous in name, but with the kind of intense sexual connection men make in those settings, how can emotions not run high?

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a continuation of the previous post, Allan, Part 1.) I’d never known anyone to experience anal orgasms before I met Allan. I encountered the phenomenon not at the baths, when he’d be slamming his chute backward onto any stiff cock that appeared behind it, but alone, at his house. Allan lived on a curious little edge of town, only a few steps from one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was listed, year after year, as one of the most dangerous cross-streets in the metropolitan area; even I’d witnessed, on my visits out there, cars careening heedlessly through red lights and out into the intersections, to meet onrushing traffic with the sound of squealing tires. The first time I drove out to visit Allan at home, I missed his house no less than three times. But there it was, beyond a major car repair facility and a discount jeweler—the tiniest of houses, tucked away on the tiniest of lots, behind a couple of parking lots and a car wash. Allan had inherited the house from a grandmother, who’d apparently wanted him to be able to get away from the family. It was his, free and clear; I remember being impressed that someone I knew had a mortgage-free home at such a young age. Back around the millennium, when we were first fucking, it was obvious he hadn’t cleared out any of his grandmother’s furniture. The living room was filled with fussy old sofas with faux-antique scrollwork, with filigreed plant stands and metal wall hangings straight out of a dentist’s office from the Eisenhower era. We would fuck in the living room, either on a sofa over which he’d draped one of his grandmother’s afghans, or right there on the floor. We never went at it for anything less than hours, when I was there. No short pump-’n’-dumps for us. He would sit me on the floor with my back against the sofa’s seat, straddle me, and ride me for hours. The fucks were epic. I’d hang onto his hips and just let him ride, up and down, forward and back, around and around. To a big extent I was nothing but a living dildo attached to some guy’s body, when I met Allan back in those days. He wasn’t interested in giving me pleasure. He was just after using my dick with his hole—and unlike the vast majority of guys who are only after that, I didn’t resent it with him. Mostly because I was getting a tremendous amount of satisfaction, as a side effect. Once we fucked like that, like animals on the floor, for over two hours before I had my first orgasm. He, in the meantime, had enjoyed over a half-dozen. I never once saw Allan shoot a load, but he experienced what he described to me as anal orgasms. I had no doubt that he was having them. I could see the effects. He’d be bouncing up and down on me and I’d hear his breathing quicken. His nipples would contract from flat, quarter-sized planes into points so sharp and hard they could have carved diamond. His head would tilt back. I’d watch in the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds as a red flush would travel from his face to his chest, and then down his sides to his hips. It was so plain and visible that it was as if someone had poured a tin of watercolors over his head. His hole would tighten around my meat, growing increasingly more insistent. Then he’d gasp. His soft cock would flop around as his body went into spasms. For a good thirty-seconds, he’d shake and quiver like a rag doll. Then I’d hear him gulp, and try to bring moisture back into his mouth. He’d laugh quietly to himself. “No one else makes me come like that,” he’d say, every time. His ass would relax until it was soft and warm on my cock. His nipples would soften, and spread. The flush would recede, first from his lower regions, and then his chest, and finally his face, until once more his skin was as pale as fallen snow. He’d keep riding—he never stopped riding. But it would be more relaxed, and less frenzied and insistent. For a long time, the sex with Allan was dreamy and hot, uncomplicated and sweet in its essence. Even thinking of it now, my dick grows stiff at the memory. No matter what the weather, fucking him was like sex on a hot summer’s day. Slow. Unhurried. Sweat would cascade from our bodies, but we didn’t give a fuck. No one was going to see us. I’d leave the house with crazy sex hair that I’d regret later, but I didn’t even notice it with him. His world when we fucked consisted solely of my dick and the sensations it created for him. My world was watching him, and his pretty face, and marveling at his rapture. I didn’t know much about Allan. Every couple of Saturdays I’d spend at his little house, for close to a year before he told me anything personal about himself. It was as if he’d made the decision, decided to go through with it, and needed to do it. “I have to show you something,” he said one day. He took me by the hand and led me down the hallway. Allan’s house was small, I’ve mentioned. It had a living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom the size of a postage stamp, and two small bedrooms. I’d never seen the insides of the bedrooms. The doors were always closed; we always fucked on the living room floor. When he opened the door to the master bedroom, I blinked a few times. There were dresses all over the room. For a moment I thought they were his grandmother’s, and that he’d still not gotten around to clearing out the memory of her. Really, though, the room looked like a touring company of Hello, Dolly! had exploded within. The dresses were not very grandmotherly, unless your grandmother happened to be a Las Vegas showgirl. But then he pulled me over to a vanity where makeup mirrors sat at three different angles, and picked up a framed photo of a very blond, very cruel-looking, very ponytailed-like-Madonna-in-Truth-or-Dare with Divine’s eye makeup drag queen. “This is me,” he said shyly. I was kind of stunned. I’d gone through a phase in high school and college in which I was afraid to be seen with effeminate men. I’d dated a couple of perfectly nice guys in grad school whose only fault was that they had lilting voices and less-than-butch mannerisms. I used to wear a permanent blush of embarrassment with one guy in particular, a hairdresser who referred to other gay men as ‘she’ and used to poke me in public and say, “Girrrrrrl!” He was something of a revelation for me. My embarrassment, I realized when I was with him, was my problem, not his. So I made myself go out with him just so I could get over it—and by and large, it worked. By the time I knew Allan, I regarded drag queens as the fiercest and one of the most admirable portions of the gay population—out in front and taking a lot of the bullets for the rest of us. I didn’t know any personally, though. So when I realized what Allan was telling me, my jaw dropped. Then I grinned. “Oh my gosh,” I remember saying. “You are amazing.” He was shy and pleased at that. I’d known him for a long time, but this was the first time he really ever told me anything about himself. He sat down at his mirror and showed me some of his wigs, and other photos, as he told me about he’d started doing drag in his teens. I’ve forgotten his drag name, unfortunately, but it was something sharp and clever. And I remember standing there beside Allan that afternoon, watching him fiddle with all these accoutrements of femininity that I’d never associated with him before, and thinking that it felt exactly like living in a house for so long that one is familiar with every knot in the pine paneling and scrape on the wainscot, only find an entire unexplored secret room one never knew existed. It was fascinating, and sweet, and felt like a breath of fresh air in that fusty little bungalow. In performance, his persona was just as assertive. I saw him exactly once, on a birthday of mine, at a club on the city’s east side. He worked his way through the crowd, reading people up and down. When he spied me, I thought I was in for some sharp-tongued remarks. Instead, Allan sat down on my lap, put one of his spangled arms around my neck, and proceeded to do most of the rest of his show facing the audience, but with his ass firmly seated on me. My friends thought it was hilarious that I’d attracted the exclusive attentions of a drag queen. I hadn’t told them I knew the man behind the woman. Right before he left my lap for the night, Allan made the crowd laugh and applaud by planting an enormous kiss on my lips that left his lipstick smudged for the rest of the night. I loved him for that. We never talked about his side career as a drag performer, while we fucked—any more than we talked about my job, or my life outside the home. But I was both touched and pleased that he’d let me in on that confidence. I got the impression he didn’t talk about it to many people. I was really fond of Allan, in fact, but we ended up seeing each other for only two years, around the turn of the century. My biggest gripe with him was that he was a big pothead. When we’d fuck, it was always hot sex—but we were having it while he was constantly rolling a joint, smoking it, helping himself to a Chiclet, smoking a cigarette, then having another Chiclet, then rolling a joint. . . . He had the capacity to pleasure himself atop me, but he was never really there. That part was tiresome to me. Sometime in our second year of fucking he started making drug deals at the house, through the mail slot. The boy who’d only climb off my dick when he’d gotten four or five loads from it suddenly was clambering off me and scampering to his front door in the nude. People would shove money through his mail slot and he’d slip them little dime bags of pot. When these transactions started happening, it was pretty much the last straw for me. Good as the sex was, I didn’t need to be caught up in some drug bust. I simply ceased going over, and stopped calling. I didn’t see Allan again. Not at the tubs, not at his home. From time to time I’d run across someone who knew him from the baths, but I thought about him less and less. Until I ran across him again, almost eight years later. (To be continued, and concluded, in another entry.) More...

Yes it is. And those giving it away have quite a lot of power.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I tuned into RuPaul’s Drag Race, Monday night, with great anticipation. It’s simultaneously one of the sharpest and silliest programs on television, and I’ve loved it since the first season. My favorite of all the seasons was its third, though, and that’s because it’s the season I watched with Spencer. When I was on my own for all those months and Spencer had basically taken up residence in my bed, refrigerator, and house, Drag Race night was the evening we most looked forward to. We’d make dinner, make love, and then cuddle up on the sofa to watch our favorite show. During the commercial breaks we’d argue about our favorites (we both loved Raja), and hiss at the villains (Mimi Imfurst!), and pick out our drag names (his would change every week, but mine has always been and will always be Pansy Potts, because I saw them advertised at a garden store once and said, "That would be my perfect drag name."). Last night I turned on the show, was excited for about the first three minutes, and then I was so overcome with longing for Spencer and those long winter nights that I developed an enormous lump in my throat and had to excuse myself from the room for a few minutes in order to compose myself. But Drag Race reminds me not only of Spencer, but of another lost boy, Allan, whom I knew many years ago, and with whom by chance I reconnected again years later. It’s Allan that I’d like to talk about in the next couple of entries. In the Detroit area there were two bathhouses I’d visit. One was newer, but because it had been put into an old auto body shop, it was grungier and grittier. The steam room was large and capacious, but the hot tub seemed like an afterthought, the carpets were always frayed and dirty, and in a good rain, the entire place became wet and marshy underfoot. There was a hot tub, but it always gave the impression of being a bacterial stew . . . when it was working. The staff cleaned the place in a perfunctory manner if at all. On the other hand, it was close to the freeway, it attracted an infinitely more sizable crowd, and the guys generally tended to skew younger. The other bathhouse was in a much older building. It had taken over a Jewish health club and had a really solid, good facility—an Olympic-sized pool, a tiled in-ground hot tub, a screened outdoor nude tanning deck, massage rooms, a dry sauna in addition to the steam room, and two comfortable-ish movie rooms. Despite its age, and despite the fact that it attracted an older and sparser crowd, I actually liked this facility better for many years. The men were friendlier, the sex was wilder, and the place was infinitely cleaner than its rival. I sponsored many a member there. In the mid-2000s, though, the club’s owner got into the habit of commandeering the public address system for fifteen minutes to a half-hour at a time so that he could go on what sounded like meth-fueled rants about the local gay and lesbian organizations and how they were full of Nazis and assholes. And the last thing one really needs when one’s trying to sink one’s dick into a hot young buck is some addled, slurring idiot shouting obscenities into a microphone at the top of his voice. You know? The final straw for me with the older bathhouse was one afternoon when I’d spent several hours there. I’d turned in my bedclothes, checked out my key, and gotten back my lifetime membership card. The clerk had buzzed me out the door, and I’d exited into the foyer. I was heading to the door out and, because my breath needed a minty boost, I’d withdrawn from the back pocket of my jeans a stick of Orbit gum. Well. I hadn't unwrapped it. I wasn't going to put it into my mouth until I'd reached my car. But you’d have thought that instead of an inch-long sugar-free mojito-flavored chewing gum, I’d pulled out a loaded gun. The clerk and owner started screaming at me at the top of their lungs, through the bullet-proof plexiglass through which one had to check in. Gum was forbidden on the premises! What did I think they were, made out of money? What was my name again? They were going to take my membership and put a black mark on it! No! I was going to come right back in and they were going to give me a scraper and I was going to have to scrape every seat in the movie theater, bed in the rooms, and gum mark off the floor, right then and there! They were serious. I stared at them in amazement, said, “Fuck you,” and walked out. I never ever went back. I told everyone I knew who was thinking of joining to keep away. (And I recommend you do the same.) When I first joined that particular bathhouse, it was a few years after it had been more or less gutted in a fire. A cigarette left burning in one of the rooms had cleared out three-quarters of the bathhouse, so that it had no private changing rooms (they’re euphemistically called)—only a vast, dark, warehouse-like area hung with drapes. During the years before the rooms were rebuilt, the big empty space was called ‘tent city’ because the owner had put down a couple of dozen pup tents on the floor for men to fuck in. I loved the arrangement better than the private rooms that later supplanted them, to be honest. No one could really vanish into a room with a locked door, in that arrangement. All the sex was public, or at least semi-; you could hear everything through the thin material of the pup tents, listen to entire conversations, hear every grunt and thrust and slickness. There was always a chance that you’d be leading a man into a pup tent and get down on your knees and crawl in, only to find some fucker already waiting inside with his legs up, or another couple screwing. Sometimes they’d invite you to stay, anyway. I met Allan in one of the tents. He was one of those sluts who would spend an entire afternoon on his back on those cement floors, legs in the air, taking dick after dick. We fucked once and enjoyed each other. I recognized him another day by the taste of his kisses—he was addicted to a certain strong mint, between fucks—and the glowing red tip of his cigarette in the dark. I always sought him out after that. When I first met him right around the century mark, Allan was no more than twenty-five. He was tall, and lean, blue-eyed, and had the blondest natural shock of hair. He was so fair-skinned that as he got fucked, a flush would form first over his face and then would spread down his neck and chest, until all those areas were a bright red. And he had a much-used ass with a natural rosebud from so much fucking. One of the reasons I liked Allan so much was that he was up for anything. I could take him to one of the public areas and fuck him while men watched, and he’d put on as much of a show as I. He’d arch his back, and groan, and make it look as if I was giving him the fuck of his life. When I was in him, his eyes would be half-closed, but they’d be fully-focused on my own. He’d kiss me passionately, and ride my dick for as long as I cared to give it to him. He’d never get enough. After a few encounters, he made it clear that I was his special territory. He’d fight off other, lesser bottoms to get to my cock, then work hard to keep my attention focused on him. I’d shoot a load in him, then he’d squat over one of the floor mats, squirt it out of his ass, and lick it up—all for my voyeuristic pleasure. Then, while I’d lean back against the wall and relax, he’d pick another man out of the crowd, put his ass into the air, and take the anonymous fuck while I watched. The minute the guy had dumped a load inside him, Allan would scramble off him, crawl to me, and then slide his cum-filled chute down and over my dick, so I could fuck him in the stranger’s load. He worked as a waiter nights, I knew, so the only time I saw Allan at the baths was during the day. Every time I saw him, he’d collect loads for me to fuck in. Then when I told him I’d have to be going soon, he’d give me the most determined, aggressive sex I’d had to that point. His hole was on my dick, but from the way he went at it—straddling me, grinding at me and snatching my dick with his cunt, his jaw jutted out and a snarl on his face until he got the load he needed from me—it was more as if he was fucking me than the reverse. I loved sex with Allan. So when he suggested we save our money and just start fucking at his place, I didn’t hesitate. Hell yes, I wanted to see him. And for a good year, I did. (To be continued.) More...

Check out some of her other novels, Belfast. They're not all ghost stories, but they're all unsettling in a similar way. The Sundial and We Have Always Lived in the Castle are especially good.

Some of my long-term cash slaves have also been for significant amounts. It's not a bad gig if you can get it.

I'm surprised by how many guys pay me not only to fuck, but just for the privilege of me giving them orders on a weekly basis. Not bad for a guy who left his twenties a couple of decades ago. It's a matter of appealing to a certain personality type, I think—the kind of man who's not only sub, but wants to prove it, and has a fetish for spending money to do so.

I love that book!

Man, that is a bittersweet story indeed. Still--you never know what life could bring. His path might cross yours yet another time.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Your brother told me you had a big dick,” said the man. My jeans were half-off , the waist clinging to my thighs just above the knee. I had a pair of black trunks on. Their elastic band still clung to my left hip. He’d pulled down the right side, though, exposing my cock. “He was right.” I was still stiff from the last half-hour, during which we’d wrestled for dominance on his bed. We’d kissed, and pinned down each other’s arms and attacked each other’s necks and lobes and chins with our mouths and tongues. We’d ground our privates against each other until they hurt. I’d been pumping out precum during that entire time. I could feel the cold wet patch against the skin of my leg. “My brother’s not a liar,” I said, by way of not seeming to want to be big-headed and agree with him. “Fuck,” he said, going down on me. His mouth was full of my dick for several long moments before he came up for air again. “I’m glad he told me to get in touch with you.” He was about to go down on me again, but he paused. “Does he pimp you out like this often?” One of the things that Mikey will do, from time to time, is to run across some guy online that he thinks of as absolutely perfect for my tastes. After all, who knows me better? There’ve been a few occasions when he’ll simply give me a profile name to look at and leave it at that. But most of the time, he seems to know that I prefer to be the pursued than the pursuer, and he’ll go straight to the guy and extol my virtues. I haven’t had the privilege of actually reading any of these missives, but I kind of imagine they’re a lot like my agent writes when she’s trying to sell one of my works. Fantastic strength! Broad appeal! Available cheap! I know it’s happened when I get an email out of the blue. Hey, it’ll be titled, or I know this sounds weird. Then the first line will be, Your brother contacted me on here and he said you and I should get together. Yeah. Mikey pimps me out pretty often. He has a good eye, too. He’s hooked me up with slutty boys who haven’t yet outgrown their abuse of Axe body spray, and sexy silver foxes who make me weak the knees. He’s hooked me up with piggy bears I’ve found super-attractive, and handsome muscle gods whose attentions made me nervous, but who were so turned on by one brother pimping another that they couldn’t resist giving me a try. When they contact me, these men, I always feel obligated to apologize first. Oh jeez, I’m sorry, I’ll say. He really shouldn’t do that. He’s just trying to look out for me, especially now that we’re a thousand miles apart. Apologies seem to be unnecessary, really. Most men find it perversely hot, or at least don’t mind that Mikey’s pointed them in my direction. An agent would take her fifteen percent, of course. When I lived in Michigan, close to Mikey, his cut would be the pleasure of hearing me replay the encounter for him in person, when we were alone and exchanging confidences. If he could, he’d try to get into the guy’s pants himself. This year, though, he has to be content with chatting to me about it online, or remotely, or hearing about it from the guy himself, if I’ve been busy. This guy was one of the silver foxes—a tall and handsome older guy who lived with his lover in a big house not far from me. He turned out to be a good lovemaker, once I got him to shut up talking about taking down his Christmas decorations and the weather. I fucked him three times and was in an almost-unconscious bliss for a half-hour when he treated me to a back and neck rub. Then I went down on my knees, right before I left, and sucked him off—start to finish, in less than two minutes. “Holy shit,” he said, staggering back into the wall so hard that his tchotchkes leapt alarmingly on the ornamental shelves behind him. “Your brother didn’t tell me you could do that.” Apparently I need to get Mikey to write some better agent letters. More...

Someday I'd like to hear about that, Hotload.

That comment manages to be both tactful and truthful, EQP! Thanks!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I know, subtle, ain't it? My birthday's a week from tomorrow. Don't worry, I'm not hinting for expensive gifts! (Though if you were in that kind of mood, I've got an Amazon wish list you can always browse.) I'm not demanding that a porn star give me the fuck of a lifetime. I'm a low-maintenance kind of guy. You know what I would like, though? Photos of you an. Male, female, young, old. I don't care. Just take a pic of your sexy body with a sheet of paper on which you've scrawled a birthday wish. Or take a photo of your face and your pretty smile while you're holding up your phone to show me you've typed out a birthday greeting in big bold type. Make a really short movie in which you're yelling happy birthday! at me. Email them to the address in my sidebar! Nothing would make me happier. I won't share them with anyone. Honest. I will bask in a glow warmer than any of my impending for-mmph-mmph birthday candles could create, though. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me , shall we? For those of you who made an effort this week and last to come up with some truly unique questions for me, I'm grateful. They were interesting! Your first time: with a man vs woman. Which was better / more memorable? My first time with a man was special. It was with someone I knew and adored, and scary though it was, I trusted him enough to guide the situation and not let me come to harm. My first time with a woman I've written about in my blog. It was supervised by someone I trusted, but involved a couple I didn't know, neither of whom had inviting personalities. I might've gotten the job done, but it was an act more of corruption than of pleasure. Have you ever eaten anything special or different in an attempt to make your cum taste better? I have not, though I once had someone try to make me experiment with pineapple juice to see if it made my loads sweeter, as it was suggested it would. I did used to take zinc supplements to see if it would give my loads more volume, but I found that simply keeping well hydrated did that trick. And I have consumed beer, which I don't particularly like, in order to make my piss taste different, for some men. What do you do when you can't sleep? When I played World of Warcraft, I would get up from bed and work on my fishing. That was such a dull and tranquil experience that I'd be ready to go to sleep in no time. I no longer play, though. So usually I will get up and either browse web pages, or I'll lie in bed and read on my iPad. I find that if I just do something for an hour other than think about sleeping, I'll fall back to sleep. And if I don't . . . well, it's only a night. Blindfolded, butt up, door unlocked. Hot, or not? And should the blindfold stay on until you leave? That's very, very hot to me. If the blindfold stays on, even better. I love that scenario. Open Relationships, are you a fan or do you disagree with them? Why? Everyone in a relationship should feel not only the freedom to be able to express himself to his partner, but with his partner to set the course of the relationship. For some couples, that will mean a sexually open relationship. For others, it'll mean monogamy. Both of those—and every variation between—can be good options. I'm a big fan of people taking control of their own lives and relationships and working with their partners to make life not only agreeable, but fulfilling. No matter what the details happen to be. If you only had one night in Toronto, (Say, for instance, on a Thursday) where would you go to find a hole or three? Steamworks. It's clean enough, centrally located, and attracts not only a good number of guys, but a good quality of men as well. Years ago I would've suggested the Bijou or The Barracks, but sadly, they are long gone. I loved those spots. How close has lightning ever struck near you? Were you outdoors or in? I once had lightning strike the electrical transformer behind the garage of my previous house—about thirty feet from where I was inside. It shorted out all the electronics (except for those I'd unplugged because of the storm) and set off the house's alarm system in a way that it couldn't be turned off. Fun. Whenever you read a profile on A4A or other hook-up sites that says "I'm just looking to make friends," do you ever mentally add "...with my cock/ass"? Quite a lot. I also look at the ads that say 'I'm not here to hook up!' and mentally add, '...unless I'm horny.' Do you ever have a hook up turn into a meanful active friendship? Quite often. When I lived in Michigan, I had active and meaningful friendships (and continuing sexual relationships, in many cases) with several guys whom I originally met for a hookup. My intense relationship with Spencer, which I documented in my journal in the latter part of 2010 and early 2011 and which lasted for the better part of a year, until I moved, began as a hookup. The longest-lasting relationship of my life started as a one-night stand. I'm pretty adept at making friends with my fucks. More...

Me too, subtenor!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here By day, Bryan Park was a genteel and respectable place to visit. In April and May, citizens of Richmond would flock to see the masses of azaleas that grew along seventeen acres of road there. The park’s south entrance led a serpentine path through the high banks of color—vivid pinks, obscene purples, whites so vibrant they caught the sun and reflected it like a mirror. The park was alight with color for those two months, then settled for the rest of the summer in the colors of the forest—deep browns, soft greens, dappled shades. It was the shadiest of the Richmond parks, in the nineteen-seventies and eighties. There were a couple of fields for sports, and the banks of the creek running down a waterfall and into the duck pond were clear, but most of the park was overshadowed by oaks and pines and by the deep forest that protected the sleepy neighborhood of Lakeside from I-95. It was in the shade of those impossibly tall trees that I lost myself in my teen years, along with the shadowy figures of the adult men who’d come hunting for the same thing as I: release. Cruising there was different in the daytime. From the time the park opened until its official closing at sunset, the park’s users divided themselves roughly in half. In the south entrance came who wanted to use the park for recreation and relaxation, or the rednecks who drove in their pickup trucks with the Confederate flags in the back windows, and the illicit bottles of beer and Jim Beam beneath their seats. And in the north entrance, at the park’s rear, the men cruising for sex would drive. Up and down the road by the duck pond they’d drive, slowly, carefully, scanning the horizon for possible movement among the trees. Those cruising for the long haul would steer all the way into the woods and park near the restrooms there. Their heads would barely appear over the driver’s side windows, as they slouched down in their seats and peered out at the world around them, waiting and watching. The park’s two sections were, back then, inaccessible from each other by car. The straight side had its own entrance and exit; the cruising side utilized the same two-way road for both. Someone who parked and walked through a series of barricades might make his way from one to the other, but very few did. The daytime men made a show of appearing respectable. Earnest, even, in their attempts to appear as if they were using the park for its legitimate intended purpose. They’d stretch their legs and walk around the duck pond, ostentatiously carrying sandwiches their wives and sweethearts had prepared for them in white paper lunch sacks, or bearing bird-watching binoculars around their necks. The men who walked into the sunlight, who got out of their cars, made every attempt to appear as if they belonged. By night, though, all bets were off. The park officially closed at sunset. By the time dusk rolled around, the distinctions between the park’s two halves began to bleed. In the lingering heat and humidity of the long summer days, men would open their car doors when the sun had set and begin to walk around. Rednecks savvy to the action going on would cross the barricades. In their hands they’d carry their bottles in brown paper bags. Their breath and their beards would be sour with the stuff. In the picnic shelters they’d sit, or on the rocks near the waterfall, legs spread, the worn denim of their jeans showing the outlines of their tools. The cruisers would leave their cruising mobiles and step into the woods, and watch. The restrooms grew busy with the sound of the swinging doors. Inside, in the stalls, would echo the sounds of slurping, of soft sighs at the insertion of dicks into holes, and the muted commands one man might give another. There were ways to linger in the park after sunset. The side streets of Lakeside would be lined with empty station wagons and trucks and long town cars. The park officials might have been able to block off the roads, come dark, but the park wasn’t walled or gated; they couldn’t stop anyone simply from walking in. It was after the park had officially cleared that it would come to life again. From the shadowy woods would emerge figures that had disappeared in there long before the sun had set. Men who’d occupied corners of sheds and small shelters would step out onto the roads again. And somehow they’d all end up in the picnic shelters in the park’s center. I knew the routine well enough by my mid-teens. I would drive around Lakeside until dark fell, and then navigate around the barricades and straight into Bryan Park, locking my bike on a rack by feel. Even after my near-arrest in the restrooms the summer before, I was bold enough to feel safe in the dark. The night was my blanket, my protection. I knew I could strip off my shirt and leave it in the disused, ornamental stone fireplace at the picnic shelter’s end. I knew I could leave my shorts there too, with my bike key tucked into the zipped pocket. Being naked outdoors wasn’t exactly a novelty for me—I couldn’t even really recall the first time I’d stripped down and run around like a wild Indian, as the saying went back then, at one of my parents’ hippie-dippie gatherings in the nineteen-sixties. I felt emboldened by the dark, nights in the park, though. This was my element. The first time I lay on one of the picnic tables beneath the shelter, I felt giddy at the cheek of it. Soon I learned that it was my place. The irregular, splintery surface of the wood dug into my back, night after night. I grew to love it. I almost missed the bite of it, when I’d get fucked on sheets. The men approaching were visible only by their lighted cigarettes, or by the glint of a pair of spectacles in the half-moonlight, or by the sound of their belts unbuckling and their feet shuffling across the concrete as they approached. I’d feel a pair of hands on my legs. Hear the sound of a zipper. Feel the shove of spit-slick dick against my hole. And then I’d take their fuck, with gratitude. The rednecks smelled of booze and cigarettes. Their beards would rasp against my face when, against character, they’d lean down to drive their tongues into my mouth. Once they’d done, they’d whip bandanas from their pockets and wipe their cocks clean before scampering back to the trucks they’d parked on the side streets, to pretend they’d been out with their buddies. The married men would hold my legs hard and fuck deep, making their exertions silent as if they were trying to keep it down so their sleeping kids wouldn’t hear. There were the regulars, the older bachelor gentlemen of a certain age and gentility who made a career out of disappointing elderly marriage-minded spinsters during the day and finding their true passion in the park, beneath the trees and the slope of the shelter’s roof. Sometimes I could identify the men only by the way they flicked their cigarette lighters, or by the feel of their dicks as they shoved and forced themselves into my holes. In other parts of the shelter they would grope for each other, or kneel in corners and suck and swallow. Sometime other men would lie on other table, or bend over for each other. But I had my table, near the door, where reflections of the night would expose me to those hunting nearby. Two hours I’d lie there, three, taking dick after dick. Once in a while—rarely—the cops would sweep through the park. From our vantage point on the hill, we could see their headlights shining through the trees. There would be a chorus of belt buckles, of shoes scraping across concrete, of men scattering into the woods. I’d collect my clothes and wait behind the shelter, watching the car glide by and continue back out again. They never stopped. There was nothing to stop for. Certainly not the phantoms watching from between the trees. Then one by one, two by two, the shadows would appear again, and converge on the shelter. The fucking would be more urgent than before, and my sighs and grunts would be lost in the night, among the cicadas, the rustle of leaves, and the distant sound of the highway. Late at night I’d slink home, stinking of cum and still wet from the quick washes I’d give myself in a neighbor’s spigot, where I’d sneak into my room through the basement door and crawl into my bed. Then I’d sleep until ten, and wake up planning to do it all over again. I learned about abandon in that place. I learned about closing my eyes and trusting not in the way things looked, but in how they felt—how men asserted themselves in the dark, when no one was looking. The timid became bold, the bold became wolves. We had no bars, no internet, no place to congregate and size each other up. But in the dark, we were a band of brothers with no restrictions between us, and no rules to follow save for those we made ourselves. More...