TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The following piece amuses me. I wrote it in my journal in 2003, about men4sexnow.com, a site I haven't used since about 2007. Here we are almost a decade later, and the emails still haven't stopped. (Knock wood.) What's interesting about this old essay is that although the popular sites have shifted, the same old patterns of behavior never change. I’ve had profiles on chat sites before. I've hooked up with men I've met on bulletin boards and AOL (a decade ago); I've made friends from gay.com that I've fucked around with. These new sites designed for hookups, though—those I haven’t taken too seriously. For a long time, however, my friend Chris has been trying to get me to join a particular online sex site he frequents. At his house one evening last year, I watched as he logged on and checked out who else was prowling the cyber-alleys. Within a few minutes of talking and looking at other people’s profiles, his email collection chime sounded. In his box were three messages from people who’d seen his profile, looked at his photos, and wanted hot monkey sex, right then and right there. They wanted it now , dammit! That was fine for him, I thought at the time. But I had my sexual trickle-down list fairly clear: - Friends of mine with whom I enjoyed both physical and emotional intimacy. Which is a polite synonym for other lovers . - Acquaintances of mine whom I occasionally see when both of us felt the urge. Which is a polite way of saying fuckbuddies . - Last and least, perfect strangers. It’s a system that’s worked fairly well for me—an inverted food pyramid, in which proportionately higher helpings of the first two, coupled with moderate intake of the last, would keep me happy and would burn off a little of what often seems like my sometimes unmanageable supply of sexual energy. In the year that’s passed since that evening with Chris, I started having crank out finished product for my deadlines. For two or three months at a time I’d be more or less totally celibate (and whiny about it), then between works I’d hanker to embark on a course of slutterific carnage, leaving cum-soaked clothing and satisfied, broken men in my wake. Sometimes I’d find someone to help out. A lot of the time, though . . . not so much. Another problem is that lately several of my regular friends have either taken boyfriends or moved out of town. My time in the evenings is pretty limited; I don’t intend to troll chat rooms or hang out in bars looking for casual sex partners. I was talking over the problem with another friend last month. It would make more sense, I said, for me to make time even during deadlines to burn off accumulated sexual energy. He agreed, since a laid Rob is an easier-to-get-along-with Rob. “You should register with this web site,” he said, tilting his laptop around. “I checked it out a few days ago and it’s really easy to use.” Of course it was the exact same place Chris had showed me a year ago. So three weeks ago I whipped up a profile and composed a little essay about how anyone with hang-ups about race or age or body types and size could just keep on looking, because I wasn’t going to be interesting to them. I tossed on a couple of x-rated photos of myself and threw in a g-rated photo as well, mostly in self-defense. Guys who are looking for a particular type of man, whether it be a jock or a bear or a muscle stud or a daddy or a twink, have a tendency to get excited when they see the cock shots of me and then to deflate at the latter when they see I’m not extraordinarily handsome and that I don't fall into any particular classification of gay subculture. I began to get responses within the hour. By the following day, they were pouring in, and although the initial flood has stemmed slightly, they really haven’t yet stopped. In that time I haven’t really initiated any communications. I’ve been letting them come to me, and I've been responding to the ones I receive. And I’ve noticed a few things about guys who spend a lot of time looking for online hookups. 1) There are more guys brimming with reasons not to meet, than who actually want to get together and screw. For some the urge is there, but out of fear or intimidation or whatever reason, they lack the follow-through—they’re simply content looking at photos of other men, sending them emails, and then disappearing to whack off thinking of what might have been. Others have posted the equivalent of You must be this high to board this ride signs in their profiles, or whip them out when they begin corresponding. You have to pass the number of inches test, followed by the weight test, followed by the good-looking test, followed by the hairstyle test, followed by the musculature test. . . . But you know, I gave up tests when I quit grad school. When a guy emails me (and this is an actual solicitation I received), I like your profile a lot and you’re right, too many guys are hung up on superficial shit. btw what is your waist size? , I have absolutely no qualms about writing him back and telling him that no hard feelings, but I can already tell it’s not going to work. 2) Cock size trumps tact, judging by the sheer number of men who have written me message like the following: WOWOWOW! U r not my usual type but I’ll make an exception because you have an AWESOME cock one of the biggest I’ve seen on here! Looking for now? (The only real response to that, by the way, is, “Gee, but no thanks.” 3) When pretty boys who have spent more time acquiring tans than I have spent on groceries this month, or when pretty men my age who have invested a house down-payment’s worth of money into looking like the pretty tan boys twenty-five years younger than themselves, write in their profile “Above all, I am looking for someone with a great personality!”, it is ungracious to suspect them of fibbing. They absolutely are being truthful and sincere. That is, if you understand that by personality they mean pecs . 4) As in the bars, there’s a period on these things in which one is ‘new meat,’ and thus more desirable than the rancid old stuff everyone’s seen before. I was talking about the last point with Chris this week, when I saw him on one of my instant messengers and told him that I’d finally given in to my sleazier impulses (big surprise) and joined his service. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed. Hope you're having fun. When I joined up, I remember getting fifty responses in the first month. You’re probably getting a lot more in general because you’re listing yourself as a top, right?” I thought for a minute. “How many did you say you got your first month? Fifty? The site was probably less popular then, right?” “Yes, fifty,” he wrote back. Then he named a mutual friend of ours. “He joined two months ago and since then he’s gotten a hundred emails. Why, how many have you gotten?” “Enough that I had to create a separate email box for them,” I said. “Hold on.” I counted the number of letters in the box and blanched. Then I took a couple of minutes to compress the emails by header, so that only the individual senders appeared. “I’ve gotten 1,424 emails. . . .” I told him. “Holy fuck!” he tapped back. “But that’s like, multiple emails from a lot of guys, right? And in how many weeks?” “. . . . in two and a half weeks, from 653 different men,” I finished. I could practically hear the thud of wood when he fainted to the floor. Which brings me to: 5) Apparently tops are in great demand. More...

You made my day, evil. Thank you.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my readers this week chastised me about the way I've been going about writing about the years I spent with Earl. I have to make clear that I'm using the word 'chastise' in the mildest possible sense. He wasn't crabbing at me about it. In fact, he took exquisite pains to make clear that he loved the stories from my teen years, loved hearing about my relationship with Earl, and got excited every time a new installment came down the road. His main concern, however, was that as a long-time and regular reader, he finds that often so much time passes between one Earl entry and the next that sometimes he loses track of the story and its various characters. He finds it tough to have to dig back through my entries and figure out what's happened in the story thus far. Plus there's the fact that he just wants to find out what happens next, while he's still anxious and excited from a cliffhanger ending. I get that. I totally do. The Earl story is very personal so me. When I call it 'the Earl story,' I'm vaguely aware that I make it sound like some kind of fictionalized serial. So perhaps I should reiterate that like my other entries here, it's not a novelette populated with fictional characters, but a messy chapter from my life. Earl wasn't my first man by any means, but the relationship we had was intense and, despite the depravity it involved, pure in a way. That is, he knew exactly what he expected of me, and I provided it without question and mostly with the satisfaction of knowing I was filling a need. The emotional components of our bond were simple. We both knew well what we needed from the other, and we gave it without hesitation. If he wanted me to travel to dark places for his sexual satisfaction, I did it, knowing on some fundamental level that he'd keep me safe no matter how low I went. I adored the guy. I would've done anything he asked, and did. I wasn't in love with him in a traditional sense, but he wasn't with me, either. And that was fine with us. The near-purity of that relationship (and again, I know the ironies involved in using the word purity to describe it) is tangled up with Topher and Jim, though, and with missed opportunities and words not spoken, and with guilt and shame and fear and a whole mess of other things that to this day I'm still trying to sort through. I left a lot of this story unexamined for years and years, almost as if I hoped that it would simply vanish if I didn't revisit it. Even when finally I convinced myself that it was a tale worth telling, it's been difficult to pick out the relevant threads that make a clear-cut story. There've been times the path seemed clear after I scythed my way through, only to find it more impenetrable than before. Of course, the biggest obstacle is that the whole thing is a little bit to me like picking at a scab. You know you shouldn't. You want to. When you do, it doesn't feel good. So those are my excuses, and here's my apology: I'm sorry if I've prolonged the telling. It's possible to revisit earlier chapters in the Earl story by clicking on his keyword phrase link in my sidebar—the same for the chapters of the story specifically involving Topher. And as I draw closer to the story's inexorable end, I'll try to speed it up a little. I appreciate your collective patience. Let's get to some questions I've collected from formspring.me, shall we? What brands of underwear do you have? Gap, Banana Republic, and a boatload of Calvin Klein. Is there anything you do solely because you think others expect it of you? Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a freakin' year. Of course things are expected of me. I'm over the age of ten. If you mean sexually, the answers pretty much the same. Pepsi or Coke? I would like to pretend I'm all hoity-toity and sniff and say that I don't drink fizzy beverages, but in reality I love Diet Pepsi. Ever worn high-heels before? What was it like? What was the occasion? I have not. I don't believe I've ever worn a single garment of women's clothing in my life, though it's not out of any overreaction that to do so would affect my masculinity. I simply have never had the desire to in a recreational manner, nor have I done it for Halloween at any point. I did, however, carry around one of my mother's old purses. When I was five. I used it to hold my toy soldiers, dinosaurs, and Matchbox cars. What's your favourite sex position? Inserted. Do you use poppers when having sex? I do not, and one of the great secret shames of my life is that never have I even attempted to try them. Do you think overweight people have only themselves to blame? I'm not really entirely comfortable with the way this question is asked—as if being overweight is automatically worthy of blame and criticism and disdain. Some people are heavier than others. Some of them carry it well. Some of them don't. Some are perfectly healthy; others aren't. Lumping them together in a group and implying they're worthy of being blamed dehumanizes, to an extent, a varied group of individuals. And I get very uncomfortable when people do that, because it's so very easy for others to do it to me. If an overweight individual wants to lose weight and does nothing about it, then sure. He has himself to blame. But I'd say the same thing for an unhappy skinny person who wants a better life but does nothing to achieve it, or the sexiest person around who wishes for love yet never gets out and meets anyone. Ultimately not only do we all need to recognize what we're lacking in our own lives and what needs to change, but also we need to start taking the steps to make those changes. No one else is going to do them for us. What's the most you've paid for a haircut? Probably far less than my hair stylist friends charge. With my last stylist, whom I saw for a good ten years, I had a barter system in place. Sexual barter, to be frank. How much do you charge for a haircut? Have you published commercially (as memoirs & erotica) any of your nonfiction? I've Googled without success. I've never had nonfiction published, no. I met a guy for sex, but we clicked and are spending more time together. When I thought it was just a hookup, I lied about my age (subtracted 3 yrs, & he's 10yrs younger than I am), but since it's become something more, I need to speak up. Any ideas how? I think it's important to be honest about one's age in relationships. If it lasts, he's going to find out and feel anything from annoyed to betrayed that he was lied to. If it doesn't last . . . well, it's almost as if you were betting on that from the start, and that never bodes well for anything lasting. I said 'in relationships' above, but hell. Why not always be open about your age? If a younger guy is going to get into a snit over three years, chances are that down the road he's going to be even more inflexible over something more important. Could you survive a year cut off from all technology? Survive? Yes. Would I enjoy it? Probably not. Who was your first celebrity crush? The Professor. Yes, the one from Gilligan's Island. I was seven. Shut up. More...

I know, right? It's not like I was cruising eHarmony.

Thanks masc4raw! I appreciate it. Mostly I engaged the guy because I was curious what made him tick. I don't think I got a clear insight into that, though.

I fully admit that I keep everything unlocked out of sheer laziness. I don't want to have to hit the unlock button and then wait to see if I'm acceptable to the guy. I don't want to have to email photos. I'll just put it all out there, on some sites, and if someone likes it, fine. If they don't, there's plenty of other meat to pick from.

Yeah, I think that's the part that gets me, Belfast. If he'd given me the lecture on a dating site—a real dating site—sure. I could see it. But Manhunt? Crazy.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I got a lecture not long ago from a guy on Manhunt. Yes, a freakin' lecture, like I was all of fourteen years old. I'd logged into the site and promptly done what I ordinarily do when I cruise Manhunt—which is not to cruise it at all, but put it in a background tab and go about my business. Every half-hour or so I'll check back to see if anyone's tried to hit me up. If they have, as long as they haven't done anything egregious like asking Do you and your buddies want to fuck me?, or haven't flown off the handle because of some imagined slight, I'll respond politely. If something happens, fine. If it doesn't, I don't feel I've wasted a lot of time. So I came back a few minutes later—I'd been in the kitchen, cleaning up from the day, actually—sat down, sorted through the email, and looked through what had accumulated. One of them was from a gentleman whose profile I examined before I read the letter. He was one of those slightly stocky but not unattractive guys in his fifties, a clean-cut type with a fringe of hair shaved short around his head. In his photos he wore striped button-down shirts and slacks. The shirts were of slightly different colors, and the pants of fewer shades still. Although the photos looked a little like action poses from the Sears & Roebuck Khaki Line for the Older But Still Active Young Granddad, the guy had a nice smile and a good face. In a positive mood, I went back to his letter, which started, I'm sure you hear how nice your dick is all the time. Promising (and true) enough. You're not going to hear it from me, it continued. I frowned a little. In fact, you're not going to hear how nice your profile is from me because I think it's shameful you feel it necessary to have a photograph of your penis next to one of your face. And I was like, what? My penis next to my face? Am I self-fellating in some shot and I didn't know? Then I realized what he meant. There are two attitudes about posting photographs in profiles for sex sites. There's the one extreme in which the guy shows absolutely nothing. No photos whatsoever. Or else they'll all be locked, and when you ask the guy to unlock them for you, he'll reply, I'm very very discreet and refuse. And then there's the opposite extreme, which me. I post it all and unless the sex site has specific rules about what has to be locked (like penetration shots or photographs of cum), it stays unlocked. Now, this older guy went on to chastise me for five very long paragraphs (on Manhunt!) about how terrible an example it was for someone of my advanced age to show both naked shots of my hard dick and smiling photographs of my ugly mug, out in the open, where anyone could see them. I was without class, he wanted to let me know. I was exposing myself to risk at my place of work, if my supervisor were to happen across them. And not just that, but I was giving the youth of America the mistaken impression that my genitals were nothing of which to be ashamed. Think of the children!, the note could have ended and I wouldn't have been surprised. I wrote back a chillingly polite letter in which I included my stock answer that I use whenever anyone attempts to tell me what I must and must not include in my profiles. I thanked him for his concern and told him when he started paying my Manhunt subscription fee—no when he started paying for my cable modem subscription and my computer both—I'd start listening to his damn advice. But probably not even then. He wrote back something huffy like, I'm just trying to save you grief down the road! No skin off my back! I don't lock my photographs on Manhunt for a couple of reasons. The lesser of the two is that I get annoyed by the one-word emails I used to get when I had some locked photos, which simply demanded, "UNLOCK." (Though I still get them from the idiots who don't seem to realize that they can see thumbnails of eight or nine photos without pictograms of locks on them.) The bigger reason is that I just don't really give a damn. I'm not ashamed of my face; I'm not ashamed of what's between my legs. I'm not particularly offended at the notion that someone might think I'm a sexual being. I am. I don't have a supervisor who is going to "stumble across" my profile. I'm not running for public office, ever. And I'm not trying to pretend that Manhunt is a genteel dating site instead of a place where horny guys meet when they want to fuck. I understand that not everyone is in my position, or feels the same way about their looks or body or sexuality. Some people do have sensitive careers they shouldn't jeopardize by flashing their dicks on Manhunt so that their elderly female audiences won't die of heart attacks, Clay Aiken. Want to lock up all your photos? It's your dime. Go right ahead. I don't really care. I'll never meet you if you don't unlock them at some point, but I won't be dictating what you can and can't do with your profile. Which is why I was surprised, I guess, that this fellow was so vehement about ragging on mine. Did my free expression of sexuality truly offend him so deeply that he felt moved to write a five-paragraph essay about it? Was my dick so raunchy that he wanted to write a letter to the editor? Especially, if you think about it, that my dick shot was what got him to open up the profile in the first place? For this week's open forum, I'm curious. What's your take on online sites and profile photos? Do you show all yours, or keep some concealed? If you're half-and-half on it—which seems to be the prevailing style in this part of the country at least—do you show your pearly whites and keep your bait and tackle under lock, or vice-versa? What's your reasoning for not showing everything? Or, if you're one of the types who'd never have a profile at all, or one with photos, what's your reason for not showing? I'm fascinated about your experiences and thoughts on the matter. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A couple of people have been really nice to me by purchasing gifts for me from my Amazon gift list, this last week, and I wanted to thank them. First off is a gift from someone who very thoughtfully purchased a book by the comics artist Patrick McDonnell, whose Mutts daily strip is the only one I follow. I love Mutts, and reading through the strips the week after I lost my oldest pet really resonated for me. So thank you, reader. You know who you are. I very much appreciate the kind thought after a big loss. The second gift was more for my genitals. Someone anonymous—I truly don't know who, because Amazon doesn't tell me—purchased for me a pair of Calvin Klein underwear. On their first outing, I met up with fuckboy Franco and stuffed them in his mouth, after I'd been wearing them all day, in preparation for mounting him. He models them well, no? Thanks to both you guys. I'm a grateful man. More...

If there is, I haven't been invited. Double-boo.

Raunch, that's a very nice thing to say. Thank you.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a continuation of the Earl series about my relationship with an older man in my teens, and of the complications caused by a peer named Topher. It's a direct sequel to yesterday's Brass Watch. Despite references to orgies and despite some very adult situations, I'm afraid it lacks any explicit smut, again. Sorry.) In the neighborhood where I grew up flourished two seminaries. From one, the more august of the two, the one that's still intact and and was known as the more academic, my childhood church (which was just a block away) drew slave labor for its programs in the form of seminarians anxious to teach Sunday school or draw up an extensive year-long Christian education curriculum for no more recompense than a smile and the experience. The lesser institution dissolved some years ago and gave up its campus to the Southern Baptists. In its heyday in the nineteen-seventies, though, it was the more touchy-feely of the two campuses. More youth-oriented. The infamous clog dancing troupe to which I belonged in high school was an evening program there. The drama group in which I made my Richmond stage debut and had first met Topher was one of its programs. The school was responsible for dozens and dozens of graduates who marched out from its grassy campus into the world, armed with the ability to play all the hit songs from Godspell on the guitar using usually no more than three or four chords, a broad range of Sunday school crafts in their holster, and only the vaguest (but a truly well-meaning) grasp of what actually was in the Bible. But they had a skating rink, and that more than made up for anything lacking in their academic system. I'm vaguely aware that roller rinks still exist across this country, but they don't have nearly the glamor and cultural sway that they did in the seventies and early eighties. We're talking about the era that is responsible for Xanadu, after all. I started in fourth grade skating at the seminary rink, which occupied the basement of one of their larger buildings. I had my own pair of skates for a time, even, until my feet began shooting up through the adult sizes to an eventual size eleven and it wasn't worthwhile to try to keep up. Everyone in the neighborhood of a certain age skated. Families came together on certain nights, bought pizza from the refreshment stand, and skated to disco music under the mirrorball. Every kid I knew was familiar with the names not only of the girls behind the skate rental counter, but the guy who ran the lights and music and even the fellow who sat in the back and cleaned and tuned the skates as they were turned in. We all knew not only how to skate in endless circles around the rink, but how to stop on a dime, skate backwards, turn a figure-eight, and dance along with Blondie and Donna Summer. I shudder to admit it, but once our clogging troupe even donned skates for one of our performances and boogied on stage to "Use It Up, Wear It Out." Some memories one can never shake, no matter how hard one tries. Anyway. The first place I ever saw Topher was on that seminary's campus, when we were alternating the lead in a musical there. And the last place I ever saw Topher was at the seminary's skating rink, one summer night. For me it was the summer between the end of tenth grade and the start of my senior year. My parents had landed on the plan that had me skip eleventh grade, and I had to spend that summer taking an English credit to do it. The amount of travel and work I had to do over the course of a couple of months really cut into my usually leisurely summer schedule. Something had to give. I wasn't going to relinquish my nights of whoring at the park, or my weekends of fucking at Earl's place. My daytimes were usually spent shuffling between classes, dealing with my first stalker, and doing homework. What I jettisoned turned out to be what little socialization I did with other kids. I didn't go to the pool much that summer. I didn't hang out with what few friends I had. And I rarely went skating. But one night toward the end of summer I did. I have a vague memory of being guilted into it by my parents, who were convinced I was overworking because that's precisely what I wanted them to think. For whatever reasons, though, I went skating that night. I caught up with a few friends. I endured their snide remarks about skipping a grade and leaving them behind until I wasn't enjoying it any more, and then I figured I'd cut out a little early, stop by the park and whore until it closed, and then arrive home late at night and go straight to bed like any surly teenager with too much on his plate, thanks to his folks. That was the plan, anyway. I slipped my skates back at the rental desk while my friends were out on the floor, and during one of the popular slow numbers in which all the popular guys would grab the popular girls for a mobile make-out session in the semi-darkness, slipped out the door and into the basement stairwell that led back up to the sidewalk. And there was Topher, at the far end of the stairwell, smoking a cigarette. We didn't smoke in those days. Never mind that I'd seen him fucked by men more than twice his age for a couple of years by that point. I was absolutely shocked to the point of speechlessness at the sight of him guiltily stubbing out a butt on the concrete and pushing the ashes into a drain with his sneaker. "Hey," he said, when he saw who I was. "Hey," I said back. I stopped. I wasn't exactly sure what social courtesies we owed the other. I was Earl's boy. Topher at that point was more Jim's, though Earl had found him and trained him in much the same way he'd trained me. Because he spent more time in Jim's room, the pair of them smoking weed and giggling at Looney Tunes reruns and broadcasts of The New Zoo Revue, I didn't really see him as a direct rival for Earl's attention. The two of them fucked, but not when I was around. How he viewed me, though, I knew might be a sticky point of contention. He had ample reason to resent me. I was the favorite son, the priggish do-gooder when I wasn't on my back with my legs in the air. I didn't smoke, I didn't drink, I didn't do pot or hang out with a bad crowd. I was Abel to his Cain, and I was acutely fearful that when he looked at me, he saw a halo hanging over my head. Then there was the fact that the two of us had never been alone together. There were dozens and dozens of kids and adults on the other side of the wall. We could both hear the thumping disco music through the shaded windows and the door. But that stairwell closed the two of us off from the rest of the world in a way neither of us had encountered before—not even when the two of us had been in our own awkward, private world when forced to fuck each other for the amusement of a crowd.I moved. I'd made the decision to leave. "I bet you're looking forward to school," he said finally, shuffling his feet. I stopped. It sounded like a dig to me, but I didn't acknowledge it for what it was. "Maybe," I shrugged. "Aren't you?" I didn't know which high school Topher attended, though I knew it wasn't mine. "I don't know," he said. "Don't know if I'm going back." If I'd been shocked by the cigarette, this admission really nailed my feet to the ground. I wasn't going anywhere. By and large, we were all good kids, in that community. Some had more of a reputation for making trouble than others. There were a few I avoided, because they were dicks to me. One of us had thrown a drunken party when his parents were away for the weekend. But even he turned out in later life to be a responsible lawyer. The point was that we just didn't have any high school dropouts. Not in that community. Not even in my high school. They were a mythical breed, exotic and much-rumored, but never witnessed. I said something like, "What?" Now he shrugged. "I hate that shit." He peered at me through narrow and slitted eyes. Topher's teens had not been kind to him. He had acne on his face—big blotches, not the minor kind of scream-inducing pimples I occasionally got. His hair was stringy and unwashed. Whether it was the weed or the cigarette smoke or just the way he preferred to shut out everything around him, he perpetually looked at the world through heavy lids that were so shuttered they almost closed. "School. Everybody telling you what to do and when to do it. You like that?" He thrust his hands in his pockets. "You probably do." Another jibe. I ignored it for the moment. "What're you going to do? Get a job?" "Nah." He was attempting to be nonchalant, adult in a way that a school-loving kid like me obviously was not. "I'd blow this town. Go somewhere exciting. Maybe Baltimore." It's a measure of what a sleepy little city we lived in that Baltimore seemed like a wild epicenter of excitement. "Oh," I said. I didn't really have anything else to add. He was warming to the topic, though. He'd obviously thought it through. "Jim said he could help me get a little money. No one else gives a shit if I go."There wasn't any way I could really counter that. He wouldn't have believed me if I said that I didn't want him gone. I didn't—but we didn't have enough of a relationship for it to matter. "Earl. . . ." He snorted. "Anyway. See ya, I guess." It was a dismissal, and I didn't have anything more to say. Nor did I really want to stick around, any more. Topher made me uncomfortable. Being around him reminded me of a path my life could've taken. He was almost a nightmare version of myself—a dark half that hadn't taken good care, that had done all the wrong things, that had made all the wrong decisions. We'd started from the same point, playing the same role in a play, same bright future ahead of us. We'd both been Earl's boys. Despite all that, despite even our proximity in that stairwell, we seemed so far apart that no bridge could ever span the gap. I turned, and put a foot on the first stair. "Hey," he said. I looked over my shoulder. "See you around. Or not. I'll figure it out." His voice wasn't cruel, or laden with blame or resentment. If anything, I remember it as a recognition of sorts. The recognition shared by equals, or at least by soldiers who'd witnessed the same atrocities, deep in the trenches. My last view of Topher was from the top of the staircase, over the iron railing. He was nothing more than a freshly-lit cigarette's red tip, hiding in the shadows. More...

HungLatin, he very well could be trolling me. God knows enough native English speakers do it. On the other hand, he could just be not a written communication kind of guy, and I get that, too.

Hotload, that's probably because the book wasn't worth anything—in monetary terms, anyway. I think you found a keepsake more valuable than just about anything made of precious metals, myself.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry in the Earl series is more or less a sequel to the entry entitled Topher, from earlier in the year, and though he doesn't appear in this chapter directly, is a continuation of my recollections of what happened to him. I'm afraid there's no explicit sex in this installment, but it's part of the whole story.) The very first man who attempted a serious seduction of me did so by borrowing my watch and wearing it during the day, so that he could wrap his big hands around my wrist and fasten it back on at the afternoon's end. So it seems almost fitting that a handful of years later, the beginning of my end with Earl had to do with his collection of watches. Anyone visiting Earl's house, whether for one of his all-weekend parties or for more innocent readings, could have told that it was a bachelor's home. The furniture was clean and relatively new, but the upholstery was in shades of dark browns and forest greens that blended both into each other and into the knotty pine paneling on the walls. The windows had blinds, but mostly no curtains. The kitchen was practical, but not much more than that. Not much hung on the walls save some old family photos. There weren't many knickknacks. Anything that could be pocketed and stolen away was impractical to keep around, when so many strange men were coming in and out of the house, once or twice a month for the orgies. It was a man's house, with few frills or fripperies. It was the kind of house in which whatever appeared on top of furniture—magazines on the coffee table, a collection of coffee mugs on the kitchen counter—was there because it had been tossed there after use, not because it was on display. Earl allowed himself to get a little more personal and decorative in his own bedroom, though. His nightstand was covered with old portraits of his parents and grandparents in old frames. They were fussy, filigreed things that had been handed down to him, so out of character from the Brawny paper towel lumberjack theme he had going on elsewhere. His dresser was an heirloom from his mother, and had a faintly feminine air to the flowery carvings on its corners and legs. A few of his mother's treasures sat atop it: a Wedgewood round box with a fitted lid, an antique tea set in which he would toss his spare change, a number of ancient silhouettes of predecessors in cameo brooches. None of these were worth anything save in sentimental value, but like all the family treasures, before the start of one of his parties he'd sweep everything into the same bureau drawers where he kept my savings account bank book. Save for the tea set, that is. He'd simply clap the lid on the pot of that so that no one would be tempted to steal his change. His watches, though. Those mattered to him. Earl collected watches not indiscriminately, but with a true collector's eye. I remember once he drove to Atlanta to purchase a specific antique pocket watch from a dealer there—a thin, open-faced watch that looked surprisingly delicate, but weighed down the hand because of the solid gold case. Many of the others were equally valuable for watches; he kept them all in an old silverware case that he'd repurposed for his collection. Most of the time that case sat on his closet floor, behind his shoes, anonymous and overlooked in a back corner. But from time to time he'd pull them out, sit cross-legged on the bed naked with me, and show them to me as he cleaned them. I know that one of the watches had been passed down from father to son through at least four generations of his family. It was the oldest of the dozen or more in his collection, and the only one that he kept out on his dresser, most of the time. When I close my eyes, I can still picture it: a brass pocket watch in beautiful condition, still gleaming almost as new as the day it had first been minted. Its numbers had been painted on, rather than printed. They were elegant and scrolled and thoroughly old-fashioned, and slightly distorted beneath the glass dome protecting them. I remember the case as being etched with a complex geometric design. When one fastened the lid, it connected with a delicate click. It felt good in the hand, that watch. I remember that watch so well because one Saturday when I was at his house he was going through a regular ritual of winding and cleaning his treasure. His family's watch was the only one he kept running. Most of the others sat suspended, their hands forever frozen at five minutes to three or twenty past five. His father and grandfather's and great-grandfather's watch he kept oiled and polished and wound, though he never carried it anywhere. "Do you know how many seconds this clock has seen?" he asked me, that Saturday. I shook my head and told him I didn't. I enjoyed the sex with Earl, god knows, but I liked these moments of quiet camaraderie as well, these times in which our dicks were flaccid and hanging between our legs, and the only use we had for our mouths was conversation. He named a number that sounded impossibly high. The night before he'd used an electronic calculator—they were new, then and novel, and had to be plugged into the wall and powered up before use—to figure out how many years had passed since the watch had been crafted, and how many days and hours and minutes that was. "All that time, it's been ticking," he told me as he burnished the metal with a soft cloth. "Passed on and on. A father would give it to a son, who'd grow up and give it to his son. My father gave it to me when I turned twenty-one. What's sad is that I don't have a son to give it to, myself." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. "Give it to me." I was joking. But only half. Part of me spoke up because I realized how badly I wanted a keepsake of Earl. At this point I'd been seeing him for, what? The better part of two years? I was Earl's boy, more than anyone. More than Jim, his lover, at that point. Much more that Topher, who had only been Earl's indulgence and by that point was more Jim's fuck-and-pot buddy, anyway. At least, that's what I wanted to think. Whether I was as important to Earl as he was to me in those days, only he can say. But as I said—I said the words in humorous and joking manner. But I wasn't wholly unserious. I was surprised, though, when I looked up and saw that Earl was staring at me. He was actually considering it, I realized at that moment. He was thinking about giving me that watch. He never said so outright, at first. But a few weeks later, Jim started to make snide comments whenever I was around. Earl would say something innocuous to his boyfriend about getting me a glass of water, and Jim would snap right back, "Why don't you just leave me to him in your will too, so he can treat me like a servant just like you do?" Or once, in the middle of one of their squabbles, Jim hurled his keyring at me and shrieked, "You might as well take these now! He'll be leaving you the house! Apparently I'll have to get used to the idea of sleeping on the street!" It didn't take the Hardy Boys to conclude that Earl had mentioned something about giving me a small token at some point in the future. I can't say I looked forward to that day, exactly. I intuited that when the time came that he passed on that watch, the very tenor of our relationship would have changed; when that day arrived, I wouldn't be his boy any longer, not in the same way I'd been before. I didn't want that to change. Not yet. I liked being Earl's boy too much. I didn't want things to change. But change they would, and change they did, not too very long after that. And I never got that watch, either. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've had an enormously busy weekend—out all Saturday, busy most of today—so I've barely any time for much of an essay today. Let's get right to recapping some questions from formspring.me. If you've got questions for me, feel free to use to service to indulge your curiosity. The only questions I don't answer are those I've seen a zillion times before ("How big is your dick?"), those about my home life, and those that aren't so much questions as barely-veiled hostility. Anything else goes, guys! Do you usually wear a cock ring when playing with another guy? Usually? No. Often? Yes. Thinking about trying out a cockring for the first time: go with leather, metal? It's tough to avoid the feeling of claustrophobia that a cock ring can elicit the first few times you wear it, particularly in those moments after your orgasm when your dick is still hard and you're wondering why it won't come OFF now that you're done with it. For that reason, I suggest avoiding metal for your first time. Go with either a leather snap model (just be careful about catching your pubes in the snaps), or a flexible rubber ring, or even one of the soft jellies. Have you ever been double penetrated? Nope, never, though I've been on the top end of double penetration, many times. For the record, it's not totally unpleasurable, but it's not my favorite activity by a long shot. In line with some of the other questions here, can you tell us more about how to cruise toilets and public parks? What are the "signs," so to speak? I've always been curious how it works. If there's sufficient interest in the comments, I'll write up another couple of the Cruising 101 series that covers the topic. At what age did you figure out that your parents had sex? Pretty early. My parents, hippies that they were, weren't shy about their sexuality, or the fact that they enjoyed sex together. Once I was old enough to understand how babies were made, my folks were pretty up front about the fact that they did that kind of thing all the time. So, you show up at a hook-up's place. They are super hot and clean themselves. But, their place is a pig sty. Dishes in the sink piled up. Underwear and dirty laundry all over the bedroom floor. Do you bolt, or do you just focus on the task at hand? I've had this situation more times than I can count. The dirty laundry on the floor doesn't bother me. I don't usually see their sink. But what will kill the mood for me is a house in which everything is piled high with hardly any room to move, like a nightmare out of "Hoarders," especially if there's a smell involved. Then I feel as if I have to fuck without touching anything, and that's no fun. I've also had situations in which my stomach turned when I went into the guy's bathroom and discovered it was a cesspit, with a nasty toilet and a tub that resembled a petrie dish. I actually made my excuses and vanished from one of those, once. Will Ben & Jerry's new Schweddy Balls flavor be the Official Ice Cream of The Breeder? I saw the announcement about Schweddy Balls posted several times on Facebook and I laughed. I loved that skit. However, I'm not really a fan of rum-flavored ice cream. The malted milk balls, yes. So many I'll just feed my fans my Schweddy Balls. How does your theory that most guys are bottoms at some level fit with evolutionary theory's suggestion that they should be about equal? For one thing, my theory is hardly scientific. Any sampling I make of the population at large is going to be made of guys predisposed to bottom, right? Of course it's going to seem like all the men out there are bottoms, to me. But they pretty much are. Why would evolutionary theory have any bearing on the proportions to tops and bottoms in the gay and bi population? The two have nothing to do with each other. The statement seems as dubious, to my ears, like the argument social conservatives make that gays imperil the human race because they can't reproduce--which is silly, because any man who hasn't had damage to his reproductive organs or been rendered sterile has the potential to fuck seed into a pussy, gay or straight. Likewise, any gay guy has the potential to top if he wants. It's just that most of them don't want. Ever planning to be in So. California? I get to L.A. periodically. Have you decided to keep our hair the same length, as it appears? You seriously did consider going a lot shorter, to much comment. I kept it uncut from May until August. When I had it cut again, I left it long. I get a lot of nice compliments about it these days. I'm really vain, if you haven't noticed. Are you ticklish? If so, most ticklish spot. My sides can be very ticklish. I disliked being tickled, though. You mentioned celebrities in your blog. What about politicians of the right wing kind? Or what about just regular right wingers? You must have had your fair share of bible bashers? I've slept with a state senator, and a state representative (no, I'm not saying which state), but to be perfectly honest, I don't remember their political affiliations. I have slept with a lot of conservatives and Bible thumpers, particularly when I was younger. My boyfriend in college was ultra-conservative. I don't have a lot of patience for political discussions during sex now, generally. If a guy pontificates on political issues that are repellant to me before I fuck him, generally I'm not going to meet him anyway. Is it inherently more pleasurable to bottom than top? I certainly don't think so, but I'm a top because I like the way it feels. Many of the bottoms I fuck certainly derive a great deal of pleasure from the act, and they'd probably disagree with me. Let me put it this way: if taking dick wasn't pleasurable, there wouldn't be such a surplus of bottoms out there. And if there weren't men like me who got a lot of enjoyment from topping, they'd all be pretty horny fuckers. Hey there! Paul from Buffalo. My question: If they were bi at least would you consider either Eric Cantor, Paul Ryan, or Aaron Schock? Mmmm, Aaron Schock. The question is, Paul from Buffalo, would any of them consider me? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In his photos, he looks like a bulldog. His brow is low and wrinkled, his jaw square, jutted, and firm. A Puerto Rican bulldog. His neck is thrust out at an angle away from broad, muscular shoulders. His arms are thick and strong, his hands naturally curled into fists. He's always got a layer of scruff on his face in the shots I've seen. A mustache that's more silky than thick sits on his upper lip, as if some stray dandelion seeds have come to rest there. He's hot. I want him. The thing is, English is not his first language. Every time we talk online, it ends with me near tears of frustration, because I can't understand a damned thing he says.woo like to, was the first thing he ever wrote me. I took it as a positive thing. Like, Woo! I'd sure like to do you! Or even, I would like to, with you! Who's going to object to either one of those? Hi, I'd write back. You're sexy. Would you like to get together sometime? suy pa to drivet mi in stamford like to, he wrote back. Now, there's only one little bit of that sentence—is it a sentence? My late word-loving mother would have gotten out her pencil to diagram it and ended up stabbing herself in the eye, I fear—that I really understand. That is, I was assuming he was in Stamford. And maybe he was calling me pa? I was a little older than he, but only if I'd fathered him in my teens. tenkio to men like 47.63 8 cut lovet, he'd write a few minutes later. I'd stare at it for several minutes until I realized that the numbers referred to me: I'm 47, six foot three, eight inches cut, and it sounded like he loved it. But tenkio to men? I couldn't even figure out what that might be phonetically. It used to be that I'd get a couple of message from him and I'd give up for the day, but he's been persistent. caman cenga naoo, he'll greet me. camin tudey stamford for sex my to! Some of the sounds are close enough to things I might want to hear—come on today to stamford for sex with my . . . toe?—but whenever I try to communicate back, it doesn't get any better. I spoke Spanish fairly fluently in my high school years, but thirty years of disuse have laid that particular skill to rest. I relied on Google translator to help me with my rusty vocabulary. Quiero poner mi pene en su interior, I'd write him, which probably is probably the least erotic way possible en español to say I wanted to put my dick inside him. It sounded like something the Queen of England might say, in full array. to drivet, was his quick reply. My stomach sank. ¿Puedo venir a disfrutar del sexo con usted? I asked, hoping (after I inspected all the verbs and nouns) that it would imply a question of whether I could come over and have sex with him. woo no gut, he wrote back. Wow, no good? I wondered. Then he shot another email. tu vives solito papi. He was asking if I lived alone. Finally, a message I understood. No vivo solo, I replied. ¿Alguna vez solo en casa? Are you ever home alone? like sex hot hot tenkio woo camin stamford drivet mi to, was his reply. And it was there that I gave up again. I'm honestly not sure what to make of the guy. I think he wants sex, but no matter how carefully and formally I structure my sentence so that I'm pretty sure they're clear, he's always writing back to me about camins and tudeys and drivets. I need an English-to-bulldog translator, stat. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Writing about the readers I meet is a difficult thing. I've had to do it several times, now, and I'm finding it never gets easier. I recognize that for many people it takes an act of courage to reach out and write an email to a stranger, much less offer him sex. I respect that act of bravery. I don't generally question the motives of the people who read me and decide they want to appear in an entry. There have been some I've thought were simply starfuckers—albeit of a very low-achieving type, considering I'm really nothing to brag about to one's friends. There've been a few who seem to think I'll fix what's broken in them, and it's usually very apparent that something is very, very broken. The vast majority who reach out, however, do so because it seems that they feel they can connect with me on a fundamental level. They seem to indicate that I've struck a chord with them that resonates through many of my entries. They feel they know me. And yes, they very well might know one facet of my personality very well. The intimacy they feel after reading me is enough to make them feel they want me, that they can offer me something I need and would appreciate it.I suppose it's the power of the written word. That kind of power was one of the reasons why I paused, that moment I stepped into Franco's bedroom and saw all the hand-printed signs on the furniture. Those written words, those expressions of an intimacy desired—the ultimate intimacy, in a lot of ways—simply took my breath away. I knew right then I wanted to make the afternoon special for him. These entries, too, I wanted to be special. I always want that, after I've met a reader. I want him to know what the time we spent was like from my perspective. I have to be honest. They can call me on bullshit easily, if I were inclined to fabricate. So I write these things down and try to make them as representative of reality as I can. Each time it seems almost futile. What's beautiful blossoms fully only when it's planted in the moment. Trying to sketch it in words is like plucking the flower and being forced to watch it wither, second by second. When I'm done writing, I might be left with petals dried to a certain hue, and a faint scent on my fingertips. But it's not what was in the moment, and I despair. There's so much I want to capture about the afternoon and evening I spent with Franco, and so little I'm likely to do well. But if I were to attempt it, I'd do it as a series of sensations. Because with that mask on his head, with its thick leather strap blocking off most of his hearing as well, sensations were what I gave him, one after the other. Not talk. Not poetry. Just the raw sensations of touch, and smell, and taste. Sex reduced to the most primal basics. The most declarative of sentences.The slap of my hands on his muscular, round ass, and the way the sound reverberated over the music of the living room. The echoes of his surprised, helpless moans, at every impact. The taste of his hole, his sweet, pink flesh so clean and soapy, as I dove deep in and rimmed him. His wordless cries, as he squirmed and tried to twist away from my relentless attention on his hole with my chin and lips and tongue, yet also made it easier to continue my assault. His surprised gasps at the columns of cool air I would blow on the parts of him I'd made slick with spit. The gentleness of his mouth, as he nuzzled at my cock with his lips and struggled to take it all in his throat, to maximize my pleasure. The determined manner in which he would dig his chin deeper and harder into the place where my leg joined my hips, as if rooting like dog. The way that, when words weren't available to him, he spoke to me through kisses. Soft and lingering, or hard and rough and angry. The speed with which he divested himself of his jock, when I tugged at the hem, and the silly, little-boy-like way his feet became tangled in the elastic and he blindly attempted to kick them off until I calmed him and removed the jock from around his heels. That silent hush, when he realized that he was face-down and that my knees were between his thighs, and that I was reaching for where the bottle of lube lay at the head of the bed. An even more profound silence that followed, so quiet that it sounded as if someone had turned off the volume controlling the entire city, when I pressed the head of my dick against his hole. I want to remember the feel of his ass around my cock, the way he would open fully, then clench and push back, panicked, as he realized how thick I am, how long, how quickly he was taking me in without me even thrusting. The words he said when I hit bottom, and held him around his chest, nodding my head side-by-side with his to let him know how well he was doing: You're in me. You've actually got your cock inside me. The grinding of his hips and the strength with which he clutched at me, trying to pull me in more deeply. How he turned his head to kiss me for the first time after penetration, as he suddenly remembered I was more than my dick, and that the rest of me was still there with him, as close as the two of us could possibly be. How over and over he repeated the words he'd traced onto those sheets of paper, urging me to let loose of the load that had been accumulating for ten long days.The sweet and touching way he expressed his disappointment when I pulled out, to turn him onto his back—and the warmth and need with which he received me when I entered him with his legs over my shoulders. The savage oath he whispered as he tried hard to work my dick with his hole and to give me even more pleasure than I was taking for myself: I want you to regret any ass after mine. The way he urged me on as I grew close to coming, thrusting back as hard as he could when I was close, and opening deep to receive the load when it came.How when my head cleared I looked down to discover he'd shot all over himself—buckets, gallons, it seemed, that covered his chest, his arm, even the leather of his mask, with milky-white sperm. And then, after, when we both were laughing, how he mildly complained about the fact that I'd been too involved in my own orgasm to witness how violent and drenching his own had been. I want not only to remember all of these things, and the hours of togetherness and talking and more fucking that followed, but I need to wrap them up in a pretty little package and present them back to him. To let him know that I wasn't just there, but that I was present, and relishing every moment of our time together. To give back to him what he gave so sweetly to me. That's all I want to do for any reader who meets me, and gives to me. I do so knowing that there's no way I can capture fully an afternoon's sweet scent, or the vibrant scarlets and hot pinks of its blossoming. But I do my humble best, and hope it's well received More...

Negcatcher, you need to give me a call. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It was close to the end of our first fuck that my hips began moving on their own. In that moment I had no more control over my thrusts than I have control of the planchette of a Ouija board—they took off on their own, speeding up, slowing down, and all I could do was sit back, marvel and wait for the inevitable. When that started happening, I knew Franco was different from typical bottoms. The realization only made me fuck him harder. In my early teens, sex was everything. It was what I thought about when I went to bed, what'd I'd dreamt about throughout the night, what I yearned for when I woke up mornings, my juvenile hard-on pressed so hard into the mattress that the sheets had left a woven imprint on my dick. It was my food, my drink, my air. My dick grew hard at the sight of a masculine voice, a jaw line, the slightest innuendo. I could look up dirty words in the dictionary and become aroused. Slight mentions of homosexuality in the Bible, even when everyone involved got stoned or shunned or transformed into pillars of salt, were enough to do it for me. Everything about it was novel and endlessly fascinating in the days when it took so very little to make my pulse quicken and my blood race liquid-hot through my veins. Novelty eventually wears off, though. I spent much of my twenties attempting to recapture those feelings that made my teen years speed by, trailing testosterone-fueled fumes in their wake. What used to burn so hot it was nearly unbearable felt like a late autumn sun, so weak on my it barely reminds me to squint. It wasn't until a decade later, after I'd done it all, seen it all, and been back a few times for more, that I realized it wasn't the acts themselves that provided sensation for me—not the sex itself—but the people I met. The sheer variety of them. The sweetness of some, unstinting and freely given. The tart and bracing sourness of others. Some months it seems as if the universe thrusts a Whitman's Sampler beneath my nose, daring me to choose. The very breadth of the choices makes me want to keep selecting and tasting, hoping that the next is as good as the one I've just had. Sometimes, though, I still wish for a faint whiff of that giddy, heady, freshly-unwrapped smell that sex had when I was younger and less jaded. And sometimes I get it. Franco opened the door of his walk-up flat so that the first thing I'd see when I walked in was a sign taped to the wall opposite: I want Rob to breed me, it read. It was the sign he'd made for me months before, when he started sending me photos of himself wearing nothing but leather gear, bent over, ass presented to the camera, ready to be mounted. It was the sign with which he'd taunted me all summer. The door closed; his furry face grinned at me. We might have said some words in greeting; I don't remember. Attractive as he'd been in his photos, in person Franco was really, really cute. His eyes were sparking and fixed on my face; his chin was covered in scruff. All I wanted to do was kiss him. My hands were blocks of ice from the cold, rigid and difficult to move, but they began to thaw as I moved them over his hips, up the sides of his ribs, to the thick hair at the back of his head. His mouth tasted sweet, like peppermints. And he kissed so well, with his eyes closed, sighing softly to himself whenever our lips parted. It was long minutes before I could really form a coherent sentence. "You are really handsome," I said, as my lips nuzzled my ear. "So are you!" he replied. "So much more than your photos!" It was a statement distracting enough to draw me out of the moment, but I made a conscious decision to let it float away. There was too much to enjoy at the moment. The shape of his ass, round and firm beneath my defrosting palms. The way he pressed his body against mine, the way he collapsed into my arms surrounding him, as if being there was something he'd craved. I could overanalyze later. We moved to the sofa, where I sat down. He straddled me, barely tearing his mouth away from mine for long enough to adjust our positions. I was wearing tight jeans made even more oppressive by the straining of my cock against the denim. It stretched up and to the left, pointing at my rib cage. His thigh rubbed against it, back and forth as we ground together our hips. For long moments we kissed. "Take off my shoes," I at last said, pushing him down. He fumbled with the laces, then discovered the zippers down the sides. I pulled him back up to me once he'd done. "Now take off your pants," I ordered. He obeyed, shucking them smoothly and kicking them aside. I was three-quarters of the way on my back. Only my shoulders and head were propped up on the pillow behind. Without a word, I twirled my finger in the air. He obeyed the gesture and turned around. The boy had worn a jockstrap beneath his jeans. His cock, thick and erect, shyly poked from the side. His ass was beautiful. Framed by the straps of his jock, the cheeks were round and meaty and perfect. I sat up and pushed at the small of his spine. He bent over obediently, then used his hands to pull apart his cheeks and expose his hole. One of the the things I liked knowing about Franco is that he wasn't a dedicated bottom; he's pretty versatile, which means that he gets asked to top more often than not. I also knew he hadn't been fucked in a couple of months. It explained his reaction when I leaned forward and let my tongue flick out onto his hole. He gasped. His head jerked back. His legs quivered like plucked harp strings. Then I lay back again. "Take off your shirt," I commanded. He obeyed. Beneath the shirt he'd worn a leather halter, hooked around his arms and cutting across his pecs. His chest was hairy. He grinned at me shyly, trying to discern if I liked what I saw. I nodded. "You are beautiful." "So are you," he said. I grabbed the center ring of his halter and pulled him down to me. We kissed again, long and lustily. Finally I whispered in his ear, "This is the last time you're going to see me for a while. I want you to get your hood." Franco keeps a rack of toys and leather gear by his front door, hanging from pegs, the way someone else would keep a woolen hat and keys. In his bare feet and jock he shuffled over, retrieved what I'd told him to, and brought it back. He handed it to me and knelt between my legs. He bowed his head. I fastened the blindfold portion over his eyes and nose. A strap held it down over the crown of his head. Another strap, thicker, fastened with velcro around the back of his neck. Blind and blindfolded, he had only his remaining senses to guide him. And my hand, which pushed his mouth against the tented portion of my jeans. Between my lips and my dick, which strained against its denim prison, his mouth traveled at my desire. I pushed him back, then guided his hands to my feet. Without saying a word, I let him know I expected him to remove my socks. His hands moved over my feet, then under the cuffs of my jeans. I couldn't stand my pants any longer. I moved his hands to the waist. His fingers scrabbled for the button, then the zipper that let them down. I lifted the lower half of my body so that he could pull them off, then felt both the warmth of his lips and chin and the cool, slick surface of the leather blindfold pressed on the inside of my thighs. He made me groan when he licked and chewed at the place where my legs joined my hips. Greedily he pressed his nose against my balls, snuffling through my underwear like a hungry dog. His mouth closed around my cotton-sheathed dick, licking up and down the shaft, pausing to consume the head. My hand directed his head where I wanted it to go, making it pay more attention here, glossing over other parts to get to a pleasure spot more quickly. My pre-cum was flowing freely through my trunks. My body heat quickly dried it when it reached the surface. It looked like the sticky tracks of a snail. While he licked and rubbed with his mouth, I tweaked his nipples. Soft they were, and pierced. The harder I pinched, the more desperate to please he became. I couldn't take it any longer. I grabbed the ring of his halter and pulled him to a standing position. Again, I didn't say a word. I led him down the hallway I assumed would take us to his bedroom. I tried leading him by the ring, and then by his hand, but I was afraid he'd bang into the wall or the doorway to his kitchen. So after a few steps I drew him close, and put his arms around my waist, and let him cling to me as I moved us forward. We stepped into his bedroom. The frame and mattress were at an angle. I vaguely took in the sight of three windows, shaded to the strong afternoon sun, and of a wardrobe, and a dresser, and chest. I sort of noticed candles flickering romantically in strategic spots around the room. But mostly I noticed the signs. There was one on a mirror standing in the corner, and one on the chest, and another taped to the headboard. They were all written in bold, clean, black marker. And they all read, I want Rob to breed me. I inhaled with surprise. And it was in that moment, surrounded by the boy's arms and by the signs that proclaimed his desire for me, that I caught a whiff of something familiar. It was intoxicating. Staggering. Dizzying, even. It was a glimpse of that old rush of sensation and novelty I used to have as a teen when faced with the prospect of sex, wild and giddy and unhampered by the everyday. It was that rush of blood in my ears, down my spine, and to my throbbing, expanding cock. And it took me aback, so that for a moment, all I could do was stand, like a pillar of salt, and listen to the sudden, deafening thudding of my heart. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here As a lot of you already know, I spent yesterday afternoon nuts-deep in one of my readers. Since I spent all afternoon and a good chunk of the evening with him, I didn't get much of a chance to write an entry for today. I'm hoping you'll all forgive me, though, when I share a few photos of the encounter with you. For the record, the lucky recipient of my 10-day load was Franco, whom we'd all seen before in the entry entitled Attention Seeker. He definitely will be getting more of my attention in the future. I was pushing these photos out onto Twitter as I was taking them. I never knew that uploading a photo while rimming could be so complicated. That's multitasking for you. And a sign of true devotion to my (piggy) readers, of course. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yep. As you might have grasped from the title of this week's outing, it's been ten days since I shot a load. Ten. Whole. Days. Which in Breeder Time is something like seven years. It's not as if originally I intended to go for so long without ejaculating. It's true that since my teens I've never been the kind of guy who felt compelled to masturbate several times a day, or even daily. I prefer my orgasms to come not from my hand, but from interaction with other people. So while at times in my sexual history that means I've been fucking and shooting at least once a day, if not more even more, there have been other periods in which the action's been a little slower. Like, the entire period in which I've lived in my new state. So the last time I shot a load was with the Latin boy from In the Leaves. A day or three passed. I made arrangements to get together with someone with whom I've been acquainted for about five years, at this point. His place in the city was going to be free, and he wanted me to come visit and giving him a fucking he'd remember. We agreed to meet Thursday. Well, I thought to myself. Maybe he'd get a kick out having a seven-day load in that hole of his. That'd be an appropriate way to show him how much I've anticipated finally meeting him, wouldn't it? I could do seven days, I figured. I've done seven days before. It wasn't easy. But I buckled down, got busy, and kept away from temptation until Wednesday night. That's when my friend called and asked if he could get a rain check on our date. I was disappointed, naturally, but the guy was a real class act about it, so I couldn't have any hard feelings. What I could've done is whacked one out right then, just to get rid of all the tension. It does get tense down there, when I'm not getting regularly laid, or even masturbating. When I sleep at night, my dick is hard the entire time—and not just hard, but red and raging and so aching that I spend all night thrusting it into the mattress and dampening the sheets with pre-cum. When I wake up, it's sore. (And no, before you ask, I've never had a nocturnal emission in my life.) What I did do, however, was immediately make another date with someone I've been meaning to meet for a few months, now. You guys have seen him in here before, and you'll get the details after we fuck. But I thought to myself as I made that date, Yeah, it's even more appropriate that this one, when we meet on Sunday, could get a ten-day load as his first seed from me. I can do three more days, right? Well. Let me tell you. The extra three days have been the hardest of my life. Pun intended. It seems like once I made that decision and promise to get to ten days—which very well may be a record in my adult life, I don't know—the forces of the universe conspired to get me to break that vow. Dry as Connecticut has been sexually since last June, suddenly it became sodden with sexual offers. Guys I'd never seen before were crawling out of the woodwork. All of them had places to host. All of them were available at the times that best suited my vagrant's schedule. Worse still, all of them wanted to do every perverse act in my repertoire. There wasn't a single deviant sexual deed proscribed by the Catholic Church or the National Legion for Decency that wasn't tossed at my feet. And the only thing I could do was walk away. And whimper. I did a lot of whimpering. So, mister. You know who you are. If you're reading this, and i'm pretty sure you will, know what a very, very, very long ten days this has been—and do me a favor, after you milk out my seed. Don't make me do it again. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me (and if you're a newer reader, feel free to use the service, anonymously or not, to ask me your questions). Felching. Yes or No Oh yes. If the guy's hole is clean and attractive, very much yes. Do you think you could have any kids you're not aware of? It is entirely possible. If you use a Krispy Kreme donut (for those who don't know what this is, it is a small peice of heaven, light dough with a sweet glazing) as the bun for your double cheeseburger, do you call it breakfast or lunch? I call it delicious, because it really is a good combo. Do you believe 3 or more people can have a serious, committed exclusive mental, physical and intimate relationship? I've known people in triads who've had very stable long-term relationships. I don't think I could be in one of those arrangements, but I know many people wouldn't want to be in mine, either. Do you still think about your exlover(s) from time to time? I always try to honor the people who meant something important in my life—particularly those who gave themselves to me in body and in spirit. Would this be your moto? "If you breed, make sure you seed" It's a good motto, to be sure. Do you go to bars/clubs? If so do you dance and drink or are you there for the chance of meeting someone/ hooking up? I go to bars. I've rarely been to a bar solely for the reason of picking someone up, though—there are easier, faster, and less frustrating ways to do that. Typically when I go to a bar it's for the purpose of socializing, or getting out of the house, or just hanging out with friends and meeting new people. What subject would you NEVER discuss on a first date with a cutey? Politics and religion. If I were making suggestions of what to avoid, I'd recommend that guys not talk about how lonely they are and how much they've longed for a soulmate, and how most guys are fakes and phonies. It's a little bit of a needy turn-off when I've had those things brought up too early in an aquaintanceship. Since you're in a committed relationship, why choose to have an open relationship? What purpose does it serve, other than getting your rocks off, and do you believe it is strengthening the relationship, overall? When you ask your question in this way, you betray a bias. What's wrong with getting one's rocks off? Why is enjoying sex a bad thing? If you're so quick to dismiss and trivialize a fundamental enjoyment of life and one of its most fulfilling aspects, you're going to be even quicker to dismiss any arguments I make in its favor. How would you ask the question "Since you're in a committed relationship, why choose to have an open relationship? What purpose does it serve, other than getting your rocks off, and do you believe it is strengthening the relationship, overall?" and answer it? That's actually a good question. Thanks for trying again. I would ask the question without the parts that give away bias and that are judgmental, because the only purpose they serve is to put the recipient of your question on the defense. Even a choice of phrases like 'getting your rocks off' indicates (to my ears, anyway) that you tend to think of sex as something crude and toss-away, perhaps even something to be joked about. When you ask what 'purpose' sex serves, it tells me you compartmentalize your sexual nature and don't see it as an integrated part of your everyday life, and that you try to keep it out of your everyday affairs. These things may or may not apply to you, but that's what I hear when you ask the question in such a way. Even if they are true, you need to accept that others are not of the same mindset. i see sex as something to be celebrated and enjoyed, though it can be difficult and tricky—and yes, even funny. It's very much a part of my life, with a purpose of enriching it. Every relationship has its own story. Many couples in open relationships simply don't expect, for a variety of reasons, the other person to have to meet all their sexual needs. They might enjoy the recreational aspect of sex, and have a relationship strong enough in which jealousy does not play a major role. They might not physically be able to fulfill certain needs for each other. Or they might even regard sex in the light most people regard friendship—we don't ask our mates to give up all other friends when we form a couple, so why should we ask them to give up all physical contact? For couples who are wide-eyed and honest about their desires and how they configure their relationship, it's always going to be stronger overall. Open or closed. The point is that every relationship is different. You might not understand every single one, but it's not your relationship. You don't have to. If you want fidelity in a relationship, find someone to whom you'll be faithful. If you want a partner who'll never cheat on you, search for one. But you need to remember that what you want is not always what other couples want. Your way is not the right way, and you shouldn't be so quick to dismiss the priorities and arrangements of others in a dismissive manner. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here And we're still going strong, with this semi-regular feature in which I feature—solely for your salivation and sexual pleasure—the photographs of readers who've chosen to share them. Now, I have a lot of readers. (For some reason, this week in particular, I have a LOT of readers.) So many readers, in fact, that if even only ten percent of them sent in a photo or two, I could have a whole freakin' Reader's Assets blog. Which I'm not planning, by the way. Don't worry. I like gabbing about myself too much for that. The point is, if you haven't yet sent in photographs for the feature, consider it! You can show as much or as little as you like. There's no requirement to show us the parts of yourself you'd rather keep secret, like your face or your pimply kneecaps. We want to see the parts you're proud of, whether it's your pert little butt, your ginormous dick, or the feet made shapely after decades of tortuous Chinese binding. (Okay, I could probably skip seeing the latter.) Simply submit photographs of yourself to my email address, which is available over there on the sidebar of my blog's main page. All I ask is that you label the email with the words MY ASSETS, be of an age to share such things, and assure me that the photographs are of you, and not some random porn actor . . . unless you are a random porn actor, of course. I'm near the bottom of my small collection of photos, so hear my pleas and show me your junk! Let's get started with this week's batch. Anonymous D. This particular reader wished to remain anonymous. I suspect his motivation arose from the recognition that once these photos got out there, men would be beating down his door if they knew who he was. Anonymous D., I told you this when you sent these in, but it bears repeating: I love your ass. It's small. It's squeezable. It's round. It's fucking perfect. I love that shot of you on the bed with your big ol' feet pointed at the camera and your ass raised in the air for mounting. But you know what really drives me wild? All those scratch marks on your back in the first photo. I'm imagining they got there from your fucks clawing away with passion as you drove in them. Yes, my mind works like that. I need a cold shower. Anonymous K. Remember that underwear I modeled a couple of weeks ago, that one of my readers purchased for me? Anonymous K. was the kind donor. And you know what? I think the underwear would look a lot hotter on him. I mean, look at that ass. It's fuckin' beautiful. And hairy! I love it. A couple of my readers have surprised me by saying they thought I only loved smooth asses. I posit that they haven't been paying attention, because whenever someone sends in a furry butt crack for the the Reader Assets column, I start raving like a lustful madman. And you guys should see the rest of him! (I have. Maybe if you give K. enough compliments, he'll be prompted to share some more of himself.) Anonymous K., you're a hot, hot man. Jelle Now, young Jelle has been with us before, in Reader Assets #18. He shared some pretty spectacular photos with us then, but he's outdone himself with this batch. I mean, look. He jerks off on the dildo. He shoots on the dildo. Then he fucks himself with his own load. It basically sells itself, doesn't it? The cum shot alone is worth a million bucks. I say we give him a lot of compliments here so we can see what else his dirty little mind comes up with. Tyler I've got to say: Tyler's got it going on. Hot ass. Hot dick. Hot body. He's a master of the over-the-shoulder ass shot. And I don't know how he managed to get that first shot, with his legs lifted in the air (I like those socks, by the way!), but it's a classic. You can just look at Tyler's photos and tell he's a good-looking stud, can't you? Tyler, I hope you're versatile, because I suspect there are as many guys out there who'd like a shot at that dick, as much as they want your hole. I know which end I want. Let's hear it for all our Reader Assets contributors this week. It takes a bit of courage (and maybe a shot or two of tequila) to muster up the nerve to share intimate shots like these—so let's all show our appreciation with a big round of virtual applause in the comments. And remember: I want to feature you in this column, next time. More...

He loves the chase. It doesn't hurt me to give it to him.