TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Text messages from the landscaper I've received in the past week. Tuesday HIM: what r u wearing toddy ME: Toddy? Who the fuck is Toddy? HIM: today lol ME: Jeans. A dress shirt. Boots. HIM: you dress really well ME: I never notice what I put on. (Note: That's a whopper.) Wednesday HIM: so what are you wearing today ME: Who are you, Michael Kors or something? HIM: what? ME: You're always asking me what I'm wearing. HIM: because I like thinking about you taking it off HIM: does it turn you on knowing that a straight man cant get his mind off you HIM: ?? ME: Guys don't really do anything for me. (Note: Another whopper.) HIM: me neither HIM: except you 4 some reason Thursday HIM: promise not 2 ask what youre wearing HIM: but i bet it looks good HIM: no answer huh HIM: so does that mean youve got nothing on? lol Friday HIM: sorry if i bugged u yesterday ME: I had stuff to do in the city. HIM: how many times did u fuck ur woman this week ME: Is that really your business, dude? HIM: i like thinking about where ur dicks been HIM: i like thinking about ur dick HIM: is that queer? ME: That's pretty much what queer is. Saturday HIM: so have u ever let a guy suck you off ME: Are you a cocksucker?? HIM: no no no HIM: never done it HIM: like never, 4 real HIM: yours makes me want to HIM: hope that doesn't sound sick ME: Guys don't turn me on the same way that chicks do. HIM: no i totally get that dude HIM: kinda guess thats one of the things that makes me want it with u HIM: just a suggestion Sunday HIM: did u think about it? HIM: i'll give u extra HIM: it doesnt make us gay if we do it for $$ ME: That's what you think, huh? HIM: it doesnt HIM: really Monday HIM: $100 HIM: extra HIM: all u gotta do is kick back and let me ME: What if I don't get hard for a guy that way? HIM: so u r interested then HIM: i got x videos on dvd and a portable player HIM: i even got some of me and the wife, think that could turn u on ME: I don't know. HIM: i like that u only do it for $$ HIM: more manly Tuesday HIM: did u think about it? HIM: its just one dude helpin another out HIM: and giving him a lil gas money lol ME: I don't know. HIM: sounds gay but i gotta taste that dick HIM: all u gotta type is ok and i will be the happiest dude HIM: if not i promise 2 leave u alone ME (several hours later): Ok. HIM: yippee! Wednesday HIM: wait yesterday when u said ok did u mean ok i can suck u or ok i should leave u alone? HIM: im a confused dude! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here During the early evenings of Virginia’s winter months, steel-blue light would filter through the slotted wooden blinds of the semi-circular hall in the state capitol building. It was a reminder of the chill outside, in that overheated chamber where we teenaged pages sat on a hard wooden bench, waiting to be summoned. In our gray slacks, crisp white shirts, and blue blazers, we gazed at the little electrical call board embedded in the partition in front of us, waiting for one of the state senators to alert us with the flick of a switch and the blinking light that would follow. Whoever sat at the bench’s far end would jump to his feet and scamper to be of help. The rest of us would slide down and await our inevitable turn. We’d been picked as pages because our parents knew people in the government, or knew people who knew people. In return for mornings scrambling to collate the day’s bills and amendments for the senators, and for the long afternoons sitting drowsily on the benches, waiting to be useful to someone while the government ground on at a glacier’s pace, we were able to skip three and a half months of school and have a substantial tick mark for our college resumes. All of us were scrubbed and perky and—by late seventies standards—briskly groomed. My mother was heavily involved in politics—she definitely knew people. Despite the fact I did nothing of any real note to obtain the position, all my teachers at school kept telling me what an honor it was that I got to work at the state capitol every day. Earl had seen me in my page jacket and declared me handsome, dressed. For the first time, I felt like I was doing something important, instead of biding time in a classroom. It was a fairly exciting prospect. But it was boring. Oh good lord, were the long days ever boring. Grateful as I was from a release from the tenth grade and the Algebra II that accompanied it, having to sit in that echoing vast chamber, day after day, in that blazer and slacks, listening to old men ramble on and on about subjects in which I had no interest, made me want to rip off my clip-on tie and run away yelling. For all its tediousness, at least church only lasted an hour. In the senate, there was no telling when some of the more rancorous sessions might end, or whether Richmond's streetlights would have bloomed on against the night sky when the fat, ancient master of the pages finally decreed we could leave. So sometimes, late in the afternoon or early in the evening, I would sit at the bench’s far end, praying for someone to flick their switch and interrupt the tedium. Or I would find myself alone on the hard wooden plank while all the other pages were off on our everyday errands. And then the light from desk #14 would illuminate. Senator #14 hailed from the western tip of Virginia, one of those municipalities that no one in the state’s population center really knew or ever intended to visit. He was a married man with no children. Mildly attractive. Masculine. The average age of the Virginia state senators was a hefty seventy, but #14, in his mid to late forties, was a comparative spring chicken. He was comparatively trouble-free, too. Other senators might buzz their lights at the slightest whim, instructing us to fetch their glasses, or tell their aides to call their wives, or to run down to the little sandwich shop and buy Pepto-Bismol. The only time #14 ever seemed to want anything, though, was when I was alone, or in the hot seat at the bench’s end. “Sugar, would you get me a Mickey Mouse?” he’d ask most times, pressing a five-dollar bill into my hand. Sugar, of course, as well as honey, was one of those old Virginian forms of address used between all genders and ages. Neither was reserved exclusively for the young or the feminine. The Mickey Mouse was an injection-created ice cream treat on a stick—chocolate ears and vanilla face with a strawberry pink nose at the center that looked vaguely like its namesake. Even my gleefully undiscriminating palate dismissed the Mickey Mouse as too juvenile to seriously consider eating, but if the senator wanted a Mickey Mouse, my job was to run downstairs, avoid tourists gawping at the marble-laden public areas, and duck into the tiny sandwich shop to grab a Mickey Mouse from the freezer. I’d return to the upstairs chamber slightly out of breath, but trying to keep my faint huffs from disturbing the senate’s sanctity. He’d take the ice cream. When I’d proffer the three dollars plus change from his original bill, he’d inevitably reach out, close my fingers around the money, and cover my hand with his before giving it a firm squeeze. “Keep the change, sugar,” he’d say. “It’s yours.” During the weeks after our occasional late-afternoon Mickey Mouse routine was firmly established, I’d sometimes find Senator #14 smiling at me from his seat on the semi-circle’s perimeter. Leaning back in his chair, playing with a pen, he’d give me conspiratorial glances during the long afternoons, seeming to say, This is as rough on me as it is on you, kid. Or, Jeez, can this guy go on and on, or what? The Senator had the advantage of being seen only by the Lieutenant Governor, whoever was speaking, and a few factotums and pages at the front; I, however, had to keep a bland and disciplined expression for the benefit of all the senators, the spectators in the upper gallery, and the press at the tables directly in front. When he’d mug and secretly try to make me laugh or smile, I’d have to pretend not to see him. Though of course I did. I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t naively romantic about the workings of the state government, nor did I believe that the special attention I got from Senator #14 was because he saw some unique talent in me. The only aptitude of mine he’d witnessed was an ability to run fast and to distinguish between the Mickey Mouse bare and a Fudgesicle. I knew the probable reason a man of his age would pay that kind of attention to a boy of mine. Every time I’d see his attractive face looking my way, I’d feel a quickening in my pants. But honestly, what didn’t give me erections, back then? It was early in February, during a particularly protracted debate on a particularly dull topic, that I was alone on the bench. Light #14 blinked on. As usual, I trotted over to the man’s desk and knelt down so that I could hear his instructions. “Could you go to the printing office and request these?” He handed me a scribbled list of bills. “I was going to duck out for a few so I could review them. Maybe you could bring the packet up to my office?” The request was smooth, but it made my heart thud almost too loud to hear his next words. “Bring them directly to me. If you don't mind.” I looked briefly into his eyes. They bored into mine. At last, when some of the blood cleared from my head, I nodded and looked away. “Good boy,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. It still felt as if my heart thudded in overdrive as I made my way out of the capitol building and across the street to the administrative high-rise where most of the representatives’ offices were. The printing office was in the basement; they were used to pages showing up with long lists of bills to be retrieved. While I waited, I sat in the chair there and thought about what I felt sure was going to happen, upstairs. I could hope that his aides might be around. I could play dumb. I could duck out with a quick and convenient excuse, avoiding chit-chat with the senator. I could say no. I’d always known that no was an option, that I had a say in the matter. Bills in hand, I took the elevator to the senator’s floor. As I walked down the silent hallway I was even practicing my refusal, polite but firm, in case I had to arm myself with it. “Well hey, sugar,” he said from behind his desk. In his unglamorous office, the lights were low, as if he didn’t want to dispel the gloom of the deep blue evening skies outside. He sat in his chair, slightly out of breath, as if he’d hurried to get there. His jacket was off; he’d removed his necktie. “Any problems getting those bills?” He added quickly—casually—“You can shut the door if you’d like.” “No,” I said. Just because I knew I could say the word to him, didn’t mean I wanted to. “I mean, no, I didn’t have any problems getting the bills.” It was the last no I said that evening. I closed the door behind me, and listened to it latch. His trench coat, hung on a hook, still seemed to radiate cold from his trip across the street. “Well, good,” he said softly, rising to his feet after a long, long moment. He crossed the room. “I’m glad to hear it.” The tips of his fingers were icy as he reached out with one hand to tilt my chin upward, very slightly. I didn't resist. Then, with the other, he tugged gently at my shirt collar, lifting up and off the abhorred clip-on tie. Both his hands fumbled with my top button, then the ones beneath. “That’s got to be a relief. Now, doesn't it?” he murmured, stepping back slightly to admire me once he'd opened my shirt. I couldn’t deny that like most things that are inevitable, a relief is what it really was. More...

Rhodie, Or hit me up and make a date. I'll meet you there.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's a Thursday night, and I've got a few hours to myself. My duties for the day are done—I've dropped off the appropriate people to the appropriate places for the evening. The night's chilly, but the car is warm. I'm not ready to go home. The rest stop is busy when I pull in. It's barely eight, and already the trucks are lining the entrance and exit ramps as their drivers break for the night. I can hear their motors idling as I drive by. The sound’s a giant, mechanical purr. The spaces nearest the McDonald's are filled with commuters and family cars. But I'm heading to the back of the lot, where there are only three vehicles. They're dark on the inside, but there's just enough light streaming down from the lamps above to show me that one is empty, while the other two have solitary silhouettes within. I park between them, a few spots over from one, and across from the other. To my left, the man in the cream sedan is pretending to sing along to music on his car radio. His lips are moving, anyway, but his head is turned in my direction. He nods. I nod back as I cut the ignition. The internal lights of my own car flick on—it's an automatic convenience, so that I can see the door latches. I'm aware that they give the men in both cars a clear look at me for a good fifteen seconds. Then they fade. I'm not going anywhere. In the parking aisle facing mine, across from me and one space over, a white Ford truck has its nose pointed at the grille of my car. I can't see its occupant. The outline of him, dark against dark, gives the impression of maleness. My eyes read him as young—perhaps thirty or thirty-two. The truck itself is an older model. It's clean, and well-taken-care of, but it definitely was assembled a decade or more ago. The man within is looking at me. I'm not even sure how I can tell. Watching him is like trying to track an invisible cloud against a midnight sky, when the only way of knowing of its presence is to observe what stars it obscures. Still, I can tell by the procession of his silhouettes that he's pointing his face in my direction. I tip my head, as if I'm trying to stare more intently at him—and I am. I rub my dick, and look down at it. He can't see my crotch, not from his angle. But he might be able to see the lift of my shoulder, the motion of my arm, the back-and-forth of my hand over the corduroy. It might be working. He leans forward. His hands grasp the steering wheel. I look back and forth between the occupant of the truck, and the man in the cream-colored car. This might turn out to be one of those situations in which no one makes a move, and we all lose. The truck's lights flick on, making me blink. He's started his ignition. When he backs out of his space, the lamp from above hits him for a moment, and I get an impression of short dark hair, a round face, clean, tight skin. He does seem like a younger guy, but it's an impression, a half-second's blur of the dark becoming light and then disappearing once again, and nothing more. I watch as the truck pulls out from its aisle and into the lane that leads past the McDonald's to the gas pumps and the exit lane. He's not leaving, though. He turns and pulls down the first aisle closest to the rest stop building, and proceeds all the way down to its furthest, and darkest, end. There he parks, and turns off his lights. Okay. I wait a moment, and then, with my heart thumping, I follow. I'm a little upset when I retrace the same route the truck's just taken, only to find him pulling out and past me in the opposite direction when I'm nearly at my goal. Did I mistake the cue? Was he trying to get away from me, and got pissed off when he saw me following? Did I imagine the entire thing altogether? I pull into the spot he's just vacated. I watch. He parks the truck into a space in the busy part of this aisle, and stops. I'm confused. Then I notice that parked directly across from me is a stretch limousine. The driver's inside, talking on his cell phone, obviously killing time. Maybe the guy in my truck didn't like being so near a potential witness. It looks like I'm right. The truck pulls out of its new space and heads back my way. It drives past, and pauses where the aisle merges into the lane that's supposed to be for trucks to take to the back lot. I turn on my ignition once more, and follow. He takes me through the confusing maze of trucks snaked into their spaces. I wonder if he's looking for a space at the back of this lot, but no. We're heading to the exit. Past the idling haulers we both go, onto the ramp, merging with the highway traffic. The next exit is just ahead; his right blinker turns on. A moment later, mine mirrors his. I don't know this neighborhood. I'm following him off the highway, down the service drive that runs parallel. It's pitch-black here in spots. There are no streetlights. For the first time, I wonder if I'm crazy—crazy to be following a man I haven't even seen, crazy to be driving somewhere he could rob me, assault me. The dude could be just some guy who wanted to go home, who'd think I was stalking him when I got out of my car. This whole night could've been a crazy convergence of coincidence and mixed signals. And yet I'm so sure of what I'm doing, of what all those cues meant. I know for a fact to what this is leading. I just know. His left blinker is blinding, when it suddenly fills the windscreen in front of me. We both slow down, and make the turn onto a badly-paved road that leads to an industrial-looking building. Its parking lot is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The place looks like a factory. As we both slowly crawl across the asphalt, I can see that whatever it used to be has been converted into a well-known fitness club chain. Bright and safe as the interior of the building looks far away, the parking lot is as dark as the neighborhood around. The driver pulls to a stop at the back of the lot. A tree-pruning company has parked its trucks there for the night. Next to them, the pickup truck looks totally in place. I pull my own black car a spot over, and turn off my lights. I see his hand fumbling for the lock when I make my way from my car to his. I pull open the passenger door, and climb in. "Hey," I say. "Hola," he replies. It's the first time I've gotten to see him. He's fucking beautiful. No, seriously, it's crazy how beautiful he is. The odds of me lucking out like this are infinitesimal. The boy's Latin, dark-haired. His features are fine, his body lean beneath baggy clothing. There's a trace of a mustache on his upper lip, a bit of scruff on his cheeks, but he's either too young or too naturally smooth to produce more. His eyes are looking at me hungrily. His hands are rubbing his crotch. He's much younger than thirty. At a glance, I'd guess no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, if that. I reach out and rub between his legs. His hands rush to touch me. He knows just where to put his fingers. Under the cords I'm wearing my dick is stiff. I can tell my shorts are sticky from the prolonged build-up we've enjoyed, over the last twenty minutes. His face is close to mine; his breath smells of sweet lemon candy. When we kiss, he groans. His head tilts back. I can hear him murmuring something in Spanish into my ear as he leans over further to try to undo my pants. Frustrated, he pops open his own fly and pulls his white painters' pants to the ground, around his ankles. I can see about six inches of hooded meat standing at attention, rigid and pulsing with the quick beat of his heart. He's a tiny man. His passenger seat is pulled up all the way, and the seat back is bolt upright. I'm all limbs and length. I can't undo my top button in this kind of space. "Does your seat. . . ?" He already knows what I'm asking. His hand darts between my legs to the space between my feet, and the seat eases away from the dash. I find the seat back release and lower myself. Together we manage to get my pants down and my dick loose. Then his mouth is on my meat. He sucks like he's sucked dick all his life. He sucks like he's been denied, until now. I keep a look out into the dark parking lot, but no one is near. No one's even coming in or out of the gym right now. He cranes his neck and tries to position himself so that he's between my legs, but there's not enough room. He comes up for air. "Do you fuck the ass?" He's got a heavy accent. There's a certain hesitance to his words as he speaks, as if there's a moment or two of lag between the thought in his mind and the words he's dredging up in a language that's not his own. When I nod, he says, "The truck." He nods at the landscaping trucks beside his own. "Go behind." Then, in a shot, he's pulled up his pants and is out the driver's side door. Hot dog, I think to myself. One of the trucks carries equipment. The other is a limb shredder. There's a pile of leaves that's calf-deep behind them, and we're standing in it. They can't all be from the trees above—there are too many leaves left on the branches there. The smell of damp and autumn mold is rich and pungent. It lingers, like some kind of inescapable seasonal cologne. He drops his pants again and wraps his hand around his rock-hard dick. "Show me your body," I whisper. Immediately he pulls up his shirt. In the darkness he's little more than a luminous pale curve, slender at the waist, full below it. His stomach was perfectly flat. His chest is beautiful and lightly muscular. I gape, unable to believe my good fortune. I simply don't have this kind of luck, this jackpot from a random draw. "Turn around," I tell him, after he's fumbled with the button of my cords and loosed me from their bindings. His ass is surprisingly hairy, considering how smooth the rest of his body is. I run my hands over the cheeks. He groans, and pushes them back to me. "You like the fuck?" he whispers. I let my fingers probe into his hole. That's all the answer he needs. He groans, and whispers more words in Spanish. It's a clean-smelling hole, I quickly find out. I want it. He backs up against me. My shaft is pillowed between his butt cheeks. The boy only comes up to my nipples, if that. His T-shirt is still bunched up around his armpits; I wrap my hands around his naked chest and hold him tight. He responds amorously, turning his head to kiss me. His teeth pull at my lower lip; he cries out as my cock head pushes against his hole. With no lube yet, there's a lot of resistance, but his hand grabs at the back of my head. His fingers entwine with my hair, tugging at it. When my hands move down to his cock, I can feel his balls retracting. It's too late to stop what's happening. He comes violently. The leaves thrash at our feet as he jerks and shakes. He cries out, his moan muffled by the autumn blanket below us, and the still-heavy canopy of leafed branches above. The back of my fingers become sticky from one of the jets of semen erupting from his dick. He hasn't even finished shooting when he's whispering out, "Sorry! Sorry!" He seems to mean it. He didn't want it to end that quickly. My hands quiet him. I hold him firmly, like an unsettled child. I pull out the tip of my dick from his hole and keep my left hand on the small of his back. A few strokes of my right hand is all it takes. My own orgasm is more silent. My breathing increases. I seem to heave and roll, like a ship on an unquiet sea. My load lands on his ass, on both cheeks. As the blood returns to my head, I rub my cock over the wetness. We stand there for a moment in the leaves. My first thought, as the sexual haze fades, is of ticks. He's already pulling up his pants, leaving my seed on his skin as he snaps the waistband of his shorts over his hips. Up come the baggy white trousers. He throws his arms around me in an unexpected gesture of affection and gratitude. Then he plants a hand on my chest, followed by a raised index finger, before he disappears. I understand. He's telling me to wait a moment before I emerge from the shadows as well. When I finally do, I can see him in his truck, talking to someone on his phone. Its little lights are the pinpoint stars his silhouette obscures, as I glide silently back to my own car, doused in autumn's spicy perfume. Then I drive home. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'd like to thank all the readers who wrote in this week with their sympathies about the loss of my pet. I really appreciated the kind words during a dark week. A dark couple of weeks, really, since we were watching her get slower and slower and knowing that like a top, she didn't have long until she just came to a full stop. It's not easy to lose a pet, but it's the compact we make when we let them into our lives—we take as best care of them as we can, knowing that we're likely to outlive them. We give them good lives, and a warm lap, and food. Then when the time comes, we try to ensure they pass as painlessly as possible. But whew, that's a depressing topic. Let's get straight to some questions from formspring.me. Who was the first person you ever saw naked, outside of immediate family members? Who was it, what were the circumstance and what sex were they? Even as a very small child I saw all kinds of hippies hanging out in the altogether, either at my parents' house or at the houses of other progressive homes. It wasn't really until I was around six and went to public school that I realized that not everyone runs around naked at home. What are you thoughts about Anonymous questions are they Intriguing or fucking wimps? I have in the past encouraged blog readers to submit questions anonymously, as many don't wish to be identified, and many more don't have Formspring accounts. It's fine with me. I prefer those questions to the spam I get from a handful of Formspring users. What bothers me is when people use anonymous questions on Formspring, or anonymous comments on my blog, in order to make accusations, cast aspersions, or denigrate me or my loved ones. I see that kind of behavior as cowardly and indulged in primarily by people who live very small and miserable lives. It was because of two (and only two!) of those people that I closed down the anonymous questions portion of my formspring account some weeks ago . . . though I'll probably lift that embargo this week, as they've worn themselves out. I checked out your adam4adam profile for the first time and was wondering are you shaved or scruffy these days? Either way is sexy! I've had a short beard for over a half-dozen years now. I have no intentions of shaving it. Is it random or intentional that you are on the CT side of the NY/CT line? I'm not really sure how it could be random. I'm not a dandelion seed. I don't just land where the wind blows me and decide to blossom there. Why CT rather than NY? (I could see over CT over NJ, but why rather than NY?) I've stated this in my blog before, but my other half received a job offer in Connecticut, and not in New York or New Jersey. So that's why I'm here. Never cruised a bathroom before. Reading your blog post, it seems that if you want to get head, you got to be willing to pretty directly show the guy the goods. What if you misread and he's not looking to give head? A risk you have to take? Public cruising of any sort is definitely risky. Not only are you betting that your locale is safe and quiet enough for some quick sexual contact, but you're also making a bet that the object of your desire is not only just as interested as you, but also isn't a cop. Look, I've been doing this since my teens. Over the years I've gotten a pretty finely-honed sense of when guys are staring at me because they find me sexually interesting, instead of when they're staring at me because they think my hair's too long and I look like the lost drummer from ABBA. I've got a good sense of the body language and cues that men use when they're cruising, and aren't just killing time or having a hard time peeing. I know all the rituals of the toe-tap dance and the bend-and-peek beneath a restroom stall. It's because I have a lot of experience with these things that I feel fairly confident about when and when not to pursue something. If you're a first-timer, it's going to be more difficult. Don't let your lack of inexperience keep you from giving it a try. But always have a quick exit strategy in mind. Know your possible points of intrusion, and your escape routes. Don't be sloppy merely because you're horny and want to get off—go slowly, and make sure you're getting as much reciprocation as you're putting out there. And most of all, watch others and see what they're doing. You can learn the cues of cruising without saying a word, if you're observant. Have you ever fallen in love with a fuck buddy? I have. Sometimes more quickly than I expected. Is the South (at least the part you've just been in) still becoming less distinctive? When I was a kid growing up in the South, there was a lot of adult grumbling about the region losing its distinction from the rest of the country. It's true that to some extent my sleepy little city has become one of the bedroom communities for a much larger city to the north, and that the little mom and pop drug and hardware stores and local department stores have been replaced by CVS and Home Depot and the same old Macy's you can find anywhere else in the country. But there are little traditions, like friendly banter with strangers, and the types of food that people eat and prepare, and the gracious gardens and the pride in home ownership, that are very much part and parcel of what I knew growing up. That hasn't changed much. And people still like to complain about the homogenization of the South, too. So some things never change. What's the worst show on TV? Usually it's the nightly news—at least, it's the most depressing. Sorry you're having a rough time finding a hookup in CT. I live there myself. It's pretty bad. Lots of guys giving out fake pics (sometimes decades old, it seems), or guys that flake out. There are good guys in CT, though, so I hope you keep trying! I appreciate the good words. I've seen fake pics everywhere (sometimes, the guys are using mine), and everywhere there are flake-outs. I still rank this state among the worst in actual follow-through, though. I think things will ease when I grow a network of regulars, when I have a place where I can host sometimes again, and the more I get used to the notion that I might have to go into the city for what I want. If you're only an hour away, why aren't we connecting? Email me. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yesterday was Spirit Day, which supports young LGBT victims of bullying. I kind of forgot, for most of the morning and afternoon. Don't judge. I have a difficult enough time remembering what day of the week it is, with my vagrant's schedule. I somehow coincidentally ended up wearing a purple shirt anyway, and was wondering why I was getting extra smiles, here and there. I actually had decided it was because I was looking extra-extra-foxy when I heard something about it on the radio. Then I thought back and realized that all the young people smiling and nodding at me and catching my eye also had on items of purple clothing, and went back to feeling shlumpier. Or maybe just single-extra-foxy. I wish I had a heartrending story of being bullied for my sexuality, when I was growing up. I really don't, and it's not because I was super-butch. It's because early on, I seemed to catch flak for everything. If my hair was too short, I got picked on. If my hair was too long, I was teased. I was teased for wearing trousers with cuffs a half-inch too high above the ankles, teased for wearing big bell-bottoms that swamped my sneakers. (Perhaps quite rightly, for the latter offense—but my plea is that it was the goddamned nineteen-seventies at the time. That's how we rolled.) I was picked on for being bad at sports, for being good at math, for reading. I was picked on for carrying my books wrong, for wearing glasses, for not having the right friends. I was picked on for so, so much that by high school I learned to blend. I learned to become invisible, in fact. I flew under everyone's radar. And if the only white kid in an all-black inner-city public high school can get through his entire time there without anyone noticing, well, I did a pretty good job. The only thing close to a bully I had was a boy named James. James didn't go to my high school, but I ran across him in a lot of my extra-curricular activities closer to home; he lived in my neighborhood and was in things like the citywide orchestra and the clogging group to which I belonged. (Let's just drop that. Please. No, seriously. Shut up. Forget I said it.) And James was, to put it bluntly, a big old 'mo. He had enormous eyes with curly eyelashes and the most chronic case of proto-gay face that I've ever seen in an adolescent. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You do. James was effeminate in speech and in mannerism. We weren't particularly friendly. That mostly was because every time in orchestra he'd see me sitting with my French horn, he'd turn and whisper to the girls in the flute section, where he sat (do I really need to say anything, here?), telling them how gay I was. Then he started bringing it over to me, after rehearsals. He'd march over with his flute in his hand, surrounded by a posse of other flautists, and said something like, "We all know you're gay. You'd be so much happier if you'd just admit it." I've always been candid that my response to confrontation, and my instinctive reaction when I'm upset, is to turn into a giant icicle. My ice princess ways were learned in middle and high school. I wouldn't defend myself. I wouldn't fight back. I'd just go cold, and silent. Invisible. When James would make me the center of attention, laughing and pointing and asserting his superiority over me because he knew what I was and he knew what was best for me, I wouldn't dignify him with an answer. I'd put away my horn, collect my music, and as he and his mean old flute girls would follow me around and giggle and call names, I'd think to myself, This kid is only saying these things to me because he's afraid to say them to himself. I knew a self-loathing gay boy when I saw one. James tortured me on pretty much a weekly basis until I skipped the eleventh grade, at which point I saw him infrequently. But I hated the sight of him. So much that my stomach would clench into knots at his approach, and remain tense and upset for hours after.I got off lucky, though. I never had anyone lay a hand on me, ever, through school. I never had a teacher single me out for my sexuality—except a couple of instances when I was mooning over girls. Which I occasionally did. I assured the adults I was responsible and didn't need looking after, and I assured my peers I wasn't a threat or competition, and I flew under the radar and got away with more than I ought. One of my readers sent me a short testimonial about a bully in his life, though, and I thought it was so moving that I'd like to share it. Eric was my bully I don't think Eric even knew I was gay, since I didn't really understand it myself for several years. But I was already on my way. I liked gardening, and reading, and The Sound of Music. I wasn't robust and energetic. I didn't like sports, instead I played checkers after school with a friend of my grandmother. Eric I both moved to the same small town when I was in grade two, he from central Europe, me from a few hundred miles away. He was taller than me, he was bigger than me, he was blond and pretty and lean while I was short and chubby and had brown hair. Most people in the class gravitated toward him, even me, probably in some sort of pre-adolescent crush. But, with nearly 40 years of hindsight, Eric was insecure, he needed someone to bully. I was that person. He banged into me, he knocked things over, he quietly threatened me where no-one could hear him. He chased me after school, though what he'd have done if he caught me, I don't think either of us knew. I cried, and ran away, and kept it to myself. I was lucky. I was "able" to hide my sexuality until after I was out of school, and he was never up to the level of bullying that he could make me want to take my life. I have seen him once, since school, in a quick hello-in-passing. He may have no idea what an awful person he was, or maybe it haunts him every day. It doesn't matter to me any more. I hadn't thought about him in over twenty years, and I may not for another twenty. It gets better. Thank you, reader. I like your message, and I like the class with which you handle the memories. So I'm curious, for this Friday's Open Forum. Have you had a bully in your life, and if so, was your sexuality his or her primary motivating factor? How did you handle it? What would you have done differently, if you'd known then what you know now? Let's hear your thoughts in the comments. More...

Thank you guys. I appreciate it. Hotload, my cat was like that--an ancient pussy of 22. She'd had a very good and long life, but was losing the spring in her step, and died of old age in my arms while we were on the way to the vet's. Peaceful, at the end of a very long life, and in someone's arms—a good way to go, I think.

PissPig, I get into the city pretty often...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my family pets passed away yesterday—the second in less than a year, unfortunately. I'll be taking a couple of days off and away in order to get my mind off the loss. If you've got a pet you especially love, or a family member, or just a random friend whom it would pain you to lose . . . give them an extra big hug today and let them know how much you care. And think about me, would you? More...

Raw, I was hoping you would.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There are ways for readers to get my attention. And then there's this. Take notes, guys. That's Franco. He's a reader of mine in big ol' New York City. He went to a lot of trouble to dress up real pretty and then take some special photos for me. I think the sign is a nice touch, don't you? Franco's fantasy is for me to come visit him in the city, use both of his holes with my dick for as long as I need, and then to kick back and relax while he shows me how his talented ass and mouth can get me off even when I think I'm done. I'm thinking that's not so bad a fantasy to indulge. He's even offered me a key to his apartment. What do you guys think? Yeah, looking at that sign again, I think Marco is going to get what he wants. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've chosen the bar because I know it. I know how to drive there, I know where to park. It's a dive where I've hung out on Monday nights to drink and sing and eat greasy French fries served by a bartender with twin sleeves of ink that cover his arms like a tight-fitting shirt. It's a little place on on a river, right under the freeway, built from an ancient barge. It's dark and humid inside, and always smells of the steamed clams they serve on large, mismatched plates, accompanied by jugs of drawn butter. I like the place because it's unpretentious. The karaoke singers there are not that great, so my own modest talent of staying vaguely on pitch while bellowing loudly when it's my turn for the mic makes me seem like a fucking rock star. But mostly I like the people watching. It's a spot the likes of which I didn't know existed, where straight people meet for drinks when they're meeting for the first time. I've eavesdropped on a married man and a woman who was definitely not his wife meet there after she answered his Craigslist ad; they had a couple of vodka-and-tonics and left for a motel shortly after. It's a place where drunken former frat boys down beers and shots and park their foreheads on the shoulders of pretty girls, to get an eyeful of cleavage. It's a straight drive pickup bar, pretty basically, and for my purposes this night, it suits me just fine. He's waiting at the bar for me—the landscaper, the man who pays me cash to jack off for him. He's dressed in a pair of super-tight designer jeans and, despite the fact that it's a nippy night outside, a blinding white polo shirt embroidered with his company's name. In that shirt he would have been visible in any crowd, , but he stands up to stare at me, anxious for me to notice him. He's so clean-cut. With that physique, those slight laugh lines around his eyes, his square jaw, his stern forehead, he looks like a model from a J.C. Penney's father's day catalog. I'm wearing a pair of dark jeans, a dress shirt open two buttons, a casual blazer. The heels of my boots hook on the stool's lowest rung when I slide into the seat he's been saving for me. "I'm glad you came," he says. There's a nervous energy to him that I'm getting used to. He doesn't crack smiles easily, this one. "You have any problems getting away from home?" He's stuck out his right hand. I proffer mine in return. When we separate, I find he's left a flattened roll of bills in my palm. Smooth. I don't count them. I'm fairly confident that he wouldn't try to cheat me. Instead I put my payment into my inside blazer pocket. "Nah," I say, looking for the bartender. I order a beer. I don't like beer. I don't drink it willingly. But beer's what he's ordered. It's a man's drink. A married daddy's drink. He slips the bartender a five when it arrives, and nods him off. "You been here before?" he asks. "Couple of times." I'm curious why the small talk, why he wanted to meet in a public place at all. Twice already I've been in the back of his van with my pants unzipped, letting him stare at my dick and put his mouth on my nuts. Meeting in a bar for a drink seems like a definite step backwards. He doesn't leave me long to wonder, though. "So I just kinda wanted to get to know you," he said. "Wanted to know what makes you. You know. Tick." I take a swig of the beer and swallow while I stare at him, saying nothing. "Actually I was kind of worried I might've pissed you off or something." I raised my eyebrows. "Because of last time." I shook my head. "Last time?" The noise in the bar is actually pretty considerable. The restaurant half of the little barge is full up. Even the larger tables have laughing parties around them, and are clogged with steamers and empty bottles and glasses. He leaned in close. "I said you were good looking." "Oh yeah," I said, taking another swing of beer and shrugging, like that was no big deal. "We're good on that." "Okay, cool, cool. Just wanted to make sure." We're interrupted then, by one of the women working her way up and down the bar. I'd seen her there on Monday nights. She's one of the cougar-types who swoons whenever I sing Duran Duran—a forty-something Kardashian wannabe with denim painted over her ample rear end and dark hair cascading down her shoulders. "Oh my god, are you singing tonight?" she asks, when she sees me. "Wait, it's not karaoke night. If I was blond I'd be a dumb blonde," she laughed, putting a flirtatious hand on my wrist and batting her eyes at my friend. He's watching me closely. I know he likes the illusion that I'm totally straight, save with him, or with any man who offers me enough money to show my junk. He needs that illusion to do the things he wants to do. This woman, this chick, is helping me out tonight. I smirk at her. "I'll be here next week," I promise. "Whatever you want, I'll sing for you." "Whatever I want?" She's drunk, unsurprisingly. She leans in closer to me. "I like the sound of that. I might pick out something wicked hard." "Well, show me next Monday how wicked you get," I said, grinning. I added, "See you then." She leaves, trailing perfume and stray hairs behind. The landscaper's jaw is twitching. "You fucked her?" I try adopting a Mona Lisa smile, a half-answer that would acknowledge nothing yet imply volumes. It might have worked. "How often you fuck your wife with that thing?" he says in my ear. The odd buzzing of his breath, the movement of his lips against my lobe, is the most intimate we've been yet—and it's happening here, in a bar full of people. "Did she get it in the last week?" I nod. It's a lie, all of it. But I nod, because it's what he wants to believe. "Last night? Wednesday? Tuesday?" I'm thinking he's going to work his way back through all seven days, but when he says, "This morning? This afternoon?" I nod again. "Fuck. This afternoon? You still got her pussy juices on you?" I barely move my head, but I nod. I'm like a sphinx. A beer-drinking, lying sphinx. I hadn't fucked that afternoon. But it's not what he wants to hear. "Fuck," he says again. He spits out the word several times, shifting on his stool. "Fuck. That's hot. That's hot. I would give you two hundred more dollars right now if you let me put my hand down those pants of yours and get a hold of that baby-making tool." I hate this beer, but it gives me an excuse not to meet his eyes. I'm hard in my pants. If our glances locked, I'd lose my resolve not to invite him back to his van right there and then. "You got the two hundred?" I ask, as if it's the money and the money alone that interests me. "I gave you what I had, except for some drink money." "Oh well," I said, implying he was going to miss out. The money he'd given me had been only for my time spent meeting him for drinks. Not for any favors. And for this kind of guy, the kind of man who needed a cash exchange to justify his man-to-man encounters, I wasn't giving a freebie. "You need to get off? You building up another load in there?" I don't respond to his question. I'm acting as if now I know he's out of big bills, I had better things to do with my time. I'm eyeing the MILF who'd talked to me earlier. He's watching me, connecting the direction of my gaze with that cheap mass of hair and scent. "You like her, don't you." It's not a question. It's a statement. It's a statement I don't answer. I've made the landscaper jealous. I wonder if he feels it like a flame in his chest, inextinguishable, impossible to overlook or ignore. If so, I'm doing what I need to do. "Come on," I tell him putting my half-finished brew onto the bar. I stand up and jerk my head. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest of his mug until there's little left than suds. Past the waitresses and the bar crowd waiting for our seats we push, through the front door and out into the packed parking lot. We're just two guys who've met for drinks and were seeming to head back to our cars, then to our homes and families. Instead, I take him to where the bar's lot adjoins the larger, empty lot where in the daytime commuters park their cars to take the train into Manhattan. We step over the metal railing, over the weeds growing in the cracked asphalt, and head into the shadows. This lot's beneath the 95 overpass. There's a secluded spot at its far end, beneath the mighty pillars supporting the highway far overhead where two men who've had a few too many beers might reasonably go to pee. Sheltered by concrete on one side and overhead, and by the water on the other, it's almost quiet out there. Quieter than the bar, certainly. I unzip. I've got on no underwear; I have to dig out my dick from the denim, it's so hard. When he rushes to touch it, I turn away, step aside slightly. He hasn't paid for that. I stand there with my legs separated, dick in my right hand, left thumb protecting my nuts from the bite of my zipper. And I stroke. I can hear his breathing as he watches me in the near-darkness. There's enough light from the bar's lot to see what's going on, but barely. "I bet it smells like her," he says. "Can I smell your fingers?" I allow it. His hands are surprisingly warm around mine as he pulls them to his nose. "Fuck, I can smell her," he says. Which just goes to show the power of a vivid imagination. I retrieve my hand and curl it around my hard meat again. This man arouses me. I like showing off for him. He's standing close enough to me that I can smell the beer on his breath, and feel his body heat against my right shoulder, my side, behind me. But he doesn't touch me again. Instead, he stands there silently while I beat myself. It's too dark to show off well, but I can grunt. And I can sigh. And I can murmur Oh yeah and Fuck from time to time. "I'm gonna come," I tell him. Then I make good on the warning. Several ropes of cum fly and twist from my dick, landing on the invisible ground below. I've got sperm all over the back of my hand when I'm done. I make a show of trying to flick it off. "Shouldn't have done that," is all I say when I'm zipping myself up again. "Fuck, no, I'm glad you did! That was hot!" He tries to follow me back to my car, which is parked nearby, but I tell him to wait a minute until I've pulled away before emerging from the shadows. He instantly understands. There's really no one around to question why two men might be in the parking lot's far end together, but thinking we're sharing a secret excites him. I'm about eight feet away when he says, in an exaggerated whisper, "Hey buddy. She's real lucky." Does he mean the cougar in the bar? Or the picture he has in his head of an apple-cheeked, freshly-fucked wife? In the end, I don't need to know. I pause, acknowledge the compliment with a semi-salute, and head back to my car. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Aren't these nice? Not the cat. The trunks. One of my readers bought them for me. He got them from my Amazon Wish List. They fit really well. So I wanted to thank the reader who chose them. It was a thoughtful gift, don't you think? And that's all I really have to say for now. Thanks, kind reader! More...

I'm with you on that one, RawPigDad. The money shot is definitely a waste.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Indulge me, if you will, while I partake in a minor rant here for a couple of minutes. Top men--both of you--you guys can either skip ahead, or you can stick around to add a hell yeah! if you're feeling it. But bottom guys, listen up. This one's for you. There's one thing a bottom guy can do, either in person or online, during the sizing-up period in which men eye each other, ask about their interests, and generally determine if they're compatible. I used to ignore it in my younger years when first I'd hear it from bottom after bottom. I was less jaded, then. These days, though, it causes me to slam down a metal door, to terminate the conversation altogether, abruptly to throw on the brakes and start looking elsewhere. I've mentioned it before on these pages, but since I spent the latter half the week getting bombarded by it again and again, it's probably worth repeating. If you're a bottom whom I've never been with before —an important distinctions to keep in mind—and you want to avoid turning me off, the one phrase you need to keep away from is a variation of you and your friends. As in, I'll do anything you want for you and your friends. Or, You can tie me up and you and your buddies can fuck me all night long. Or, I bet you have a lot of friends who want to use an ass like mine. I know you, the bottom who's trying to impress me, merely want to communicate to me what a hungry hole you have. That's all well and good. I enjoy bottoms with deep-rooted desires. What a top hears when you start talking about his buddies, though, is that you're not terribly attracted to him. Just to what he can do for you. Nobody likes that. What we hear is that you basically regard us as the guy who pays for a hotel room, sends out a dozen emails or makes a dozen phone calls, and does all the scheduling work for your gangbang, even before we've bet you. We hear that our dick isn't enough for you, and that you're only interested in it if we can round up these so-called friends of ours. What the more experienced among us hear as well is that you're not really terribly serious about hooking up and fucking. You're envisioning some fantasy world in which there's an abundance of tops and we all sit around in the afternoons at the Top Club, shirtless in a sauna, wearing nothing but camo pants and boots while we smoke cigars, swapping shit about the hot bottoms we know and then going out roaming for one, like a pack of hungry wolves. It's a nice fantasy maybe, but it's not really true. Every top's little black book is filled with bottoms. Not other tops. Sure, we know other tops. A few, anyway. Some of us have organized groups. But you know for whom we've done that? The bottoms who've met us one-on-one and who've proved they're worth all the work. If you're a bottom who's met me, and we've fucked and enjoyed each other, I have absolutely no problems with you asking if I have other friends who join in. (My answer in this new section of the country is likely to be no right now, by the way, since my network is vanishingly small at the moment. But in the past? Sure, I would've invited another top or two to join, if we'd clicked.) If I don't know you, though? Trot out that phrase about me and my friends and watch any interest I might have vanish, in the snap of a finger. And I know for a fact I'm not the only top guy who feels the same way. I know it sounds kind of harsh, but it's one of those things can be avoided pretty easily if you: 1) Meet the guys you chat up, and 2) Save the talk about a gang-bang until you know the guy better. Easy enough, isn't it? Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. Who is your all time favorite band? ABBA. Shut up. What is your favorite brand or sneakers (trainers)? I'm a Converse Chuck Taylors kind of guy. Say you got a 10,000 dollar grant (which *sigh* given the new cuts we can kiss goodbye, but hypotheticals!), and you had the opportunity to suddenly go global which: 1) country would you like to live 5 months in, any particular city? 2) which language wou Global domination? I love it. I would actually very much like to live in London for that length of time. If I had to learn a second language, I'd go with French, so I could have an excuse to go through the Chunnel. Mostly I just wanted to use the word 'Chunnel' in a sentence, there. What do you miss most about Detroit (say, top three or so)? The easy answer would be friends and fuckbuddies, my old home, and especially special people like Spencer. However, I'm going to go with some non-sentimental answers, here: 1. I miss the really late sunsets we used to get in Michigan in the summer, when it would still be twilight at 10:30 at night. 2. I really miss having a Pei Wei in the area. 3. I especially miss the Michigan U-turn, or the Michigan left, when I'm driving: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michigan_left Are you a Broadway fan? Have you been taking advantage of your new proximity to Manhattan? I do like theater, on Broadway and off. I've only had a chance to see two shows since I landed here, though. Do you ever worry about someone outing you? No, I really don't. I'm not ashamed of my sexuality. I've been reading your work for quite some time and really enjoy it. I was wondering if you have ever posted about the methods of cruising? I've grown up with the Internet and that's been my only method of meeting guys. I would love to learn the old way. Under the Cruising 101 tag I've posted several cruising-tips posts. I still intend to get around to some others, specifically for toilet and park cruising. Do you bite your nails? Throughout my life, one can generally judge my general state of happiness by the condition of my nails. At the moment they're in very good shape. Have you ever received a surprise party? Were you truly surprised (or did you pretend?) I received one for a big birthday--one of the ages that ended in a zero. I was totally surprised when I got lured to a friend's home on a stupid pretext, and I was extremely unhappy when it turned out to be a surprise party. The unhappiness was because I was grumpy about having to come over on a Saturday night allegedly to help someone with her home network--which would have been a freakin' nightmare, knowing the chaos she causes with her computer--and because I showed up in slobby clothes suitable for crawling around under desks and in crawl spaces, while everyone else was dressed for the occasion. Bastards. Is there a book that you dreaded reading but once you started it you actually really got into it and really enjoyed it? Charles Dickens' Bleak House came with such a miserable reputation that I dreaded reading it in grad school. But it was so good that it's still one of my all-time favorite books today. Re: your post: I've Never Been Touched . . . Down There" (one of my favorites, by the way), I'm curious now if you've ever had this played on you as an adult? If you've ever had a guy claim he was a virgin but you suspected he wasn't?? I suspect so. I've had several young guys who've told me they're virgins who, when I start to open them up, seem to betray that they've had an awful lot of experience. In some cases this can be explained (and some have, in advance) by the fact that they've shoved toys, fingers, and whatever dildo-shaped objects that happen to be close at hand up their holes, to prepare themselves. Other times, they just seem to think I'll enjoy popping a cherry, even if it's just fantasy. So I play along. More often I find guys lying in the opposite way--they'll pretend to be more experienced than they actually are, so that I won't say no because they're novices to fucking. They assume that because they've watched enough porn, they can bluff their way through it. That's usually not the case, and I've many times found out that the guy who's sold himself as a slut, or at least as experienced, is a first-timer. More...

You guys made me smile. Thank you all.

Evilqueer, You are my type of pig. I like what you have to say, my friend!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Someone asked me recently if I'd ever slept with someone I disliked. I have. And here's why. Several years ago, I had a friend who worked for one of the city's arts organizations. His group sponsored a competition for a short children's play. The winner was a young playwright from Milwaukee who'd primarily worked with new operas, up until that point. His winning piece turned out to be exciting for the actors and, unlike a lot of works from younger writers, wasn’t at all gimmicky or trite. I'd been part of the committee that had decided on the winner. When my friend asked whether I might be able to put the guy up for the weekend, so the young playwright could attend the dress rehearsal and then the next night attend to the world premiere of his work, it wasn’t really so much of an inquiry into my preferences as it was a gentle warning that I’d have to straighten up the spare bedroom and put up with a house guest. I agreed only because my family was away for that week, and because I can easily be guilted into these sorts of things. Then came the catch. Oh, BTW, said my friend via text message on the way home from the airport with the guest in tow. Just be warned he’s a little talkative. Antonio the Playwright was very much a stereotype of the untidy intellectual. His clothes were grubby and wrinkled and looked as if they'd been chosen by his mother. A blind woman, judging by the mismatch of stripes and plaids. His shirt hung half-untucked from his Dockers, in an entirely unfashionable way that exposed a wide swatch of a lard-pale, furry, enormous belly. He had a goatee that was uneven, uncombed, and showered a little rain of flakes down his shirt whenever he stroked it as he talked. And Jesus H. Christ. Talkative was the understatement of the century. Antonio had a yap that never stopped running. I never mind interesting talkative people. Big bores who are out to impress, though, never fail to flip that off my attention. All of Antonio's stories seemed to begin with the words, At the Milwaukee Opera Company. “At the Milwaukee Opera Company,” he’d intone in a voice that sounded like an experimental mating between Bea Arthur and a horny bullhorn, “which is one of the premiere opera companies in the world, we did a Tannhauser that still is remembered by opera aficionados world-wide as perhaps the definitive production of the last century. In fact, our Pilgrim’s Chorus was far superior to any of the recorded. . . .” And it was about that point that my mind would go on about its merry business excitedly reviewing last week’s Project Runway. The only point at which I'd interject anything was if I was aware of an unusually long pause that bordered on the uncomfortable, at which point I'd interject, But you know. I put up with it because frankly, he wasn’t my problem. My friend was the one who had to pick him up from the airport and put up with him all Wednesday while I was teaching; he didn't even get delivered to my place until after ten at night. My friend was the one who lugged him around like a leaden backpack all the next day to the dress rehearsal, and then took him sightseeing around the city while I enjoyed a bachelor-boy's Thursday night. And then came Friday. My friend had some kind of meetings to attend and couldn't come to pick up Antonio until noon. When I expressed concern that I might actually have to, you know, be nice to the guy all by my very self for a good part of the morning, my friend pooh-poohed my fears. “He’s a heavy sleeper,” he reminded me. “You know how hard it was to wake him up yesterday. All you’ll have to do is run in there at eleven-thirty, kick him awake and shove him out the door at noon.” I must have looked dubious, because he added, “I swear to god.” Yeah, whatever. It sounded too good to be true. I tiptoed around all morning, so not to wake the sleeping bore. I didn't even shower until after ten-thirty. Dropping wet, I stepped out of the upstairs bathroom stark naked. My bedroom’s right next door. Antonio's was down the hallway and around a corner, out of sight. But there was our house guest standing out in the upstairs hallway, scratching his considerable belly. “Oh,” I said, composing myself while struggling with the eternal actor’s dilemma of what to do with my hands. I only had two of them, and yet there were so many spots I needed to cover, all of a sudden. “Good morning.” He looked me up and down. “Well, hel-lo,” he said in his foghorn voice. “Is there anything I can get you for breakfast?” I inquired coolly. Inwardly I was peeved. He was supposed to be sleeping for at least another forty-five minutes! “I am great. Thank you for asking.” “Fantastic. Well. . . .” I excused myself and slipped into the bedroom, where I closed but didn’t latch the door as I raced to pull on some clothing. A few seconds later it pushed open again. I hope it might be the cat, but no. It was our guest standing there with the doorknob in his hand, staring at where I sat on the corner of the bed in my boxer briefs and socks. “I liked you better the way you were before,” he said in a meaningful voice. I thought to myself, Oh, fuck. Here it comes. “You know, not to be too forward or crude . . . though I do know people who say I rarely escape being either. The opera world is, of course, rife with all kinds of low humor despite its associations with high art. At the Milwaukee Opera Company, we hosted a production of Macbeth in which I provided a translation and if I dare say, slight revision of that august text, that was groundbreaking in its production values in which our costume designer. . . .” I felt a little mental hand desperately clawing for the attention switch in my brain. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said, totally meaning to interrupt, “But where’s the part where you’re crude and forward?” He flushed a dark red and cleared his throat. “Our august director told me you were bi." I raised my eyebrows, since that wasn't news to me. "If that's true, I’d like to offer to service that cock of yours,” he said, almost quiet for the first time. “It looked really good, out there in the hall.” And this is the part when I realized for the millionth time in my life how I’m really not always a nice person. I didn’t find Antonio attractive in any way, shape, or form—god knows—but even as a polite denial began rising to my lips, I realized that I was not only actually considering the offer, but that I was absolutely going to say yes. Later on, post-first performance, my friend caught me out in the house after the bows were long over. “So,” he said after he pulled me aside. He kept his tone private and confidential, despite the fact that our guest was on the other side of the auditorium, schmoozing with the parents of the child actors, letting it be known he'd written the play. “I heard you banged Antonio to within an inch of his life, this morning.” “Listen, mister,” I replied, thoroughly annoyed, not even bothering to lower my voice. “It was a hell of a lot easier than talking to him.” My friend let out a tremendous bark of laughter, then slapped his hand over his mouth. “Look. Fucking shut him up for a whole hour. Harvey Fierstein over there didn't have to say anything other than oh god, oh god, and all I had to do was finish it off at exactly a quarter to twelve, so there wouldn't be time for pillow talk before you had to pick him up. It's way easier to fuck than it is to be social.” “Sh-sh-shhh-shhh!” he hissed through his fingers, more to himself than to me. Only after he got his laughter under control did he speak again. “Only you!” “Yeah, well,” I muttered darkly. “You just wish you’d thought of it yourself.” More...

Hotload, I'd really be interested in your opinion when you're done.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's after ten at night, and in a room that feels more subterranean than it should, the florescent bulbs give off a glow that's harsh and unforgiving. I know if I look in one of the mold-eroded mirrors hanging over the dirty sinks by the door, the blue-white light will make every mottle of my face into a crater. It's silent. Every shuffle I make with my boots, every clink of my belt buckle against the porcelain urinal at the restroom's far end resounds like an echo chamber. This dank rest stop men's room feels more underground than most because it's at the lower point of a building built on a grade. Upstairs there's a restaurant and light and soft music playing over the loudspeakers. Down here is silence, and dark, and a flickering bulb over the entrance. Trees overhang the separate entrance, making it seem even gloomier, more remote. Out in the hallway beyond the restroom threshold, beyond the turn in the room that renders me invisible to anyone outside, I hear the sounds of opening doors, of footsteps, of voices, and then the distinct sound of my privacy evaporating as someone joins me in the room. My dick is hard in my hand. It has been for three or four minutes as I masturbate into the urinal, waiting to see who might show up. I stand close to the grimy porcelain, though, hands cupped around my meat so that it looks like I'm peeing. He comes in, and, after a moment's hesitation, stands at the urinal next to me. There are four urinals total. I've chosen the next-to-last, number three, at the room's far end. The laws of the men's room dictate that he choose number one, to give himself the maximum space possible from a stranger. But he chooses number two, and gives me a sidelong glance as he sidles up. I take a look. He's beautiful. His hair is a deep brown, carefully cut close to his head. His eyes are the color of coffee and cream. He has one of those triangular faces with a broad brows, distinct cheekbones that make his mouth and chin appear smaller than they actually are. On his skinny frame, it's a look that really suits him. His skin is perfectly smooth, and in this light, so pale it's like snow. He hasn't unzipped his distressed jeans. His hand toys with his zipper as if he's thinking about it, but in reality he's just looking at me. He knows why I'm there. I back away an inch from the urinal, and allow my own hands to unfurl from the angry flesh they conceal. His eyes drop to that pillar of pulsing blood and nerves and desire. His pretty lips part unconsciously. I pull all the way back this time, so he can see the entire length of it. He's a little shocked at the sight, I can tell. Maybe he hasn't seen anything so big before. His own fingers still trail over his zipper, as if he knows he should go through the motions and pretend to urinate. Yet he can't. He's fixated at the sight of my dick. There's no one disturbing the near-silence of the room. The only sound I hear is the slightest wetness as I stroke for him and my dick's slit separates with a sticky pop of precum. Then he sighs, and it renders the quiet like a weapon. His eyes flick to mine, asking for permission to look. I nod. It's okay, the gesture says. Look all you want. Touch. He understands the permission for what it is, and stares. I can see the lump in his neck bob up and down with every deep gulp, every swallow. He's forgotten about his own zipper, now. His hands hang at his sides, quiet and unmoving. I show him every inch of my meat—the red, swollen head, the long shaft, the balls with their light, short coat of blond fur. He wants to see it all. He wants more, I can tell, even if he's not sure what. I step forward, bringing myself closer. Then I reach out and put my hand on the back of his head. I've wanted to touch that hair since I saw it; in this harsh light it gleams, and leaves him with a halo that my fingers destroy as they work through the thick locks. He resists when I begin to pull him down toward a dick that's already pointing directly at those thin, sexy lips. It's not a serious resistance, though. It's the sort of token resistance that men exert when they know they're about to do what they shouldn't, so they can think well of themselves after. I know exactly what it is, and am not in the least worried by it. Then it happens. Just as he's close enough to my dick that I can feel the hot breath from his open mouth on the crown, there are footsteps in the hall. A woman calls a name in through the men's room door, wondering if its owner is the hell done yet. He backs off immediately, the spell broken. My fingers slip out of his hair as he breaks away. He shouts out a stammered response, telling the woman he's almost done. It's too high, too shrill. I can hear the sexual tension in those brief words, even if the woman can't. Across the room, he make noises with the sinks, with the towel dispenser, All the time he's staring at me, his lean body pointed to me. He balls up the towels in his hands and pauses, looking first in my eyes and then at the dick that I'm still displaying for him. Then with a basketball-practice wrist, he tosses the wad into the waste bin. He's gone, but not before he looks me in the eyes again. I see regret there, and yearning. He'll be thinking about me later, I know. In the dark, in the quiet of the night, with his hand under the cover. He'll be thinking about me, all right. More...

I love reading your conversation here. :-)

Pigskintop--one of my readers informed me (and I'm pretty sure he's right) that the book is John Alan Lee's "Getting Sex." Evil--Yeah, cruising did make everything less impersonal. One could tell a lot about another man by picking up on his physical cues. You don't always get that on an online site. Nasty--I still do park and restroom sex. It's not like its heyday, but you can still find it. Often the online cruising is nothing but diminishing returns.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Not too long ago, while trying to grump over their rate changes and the seemingly schizophrenic decisions of its CEO, I streamed a documentary from Netflix entitled Gay Sex in the '70s. Interesting title—but to be honest, it was one of those documentaries that any gay guy who’d actually had sex in the seventies could have written himself. Start with Stonewall, mix in ample tales about hedonistic fucking in dark places, sprinkle with references to Studio 54, then gently and sadly deflate with oral histories from tired-looking older gentlemen that all end with sentences like, But you know what? Five years later, everyone at that orgy was dead. One of the things the film reminded me of, however, was how central and even vital cruising was during my teen years. Most of what I learned about cruising—that silent art form in which two men communicate their desire for each other through non-verbal cues—came from a book I found on the shelves of the uni library at the university where my parents both taught. Deep in the Library of Congress classification’s HQ section, it was, in a remote corner of the third floor. I would check out the subsection on homosexuality through the gaps from the next aisle, then make a selection and dash around the corner to grab it and escape to a study carrel before anyone could see me. What I chose more often than any other title was a yellow hardback volume. It was the Bible of my horny teen years. I can’t recall the name or author, and trust me, for years I’ve Googled around to find it without success. But simply put, it was a step-by-step guide for the modern gay guy of the nineteen-seventies to cruise for sex. It told one exactly how to recognize a fellow cruiser by eye contact alone, and made suggestions for pausing in the street to gaze at a garden or a window display, in order to ascertain if the other guy looked over his shoulder for another peek. It detailed the ritual of courtship that took place in cruisy public restrooms. I already knew much of that from exploration, but the rest I soaked up, learning in an academic and theoretical sense exactly what went on in such exotic spots never glimpsed in small-town Richmond, like a gay bathhouse, or an adult bookstore. All that information helped me. It really did. It taught me the significance of a man locking eyes with me for a few fractions of a second longer than normal, and of especially what it probably meant when his glances became a pattern that meant more than Hey, that guy has a smudge on his face. I learned to pick up on subtle cues that only a minority of us recognize—a man’s lingering glance that trailed from my eyes down to my crotch back in those days communicated attraction more compellingly than any instant message online now. Throw in the slightest tilt of the head to the side, so that the man was looking at a slight angle behind me, and I knew it was my ass he was after. If his hand oh-so-casually dropped to his belt and hung there, his fingertips touching the bulge in his pants, I knew he wanted to draw attention there; if he attempted the riskier brush against his cock with the palm of his hand, or the seemingly-routine package adjustment, I could guess that we would be finding somewhere quiet to fuck within moments. Simply by observation, I became so attuned to certain behaviors that I could tell from across a crowded room when a man was checking me out. I knew (probably better than they did) which teachers at school wanted me, which of my parents’ colleagues were gay, and even who was checking me out from their cars. And in a broader sense, I became intensely aware of who was looking at whom, straight or gay. What boys the girls wanted, because of their stares. What faces men liked to rest their eyes upon, when they thought they were unobserved and could take in the sight of something pretty. By close observation of who they glanced at, for how long, and how many times, I could tell who any one of my parents’ students might be into, or what secret longings for others the adults around me had. That yellow book, and the cruising it inspired, were a crash course in human behavior. It made me a people-watcher, and someone who made inspired and informed guesses at the motivations percolating behind guarded gestures and furtive glances. By teaching me to observe, that education made me an artist. Within about three years after it hit the shelves, that book had become battered, its spine broken and illegible from the hundreds of people like me who read it over and over again. By the time I went to college in 1981, it, like so many of the people in the Netflix documentary, had become another casualty of the seventies. Or as the card catalogue said, volume missing. I wish I remembered its title. More...