TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I learned about the birds and the bees in third grade, the day that my best friend Teresa walked up to me at recess and announced, "Wanna know how babies are made?" Well, of course I did. A gleam in her eye, Teresa took me behind the scrubby forsythias that grew along the fence at the edge of the tiny playground. In their shade, our little sneakers kicking up whirlwinds of dirt, she made me lean forward and listen to the details through cupped fingers. "A mommy and a daddy go into the little boy's room, then they drop down their pants and show each other their hineys." That was the word she used. Hiney. I'd never heard it before. It sounded exotic, some undiscovered land just off the coast of me. My ignorance scandalized her even further. She explained the term, and then proceeded. "Then they rub their hineys together! And a baby comes out." I blinked, dubious. She swore up and down that she was telling me the truth, and then before I could ask any questions, ran off to spread her information to the next victim. I remember pondering the scenario all that afternoon during fractions. If anything, Teresa's news made me more curious. Why, I remember thinking, did the mommy and the daddy have to go to the little boy's room? Why not a girl's room? Why did it have to be a public restroom at all? What if they lived in the country, where public facilities were few and far between? What if someone walked in? It sounded awful. About the hineys, however, I didn't doubt Teresa. She was the sister of a future famous rock star, and until then her credentials had been impeccable. "So," I told my mother when I got home that day, as I pulled some chocolate chip cookies from a Tupperware container. "I learned how babies were made, today." When my mother wasn't teaching, she had three favorite pastimes: college basketball, murder mysteries, and crossword puzzles. That afternoon she was sitting at the rickety kitchen table with a cigarette in her left hand and a Ngaio Marsh in her right. She maintained a level expression smoke curlicued from the corners of her mouth. "How?" I gave her the nitty-gritty. She listened with a stone face that would have rivaled anything erected by the Easter Islanders, a long and brittle ash drooping from the end of her cigarette. "Good god," she said at last. Then she stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and rapidly went to shut the doors between the kitchen and the living and dining rooms. Once satisfied that she'd created a cone of silence, she cleared her throat and said, "Pull up a chair, kid." When I went to school the next day, it was with a much deeper, accurate, and scientific understanding of the human reproductive process than Teresa's parents apparently taught her. The problem was that my gospel arrived so late in the game that it was apocrypha; Teresa's had been such a stunning development in the third grade mentality that anything I had to say sounded like the knockoff philosophy of a jealous rival—I was the Treet to her Spam, the Hydrox to her Oreo. But the upshot of the Teresa incident was that my parents decided it was time for me to get more than just the most basic of outlines of the ins and outs, as it were, of sexual intercourse. That's how I ended up, as I've mentioned before, with a collection of sex manuals at the tender age of nine or ten. The first, and the most informative, was Dr. David Reuben's Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask). The book held an important place in popular culture for most of the nineteen-seventies. Legions of married couples clung to it, before The Joy of Sex made its way into their bedrooms instead. Woody Allen gently spoofed it in a film of the same title. The reason for its popularity is that EYWTKAS was pretty much a Sex for Dummies manual. It started with the very basics—the reproductive organs, what they looked like, and how they worked, and how they fit together. Apparently I was quite the little dummy back then, because these opening chapters were a mystery to me. Part of the problem was that although I knew the proper terms for the male and female anatomy (we were not a family that used words like 'pee-pee' or 'cookie'), I had absolutely no conception of how they were supposed to be spelled. I assumed that penis was supposed to have a double-E in there, somewhere. And the female organ? My childlike mind thought it had a J or at least a nice ZH in its middle. Something soft and sweet, like the organ itself. Not the hard G that appears in the the actual word. So for several days I read and re-read the anatomy chapters, mystified what this odd-sounding pen is (the word I kept reading in the book I was thinking rhymed with tennis) and the harsh-sounding vagina (which I mentally rhymed with beginnah) might be.When I made the connection between the printed words and the terms with which I grew up, it was a real Helen Keller moment. In the movie of my life, some ten-year-old is going to win an Oscar stumbling around with his hands open, excitedly shouting "VAGINA! VAGINA!" instead of wah-wah! Subsequent chapters moved on through pregnancy and childbirth. Once the very basics had been laid out, the book started to go into frills. Impotency. S&M. Homosexuality. Prostitution. The book's structure was something like a FAQ, with the doctor authoritatively responding to what he seemed to assume were common questions that the average person would have about sexuality. Only wow, some of the misconceptions I picked up from the book. Since the other sex manuals my parents assigned me to read were quaint and euphemism-filled marriage manuals from the nineteen-fifties (the only good sex tip I got from them was that the husband loves it when a wife licks the palm of her hand and rubs it hard over the tip of the glans . . . to which the only thing I can say is ouch, motherfucker!), I had to assume that EYWTKAS was the most up-to-date and accurate source of information. It wasn't. Some of the things I learned as gospel from that august book: All male homosexuals are sexual deviants who meet each other in bowling alley restrooms. It was like the Teresa story all over again. I somehow recognized part of myself in the chapter on homosexuality, though the doctor's assertion that all homosexuals were either super-butches or cross-dressing queens didn't ring true. I assumed with some despair that I'd never meet another homosexual, ever, because the only bowling alley in Richmond was way the hell on the other side of town. All prostitutes are lesbians and all lesbians are prostitutes. I'm not really sure of the doctor's logic on this one, but apparently it was an impeccable product of its era. Which, I would like to remind everyone, was also era when people invented the Pet Rock and sat in bean bag chairs. All kink and any fetish falls under sado-masochism. It doesn't matter how mild a fetish it is. If a man starts having a hankering for lacy women's underwear, sooner or later he's going to end trussed up with a leather-clad dominatrix whipping the fuck out of him. Oh, and every shoe store is stocked with perverted clerks who took the job so they could fondle their female customers' feet and then masturbate in the stock room. Vaginas are dangerous, evil, penis-trapping devices. No lie. The book contained a horrifying chapter on frigidity that basically stated that sexually unresponsive women are pretty much bitches, and that if you try to fuck them, their vaginas will clamp down upon your hapless penis and refuse to let it go. Want to know why so many boys came out as gay in the years EYWTKAS came out? It's because we all read the chapter about the man whose limp penis was strangled in a woman's vagina with such force that the fucking fire department had to come out and separate them. Dr. Reuben, on the whole, was a very strange man. More...

AlwaysOpen, you and me both!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My watch read 10:35. I was five minutes early, but hoped it wouldn’t matter. I can be there at about 10:40, I’d written earlier. don’t care when you get here, he’d written back. just get the fuck over here now and do me rough, big guy. The man’s house was expensive—a mid-century ranch in one of the area’s most exclusive neighborhoods. It had enough unique lines and personality to look as if it had been designed by a Name, or at least carefully copied from some distinguished architect’s style. The lawn was more elaborately manicured than the typical golf course; the arrangements of fall flowers surrounding the leaded glass front door could have appeared in a Martha Stewart feature. I didn’t get a chance to admire, however, because the glass rectangles of the door flashed in the sun as the door opened. “Get in here,” a deep voice growled. My eyes were still sun-blind as I stepped over the threshold. I felt a thick hand cup the back of my head and pull my face to his. A pair of lips surrounded mine, kissing me ferociously. He was a good kisser; his mouth tasted of coffee. “Nice,” I said, when I could breathe again. The nude man looked exactly like the photos he’d sent me: shaved head, bearded, muscular thighs and arms, and a deep chest covered with a carpet of dark brown fur. As my eyes traveled down the length and bulk of his body, his hands suddenly covered his private parts. “I’m shy,” he whispered, coy and insincere. “Shy about being naked in front of the man who’s going to turn me into his fucking bitch.” I grinned at that, and kicked off my sneakers. “Oh yeah? That's what I'm gonna do, huh?” “Fuck yeah,” he said, “I can tell you’re a nasty boy. Just like me. FUCK yeah. Two NASTY BOYS. Doing NASTY SHIT together!” His voice was rising in volume with every syllable, until at last he was yelling the words. They reverberated across the cavernous living room, bounced off the glass coffee table and echoed in the elegant kitchen. “NASTY SHIT, MAN! NASTY BOYS DOING WHAT NASTY BOYS DO!” “Nice,” I said, pulling off my cotton sweater. He had begun to lead me to the bedroom in the house’s back, so I let it drop to the ground. The floor looked cleaner than the sweater itself, honestly. “I like the way you think.” “You ain’t seen NOTHIN’ YET, FUCKER!” he thundered, hopping onto the bed. “Get those fuckin' pants fuckin' OFF!” I obliged, unzipping and letting my jeans drop. “This what you wanted?” I asked, brandishing my erection. "Huh? This what you wanted?" “GOD DAMN! THAT THING IS SO FUCKIN’ BIG!” he yelled, as if I were actually skewering him with it. “GOD DAMN, THE NASTY SHIT YOU ARE GONNA DO TO ME WITH THAT JIZZ-LOADED HOG!” I approached the bed, and he began pulling at his own penis in a frenzy. It was not, I noted, very large. In fact, I might even be generous in saying that it was tiny—perhaps all of three and a half inches, erect. But I’m not all that concerned with size, generally, so I didn’t care. I just knew I was turned on. “That’s a FUCKING MONSTER!” he yelled, lunging forward to suck it. Barely did he take the head between his lips than he started to gag. “FUCK! I CAN’T BARELY GET THAT MONSTER MEAT IN MY LITTLE BOY-MOUTH!” Okay, I thought to myself. It's not quite that big. But I was willing to play along. “Oh, yes you can,” I said, shoving it in. Almost immediately he gagged again, but I kept a firm hold on the back of his head and eased myself in. “Yeah,” I growled. “That’s what you wanted.” “FUCK!” I released the back of his head and he caromed back, landing on the mattress with a bounce. “You are gonna RIP ME UP when you SHOVE THAT MONSTER FUCKSTICK up my HUNGRY FUCKIN' MANFUCKHOLE!” “Damn right I am,” I grinned, kicking off my jeans. I only had on a T-shirt and a smile at that point, and pretty soon, only the smile was left. Scarcely had I put a knee on the bed than he flipped over and thrust his ass into the air, grinding his hips to invite me. “Nice,” I hissed. My hands reached for his cheeks. I pulled them apart and let the tip of my tongue tease the hole. “GOD DAMN!” he yelled, groping in a drawer beside the bed. “I AM SO READY FOR THAT MONSTER COCK! MAKE ME YOUR FUCKIN’ BITCH! NASTY BOYS DOING WHAT NASTY BOYS DO, FUCKERMAN!” He grabbed a bottle of poppers from its depth, then unscrewed it. I whiffed the acrid scent of the liquid within, from several feet away. With my thumb working itself in and out of his butt, I got to my knees again. It was then, as I positioned myself behind him, that I noticed the painting over the bed. It was of my nasty boy himself—four Warhol-ized portraits in a grid of bright, psychedelic colors of the man posing at work. And when I say work, it was perfectly obvious what he did professionally, and it was one of the most typically stereotypical gay careers there is. Which was fine. I didn’t care what he did for a living. But I was kind of slightly taken aback at the notion that someone would hang a four foot by four foot monster painting of themselves right over their own bed. I had to drag my attention away from it back to his ass, which he still was waggling in the air. “You ready?” I asked. “FUCK YEAH!” he barked. I nodded to myself, and then positioned the tip of my cock at the slick hole, and began to slide forward. “Oh, I don’t get fucked,” he said, in his normal voice. “Sorry.” It felt like my head was spinning. “What?” “I don’t get fucked,” he said, quite conversationally, as if we'd been talking about the weather ever since I'd stepped through the door. I didn’t quite understand. Hadn’t he moments before begged me to make him my bitch? Didn’t he want me to shove my monster fuckstick up his manfuckhole? Which part, exactly, had I misunderstood? “Yeah, I’d have to have a couple of drinks and know you pretty well to do that. I mean, you can rub it on the outside, or fuck between my legs, or jerk off and cum on my butt, but I don’t take it in the hole.” I was still blinking when he suddenly flipped onto his back and furiously began jerking off again. His hand flew up and down over his tiny penis as he banged his head repeatedly onto the expensive sheets with the high thread count. “God DAMN you got A BIG DICK, FUCKER! SO! FUCKIN’! BIG! MAKIN’ ME DO NASTY SHIT WITH YOU, I'M A FUCKING NASTY BOY! YEAH! YEAH!” A pillow fell off the bed as his body clenched. The tiniest dribble of semen pulsed from the slit of his dick onto his furry belly, dripping down with all the urgency of name-brand ketchup. “FUCK YEAH!” I had been motionless and slack-jawed for several moments. I knew my cue, though. “Okee-dokee, then!” I announced. Then I climbed from the bed, turned my back on the large portrait, collected my T-shirt, my jeans, and my sweater, and dressed. I looked at my watch when I let myself out. It was 10:42. More...

Hotload, I'm glad to hear someone had the same reaction as I. I know some guys let their facial hair come and go as they please, but for me, what I have now simply seems right.

That's why I like true pigs!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There are times in our lives in which everything snaps into focus. They're rare moments, precious and few, in which everything aligns; it's the twist of a key as the tumblers into place. It's the satisfying snap of the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, the last resonant chord that lingers on long after the orchestra players have packed their cases. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, you know. There's no mistaking it for anything else. For me and my self-image, that moment came several years ago when I grew a beard. I've written before about how much time I spent—wasted, truth be told—not liking my face. For years and years I honestly never enjoyed looking at myself. I hated taking photographs, and generally would assume a rictus of absolute fear and loathing when someone pointed a camera my way. My eyes always danced away when I walked by mirrors; if I absolutely had to assess myself in a reflective surface—after a haircut, say, or when combing my hair in the morning or seeing how a new pair of pants might fit—it was with the defeated attitude of, oh well, guess that’s the best it’ll ever get. I pissed away precious years worrying about piddly stuff no one really noticed—thinking my eyes were too small, my nose too big, my forehead too high, my skin too uneven, my lips too thin . . . the list could be endless, in the old days. And it was a waste, of course, because now, when I look back at old photos of myself (grimacing, looking panic-stricken), all I do is shake my head and think what a babe I was. Attractive enough, sure. The number of guys chasing after me in the old days should have told me that. But a babe in a more literal sense, too. I was smooth-faced and bright-eyed and oh, so young. And stupid. Stupid that I frittered away time and energy hating my looks. The turning point for me came several years ago when I grew a beard. Oh, I'd sported facial hair before. In college I walked around for a few weeks with an embarrassment of a moustache. It was so white and peach-fuzzy that it looked as if I'd bent over to sniff a dandelion and come away with it all over my upper lip. In the very early nineteen-nineties, long before they became ubiquitous in the midwest, I grew a goatee, kept it for a year, and after being teased relentlessly about it by all the same people who grew the very same configuration of facial hair three years later when it was popular, finally decided it didn't suit me. When I left my full-time job at the university a half-dozen years ago, though, one of the first things I decided to do was grow a beard. Now, this was in the days (again!) before beards became the ubiquitous hipster recession accessory that they are now. I'd never considered having one before. I only knew about two people who weren't collecting social security checks who had one. I waited until I'd taken the big step to stop working at an office job because growing facial hair when you're working full time is annoying, for one thing. One has to put up with jibes from co-workers who first want to know if you forgot to wash that first morning, then who have to put in their opinion on how your face is looking every day after. When I was working at home in my office and studio most of the day, no one was going to care if I looked a little scruffy. So I did what I'd been advised to do, which was simply not to shave for four weeks. At the end of that time I cleaned up my neck, used my clippers to trim my Unabomber face down to a neat, trim, short beard, and looked into the mirror at the blond fur that was left. And I just knew. Everything clicked; the camera came into sharp focus, the tumblers fell, the jigsaw puzzle fell into place. I stared at myself in the mirror that day, eyes wide, and realized that I should've had that damned beard all along. The change has really meant a lot to me. I can't say I'm a total Narcissus. But my friends and family might. These days I'm thrusting myself into photographs when I'm not wanted, grinning like a fool. There are Japanese tourists at this moment reviewing their digital photos from Times Square last week and wondering who is that enormously tall white guy stooping down to smile along with them in their family poses. I can't walk around a Restoration Hardware or a Bed, Bath, and Beyond without checking myself out in every mirror in the damned place. Is my hair lookin' fly? Oh, it totally is. Is my face rockin’? Oh yeah, baby! And when I do a self-inspection, I’m practically winking at myself, cocking finger guns, and firing them at my reflection while leering, “Lookin’ good, handsome!” Apparently having a beard makes me change my -ings to -in's, too. I’m not one of those guys whose interest in someone is directly proportional to the amount of facial hair the chap is sporting. On other guys, I can take the stuff or leave it. On myself, though, it's simply right. It feels as if I've found a look that on the outside matches the way I feel inside, when I'm at my best. Although I've had the beard for years now, I spent enough of my life in self loathing that getting a look at a handsome face in the mirror (and I'm talking about mine, of course) is still a nice, novel feeling. I’m happy finally to be living at least a part of my life without fearing the mirror and what I’ll see there. I'm curious about the experiences of others. I know that a lot of us here have expressed our struggles with how we see ourselves. Was there ever a moment when everything suddenly shifted from wrong to right for you? What was it? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I fear I wasn't able to post as much as usual, or as much as I wanted, this last week. Between a trip to the dermatologist and a continuing misery from my affliction, I didn't have a particularly great start to September. It doesn't help that the cure is about as annoying as the symptoms themselves. Never in my life did I think the highlight of my day would be the showers I took, morning and night, to scald my skin in submission. The good news is that I'm on the road to recovery, though, and intend to be posting more regularly this upcoming week. Which brings me to something. I was lying in bed this week at four in the morning, wishing someone would skin me alive like Willow did to Warren on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, feeling itchy and sorry for myself, when it occurred to me how very kind many of my readers are. I've had readers send me emails wishing me well, and readers who've checked up on me on Twitter and Facebook, and readers who've texted me or helped me get through the long nights by chatting to me online, and readers who merely by speaking up with a cheerful word really managed to lift me out of the doldrums. You guys are great. Thank you for your many kindnesses, and your patience. I've met some amazing people through this blog, and that makes everything worthwhile. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here During the last couple of weeks, I've had a famous artist in my very own field wooing me. When I say 'famous,' I'm perhaps exaggerating slightly. I could mention his name (and I won't) to five hundred people, and only perhaps one would say, "Oh yeah, isn't that the guy who did . . . ?" before pausing to supply a finish to that sentence. Let's just say he's famous to me, and that you could find him on Wikipedia, and have done with it. I'm more amused by the courtship than anything. He'll text me messages out of the blue, hot and heavy for a few hours at a time, like It's a great day to be backing up my ass to a big-dicked buddy, or I keep looking at your pics and I can't get any work done!, or Who's your agent? Then he'll promise he'll be taking me out to dinner when he gets back to the city, and I'll not hear from him again for several days. My reaction to the sporadic attention is something along the lines of the owner of a precocious puppy who shamelessly does tricks to attract tummy-rubs from random strangers—only I'm the owner and the puppy, both. I'm both shameless, and I roll my eyes with amused tolerance at my own behavior. It's useless to try to claim I'm not a would-be starfucker. Apparently when the chips are down and there's a big name knocking at my door, I'm tossing it wide open, just so I can say I have.I know other friends who've bagged a lot of celebrities. Just discussing them makes me sound like a gossip columnist launching into his juicy bag of blind items. One very old close real-life friend did that double-Academy-Award-winning actor in the back of a limousine, when my friend was a Hollywood hustler. He also was involved for a hot minute with that other actor everyone knows about, who was hot back in the day. (I've seen the signed cards, people!) Then that action-movie actor who had rumors swirling around him in the late nineteen-eighties that disappeared when he developed a professional career as a family man, both on and off the screen? I had another friend from college for whom the actor was a houseboy for a year and a half. And by 'houseboy' I mean the then-aspiring actor would go to my friends house and give him his dick. (I've seen the photos for that one, too. No, not of the dick.) Sadly, I can only claim two celebrity fucks in my long sexual career. One of them isn't even a celebrity—he was a contestant on a competitive reality show, and although there might be a certain contingent of people who would recognize his name and exclaim, "Oh, he was so cuuuute!" when they learned I used to fuck him in when he was in high school, most of those people would also feel guilty about admitting they watch the show, afterward. The other celebrity fuck, though—now his name you'd recognize. (And no. I won't be divulging it.) The only thing is that he only became famous a few years after I did him. It happened in Toronto in 1998, at the old St. Marc's bathhouse. The St. Marc's was on the second floor of a commercial building on Yonge Street—I think it's changed hands and names since then. It was grungy, and run down, and in some spots had surfaces that seemed to defy antibacterials. But in the days before Toronto had its own Steamworks, the St. Marc was one of the better places to go. The action was good. The men were generally hot. And it had a couple of rooms with built-in gloryholes that opened onto a dark maze that could be rented for a few extra bucks. I was wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of flip-flops and walking around the dark hallways, being obsessive about not touching anything made out of flesh, when I saw a versatile top guy I knew down the hall. I visited Toronto a lot, back in those days; the top and I had connected at the Bijou a couple of visits before. I'd been back to his place for a three-way at one point, and I was never surprised to see him haunting the same baths and clubs where I'd go to play. I nodded and was preparing to say hello to him when he grabbed my bicep, leaned over, and murmured a room number in my ear. "A-maaaaa-zing ass in there, taking all comers. Just go in and fuck it." I thanked him for the tip. "Hey," he said, grabbing me again before I could take his advice. "You'll think this is funny: the kid's got a famous boyfriend." Then he named a name that just about everyone would recognize, but that would probably best have been appreciated by my dad. I went into the room he named and found a guy flat on his back. He wore nothing but a pair of big black chunky leather boots with thick hiking socks poking out of the tops. Standard hardcore fuck gear for the late nineties. He was a bottle blond at the time, and only in his mid-twenties (an age to which he's been attempting to cling ever since). A couple of things about his face gave him the appearance of being handsome: his sweeping, thick eyebrows, and his big, broad smile. I saw a flash of the latter when I stepped into his door and opened my towel. He grinned at me, then turned over and raised his ass into the air. His eyes were sleepy and slitted, though. When he looked over his shoulder at me and murmured an obscene invitation, I could tell immediately that he was high on something. I didn't care. The guy had a hot body that he obviously spent a lot of time taking care of, and his ass was round and firm. I didn't really give a shit who his boyfriend was. I just wanted that hole.We didn't waste much time in foreplay. This boy just wanted to be fucked. The beds of the St. Marc's were a little higher than average, and I remember I had some difficulty getting onto the narrow mattress with him in order to aim my head at his pucker. Finally, though, I started to work my spit-slick dick inside his hole. Other men's cum leaked out around my shaft when I got it all in. Knowing that this sexy little fuck—and he was little—had been taking anonymous cocks and loads all afternoon made me want to add my own sperm to him, in a big way. With an open door, I pounded away for a few minutes while he drifted in and out of full awareness, and finally added my own juice to that which was still simmering in his hole. Two other men were lined up and waiting to take my place by the time I was done. I came back again a half-hour later and fucked the pretty boy's face while my top friend took his hole, and then dumped another load in his ass when my friend was done. To be honest, I would've enjoyed the experience much more if the guy hadn't been so high, and if he'd been more aware of what he was doing and with whom. In those situations, though, you take what you get. Right? I didn't think anything more about the guy after that day for another year, at least. In 1999, though, I was watching a fairly obscure cable television comedy show when I saw a pair of eyebrows and a big, toothy, gleaming white smile that I recognized. It was that guy from the bathhouse. The bottom whore. And he was substituting for the show's regular host.I was kind of surprised to discover that he had a natural talent for wisecracking affably. After that day, I had a name to associate with the face (and ass). I kept an eye out for him for a while, and wasn't too surprised when he lucked into a high-profile gig only a few years after that. Would he remember me? Doubtful. I don't think he'd remember anyone from that afternoon. Am I better or better-connected person for having done it? Nah. Though it does make a good story with which to amuse guys in bed. Am I glad I did it? Oh hell yes. That ass was hot. (And a special note to any other celebrities who might be considering leaping between my sheets—I promise I'll give a similar thirteen-year moratorium on discussing our tryst in a public forum!) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Many of you guys have been concerned about my health, since I had to take off a few days, week before last. Thank you for your kind emails. Those of you who've written have been so solicitous and so discreet, in fact, that I gather from the way you handle me with kid gloves that you're all worried I have something fatal, and that I am slowly expiring by degrees on a fainting couch. No, I don't have anything wasting. Nor do I have anything sexually transmitted, thank you. The truth is much more mundane. Ever since I moved to my new home, I've been breaking out in an itchy, blotchy rash that is intolerable enough during the daytime, but has been absolute torture by dark. Until I visited my doctor, I was averaging about three and a half hours of sleep a night. I visited the doctor after a particularly bad weekend in which I didn't sleep at all. He helpfully determined, as I've said, that I didn't have leprosy or scabies, and that I probably was having an allergy or a sensitivity to something in the environment—though he couldn't determine what. So there you have it. No fainting couch. Just me and my new ultimate sexual fantasy of meeting a man with nicely-manicured fingernails who has a desire to do no more than crook his digits and just rrrrrrake them over my skin, starting with my feet and scrrrrrraaaaaatching his way up me, inch by vigorous inch. Oh yeah. The idea is giving me a hard-on, right now. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. (And if you have any, please visit the site and submit yours. You can do it anonymously!) So, how are you adjusting to your new surroundings? Slowly, but surely. I don't feel quite as homesick as I did last week, or the week before. I've managed to drive places without feeling totally lost. And I can navigate my way into the city on my own. Baby steps, right? have u ever opened the bathroom door accidentally, while someone being naked inside or peeing? No. Mostly because both in my current household, and in the household in which I grew up, no one ever shut the bathroom door unless we had company. How do/would you handle being in social situations with an ex trick or fuck buddy that you're on good terms with but you have a new boyfriend who's not comfortable with your friendship? In a situation like this, it's the new boyfriend who has the issue—not you or your former lover. Be cordial and let him work out his own issues. Any chance of seeing more videos of your sexcapades sometime? Very likely. When I find some willing partners to make them with me. And a camera person. Are you still doing cam shows on cam4? I do, but not with any particularly predictable schedule. Thoughts on Edmund White and his work? White is a highly influential artist and rightly one of the most venerated gay writers out there. His prose is often beautiful stuff. Gay life has changed so much in the last thirty-five years, though, that a lot of his works seems awfully dated today. It's not just him—most gay writers of the era look antiquated, with the accelerated rate of change over our landscape in that time period. That doesn't make his books any the less interesting or beautiful, but their relevance to the modern reader is going to vary. If the men's room isn't available (and it's a 1-seater), do you use the women's? No, because the women get mightily upset at the notion a penis has invaded their territory. The only situation in which I'd even consider such a thing would be at a gay bar frequented primarily by men, in which the women's room was a mere formality. Not to be rude, honestly: What's the most offensive question you've ever received? The questions that I've received that have barely been able to veil their hostility have all been uniformly offensive to me. Usually they come in two forms: either they accuse me or heavily imply that I lie about my health and serostatus, or else they come laden with judgmental words like 'adulterer.' It's a shame that people have to use anonymity in order to take jabs at people whom they've never met and who have no direct relation to their life. Sad, really. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After my last couple of calls for readers to send in both front and back views of themselves for our regular exhibitionistic feature here, I received some really good email. The kind of email every guy likes to wake up to in his inbox. All I can say is that I have some super-hot readers. If you'd like to join their ranks—or if you have sent in photos before and have some new ones you'd like to share—drop me a line. I post all body types here, all ages, and all shades of skin. The only thing I ask is that the photographs you contribute are of yourself, and aren't of some random hot guy you've lusted after on the internet. So fire up your mail client already and send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASSETS' or 'MY ASS' or 'MY COCK' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too. Jelle Our friend Jelle is from the Netherlands. Never have nether lands looked so good, right? (You'll have to excuse me. I home in on the bad pun, every damn time.) But seriously—that's a juicy Whitman's sampler of images he's chosen to share with us. A beautiful deep hole, a hot stiff uncut dick, a pair of bulging balls, a long rope of sperm—it's like a five-course meal. I love the photos, Jelle. I know my readers will, too—you've made a lot of fans today. Filip Continuing in our international journey today, we have Filip from France, showing off his best assets. Filip has not only included a video for my readers' pleasure, but has thoughtfully provided his email address so that you guys can contact him directly. I'm a fan of the whole hooded-and-kidnapped theme, of course—but Filip has the beautiful, lean body to thoroughly pull off the cock-hungry and willing-to-do-anything look. Fucking beautiful, mon frere. Let's hear it for him in the comments! John I like a guy who improvises. And John here is the MacGyver of sex toys. When his puppy outgrew his chain, what'd he do? Turned it into a nut harness. It says something about me that I totally see the logic of that one. John's got a great tool there—but the balls are what I keep focusing on. They look full and heavy. A lot of my readers are totally going to want them in their mouths, or emptying in their holes. And I don't blame them! Our friend Ethan appeared in our last installment of Reader Assets, but he's back with an entirely new set that will set your salivary glands on overdrive. The last time, Ethan showed off a spectacular hole. In this batch, he's appearing with his boyfriend. Ethan showed off his ass the last time, but this week he's displaying his top skills as he plows his lucky boyfriend's hole. Both of these young men are 100% versatile. And 100% yummy, too. What's nicer is that Ethan sent in these photos to cheer me up when I was feeling poorly last week. And you know what? That kind of thoughtfulness is the best possible palliative ever. Send me more photos! And let our brave contributors know how much you appreciate them! More...

Thank you, bear.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There were a couple of years in the late nineteen-eighties, as my desire to finish a doctorate in grad school fizzled, in which I took a clerical job to pay the bills. It wasn't a spectacularly high-paying position, nor was it all that dignified—it primarily involved sitting in a dank windowless room off a lost corridor, and transcribing dictaphone tapes made by various faculty at the university. The cramped office stunk of tobacco, thanks to my alcoholic, bat-shit-crazy boss, a man of little education and even less couth who, when he wasn't sitting in his desk chair blatantly reading Playboy and Hustler, was making passes at secretaries in the building and then, when they'd scatter in fear at his approach, would proclaim them "goddamn lesbians." It was a tedious existence. I needed the money, though. And in the weeks after my sexual assault, my instinct was to shut out the world as much as possible, to wall myself away. That dark, smelly room was my cloister, and the mind-numbing droning of the faculty whenever I clamped on those headphones felt like sanctuary. For a couple of months I worked alone, but then my tiny office was rearranged one day to accommodate another desk. Soon another transcriber invaded my monastic solitude. His name was Geoffrey. He was a narrow-shouldered guy who came up to my sternum, with a head full of strawberry-blond hair. On a big, bulbous nose rested a pair of very geeky horn-rimmed glasses. Elvis Costello glasses, they were. He was skittish of me at first and I of him. I had a paranoid few days in which I imagined our boss had planted him in there in order to keep an eye on me. I began to relax, though, when I realized that Geoffrey was gay; I heard him talk to what I had to assume was a significant other on the phone, a few times a day. I understood from his guarded, non-gendered references and carefully-neutral words that he was trying not to give away that he was seeing another man. After that realization, I opened up and Geoffrey and I rapidly became friends. We were both the same age, and both had a particular disdain for our boss. "Fucking asshole," Geoffrey would mutter under his breath, whenever that Marlboro-scented storm cloud would loom on the horizon. We bonded over the strange bureaucracy of our division, too. The vice-president of our school was guarded by two administrative assistants and an academic services officer, all three of whom were named Joanne, and all three of whom were joined at the hip. They lunched together. They gossiped together during work hours. They all chattered in high-pitched, rapid voices. "Planet of the Joannes," I nicknamed the fourth floor one day, and Geoffrey started to laugh so hard that he had to slump against the wall with tears in his eyes. After that we were constant work friends. We lunched outdoors, munching on sandwiches even in the coldest weather, to rid ourselves of the tobacco stink. "I have something to tell you," he said one day over our meal, perhaps a month into our acquaintance. "I'm gay." "I am too," I replied. He seemed relieved, and commented that he'd thought so, but that he'd really had no way of telling. "And another thing," he said. And I remember the very formal way in which he said these following words, because the defensiveness and awkwardness of them struck me in a way that made me wonder how many times he'd said them before, and how badly they'd been received. "I have unfortunately been infected with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus." “That’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for telling me.” Hearing him say the words was something of a shock. Yet I wasn’t surprised. Geoffrey and I sat close enough that even over the stink of cigarettes in that office I knew his smell. I’d grown up with a mother whose odor changed with every new pharmaceutical regimen. I knew how medicines change a person’s scent. Geoffrey’s pores exuded a sharp tang that I can only describe as being like the metallic overtones of a diarrhea smell, but without its organic nastiness. It wasn’t vile; it was merely sharp, and distinguishable. I knew he was taking pills for something. It didn’t surprise me that it was for HIV. These were still the sad and early days of the AIDS crisis. Geoffrey was a novelty. Not for having HIV, but for admitting it. I’d known a couple of people by that point who’d died, but they’d gone off to New York or San Francisco and met their demises offstage, so to speak. I’d never known anyone living with it, day to day, before him. I got to know Geoffrey’s daily routine with his pills. It seemed as if there were dozens of them that he’d take throughout the day when the timer on his watch would beep. By that point in our friendship he’d tell me what each of them was and what it was for, as he’d down them without water in our little back room. “Down you go,” he’d say, over and over again. “Do your dirty work!” By that point we were seeing less and less of our boss. The university had instituted a no-smoking rule in its buildings, and he was spending a lot of time ‘working from home,’ which meant that Geoffrey and I were largely unsupervised. We’d do our tasks in the mornings, then sit in the back room and listen to alternative radio while we talked in the afternoons, or visit the Planet of the Joannes so that we could laugh at them later. Sometimes we’d just head out into the sunshine and wile away the hours. Our super-sneaky boss liked to throw in a phone call to the office at five minutes to five, on the days he worked at home, just to make sure we were still there; we’d creep back in the office just under the wire and pretend to have been good boys all the day long. It was on one of our afternoon trips that Geoffrey gravely informed me that some singer we both liked—I think it might have been Annie Lennox, but I’m shaky on that point—had HIV. She’d announced it to the press and everything he told me. “Oh no,” I said. “Not her. She’s too good for that!” He turned beet red. “So do you think that only bad people get the disease?” he snapped. I never made that mental mistake again, ever. Because Geoffrey was a sweet and good soul. He dearly loved his boyfriend, a man in Chicago who lacked the means to help him move there, and longed for the days they could finally be together. He had a gentle good humor and a prankster’s sense of fun that made our ventures to the Planet of the Joannes infinitely less painful than they could have been. At the same time, he had a deep, voracious sexuality. At some point we began to compare sexual experiences and it came out that we both were fans of one of the restrooms on campus—a men’s room so notorious that researchers had installed one-way mirrors in it during the nineteen-fifties so they could study cruising behaviors (it was assumed by then that no one was watching through them, but who knew?). And gradually, on occasion, on our unsupervised afternoon tours around campus, we’d walk to the other end of the university and down into the basement together, and I’d watch him go hog wild. The restroom was one of those places in the remote bowels of the building where very few people ventured. Anyone down there was looking for sex, plain and simple. I’d act as lookout so that Geoffrey could suck dick until he’d had his fill. Often he’d undo his shirt and kneel there on the floor with a cock in his mouth and another waiting nearby, its owner stroking and watching, while Geoffrey played with his own meat, stiffened by a cock ring. He had skin as pale as mine and the very lightest covering of blond hair on his body. When he sucked, it was with total abandon. His glasses would end up askew on his face. He’d have cum and sweat and saliva dripping down his neck and chest, and spattering his work shirt. He’d particularly go wild over black men, gargling and strangling over their tools with a gusto I haven’t seen outside of porn. Then, when he was done, or there were no more cocks to service, he’d straighten his spectacles, wipe off his face with a damp paper towel, grin and thank me, and then catch up on whatever pills he’d missed during the session. We never had sex. Geoffrey was more of a brother to me than anything, and though I didn’t mind being his lookout or even his pimp in the restroom, I never wanted anything more of him. I’m not sure I could have, even. I wasn’t so ignorant that I considered him off-limits or untouchable because of his medical condition, but I hadn’t yet made my peace with those risks. It was probably fortunate for us both that the attraction simply wasn’t there. I didn’t know at the time how very badly off Geoffrey really was. Daytimes he was lucid and intelligent, creative and chatty. Nighttimes, when I didn’t see him, were apparently when things went south for him. I visited his house once and discovered that it was a maze of Post-It notes and scrawled reminders; apparently he had an advanced-enough case of dementia, combined with the effects of the drugs he was taking, that he would lose track of time, or which of his regimented tasks he was supposed to be doing. If he didn’t stick to a very strict schedule on his own, he could get stuck in a loop for hours. “I think I’ve made dinner four times,” he would say over the phone to me, some evenings. “But I don’t remember eating at all.” Or, “I had a note to call my mother tonight, but she told me I’d already called her twice before.” “Do you need me to come over?” I’d ask. “No,” he’d say in a tiny voice, sometimes. Or sometimes he’d say nothing, and I’d drive up Woodward to his small home, and sit with him on the sofa watching television, until it was time for him to go to bed. During the daytime he was funny and sweet and lucid. At night, though, with his hairy ankles sticking out of the feet of his pajamas, he looked like a little, lost boy. We worked together for less than a year. Geoffrey’s symptoms were far enough along that they’d begun shaving away at his life. He had to give him up a beloved cat because of a toxoplasmosis scare. His good hours during the day became fewer, and out of fear of blackouts he had to leave earlier in the afternoons to drive home safely. Soon he stopped working altogether; his boyfriend in Chicago finally found the means to help him move. I got a letter from him the month after he left—a silly, bitchy breath of fresh air in which he asked me about the Planet of the Joannes and wished me sincere luck in coping with the alcoholic boss. Then a few weeks after that, I heard he was gone. A twinkling little light in my life, extinguished, off stage. I’m writing this memory of Geoffrey in the very small hours of the morning. I’ve been unable to sleep; the medicine the doctor prescribed for me last week doesn’t seem to be working. All this restless night I’ve been thinking about Geoffrey, and his sweet and gentle presence, and how much I liked him as a friend. Both of us were wandering and a little alone, back there in that dim office in the building’s lost corridor. How could we have ended up there, else? And yet, for a time, I like to hope our companionship elevated us both—helping me step back into the sunshine again with tentative steps, and keeping him from the darkness that at every turn threatened to swallow him whole. I remember you, Geoffrey. It pains me to the core to think about your loss. But I remember. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I was a kid during the nineteen-seventies, would occasionally throw end-of-semester Christmas parties in our home right before the holidays started. Days before the party they'd start making a go of cleaning the living room, though tidiness was never either of their strong points. They weren't drinkers themselves, but the colleagues and students they'd invite to these yearly shindigs would show up laden with spirits. Our basement bathroom—a mildewy, forbidding place that seemed so much like the movie set of a serial killing that I'm still reluctant to enter it when I visit my dad's home—was filled with liquor bottles that we'd begin hauling up the night before, until the dining room table was crowded with liquids of different colors (and of dubious age). My mother's ash trays got a thorough cleaning and the good ones were strewn around strategic places; my dad would pull out a bunch of LPs and eight-track tapes and have them stacked by the stereo. My mom would spend an afternoon in the kitchen with cans and an opener and a jar of mayonnaise and emerge with space-aged canapés. The cats were banished outdoors. After a cold dinner, and before the doorbell would ring, I'd be sent to my room for the evening. Faculty parties were not for the young. They were exotic, especially when I was fairly young. From my room, with a book in my lap, I'd listen to the swinging strains of psychedelia on the stereo, often improbably mixed with Nat King Cole singing Christmas carols, or Peter, Paul, and Mary. I'd listen to the laughter and smell the cigarette smoke and the clink of the liquor bottles and the increasingly loud and inebriated conversation and think to myself, This is what being grown up is all about. My parents' guests were usually two-thirds other faculty from the university, and the rest were upper-level undergrads or graduate students. One of the things I used to do as a ritual, after the party had started, would be to go through their coats. They all lay there on my parents' beds, taken upstairs and tossed on the mattresses upon entering. When it was quiet upstairs, I'd tiptoe out and into my parents' room and just examine what their colleagues and students were carrying in their pockets. Mostly it was boring stuff like keys, or small change, or cellophane-wrapped Kraft caramels. Once in a while I'd stumble upon cigarettes, or more frequently, tiny little unsmoked joints tucked away in breast pockets, acrid-smelling and spilling weed from their twisted ends. I had to time my stealthy investigations right. More often than not I'd be interrupted, either by hapless students looking for the bathroom, or couples (not always married, not always of the same generation) looking for a private tryst among the coats. I wouldn't say that my parents' parties were orgies, exactly, but they had their share of fucking. In the bedroom, among the wraps. In the spare bedroom, on the rusty twin bed that had been my father's as a boy. Outside in the back yard, behind the massive brick nineteen-fifties barbecue. In the basement, or down the outside cellar steps. And once, in my room. I was pretty young the night that Dr. Jones came into my bedroom. It was late—late enough that I'd given up watching the little portable TV from the kitchen that my parents had lugged up to my room for me to watch that evening, and had gotten into bed, but not so late that I was asleep. I had a book in my lap, and my knees propped up, and had stripped down to a T-shirt and briefs. Then my door opened. "Anyone home?" asked a tall black man. He slipped in quietly, raised a finger to his mouth to indicate I not say anything, and then made a pantomime of tiptoeing to my bed. I knew Dr. Jones from my dad's office. They were in the same department; I'd seen him a couple of times a year since I'd been five or six—enough to recognize the face and associate a name, but not enough that we'd ever actually spoken. I raised my eyebrows. I think I told him that the bathroom was on the other side of the upstairs hall. "Oh, I'm not here for the bathroom," he said. The man sat down on the edge of my bed. He was in his forties or fifties, and had a grizzled beard limned with white; it looked like his halo had slipped over his head and around his neck. An oversized mole decorated his dark, dark skin on his forehead; he had a large, nineteen-seventies Afro shot with gray perched like a helmet on his head. "Just needed to get away from the party." He reeked of alcohol. His eyes, though unwavering as he stared at me, had that liquid sheen of the thoroughly inebriated. I nodded, and waited for him to say something. "So," he started, putting his hand on my knee. Then, finding that awkward, he removed it. "You're just . . . sitting up here, real quiet?" I told him I was. "Must be real nice to be up here, where it's . . . quiet." Again, his hand landed on my leg. This time, it made its way up to my thigh. Dr. Jones might have been an expert in African history, but subtle he was not. "What you doing?" he asked, when he reached my hip. "Nothing," I told him. Despite myself, my boner was raging beneath the covers. "You must be doing something, if you're making me do this." He pulled down the sheets. "I didn't come up here thinking I was going to do this. Must be you making me do it." Maybe that kind of talk worked on other young guys, but I saw through it. His big hands pulled apart my legs, right below the knee. I didn't resist "You are a real pretty boy," he told me. "Real, real pretty. You got that creamy skin I like so much." He talked like Barry White on a quiet storm radio station after midnight, and I have to confess that I was more aroused than anything. "You got those pretty blue eyes, looking at me like that. You're making me do this," he said. "It's ain't me, baby." His lips were on my leg, then my groin, and then he was pulling up my T-shirt and yanking on my briefs. I heard the crackling of their elastic as he yanked them down, hard. My teen cock flopped out of the cotton and slapped audibly against my belly. "See what you gone and did?" he asked, breathing heavily on my twitching, hard flesh. "You made me do this." Dr. Jones roughly grabbed my balls, almost making me yelp out in pain. Then his mouth engulfed my dick. I'd had sex by that point, a few times. Even in my limited experience I could tell he wasn't the best of my encounters. He used too much teeth; he created too much suction rather than let his mouth and lips travel up and down the shaft. He was simply too drunk to do much good. But a blow job was a blow job, and I'd spent the evening waiting for the party to end so I could turn out my lights and masturbate and get to sleep. A stranger's mouth on me was even better than that. It didn't take very long before my young nuts were retracting and my dick started to pulse out a tiny load of semen. Dr. Jones swallowed it all. "Fuck," he said. "See what you did?" He mumbled another sentence or two into my balls, as he nuzzled there. Then he was very, very still. He was asleep, in fact. Apparently no one from the party noticed he was missing for over an hour. Not until people were starting to drift off into the December night did my father come into my room. "Have you seen—?" he asked, and then saw himself what he was looking for. Dr. Jones, sprawled on his back, head lolling over the mattress edge, arms at his side, snoring loudly at the very bottom of the bed where I'd rolled him. "Oh, jeez," said my dad. He rolled his eyes. I shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I were used to adults passing out on my bed every night of the week. "Was he a pain?" My dad dipped down and grabbed his colleague beneath the arms, trying to stand him to his feet. I told him that he wasn't, not really. "Come on, Lamont," he said, shaking the older man. "Time to go home." Dr. Jones hadn't woken up the entire time he'd slumbered, after the hasty blow job he'd given me. He opened his eyes in confusion, saw my dad, saw me, and then became very suddenly and drunkenly awake. "It's okay," said my dad, gently escorting him from the room. "Come on. We'll get you some coffee." And that was my one and only encounter with Dr. Jones. I got the impression he was never really sure of exactly what we'd done, if anything; his memory was probably hazy of those confused few minutes before he passed out. Whenever I'd pass him with one of my parents in the department offices, he'd blink at me and work his lips as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite decide what. I, in the meantime, would only smile in the same way I smiled at any of my parents' colleagues, without betraying what happened between us. If he thought it was a fantasy—well, at least it was a good fantasy. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here "You want to see a picture of my wife?" His question's timing was odd. I was in the back of his van with my pants around my ankles, dick in my left hand, a roll of his twenty-dollar bills still clutched in my right. Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his madras shorts and pulled out his iPhone. A couple of clicks and a riffs of the finger later and he was thrusting the little screen in my face. "Pretty, huh?" The wife was attractive in that white-bread, bland, Talbots-catalog way I've come to associate with the women of this community. Her skin was pale, her hair a carefully-tinted blond, her clothes expensive, but little more than loose-fitting yoga-to-coffee-shop gear in pastels. "We've been married twelve years." He flipped past a couple of more photos to show more shots of the pretty female in front of what I assumed was their house. "We've been married twelve years." He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. "How long have you been married?" I'd stuffed the money into my jeans. My hand was curled around my dick. Despite the decidedly unsexy talk, I cocked my head and looked down at my own rigidity, calling attention to it by the slump of my spine against the seat back behind me, the spread of my legs, the fingers toying with my balls. A long, quiet time passed before I answered. I could hear the sound of I-95 on the other side of the road, and of the strip mall traffic around us. "Twenty-two years." His eyes had been on my dick until I spoke. "You got kids? You've made kids with that?" I didn't say anything. This was our second meeting, here in the back of this man's van. This father of two, this owner of a landscaping company, this blond-headed model from a Land's End catalog in plaid and a tight yellow polo shirt that managed to accentuate and conform to his substantial chest muscles. His hair legs jutted out of a pair of deck shoes, the knees pointing at opposite sides of the van. His hands fidgeted uncomfortably between them. "Twenty-tow years. Damn. That's a long—" His thought trailed off. "Can I touch it?" I was playing it reluctant. He didn't want me too eager. "I don't know," I drawled, looking around. As if anyone could see us, in the artificial dusk of that van. "We didn't talk about that shit, man." He reached into his pocket and pulled out that rounded wad of bills once more. It sprang into shape when he unclipped it and peeled off three more twenties. He didn't toss them at me with contempt, or hold them out to me as if trying to tempt me. No, he leaned forward with the money in both his hands, offering it to me in supplication. He wanted to touch me, this time. He was willing to shell out for it. I took the sixty bucks and added it to the three hundred he'd already given me, and shrugged. He didn't need to know I let men touch it for free. The last time we'd met I hadn't let him close to it at all. This time, though, I opened my legs wide enough to allow his body between them. My jeans were tangled around my ankles and I still had on my college T-shirt and an orange baseball cap slouched on my head. His abdomen rested on my ankles. It was flat and hard. His hand curled around my shaft, touching it gingerly, as if he were for the first time picking up something small, delicate, and breakable. Fuck that shit. "Squeeze it," I commanded. His blue eyes flicked up at mine, then back to my meat, mesmerized. His fingers curled, hard, harder. "Yeah," I grunted, thrusting up. "Harder. C'mon. Yeah." He touched my dick like he'd never held one before. Not even his own. His joints squeezed the skin, and dug in at the wrong angles. I pried his hand away and reconnected it in a better, superior place. His face was dead serious as he explored the length of my shaft. He played with the head, and pulled apart the tip of my urethra to make it pucker like a fish. He ran the back of his knuckles along the length, and toyed with my furry balls. I even left his fingers wander down my taint, and to brush ever-so-softly against the outside of my hole. "Let me suck it," he suggested. I attempted to look horrified. "Fuck, no." "Just a taste." He was begging, but I shook my head. "Let me rub my cheek on it. That's all." His mouth was only inches away. He could've just lunged and I wouldn't have been able to stop him, pinned against the seat as I was. "Nuh-uh," I growled, taking my dick back. I let him know with a knit brow what I thought of that dirty fag stuff. "Let me touch it again." I stroked for him while he played with my nuts and ran his fingertips up and down the outside of my shaft. I think he thought he was doing something both erotic and exotic as his light touch fluttered on my skin, but in reality the best I can say is that at least he managed not to distract me too much. After a while I took one of his hands and wrapped it around my balls, silently instructing him to tug and squeeze gently. He took the instruction well; the added sensation made my dick bulge and turn a deeper shade. He learned pretty quickly to tell how I responded to a certain kind of tug over another. By the time I was leaking pre-cum, he seemed pretty pleased with himself. "Let me suck it," he said. I looked pained. "You can show me how." I shook my head and looked vaguely disgusted. "Nah, I don't think so." "If I practice, will you let me next time? Not on a dick. On a banana." When I didn't say anything, he improvised wildly on this theme. "I'll suck on a banana so I learn not to gag. Fuck. I want to learn to suck a cock. Teach me?" "I don't know," I lied. "I'll give you extra for it." At that, I didn't say anything. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he thought he had me, there. That little extra green incentive, he seemed to realize, was all that he needed to lure me from the near-straight-and-narrow to the dark side. What he didn't know was that I'm the one who was having him on. I didn't need that extra cash. But I sure liked seeing him grovel. It was the sight of those wide eyes, that certainty that he could throw money at me to make me do things I wouldn't ordinarily, that pushed me over the edge. I shot in a geyser that arrived announced only by my hastened breathing and the arch of my back. It splashed up and forward; he jerked his hand away at the last moment as if I were spewing hot lava. I came in grunts and snorts, a married man's orgasm, brusque and brutish. Then I panted for a moment. He was studiously mopping up the puddle I'd left with a baby wipe from a tray. I lay down on my back so that I could hoist up my hips and pull up my pants. When I was fastening the button, he suddenly hovered over me. His head was directly above mine; he looked into my eyes. For an astonished moment I thought he might actually kiss me. "Hey," he said. "Does your wife tell you you're handsome?" I shrugged. "Because you are. You're sexy. For a guy. You're sexy." "Thanks, dude," I said. His hand brushed my crazy hair from my forehead. I could feel its calluses. "You're hot," he said. "Think about the sucking." "Yeah." I made it sound like that wouldn't be happening. "I'll practice. You'll like it, I promise." I didn't agree, but I didn't say no. I knew we'd get there, sooner or later. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here What a week of disasters it's been, for those of us here on the east coast of the U.S. First, we had the novelty of an earthquake that could be felt all the way from Virginia to Boston . . . though somehow it thrilled New York City and then mysteriously seemed to skip the suburb in which I dwell. (I suspect the Stepford Wives here of somehow paying someone off so as not to mess up their catalog-perfect living rooms.) And then we had Irene, the class one hurricane that thrilled many a newscaster with forecasts of disaster for Manhattan itself, which was supposed to turn into a spectacular watery holocaust. Didn't really happen up here, but it was enough of a scare to shut down everything and clog up the highway as frightened locals lined up at the exits leading to Sam's Club and CostCo. We members of Team Breeder are safe and dry, though, without even a loss of electricity about which to brag. Which is why, with only a little delay, I'm able to bring to you this morning your weekly dose of questions from formspring.me. Which do you prefer more a tight hole or bid cock? I don't really care how big a bottom's dick is. Tight hole, every time. Do you have an opinion about prostate-stimulator toys, as a way for a bottom to sensitize his hole? I do not have an opinion, as I've never tried one. I've never known anyone who's tried one, either; though I had a couple of friends who were heavily into toy play, they usually enjoyed the big dildos than the prostate-stimulators. I'm curious about them myself, though, so if any of my readers or Twitter buddies have an opinion, I'd love to hear them. Have you ever sounded your urethra with a clinical probe? with your finger? I've used sounds before, yes. It's an interesting, but not for my needs essential, form of play. I've been with several men who really enjoyed the effects of them, however, and I'm more than willing to help them out. I can usually stick my fingertip in my own urethra. I like digging out the precum that way. Do Big Boys/Real Men cry? Do you? How often does The Breeder find male lacrimation acceptable? (Your opinion RE how many men bottom inspires these questions.) Sure they cry. Strong men cry. Boys cry. I've made bottoms cry many a time with my dick. The last time I cried, corny as it might sound, as a few days ago. I was sitting on a boat headed to the Statue of Liberty, watching it loom up out of the water, backed by the sunlight, and I thought to myself, "You know? As many times as I've seen it in films and photos and in Planet of the Apes, I've never see the Statue of Liberty in person before." Then I got a big old lump in my throat and teared up. But you know, everyone else on the boat was doing it too, so I didn't feel so badly. While a passenger in a car, do you ever give the driver a hand job? or a blow job? Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the car to come to a complete stop before I engage in any action with the driver. Besides, it's easier to fuck him that way. Would you say you are genuingly Bisexual? It's easier to find sex with men because, basically, they're dawgs. Yet I would say that I've had good sex with more women than have most genuinely straight men, and than have most guys who call themselves bi because they've been with their wives and screw around on the side with hundreds of guys. My involvement in bisexual relationships has tapered off in the last two years after an involvement with a married couple got a little too complicated, but yes. I would consider myself an equal opportunity cock wielder. What scares you the most and why? I tend to be extremely frightened inwardly, despite being rock-solid on the outside, when a loved one faces a health crisis, or is in jeopardy of death. What do you take in your coffee? I don't drink straight coffee. I was a fan of Starbucks' cocoa cappuccino last winter, though. What papers do you read, either nationally or locally? I read the New York Times, online. Sections of it, anyway. Stumbled on your blog a few months ago but didn't pay much attention, then last week I saw one of your history posts and I've been hooked. I grew up across the river from Richmond in the suburbs, so it's been very interesting. Any good stories from Bon I grew up on the northside, and never really got out to the suburbs. (I didn't have a car, for one thing). To be honest, I don't even know how to navigate around Richmond's southside. My family never, ever went there! Morning person, or night owl? I arouse the ire of my loved ones and the contempt of my neighbors by being a bright, perky, and supremely chipper morning person. Do you or anyone you know have to get completely naked before you can poop? It's the only way I can be comfy enough to do it! I cannot say I do. I can go naked or clothed. (That is, if my pants are down.) It's all the same to me. I know you have said since your move you have not really been getting any action, but is there anything about your new location or your move that you like? Really enjoy reading your blog. Thanks for the compliment! I'm glad you read. There are several things I like about my new location. The easy access to New York City is probably at the top of the list—it's a six-buck train ride into Grand Central, and from there I've got all kinds of cultural opportunities and sight-seeing to do. My new location itself is quite beautiful, and I like that the state is not as spread out and far-flung as my old Michigan home, where a forty-mile trip to get to a favorite location wasn't atypical. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I was listening to the radio last week and heard one of the interns on OutQ mention a web site from which he'd been getting a lot of laughs, lately—douchebagsofgrindr.com. Okay, perhaps I should've postponed sharing the address until I'd talked about the site, some. Are we all back? Settled down? Focused once more? Grindr, of course, is the ubiquitous smartphone application that utilizes GPS to identify other Grindr users in the vicinity, so that one can cruise hot men from the comfort and safety of the H&M men's room. It's not really a comprehensive sex profile site. The owners allow one to post a PG-rated photo and a few words about oneself. After that, it's up to the users to message each other, decide if they're close enough, and to connect. I avoided the app like the plague back in Michigan. In that state, the popular bar sport (any bar, any night) was for cliques of gay men to stand around with their phones glowing upward in the dark, illuminating the owners like some Georges de la Tour painting, while they giggled at men's Grindr photos. Woe betide the guy on Grindr who actually happened to be in the bar at the time, because the Grindr game turned packs of what I assume were fairly nice guys and turned them into gaggles of bitchy queens who sniggered and quipped wise as they compared the inevitable naked chest cheesecake shot on their phones to the somewhat embarrassed victim standing (according to the app, anyway) twenty-seven feet away. It's like watching a live enactment of Blondie's "Rip Her to Shreds." With Freddie Kreuger on had for a demo. No thank you. I gave Grindr a try last month, since it's taken much more seriously in the northeast. Quickly I found out that I only draw two types of Grindr responses. The first demographic would be shy older gentlemen who, instead of an actual face photo, opt to present themselves as a verdant landscape, a lighthouse in the mist, or a brightly sunlit waterfall. The second, and more abundant, population is that of barely-legal Latin boys, who purr and growl at me as if they're horny felines and I'm a big ol' sack of catnip-spiked chorizo. You'd think that instead of the bland profile I'd constructed, I'd advertised with Re-forming Menudo. Apply within. Then my monthly subscription expired and I couldn't be bothered to download the free version, and I haven't used it in the last three weeks. Now, douchebagsofgrindr.com struck me as a potentially fascinating website, because Grindr certainly does have its share of irritations. Foremost among mine were the men who would write something like, Here to look at the studs. If you're not one, block me so all I see are hotties. Like I want to do all that work for you? If you don't want to look at my face, block me yourself, fucker. The site's administrators certainly zero in on some of the other most prevalent Grindr crimes of civility, take screen shots of the offenders, and present them to the public for mockery. They capture the men who brusquely insist that they will only speak to others with face photos, yet whose profiles show a murky shadow or a fuzzy close-up of a nipple. The site rigorously chases after the racist profiles in which cruisers state, politely or less-than-, which colors of the rainbow can 'step to the front of the line.' The administrators have a special vendetta against the men who post handsome photos of themselves and state "VGL UB2," or that they'll only speak to other 9s and 10s. And god forbid you be one of the fools who dares to insist you're straight, and just looking. It's kind of fun to look at the site and the silly men and their stupid antics and think to myself, "Yeah, that's guy's a douche, all right." But my mistake—and I make it on a lot of internet sites, admittedly—is that I feel compelled to read the comments on the photos from other readers. It's a mistake because whenever there's an anonymous comment system in place, there are always assholes who misuse it. They see an opportunity and a weakness and leap onto it in a way they would never, ever contemplate doing in real life; they type out vile things to which they'd never commit a syllable if it actually had to cross their lips and be uttered. I don't have a high opinion of these guys; it seems pitiful to me only to feel powerful when hiding behind the safety of miles, an anonymous comment box, and a computer screen. Basically, it's ugly. And I find the site distressing to read, after a while. So on any typical douchebagsofgrindr post, there'll be a couple of guys pointing out the obvious ("Wow! That guy is rude!"), and a whole lot of men dogpiling on each other to say the nastiest things possible. If a guy's handsome, he's 'not all that' or 'that dude looks like a girl.' If he's muscular, he's suddenly a steroid user. If a guy doesn't like feminine men, the commenters look for any sign of femininity (Are his eyebrows too neat? Is that a purse in the background of the photo? It must be HIS!) and engage in name-calling that makes the gay community's detractors seem timid-tongued in comparison. The commenters rip on the men's clothing, their hair styles, their appearances, their teeth, their ages—anything they can find to shred the guy to pieces until there's nothing left. It's a little bit like the old Michigan Grindr game, only even more vicious. And, in its own way, even more repellant than the profiles being mocked. Douches of Grindr these called-out men may be, but the commenters of douchesofgrindr.com are even douchier. I'm curious about what you guys think. Do the commenters go too far on this website? Or is it all just good fun to you, with no one getting hurt? At what point does mockery and pointing the finger at hypocrisy and bad behavior turn into worse hypocrisy and an appalling spectacle of its own? Let's discuss it in the comments. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I was sharing a story with a friend online this week, when it struck me I'd never mentioned it here. Some of my longer-term readers will remember the fellow I called Cunt, from my Michigan days. We were fuck buddies for a good twelve years. When I first met him he was newly gay—or newly out, relatively late in life—and still pretending to be a top. Now, over the years I got to see Cunt stick his dick in boys' holes, but that still never made him, in my eyes, a top. It wasn't primarily how he got his jollies. His great joy in life was thrusting his ass up in the air and taking dick without even seeing it, and by the time I started writing this blog, that's exactly what we did together. Our transactions were efficient and economical. Unzip. Unload. Zip. Leave. There was a period, though, where I played some more complicated mind games with him. One week, three or four years back, I was talking to Cunt on the computer via instant messenger. Own me, he begged. I want you to fucking own me. There's nothing more arousing to me than being offered that kind of control, that most essential kind of power. On a practical level, though, owning a man full-time isn't in my best interests. Where do I fit him in my already-full house, exactly? The hall closet's already full of lacrosse racquets and winter coats. If I were going to own a hole, I told him, it'd be yours. Own me for a week, he begged. Own me for an hour a day. I just want to be owned. Those were the words that triggered the plan. After thinking it out in my head, I told Cunt that I was willing to own him for a week, for an hour a day. He was to be cleaned out and ready at seven in the evening, from a particular Monday night until the Sunday following. He was to be on his knees, assuming the position, at the edge of his bed precisely at seven, and was to remain there until eight. And if I chose, I would show up and fuck him. I can't emphasize enough the notion of my choice. I made very clear to him that I had little intention of showing up nightly, though I could take advantage of all seven nights if I wanted. The point was that regardless of whether I was there or not, he was still supposed to leave the door unlocked, assume the position, and wait for me. The first week, I showed up on Monday. I parked outside, slipped into his quiet house, found him upstairs at precisely seven on the nose, and fucked him until eight. I skipped Tuesday and Wednesday, deliberately. Thursday I returned to find him hole up and ready. Friday I skipped. Saturday and Sunday, he got more of me. We didn't exchange a single word the entire time I was there. It was simply one man presenting himself for the other's approval and use. At the end of the week, when it was over, he emailed me with such a paroxysm of appreciation that it seemed cruel not to give it another shot. So a few weeks later, we set it up again. One week, one appointed hour a day. Several times we enjoyed the exercise, in fact. I enjoyed mixing it up for him. One week I kept him busy by showing up every appointment but one. Another I very deliberately didn't meet any of them at all—though I did show up on the last evening to make sure he was in position, and then without a word I walked right out again. Once in a while I'd show up with a buddy—a couple of times it was tops I knew, sometimes some guy off the internet I'd never met before—to whom I'd present Cunt as my property, and invite to use as he wished. Once I walked in with a stranger, told Cunt to take care of him, and walked out again. The details didn't matter to Cunt. He never begged me to bring other men, or chided me for not showing, or thanked me when I did. He just basked in that freedom of being owned, for one hour of every day in a week. He floated on that freedom of knowing he didn't have to make decisions for himself during that short time, of knowing that he would be taken care of, if I so chose. It was a lot of work for me, calculating to a hair's breadth exactly the degree of sadism involved in skipping either two or three days in a row, or dreaming up ways to keep it fresh. For him, though, it was liberating, and fulfilling in ways that in my bottom years I once could have comprehended, but were increasingly foreign to me. He loved being of use, and loved having the structure our arrangement gave him. When he heard my footsteps entering his bedroom, I could see him respond with a thrill greater than those afforded by our regular encounters. I miss having a Cunt. I need one here. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'd like to thank you guys for the many expressions of sympathy and support you've given over the past couple of days—both in the comments on this journal, and through email and other venues as well. However, I'd like to say that those of you who sent me nude photos via email to cheer me up totally got an edge over everyone else. Nice work, to you guys! I'm feeling mostly better today, thanks to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. What I have isn't a summer cold, but although he assured me he was fairly certain it wasn't leprosy, the doctor wasn't exactly certain what's ailing me. However, he also said it wasn't contagious. And it's not anything sexually transmitted, either. We'll be returning to more regular postings shortly. Thanks for your patience. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I wanted to let you guys know that I've been under the weather for a couple of days--and thus no updates. When I can get out of bed and back in the saddle, you'll be the first to know. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Happy Friday, everybody! I'm still soliciting more photos for the Reader Assets feature (which, for as few comments as it gets, certainly receives a ton of hits whenever I post it). You guys were almost unanimous in your desire to see more dick in addition to the asses I've been posting on a regular basis—and yet I'm getting almost no dick shots! Don't be shy. We post all body types here, all ages, and all shades of skin. The only thing I ask is that the photographs you send in are of you, and not someone else (or someone you'd like to be). If you'd like to participate—and you should—send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASSETS' or 'MY ASS' or 'MY COCK' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too. Let's see what juicy specimens we have this week. Joe I can't say I know much about Joe other than the fact he's a fan of the blog . . . and has a very hot body. Great shoulders, great arms, nice waist, and best of all, a perfect ass. I mean, seriously. Look at that thing. It looks like two perfect melons in a sack. You can tell it gets stared at when he walks by. I certainly would. Nice work there, Joe. Strappedguync My buddy in North Carolina has sent a couple of photos of himself in what everyone, by now, must know as my favorite pose—bent over, ass exposed, and submissive. He's even worn one of my favorite pieces of gear, a black jockstrap, and is doing that move of drawing apart his own ass cheeks that totally drives me crazy. It's like Strapped here has made a little checklist entitled "Things to Make The Breeder More Likely to Mount Me", and gone down it, tick mark by tick mark. The only thing missing from the comprehensive checklist is the little plate of bacon on the small of his back. That's a beautiful ass, Strapped! Mark At last! Some dick to show you guys! Mark here has sent me quite a nice collection of self-shots. Not only does he sport a fine and handsome ass, with a nice light coat of fuzz, but he's also provided a couple of dick shots that pretty much show all the goods from start to finish. I love the soft dick shot with his cock snuggled in a nest of pubic hair. And the cum shot is fantastic. You're going to have a lot of fans out there, Mark . . . if you don't already, that is. Ethan My buddy Ethan has sent a veritable cornucopia of beautiful ass shots. I couldn't choose between them, so I figured I'd just include them all. Do asses get any better? It's a hot round butt, to begin with. Bent over, it's even more saliva-inducing and slobber-worthy. But what really makes these photos drive me crazy are those enormous nuts Ethan displays, hanging between his legs. Those are bull-nuts, my friends. Don't you want to reach out and tug 'em? Roughly? Or maybe tie them up with a rough length of hemp and . . . maybe that part's just me. Ethan, I love your ass, my friend. Everyone else will too, now. My contributors have been very brave this week. Show them a little appreciation in the comments! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I hadn't intended to visit my old college campus last week, when I was visiting my dad in Virginia. Considering that the temperature soared up above one hundred every day I was down there, walking around the dusty tourist town in the sun was one of the last things I wanted to do. My father, who's also an alumnus of the college, wanted to take advantage of my chauffeur services. So I found myself on a Wednesday morning driving along I-64, past the long avenues of trees overgrown with kudzu, in the direction of the little college where we'd both spent a congenial four years of our lives. Once we were off the tourist tracks, the campus itself was hushed and silent, its bricked walkways empty. Its picturesque buildings radiated heat, its expansive sunken garden baked in the sun. We kept to the shade, walking around the oldest part of campus, ducking into the air conditioned buildings when we could. Some of the dorms were under construction, their approaches cordoned off and inaccessible; it looked as if they were having air conditioning installed before the school year started. At the height of the day, though, there weren't any construction workers around. They were either all indoors, or they'd knocked off early because of the heat. Toward the end of our circuit we stopped off at what used to be the old campus center, when my father and I were both students. It's an administrative building now, but it's air-conditioned, and provides a convenient cut-through on the way back to the commercial district. As my father stood with his face pressed against the glass of a former cafeteria, reminiscing about days of old, I stood with my arms crossed and enjoyed the cool. The doors from outside opened and a pair of men walked in. They were both dressed in polo shirts. The taller of the two, a goateed middle-aged guy with a former jock's build and an unflattering pair of navy pleated Dockers, caught my eye. We looked at each other for a moment before he started talking to his colleague. And they were colleagues. I guessed from their dusty clothing and clipboards and holstered cell phones that they were some kind of contractors or construction supervisors, probably connected to the dorm renovations just down the street. My dad continued to peer and talk to me while the goateed guy and I continued to exchange glances. It was pretty obvious he was more interested in me than in the conversation he was pretending to have. At last he and the other guy parted, waving their clipboards in parting. The colleague headed off toward the back of the building. The dark-haired goateed guy walked down the hallway towards which my father was headed, now that he was finally done telling me about the old days when he'd been a student waiter. As my father rambled on, the man looked over his shoulder several times, catching my eyes with every turn of his head. Then he diverged from his path and entered the men's room. Now, I'd had so much sex in that men's room when I was an undergrad. I'd gone there lunchtimes to suck dick. I'd hung out there in the evenings, getting laid so I wouldn't have to go back to my dorm room. The last time I visited the college, I'd fucked an undergraduate in there. I wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. "Hey," I told my dad. "Why don't you head to the bookstore?" I gestured in the direction just across the street. "I'll meet you there. I have to hit the bathroom." "I can wait," said my father. "I need to poop," I amended. Because there is no information that is private or sacred in my family, you know. My dad, of an age to appreciate the merits of a good poop, nodded with understanding and ambled in the direction of the door and the campus bookstore. I made sure he was on his way, then nudged open the men's room door with my shoulder, and headed in. The restroom was always built for play. To get to the urinals and toilets, one has to push open the noisy door and walk a distance through the U-shaped enclosure, past the sinks and waste bins. The noise and distance gives a cruiser plenty of time to assume a less compromising position, if interrupted in the midst of the act. I walked to the urinal and unzipped, then pulled out my dick. The whiff of sexual intrigue had already made me swell. A few strokes brought me to hardness. He occupied the first of the toilet stalls. It was the only one with a closed door. I could tell by the play of shadows inside that he was bending over to look at my feet, to see if I was the one who'd followed him in. After a moment he stood up casually, as if pulling up his pants to go. Our eyes met over the top of the marble partition. I turned to show him my hard dick. He stared for a moment. Then he opened his stall door. I stepped around, still stroking. Those awful Dockers were around his ankles, hanging around a pair of white athletic socks. The clipboard was balanced on the toilet paper dispenser. His dick was short, and fat, and uncut. With his left hand, he peeled back the skin to expose a purple, swollen head. I caught a glimpse of the wedding band he wore, for the first time. "Fuck," he whispered. "You are hung." I lifted my chin in appreciation of the compliment, still stroking. Instead of saying anything, though, I merely pushed my hips forward. I wasn't there for conversation. He took the hint and, after sitting down on the toilet seat and looking up at me for approval, he opened his mouth and took my dick in his mouth. The guy had a bushy goatee that rubbed against my balls in a pleasant way. I sighed, leaned back, and let him go down on me. The man's phone started to go off in its holster as he sucked. His hands left my nuts and shaft to scramble for the switch that would shut it off. He didn't stop sucking, though. When he had the use of his hands back, he lifted my dick and jacked it while he nuzzled my nuts. His tongue darted out and licked beneath my balls; he ground his nose and mouth against my junk as tightly as he could before he started sucking once more. I was keeping an ear out for the sound of the exterior door, the entire time. I knew I couldn't take long, so luckily the randomness and sudden heat of this encounter was already causing a load to simmer in my nuts. The contractor must have felt the same, because I felt a sudden spray of warm goo over my legs and onto my sandals. He'd shot on me; sperm continued to leak out of that furiously purple head as he grabbed my dick at the root, squeezed hard, and sucked me roughly. When I came, it was with a violent buckling of my knees. He grabbed my ass to support me, spreading more of his stray seed on my skin. My sperm went into his mouth, though. His face contorted in pleasure, or effort, as he ate every drop. His face was wet with his own spit when finally he pulled off, and let my dick drop and swing between my legs. "Fuck," he said, eyes wide. "I got my stuff all over you." Again his hands scrambled, this time for some toilet tissue. He dabbed at my legs, my ass, and at the tops of my sandals, murmuring apologies all the while. I didn't listen. I rubbed his hair affectionately after I pulled up my shorts, and went on my way. My dad was browsing through the T-shirts at the bookstore when I joined him a couple of minutes later. "That didn't take long," he said. "Nope," I agreed. "Sometimes when you've got to do it," he said, "you've got to do it." He was obviously still talking about pooping. "That's the truth," I agreed fervently. "Feels better after, too." We meant different things, of course. But I couldn't agree more. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The man was waiting outside his townhouse the next night, sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street. His legs were spread wide, protruding from enormous, baggy basketball shorts that hung as twin caverns around them. When I stepped from my car and approached, he just nodded. "What's up?" I asked. The cicadas overhead were infinitely louder in Virginia than Connecticut. I could barely hear myself talk over their clamor. He'd been toying with something in his hands. "You want that li'l thug to yourself?" he asked. My dick twitched at the notion. I'd just been with this pair—the black man and his younger lover—the night before. I'd walked away drained and, at the same time, craving more. When he'd left a message for me asking if I was free again that evening, I'd made my excuses at my dad's and driven the short mile to the man's place once more. "Is that an option?" I asked, keeping my voice steady over the quickening of my heart. He tossed to me the little object with which he'd been toying, in an arc I could see only by the light of the streetlamp overhead. I opened my hand. It was a key, attached to a ring. "How long you need?" he said, pulling himself up. "I've only got a couple of hours." "Go on in there then, white boy," he said gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of the door. "Leave him the way you find him when you done." He started strolling down the street, walking slightly bow-legged, though whether from habit or the previous night's session, I didn't know. The house was quiet when I entered. I left my shoes at the bottom of the steps, along with the multiple pairs of running and basketball shoes that cluttered the lowest treads. The bottom I found in his bedroom, lying on his full-sized bed. The night before we'd played in the older man's room, in his larger and more comfortable mattress. Though this darkened room contained all the playtoy's things, his books and video games and collectible action figures, it almost seemed more like a guest room than the older man's room, where all the action clearly took place. The bottom lay as he had the night before, gagged and bound, face-down, on the mattress. I could tell he tried to crane his head and look at me over his shoulder at the sound of my footstep. My dick swelled hard at the sight of him there, barely visible in the dark, ankles and wrists helpless and tied. I could've used him any way I wanted, and his owner wouldn't have known. Or minded, for that matter. I removed my shirt, and unbuckled my jeans. I took off my underwear and my socks, and sat on the bed's edge. My hand moved up to stroke the young man's head, with its covering of stubbly hair. The rest of his body was perfectly smooth. My palm moved down over his narrow shoulders, the curve of his back where it arched up to his ass, the round perfection of his butt. He stirred beneath my touch, like a sleeper in a dream. Then I reached up with both hands and untied the gag around his head. The knot was difficult to navigate at first, but I managed at last to withdraw the ends from each other and pull the cloth gently from his mouth. I undid his wrists, setting aside the velcro restraints, and then the ankles. He rolled over onto his back, and pulled himself up to the head of the bed. His big, dark eyes regarded me with an expression somewhere between fear and desire. "Don't worry," I told him, my voice quiet in the dark. "You're still going to get my dick." He let loose one short, sharp nod as he stared between my legs. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "Tonight we do it my way, though," I told him. The room was quiet. I could barely hear the raucous huzz of the August cicadas outside. "You cool with that?" He nodded. "Good." He was light enough that I could pull him close to me easily. My dick slipped naturally between his legs and prodded at his hole as I held the back of his head and pulled his mouth to mine. He was a natural good kisser, but seemed out of practice, as if he didn't get to do it very often. That may have been the reason why he seemed so hungry for it. Within seconds he transformed from passive recipient to aggressive beast, matching me passion for passion. His body pressed against mine. His small dick, erect, uncut, and rigid as building stone, pressed against the bottom of my ribcage. "Suck me," I begged, after a while. He didn't need to be ordered, or restrained. He dived between my legs and took as much of my dick in his mouth as he could—a considerable amount. The tightness of his lips around my shaft made me hiss with pleasure and grind my hips into the air. My head hung over the mattress' edge; I let the blood rush to my brain as for long minutes he licked and slurped up and down my meat, my balls, and the inside of my thighs. When his tongue lapped at my hole, I couldn't take any more. Flipping him over was easy; I've had more problem with slices of frying bacon. "You know I love fucking you when you man lets me," I growled in his head. He nodded. My dick head, swollen like a plum, was poised at his ass. It parted the cheeks and nudged the hole. "You like it when I fuck you?" A hesitation. Then, he nodded again. "I think you like it," I growled. "I just think you don't like admitting it so much." Another hesitation. Then another nod. He wasn't so silent as I drove inside him. Though I'd driven lube inside his hole with my fingers, and though I'd applied it liberally to my cock, he still let out a cry as I worked it slowly but firmly in. "Stop that," I warned him, again worried that someone would hear through the townhouse's shared walls. Then, a moment later, when I was most of the way in and giving him a break, I leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Does it hurt?" He nodded. "I can't fucking hear you." "Yes," he whimpered. "It hurts." I could hear the tears in his voice. "Do you want me to stop?" I withdrew a quarter-inch, as if it were a real possibility. "No," he said at last. The syllable was even more desperate than the three that had come before it. I pulled out a little more. "No!" he protested, genuinely distressed that I might withdraw. When I pushed in the rest of the way, he grabbed the pillow and let loose his cry of ecstatic agony into one of its corners. I fucked him on his belly for a while until, like the night before, his ass finally stopped resisting me and relaxed completely. When I was sliding in and out without that extra resistance, I pulled us both into a kneeling position. My arms supported him upright, beneath his armpits; his hands clutched at the back of my head, holding on for dear life as I continued to rabbit in and out of his tight, smooth hole. From time to time his head would loll back onto my shoulder. His lips would abstractedly reach out to touch mine, but he seemed lost, enraptured, caught up in a private ecstasy from which I and the rest of the world had faded. His tiny nipples hardened; the skin beneath my hands quickened into gooseflesh. Then his breath caught, his back arched, and his body began to shake and quiver on and around my hard dick. My traveling fingers grasped his pulsing dick as his body continued to wrack and shake and convulse. Then he bit his lip, laughed a little, and closed his eyes as I continued to fuck him. I fucked for most of those two hours. Five times I brought him to orgasm. Each time, he jerked and convulsed and became lost in his own private enjoyment, and then relaxed with closed eyes as I continued to drive into him. We kissed; I growled obscenities in his ear and egged him on with every orgasm. Then I pulled out. "Eat it," I commanded. My dick was slick with lubes and juices, and had seemed to grow by an inch or two from the long, relentless fucking. The youth got on all fours, grabbed my meat with his hand, and took it into his mouth. Almost immediately, at the sight of him on all fours hungrily gobbling me down, I began to shoot. I held the back of his head to ensure he didn't try to evade the load, and listened to him gag and choke on the enormous load spurting directly down his throat. I let him catch his breath. Without prompting, he went back down on the meat, cleaning it off, sucking out every last drop, until at last it softened and we both lay there, in the dark, in the quiet. I was sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street when the man returned, smelling of beer. "Left him as I found him," I said, tossing back the keys. The look on the man's face was satisfied. I could see him imagining what had transpired in his absence. "He give you any trouble?" he asked. I shook my head. No, he hadn't been any trouble at all. More...

French horns, represent!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here "Damn, this booty missed you." When the man's palms hit his cheeks with a loud slap, it resounds through the small townhouse bedroom like a whipcrack. His ass is a model of perfection, round as a basketball, smooth, and shiny, even in the dim light of the low-watt bulb in the hallway. It jiggles and bounces. The performance has begun. He's a small man who comes up only to my nipples, but he's strong enough to crack me in half. Small, but powerful. The first time I met him, four years ago, he greeted me at his door shirtless, his chest a blueprint of homebrewed muscles and barely-visible tattoos that sloped down to a flat, flat abdomen punctuated by an outie of a navel. His hips were so narrow that it didn't seem at all affected that the waist of his jeans hung around the bottom of that round, protruding ass, inches below his cheap red checkered boxers. It was as if they could have fallen off when he'd risen to answer the door. I'd marveled at his body then, even as I marveled at it now. "You gotta visit that daddy of yours more often, baby," he half-whispers, in a seductive pose on the bed. Like girders, his arms are, his biceps sinew and steel. He grinds his hips into the mattress. "'Cause I know when you visit your daddy, this nigga get what he need." I'm still completely clothed. I make a show of unbuckling my belt, of kicking off my shoes, of slithering out of the denim sheathing my legs. "What do you need?" I ask him, once I'm naked. "That big hard dick." He reaches out and grabs it. His lips open, his mouth gapes to accommodate my meat. Scarcely has he ingested it than he chokes and backs off. When he looks at me, it's with affront written clearly over his face. "Can't even get that shit in my mouth," he complains. "Try again," I suggest, nodding at him. He's putting on an act, of course. The fucker knows how to suck me. I visit my dad's home town two or three times a year, and usually see this guy once or twice each visit. By now, his mouth knows its way up and down my inches. His throat has felt the spray of my load against its backmost corners. But he likes to put on the performance. He likes to pretend it's too big. His eyes bulge and water as he spears me into his throat once more. He sucks, and grunts to himself as he rubs his privates against the bed, humping the corner obscenely. His thrusting only makes his ass cheeks gleam in the light. They part, revealing the dark cleft within. "Yeah," I said, utterly turned on. "Just like that." "You want this booty," he tells me after a while. He's still putting on a show. "C'mon. Take it. Take what you own." He's already in position on the bed, his hidden rod pressing hard against the mattress' rounded corner, his ass parted and ready. It smells like a man's sweat, and of his private places. He hisses loudly when I lick it for a few moments. "Put it on in," he begs. His eyes are half-closed, heavily lidded. "Put what you got all up inside." When I slide in, he playacts again. "Damn!" he yells, so loudly that I worry his neighbors might hear. His hands clutch the bedsheets, creasing them where he tugs and pulls. His eyes are wide open, now, unnaturally white against the dark. He's reacting as if I've shoved a red-hot poker up his fundament. "You tearing me up!" he protests, writhing in mock pain. When he rises to his knees, to lift his ass up, his massive cock swings down onto the bed. He's easily ten inches, maybe eleven. Most of the time, though, it's almost as if his dick's not there. All he really cares about is his hole. He shakes his head as if to clear it of the pain. Then he turns to the figure lying motionless at the head of the bed. "You gonna yell when it your turn," he warns. I, too, stare at the bottom as I fuck. It's for that sole audience member we're putting on the show, for the bound figure watching us both. The younger man's wrists and ankles have been restrained with velcro cuffs before I arrived; his mouth is split by a white cloth fastened tightly at the back of his head. The man's playtoy is always there when I arrive, sometimes bound, sometimes simply lying on the bed they've shared for years. He's not new to me—not at all. But every time I roll into town, we play out this scene as if it's new. "You so big, baby!" cries out the man, gritting his teeth in exaggerated pain. The half-fiction to which we all subscribe is that if my dick's huge enough to make a muscular, strong man like this struggle, it's going to be sheer hell for his younger lover. "You hurt this ass so good. So good," he repeats, drawling out the last word. I fuck him loud and hard, keeping my eyes steadily on the bound plaything. You're next, says my gaze. I pull out of his older partner before I shoot. My dick slides out, covered with juice and spit and lube. The man lets out a long groan, as if he couldn't have stood it for another moment. Saying nothing, I stride to the head of the bed and yank at the bottom's arm. He slides across the bed like a sack of potatoes, his head lolling with every jerk. He's already been lubed—fucked, even?—when I finger him. I don't bother with preliminaries. I yank him into position, grab my dick, and aim it at the tight hole. "You're in for it now, boy," says the man, shaking his head. He's still making a show of recovering from my fuck. He pulls himself onto his side as if he can't stand. "Better you than me. That's what I say. Better you than me!" When I shove inside, the bottom's eyes fly open, just as his lover's had. "Yeah," says the older man, observing. "Take that big white dick." The bottom makes a pretense of struggling, just for a moment, as I pass the halfway mark. But then it's in, sinking home, opening him wide. I yank him to his knees. The man thrusts his broad hand between his legs. His fingertips brush against my hard meat as I start to slide in and out of that impossibly tight hole. Impossible, in that his lover's dick should have stretched him sloppy long before now. "Look how hard he is," says the man, as he yanks my hand underneath his playtoy. The dick there is rock hard. It always is. It responds to entry, to being opened wide. He can't help it. "He likes it," I shrug, as if it's no big deal. "Oh yeah, he liking it," repeats the older man, staring. This is the meat of the performance. While the bound bottom grunts and attempts to grapple with my fierce penetrations, his lover grinds his jaw and watches with obvious relish. "You feel that, don't you?" he asks, his face close to his partner's. "I know you feeling that. You can't help but feeling that. You want it? You want him to fuck harder?" He's growling the words in his lover's ear so insistently that the younger man can't do anything but whimper and acquiesce. Through the gag he forces some helpless words, all unintelligible. "Fuck him," says the man. "Do what you want." What I want is what he wants, roughly. I grapple with the bottom as he tries to squirm away once more. It's for show, at this point. As badly as the older man wants the younger to fear my dick, the younger wants the older to think I'm too much for him. I'm just a bit actor in the drama between them, the strolling actor-for-hire who runs through his part, takes his bow, and leaves. I pry his ass apart, shoving my dick deeper inside. He takes all but the last inch, and I work in the last bit of flesh while the man watches in satisfaction. He clucks when I'm all the way in. His own dick, heavy and log-like, drips with pre-cum. He strokes it laciviously while he watches me. For long minutes I nail the bottom into the mattress. His grunts are automatic, less a product of will than of physiology. His hole deepens and loosens with every thrust. Sometimes, when I go in at a certain angle, he yelps out through the gag in what sounds like genuine surprise and distress. The occasional cries only heighten the man's arousal. He's next to me, now, stroking his dick over his lover's head, planting small kisses on my neck and twisting my nipples. He's doing what it takes to get me off, and it's working. I shoot hard. My hips buckle forward, propelling me inside the bottom to his deepest recesses. He attempts to clamber forward on his elbows and knees, but it's too late; my weight pins him down as my dick pulses and swells, over and over. I unload in the tight hole, breathing heavily, my blood rushing so hard in my head that I can barely hear the older man's obscenities as he unloads all over his younger lover. His cum flies everywhere, covering the bottom with the thick, creamy fluid. "Damn!" he yells. "Damn! Day-um!" He pushes me off the bottom's ass so that my dick slides out with a plop, then roughly shoves his own fingers inside. When he withdraws them, they're coated with my seed. He baptizes himself with the stuff, on his nipples, chest, and then finally on his lips. "Damn!" I stand up and nod. It’s my bow, my curtain call. But then the man says, "Let me get you some water, so you can do it again." Then I know there's a second act to come. More...