TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Many thanks to all you guys for being so nice while I was away, this last week. In answer to the several emails and tweets I've received, yes, my trip went well. My dad is fine. No, we didn't have any contretemps over my underwear, again. I did have to teach my elderly dad how, for the very first time in his life, to use an ATM. It was an experience that required over twenty minutes—approximately nineteen and a half minutes longer than it really needed to have—but we got it taken care of in the end. I think. I'm still anticipating the phone call in which he plaintively calls to ask why the ATM screen is entirely in Spanish, or why it ate his card, or some such technological failure as only my dad can really pull off with style. I suspect I'll get there, sooner or later. Let's get to some formspring.me questions, so I can go type up some of the week's encounters for you guys. Again, thanks for hanging in there. And I'm glad to be back. Writer's block. How to fight/get past it? Sit down at your computer--or tablet, or notebook, or whatever. Turn off your internet. Ignore your emails and significant others. Keep pounding away at the keys or stare into space until you're bored enough that writing seems like a lot better alternative. If you're seriously blocked, you might have some false starts and head in the wrong direction with your writing several times, but you'll at least be typing, and that's what's important. Keep going until the creaky pipes are flowing smoothly again. When you write, do you do most of your research before you start or as you go along? It depends on what I'm writing. If it's a non-fictional piece in which research plays a major role, I'll perform it and organize it well beforehand. If I'm just writing something off-the-cuff in which I'll need to check a fact or two as I go, I'll wing it. How long do you wait before you give up on a trick coming over? And you've said before you double or even triple book tricks when you think there is a high possibility of flaking. Has this ever backfired and they all show up? I wait a half-hour, generally. Sometimes an hour, max. I lose self-respect if I wait longer than that. And no. I've never had multiple tricks show up, even when I've triple-booked a block of time in advance. Other guys have told me the same. There are many more flake-outs than follow-throughs. Do you think men out east groom/preen themselves better than in the midwest? I think they dress better in Manhattan. I also think they wear way too much cologne. In the suburbs where I live, though, everyone looks as if they've stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog. I'm not really sure it's 'better'. Especially when the fashion involves grown men in flannel pants imprinted with mallards. Men in the Midwest have a tendency to follow trends that are about five years gone for the east coast guys. They also tend to hang on to some old trends (goatees, for example) that are even older. Southern men are still wearing prepwear from the mid-eighties, though, so the Midwest guys should be congratulating themselves for staying ahead of that curve. Did you get to say good bye to Scruffy before you moved? Only via email. I know he got a new job he liked, and was happy about that, even as he was sad about me going. He's a good kid. So what file are you on? What? If you weigh 165 and I weigh 220, are you able to pin me down? It ain't all about weight, son. I can pin you down. Have you checked out local bathhouses in your new geography yet? I find the ones in NY very attitude-y but wanted to see your opinion No, I haven't yet been to any of the NY spots (or really know where they are). I'll be happy to share my opinion once I go, but I'd be interested to know which you recommend and why. Does anyone out east drive an American-made car? No! Well, I do. So yes. But no! And it drives me crazy! My parents were union supporters when I was growing up, and I lived subsequently in Detroit long enough, that buying a foreign car is out of the question for me. Apparently here, people have no such qualms. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.) When I first started keeping A Breeder’s Journal, I wrote about the comprehensive list I kept in my youth of all the men I had sex with—no matter how briefly, or how many times. If we kissed, sucked, fucked, or so much as groped, I’d scurry home, pull my ever-growing record out of its hiding place (in the recess behind the drawer of the old dining room table that served as my desk, in my room), and scribble down the latest fucks. Here is another encounter from that expansive list, from 1976. Mustache and eyebrows 2nd fl Hibbs basement Hibbs metal + - @ It wasn’t the fact that the stranger was in possession of eyebrows that was so astonishing. It was the fact that his eyebrows were equally thick and uniform as his mustache. It was as if three enormous caterpillars had wandered onto his face and decided to nap there. I was sitting in the middle stall of the men’s room on the second floor of a classroom building on the campus where my parents both taught. The doors to the student cafeteria, such as it was, were twenty feet away, but at night they were closed and this part of the building tended to be deserted. Which made it perfect for horny students to cruise each other. The gray marble walls were covered with inked graffiti advertising times to meet. I wasn’t a student, of course. I was a horny kid who’d just been fucked for the first time a week and two days before and several times since, all by the same dick. I’d also sucked off a stranger I’d picked up in the Richmond Public Library basement restroom two days before that night. Two notches on my belt, and I thought I knew it all. My jeans were around my ankles. I had my T-shirt hiked up my skinny little chest to my nipples. And my little dick was in my hand. I’d been watching two guys sucking through the peephole in the marble partition earlier, but I’m fairly certain I wasn’t shooting cum at this point—my dick would have been merely red and angry from all the stroking I’d done. My heart beat a little faster when I heard the outer door swing open and a pair of slow, deliberate footsteps enter the room. The fellow who’d entered the empty restroom stopped at the urinal across from my stall. I listened to him fumble with the fabric of his fly, unzip, and then pause. No sound of urine followed. I’d cruised enough restrooms at that young age to know the drill. My dick in my hand, I leaned to the right and peered through the crack in the door. I saw the guy at the urinal turn his head and look over his shoulder. Our eyes met. Inch by inch, I opened up my stall door so he could see the painfully skinny blond kid beating off in the heat of a summer night. Though he was nothing more than an average-looking guy, all I could see was that enormous Fuller Brush of a mustache, matched and maybe even rivaled by the bristly eyebrows. The man couldn’t have been any older than twenty-four or twenty-five, but to me, he was a real man, seasoned and ancient. He blinked at the sight of me. Then, in the flash of an instant, he pulled up his zipper and turned. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he strode over to the stall and planted himself in front of the door. His arm shot out to prevent me closing it. “You’re coming with me,” he said at last. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips. I didn’t dare disobey. I wanted to suck dick. He took me down a back stairway into a basement bathroom at the bottom of a stairwell, next to the closed campus bookstore. It was even more deserted than the men’s room near the cafeteria. The minute we were both in the smaller enclosure, his hands were reaching for his oversized belt buckle. “You’re a mighty little cocksucker,” he said in a rush, undoing it with a clank. “I bet your mouth feels real good too. You a good cocksucker? You a real good cocksucker, boy? Take your pants off.” He kicked open the restroom’s one stall and pushed me into it as he pulled down his green slacks. My dick had been painfully stiff from the moment I’d attempted to stuff it into my tight jeans until the second it met its release again in that dimly-lit restroom. He didn’t give a shit about my dick, though. “Turn around,” he said. Though he kept his voice quiet, he didn’t dampen it entirely to a whisper; he was loud enough to carry considerable force. “Let me see that butt. Fuck. Fuck!” I flushed. Passive as I was at that moment, I still had considerable pride about being able to recognize arousal and even to enflame it. I was a newborn Circe playing with nascent powers I barely understood. “I bet I’ve got something you never seen before,” the man said. Although his slacks were unbuckled and unbuttoned and lay open around his thighs, he hadn’t yet pulled down his white briefs. He rubbed his hand over the bulge of them then, showing me the fat dick they barely restrained. “You wanna see it? Look at this.” His dick flopped out of his drawers. It was short, thick as a forearm, and ugly as fuck. When I saw the flash of metal at its tip, I knew I wanted it badly. “It’s called a Prince Albert,” he said, showing it off. His dick might have been as hard as mine at that point. The round piercing must have been one of the bigger gauges, heavy and wicked looking as it was. He tugged at it with his forefinger. His dick was so hard that it barely moved in response. “So. You ever seen one of these, cocksucker?” I shook my head. I didn’t know such monstrosity was possible. “Suck it.” The metal ring forced open my lips and teeth before I was able to open wide enough to accept it. Instinctively I knew better than to let it chip my teeth; from the sucking I’d already done on Mikey’s dick and the bearded redhead from the library restroom, I knew to open my mouth wide, let my lips curl to the underside of my incisors, and let him do all the work. He tasted not filthy, exactly, but not clean. It was the taste of a cock that hadn’t been cleaned since the morning, on a hot day when everything got easily sticky. The metal ring battered my molars, but eventually the guy figured out where he was going the deepest. His stubby flesh battered my throat for a few moments, bringing tears to my eyes. The shock of it was nothing compared to that of having my teeth rattled to the roots when he ripped his dick out of my mouth, however. My lower lip started to sting, as if he’d bruised it on the way out. “Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, and leaned my chest and forearms against the wall where he pushed me. His left hand reached for my hole and felt it. The tip of his thumb invaded me, making me jump. “You been fucked yet?” he asked. I nodded, while I watched him spit on his dick. “Well, you ain’t been fucked like this.” I thought my first time had hurt. The three minutes that followed were brutal. I was in heat, though, and stayed hard throughout. He was too overexcited to last long; it seemed that barely had he managed to get his pierced dick in me that he started shaking and pushing me so hard against the tile walls that I thought he might crack a rib. “Not bad,” was his remark, after he pulled out and yanked up his slacks. He couldn’t stop sniffing, as if the orgasm had set off his nasal drip. His hands were trembling hard. It took him much longer to manage his belt buckle than it should have. Then as quickly as he could, he dashed for the exit and left, saying only, “Keep on truckin’.” Which I think was out of date even in 1976. The man with the P.A. had been the second man to fuck me. I had to clean his semen off of my jeans and underwear, where it had fallen. Then I carefully wiped my raw and sore hole, and checked my lip in the mirror. It was bleeding slightly from where he’d bruised it, but it would heal quickly enough. Once I was reasonably clean, I closed the stall door, sat down, and beat myself to a climax. Then I did it twice again, before leaving the building and going dutifully to sit outside my father’s classroom until he’d finished his lecture. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.) In the South, cruising is an art. It wasn’t until I moved to the midwest, twenty-five years ago, that I understood how much for granted I took the glances two men, strangers, can exchange at the beginning of sexual courtship. The bold stares, the slow appraisals, the drop of the hand to one’s own jeans pocket so that the fingers can dance casually across the denim enclosing the cock . . . there’s a certain excitement to such raw expressions of desire. Here and where I live now, however, men barely cruise. They scarcely look at each other. When they do, their eyes flick nervously over the object of their interest and dance away. I had a friend from the area who never believed my stories of growing up with easy sexual pickings. Until, that is, he accompanied me on a drive down to Virginia. On I-95, a studly fellow with whom I’d flirted at the welcome center candy machine caught up in his car with our own. He stared and stroked himself through his pants, then passed so we could catch up. When we did, he’d repeat the performance again. For ninety miles we passed each other over and over and smiled and stared and flirted, until finally we waved goodbye to him and got off our exit. My buddy was absolutely astounded, the entire time, at how blatant it had been. And that encounter turned out to be only the first of several similar. Cruising served me well when I was a teen. I had a yen for men older than myself—I would particularly welcome men over thirty-five. I would exchange hot, meaningful glances with men on the city busses, with school teachers, with guys at the YMCA, with men I’d pass on the street, with guys browsing at the Waldenbooks downtown. I learned where to sit on the campus of my parents’ college, so that I could be displayed to best advantage. When I'd cruise the local parks, I'd recline against a tree with a book and the men would drive by, looking at me. There were times I’d simply walk the dog and find cars following, their drivers staring out and licking their lips in invitation. Because I was easy and willing and horny and—from my current viewpoint—somewhat stupid, I’d accept just about any offer. I was at that point a total bottom. I liked older guys. I’d do it anywhere. Believe me, I wasn’t wanting for action. When I look back on my sexual history, I often can’t decide whether I was an odious little game-player or a thoughtful kid who just liked to enhance his partner’s pleasure. Maybe a little of both. My favorite game for the first couple of years of my sexual activity was to pretend that I was a virgin. Guys loved a teen virgin, I found out within a week after my first experience, when a man groping me reached between my legs and fingered my butt. “Have you ever been touched down there?” he whispered. I had. I’d been touched down there so thoroughly and deeply for the very first time just a few days before that I’d barely been able to sit, since. But I shook my head, and saw his irises widen with excitement just as I'd felt his dick expand in my hands. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered as he eased me down and spread my legs, spurred to the challenge. No one can accuse me of being a slow learner. After that I knew exactly what to do. During the groping phase, I’d maneuver the man’s hand between my legs, encouraging him to explore me. The moment he’d make contact with my hole, I’d gasp a little and pull back—not enough to lose contact with him, but enough to stop the proceedings. With a vulnerable look on my face that I’d perfected during more extracurricular creative dramatics classes than were probably good for me, I’d say, “I’ve never been touched . . . down there!” Eight times out of ten I was rewarded by an instant hiss of satisfaction and a look of lust, followed by being flipped over on my belly. Sometimes, however, with the men who were already a little nervous about seducing someone my age, I’d have to take it a little further. “Will it, you know, hurt?” Usually I’d receive an assurance that it didn’t (or from some honest souls, the truth that it would hurt the first time, but that if I relaxed, it would be more tolerable). Rarely did I have to take the third step, which involved puppy dog eyes and a writhing of the hips, while shyly asking, “Would you . . . show me?” Maybe I was an odious little game-player. It’s difficult for me to outline the techniques I used to keep up the illusion I was being deflowered without sounding calculating. I had my little palette of groans and cries of “It’s so big!” and “Oh wow, oh wow, is it all in?” down pat, followed by the genuine winces and groans of pleasure. I really enjoyed the look of desire and pleasure in the men’s eyes when they were inside me. I got off on when they’d tell me I was doing a good job, or when they’d just lose themselves completely in the moment and pound away, eyes closed. I just loved that. By the time I was into my second year of sexual activity, I’d lost my virginity several dozen times. It all came to an end one afternoon when I lay there after one performance, sweat dripping from my pores and other fluids dripping from other cavities. A handsome man in his forties pulled out of me and hugged me close. “God, that was great!” he murmured at me. “Was I okay?” I asked him. It was my standard post-virginity-loss line, a blatant hook in the water for compliments. “Oh yeah! Fuck yeah! That was great!” I glowed in the praise until he added, “It was even better than the first time I got your cherry!” He was chuckling at that point. I turned and peered at his face and recognized him, finally, as someone I’d been with a few months before. After I realized he wasn’t mad, I couldn’t help but join in the laughter with him, knowing that the minute I got onto my wobbly legs, my career as a professional virgin had come to an abrupt end. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. For Monday through Wednesday, I'm posting the first few of "A Sexual Education" in the order in which they happened, which is completely out of order from the way I actually wrote them.) My dad taught his classes in a large slab of brick and concrete known as the Business Building. In 1975 it was the newest building on campus, and one of the very few that had centralized air conditioning. In the middle of a muggy southern summer where the sun simultaneously blazed down from overhead and baked the insides of your legs as it reflected from the asphalt streets, the jets of cold air that would blast down as you walked into the building were a godsend. Both my parents worked, and had worked out a system for the summer. Three times a week my father would pick me up from the daytime band camp I attended in the mornings, and take me to school with him until the late afternoon. My mother would pick up my sister from her morning swimming lessons and settle her in an empty room at the campaign headquarters where she was working. Both of us were easy to keep occupied; we’d simply take a book with us and read the afternoons away. When I went with my father, I had the choice of either remaining behind in his office—not a bad option, as the converted Victorian townhouse in which his office resided had creaky floors that rang out like gunshots whenever someone would walk across them, and could easily be imagined as haunted—or accompanying him to the Business Building. Attractive as kicking back in his office might have been, I usually went with him to class, because I’d usually be guaranteed a few quarters in spending money for the vending machines, and the opportunity to read and eat candy in air-conditioned comfort in the student lounge. It was one afternoon in the Business Building that I stumbled into the men’s room on the second floor and heard the sound of door slamming, followed by the rapid sounds of multiple belt buckles slamming against the tiles. I ignored the ruckus, headed to the furthest of the four stalls, and closed the door behind me so I could do my business in private. Only I didn’t really have privacy. Not until I had my pants down did I noticed that to my left, right in the middle of the partition between my stall and the next, was a large hole, about the size of a softball. On the other side, I could see the curve of a jawline covered with beard, a flash of t-shirt, and then, as the other occupant stood to his feet, a man’s penis. It was curved and rock-hard. A globule of precum-bulged from the slit. Oddly enough, though I was surprised, I wasn’t at all shocked at the sight. In Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), Dr. Reuben had gone on at curiously-obsessed length about how whenever homosexuals wanted to meet each other, their only recourse was to visit the men’s rooms in bowling alleys and have sex in the stalls. Richmond in the mid-nineteen-seventies had but one bowling alley, and it was on the far side of town, so on some level it seemed perfectly logical for the city’s homosexuals to shift their adventures somewhere more central and (more importantly) cooler in the middle of a hot southern summer. So I watched in fascination as the man next to me turned slightly to point his dick in my direction. The backs of his fingers sported dark tufts of hair that I gazed at as they curled around his stiff meat and traveled its length, back and forth, back and forth. I managed to intuit at once that my pillow and I had gone about masturbating all wrong. The man sat back down. I saw his beard again as he leaned forward to look through the hole. I leaned back far enough that he couldn’t see my face at his angle, and covered my hands over my genitals. My dick was rock hard; it couldn’t have been any harder. As it had when the man in People’s Drugstore had touched me just a few weeks before, my heart began to thud violently—it pounded with such insistence that I worried I’d have a heart attack and that the paramedics would find me dead with my pants down and my dick hard, shaming myself and my parents forever. Again the man stood up and angled his own cock toward me, poking the round, full head through the hole so that I could see it more closely. He was dripping more, now, and the bead of his pre-cum caught on the top of the glory hole and stretched into a shiny, sticky thread. When I didn’t do anything, he retreated, and tried to catch another glimpse of me. Maybe he saw how small and slender I was, and realized I was more than half his age at the very least. He didn’t try to urge me to touch him again, though. I watched as he turned his attention to the stall on his other side. After a few seconds, he was down on the ground, his knees spread wide and his feet bound by the trousers around his ankles. He thrust his knees and dick beneath the far partition. I saw a hand from the third stall reach underneath and snake across his hairy buttocks, and the shadow of a head as it lowered itself down between the man’s legs. Then came the loud and undisguised sound of sucking. The man who’d been showing off to me looked over his shoulder squarely at me, through the hole. He winked at me, knowing I was watching, and then his mouth dropped open as he let out a loud moan. Our eyes locked—mine wide open, his slitted and glittering—as he climaxed. I watched as his hips bucked back and forth, and heard the sounds of appreciative grunting from his invisible partner. When he stood up, his dick was still wet and glistening from the attention it had received. My friend shook the last drop of semen from its tip, then peed into the toilet bowl, shook himself, and began to zip up. I had a fear that if he left the restroom first, I might emerge and find him waiting outside, and I couldn’t let that happen. I yanked up my pants over my aching erection and dashed outside, then ran down the stairwell and into the lounge chair where my father had left me. He found me there a few minutes later, after his class let out. I’d managed to stop shaking by that point. Three times a week I went to the Business Building after that, and once the school year started up again, I found excuses to convince my parents to take me with them to their classes. I found relatively quickly that all the upper floors of the Business Building were used for cruising. The action would begin in the second floor restroom, where I’d stumbled that afternoon. Once those stalls filled up, the men would spill up to the third floor, and then the fourth, and all the way up to the tiny two-staller on the seventh floor if it were a busy evening. The two stalls that shared the glory hole were the most coveted of all, though; men would lounge against the walls in the second-floor bathroom, waiting for a chance to take their place. Sometimes the men would check me out through the hole, realize how young I was, and drape a piece of toilet paper over the gape so that I couldn’t see what they were doing—though that happened extremely rarely. Most of them looked through the hole and licked their lips with invitation, or peered or through the gaps in the stall doors to try to get me to show them my dick. I always refused, and kept my hands over and off my own throbbing cock. I never balked to look at theirs, though, when they’d pull it out for display. Nor did I close my eyes when the men would open their doors and thrust their dicks into a willing mouth, or stop watching when one of the cruisers would prop a foot on the toilet seat, bend over, and offer their asses to the perfect stranger waiting to fuck them. For several months, from the other side of that small hole I spied, and observed, and learned. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. For Monday through Wednesday, I'm posting the first few of "A Sexual Education" in the order in which they happened, which is completely out of order from the way I actually wrote them.) My father did the grocery shopping in our family, when I was a kid. My mother couldn’t take the smell of a supermarket for very long; the mingled smells of produce and meat and disinfectant upset her lifelong-touchy stomach. I usually went with him, for the simple reason that while he took an hour to plod along the aisles of the Colonial Market and comparison shop, I got to run around Azalea Mall. The supermarket anchored one end of the little mall, and Woolco the other. A Thalheimer’s and a Woolworth’s rounded out the major stores. When I was eleven, the summer between fifth and sixth grades, I was whittling away the minutes in People’s Drug Store, standing in front of the long and bright display of magazines in the store’s front section. I seem to remember I was reading an issue of Cracked—a journal I never bought, as it was little more than a lowbrow cousin to Mad, to which a portion of my allowance was devoted. I’d read it from the stands, though, and on that particular warm afternoon I must have been fairly absorbed in the pages, because the sensation that followed affected me like a bright shock from static, making me jump and blink my eyes, startled. It was just the slightest of sensations, really. Just the faintest touch through the fabric of my pants, right beneath the head of my cock. Typically I wore Levi’s corduroys in those days, though that particular afternoon I was wearing one of my two pairs of dressier slacks—a pair of green denim pants with wide flares around the ankle. The slacks were super-tight and embellished with raised seams that ran down the front of each leg. (Hey, it was 1975.) Almost immediately I began to get hard. I reacted in surprise because I hadn’t done anything to arouse myself that way. My magazine wasn’t particularly saucy, and I hadn’t yet reached that age of puberty when I was one walking erection, though that hormone-driven phase was to come very, very soon. I looked around to see if anyone might notice the bulge that had swelled across the front of my pants, but the only person in the area was a man who’d walked by moments before, as absorbed in his magazine as I’d been. I shook my head and went back to my reading. A moment later, the man standing several feet to my left put his magazine back in the rack, then slowly crossed in front of me again. I was paying more attention this time as he passed, and noticed that he slowed when he was in front of me. Again I felt the slightest of tickles, this time traveling the length of my erection—as if he was using a fingernail to trace prominent outline there. Never before has my heart beat so hard. I thought it might pound its way out of my chest. It felt as if I was encased in a giant timpani and made to suffer during an angry tattoo across its top. My eyes were so filled with rushing blood that for a moment I couldn’t see clearly, but then I took a look at the man who’d just touched me. He was in his late thirties, perhaps, and had one of the enormous porn mustaches that men often wore in that decade. His shirt was tight across his broad chest, and synthetic, and brightly-patterned, and the top two buttons opened to expose a pale and hairy chest. I knew at that point that I was more attracted to guys than girls. I’d read the sections about homosexuality in the sex manuals my parents had given me, and I’d recognized myself within the pages, somehow. Yet I’d never really looked at an older man before and thought about him as a potential partner for sex. Hell, I hadn’t even known it was much of an option. At that point my sexual experimentation had consisted largely of occasionally bunching up a pillow between my legs and rubbing against it furiously until I enjoyed a dry orgasm; I didn’t have a clue of how to masturbate with my hands, nor had I the urge to seek anyone out for sex. I didn’t even fantasize, at that point. I humped my pillow, thinking about nothing. No pornographic movies played through my head. I didn’t have any specific fantasies. My sessions with my pillow were pure instinct, with no concrete thought. When I looked at this man, I found him moderately attractive. But frightening. The smart part of me knew I should walk away, or retreat to somewhere with more people around. The few inches of me engorged with blood, however, prompted me to stay where I was. It wanted to see what happened next. The man picked up another magazine and leafed through it, slowly, casually. Then he tossed it onto the rack, and began walking in my direction. As he passed in front of me, he paused. His hand was curled into a fist, which was the pendulum suspended from the pivot at his shoulder. Out it swung, until the side of his fist collided with my hard dick. It rested there for only a moment—long enough for me to feel the warmth and the pressure, through the denim—and then he walked away. I watched as he walked out the back door of the drugstore and stood just outside. His head craned forward to look back in my direction. He wanted me to follow him, I knew. I couldn’t make any such decisions, though. My heart beat so loudly that I was sure everyone in the mall could hear. I wanted to follow and see what happened, but some instinct told me I shouldn’t. I could be kidnapped and murdered, I reasoned. No matter what my dick wanted, my self-preservation seemed to win out. I simply stood there and waited. It didn’t take him long to return. I froze when he approached, wanting to be touched again, but not wanting to appear to desire it. This time, however, he simply positioned himself next to me. “Please,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “Come to my car. I’ll do whatever you want. We don’t have to go anywhere. Anything you want. Please.” Once again he turned and walked out the door that led to the parking lot, and waited. This time, I moved. I walked very quickly in the opposite direction, into the mall, and down its length to the Colonial Market at the other end. I helped my father with the bagging and with the loading of groceries into the car, keeping very quiet the entire time. The moment the last head of lettuce was put away, I ran to my room, pulled down my pants, and bundled up my pillow. For the first time, that summer afternoon, I had something concrete to think about while I rubbed myself. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. For Monday through Wednesday, I'm posting the first few of "A Sexual Education" in the order in which they happened, which is completely out of order from the way I actually wrote them.) The attic of my parents’ home was an unfinished space that lay up a flight of stairs from my bedroom. In the winters, chilly air from outside blew in under the eaves and rendered it the chilliest place in the house. Summers, the sun baked the roof slates and turned the attic into a hotbox. My parents used the room for storing luggage, boxes of Christmas decorations, and old books. Even though the door to it sat in my bedroom, I rarely opened it growing up, except to toss my dirty clothes in the hamper just inside the bottom of the stairwell. Until one early summer day when I was ten, that is. I remember the day well, because it started with me being restless. I didn’t want to go outside. I didn’t want to ride my bike around the neighborhood. I just wanted to be alone. Like, really alone, away from everybody I knew. I didn’t want anyone to find me. I shut myself in my bedroom with the door closed and either played with toys or more likely read a book or something. But that wasn’t enough. My bedroom door was always sticky, due to not being fitted properly. It didn’t so much shut, as wedge itself firmly stuck and leave a large crack at points through which one could have slipped a small hand. That day, I needed privacy. After tossing and turning on my mattress for a while, or trying to get some solitude on the floor on the far side of my little single bed, I eventually turned the knob to the attic door. I pushed past the hamper and up the stairs, which were usually cluttered with objects that my parents meant to take up among the other storage boxes, but had a tendency to sit there for months and years before they remembered. I pulled shut the door behind me. Upstairs in the attic, the temperature had to be in the nineties. The air was still, hot, and stuffy. A thick layer of dust lay over everything. I sat on the top step and tried to read my book, but I was still restless. My eyes danced over the pages, but absorbed nothing. I don’t know what it was that called me upstairs that morning, but I knew that the attic was where I had to be. I was totally alone, and unobserved. No one knew where I was. I set down the book, and decided to explore. With my pants and shirt off. What motivated me to remove my clothes, I didn’t know either. I remember justifying to myself that it was hot up there, and that I’d be more comfortable naked. Perfectly logical, right? Even I knew that the attic was a splintery place where I could cut or jab myself with one wrong move, but for some reason, I really wanted to be naked, and alone. I was looking for something. I didn’t really understand for what. I picked through old books and wandered around, treading carefully so no one would hear my footsteps below. It was only after several minutes that I happened upon the guitar box. It was a simple scalene triangle of a box, made out of sturdy corrugated cardboard, which once held an acoustic guitar my parents had purchased with S&H Green Stamps. Something about the box appealed to me. I pulled it out and set it on its side, so that the longest side protruded up and away from me, like a ramp, and straddled it. At first I played as if I was riding the box like a horse. I sat down and held it tight between my legs, and rubbed my groin against the cardboard. The box’s edges dug into my thighs, but I kept going; it felt as if I’d found what I’d been searching for. My dick was hard, though I didn’t connect the erection with any of the feelings that I was experiencing at the moment. A hard-on was something that simply happened from time to time, and usually in the mornings. All I knew is that I wanted to push at the box with my midsection. I wanted to rub against it. Because the rubbing was making me feel good. Like I said, it was hot in the attic. Perspiration started to dot my brow. My nose was itchy and running from the dust in the attic, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be there with that box, humping and rutting against it. My knees were on the attic floorboards at this point, and my little body’s torso was lying on the upper half of the box, crushing it slightly, but I didn’t notice anything except for the increased beat of my heart and the glorious feelings in my middle. It felt like I tickled all over. It felt like I was waiting for Christmas, with a delicious anticipation I’d never felt before. I was both half-asleep and barely conscious of my surroundings as I humped and squeezed with mounting vigor. And yet I was supremely alive for what felt like the first time, feeling things I didn’t know my body could feel. My chest start to heave. I remember biting my lip and hissing. Then something happened. Heat seemed to course across my entire body, radiating out in waves. I shivered and shook. It felt like I was blooming like a flower, opening up petal after petal until I was laid wide and bare for the world to see. The flush seemed to last forever. It made me tingle all over, and quiver. For a long, long moment, I felt as if I dissolved away and became nothing, and the universe flowed in to take my place. I’d never felt so beautiful before, or so expansive. Or so scared. The wonderful feeling subsided. The universe ebbed away, leaving me in its place. I wondered if I’d died. Or come close to it. Once I’d recovered, I found myself standing up with shaking legs that were sore from so tightly clutching the box between them, wondering if maybe I’d experienced a heart attack. Or heat stroke. It had to do with the heat, of that I was convinced. I felt like I’d peed or something, but nothing had come out of my softening penis—not at that age. Suddenly I was aware of how naked I was. I rushed for my clothes, and put them back on, then grabbed my book and went back down the stairs. Once I was back in my room with the attic door shut behind me, I basked in the cool air and tried to breathe again. Something momentous had happened, up above. I knew that for sure. I was aware the basic facts of life, but I knew nothing of what I’d just done, for the very first time in my life. I didn’t connect the feelings I’d had up above with my limp penis. I didn’t know if I replicate it again. Or if I even should. I spent an awful lot of time that summer finding out, though. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm sorry to say it, but I'm going to be away from home and my computer for most of the upcoming week. It's time for one of my trips south to visit my elderly father, who will be sure to assign me chores around my childhood home that involve going out in the August Virginia heat in mid-day to do something strenuous. And I'm sure he'll complain about my underwear. I don't think I've documented my father's complaints about my underwear in this particular forum. My father and I, however, have conversations about certain topics that are, I fear, as bewildering for him as they are for me. About a year and a half ago, on one of my visits, I was stepping out of his bathroom after a shower wearing a towel and a pair of square-cut trunks, when he spotted me in the upstairs hallway and we had the following conversation: MY FATHER (peering in my direction as he passes by at the top of the stairs): What in the world? ME (looking around): What? MY FATHER (wrinkling his nose with disdain): Are you wearing colored underwear? ME: I believe the accepted term these days is African-American underwear . Or underwear of color , in a more general sense. MY FATHER: Hah-hah-hah. Why in the world are you wearing such fancy. . . . ME: Fancy? They're cotton briefs from the Gap. MY FATHER: . . . expensive . . . ME: Expensive! MY FATHER: . . . decadent underwear? ME: Decadent? Good god, old man. You make it sound as if I’m wearing a mink jockstrap. MY FATHER: Didn’t you used to wear white cotton briefs? ME: When I was twelve. MY FATHER: I’ve always worn white cotton briefs. ME: That’s fine. I don't. MY FATHER: Is it a gay . . . bisexual thing? ME: Yes, it’s a gay bisexual thing. The reason you see so many pairs of colored underwear when you walk into a store is because the gay bisexuals have taken over Fruit of the Loom and have an evil agenda for the entire world of foundation garments. MY FATHER: What color are those? ME: Green, with a white stripe. Listen, they’re not. . . . MY FATHER (incredulous): Green? I would have said they were olive drab. ME: Jeez, now who’s gay? MY FATHER (shaking his head): Well, they’re not white, that’s for sure. You can buy a package of white briefs, three for five dollars, at the drug store. Even at a fancy store like Target I bet they don’t cost a lot. ME: Well, I’m really not a fan of the white brief. MY FATHER: No, clearly not. You like these fancy . . . decadent . . . . ME: They’re a pair of green striped trunks. And they weren't expensive. I think I paid four dollars for them. MY FATHER: Four dollars! For one pair of colored underwear. ME: That’s a barg. . . . MY FATHER: For four dollars, you could have gotten a package of three white briefs at the drug store. Where are you going? ME (stalking away): To get dressed, thank you. MY FATHER (after watching me go, calling through the slammed bedroom door): Is colored underwear a symptom of a midlife crisis? Ah yes. I can't wait to see what the week brings. But let's get to some Formspring.me questions for the week, shall we? Do you ask about peoples sexual health before having sex with them ? Yes. Don't you? How much do you weigh now? Between 160-165 on any given day. I know that's thin, but I obsess about my weight if I go over that. Favourite bathhouse? Steamworks, in either Chicago or Toronto. Is the 64 in your web address your birth year? Yes it is. What have you eaten off a partner during sex? Cum, mostly. I am not really a fan of using food during sex, and blame the movie "9 1/2 Weeks" for making it look fun and glamorous when really it's just messy, sticky, uncomfortable, and a waste of perfectly good edibles. Perhaps I'm just bitter, though, after an incident in which I had honey in my testicle hair for a week after experimenting. If we perused your sexual "Toy Chest", what would we find? You'd find a lot of cock rings—rubber, leather, chrome—one small butt plug, one wide butt plug, one double-headed dildo, some snake-bite suction things for nipple play, some clothespins, some nipple clamps with teeth, several mostly-empty tubes of lube, and a Fleshlight a kindly reader gave to me so that I could try it. I might be leaving out some stuff. Then I have a lot of porn and jock straps, but I keep them elsewhere. Have you ever given a blow job (or more) to a guy with a PA or any other kind of cock piercing, and if so, did you like it? The second guy (third? I think it was second) I ever had sex with had a piercing. It both scared and thrilled the fuck out of me. I'll be reposting it this week for your perusal. Do you think the internet is making it easier or harder to find anonymous hook ups? Sometimes I wonder if we give away too much in profiles. What are your thoughts? Easier, in general. Before the internet, men had to go either to a cruising spot like a park or men's room, or to a gay bar in order to make an anonymous hookup. Depending on what decade in which one attempted it, both options could be dangerous and end in arrest or embarrassment. At best, one had to contend with the weather and geography. These days, all one has to do is sit at one's computer, indoors, and look at photos and make a choice. Unfortunately, I believe that many (if not most) men never get around to making a choice. They'll fantasize about sex and talk about it, but never commit to meeting. And that's a shame. What's your favorite game (sexual or other)? Hide the Salami would be my favorite sexual game. Carcassonne would be my favorite non-sexual game, though I have a certain childhood fondness for Clue. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The beach was empty, save for the seagulls strutting up and down its length. Their proud chests puffed out as they screeched and cawed at each other as they argued over scraps of torn crab in the sands. The tide was low; the water lapped far out, leaving behind rippled and smooth sands. The air hung over me like a blanket, wet and cool. From inland the prevailing wind blew, warm and comforting. From the direction of Long Island, barely visible beneath the clouds across the Sound where the storms still flickered in the distance, the wind would sometimes shift, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. Every time, it raised goose pimples on my skin. The woman at the gate had given me a surprised look when I'd pulled up and presented my resident's pass. Apparently she was used to bad weather keeping people home, this late in the day. But I'd been looking forward to going to the beach that evening and had been disappointed when thunderstorms had blown through the area during my dinner. They'd disappated to the south while I was washing up, though. The sand was already wet, I figured. And mostly I enjoy walking up and down in the surf, anyway. That could be done just as easily post-storm as in better weather, right? I was the only one who seemed to think so. That's why, for a very long time, I had the beach entirely to myself. I squelched in the shallow waters and let the sand and the waters of the Sound gush between my toes. I enjoyed the sensual sensation of the wind and my gooseflesh, and of the giddy, almost naughty feeling of being entirely alone in a place that usually was overrun with people. For the better part of an hour, I walked and enjoyed the solitude. A few people began to venture out before sunset. One older gentleman with a surfboard and a paddle floated out to the deeper end of the swimming area, stood on his board, and began to row himself around the island. An elderly woman came out onto the sands and began delicately to pick her way across, wrinkling her nose every time we passed at the seaweed and storm flotsam nudging against our ankles. And there was a blonde boy, preppy and pretty, of nineteen or twenty, who hung around the concession area. He nodded at me the first time we passed, his frank blue eyes staring into mine without fear, or hesitation. I'd just met and fucked the Latin kid in the mall the day before; the sight of his eyes staring so candidly into mine made my dick twitch. I walked down to the rocky end of the public beach and waited for a moment, keeping him in the corner of my eye the entire time. I watched as, hands plunged deep into his oversized trunks, he ambled around the picnic area and kicked up sand with his bare feet. Occasionally it seemed as if he were looking in my direction. Well, I thought to myself. Nothing ventured. . . . On any ordinary day at the beach it would've been too crowded and hectic to cruise. There wasn't a soul around, though. The concession stand was closed. Only the boy and the old woman and the paddle-boarder, who was now a speck on the horizon, were around. So I walked back toward the boy and the restroom beyond the concessions, nodding at him and staring him in the eyes as I passed. Those blue eyes met mine again. He was a pretty boy, with tousled, thick hair and fine, pale features. He stared at me soulfully, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't trust his lips. I must have had my mojo back. The men's room at the beach is a decidedly grungy affair. The urinals overflow with every flush, spreading water and waste alike toward a drain in the middle of the floor and leaving the cement enclosure stinky. There's usually so much traffic from the beach, though, slopping in salt water and sand that it's tough to tell where all the wetness is coming from. I walked past the single shower enclosure and over to the urinal, my heart pounding, my dick hardening in my shorts. Like the day before, I wasn't at all surprised when the boy followed me in. I looked casually over my shoulder and caught his glance. His lips parted slightly. I was about to swing around and show him my hard-on, when without warning, the door to the shower enclosure opened. I hadn't even realized anyone was in there. An older man stepped out—he had to be somewhere in his sixties, and his physique had taken on the general appearance of a pillar candle left forgotten to slump and bulge, on a hot day in the direct sun. His face was red from too much exposure to weather, and he wore an oversized pair of glasses. I'd turned back around at the first sound he'd made, but when I looked over my shoulder again, the old man was standing with his madras shorts around his knees, hovering over a pair of unfortunate black socks pulled up to his calves, and a pair of sandals. His dick, I had to admit, was pretty impressive. I would've guessed it to be a solid seven inches, and thicker than mine by half. The head was so big and bald (like its owner) that it almost looked as if the old man had been carrying a smaller version of himself in his pocket. The boy vanished. Like a frightened deer, when the man had stepped out of the shower, he'd bolted out the door. "I've been trying to get him for a half-hour now," creaked the old man, shaking his head. "Pretty boy, too. Think he'll be back?" I shrugged. Part of me was annoyed that my sure thing had been ruined by the man's unexpected intrusion. Another part of me realized that in this game, just about anything is fair game, and it's unreasonable to get one's hopes too dashed. "What you got there?" asked the old man. "You want it sucked?" I like older men. I wasn't too attracted to this one, though. "Nah," I said, then politely lied, "I'm not really into the public thing." "Okay," he said, still playing with his mini-me. "Thought I'd ask. Hey, you think that kid will come back in?" I didn't think he would, no, not with that guy letching after him. I was wrong, though. I'd zipped up and was washing my hands with the boy made a return. He stepped into the men's room and peeked around the corner as if trying to figure out whether I'd hooked up with the older man or not. Our eyes locked once more, and his mouth opened. This time, I was sure he was going to say something. "Hey kid, you want a blow job?" The old man had withdrawn into the shower stall when I'd started to wash my hand, though he'd left the door ajar. Like a perverted jack-in-the-box, though, he popped out at the sight of the boy. "Let me suck your boy dick off." And once again, I saw the youth bolt out the door. He wasn't running at top speed toward the parking lot, but he certainly would have blown past all the casual strollers on a usual beach day. "Damn," said the man. "All I wanted to give him was a blow job. Something spooked him. What do you think it was?" I shrugged, privately rolled my eyes, and exited. The kid drove past me in a battered old lime-green Wrangler as I went to rinse the sand from my feet under a spigot at the edge of the parking lot. He stared at me, slowing down a touch, and lifted his left hand from the wheel slightly, in a private wave. He then gunned the accelerator and vanished down the narrow access road and back to town. It was the last I saw of him. Spooked. I'm pretty sure I know by whom. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I first saw him in the pit, the odd centerpiece of my new local mall, a deep, steep arrangement of carpeted risers around which three stories of stores and a bank of elevators loom. He was sprawled out on one of the ledges there, young and lean, no more than nineteen or twenty, his knees pointed in impossible opposite angles. One of them, bony and hairy, protruded through the ripped denim of his jeans. His hair was thick and dark, and so glossy that the mall's soft lighting left a blue sheen on its black surface. His eyebrows were broad and arresting, as if a pair of large and confident thumbs had smudged quantities of charcoal in twin lines across his brow. He smiled like a sphinx that knew something the rest of didn't. At nothing in particular he stared. He seemed cocky, and together, and yet slightly vulnerable, in the way that young men sometimes do. I had my notebook computer under my arm and was on my way to the Apple Store for a little checkup. Even on my best day I find the new mall confusing, with its seven levels and its bewildering, wrap-around parking deck; I've managed to figure out exactly one way to park and enter the place through its very lowest level, and I've stuck to it ever since. As I took the first of several escalators to the floor I needed, I couldn't help but keep my eye on the Latin kid lounging in the mall's center. When I was leaving, a trio of black nannies in charge of blond toddlers had taken up residence on the ledge. Strollers and diaper bags had taken his place. I supposed it was unreasonable to hope to see him again; I'd been in the store for nearly an hour. I took my escalators back down to the lowest level of the pit, and turned in the direction of the cavernous entrance to the parking deck. But then there he was again, outside the men's room. He sat on vinyl-padded sofa immediately opposite, his legs spread wide, his arms crossed over his clean, white-and-blue basketball sleeveless basketball shirt. The muscles of his arms were light, but firm. I diverted from my path. He looked up at me with surprise when I walked past in the direction of the men's room door. He looked me up and down, in my camo shorts and my skimpy blue T-shirt. Our eyes met; his bored into mine. I was already three-quarters hard when I reached the urinal inside. That hadn't been a casual exchange of glances between two strangers. It had been a look of intent. I wasn't at all surprised when the door opened less than thirty seconds later. I turned my head to see him sauntering in, one slender hand already stuffed down the front of his jeans. He stepped up next to me at the urinal, unbuttoned, and unzipped. Then he stood there, hand still rubbing the dark skin of his flat belly, as the two of us stared at each other. I stepped back and showed him my hard-on. He turned to display his. When it came to size, I was the winner by a long shot; his cock had skin so dark it was almost black, and a hooded head that was already sticky with pre-cum, but it couldn't have been more than five inches. "Damn, pa," he whispered as he stared at mine. His fingers danced over the length of his own meat. "You got a big white dick." All I did was nod. He took it as the instruction I intended. His eyes stayed upon mine as he lowered himself to his knees. With a worshipful expression that made me melt, he opened his beautiful lips and wrapped them around my shaft. Only when the head of my dick hit the back of his throat did he close his lids and give in to the pleasure of sucking. I didn't know for how long he could've been active, or who'd taught him, but the kid sucked dick like he'd been doing it for years. He opened wide and took the entire thing into his mouth and throat, opening his gullet to accept me with absolutely no gag reflex. We were in what had to be the quietest part of the mall, but I was still very aware that at any moment the door could open and someone would find us like this. "Come on," I told him, motioning in the direction of the toilet stalls. I held open the door to the largest, and the furthest away from the door. He followed without question. "I need that big dick, pa," he whispered to me. Up close, I could detect a faint trace of mustache on his upper lip. I closed the stall door behind us. There was enough room for one of us to maneuver our feet out of sight, should someone come in. I'd expected him to sit on the toilet and resume sucking, but instead he had loosened his jeans so that his ass hung out over the dropped waist. It was smooth, and creamy, and fucking beautiful. A faint line of dark hair fringed the crack. "Where do you need it?" I asked him. My hand reached out to stroke his butt. He gasped, and closed his eyes, then sighed. He didn't have to answer the question. Suddenly it had become rhetorical. I wasn't planning to linger in that men's room for long. I spat on my hand and rubbed what was there into the warmest part of his butt, already slightly moist from his natural sweat. His head dropped and hung low. I pulled down his jeans and let them drop to his ankle, then spat again to slick up my shaft. He almost cried out when I entered him. His head jerked up and back and his eyes closed in pain. He bit down on his lower lip and huffed out air through the corners of his mouth. Then he opened his eyes and looked back over his shoulder as if he hated me. When I got all the way in, he let out a groan. "You so big you hurt, pa!" he growled, clawing onto the handicapped rail for support. I held myself at my deepest point for a moment for him to grow accustomed to the size. He hadn't been fucked much, I could tell. He was too tight. He didn't push me away, though. Nor did he try to wrestle himself off my dick. He bent over and grit his teeth and encouraged me to get on with it. It was as necessary for him as it was for me. When I started thrusting, he loosened up. I could tell by the way his body relaxed from hard right angles into soft curves that he was beginning to enjoy it. When he looked back over his shoulder a second time, it wasn't with hate in his eyes, but love. "Yeah," he whispered, his eyes droopy and half-closed with adoration. "Like that. Just like that." His hairless balls swung low as I plunged in and out of his hole. He straightened his back to pull his face to mine. His pillowy lips met mine in a light kiss; his tongue darted out to taste the inside of my mouth. "Like that," he breathed again, over and over. "Like that, yeah. Like that." He bit his lower lip, enjoying it now. I held his slim hips in my hands and pounded. Outside the men's room I could hear voices and footsteps, but no one violated our privacy in the way I was violating his hole. I came swiftly and smoothly, announcing its arrival with a quickening of breath and a heightening of my thrusts. When I was close, he started jacking furiously at his dick. We shot at the same time, me deep inside his hole, him all over the toilet seat. For one short moment afterward, we both paused as the blood left our dicks and returned to our brains. Then he pulled himself off me, yanked up his jeans in a swift movement, and exited the stall without a look back at me. I was cleaning up the cum he'd left splattered on the seat with wadded-up toilet paper when I heard him laugh aloud. "Damn," he said, as he yanked open the men's room door to exit. "Now that's the way it's supposed to be laid down!" It was a last parting gift between two men whose paths crossed at the mall. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Gentle readers, Do not forget that for inclusion in the newly-retitled Reader Assets feature I'm soliciting photographs of my stalwart followers—front or back sides. Or both. We would all love to see your dick. Or your ass. Or some combination of the two. For clarification, let's go over the updated rules. 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. Because yes, I'll be posting the names or handles you give me along with your asses, and a few appreciative comments about each. And so will the readers looking at them. Right, guys? Q: I am way too pimply/fat/skinny/young/old to appear in such an enticing and drool-worthy project. A: No, you're not. All body types, conditions, and are welcome. I won't tolerate unkind comments, and will delete them immediately. Q: Do you want just my ass? Or my ass and my dick? Or my ass and my face? Do you want a shot of my hole? Or just my butt cheeks? My foreskin peeled back? Soft, or hard? A: The details are totally up to you. Share with my readers whatever you're comfortable sharing. Q: In what formats should I submit my ass and dick photos? A: JPGs are nice. But I can work with most formats. Q: What if I know of a pretty ass or dick I want to show you, but it's not mine? A: Nooooooo. I want to see and share your ass. Not some porn star's. Unless you are a porn star, of course. (Don't laugh. I have several porn star followers.) Q: What if I want you to take the photos of my ass or my dick? A: I am totally down for it. (Was there any doubt? Really?) Q: What if my mother sees my naked photographs in your blog and recognizes me? A: Your mother is probably not reading my blog. If she is, more power to her. Q: What if I want to include my email so guys can contact me? A: Then tell me what email to link and I'll link it. I've still got a bunch of previously-submitted asses to work through (I hesitated to say 'old asses'), but send me some new material, guys. I know from the web statistics that Ass Day is pretty popular! Let's get to this week's ass-tacular! Manholepinellas Manholepinellas is his nickname on Adam4Adam, Squirt, Manhunt, Asspig, DaddyDater.com, and BBRT, fellows. (There were at least two of those services I'd never heard of.) My correspondent was of the assumption that my readers only like young, pretty asses in their daily diet—but he's proud of his 55-year-old ass and enjoys showing it off. I can see why. That's a handsome ass at any age. Prove him wrong, readers, and let my new buddy know how attractive that 55-year-old ass is! Jose When he submitted his photo, Jose wrote in his email simply, "I wish you were inside." Jose, you are not the only one who wishes that. That is one beautiful Latin ass . . . and I love the submissive, face-down pose on the bed. That's fucking perfect. I know a lot of my readers are going to be popping boners over this one. Bttmguy I am so glad this particular correspondent identified himself as a bottom. Because otherwise I would be cursing the heavens that his jock-framed, lightly furry, perfectly round, munchable butt was being wasted on a top. I love this shot, and I love the contrast between the black muscle T and the white jock. Great body, Bttmguy. Really lust-inspiring shot there. Thom Here we have an illustration of a rule too many of us tend to forget: One doesn't have to pull down one's pants in order to show off a great ass. Thom has one of those classically round butts that looks absolutely stunning in tight, white cotton. You can tell by what's showing that the rest of his body is equally sexy. A man in white briefs is always a classic look. Let's have a big round of applause for today's batch of exhibitionists. Hopefully you guys are feeling inspired to share your own photos. We've seen nothing but asses so far—so send me your dicks! And your balls! And your chests! Whatever you're willing to flash! I've got the sexiest readers in the world, no matter what the age, shape, or color. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My parents' living room, when I was growing up, was a hodgepodge of furniture jammed at angles. Tables lay next to sofas sat next to bookcases sat next to spindy antiques inherited from my great-grandmother. Books were everywhere—my parents' research books and textbooks and class notes mixed with my mother's stacks of murder mysteries and my own library books that I'd leave scattered all around the house. Somewhere in the sheer mess of it all, I'd found a patch of clear space on the carpet in front of the television set, and contorted myself into the position in which my mother found me when she walked in from the kitchen. Cigarette in hand and crossword puzzle in the other, she gazed at me for a moment. "What are you doing?" she asked at last. Thirteen-year-old me was curled in a ball on the floor , my shoulder and neck against the carpet, the small of my back resting on an ottoman above them. My knees were curled so far up and around that they were practically scraping the carpet. I looked as if I'd attempted a somersault, gotten stuck, and decided to watch television that way, anyway. "Yoga," I replied smoothly. My mother had been part of the big wave of women in the post-Summer of Love days of the early nineteen-seventies who'd gone to community centers nationwide to contort themselves into the lotus pose and to breathe deeply while wearing tie-dyed dashikis and mentally adding wheat germ to their grocery lists. She thought about it for a moment, shrugged, and took a drag on her cigarette. "Okay," she said, before she went back to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. My parents were accustomed to seeing me doing all kinds of limbering-up exercises in those days after I found myself trapped without my clothes in the church sacristy. I'd discovered the notion that perhaps, maybe, I could get my own dick into my mouth if I learned how to be bendy. It didn't occur to me at all that at the age of thirteen, my own physiology was against me—it wasn't my flexibility that was the issue, it was the size of my dick. I simply wasn't long enough. Oh, I strained, and contorted, and bent with determination, driving all breath out of my lungs and causing cramping around my sternum. My back would make odd cracking noises and my ribs would compress painfully as I attempted to navigate my lips and my tongue closer and closer to the head of my erect dick. It didn't work. I'd jack off and shoot the load directly into my mouth, which was hot. Ever since I'd first attempted that feat in the sacristy, I'd developed a taste for it, so to speak. And men liked to watch that, too. "Look what I can do!", I'd say to the random strangers I was hooking up with, when I was in a place where I could lie down safely and not get too dirty. Usually it was after they'd already shot a load in one of my holes. I'd do one of my shoulder stands, let my weight fall over until I was twisted and curled, and then I'd stroke myself until a boy-sized load would come shooting out. Most of the men at least had the decency to look surprised and amused by my performance, though they probably were just humoring me until they could make a get-away back to their cars and jobs and wives. Not until I was close to fifteen did my dick catch up with the rest of my body. One summer afternoon I was shut up in my bedroom at home in an orgy of self-abuse when I decided to give the autofellatio thing a try. My dick had grown considerably in those two years, shooting from twiglet to mighty branch, so much to my surprise on this attempt, my tongue dipped right into the slit of my swollen cock head. It took a moment for me to realize that I was actually scooping the precum straight from the source. My lips puckered out, once I'd gotten over the shock. They could actually cover the head. The discovery started a frantic and obsessed few weeks in which I did little else but push the limits of my self-sucking. I stretched and contorted and bent myself more furiously than ever, trying to get more and more of my dick in my mouth. There were nights when I was so sore in my upper chest that I couldn't breathe. I still blame the sciataca I had a dozen years ago on latent injuries I caused myself in my teens. But I could do it. I got to the point at which I could expertly fellate the top third of my dick—and if I pursed my lips way, way out, I could give the illusion that I was getting fully half of it in my mouth. That was enough for most men. The same guys who'd humored me and ruffled my hair and called me cute when I'd merely jacked off and let the cum drop into my mouth went fucking nuts when they found out I could suck myself. It was as if I'd graduated from promising student to sex freak cum laude. If I was whoring around in the picnic shelters of the park, after dusk, there was sure to be someone who'd say, "Hey, make that kid do that thing! That thing he does!" And then there I'd be, butt-naked on the splintery picnic tables, illuminated only by Bic lighters and perhaps the glancing light of someone's headlights, gulping down my own dick until I'd pull out and shoot a load all over my mouth and lips. Earl found out my capabilities early on. I don't think he was as turned on by it as were other men in his circle—he had bigger fish to fry—but he'd exploit it. "Want to see what the kid can do?" he'd ask. Then he'd nod, and I'd drop into an increasingly more familiar position and start slurping on myself. The men loved it. But you know what? I didn't. The couple of years it had taken for me to grow into it, accompanied by all the bending and stretching the act required, had heightened my expectations of how awesome it would be at last to give myself head. And it wasn't that great. Not really. It wasn't nearly as good as getting sucked by some other man. Getting blown always created all kinds of tingling and shivering. Sucking myself didn't give me that feeling. It was less like sex and more like a homework assignment. I could get it done, but it gave me no pleasure. Still, I kept getting it as an assignment. Autofellatio was my signature trick for a very long time, in my teens and even into my twenties. Earl made me do it at parties. Fucks who'd seen me do it once made me do it a second, third, fourth time. Sometimes—and this was my own fault, of course—I'd use the promise of it to lure in a guy who'd otherwise not find me attractive enough to sleep with. Everyone wanted to see the freak, the performing seal with one good trick up his sleeve. In a way, the novelty act became a burden, and not a burden I was willing to bear. I have to confess: I haven't self-sucked in about six years—and the last couple of times it's happened, it was because I was curious whether or not I still could. (I could.) I get asked to do it a lot, particularly when I go on my web camera. Perhaps it's the way I sit, which is similar in form to the position I used to assume before I'd lean over and chow down on my own meat. But guys and gals alike both ask me to show them I can. My reply's always the same. I might be able to, but that doesn't mean I want to do it. Not anymore. I'd infinitely rather have someone else do all the work. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here "Dearly beloved. . . ." The minister's words echoed through the church and bounced across the tile floor where I huddled. My knees were clenched together, my heels pressed close to my ass. I hugged my legs, and rested my chin on my knees. At that age of thirteen I already had what seemed like a crazy amount of blond hair beginning to grow from my legs; it tickled my chest and face as I sat there, naked from head to foot and shivering in the chill, in the sacristy. He had one of those old-fashioned, stentorian preacher's voices, did that old man. He was a good man, a true and upstanding Southern gentleman, gentle and kind and quick with a smile. But his face could dour at the pulpit, his jaw square like a blunt weapon, his eyes the color of cold steel. He never spoke, when he was in the echoing white chamber that was our Presbyterian sanctuary. He declaimed. "I now pronounce you. . . ." he said, letting the words ring out and trail off in the perfect acoustics. "And then, of course, the recessional." I heard the appreciative murmuring of a pair of voices. It wasn't a real wedding. It wasn't even a rehearsal, in the traditional sense of the word. The minister of the protestant church in which I'd grown up was meeting with a potential bride and groom to show them how many people they might expect to seat, how long the walk down the aisle, how beautifully he enunciated. And I sat there, nude and alone in that sacristy among the metal trays that held the tiny shot glasses for communion grape juice, and boxes of white candles for the services, and the banners made of felt and glue from other church seasons, wondering how long I might have to be there, and if I dared sneak down the back stairs that led to the Sunday school rooms, and whether I'd have to flee from the emergency exit wrapped in a blue-and-gold felt creation emblazoned with craft chickadees and the words He Made Their Tiny Wings. I'd done a dumb thing, even for a thirteen-year-old. Every Wednesday, my church sponsored an afternoon of activities for the youth in the congregation. Crafts. Choir. Dinner. Prayer of a low-key, Godspell-inflected sort. For some reason that particular semester, I wasn't participating in the choir. My mom might have been in one of her frequent feuds with the choir master, or I might have had some kind of extracurricular conflict on Sunday mornings. All I really remember is that for that winter and spring, while the rest of my peers trooped dutifully down into the basement beneath the sanctuary for choir rehearsal, I had time on my hands. Usually I helped out in the kitchens getting dinner ready in the other church building, during that long ninety-minute stretch. The arrangement gave me something to do, and kept my mom's stern eye on me. That night, though, with all the little kids safely in the education building and my peers entombed deep in the church's bowels in the choir room, I'd decided to strip down in the church sanctuary and run around nude. Just for the blasphemous thrill of it. I'd shucked my sweater and shirt and jeans and tucked them beneath one of the pews, and placed my shoes and tube socks on top, out of sight. In the gray dusk of the shuttered sanctuary, I then proceeded to run around with the chilly air raising gooseflesh on my young skin. I stood at pulpit with my hands on the side, like the minister, and waggled my dick at an imaginary audience. I sat on the altar—tentatively at first, as if my naked ass was really going to offend the Lord, and then with confidence enough to lie across it as if I were either the offering or the communion feast. Once the thrill of being nude in an unexpected place had worn off, and I'd forgotten that I was still without clothing, I heard the minister and the bride and groom enter. I'd been exploring the rooms behind the altar area, just to see what was back there, when the lights had gone on and I'd heard the voices. It was then, separated from my clothing by a single door and good forty feet, that I realized exactly how dumb I'd been. The minister and the couple didn't seem as if they were going to be coming back to the sacristy, though if they had, I was prepared to scamper down the stairs and into the basement. Too close for comfort with the choir still rehearsing down the hallway, but a better option than discovery. In the meantime, though, I huddled on the clammy tiles for warmth, and hoped they'd go away. They didn't, not for a very long time. Whatever business they had at the altar end of the church took only a few minutes, but then they settled into one of the last pews near the exit and proceeded to have a very long, and very serious talk. I couldn't hear whatever the heck they were saying, but it didn't sound like they were going anywhere anytime soon. So for some reason—I can't really claim my logic here was faultless—I decided to do what any thirteen-year-old boy does when he's naked and alone and bored. I jacked off. And for some reason, I decided to do it a little differently that time. I remember that session very, very clearly. The back stairs to the basement level dead-ended near the sacristy wall. And for whatever reason, I decided to jerk off upside-down. Because I could, I guess. I did a shoulder-stand of sorts; my legs and hips leaned against the wall, with all my weight concentrated onto my neck and shoulders below. From there it seemed quite natural to let my legs dangle back, over my head, so that my dick was pointed down toward my face. This was before the age of easily-accessible porn, of course, so I'd never seen anyone in this exact position before. It seemed pretty exotic to me. I liked the visual stimulus of seeing my cock head so close to my face; I got a good view of how red and stiff it was as I jacked. I've always pumped out a lot of precum, ever since I started playing with myself. Watching beads of the stuff form from my slit and then slowly drip out absorbed me. At first I thought to avoid the dripping ooze, but then it occured to me to hold out my tongue and catch it as it fell. From there, it seemed logical to shoot in my mouth. Again. I don't know how I made that leap. But there it was. It never took me long to work up a load in those days. I thought about some of the dicks I'd sucked that week, and soon I was panting and working up a good buzz. My head was a little weightless and dizzy from all the blood rushing down. By the time I came, moments later, I was panting and shaking. The conviction that I was doing something naughty and shocking and maybe even vaguely sacrilegious made my orgasm all the better. When the cum came, it splattered my face and hair but mostly landed in my mouth. I gulped it down, aware that I'd found a new way to get myself off. Then, when the coast was clear and I'd wiped the remains of my sperm onto a paper towel I'd found near the sink, I crept back out, retrieved my clothing, and sauntered into the kitchens in the education building with an expression of pure innocence. My mind was working overtime at that point, though. My dick had been so close to my mouth, when I'd been jacking myself back there. Would it be possible—? No, surely not. I'd never known of anyone to do such a thing before, jaded little whore I was at that age. Surely no one was physically capable of sucking himself. It didn't seem right. It was almost too good to be true. That's why I decided, at the very next opportunity, to give it a try. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Every week for months and months now I've been doing this weekly Formspring.me roundup, because it's a nice way to collect little snippets and bits that wouldn't make an entire blog entry on their own. In a weird way, sometimes the individual questions get more responses, privately, via email, than do my regular, much-labored-over entries. I've had some of what I thought were off-the-cuff remarks really strike a chord in some of my readers, and the follow-up conversations have really been both interesting and touching. I've had a fun experience there-despite the people who use the anonymous nature of the site to be rude, every once in a while. Most of the questions have been both provocative and thought-inducing. And it's odd how people remember what I've answered, only to toss the answers back at me months later. One of my readers pointed out to me this week, however, that it may be that while many people are used to me plugging Formspring.me and know that I've included a little widget in the sidebar of my blog for people to submit questions, many might not have visited the site and poked around. He pointed out that some readers might not know, for example, that by following the link I provide every week, it's possible to read all nearly twelve hundred questions I've been asked over the last year and a half. It's possible to poke around and see how other people have answered some of the questions I've answered, as well, and set up your own profiles and get your friends and networked buddies both to ask and answer your questions. As long as the queries I get aren't too invasive, spammy, or whiny, I'll address them. Eventually. Speaking of backlogs, I'm still working on my emails, my friends. I've whittled my accumulated emails from my move down to about half—which is good progress! And now, onto the questions. I want to create a wishlist on a site with sex toys. What are the most trustworthy sites and with a satisfactory variety of products? I had good success with www.stockroom.com . However, Amazon stocks some sex toys as well. My own Amazon wish list is back up, for those who are absolutely itching to be my sugar daddy. Have u ever opened the bathroom door accidentally, while someone being naked inside or peeing? Not at home, no, because the bathroom doors don't tend to stay closed here. (I mean, what's the point? Everyone knows what everyone else is doing in there.) And nudity is not really an issue at home. I did once accidentally open a bathroom door at a friend's home when I was a kid and found his sister taking a massive dump on the other side. I think I was more mortified by the experience than she was. If you knew the world would end soon, what would you do? Would you prepare for a religious reckoning or become thoroughly hedonistic? Or?? This is a question I think everyone should ask themselves every day, really, because I think it's important to live with the knowledge that our time here is not permanent, or unlimited. Everything in our world can change on the turn of a dime. Our health can easily go into sudden reversal with one test at the doctor's, with one accident, with one wrong turn on a busy street. Our loved ones can find themselves in peril at any time. Bad things happen constantly. We shouldn't take for granted the good, because it doesn't always last. Instead, recognizing the good for what it is, and celebrating it, should be our constant goal in life. It might sound cheesy to advocate living every day as if it was the last, but I think if you ask those who adopt that philosophy, they never regret it. Have you ever had a specific moment that you recall when you felt "old"? What happened, how old were you, and why did it affect you? When I fucked a kid who had literally no clue who the Beatles were, I felt very, very old. Two truths, one lie. GO! In no particular order: 1. I've never ingested an illegal substance. 2. I don't give a shit about what people say about me. 3. I've never had a moving violation or even a parking ticket. Have you ever written a porn story? You've actually read this blog, right? Have you ever been caught touching yourself, sexually? I got caught getting screwed in a restroom when I was fifteen, so after that I was pretty careful to be aware of my surroundings when taking care of business. No, I haven't been. How would you define "addiction to sex"? I'd probably define it much more narrowly than many people would, especially those in the media who seem to assume that any many who has sex with multiple partners suffers from sexual addiction. Fuck that. They're just doing what men do. A true sexual addiction would be one in which the guy is rendered incapable of holding down a job because of his inability to stop having sex, or forced him to lose his friends and family, or interfered with the actual quality of his life and livelihood. Calling a guy who screws around recreationally an addict demeans those who have a true problem to confront. Obviously it's your history and not fiction, but does Jim get his "just desserts," such as it is, sometime in the story? Or do things just peter out? I should hope that there is some karmic retribution in store here... If you'd like him to get hit by a truck or stricken with some dire disease, no. I think sometimes satisfaction has to come by knowing someone caught in a prison of his own motivations and pettiness is its own punishment. Is the sadistic side of you part of your past or of your present as well? I believe everyone has the capacity for great kindness as well as cruelty. Attempting to suppress the latter only makes it more uncontrollable, instead of muffling it completely. In a way, they're both tools in an arsenal. A good artisan know when to employ them, and at what appropriate time. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Apparently the men of this county like to pay for their pleasures. I had a cool hundred-dollar bill in my back pocket to prove it. This was no man, either. The kid was barely nineteen. The beard he was attempting to grow was barely peach fuzz that clung to his long, sloping line jawline; his skin was the color of bittersweet chocolate. His frame was thin, his shorts the preppy plaid so popular in this part of the country, his shoes made to grip the slippery decks of a sailboat. His T-shirt was of a fine weave, featured some fussy sewing around its V-neck, and probably cost more than my entire ensemble put together. Not that I'd removed any of my clothing. I wore what I think of as my cruising sneakers—a pair that's so old and ratty that I don't care if they get spattered with mud, piss, or cum. My jeans hugged my hips; my own T-shirt was tucked in the buttoned denim, though it had come loose in the back. My fly was unzipped; I'd hauled out my dick and nuts and let them hang heavily. The metal teeth bit slightly into the flesh. Enough to bring me pleasure—not enough to cause pain. He handed me the plastic canister. Thicker than a can of vegetables, it was at its broadest end, though not as large as a coffee can. It looked like a shortened telescope of sorts, save for the puffy, pink lips spilling over the top. They opened in what was supposed to look like invitation. A flexible slit opened in their center. I stuck my index finger into the molded mouth, teasing the hole with its tip. "This is what you want me to fuck, huh?" I asked, sticking my finger in to the base. I held the mouth near my dick, so he could see exactly how deeply I'd be going in. The kid's eyes opened wide. He sucked in his lip, wet them, then nodded. I shrugged. I've played with a Fleshlight before. One of my readers sent one to me, so I could try it out. I'd never before had the opportunity to use one in front of another person, though. And I certainly hadn't been asked to pleasure myself with one of the devices for pay, until now. "I'll fuck it," I told him, trying to convey that I was horny enough to fuck anything. Then I whispered, like we were trading secrets, "Get down close and watch." He fell to his knees with a thud on the family room floor. This neat, paneled room was filled with family photos; a framed painting of a desert temple occupied by handsome, dark-skinned pharoahs and consorts hung over the fireplace. The kid had probably grown up playing video games and Sorry! in this room, I figured. Now, with his folks away, he'd invited me over to play a game of an entirely different sort. I could feel his breath on my dick, he was so close. I grabbed some of the lube close at hand and squirted it expertly in my palm, then slapped it onto my dick until it glistened. With my clean hand I gripped the barrel of the Fleshlight, and used my slimy finger to probe it once more. The kid cleared his throat. The base of his hand massaged his dick through his pants. I wondered if he'd be bold enough to take it out. "You watching?" I asked. It was a rhetorical question. He'd barely blinked since I'd started. I pushed the head of my dick against the molded mouth. My engorged head caused the soft material to swell and distend. Then, slowly, deliberately, I slid inside. I let inch after inch disappear, bit by bit, while he licked his lips and breathed heavily close by. A Fleshlight to me feels nothing like the real thing. Someone had given me the tip of soaking mine in warm water, before use, in order to render it warm and pliable. This boy hadn't done that with his. The sensation was tight and not unpleasant, though to me the real stimulation came from knowing the kid was fixated on my every action. I could see the excitement in his eyes, could read almost every pornographic thought flitting through his young mind. He didn't look at any part of me save my dick and swinging balls, as I slowly worked the plastic barrel up and down over my shaft. I twisted and turned the cylinder so that it smacked with every stroke; when I'd withdraw my dick, the pink lips would cling to the meat as if reluctant to let go. For long minutes I worked the Fleshlight over my inches. Gradually, over time, I added more hip motion. Eventually, without any announcement, I was fucking it with my hips. "Hold it," I told him. I reached out and took his hands and curved one, then the other, over the hard plastic shell. "Hold it tight." Once I'd gotten him angling it correctly, I let go and stuck my hands behind my head, so that my pit hair curled over the edges of the arms of my T-shirt. I bit my lower lip and screwed up my face to make it look as if I was having the ride of my life. My lip rose and curled into a sneer, hugging one side of my nose. "Fuck yeah," I whispered, as I continued to fuck the device. He clung to the walls as if his life depended on it, his neck crooked so that he could watch my angry meat sliding in and out. "Maybe," he said, speaking for the first time in long minutes, "maybe you want to fuck me." "You didn't pay for that," I drawled. It was that admission, more than anything the Fleshlight itself was doing for me, that pushed me over the edge. I came soon after in a noisy rush in which I rattled the table of knick-knacks behind the sofa next to me. He and I both held down the barrel to the base of my dick while I unloaded. His fingertips rested on mine for a moment after I'd done. Then he withdrew. I was pulling in my dick and zipping up when he started to unscrew the interior of the Fleshlight from its casing. He lifted the plastic shell to his lips, and upended it. Like he was chugging the last remains of a Frappuccino, he downed the load I'd left inside. A trace of my spunk remained on his lips when he was done. That gesture, more than anything else he'd done the entire time, aroused me. "Can we do this again?" he asked. The hope was written plain, in his eyes. He needed this, on some level, I realized. He needed this remove, this distance from what he truly wanted. I understood that I shouldn't push it. I shrugged. "Sure. You know how to get me." "Thank you," he said, in an automatic, well-bred manner. He walked ahead of me and graciously opened the side door. "I'll be giving you a call." I was pretty sure he would be, too. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I love my father dearly, but he has a tendency to drive me a little nuts. It only take a tone or the juxtaposition of a couple of his words to reduce me to a teenager again, with my defensive hackles standing straight up and my heartbeat pounding, readying for an argument. A lot of the time I'm utterly baffled at how he thinks I've managed to care for myself—not to mention others—all these years, when he tells me things like, "I hope you remembered to move your bank account from Detroit to Connecticut. Because that's an awfully long drive back if you have to see a teller." And a lot of the time I feel as if I'm some kind of underqualified nurse assistant left to care for a dotty old man. One who refuses to take his cell phone out of the charger because he's worried about the battery level going under one hundred percent. ("I might have an emergency and need that three percent!") Sometimes, though, he can surprise me. I was talking to him last night after his return from a visit to his sister's, in Tennessee, when he said, "You know, we were going through some old photographs during the week." "Oh?" I said, certain that what was coming next was going to be an exhaustive catalog of every photo he saw. My father the former academic cannot remember the names of any of the women on his favorite television show, Desperate Housewives—he refers to them as 'the red-head, the dumb-ass, the hot Latina, and the ugly one'—but when it comes to photographs, maps, or old letters he has the steel-trap mind of a curator at the National Archives. "And I was very surprised when we found an old diary belonging to your grandmother." I considered this news for a moment. Now, my father's mother was a crabby old battleaxe. Equal parts gin and disdain ran in her bloodstream when she was alive. When she finally died, she arrived at the mortuary self-embalmed. If she'd kept a diary, I was pretty certain it was full of entries like, Shooed little bastards from down the street off the lawn, or Had a fun day of shushing annoying patrons at the library, or Put out poisoned meat for the neighbor's cat. "Fascinating," I said suppressing a yawn. "It's from 1934," my father rattled on. "And while it's not of much use to a historian—that is, it doesn't shed any light on the economic turmoil of the Great Depression—it certainly was interesting." "Oh?" I asked, preparing to stretch out for a good mental snooze. "Why is that?" "Because apparently my mother was—" And here he mumbled some words. I sat up in my porch chair and cocked my head. "Excuse me?" He seemed rather embarrassed. "I think you heard me." "No, what I thought I heard you say was that your mother was kind of a slut." I nearly bolted out of my chair. "Wait. Is that what you said?" I asked, excited at last. "Yes," he admitted. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed. "Tell me more!" My father, in his dry way, went on to explain that the diary had been written during my grandmother's senior year of college, when she had somehow managed to graduate Phi Beta Kappa while going out every night with a different boy. "She kept a really detailed record of what they did," he told me. "You mean, sex?" I thrilled. My grandmother had never seemed so interesting. "Well." He seemed a little embarrassed to be discussing his mother's amorous life. "As far as we could tell, she used a system of plus marks to indicate how hot 'n' heavy things got. So if she put down kissing plus, we figured the guy was a pretty good kisser. And if it said heavy petting plus plus plus plus. . . ." "Oh my god!" I commented. He laughed uneasily. "So, along with the other stuff she wrote. . . ." "You're not getting away with that, old man," I snapped. "What other stuff?" "Well. . . ." I could tell he was considering whether to tell me or not. "She also rated the guys on something it took us a very long time to figure out. On a lot of the entries she rated them either soft, firm, or something that read r-k h-r-d that we figured had to mean rock hard." "Holy fuck," I nearly shouted. It's a good thing I have no near neighbors. "Your mother was a whore." "I just don't know why she didn't destroy the diary after she met my father," he said, not bothering to disagree with me. "She might've forgotten about it," I pointed out. "Or thought she had, when she hadn't." "But still," he said, and for the first time I could tell he was a little cross with the deceased woman. "She had to have known what incendiary stuff this would be, if anyone found it and read it. I mean, I can't imagine writing down all the details of my sex life and chancing that anyone would read it. Could you?" I had to suck in my lips for a moment "Are you there?" he asked at last. "Mmm-hmm," I replied. "I just can't imagine. Could you?" He repeated the question. "Nooooooo," I lied. "Nuh-uh. Not me. Never." My poor father. The only good man in a family of whores. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm in a dark room in the Marriott, read his email message. He named the room number. Greased up, horned for anonymous dick, and ready to go. Want some? I'll be there in 10, I wrote back. Simple as that. Or, nearly as simple as that. The Marriott is not very far from me at all, but I'm not familiar enough with the city that I was able to locate its parking garage the first time around the block. Or the second. The third time, I gave up and parked in the deck of the mall across the street. The extra walk added another five minutes to my trip. His door was cracked. I pushed my way into the room, and saw him kneeling on the floor at the far end. He'd pulled the curtains to, but hadn't made any effort to tuck in the edges to block out the late afternoon sun. The hotel's television was on, as was his laptop. He'd left the bathroom light on, as well. The room was really about as dark as Grand Central Terminal, but that didn't matter. He knelt in front of the room's armchair with his back to me. I could see his hand frantically working his dick as I shut the door behind me. The man's profile photos hadn't been all that flattering. There'd been nothing wrong with them, but they were of the amateur variety taken at too close a range, with too strong a flash, so that they'd all come out pale and out of focus. None of them really showed off how fit was his physique, how broad his shoulders, how rounded and nipped the muscles of his arms. His white tank top hugged him like a second skin, stretched by his broad pecs and hugging his narrow waist. Then there was his ass, plainly on display below the hemline. Round. Beefy. Perfect. I walked past the enormous bed and the television blaring on the pay-per-view movie channel, and stepped in front of him. He looked up at me as I unzipped my camo shorts and let them drop onto the ground. I wore a rubber double cock ring; my balls hung low over its tug. My dick was half-hard, and pointed at his mouth. I let him dive for it once I'd sat down in the armchair. He sucked like a starved man, eating my dick to the root. I could feel his throat opening to accommodate me. It then closed around me like a tight hole, clinging to my inches with a wet, tight grasp. The man had no gag reflex; he impaled himself into the pole in a way that would have made a lesser cocksucker choke and gasp. I did see tears forming at the corners of his closed eyes, though. His head was bald, shaved clean. I stroked it gently and let my palms guide him into a steady rhythm. The man's own dick stood straight up at attention, stiff and fat and hard as cement. It stabbed into the empty air as for long, long moments the man continued to slobber and feast over my cock. "Fuck me," he said at last, standing up. He was an impatient child who'd done his chores and was demanding his reward for a job well done. I nodded, slowly, then stood up to kick off my shorts and my sandals. He reached out with both hands and shoved me roughly, once, twice, in the direction of the bed. The third shove sent me toppling backward onto the mattress. My conqueror climbed atop me in a victory pose. He didn't plant a flag in me, though. That was my job. He spat on his hand and rubbed the saliva onto my cockhead, then sat down on my pole in a single, swift motion. He'd already lubed himself, and the inside of his ass was like lava in the air conditioned room. I gasped as he sank down to the bottom, and began grinding his hips, trying to take me even more deeply. "Squeeze it," I commanded. He responded by clenching down in a way that felt like a tight, wet, warm hand. "Oh man, you're good," I whispered. "Buddy, you don't know," he smirked. Then, to prove it, he started grinding with a determination I'd rarely before seen. We made out, our lips sloppily smacking over the other's, our tongues darting in and out as he continued to pound his meaty butt onto my dick. "You're gonna give it to me," he said. "Then I'm going to get down there and nurse on that big, beautiful monster meat until it's hard and you're gonna give it to me again." "Okay," I agreed, putting up no argument against that particular scenario. There have been very few guys in my life who are really good at sitting on my dick and milking a load from me. Most kind of bounce up and down in a pleasant enough way until I push them onto their backs and jackhammer home the load. This man, though, knew how to work his muscled hole to drive a man crazy. While balanced on the balls of his feet, he ground and swiveled and worked his hips up and down in a steady, insistent rhythm that let me know that I was pretty much helpless against his need. I was going to blow inside him, because of his actions and his attentions, his eyes told. And there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it. He was right. After a very short time my eyes began to close. My breathing grew heavier. My own hips rose and fell with his. And soon I was letting loose the first of my loads deep into his hole, which he held down to the base. I'd been with the married guy, jacking off for him in the privacy of his van. I'd met the guy with the dog, just the day before. This was the first opportunity I'd had to fuck, though, since my move. My load felt huge. I kept shooting and shooting while my body shuddered and shivered. Almost immediately he rose off me. A thick glob of my semen from his ass fell with a plop onto my stomach. He remained crouched above me, his hand rapidly working the skin of his dick. Moments later, his own load dripped down into me, mingling with my own seed in a puddle near my navel. He immediately licked and slurped up the twin loads off, then, with them still on my tongue, kissed me deeply. We shared that payload of seed between us, passing it back and forth in our kiss, and then at last he burrowed between my legs and greedily cleaned off the rest of my dick. "Your dick's not going down," he said with a cocky grin, after a minute of attention. "Nope," I told him. "I like that in a guy," he said. I flipped him onto his stomach and drove it home. He groaned deeply as I slid into his cum-slick hole. His head hung over the mattress' edge; the harder I pounder at him, the more red and swollen with blood grew his head. His hands clutched at air, trying to grab onto something, anything, to help him cope with my maddened, impassioned bullfuck. At last he grabbed onto the bedframe with one, and the floor with the other. His mouth opened in a deep-chested roar. "Yeah, fucker!" he shouted. "Do some fuckin' damage to that hole." The dirty talk only made me fuck him harder. My knob kept bursting through his second ring and popping through. I could feel the pressure of it against my cock head with every thrust. Every time I punched through, he let out a gargled cry. Bubbles of spit clung to his lips; his brow was knitted into a pained and worried expression, though the bliss in his eyes was obvious. "Yeah," he kept moaning. "Do that. Do it just like that." My next load arrived more quickly than the first. My pounding was so hard that I'd bounced two of the pillows off the bed. He grabbed onto one and clung onto it for dear life while I shot a second load inside. Once I'd completed the deposit, he shoved me back onto the remaining pillows and once again sucked my dick clean. This time I let him linger down there for long, long minutes, while I breathed deeply and let the air conditioning cool off my sweaty skin. In a daze, I watched the same previews play over and over again on the hotel television, until after fifteen minutes of attention, my new buddy kissed his way up my stomach and tits to my lips. "Shame you can't go for three," he said. "Who says I can't?" I growled, as I pushed him off. For the third fuck I settled his knees at the edge of the bed, and fucked him on all fours from behind. The position gave me the maximum opportunity to lengthen my thrust, to adjust the angle as I saw fit, and to vary the tempo as I liked. With his head buried in the mattress, the muscle stud groaned and surrendered himself. He wasn't at all aggressive, now. Not insistent. Hungry, perhaps, but not as wild about it. He was just hole, receptive and wet and warm and slippery, his insides already painted with two loads. While the sunlight faded from the room and the TV continued to blare away, I very slowly, very leisurely fucked at first. Then I picked up the pace, stabbing at him, twisting at impossible angles to make it hurt. He responded without words, groaning and letting out helpless cries as he lifted his ass higher and higher. I fucked him harder, so that my balls slapped against his. The sound of flesh against flesh drowned out even the hundredth advertisement for a Steve Carell movie I'd already seen; I wasn't paying attention to the television any longer. His arms flailed out, once more grasping at nothing. I fucked and fucked until I was slamming him again, abrading his face against the bedspread as I pushed him harder and deeper against the fabric. By the time I unloaded a third time, his hands had clutched the coverings and clenched them so hard that the creases he left looked as if they'd been permanent pressed in. While I remained inside him, still shuddering, he reached between his legs and masturbated himself to a climax once more. It only took a few strokes before he blasted his load over the bed in long, wet ropes. I pulled out, and stood there, panting and sweaty. He stood up, laughed slightly, and ran his hands over his smooth head. His lips worked, and let out what sounded like words, but not in any language I recognized. The syllables were gibberish, I realized. He seemed to realize it too, because he attempted to speak again, with the same results. Then he shook his head, rolled his eyes at himself, and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the shower running. When I entered the bathroom to rinse off my dick with a cloth, he was steaming under a stream of water, hands pressed against the wall, his forehead against them. He looked as if he had nothing left in him. THANK YOU, he managed to text by the time I was eating dinner across the street. You fucked the language right out of me for a few minutes!!! Which, when you think about it, is not a bad compliment at all. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here With a large portion of the country suffering oppressive heat this week, perhaps it was natural that the most-asked question I got on Formspring.me in the last few days was a variation on, What do you do to cool off on a hot day? The basic answer is that I sprawl around my house, naked, in a direct line with the air conditioner, so I can bask in it. Usually that does me. But when I want to get out, I'll head to the local mall and waste some time there. Or I'll hit the movie theaters. My very favorite thing to do on a sweltering afternoon, though, is to visit one of the large supermarkets in the area. Not only do I generally find them more interesting to browse than the mall (especially if they pride themselves on being an upscale, gourmet kind of place), but I know that once I spend a good five minutes shivering in the dairy sections, where the refrigerators are on full blast, I'll be more than ready to go outside and warm up once again. The heat I can stand. It's the cold that makes me miserable. As for sex on a hot afternoon? Some people find it sticky and miserable, but I can't think of anything better. Maybe it's because I had my first orgasm on the hottest afternoon of the year, or because I associate summer with being out of school and whoring all day in the parks and restrooms of my little home town, growing up. These months, and the heat that comes with them, are the best time of the year for fucking. What do you guys do to stay cool during the warmest days? Now, on to the Formspring questions. As always, if you'd like to ask me something anonymously (or not-so-anonymously), feel free to visit the site and ask away. I'll answer anything that I haven't answered a dozen times before, or that's not too invasive. The hottest guy ever wants you, but only if you give him a blumpkin. Would you? Have you? Nope, and nope. If that's what he wanted, he wouldn't be so hot any longer. What is your opinion on cybersex? It's so easy to have actual sex. Why would anyone care to fake it? You've written about many people in your life. Will you ever write about when you met Mister/Miss Right? Or is that off-limits? I'm not really a believer in the One True Right Person. I believe we meet several people throughout all our lives with whom we can forge strong connections. It's up to us to follow through on those opportunities, not. For many people, a choice of emotional or sexual monogamy can limit subsequent opportunities severely. I'm not at all saying that monogamy's a bad choice. It's simply not for me. If you're asking me to write about my spouse, it won't happen. I have privacy issues there. About how many friends from high school do you still talk to? I have friends from middle school and college with whom I talk, mostly on Facebook. I have absolutely no friends from high school with whom I'm in touch. What was your first sexual experience with your bro? What did you do? It started with showing off to each other, progressed pretty quickly to me sucking him, and ended with me getting rammed. Have you ever had a sex related injury? I've had a couple of guys handle me so roughly, either by ungentle hand treatment or by too much teeth, that I've had abrasions or chafing. Do you like having sex in the dark or with the light on? I prefer a dim setting—not entirely pitch black, but dark enough to keep me focused on the sensations at hand. When u top, do you prefer the btm to already have a load or fresh for your deposit? I enjoy both scenarios. I don't get preloaded holes often enough, though, so I could deal with more of that. Have you ever wanked on Skype? Yes. I don't do it often, though. I prefer to do it on cam4 or Yahoo, where I can have a larger audience. Your blog counter is currently around 657,000. Do you have plans to do anything special to celebrate 750,000? Perhaps more cum encrusted briefs? I'm certainly willing to take suggestions, on my trek to a million. Do you have any? Who was the first person you ever kissed? Unless you count assorted relatives who pecked me on the lips or cheek when I visited, the first person I really kissed was my sixth-grade homeroom teacher. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Tim Gunn used to have a segment on his self-titled and underrated Guide to Style that used to make me think about my body, more than any other television show on fashion and dressing. Now, none of that genre of TV devoted to makeover and tips on dressing really fascinates me. In my household, though, some of the shows were popular second-tier choices for viewing on the DVR after all other possible options had been exhausted, and I'd find myself occasionally absorbed by the disasters on What Not to Wear or wincing at the fashion reprimands of one or another of one of the Queer Eye guys. I liked Project Runway, however, and I find Tim Gunn an upstanding, frank, and funny kind of guy. The part of his show that always fascinated me was designed to illuminate to that week's makeover victim some salient points about self-image. Tim would line up a bunch of women similar in coloring and height and age to the woman being made over. Usually they were dressed in nothing but underwear. They'd be arrayed from skinniest to heftiest. "Now, Yvonne," Tim would drawl to the woman, index finger pointing to heaven alongside his cheek. "I want you to go stand between the two women you feel represent your weight and size." Inevitably, the woman would head right for the last two women in the lineup—the heaviest, most rotund of the bunch. Then Tim would step in, gently shake his head, and steer the woman a place in the line based on her weight and measurements, which was always near the skinny end of the queue. I used to scoff at this phenomenon, the first few times I saw it. Then I realized that given the same lineup, if Tim Gunn had arrayed for me a bunch of body types then asked me to stand between the two where I believed I fit, I'd make a beeline for the guy who looked like Chris Farley and squeeze my carcass between him and John Goodman. And then Tim would cluck like a worried hen and steer me over to Scooby Doo's Shaggy and call it a day. My readers can take a look quick look at the photo at the blog's top and tell what kind of body I have. I'm lean. I'm six-foot-three and my waist is a size thirty(ish). When I'm shopping for dress shirts, I have to go for a men's small. Slim cut, or modern fit, or whatever you'd like to call it—I need clothes with a bit of structure and clean lines, to highlight the stuff I like and obscure the stuff I don't. Even shirts with a fitted cut have a tendency to look baggy on me. Because I have no ass, pants have a tendency to fall down around my waist and bloat out like I'm wearing a diaper. When recently I found a really nice pair of dress slacks that not only fit perfectly, but actually kind of flattered me, they came with a precious and vaguely insulting brand name like Calvin Klein Super Ultra Slim Tight Petite Nipped Tuck Tiny Trousers. For Men. No, Really. At those moments in which I manage to be objective, and conscious, and aware, I know that yes, my place in Tim Gunn's lineup is roughly between the clothespin doll dressed in Banana Republic, and Adrien Brody in The Pianist. Still, my go-to reaction when I dress in the morning and look at myself in the mirror is, God, I'm a cow. I'm aware that my perception of my body type can be pretty far off from what it actually is; I sometimes joke to people with whom I'm close that the only thing keeping me from a diagnosis as anorexic is that I'd get too hungry to stop eating. When I get into one of those moods in which all I can do is look in the mirror, grab the flesh around my waist and sling it around like a sack of Jello while pouting and moping, I need to stop, quiet my mind, and remind myself of the reality of the situation. If I can manage to do that, instead of letting the hysteric in me shriek and cower, I'm actually pretty happy with my body. When I was seeing Spencer, I went through a lot of the same rigors with him. Watching him hate his body really drove home the point that what we are and what we see are two different things. Here was a beautiful boy with a perfect dancer's physique, strong, masculine, and muscular, who daily would refer to himself as a tub o' lard, or a fatty fat fat fatty fuck. All I could do was gape in bafflement. I watched him stare in the mirror and tap on his chest and wish aloud that he was so skeletal that he could count his ribs through a leotard. I listened to him contemplate, half-seriously, a diet of nothing but scented Kleenex and cigarette smoke. Craziness. I've known it work the other way as well. One acquaintance of mine who has invested heavily in his life to become what in gay shorthand would be called a muscle bear, recently spoke about how he had grown up a skinny kid and always saw his skinniness as a sign of weakness; he'd spent a lifetime bulking up and growing to what in my eyes are almost comically massive proportions. He's groomed himself to fit the bear culture's ideal, and still thinks he's not big enough, not furry enough, not covered with enough facial hair. He can't look at a skinny man, he told me, without associating it with his weak youth, and with ineffectualness, and with femininity. It was an honest confession, yes. But it still made me want to reply with narrowed eyes and an answer of Fuck you very much, I'll show you who's masculine, you big ol' queen. When it comes to Tim Gunn's lineup, I think a lot of us have two instinctive reactions of where we belong—the first to move to the extreme where we fear others see us, and the other a more considered and honest assessment of where we fit. We've talked about self-image before in our Open Forum Fridays, and the discussions have always brought out some interesting comments. For today's forum I'm curious about where you see yourself fitting, and where Tim would tell you that you actually belong. What have you done to overcome feeling like the fat boy or the skinny kid? How much influence does that phantom vision really have over you—or how does it motivate you? Speak up, and let us all hear your thoughts. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Your humble blogger apologizes for the brief (one-day) hiatus in his regular posting habits, yesterday. Not only did he have something along the lines of bad weather of the brain, but his notebook computer grew erratic to the point that typing on it became a misery. However, thanks to the local Apple store, which replaced the trackpad in the space of an afternoon and gave me a new battery, to boot, we're back in business. Sharp-eyed readers may have noticed that the title of this week's feature has changed—from asses to assets. What a difference a single letter can make, eh? Since we had such an overwhelming support for the idea of our readers showing off their dicks as well as their holes, starting this week, I'll be accepting photographs of any kind of reader junk you'd like to show off. If you're shy about your butt, but want readers to see your rod—now's your chance to lure admiring bottoms to your boudoir. If you've showed off your ass previously and want to turn the other way for the camera, give it a shot. I'm game. Dripping with cum, rock hard, soft and relaxed . . . we like all kinds of dick here. Of course, I'd be happy to share your asses with the world, too. So don't hold off on those. Make sure to check out the original post to see how you can show off your best side to the world. BrooklynAss It's kind of tough to find any fault with this photo. I love the sexy shot of that exposed, tight hole, which looks to be fringed with just a tiny bit of fur. The submissive position makes me drool. I love the dick and balls, prominently on display. The underwear around the ankles is a realistic touch. And I even love the shape of this guy's feet. You know, BrooklynAss, I'm not that far from Brooklyn, now. You should invite me to help you take some more photos. Of me inside you, specifically. Indiana Guy "Not the best you'll see, but what the heck," said Indiana Guy of his photos, in his email to me. Sorry, Indiana. You Hoosiers are way too fucking modest. That is one beautiful ass. Round, smooth, perfectly exposed (both in the sexual and the photographic sense) . . . I think you're discounting its appeal way too much. You, sir, have a fine ass. You should be proud of it. I'd be proud to have it wrapped around me, or sitting on my face. Stefan Oh, Stefan. You actually made me drool, with that full-body rear shot. Fucking beautiful, my friend. I love the shot of you prone, with the gentle curves of your furry butt exposed for us all to see. And that other shot with the hat? It's a little sassy, a little Fosse, a little Liza, like some lost porn version of Cabaret. And with that comment, gentlemen and ladies, I have earned my gay card. Thanks, Stefan. I know many of my readers are going to appreciate those shots. Rafael Rafael is 22, Latin, and has just moved to New York City. Judging from these photos, I wouldn't be surprised if the men there have already eaten him alive. I'm tempted to eat him, anyway. Eat that beautiful round ass. Knowing my affinity for both butts in jock straps and boys kneeling on their beds, Rafael managed to combine the two in a shot taken especially for my satisfaction. And oh, how satisfied I am. I'm sure my readers are, too, Rafael. You should show off that ass more often. And that's it for this installment, my friends. Make sure to send me your nude photos for display in this very space. You'd be surprised how many friends you'll make by it. If you enjoyed this latest batch, be sure to let our contributors know! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the things to which I’m still unused, after living for six weeks in my new home, is crossing the state line on a regular basis. But I live in a place in which, if I turn the wrong way in the middle of the night during a groggy pee run to my bathroom, I can accidentally find myself stepping from Connecticut to New York without knowing it. I’m just not accustomed to it. In Michigan and in Virginia, or even in my very distant childhood homes in Georgia and North Carolina, we had to drive for a good hour or more to reach a border. It was an accomplishment—not something that sometime happened accidentally when trying to find that little Mexican restaurant on that street by the river. (Admittedly, in Detroit, it was possible to travel ten minutes south and head into an entirely different country, which is even more of an accomplishment. But I rarely did it because the border crossings made me stressed.) It’s a lot easier to head for the Home Depot over the border than it is to the one closest in the state; if we head out to the movies, I have to remember to check times in the Port Chester and White Plains theaters. Likewise, when I’m cruising online I keep forgetting that in addition to the fifty-or-so-mile sprawl I consider to my east, I need to look even a couple of miles over the border to the west as well. So I was a little surprised, that Sunday morning, to find myself in the hills along the Hudson river, knocking on the door of a ramshackle, but quaint, home in the middle of a mountain town thronged by cyclists from Manhattan, looking for local color and cool canopies of greenery the city couldn’t afford them. When the door open, a shirtless man greeted me and pulled me inside. While his enormous dog sniffed and beat its tail against my thighs, the man pushed me roughly against an old wall stripped down to its original horsehair insulation and kissed me, deeply. His lips were soft, and warm. His tongue probed deep into my mouth, and I found myself surrendering to him. We hadn’t spoken a word yet. We’d talked enough online, over the course of the previous week. He’d told me all the things he was into, and all the nasty things he wanted to do with me. The guy was a cock-oriented service pig, he told me, but at the same time, very aggressive in his approach. I was good with that. I let the guy manhandle me in the middle of his hallway. The entire first floor, as far as I could tell, had been torn down to the studs in preparation for some major renovation. There were entire floorboards missing, so that I could see straight down into the basement. The house had the elegant bones and charm to spare of a Depression-era construction, but seemed a little difficult to maneuver around. My new buddy finally pulled away from our long and passionate kiss. He was a good looking fellow—older than I, goateed, gray-haired, spectacled. The sort of man who could go very easily from a sharp suit to a pair of jeans and a tank top. “You’re really handsome,” I remarked. He met my gaze square on, and in a dreamy, romantic sort of voice, said, “You’ve got a lazy eyelid.” The remark lifted me right out of whatever sexual reverie I might’ve fallen. It’s true; one of my eyelids hangs ever so slightly lower than the other, something of which I’ve been particularly conscious since one of my optometrists asked me, “Have you suffered a stroke?” NO I HAVEN’T. Jeez. It’s not like I walk around with one lid wide open and the lashes of the other scraping. It’s a difference of a fucking millimeter. “Really?” I asked, not all that happy. “That’s what you’re leading with?” He made some kind of lame apology and laughed it off, to the point at which my irritation at being made so self-conscious faded a little. I followed him upstairs, where we stripped down in the steamy bedroom and started to make out some more. The dog, in the meantime, followed; he hopped up on the king-sized bed. Once it was obvious he wasn’t planning to get down, we let him recline and snooze at its foot. “You’re a really good kisser,” I said, after a while. He stared squarely over my eyes. I thought he was going to thank me. “You know,” he said at last, “right before you came over, I had one of those crazy eyebrow hairs that was super-long, too. I trimmed it.” “Fuck,” I said aloud, sitting up and grabbing for my left eyebrow. I started to scoot off the bed. “I’m not saying you have a crazy eyebrow hair,” he protested, too mildly. Yet somehow I knew he was. By then I’d reached the guy’s dresser mirror. I didn’t have a crazy long eyebrow hair. I did, however, have a single eyebrow hair that sometime while we’d been grappling against the wall, had become pointed slightly down instead of to the left. That was it. “You’re driving me nuts,” I told the guy. “Any more physical defects you want to comment on? Get ‘em out of the way, maybe, all at once? Thinning spot? Pasty white skin? ” He thought I was joking, and laughed. “I didn’t say they were bad things.” Whatever. Maybe I was just grumpy from having tiny flaws spoken aloud (you didn’t see me saying anything about his big belly, after all), but I didn’t have much fun for the rest of the morning. I’d gone in expecting a lot of cock-oriented service—his speciality, supposedly—and didn’t get a damned thing. He didn’t suck my cock. He didn’t eat my hole or work on my balls. We made out. I ate his butt and stuck my dick insider, and then was treated to him telling me not to shoot (“Why trade all this pleasure for five seconds of orgasm?”) . . . until he shot without warning me, and then hopped off. “Sorry, dude, but once I’ve shot, I’m done,” he apologized. Yeah, I was decidedly grumpy. I was lying face down on the mattress, checking my phone, when I felt a tongue between my butt cheeks. I relaxed a little as it licked with determination, enjoying the sensation of its warmth against my hole. Then, with a start, I realized it was the dog. What’s it say about an encounter when I had more pleasure from the guy’s mutt? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He was leaning against the back of his truck when I pulled into the parking lot near my new home, hands deep in his pockets. The setting sun left golden auras around everything basking in its rays, in a late benediction before it would set for the day, ten minutes later. The man was already golden enough—an Apollo of sun-bleached hair on his tousled head, on his thick forearms, and covering the sun-tanned legs sticking from out of his shorts. His shoulders were broad and muscular; his face model-handsome. He could easily have had any man he wanted. He’d wanted me. I nodded as I pulled in. Over the air conditioning and through the window I heard him cough nervously and straighten. He checked me out when I stepped out—feet stuffed into my size eleven sneakers, the deep V-neck of my T-shirt sloping down my chest, my camo shorts hugging my legs. Then our eyes locked. This was a wealthy man, I realized, once I saw that face up close. He might have been driving a landscaper’s truck, but it wasn’t the truck of a laborer, or a day-to-day contractor. It was the owner’s truck, a truck that had nary a scratch or sign of use. That truck had never carried a tool, or a bag of cement, or a load of slates for the large homes in the area. His clothes were casual, but expensive. His face was well-cared-for, and his haircut pricey. I know the signs of Connecticut wealth. “Hey,” I said, holding out my hand. He started to offer me his left. I noticed the gold band on his ring finger. He switched at the last moment to his right, in a handshake that was firm, but sweaty. He wanted to say something. His lips worked in a way that betrayed his nervousness. “You look like your photos,” he said in a deep voice. “You thought I wouldn’t?” I asked. He shrugged. Man, he was a wreck. It was obvious he didn’t do this often, if he’d done it before at all. I wondered what it had taken for him to summon the nerve to meet me here. An easy lie to the wife and the cost of a quart of milk for the trip home? A Valium? A shot or two? “You wanna—?” I jerked my head at the back doors of his van. “Oh, yeah.” For so fluidly muscular a man, his motions were jerky and abrupt as he yanked open the doors. He gestured for me to enter. I was right, I realized when I slipped inside. No matter how butch it looked from without, inside it was luxury. The floor was carpeted; leather upholstery covered the seats. The interior was clean, and shampooed, and save for a small box of baby toys behind one of the rear seats, surprisingly devoid of anything personal. There was enough room in the back for a couple of men to stretch out, as he’d promised. I sat on my haunches until he’d climbed in and shut the doors behind him. Then I sat down and spread my legs, letting my hands rest on my crotch. He sucked in his lips so that they disappeared for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I . . . what do we do now?” He couldn’t have been more than thirty-six or thirty-seven. His own furry legs scissored in and out. “Well,” I said, not betraying any emotion. “I think we’d agreed upon something.” “Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill clip, round and fat enough to look like a prop from some episode of The Sopranos. He skimmed through a couple of the larger denominations to a series of twenties, then counted out bills in three sequences of five. Once he was done, he handed them over, then stuffed the remainder in his pocket. I took the curled bills, without breaking eye contact, and stuffed them into one of my pockets. “Is that okay?” he asked. It wasn’t the rhetorical question it could have been. He was genuinely worried, and craved approval. He wasn’t talking about the money, either—fifty percent more than I made the last time I whored myself out in the back of a van. “Sit back,” I told him. “You wanted to watch. So watch.” Once he’d leaned against the opposite side of the van I unbuttoned my camo shorts. I let the zipper sound as I pulled it down. It wasn’t especially hot outside at this time of day, and there was enough of a remnant of air conditioning that I wasn’t breaking a sweat, but in the quiet I could hear the rasp of his breathing. His legs jerked involuntarily when I lifted my hips and pulled down my shorts, exposing the erection underneath. I sat on the shorts, then wrapped my hand around my cock. The wad of cash bulged against my butt. Slowly, up and down, I worked the shaft. I squeezed my fingers until the head was purple and engorged. The slightest dome of pre-cum formed over the slit. His rasp turned into a rattle as his breath caught in his throat. “How big?” he whispered. I shrugged, like it was nothing. “Eight.” “Fuck,” he said. “It gets the job done,” I replied, staring at him. I could tell he was imagining right then, and vividly, exactly what job. The arrangement had been only for him to watch while I masturbated in the back of his van. Plain and simple. He hadn’t told me whether he had any experience with men, but it was easy enough to guess that he hadn’t. The man stared at my dick like he’d never seen one before, or never seen one erect. Maybe not even his own. It was easy enough for me to picture him playing with his own tool only in the dark, or keeping his eyes closed as he dutifully made love to his wife. Many men don’t look at themselves; they don’t really know what their dicks look like. Or what they’re for. He couldn’t remove his gaze from mine, though. I showed off for him in a lewd way, slapping my meat against the palm of my hand so that the noise resounded through the tiny enclosure. I toyed with the slit, drawing long strings of precum that would snap. Then I would eat the remaining clear pearl from my fingertip, all while staring him in the eye. For long minutes I stroked and showed off, growling and grunting when appropriate, and twisting my face alternately into scowls and then heavy-lidded ecstasy. When I looked in his direction, instead of at my big dick, I could tell he had a bulge in his shorts. With his knuckles he kneaded it from time to time, but he made no gesture to bring it out. From time to time, he licked his lips. “Can I touch it?” he asked. I thought about it for a moment. I like being touched, but somehow it seemed nastier not to let him. “That wasn’t in the price,” I said. “Fuck.” He swallowed again, hard. “May I lick your nuts, then?” Not can. May. I shrugged, as if somehow nut-licking was less invasive than his fingers around my dick. Immediately he lunged onto his stomach and lay down between my outstretched legs. I felt his hot breath on my balls for a moment or two, and then the tentative tip of his tongue on the skin. That wasn’t going to do. I reached down and grabbed my nuts in a clenched fist and roughly shoved them against his face, letting him smell them. His mouth opened, and I popped them in. He licked on them and sucked the pair avidly while I continued to stroke. “Fuckin’ cocksucker,” I grunted. The words brought a whimper from him. “Don’t think you’re getting your mouth on my meat, either. Not at that price.” “Please,” he breathed, taking a break from my balls. I shoved the back of his head down onto the shaved sac again. “Fuck that please shit. Lick.” I recognized the mingled humiliation and gratitude in his eyes. I’ve seen it before in the faces of hundreds of boys of all ages. And every time, it makes my cum begin to boil. I breathed out heavy streams of air as I grew closer and closer. I lifted up my hips and ground my balls into the man’s face. His eyes closed as my butt hit his chin. “Yeah. Fuck yeah!” I said the words in my piggiest bass, just before I unloaded. My sperm oozed out of the tip in a thick stream that dropped onto his face. He reacted with shock at the sudden wetness coursing down the inside of his nose, but I kept my hand on the back of his head to keep licking. His eyes were wide open as he watched more of my load cascade onto his face. When I was done, I wiped the tip of my dick in his hair. Then I sat back, took my shorts, and began pulling them back on. He watched in silence, my sperm still baptizing him. Only when I was buttoned and zipped did he speak. “I want to call you again,” he said. I shrugged, like it was no big thing. “I’ll be discreet,” he said. “I won’t ever bug you.” I pulled out my phone and looked at the time. “Maybe I can suck you next time. You’ve got a big dick. A real big dick. I’ll pay.” “I’ve gotta jet,” I said, jerking my head at the doors once more. He unlatched them from the inside. The sun had set, leaving the parking lot growing dimmer by the moment. “You know how to reach me.” “Dude.” He was afraid to stick his head out of the van, and rightly so. It was still covered in a rivulet of sperm that had reached his chin. “That was hot.” I only said one word more: “Good.” Then I walked away, while he still wanted more. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My dear readers, I have a bit of an email backlog. I'm understating the matter. If my pending reply box were constipation, I would've been rushed to the hospital with a ruptured bowel a full eight weeks ago. It's all because of my move, of course. I started getting backlogged the month before my relocation, as I frantically rushed around trying to organize everything. Then in the weeks after my move, it's taken time for me truly to feel settled, and to have time enough to attend to everything I used to. I've been trying—trying—to triage the situation. For the last week I've been attempting to reply to all emails pretty much as they come in, so that the black hole of electronic correspondence that is my Yahoo! account won't grow any larger. For those emails that merit longer replies, though, there may be a longer delay. So please. Bear with me. My intention is to get to all my emails, but every time I open up that pending folder and see how crowded it is, I suddenly would be rather doing anything else. Now, I've told you guys this before. A few times, in fact. After a few flare-ups this week, though, I ask that you keep a few things in mind when writing me: 1) Please don't refrain from writing. Your emails are largely a joy. They're one of the reasons I keep blogging. I love hearing from you guys. But... 2) Please be aware that I may not reply immediately. So... 3) Please don't write a follow-up letter demanding to know why I haven't replied. And especially please don't say stuff like, You must have thought my last letter to you was really boring because you haven't replied. That just makes me sad and a little irritated. And most especially... 4) When I write to tell you that I have an email backlog, please don't lecture me on how to manage my email account, or send me links to more efficient Getting Things Done systems, or scold me on my responsibilities as a net-lebrity, whatever the hell that is. That's not going to inspire me to answer your email more quickly. All I ask is for a little more patience than usual, for the next couple of weeks. I've had a big upheaval in my life. Thanks. Okay, let's move away from that topic and get to some of your questions from formspring.me. What does your own cum taste like? I think you should give it a try and tell me. I saw your advice about bottoms with piles and I have a different opinion. I am a bareback bottom, with hemorrhoids. sometimes they bleed. That is often beyond my control, i've run out of characters to respond, how can i send you a longer message? I'd suggest either continuing the question in another question here, or emailing it to me. The original questioner might learn something from your insights. What was the last lie you told? I told a friend I was on the phone with my dad because I didn't feel like saying, "I'm really too lazy to meet up with you this evening." I'm meeting up with a guy who has a lot more experience than I do. I'm pretty sure I'm going to do something wrong or just look stupid. Should I say this is my 1st time or just kind of fake my way through? If it's genuinely your first time, say so up front, once. Just once. I'm more inclined to forgive someone ignorance than a deliberate lie about his experience level. And instead of worrying about doing something wrong or looking stupid, just be cheerful about your activities. Don't apologize; if you're getting frustrated, just ask him nicely to tell you what to do differently so it's happening the way he likes. You know, even if you were the worst sex in the world for the guy, your first time, it wouldn't be the end of the world. Any sex is better than no sex. Plus you'll have that much more experience for the next time. Everyone's got to start somewhere. have u ever been to the middle east or south asia? I have not. Are you inviting me? Do you sometimes get "nasty-talkin', cigar-smokin', boot-wearin' S.O.B. who likes to dominate and control his bottoms?" I don't smoke cigars, or anything else. I have a few pairs of boots, but the only ones that get any wear are the snow boots, in winter. I've been called an S.O.B. on occasion. Nasty-talkin', I can usually handle. I'm married and have a bi married FB. We are lucky enough to manage a few overnights together and, when we do, we have multiple sessions, cumming between 5 and 8 times before morning. Do you like multiple, super-draining sessions like that? Those are the kinds of sessions I typically look for, and which many of my partners can attest that I handle with enthusiasm. It's been a while since I've had an 8-load night, though. Your beloved brother's an attorney, isn't he? Confess! I don't know why my brother's occupation has turned into such a guessing game. No, he's not an attorney. Why do you ask that? You have your fans and self-esteem. Defocus on the fans and share what *you* think your strengths as a writer. Where can you improve? No one is perfect. Ideals vary too much for agreement. I'm very highly critical of my writing; not a single entry goes by without me critically looking at it to determine what works and what does not. Writing in my blog often leaves me frustrated because it's pretty much first-draft stuff, written in little corners of the day that aren't occupied with my life and my real writing endeavors. I'm always looking at what works and what doesn't, though, whether it's a change of tense or turn of phrase or the way a post is structured. Then I'll write another post to work on my problem areas. Often the posts that people seem to respond with most enthusiasm are some of the entries over which I wasn't all that thrilled, myself. And sometimes the posts of which I'm proudest don't make much of an impact. I don't write to pander to an imaginary concept called 'fans.' I write about the things that interest me, and that I want to remember, and that I think are important. Generally, though, I think I'm good at tapping into areas of common experience and making my own unique encounters seem relatable. I'm glad that I connect with my audience and that I do have people who consider themselves fans, but this blog is not me trying to garner applause. I'm merely posting the sexual entries from my personal journal. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Last August I recommended my readers check out the biography Secret Historian: The Life and Times of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade. Steward was one of those fascinating gay men whose life on the margins of society during much of the twentieth century was so meandering and unpredictable that it reads more like fiction than fact. A constant chronicler of his sexual life, he managed to bed (among the hundreds and thousands he obsessively tracked in a ‘stud file’ of three-by-five cards) were celebrities like Rudolph Valentino, Rock Hudson, and Thornton Wilder. He was a illustrator fascinated by the art of tattooing, a writer who gained a late-in-life notoriety under the pen name of Phil Andros, and an all-around fascinating pervert who made even Alfred Kinsey gawp in wonder. I recommended the book highly when it came out and still do, not least because it was written by one of my blog’s readers, but because author Justin Spring managed to craft a fascinating narrative of a life that’s usually overlooked and neglected, but which, when examined, proves to be overflowing with all kinds of literary and sociocultural interest. Well. Last night I put on some clean duds, hopped on Metro North, and headed into Manhattan to the Museum of Sex, because Justin very kindly invited me to an opening night private party for an exhibition of Steward’s memorabilia. "Obscene Diary: The Secret Archive of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist and Pornographer" is the name of the exhibit, and I’ve got to tell you guys, if you’re in the metropolitan New York area, take an afternoon or evening and visit the place. It was easily the best exhibit in the museum. It was a little crowded last night—the freely-flowing alcohol served by muscled boys in Speedos had something to do with it, methinks—but I managed to spend a good hour walking around the gallery, looking at the original manuscripts of Steward’s earliest writings, the cards from his stud file (including the celebrity encounters, with their secret codes outlining exactly what the pair did), the drawings, the tattoo designs, the books, the reams of explicit photographs from the guy’s infamous orgies. There’s definitely a lot of obscene material there. And frankly, all I could think, while I moved through the crowd, was, I wonder what all my crap would look like, nicely framed and under glass? Justin, who’s the exhibit’s curator, managed to track me down among the crowd and talk to me for a few minutes—which only confirmed my belief that he’s a hell of a smart man and, by inviting me, has exquisite taste in his friendships. He confided that the installation was finished only minutes before the doors opened that night, and that the paint was still drying on some of the walls even as we spoke. If you’re reading this, Justin, thanks for being not only a gracious and handsome host, but a learned gentleman, as well. Take the day or weekend off and have a little field trip, guys. It’s well worth it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This is the last of the Will series. Thanks for putting up with it.) I’ve never been one of those romantics who believes in One True Love. Any adult with a certain maturity and an openness of emotion encounters a number of people throughout a lifetime who, if they were to communicate and work hard together, could form an admirable and loving partnership. Life is abundant in its offerings, and anyone who’s not a hermit or a misanthrope, if he keeps his eyes open, will spot many chances for not one, but many true loves. I’ve fallen in love many times in my life, and recognize and honor the feeling for what it is—a joyous thank-you to the heavens for the plenty in my life. I loved Spencer. I loved Will. Neither man made me want to throw over my longer-lasting, much deeper relationship. (I might not believe in monogamy, but I believe in commitment.) But while they lasted, I loved as best I could. After his return from the failed attempt to become a monk, Will found a boyfriend. He was a younger guy, chubby, naive, only two years older than his son. The pair broke up and got back together with roughly the same frequency and regularity as the high and low tides, but during the good times, they seemed to be compatible together. Will and I were still friendly when we saw each other, though we hadn’t had sex for well over a year—long before he’d gone off on his aborted holy mission. I’d moved on to other fucks. My butthole had begun to close up again. Then one Saturday afternoon, I went to the baths. I seem to recall being lonely that day, and restless, and not even so much horny as in need of human contact. So I drove down the freeway, rented a room for the afternoon, stripped down, and sat on my bed with the door open and the lights low. Men passed by. Some slowed down, others whizzed by. After a long time, one man stopped in the doorway and leaned there. He was naked, save for a skimpy towel around his waist and a dark blue NYPD baseball cap. His hands rested on his hips. He stared at me. “I saw you come in,” he said in a low voice. It took me a moment to realize it was Will. At the time, Will to me was the essence of masculinity. His hairy body was like Alec Baldwin’s in his prime. Though his waist was slim, his chest was broad and muscular. It had been so long since I’d seen him undressed that it was difficult for me to look him in his brown puppy-dog eyes. I kept wrenching my own eyes away from Will’s perfect pecs. He looked like an gym equipment model come to life. “So, I’d been thinking about coming to this place for a while,” he said to me, since I was still obviously too surprised to speak. “But I didn’t really think it would be my thing, and then I ended up near here for dinner, so I said what the hell, and then I saw you walk in, and wow, here you are.” He looked down. It was obvious he was mentally adding the word naked to his sentence. “Yeah, here I am,” I said. My arms folded over my body like a Botticelli Venus. “And here you are.” I felt embarrassed by his presence, though it was obvious we’d both come for the same reasons. “So . . . you wanna make out?” he asked, finally. Tentatively. As if he expected a no. My hands trembled as I pulled him in and closed the door. I instantly remembered all the things I loved about my previous times with Will. The smell of him—soap and faded cologne and armpit and crotch. The way his hands touched me. The feel of his mouth on my body and his lips on mine, soft and needful. The taste of his salty skin. The way he enjoyed holding me down, even as a formality I protested and begged him to slow down a bit, before forcing himself inside me when he’d had enough foreplay and couldn’t hold off any longer. The way he fucked, long and deep and rough, his nails digging into my shoulders and his hot breath on my neck as he pushed and panted his way to orgasm. Then afterward, turning me over and wiping me off, and gently using his mouth to help me climax. Once I’d shot, he held my cock in his mouth until it was completely soft, and crawled up beside me. I felt sad. Sad that I didn’t have twin lives to lead, with him dominating one. Sad that I spent my time with him in regret, instead of enjoying him as the blessing he was. I felt sad that I thought of sex with him as something that’s bad for me, like a rich dessert that I enjoy but deep down suspect I shouldn’t have. “This is the worst of all possible places to have had this reunion,” he said, as both of us listened to the crappy music thumping from the loudspeakers. “You’re the best person I could have met here, though,” I murmured, still sore and dozy from exertion. “That’s a little over the top to say, don’t you think?” I laughed. “It did sound cheesy. But you know I think you’re one of the kindest, nicest, most gentle-hearted people I know, though. I’ve never kept that a secret from you. Even when we weren’t, well. . . .” “I know, I know,” He lay there for a moment. “And you are loyal, obedient, thrifty, brave. . . .” “Liar. I bet you were a boy scout, weren’t you?” I asked, suddenly sure of it. I could see him as a kid in the uniform. “I bet you were an eagle scout.” “No, no,” he laughed. “Never an eagle scout, though I was a boy scout for a while." He paused. "Do you want to hear my boy scout story?” I nodded, and he put his arm around me as he murmured in my ear.I felt safe in his arms once more, and luxuriated in the sensation of his warmth, the rumble of his voice, the fur against my back, his presence. “Okay. I went through cub scouts and then Webelos and then into the boy scouts—I’ve never told this story to anyone before. You sure you want to hear it?” It felt like we were in the dark again, at his old bachelor apartment, in the early days. The days when our love had been pure and unaffected by awkwardness. I smiled. “Of course I do.” “Well, okay, but you’re the only person in the world I’ve ever told this story to.” I nodded, honored. “I joined the boy scouts and everything was cool at first, then within a couple of weeks the scoutmaster said that we’d be having a boy scout jamboree. Some of the other kids got excited about that. They started holding up their fingers like this.” Will closed his thumb and forefinger into a circle, and then held up his three remaining fingers in the traditional OK sign. “I didn’t know what it mean, but it was like a secret signal from the kids to the scoutmaster. They had this tradition of de-pantsing the new kids at jamboree, you see, and they were asking the scoutmaster if they could. He gave them the signal back, telling them it was okay. You’re sure you want to hear this?” "Stop asking me that." “I didn’t know it until the week before, but the jamboree was like a camp, except just for the weekend. My dad went along as a chaperone. It was cold, and we were all put into these cabins that weren’t much warmer. One of the things they did right off was to tell me and the other new kid from our cabin was to go looking for a ‘bacon straightener.’ We were going to have bacon for breakfast in the morning, you see, and they needed this bacon straightener to make it. There wasn’t such a thing of course. We went to the cabin they told us, and they said, ‘oh, the bacon straightener’s in cabin thirteen,’ and then we’d get to cabin thirteen and find out they’d lent it to cabin eight, and so on.” I smiled and nodded, expecting the story to go on in the same comic vein. “So they make us go from one cabin to the next until we’d gotten to all of them, and were catching on. Finally we get to the last destination and we’re cold and tired, and these guys grab my friend and they start ripping his pants off. He was yelling and screaming and it sounded like the most horrible thing in the world. Then they started in on me, but they only got as far as taking off my shoes before I struggled free and ran off.” I’d always hated the cruelty of boys, growing up. “Fuck,” I said. He had to clear his throat before he continued. “I don’t know why I was so ashamed. I was only what, eleven or twelve? I was a shy kid, and Catholic, and I didn’t want other guys seeing my body. So I ran off in the woods and wouldn’t come back. I only had my socks on. It started to rain, and it was freezing cold. “At last when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I went back. It was a couple of hours later. I was soaking wet. All the kids were standing out in front of the cabin with the scoutmaster, and my dad was there too. I walked up, all cold and wet, and my dad just looked at me. He said, Why didn’t you just let them take off your fucking pants, you little shit? Then he hauled off and slapped me across the face. He hit me so hard that it left a mark.” I held my breath. I hadn’t expected it. It was only then that I remembered he’d never, ever mentioned his father to me before. I’d heard about the rest of his family, but not about his father. Will was quiet for a moment, and his voice was husky. “I don’t know what upset me more. The fact that he didn’t mind slapping me in front of all those other kids, or the fact that he thought I should’ve just let them de-pants me. So we went home after the jamboree and two weeks later I told him I didn’t want to be in the boy scouts anymore." He paused again. "And that’s my boy scout story.” I thought for a moment, and said what I was feeling. “That was a terrible story.” He chuckled, sounding as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Well. Yeah. I don’t know why I wanted to tell you that.” But I knew. He’d told me that story because he was afraid of me. He felt vulnerable, after letting himself have sex with me after we’d been separated for so long. He was that cold and wet boy who’s spent two hours out in the woods. He was worried I would slap him down, or that I’d set him up for humiliation. Will was still that little boy scout, who’d run away into the woods and come back with his tail between his legs. He was still that kid who was perpetually frightened of doing wrong, when all he’d wanted to was save himself. He’d handed me the key to himself by sharing that story. I turned and kissed him deeply to thank him for the gift that he probably never even knew he’d given. It was the last time we kissed, as it turned out. The last time we made love. It felt like closure, though. It felt like the end of a mystery, when much is explained and loose ends were tied. I took it for what it was, and folded it up and stored it away, so I could remember it later. I often noted that Will had looked at me with skittish, frightened eyes—the eyes of a frightened doe in the woods, suddenly encountering a hunter. Now I knew they were really the eyes of a frightened boy scout, afraid of the mean boy who might yank the pants from him. More...