TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This is a continuation of Will: In the Dark, part of the Will series I started last week. The series will be concluded in the next installment.) Will and I had a very natural, loving relationship for some time. He spent that Christmas at my house, guest of honor at one of the big dinners we used to have for friends and acquaintances who didn’t have family in the area. He sat by my side, and spent the evening having such friendly and in-depth conversations with my father that my dad still asks after him, to this day. He was my companion at my birthday party in the middle of winter. We helped each other with our gardens come spring. Summer was supposed to be when he was leaving for the priesthood, and I spent most of the first half of the year dreading its arrival. The order with which he was supposed to become a recluse, however, had some kind of change of heart, and told him they wouldn’t be accepting him. It was a blow, pure and simple. He’d spent almost a year at that point studying and preparing himself. He’d made plans to put what little furniture he had into storage for his sons, he’d begun the process of putting his finances in order, of ridding himself of his apartment in preparation for the move. The wrench of having to jam on the brakes jarred him. It jarred the both of us, really. I know that in this kind of story there’s always a moment in which the relationship starts to go bad. Ours didn’t rot; it didn’t grow so rancid that it’s difficult to look back upon. It did grow awkward, though. And it started soon after his rejection from the order. “What did your advisor at the order tell you?” I asked, a few nights following the news, after we’d made love. He was in my arms, that small and perfect body curled onto mine in fur-covered curves and angles. I already knew the answer. He was moping enough, however, that I wanted him to say it aloud, so it would sink in. “He told me to apply again next year,” he said, reluctantly. “That the entire board would be different next year, and that with him at its head, I’d be able to join.” "A year," I pointed out. “It’s a year,” he said, stubbornly. “It’s only a year. You’ll apply again. You’ll get what you want. A year’s not long to wait.” Secretly, though, I was basking in the thought of another year with him. He sighed. I knew he was thinking it over. I thought that inwardly he was agreeing with me, that he was seeing the rightness of what I was pointing out to him. I thought that in a moment he’d nod and agree with me, and I’d stroke his head until he was smiling once again. Obviously, I didn’t know him as well as I thought. A few moments later, he spoke up again. “Would you be upset if I started seeing someone else?” I blinked. I wasn’t expecting that question. “What?” I asked. “No. Of course not.” It was, in a small way, a lie. I minded very much the thought of him with someone else. A selfish side of me wanted him all to myself, forever. Fortunately, that side was outvoted by the part of me that knew how stupid and irrational it was of me to expect such a thing. “Sweetie,” I said, very slowly, keeping my voice calm and level. “I want you to do what makes you happy. I've always said it’s unfair to ask you to love me.” “I still love you,” he said, quietly. He meant it, that night. His eyes were still full of fear as he spoke. “I love you. I do. It’s just . . . now. . . .” “I get it,” I told him hastily, so he wouldn’t have to say the words. I did get it. Before, I was a safe repository for his affections. I had an official status of temporary. We'd both knew that the relationship as it was, wasn’t going to last. It had an expiration date. Now, though, with an open-ended future, perhaps I wasn’t as practical for him. “I totally get it.” “You’re upset,” he said, looking at me with the eyes of a scared doe. I was. “I’m not,” I fibbed. “I’m fine. Really. I love you. I want you to do what you need to do. If you want to date someone, date someone. We'll still be friends. Nothing's different with us.” Things had changed, though. I left a few minutes later, knowing and hating the fact. Will hadn’t anyone in mind when he’d asked that question. Within the month, though, he had a guy he was dating—a six-foot-six hulk of a man with drooping shoulders, shaggy blond hair, and a jaw like a bludgeon. He looked like the son of Lurch, of the Addams family. In my journal of the time, I derisively called him ‘Lunk.’ The first time I met him, I saw him as a cruel parody of myself—the height exaggerated, the facial features rendered in broad strokes that were vaguely reminiscent of mine, in a funhouse mirror kind of way. Lunk weighed about a hundred pounds more than I, and walked like a hunchback. I was the first to shake his hand, though, and I spent nights at the bar talking to him and making him feel welcome and part of the group, just to prove there were no ill feelings. Lunk didn’t last. There were others. There was a blond, chubby artist with the stammer. There was a floppy-haired literary type who, save for the fact that his features were dark where mine were fair, could have been my twin. Every new dating partner seemed to be some kind of attempt to find a man in my image, twisted and distorted as it sometimes seemed. And every time there was a new fellow introduced to me at the bar, I was the first out there with a handshake and a welcoming smile. Even though inwardly, sometimes, that smile would be through gritted teeth. Under the circumstances, it was normal that we’d grow apart. We were still friends, though gradually our sex died down to nothing. I felt as if sex with me kept him from a love life of his own. On his part, I think he imagined I was angry with him. We would stand close to each other when we went out together. He came to family occasions, still sat at the table at another Christmas. But it wasn’t the same. The final blow to the relationship came a year later. True to his advisor’s word, when Will applied again to the same order, he was accepted by the new board. All the plans he’d put on hold, he suddenly needed to put into motion again. He said goodbye to the last of my stand-ins, and gave up his apartment, and finalized his plans for a vow of poverty. At a party at my house, friends and family gathered to say goodbye. He and I hugged, and parted with tears in my eyes. He was getting what he wanted. That should have been the end to it. But a week later, I was on gay.com chatting when a private message popped up from Will’s account there. What are you doing on? I asked. Is something wrong? In my temporary confusion, I honestly thought that there was some kind of emergency that he’d been given special dispensation to resolve on the internet. Though why through gay.com, it never occurred to me. Nope, he typed back. Just so fucking bored. I prodded him a little more. He was at the order of the brotherhood or whatever they called it, he told me. He wasn’t supposed to be on gay.com, or on the computer at all, but he was tired of everything monastic. He’d had a week of studying and praying and doing good work at the local bread bank, and apparently was over it. So he’d logged onto the biggest time waster of all, and declared himself bored. I was a little stunned, to be honest. The admission of boredom seemed particularly puerile to me. Will had gotten what he’d wanted. He was doing what he’d wanted to do for years. He’d fucking given away his life, to do this. And after a week, he was bored? Every day after that, he logged on to chat in the Michigan room about how bored and dissatisfied he was. It pissed me off, more than a little. Will had been heroic, in my eyes; he’d been a larger-than-life figure for wanting what he wanted, and going to extremes to achieve it. Listening to him bitch about the bad food and the lack of internet and the tediousness diminished him. He sounded petty. His reasons for dissatisfaction were picayune. It was like listening to a secretly-taped conversation from that U.S. Airways pilot who managed to his crash-land his plane in the Hudson a couple of years ago and save his passengers, confessing in confidence that he’d really only done it because he didn’t want all those packets of in-flight peanuts to go to waste. I wanted to fucking shake him. Besides. It's a religious order. What had he really thought it was going to be like? I don't think they're known for their spa-like facilities and in-cruise entertainment. A week later, he was home again. Somehow he got a new apartment, and his furniture out of storage. He started looking for a job much like the job that had given him such dissatisfaction. The priesthood wasn’t for him, he told people. He was just glad to be back. And I, on some level, couldn’t forgive him. It was unfair of me, but I couldn't help myself. Will had been the man who had always encouraged me to follow my heart and my artistry and do the one thing in my life that made me happiest. I thought he was doing the same. He was my model, my inspiration. I'd upheld him as an ideal, defended his choices to friends and family. I'd thought him noble. Two weeks, he’d spent at that dream of his. Two fucking weeks before he’d given up and returned to the exact same life from which he wanted to escape. It wasn’t that he hadn’t given the dream a fair shake. He hadn’t even given it a shake at all. I’d see him at the bars, and I’d wave and smile. I’d hug him, occasionally, in a friendly way. We’d make small talk. But it wasn’t the same. We’d look at each other across the crowds of people—him with those big, sad eyes, and me with my chipper smile, which was a mask, really. It was a far, far cry from those nights when we’d be in the corner, pressed against each other, making out as if our lives depended on it. Every time I thought of those times, and of the nights of passion, and of the love and closeness we’d lavished upon each other, it sent a pang through my heart. I thought the friendship was ruined, forever. And then, a year later, we made love one final time. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This is a continuation of Will: Perfect, which itself is part of a series that took up most of last week. It has a couple more installments to go.) I'm most myself when I'm lying down in the dark with someone else, just talking. That darkness, that place where we rely on every sense save sight, is where we fill the quiet room with furnishings of our own words and imaginations. It’s a liberating space between sleep and consciousness. Nothing in it is more important there than memory and past experience. There's no worry about whether my hair's a mess, or whether I’m spitting when I talk. There's just me, and the person I'm with, and our words and touch. I used to bask in those evenings with Will. The first night we spent together was not the last, by any means. About once a month, or sometimes more if it wasn’t a problem at home, I’d arrive at his house with a small overnight pack, a smile on my face, and a hard-on hanging down the leg of my jeans. Even on the weeks in which we weren’t overnighting together, we’d connect either at his place or at mine and spend the evening together. It was the one period of my life, after I’d flipped to the top, that I returned to bottoming on more than a once-every-dog’s-age basis. I knew with him that I’d be fucked, that within a few minutes of closing the door behind us, he’d have me face-down on his mattress, clothes discarded on the floor, his strong, relentless dick buried seven inches inside me. I loved giving that to him. I loved that my ass was his playground, where he got to do all the things of which he’d always dreamed during his marriage but never tried. I liked knowing I’d been his first, and cherished knowing that handsome man had chosen me over anyone else as the man to take his gay virginity. It was the last period in my life in which I once again grew accustomed to the sweet security of surrendering myself and my body, while being held in another man’s arms. I never feel warmer, or more secure. But then, afterward, when my hole was sore and he was panting and spent, we would fall back onto the pillows and reach out for each other in the darkness. We wouldn’t hold back, when we talked. Anything was fair game. It was during one of the first evenings we spent naked and talking on his bed that I found myself emboldened to ask about what he’d told me, the night he met. Will wanted to be a priest. Normally the Catholic church wasn’t interested in accepting older candidates for study and ordination, but there were certain orders, in remote sections of the country, that secluded members and set them on that clerical path. It was in the dark that Will confided in me that he felt his everyday job was unfulfilling. He looked in the mirror, he told me, and saw an old man staring back at him. He couldn’t bear to leave his fifties without making a change. Even if it meant abandoning it all—friends, security, family—he wanted to spend the remaining years of his life committed to doing good works. He wanted to comfort those in need. I admired him for that. He was ready to take a big leap in his life—bigger than the divorce, bigger than his own admission, late in life, of his sexual desires. In my eyes, Will was heroic. He was going after what he really wanted. I wanted to know how he reconciled being gay with his Catholicism; I was not a fan of the Catholic church, then or now. It has always seemed to me to thrive on on the cultivation of fear and inadequacy. I didn’t agree with its policies or its politics, or even really with its tenets. He said that he doesn't believe God can make anything bad. Will regarded his sexuality as a gift to be enjoyed with the ones he loved, which always made me feel giddy inside. And yet it's a gift that he was willing to give up, along with the gifts of friends and family and music, in service to an entity he’d never seen or heard speak. There really was something admirable in that. Every once in a while I believe I'm graced with a glimpse of how different my life could be if I'd chosen another path. Now and again I meet people at forks in the road. I continue down the crazy thoroughfare I've chosen for myself, happy to be traveling it, for the most part. But I often turn back my head, see the smaller artery disappearing off in another direction, and I wonder what might have been. I could see so easily a life with Will. We both knew it would never happen. Yet in private moments I could imagine myself partnering with him and doing the things I did best—fashioning a home for him better than that apartment for the newly divorced. Making him meals. Encouraging him to do the things that were important for him. Yet when the things that were most important for him were the ones that would soon take him away, what was the use of the dream? During my time with Spencer, readers occasionally would accuse me of not understanding what it was like for him to love someone who was leaving. But I did, because ten years ago, I was in the same position. I knew that another fork in the road was rapidly approaching. The day was arriving, and soon, when Will would be waving goodbye to me from another car headed a different direction from my own. It really was an act of grace that made us friends. For a spell, he was the closest male friend I’ve ever had. Every time I think of Will it's still with an affection I don't even feel for most of my birth family. I didn’t want him to go. But I didn’t say anything. If I did, it would be as a joke—I’d tell him it would be a lot easier on me if he'd join one of those monastic communities that makes fudge or cheese, so at least I could get a good hamper from him every Christmas. Making jokes was easier than admitting to him how bereft I really felt at his eventual, but certain departure. Don’t ever suggest to me I didn’t know how Spencer felt, during our time together. Will, my dearest friend, my lover, each day was coming closer to making a choice to discard our friendship behind with the detritus of the rest of his life. It haunted me, though I spoke of it as little as possible. He knew, though. When I’d grow silent and teary-eyed lying next to him, thinking of it, I thought the dark would conceal my pain. Then I’d feel his hand searching for mine, warm and strong, giving me the comfort I never told him I needed. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Sometimes it strikes me that in the last thirty-five years I've gone from this: To this: The former photo, for those of you who were not born during the years of the Black Plague, is not some old phone handset. It's a Parker Brothers Merlin, an electronic toy that was popular during my early teen years. The Merlin played a whopping six games—trust me, that was a lot in those days. I remember there was a weird version of blackjack that went to thirteen instead of twenty-one, a tone and musical matching game like Merlin's archrival, Simon, a crude version of tic-tac-toe, and a magic square game that kept me occupied for long periods of time. I used Merlin in at least one similar way I use my iPhone at home; I carried it around with me and at night would crawl into bed and play its games until I fell asleep. Or at least until I was ready to masturbate and fall asleep. Times haven't changed. The one advantage of today's modern gadgetry, of course, is that it plays more than six games—and can run apps like Grindr. Not that I've installed Grindr yet, mind you. I've had a distinct aversion to it since its release—not because I'm morally opposed to it, or any such high-minded reason. Mostly I never installed it because in my old home, it was considered sport in most of the bars I'd visit to whip out one's smartphone, fire up Grindr, and laugh at the pictures and profiles of the poor sods who happened to be nearby. I always thought the sport was mean, and refused to join in. After all, these guys were putting their photos out there in good faith, not because they wanted to be roundly mocked (by guys afraid to do the same, no less!) for their sartorial choices or their facial expressions. Grindr is something of a necessary tool in the good gay man's arsenal up here in the northeast, though, so I'm working my way around to not flinching at the mention of it. And as a step in its direction, I've installed the app Scruff instead. Scruff works similarly—it tracks the GPS locations of its users when they log in, and then presents each with a list of the geographically-closest. I think the original intent of Scruff was to be an alternative Grindr for bears and other gay guys who aren't close to some smooth, cologne-model ideal . . . and there are a lot of fun and funky furry fellows on its rolls. I've had some nice conversations with guys on Scruff—and hello to you guys out there who've seen me (all over the country, no less) and recognized me and given me a shout-out—and may, emphasis on may, have even found someone there with whom I might be breaking my dry spell. We'll see on that one. If you see me Scruffin' around, though, sure sure to say hi. Let's get to some Formspring questions—and if you have any to ask me yourself, please do at their website. How old were you when you started barebacking? Also, how does it feel to be double penetrated, can you describe the experience? I started having sex in in the mid-nineteen-seventies, almost a decade before condoms started to become widely recommended for gay anal sex. So basically when I began having sex, it was all unprotected. I've never been on the bottom of a double penetration. I can say that I don't find it all that enjoyable as a top. I don't get much of a range of motion out of it, and since I'm almost always on the bottom of the pile, the only sensation I really get is of three hundred or more pounds of flesh on top of me. I will say that the guys who like being double-penetrated, really like it. Which do you prefer, public or private hookups? They both enjoyable. I'm apt to be more relaxed in private, however. What do you do when you're sad or angry? In a word, mope. Then I get a night's sleep and am usually back on my feet, after that. Are you fashion conscious? If you are, what labels or designers do you own the most of and what would you LIKE to own more of? I'm very fashion conscious in the sense that I tend to be very careful and knowledgable about the types of garments that flatter me best. I'm anti-advertising, however, and refuse to be a walking billboard for the brands that insist on affixing logos or their brand name on the exterior of every piece of clothing I own. When it comes to designers, most of my dress shirts tend to be Calvin Klein; most of my other clothing tends to be Banana Republic. They suit me. My shoes tend to be Converse Chucks, or Kenneth Coles. Do you believe in THE ONE? I believe that every person has multiple opportunities within his or her lifetime to find a great deal of happiness with another person. I believe it's possible to choose one of them and attempt to make a lifetime of it. I also believe it's possible to establish many strong relationships over the course of the years. So no, I don't believe in the one, singular. I believe in the abundance of life's opportunities. What are some good things that come with your move? It's easy, once you're in an established routine, to wish from time to time for a blank slate. Some new beginnings. Not everyone gets that opportunity, but I will. I'm especially happy about the thought of making new friends. I'll also have more access to New York City in my new home, which is also exciting. When hooking up, how old is too old? I've encountered men over sixty-five who are very hot, virile, and highly attractive. And I've encountered men of the same age who are run-down and not that attractive to me. It's not simply the number of days one's lived that make a good sexual partner. There are other factors as well. Sexiest part of the body to be kissed? For me, it's the back of my neck and my shoulders, or anywhere on my upper back. It's a sensitive zone for me, and the sensation of being touched, licked, or kissed there makes me melt. What underwear turn you on the the most? The underwear that some guy has shucked off onto my bedroom floor. Do you like eating another guy's cum? Absolutely I do—unless he has foul-tasting semen. Then I'm not so wild about it. There are certain things that make cum taste really foul, like smoking, or excessive coffee drinking, or not enough hydration in the system. Are you the beneficiary of a trust fund? God, no. I make less money than a McDonald's clerk, doing what I do. Are you cut or uncut and are you happy about that? Do you feel parents should wait so the boy can decide for himself whether he wants to be cut? I'm cut, and don't mind it--but I don't really know what it's like from the other side. I don't necessarily understand the justifications for circumcision in general, however, and would never subject any of my male children to it. It's genital mutilation, plain and simple. The objections of cleanliness strike me as overrated; there are all kinds of places on the body that can filled with gunk. If a kid can be trained to keep his belly button clean, he can clean out his foreskin. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post is a continuation of Getting a Room, and will itself be continued.) “Hi.” Will stood before me bare-footed. One of his compact, fleshy hands was thrust deep into the pocket of his athletic shorts. The other lingered on the knob of his front door. He wore a red T-shirt. Red was one of his colors. It suited his dark skin; it directed the eyes to his body, his ass, his face. Will was a full head shorter than I, and he looked up at me with long, scared eyes. “I’m really glad you came.” In afterthought, he added, “Welcome to my home.” It sounded like the kind of line he’d been taught by a parent, as a child, oddly formal in the face of what I’d come for. “Thanks,” I said, stepping inside. It was not a fancy place. The apartment complex might as well have been named The By-the-Highway Hideaway for Newly-Divorced Men. The rent here was cheap, the apartments cramped and dark, their windows occluded by hulking air conditioning units and the despair of the single. I had to edge my way in through the narrow hallway and into the cramped living room, where on the second-best furniture from his marriage Will had strewn newspapers and framed photographs of his sons. There wasn’t much in the way of decor, or frills. Everything was functional, and sparse, and obviously salvaged. “So,” he said. His dark eyes rested on me, mournful. “I hope you didn’t have any problems getting away.” I hadn’t. I swallowed, and licked my lips, slightly nervous. “No,” I said. “I didn’t.” “And you can . . . stay all night?” I nodded. It was the year 2000 and I’d been in my relationship for a good decade by that point. I’d never once broken the first and foremost of my own rules; that is, I’d never spent the night, the entire night, with anyone else. I’d had a few encounters from which I’d stumbled home at one or two in the morning. When I’d gone traveling, I’d stayed out mighty late, or had people back to my hotel room until well after midnight. But never before had I ever intentionally slept over with anyone, all night long, in a premeditated fashion. (Not until Spencer would I do it again.) “You don’t have to,” he said. “We can mess around, then you can leave if you need to. I don’t know what you told—“ “Will?” I interrupted. He blinked, and stopped mid-sentence. “Shut up.” I pulled him to me, tipped my head so I wouldn’t collide with his baseball cap, and then kissed him deeply. We went upstairs to his bedroom. When he opened the doors, I was taken aback by the heat inside. At some point before my arrival, Will had collected every candle he’d owned, and probably had picked up a few at the dollar store, lit them, and placed them around the room. Tea lights shone from the dresser in massed bunches. Fat chunky pillars adorned the television. On the nightstands were an assortment of white, waxen lights burning at different heights. The bed itself was adorned with a coverlet that was turned down to expose its homespun border of periwinkles. I blinked in astonishment. It was really one of the loveliest things that anyone had done for me. “Oh my gosh,” I said, turning to him. He looked sheepish. For such a handsome and buff guy, Will honestly had very little in the way of self-confidence. “Is it okay?” he asked. “I wanted it to be perfect for you.” I melted. “It’s very okay!” I told him. In some ways, it was difficult to believe he was fifteen years my senior at that point. Case in point: his next statement was, “I’ve just never . . . you know. Had intercourse with a man before. Like we did last week. And I was hoping this time I could . . . do it right.” I swallowed, hard. My stomach seemed to have hatched hummingbirds. “I want you inside me again,” I told him at last, once I could speak. “I want you to fuck me.” “Do you want me to put on a condom this time?” He’d probably gone out and bought them in all sizes, colors, and varieties, if I knew him. “No,” I said. “I want to feel you in me. Nothing between us.” He nodded. Obviously he wanted that, too. I’d hosed out earlier, and made myself sweet-smelling. He lay me down on the bed and undressed me, his short and strong fingers tugging at my buttons, pulling down the zipper, gently unlacing my boots. Then it was his turn to remove his clothing. He did it both with a charming self-consciousness, knowing my eyes were upon him, and the grace of a stripper. His body was beautiful. His dick was angry and hard, and already laced with pre-cum. When he climbed between my legs, they automatically parted for him. He kissed me deeply, as his hips pushed against mine, raising them up so that my hole was exposed for him. He didn’t bother to eat me out. He didn’t know how, probably. He’d told me that his experience with guys had been limited to a couple of blow jobs and a lot of fantasy; he hadn’t even watched any porn, at that point. Married men, though—divorced men too—know how to fuck. He didn’t need me to teach him. I’m not usually fond of Vaseline as a lube, but it was all he had. I’m not usually able to relax enough to be fucked without being eaten and loosened slowly. That night, though, his desire and mine were enough. The candlelight was enough. My ass rose to meet his cock, once I was face-down on the bed and he had gently arranged the pillows to support my chest and head. He pushed his red and angry flesh against my hole. It parted, and he slid inside without effort, and without any pain for me. I remember that night vividly. I felt as if my hole were afire with him in it. He penetrated deeply and without any of the awkwardness or pain we’d had during the aborted fuck at Mark’s place the week before. Because we had the entire night, neither of us was in a hurry. He fucked me slowly, pausing between thrusts, his cock rigid and insistent inside a hole that miraculously responded as if it were fucked regularly. We didn’t talk much. I let out small, contented sighs. He would kiss my neck and grunt to himself with every thrust. From time to time he’d pause to wipe away the sweat from my forehead, caused by the heat of the massed candles and our bodies. Never did he completely stop the rhythm of in and out, in and out, deeply in and slowly out. For close to an hour he fucked me, several times bringing me close to orgasm without touching myself. I’d seem to get there, and cry out to beg for him to make it happen, but then that delicious sensation of dissolving and dissipating would ebb away until his dick brought me to that point yet again with another dozen or so sharp thrusts. “I’m getting close,” he finally told me. I could have told him that. No longer was he taking his time. He was battering away at my hole, holding himself up by the forearms and using his hips as a jackhammer. “I’ll pull out,” he promised. “Please don’t,” I begged him, genuinely afraid he might. “I really should,” he whispered. “I don’t want to put you in danger.” This was from the man whose sexual experience outside his marriage had been on the receiving end of two blow jobs. I could live with that level of risk. “I want you to stay in,” I begged him. “I want you to shoot in me.” “Really?” he asked. I knew that if I looked over my shoulder, I’d see surprise in those large eyes. But I was too much the cunt at the moment to turn. I wanted his release as much as he did. I buried my forehead in the pillow and waited for it. My ass clenched at his dick, willing it to shoot. I could tell the moment he was on the verge. My hole ached as his dick swelled and buried itself to its deepest point. I had to catch my breath, because he seemed to grow to twice his previous size as the first blast of semen erupted from him. “I think I’m in love with you,” he blurted out as he came, and then followed it up with an anguished cry. It was a howl of pain and pleasure, of need unleashed after so long. It was the first orgasm he’d ever had from fucking a man. I knew he’d remember it for the rest of his life. I would, too. “Don’t pull out,” I begged him, when he was quiet and still atop me. I felt him nod against my shoulder blades. It was a few moments before he answered, “I’m sorry that I—“ “I love you too,” I told him, shushing the apology before it came. I didn’t want to hear he was sorry for saying that. “Don’t. Just don’t.” I sighed, contented, knowing that his cock was softening inside me. “There’s never enough love in this world. Don’t regret having it for anyone.” “Okay,” said the strong and built man in a very small and quiet voice. Then, after a moment more, he reached for my hands, to hold them tight. His voice was sleepy when he asked, “Did I do all right?” “Oh god,” I whispered back, squeezing his fingers. “More than that.” He rumbled, happy to hear it. A few moments later, he was asleep, his dick and sperm still in me. I lay like that, with a hundred and seventy pounds of fur and muscle atop and in me, for what seemed like an eternity. The room was stuffy and their heat and the human blanket were making me sweat again. My ass was beginning to ache; it hadn’t been used like that in an awfully long time. I had difficulty breathing, and was being pulverized into the mattress. But you know what? It was perfect, and I was perfectly happy. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This is a continuation of Will, from yesterday.) “Holy cow,” growled Matt in my ear, in the middle of Detroit’s Gold Coast bar. “Get a fucking room already.” It was over a decade ago, and nominally a bunch of us who’d met at the gay.com social had gone out on this particular Saturday night to watch the strippers. I didn’t even notice the beefy boys aimlessly gyrating from the poles onstage, clad in nothing but their socks and underwear. It was the vogue in the Detroit male strip circuit back then for the strippers to stuff their shorts with a dildo, at both ends of which they would occasionally wrap their hands and expose a latex inch or two. The more nearsighted (or beer-sighted) among the crowd would think they were getting a flash of dick, the strippers were keeping it legal, and everyone was happy. Will and I, however, weren’t looking at the strippers. We weren’t hoping for flashes of their faux dicks. We were pressed up against the wall, lips locked and tongues so tangled they felt like the crazy roots of water-thirsty swamp trees, grown in a twist. Almost more guys were watching us than the bored strippers. Will’s dick was rock-hard. I hadn’t seen it yet, but my hand rubbed up and down its length beneath his jeans. He, likewise, fondled mine. His fingers tickled at the underside, and tweaked the head, poking and prodding to find all every outline, every ridge, almost every vein. Our bodies were so pressed together that our sweat had turned to glue. Without affection, Matt yanked me away from Will. I was dazed. We both were, We’d had eyes only for each other when we’d met at the bar that night. Two weeks had passed since the night he and I had made out at the Eagle. We’d met to make out in between the previous Friday night, at another of the local bars. On the weeknights, after we both got home from work, we’d meet on gay.com and talk and flirt. The talking we saved for online. In person, we just wanted to mack on each other. Matt shook me until I look at him. “Go to my place,” he said, almost angrily. He took the keys and pressed them in my hands. “Get him to drive you there. I’ll drive your car back when I’m done here so you don’t have to worry about it. Just get it out of your fucking system already.” The implication was that everyone was sick of watching me make out with the man I thought was the handsomest in the room. I thought it over for about five seconds, agreed, and ran out with Will to the parking lot. Back at the house we stripped down almost immediately. Will’s body was even more perfect than I could have imagined. His pecs were enormous, his stomach flat and ridged with definition, his waist narrow. He was a massive slab of muscle frosted with dark, thick hair—like one of those athletes from the Jockey underwear ads over which I used to masturbate as a kid. His dick jutted out angrily, like some kind of rock projection from the flat face of an ancient mountain. It wasn’t large—a good solid six inches—but it was beautiful. It was his. And I was seeing it for the first time. Will looked at me with something in his eyes almost akin to fear. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Is it okay?” “Oh god,” I told him. “It’s more than okay.” He was beautiful, and I wanted him more than anything. The only clothing he had left were a pair of ankle-high white socks that he removed, and his baseball cap. I reached up and took it from his head. He tried to stop me for a moment, then let me. Beneath the baseball cap he was balding. Not just a little thin spot. He had a pretty advanced case of male pattern baldness, and it was obvious it mortified him. Again he looked at me with fear in his eyes, as if afraid I might run off because his only remaining hair was a short dark black fringe around his head. I looked him in the eye. “You are so fucking beautiful,” I told him. To show him how I felt, I got down in the middle of that strange bedroom and sucked his dick, taking it in my throat to the base and letting my tongue and cheeks cling to its slick skin as I moved back and forth over it. I loved the taste of him, and the scent of his sweat and pubes and of the powder he would apply to his skin after a workout. I made love to his dick to make him gasp with pleasure, and every sharp intake of his breath was my reward. Somehow we moved to the bed, where I continued to suck him. I alternated my lips between his mouth and his dick, making him groan with every new pleasure I invented for him. I tweaked his nipples, and rubbed his thighs, tugged at his nuts, and even let my fingertips glide across the forest of hair growing on his hole. “I want to do something,” he finally said, pushing me away. He looked me in the eye. “I want to do something with you, and I don’t know if I can.” “What?” I asked. I would’ve worshipped his feet, shaved myself for him, crawled across gravel on my knees if it meant I could make him feel good, at that moment. “I want to . . . to . . . .” He couldn’t say the words. I urged him on. “I want to be inside you. Anally.” He almost whispered the last word. I hadn’t been fucked in a while at that point, but it was a damned sight closer on the horizon than it is now. My last bottom experience had been maybe a year and a half before. I didn’t care. I wanted it. “Yes,” I told him. “But I don’t know how,” he said. I didn’t understand, so he explained. “I haven’t done it before.” “You haven’t fucked a guy before?” He shook his head at my question. “Have you been fucked?” “No. I don’t think I’d like that. I think I’d like to fuck, though. I know I want to fuck you.” He had a way of talking that was simple. He wasn't stupid, but any means. His sentences were direct, and honest, and sometimes sounded as if they should have been spoken by a child. If I hadn't already been naked, he would have charmed off my pants. We looked at each other on that stranger’s bed. I took his hand. “You know how to do it,” I told him. “You’ll know, once you’re inside.” I pulled him to me, and kissed him. I maneuvered myself onto my back and managed to get him on top of me, so that my hole was teasing his dick. His meat hardened even more, if that was possible. Precum was flowing liberally from the tip. When he seemed anxious to begin, I opened the bedside table and was lucky to find some lube in there. Together we spread it over his dick and into my hole, and I flipped over on my stomach. “Just go in slow,” I asked him. “We’ll make it work.” I think Will tried to follow my instructions, but I saw stars before my eyes when he jabbed his way into the hole. “Too fast!” I gasped, holding him still. I panted and began to sweat a little as I attempted to accommodate him. Eventually the sharp pain receded. “Just go in and out,” I begged him. “Just a little bit. Then you can start to go deeper.” I’m not sure whether it was the angle, or the fact I hadn’t been fucked in a while, or whether he was simply too hard and too aroused to be gentle, but every thrust felt like a knife up my ass. I bit my lip and grunted, trying to relax but finding it difficult. “I’m doing it wrong,” he said. But his hips didn’t stop. “No,” I said. “It’s me. Don’t stop. We’ll get it.” “I’m doing it wrong,” he repeated. He sounded mournful. I didn’t give a fuck about the pain. I just wanted him. “Just fuck me,” I whispered. “Fuck me. Please.” He picked up the pace, thrusting faster and harder. “Do you like it? Do you like my ass?” I wanted to know. “Yes,” he whispered. He sounded as if he were in church. “I love it. I love your ass. Don’t make me stop.” “You don’t have to stop,” I told him, glad at what he’d said. “Don’t stop.” It still hurt, but he fucked me on and on for several minutes. I’d just started to relax and enjoy the ride when I saw a flash of light. The bedroom was mostly dark, and I’d though that perhaps there was lightning outside. But then I saw the flash again, and heard a whirring. I turned my head, blearily looked up through the bedroom door, and saw Matt standing there with a digital camera in his hand. He snapped another photo. “What are you doing?” I asked. The flash and the camera, the sudden and unexpected presence of another man in the room, broke the spell. Will stopped what he was doing and peered up as well. His hips stopped their sweet motion. “You guys look hot,” he said. He held out the camera. “Want to see?” Will rolled off. Embarrassed, he started to look for his socks and underwear. “You guys want a three-way?” I still have those photos from that night. I dislike them, because I was carrying more weight back then, and because with Will on top of me, my mid-section is distended and squashed to grotesque proportions. He looks hairy and muscular and tan and compact; I look like an oversized, albino gummy bear that some giant thumb has poked in the belly, forced to a bloated extreme. I hated Matt for taking the photos at that moment and interrupting what was a very hot fuck. But I’m grateful to have those only pictures of Will and I together, so I can remember the moment we first connected, with him deep inside my hole. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This is the first in a shorter series of entries. Shorter than the Earl series, anyway.) I’d like to take advantage of my down time to write out the story of Will. He was an important lover of mine. A gentle man and a gentleman both. Will was a man with whom I was in love very deeply, and who for a time was even a party of my family. And despite all that, our relationship was a bittersweet comedy of bad timing and misunderstandings that ended, if not horribly, at least not well. There was a time about a dozen years ago when gay.com was not the blueberry-colored atrocity it is now. Now I find it a slow, empty wasteland in which all but a few rooms are empty, and in which no one chats save through private messages. Around the turn of the millennium, however, the service was new, and young, and full of energy. The local and state rooms were often doubled up on capacity. Users could make their own special interests rooms, and those were full of usual and funky fetishes. The chat bots were spamming people to follow links and buy natural Viagra at well below pharmaceutical rates, and there were any number of gay.com-appointed room monitors lurking about to bounce out guys who abused the site’s rules. I loved the local rooms not for cruising . . . though admittedly I did some of that . . . but for the socializing. I actually made friends in those rooms. Friends who were my social companions for most of the following decade. One of the more active chatters in the local room organized a gay.com party within a couple of months of my establishing a presence there. It was held in the basement of a local bar. Guys brought potluck appetizers, wore nametags, associated screen names with faces, and had a great time socializing and getting to know each other. There were a few weirdo types who lurked at the bar’s periphery, refusing to don a tag although it was clear they were hoping to see who was whom, but even a few of those eventually warmed up to the social fun and joined in. The party was such a success that we held a second one a few weeks later, at a larger and busier bar.It was there that I met Will for the first time. He was introduced to me as part of a pack of people, and he stood at its back, hands in the pockets of his tight jeans. He was older than me—about fifty-three at the time, though I would never have guessed his age. To me he was astonishingly handsome. His eyes were the first feature of his I noticed. They were large and dark, almost perfectly round. Anime-character eyes set deep in his face, of a clear and uncomplicated brown that was almost like toffee. His body was astonishingly fit. His waist was narrow and snugly contained in denim. His chest was buff and muscular. His arms were perfect specimens of ropy muscle, and his forearms were taut and covered in fur. He wore a baseball cap and a T-shirt that hugged tightly every curve and definition of his chest, and stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. When we were introduced, he just nodded at me, and averted his eyes. I thought to myself, Stuck up. Then I tried to think no more about it, though I found myself looking at him from across the room and wishing. Just wishing that I had a chance. I remembered him by his screen name, though, and when I was on gay.com in the evenings sometimes I’d see him there. His profile didn’t say much about him beyond his stats and his age, and I never saw him speak in the room. I assumed he was too busy having cyber sex with some other jock stud and tried to dismiss all thoughts of him from my mind. He was so good looking, though. And those eyes. It was a little difficult not to think back at the sight of him, so easy to rest my eyes upon. I saw him next at the Detroit Eagle, which locals referred to as the leather bar, though it was rarely any such thing. More of a denim bar with the occasional flash of leather. It was a slow Friday night, and my new friends were crowded downstairs, in the middle, ordering drinks. I was sitting at a bar stool, sipping on a Diet Coke, when I saw him. He was wearing another of those clinging, elastic T-shirts of his that hugged his pecs, and a pair of shorts that gave him the appearance of just having stepped out of the gym, or some porn flick nominally set at a gym. A Detroit Tigers baseball cap covered his brow; its brim curved along the same arc as his thick eyebrows. When he was reintroduced to me, he pulled his hand from his right pocket, thrust it at me, then buried back in its warm depth once he’d done. Silly as it sounds, I was almost afraid to look at him. He was so handsome in a way that appealed deep down to my core. It warmed my heart simply to look at the guy, to let my eyes trip over the handsome chin, the blunt nose. I looked at his brawn and cool, conscious good looks and immediately thought, way out of your league, dude. But he was still so pretty to think about. My friends liked to move around the Eagle at that time. I’d learned that it was pointless to drift to the patio unless there were a crowd, or to stand in the balcony where no one went. So I stuck to my bar stool. I was surprised that Will lingered in the vicinity. He stood with his back against the railing a few feet away, sipping on a rum and Coke, while I occasionally cast sidelong glances at him and mentally kicked myself for being so bashful and plain. I was even more surprised when Will sat down in the chair next to mine. “So, Rob, what does your screen name mean?” I was surprised he even remembered my actual name. Astonished, even. He looked at me sideways from those toffee-brown eyes, studying me. He was a quiet man, I realized. Here was I, who had been accused throughout my life of stand-offishness more than anyone I knew simply because I was quiet and observant, thinking the same of someone with similar traits. Immediately I felt awkward, and guilty. I told him that my gay.com screen name was a minor character from a Shakespearean play. “Shakespeare,” he said, nodding. For a moment I feared he was going to be derisive, or say something that proved he wasn’t as high-fallutin’ as I. Instead, in a soft, deep voice, he launched into a story about how, when he’d been still married a few years before, he’d carried his two kids to a production of Shakespeare in a local park, and how he’d been the only one of the three of them who’d remained awake. “So what do you do?” he asked. I was still working full-time in education at the time; I hadn’t yet begun my artistic career. I told him my job. “Do you like it?” he asked. He was so serious in his question that for the first time in a very long time, I was taken aback. “Not really,” I admitted. He nodded, as if he’d known it all along. “So why do you keep doing it?” “I need the money.” “What would you be doing if money wasn’t the issue?” He was so interesting, and his questions kept me so off-guard, that I couldn’t help but respond with the absolute truth instead of something polite and circumstantial. I told him of my artistic ambitions, which I’d been deferring because of my career in education. “Are you meant to do that?” he asked. I said that I thought I was. “It seems to me that you should be doing what you’re meant to do, plain and simple.” He said it with such conviction that I began to believe it myself. “Are you doing what you're meant to do?” I asked. He was facing me by then. He’d left his drink on the bar. His knees were open and almost touching mine. It was tough not to look down and stare at the hairy, muscular calves blossoming from the tops of his sneakers. He let loose the first real smile I'd ever seen from him, exposing his slightly crooked teeth, and he shook his head. "What are you meant to do, then?" We were close enough that I could smell the rum on his breath. “I might be a little drunk right now,” he said. “But only a little. And you are very, very cute, and I really want to kiss you very badly.” I was stunned enough by his words that I couldn’t move. “May I?” I had enough presence of mind to nod. It was a slight thing, a bare tilt of the head, but it was permission enough for him. He leaned forward and cupped the back of my head with his hand, and pulled me close to him. His lip was covered with a five o’clock stubble that ground into my then-clean-shaven upper lip. He kissed me hard, his lips pulling mine, his teeth nipping gently at the flesh, his tongue dancing through the opening and into me. In my memory it lives on as one of those movie kisses, one of those romance novel kisses that set my body afire. What it mostly did, however, was give me a massive boner in my pants. I leaned into the kiss and returned it. Soon we were making out at the bar, not caring who watched. “Come here,” he said at last, pulling me to my feet. He tugged me toward what the Eagle called their dance floor, a part of the first floor that was dark and had a few flashing lights to impart a sense of conviviality over what was really a gloomy area covered by the balcony. It was dark, though, and we could stand body against body, boner against boner, my scrawny ribcage against his manly, muscular chest, making out like our lives depended on it. I didn’t think. I didn’t over-consider what was happening. I just kissed him, and enjoyed every fucking minute of it. Our friends came back in at some point to look for us, then saw us making out on the dance floor, and left us alone. Or really, they sat across the bar and talked about us, but at least it was out of earshot. For a half hour or more we locked lips and let our tongues get acquainted, until at last, out of breath and thirsty, we came up for air. He held my hands and looked up at me. “You wanted to know what I’m meant to do?” he asked. I nodded. “Well. I’m finalizing plants to leave the country, and move, so that I can become a priest.” After the unexpected make-out session, it seemed so completely random a thing to say that I could only blink. “Really?” I finally asked. “Really.” He licked his lips and looked at me. “Does that put you off?” “I’m not single,” I blurted out. “Does that put you off?” He shook his head. I shook mine. Then, after a moment of looking in each other’s eyes, we started to make out again. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I really hate to have to write this particular edition of the off-the-cuff Sunday remarks I make before I get to a roundup of questions of formspring.me. But some stuff this week has made me decide I need to draw a line. One of the reasons I keep making my journal entries available on a public blog is that I like the interaction with the readers. I enjoy hearing from the guys for whom some of my stories resonate, or who get a measure of strength or even guidance from some of the advice asked of me. Guys write me to tell me their stories, and share information with me that they feel they can't tell anyone else. That's a fucking honor. I love that. What I don't particular love are the nutballs who come out of the woodwork and make things a misery. I'm used to them personally, with the nasty little comments they make in the middle of the night—none of which make much sense on any logical level, but apparently serve as some kind of outlet for the clinically mentally ill to release some of their anger and frustration, trolling for some kind of reaction. Where I've got to draw the line, though, is when the trolls start emailing others of my readers and harassing them. I've had it happen twice this month—once around the time I was moving, when someone started targeting commenters who had provided links to profiles with addresses, asking them all kinds of questions—had they met me? Did they know if I was for real? Why were they commenting on my blog if they hadn't met me? I took care of that matter privately. Then this week, another fellow with the email address of dudebud_@hotmail.com started sending some pretty vile emails to one of my readers I'd met. He said that it sickened him how I cheated on my wife and how I was lying about my serostatus, was HIV-positive, and probably had infected my reader. The writer went on to imply that I had infected him. Then he stated, in a way that made no sense whatsoever based on the previous statement, that he really wanted to sleep with me. Then he pumped the reader for personal information about me. Now, the vast majority of my readers are going to have more allegiance to me than to some random poison pen. My reader naturally forwarded on the correspondence to me. I wrote the freak and asked him to desist, at which point he backtracked and attempted to convince me that he hadn't been talking about me, but the behavior of gay men in general. No, sir. You were pretty specific. You just didn't like to be called out. So here's a general statement I ask all my readers to consider. If you are a reader of this blog who has an issue with it, or with my behavior, simply don't read me any longer. It really is that easy. Unfollow me. Remove me from your feed and bookmarks. Go somewhere else you find more pleasing. Or if you wish to engage in a dialogue about it, write me. Don't go bugging my readers, whose only crime is reading and writing the occasional comment. Furthermore, what really upsets me is how obsessed this individual—and other such individuals who've targeted me before—is with my serostatus. The fact that he stigmatizes persons living with HIV really disturbs me more than anything personal he has to say about me (he might as well say I have cooties, for all I care). The mentality of Mr. Dudebud_ is the same as that as the fellow who wrote in a question demanding a vial of my semen to test it for HIV (and I suspect they may well be the same person). The intent to shame someone based on their HIV status betrays small-mindedness and a huge degree of ignorance. It demeans the experiences of people worldwide. It demeans the experiences of many of my friends, lovers, and family. I won't tolerate such small-mindedness in my comments or in emails to me. And I definitely won't sit still when someone goes out of his way to harass my readers with it. Some of you will probably disagree with my decision to print the guy's email address here. But here's what my late mother used to say: if you don't want your dirty laundry hanging for everyone to see, don't come over and shit on my sheets. Now, let's get to some questions. How often are you tested for stds? (no malicious intent) Regularly. Beyond that is only the business of myself and my immediate sexual partners. You've talked in the past about concerns over men who don't or can't see how attractive they are. It seems to be a common thread, even in your more recent entries. Do you have any suggestions on how men should go about recovering their self-esteem? If I had the answer, I'd have overcome my own self-esteem issues! A lot of my personal frustration with men who don't understand the gifts they have to offer the word arises from the persistent way in which they deflect compliments or attention to their positive attributes. Reflexive it might be, but it's a rude instinct that not only dishonors the compliment, but both the person who gave it, and the gifts that the guy has been given in his life. Basically I'd like to shake some people and tell them to take the fucking compliment. Acknowledge it. Say thank you for it, politely. Don't try to explain why one doesn't deserve it, or why it's misapplied, or why the giver of the compliment is misinformed or too ignorant to appreciate why the compliment was wrong, wrong, wrong. Instead, try to understand what the person admired to begin with, and accept that perhaps it really does apply. And yes, I include myself in the list of guys I want to shake, from time to time. LOL@ Steve Buscemi playing Jim. What did Earl see in Jim? He sounds awful. It's difficult for an outsider to speculate what makes someone's relationship last. It could have been habit. Earl might have stayed with him out of fear that Jim would blab about his activities. He might have kept Jim on out of obligation, or guilt of what he'd made of him. Or they might've actually loved each other on some level. If that were indeed the case, I wasn't astute enough really to see it, but I was only a kid at the time. if i was tied up, naked and left on your doorstep.... what would you do Throw a blanket over you and notify the local authorities, most likely. The hairier the better? Not necessarily. I like hairy men. I like smooth men, too. I don't limit my attraction to a guy based solely on a genetic inheritance over which he has no control. Is there anyone, famous or not, that you would consider switching teams for? If so, who? The question in which I'm more interested is who, celebrity or not, is considering switching teams for me. Do you have any piercings? If so, above or below the neck? I do not. I've considered it below the neck, though. But needles frighten me. Have you ever regretted anything you ever posted online? Not photos or anything of that sort. There've been a few times I've gotten upset and regretted posting angry words in various places—but not so much because of what I've said, as for letting myself get that upset to begin with. I really want to see a pic of your ass. Not spread eagle or anything, just a nice pic. Do you have that sexy little patch of hair on your lower back? -J No, I don't believe I have that patch of hair. My butt--what there is of it--is nothing special, trust me. What's that one food you hate so much that its very sight or smell makes you sick? Cooked liver makes me queasy. I overthink where it's been. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m going to be talking about my dry stretch, again. You’ve been warned. My experience trying to meet guys here in my new state has been, at the very least, frustrating. I’m in the most populous county of Connecticut, and I can’t find a damned guy with whom to hook up. And it’s been making me lose faith a little. In my mojo. In my modest looks. In the god who would strand me here for such a trial. It really hasn’t been for lack of trying, honestly. The area has no gay bars, and I don’t have a firm enough grasp of geography here so I haven’t gone to any of the bookstores. So I’ve been limited to online interactions, and they’ve all been disappointments. My profiles get plenty of attention. But the follow-through is zilch. I made a morning date with a married guy who wanted badly to be fucked, for example. Oh, his emails to me were case studies of boner-inducing promises of untold sensuality. He seemed sincere, which is something that most cybersexers never manage. I logged on at our appointed date time the next morning, saw him online, dropped him a note and waited for him to tell me what time he wanted to come over. I have a stomach ache, he wrote back. Sorry. Then I never heard from him again. I had a guy who asked if I was looking. Yes, I told him. I was looking and available then. Did I want to come over, he wanted to know? His place was free and he had all morning to fuck. Yes, I replied. I wanted to come over. He wrote back immediately with, Sorry, I can’t host. I went back to his previous emails to make certain I hadn't misread him. No, he said he was able to have me over. I’m still trying to figure out that one. Another guy said he was driving a truck out of one of the boroughs up through Connecticut along 95, and wanted me breed him. Was I available to fuck him in his truck? Yes, I told him. I was available all afternoon from twelve-thirty up until about six, and was more than willing to drive to one of the rest stops along I-95 in order to meet him. I gave him my cell number and got an enthusiastic response from the guy. Never heard from him. I agreed to meet with an older guy from Manhunt who invited me over after he asked if I was free. I told him I was free all morning, and would love to meet. I’d brushed my teeth and dressed and had my sandals on in anticipation of getting his address when he messaged me back: Sorry, my boyfriend just woke up. Guess we can’t meet now. That’s another one I’m still trying to figure out. I’ve had guys from BBRT—including two of my readers—tell me they’d be available and when I’d set aside a block of time for them, they wouldn’t call or surface online. I’ve given out my address and cell number to a couple of men who said they were on the way over, and who never showed. I had one guy message me on Adam4Adam asking how I was doing, and I replied with Good morning. How are you?, only to have him sent me a hostile rant a half-hour later about how rude I was and how he was going to unfollow me on Twitter. Why, I still can't figure out. These examples are just the tip of the iceberg. I kind of figured I wasn’t going to be playing around with guys the week before and perhaps the week after my move. I’ve been in Connecticut a solid month now, though, and I still haven’t met anyone. No, I take that back. One guy who was explicit and lurid about wanting me to fuck and fist him online insisted on meeting for coffee before hooking up. I met him at a Starbucks and watched in amazement as he squirmed and avoided any mention aloud of why we were meeting. The guy was as incapable of having a frank adult discussion of sex as he would’ve been of lifting a twenty-ton tank. He was barely able to carry on a conversation with me, and it limped along until I suggested we call it a day—and then he ran to his phone and began to send me all manner of messages about how hot I was and how he wanted me to do countless nasty things to him. Probably won’t be happening. I’ve done precious little about the situation than dip my toe in the waters again and again. And complain. I’ve honestly tried not to be tiresome about it, but holy crap. This place is either crazy, or I am seriously out of step. It was yesterday, though, that I was complaining to Mikey about how long it had been since I’d gotten to fool around. Because if you can’t complain to your big brother, who else can you complain to, right? And here’s what he had to say: Here's what I think about the not getting laid issue. Please don't be offended little brother ....... I have never seen YOU not be able to get laid .. you just have that going on .. you have charm and you have all the right stuff. I think it has more to do with your choice being taken away about being in your element here in Michigan .. I have a feeling that you still have some anger about that and as much as you love your mate you were on solid, secure, stable and yes popular ground here! I think you're still a little pissed and hurt that your choice was taken away over reasons that .. Yes .. monetarily things maybe a little more secure but it's still tied to the relationship and not your independence. So .. how does that show up .. no sex ... indecision ... fear .. does that make sense??? Mikey has the ability to make me really think, sometimes. I disagreed with him on one point, though, and wrote back to say that I had absolutely no fear about meeting anyone here, and certainly wasn’t the indecisive one. No not fear and indecision about fucking little brother ... fear and indecision about letting yourself settle there .. like giving in to something that you didn't really want and feeling like if things were a little more balanced that it is a decision you would have never gone along with. That’s when his point really hit home. There’ve been other times I’ve had dry stretches, whether by chance or by choice, that didn’t bother me quite so much. I’ve been letting this one rule my mood. It’s been getting me angry to the point of tearfulness. It’s fueled a lot of resentment, and obsession. Mikey managed to put his finger on a matter more central to the issue: I was using the dry spell to fuel some latent upset about having to move at all. He was totally right about that. The metropolitan New York City area was the absolute last place in the country I wanted to move. I can’t think of anywhere save for maybe San Francisco that’s more expensive, and don’t know anyplace more congested. I always try to regard things in the best possible light and acted more than happy when the spouse’s job offer came through. I was a trouper through the long separation and all the work on the house and on packing and moving that I had to do myself. Now I’m here, and like Mikey said, perhaps on a certain unconscious level, I’ve been pissed about it. Pissed to have to leave behind my network, my friends, my sweet friendship with Spencer. If popularity is what I had, I’m pissed at having to start over. Perhaps very deeply, I’m pissed that my choices in the matter were stomping all over a loved one’s dream job, versus moving to an area of the country in which I never wanted to live. And somehow all those resentments are manifesting in my dry spell. I honestly haven’t been aware that I’m sabotaging myself, but perhaps I am in subtle ways—perpetuating a state of sexlessness for myself so that I can exercise my petulance so that it comes out as a grudge against this new place and the men who dwell in it. Mikey makes me sound like a child having a tantrum for something silly and random, but he’s right. I’ve been channeling all my frustrations and worry and fear and anger into this one obsession—the dry spell—and letting it overwhelm my waking moments. I can endure a few weeks without a hookup. The bigger issues underneath, like my apparent grudge at being uprooted, I need to work out at home. Awareness, though, is the first step to recovery. I’ve decided to keep my big brother’s wisdom in mind as I face the drought. On a certain level I still think the men of Connecticut are crazy fuckers, but I’m going to start observing how the drought might be of my own making. I’m going to relax, to enjoy the season, and to stop letting a fruitless hunt rule my mood. Likewise, I’m going to refuse to let fester any unhappinesses related to the move. Once I’ve set those things right, my sex life will resume as normal. If there’s anything I’ve tried to put across in this blog, which I’ve always presented to you guys with warts and blemishes and all, it’s that sex is not a simple matter of inserting object A into slot B. It’s not hydraulics and mechanics. It’s a messy amalgam of emotions and motivations and fears and desire that often results in something joyous, and just as often into something odd or messy. I’m no more proficient of steering away from the latter as anyone else; I’ve never pretended otherwise. So thank you, Mikey. You little brother is grateful for the insight. And it’s nice to know that when my head’s a little muddled and my feelings in a mess, I’ve got a big brother to help straighten me out. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The roadside waitress didn’t know any better. She was like an archetype from a distant era even in the nineteen-seventies, with her pink uniform trimmed with checkered pockets, her hair piled atop her head in hard, impenetrable curls, the lipstick that was slowly fading from the corners of her mouth. She set our plates of food in front of us and smiled. “You and your daddy heading to the beach today?” Earl gave the woman one of his slow, lazy, and charming smiles. He could melt any feminine heart he wished with those smiles. “Yes ma’am,” he drawled, reaching around me. I thought he was reaching for the hot sauce, but instead his arm rested around my shoulders in an intimate, familiar kind of way that caused me to stir inside my pants. His other hand ruffled my hair. It was easily the kind of thing a dad might do to his son, but I was willing to wager none of the patrons of that sleepy little barbecue joint ever mulled in their heads the improbable truth of the alternative. “The kid and I are heading for a day at Virginia Beach. Laying in the sun. Swimming. He likes that. Don’tcha, kid?” With his arm still around my shoulder, he thumped me on the chest and let his hand trail down its length. “Good day for it,” she remarked, fanning herself with the tray. “I could use a dip myself. Hah!” She flashed a toothy grin, pleased with her own repartee, then flipped her apron and stumbled back into the tiny restaurant. We’d stopped at this little wayside place somewhere close to Williamsburg, on our way to Lightfoot, because it was one of Earl’s favorites. Like him, it was an unassuming place—cheerfully painted, without air conditioning, inexpensive, with a menu carved out on a wooden board nailed onto the restaurant’s side. We sat at the picnic tables among truckers and tourists, chewing on our pulled pork sandwiches on fluffy white hamburger buns, the meat studded with pickles and cole slaw. His arm remained behind me the whole time. He knew that everyone now viewed us as a suburban father and his sixteen-year-old son. Two innocent, masculine wayfarers on their way for an afternoon of fun in the sun. No one would think a thing of it. “Eat up,” Earl said to me with a paternal wink. “You’re going to need your energy. Son.” We finished our lunch mostly without talking, then got back into his car. The road back to the state route to Lightfoot from the restaurant was long and dusty. On that summer day, it was largely deserted. He pulled off close to where dirt met asphalt, beneath a tree. Without a word, he opened the front door of his car, shut it again, and climbed into the back seat. Without a word of my own, I followed suit. “Take off your jeans,” he ordered. I obeyed, removing my sneakers and leaving the denim in a heap on the floor. He looked me in the eyes, then cupped my cheek in his big hand. “You know why I have to do this,” he said. I nodded. After studying me a moment, he pulled out his bag from beneath the driver’s seat. I knew what it contained. From inside he pulled out a short nylon cord. With protest, I crossed my wrists behind my back and allowed him to fasten them—tightly, but not too tight. I turned on my side, lifted up my legs to the leatherette seat, and allowed him to wrap another length of cord around the ankles. He wrestled my sneakers back on my feet, leaving the laces untied. He used a bandana as a blindfold, then forced my mouth open. His gag was an improvised affair of a small wiffle ball through which had been threaded another length of cloth. I started to drool immediately, once the plastic forced my teeth apart. At least he’d cleaned it. Something went over my head. A hood, or a sack. I couldn’t see what it was. Then, finally after he’d very gently tipped me over the edge and lowered me to the floor between the front and back seats, he threw over me an old and dusty blanket, the kind of thing dog owners might keep in their trunks to prevent pawprints. “Make it convincing,” I heard him say. He exited the back seat, assumed his position at the wheel, and started up the car again. My body lurched and banged against the hard plastic and metal of the seat machinery, with every turn. It was already a sweltering day, and I was covered in a blanket, on the floor of a hot car. My wrists and ankles hurt. My jaw ached from the gag. The bump down the car’s center, over the drive shaft, dug uncomfortably into my rib cage, causing me to cry out with pain every time we hit a patch of rough road. I didn’t know exactly where our destination was—but Lightfoot wasn’t too far from the lunch stop. By the time we got there, though, my face was red and overheated, the cords at my wrists and ankles had notched deep, and I’d drooled so much through the holes of the wiffle ball that my face was wet and streaked. I knew how disheveled and desperate I must have looked. Earl did too. He honked the horn outside our destination. I hear the mechanical whirr of a garage door rising. When Earl drove inside, his windows were rolled up and the radio was blasting Creedence at top volume. Only when the second clanking of the door lowering back into place was complete did he turn off the ignition and open the door. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I heard a voice say outside. “Your music loud enough?” “You’d rather everyone heard it yelling? Real smart.” I heard Earl say, and then his front door slammed. For several moments, I could only hear them speaking, muffled and low, through the doors. Then the back door opened. “. . . So where’d you get it?” I heard the other man asking. His voice was nasal, but deep. He wasn’t from Tidewater, that was for certain. There was a Baltimorian twang to his vowels, maybe. “Don’t ask me that shit,” said Earl, obviously annoyed. He yanked the blanket off me. I raised my head into the air. The disorientation I felt wasn’t faked. I was dizzy. I ached, though not as badly as if this entire scenario had been real. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I heard the other man say. He let out a low whistle. I felt a rough, thick hand dive into my briefs. It squeezed hard at my dick and balls, and then rubbed a thumb against my hole. I squirmed and protested. “Nice.” Two pairs of hands hauled me out of the back of the car, scraping my ribs and shoulders over the floor and doorframe as they hauled me out into the garage. At least the air there was cool. My head lolled back. I felt Earl supporting me up as presumably the other man undid the cord around my ankles. My legs were half-asleep, though, and I couldn’t support myself fully. I started to fall down almost immediately. “Christ,” repeated the guy. “He’s a mess. What’d you do to him?” “Never you mind.” Earl let out an contemptuous chuckle that would’ve chilled the bones of any of the patrons of the barbecue joint at which we’d eaten, not a half-hour before. “Where do you want him?” I couldn’t see where I was going. My rubbery legs moved aimlessly as two sets of hands wrestled with me into the house, and down some stairs. At one point I found myself suddenly being shoved against a wall; my jaw made such impact against it that I feared it might bruise. “Don’t do that,” Earl said, seriously annoyed. “You leave that shit to me.” “Okay, okay, Christ,” said the other man, backing off. At last they shoved me down onto what felt—and smelled—like a musty old basement mattress. I yelled as they tore down my briefs. My arms went back and pulled against the sockets as one of them yanked my shirt up under my chin. I yelled when the man entered me. That was genuine, too. He didn’t use much spit, didn’t go slow. He thrust into me with a dick that felt thick and long, splitting my hole in a way that told me he didn’t much care who I was or where Earl had presumably found me. “Little faggot,” he growled, as he stabbed into me. “Fuckin’ little faggot gettin’ what he deserves.” Any reply I would have made was garbled by the whiffle ball. He grabbed my hair, yanked back my head. “He likes it,” he crowed. “Look at the li’l shit. He likes it!” The man was right about one thing. I did like it. I liked being handled rough. I liked the feeling of that dick in me. The guy was a shit, but his excitement was palpable. He ran his hands over my body as if he couldn’t believe his luck. His sweat rubbed off on me. I smelled like him, like musk and precum and Old Spice. I liked being taken on that nasty old mattress with no sheets, choking on the mold and my own spit. I liked the guy’s excitement at getting what he thought was something live and off the streets, while Earl sat back and watched him use me. Later, I knew, back at his own place in Richmond, I knew Earl would wash off my body in his tub, gently, with a warm cloth. He’d rub at the chafed spots, and give me aspirin for the aches. He’d hold me, and cover my mouth with his own, and kiss me deep as he drove into my still-cummy hole. That would be later, though. Now, I was being mounted and used by a desperate man who huffed and puffed his way to orgasm. When he came, it was like a freight train roaring by, beginning with a distant whistle in his chest that grew louder and louder until he drove into me and remained. My hole throbbed, red and hurting, as he held in there. His dick swelled and ebbed inside me, spilling its load. Then it was over. He pulled out, dick slopping onto my ass and the cum dripping down my leg. Someone—Earl—yanked me up by the wrists, causing me to yell in genuine pain. I stumbled, and blundered into another wall. Hands yanked me up the stairs, out into the garage. I heard the laces of my sneakers clattering across linoleum, stone, concrete. Someone attached the cords to my ankles again. And then I found myself pushed into the car, muffled and gagged, face-down, the blanket thrown over me like some kind of sleepy canary. Earl started up the car, cranked up the tunes, and drove the hell out of there. He stopped only a few blocks away, briefly, by the side of the road, long enough to undo the cord around my wrist. He started up again, driving the route home. Something flew from his hands over the top of the seat and landed on my chest. A roll of twenties, it was. I knew there’d be twenty of them in that rubber-banded wad. My fingers and hands, though, were too sore to reach for it. I rubbed them as I waited for them to come back to life, so I could loosen my other restraints. And as I lay there, breathing normally once again, staring at the bills on my chest, I thought, How is this deception any different from what Jim told me to do? Earl’s lover, Jim, had wanted me to dick around with a guilt-conflicted religious man sheerly for the sake of making him suffer, and I had. Earl had disapproved of the scheme in no uncertain terms. And yet, he was playing some poor shit with a rape fantasy with no qualms whatsoever. For cash, no less—cash that was going into my bank account, but all the same. I had a realization then. Crystal clear in my mind, it was, a new thought I’d never before considered. Every man lies during sex. And every man believe his lies to be justified. We tell ourselves such fabrications to get ourselves through and past our fantasies. Such elaborate deceptions we create to allow ourselves to keep operating, despite our religious restrictions. We tell fibs to get laid, sweet nothings to get a partner’s pants off. We lie, and we do it well. So well, we don’t always realize it. Or in Earl’s case, it’s done without remorse, and with the cool knowledge of deception—of giving someone exactly what he wanted, without giving it to him at all. Legerdemain. Sleight of hand. By the time I’d dressed, and put the restraints back in Earl’s bag, and pulled myself up into a ball in the back seat—legs drawn up, my arms hugging them, no seat belt, as no one wore them back in those days—I was looking at Earl in an entirely new light. He was my mentor, yes. But for the first time, I began to wonder if I wanted to be mentored in what he seemed to be teaching me. Then he looked at me in the rear view mirror. Those friendly, warm eyes crinkled as they met mine. I melted, thinking of the after yet to come, and for a moment, forgot my doubts. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Oh, I've been liking this series of entries. Anything that gets me a steady supply of pretty asses (in my in-box, anyway) gets my enthusiastic support. But a question for you guys—do you want to continue to see the asses? Or should I be asking guys to send in photos of their junk as well? Let me know what you think. In the meantime, we have. . . . Swimbikerun I'm telling you guys something. All that exercise this guy is doing is really working out. Jesus. Look at that perfectly round, furry crack. I want to mount and fuck the hell out of it. Nathan Nathan's been not only good enough to include some photos of his hot butt, but of a guy deep-dicking it as well. For a moment, by the pubes alone, I thought that was me topping him. I only WISH. That is a hot, hot ass, Nathan. It looks even better with a dick stuffed in it. Thanks for sharing the photos! SeattleBottom You know, every now and then I get a set of photos that tells a story. And what I really admire about SeattleBottom's series, here, is the pacing of them. They start off small and modest, with a small photo of him gulping down a dildo, rectally. Then he picks up the pace by bending over and assuming the position. By the end, though, he's on his back, legs lifted to heaven, hole exposed for everyone to admire . . . and use. Gawd, Mr. SeattleBottom. You really know how to tease a horny guy, don'tcha? I love it. Mike Oh, Mike. I love your meaty, round ass. I would write a poem to it if I had enough synonyms to describe how perfect and round it is. And it would be a dirty poem, too. I also love the way you steady your phone on your hip to keep it steady for the shot. That is the sign of a truly dedicated Ansel Adams of ass self-photography. Let's give these guys a nice round of applause for sharing today, readers—and as always, if you'd like to participate, read the original entry for details on what to do. I WANT YOUR ASSES! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It was his eyes that I recognized. Small, black, and glinting like sun-struck obsidian. And I thought to myself then, My god, that's Joe. It was the last time I ever saw him. I was talking yesterday about the importance of taking chances, and of reaching out and talking to people when we'd like to know them. I learned that lesson well with Joe, the object of my biggest unrequited crush of my twenties. He worked at the library periodicals desk when I was in graduate school, twenty-five years ago. The texts I worked with all happened to be on microfilm—which, for you youngsters, was a method of delivering old books and documents on spools of film that had to be fed into large, noisy, lighted machines. I started noticing him on those long afternoons I spent across from his desk sitting at the massive microfilm screens, looking at eighteen-century texts about which no one gave a damn. Joe was older than I by perhaps ten years. His build was slender—so thin than the sleeves of his shapeless sweaters hung in loose folds whenever he raised his arms. His face was narrow; his chin was sharp, yet round. His hair was a sometimes unwashed mass of dark curls. It seemed as if he noticed me, too. He’d smile in my direction from time to time. His eyes, though, were so dark they seemed all pupil. It was sometimes difficult to tell where he was looking. I loved those obsidian eyes; my heart would leap every time they'd turn my way. We spent a lot of time flirting without actually flirting, that summer. For three hours most afternoons I’d sit there in front of the whirring machine and jot down the occasional notes as I looked through two hundred year-old periodicals. Behind his desk he would position himself just in the spot where I could see him between my microfilm reader and the reader hulking beside me. I’d lean into that space, so he could see me. Then we’d spend hours pretending we weren’t watching each other. I grew to know how he smiled—first how his eyes would flatten and narrow, and then how one side of his mouth would rise higher than the other in a lopsided way. I grew accustomed to hearing his shy laugh when a coworker talked to him, and how he would lower his face as if trying to disown his amusement. And how I loved it when he would look in my direction to see if I was watching him. I always was. In all the long months of my research—research that probably wouldn’t have taken quite so long if I’d been able to pay attention to what I was doing—we never spoke. We exchanged smiles and lingering glances, but I never worked up enough nerve to approach him. I was stupid, and shy. I could slut around with anyone in the bathrooms at the top of the staircase nearby, but I couldn't bring himself to walk up to Joe and introduce myself to him. I couldn't initiate a casual conversation even about library business with him. I thought we'd have all the time in the world for that, at some unspecified point. But I stopped seeing him on campus the following year. He was transferred to a different library building that I never visited. I always associated the thought of him with those long, idyllic afternoons in the periodicals section, where I enjoyed the air conditioning and his occasional smile, as I read through The Ladies Monthly Museum. Then one evening, fifteen years later, I was eating dinner at a Red Robin when I recognized those eyes at a table parallel to mine. I know those eyes, I thought to myself. But I don’t recognize the man. No. Wait. I do. My god. That's Joe. His hair was wild and still wavy—more salt than pepper. A long Jerry Garcia beard grew from his chin. I could still see the sharp bones on his forearms as he talked and gestured with his hands. He wasn’t unattractive. Just older. Different. And oh, my heart thumped with the old crush once again. I didn’t stare, once I’d identified him. I just stored away the image so I could remember it later. I wish there were an easy way to tell people I’ve never met that they made a difference in my life. I wish there were a way to tell total strangers that they've mattered. If I could have done it, I would have walked up to Joe in that restaurant and knelt down and said to him, “You don't know me, but I remember you when you were fifteen years younger. Nothing more than smiles and glances passed between us, but oh, how you impressed me then. . . .” Yet I didn't. A year and a half later—yes, this is one of those stories—Joe had passed away. He was young, not even in his early forties. In one of those strange life coincidences, the spouse had sung in a choir with Joe's younger brother, and had run across the obituary in the paper and commented on it. I sat as if riveted to my chair that morning, at the breakfast table, remembering how I'd seen him at the Red Robin and wished I'd told him, though a total stranger, how much he'd mattered to me. I wish I’d said those words aloud, even if it had cost me embarrassment. I wish I’d had the nerve. Too often I feel as if when it comes to life, we're all spendthrifts. We always assume there will be more of it at our ready disposal. We squander opportunities. I had let huge chunks slip between my fingers, even as I knew there weren't always second chances. I made a decision that morning to be mindful of how fast it all slips away, and how much life there is to live before we go. I've tried to stick to that mindfulness, ever since. I loved Joe for the way he looked at me across the library floor, and for how his crinkled eyes mingled intrigue with amusement. I loved Joe for the way he smiled at me. He made me feel good. It was a pleasure to the mind and senses to be in his presence. I still wish I could tell him this simple message: Nothing more than smiles and glances passed between us. But oh, how he impressed me. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here They started coming last Thursday and Friday, all in a rush, without any warning. Letters from home. My old home, that is. Not Virginia or Georgia, the homes of my youth, where I scarcely know anyone and from which all my family and friends have fled or expired. From Michigan, my chosen home for two and a half decades. It was odd timing, too, because the day before, I’d just commented on how homesick I was. I drove out of Michigan sleepy and tired and sweating and in a car with an unhappy pet, so I didn’t really have a chance to get sentimental about saying my mental goodbyes to the area. I was basically just trying to keep the pet quiet and my eyes on the road and the air conditioner blasted on high. After that I had the issues of moving an entire house’s worth of stuff into our temporary apartment, and the challenges of getting settled in a new state. Not until a few days ago have I had the actual leisure to reflect on what I’ve left behind. It saddens me to think of the Craftsman house I loved and left behind. Little things trigger it, like the sight of a Japanese maple that will remind me of the baby I planted in my own front yard and watched grow into a monster. The smell of a neighbor’s cut grass makes me think back to how pungent the same smell was from my own back yard, when the sun hit the yard in the late afternoon. Wednesday night I found myself staring at the cupboards in my new place, baffled at them, my hands reaching instinctively for all the spots I stored things in my old home. My hands remembered well where they wanted to go, though I tried to tell them otherwise. They were like dogs trying to find their way to an old home, out of habit and the pull of some unspeakable force. Then these emails started coming and I thought to myself, Man, I am well out of that shit. The first batch of emails came, you see, from a broad class of men I think of under the classification of “looky-loos.” Every time I would log onto a site like Manhunt or Adam4Adam, they’d check out my profile. I’d see it on the tracking page. A few minutes later, they’d check me out again. Then, like clockwork, every twenty minutes or so they’d peek back again. They never said anything; they never made a move or gave me any indication that they’d be interested in getting together. They just looked, and looked, and kept silent. I don’t think there wasn’t a one of them at which I didn’t look back (at first), or winked or smiled. To most I’d send the occasional message of Hey, how’s it going? or Looking around tonight? Some of these guys were quite hot—muscular physiques, smooth young bodies or beefy bear chests. A few were, to put it gently, physically challenged. I eventually figured out that I wasn’t ever going to get any kind of response, so I just stopped trying with most. That’s what made the emails from the looky-loos so puzzling at first. I got three of them in a row, Thursday, and then a handful more that night and the following day. You moved and I never got that hot dick, read one. Another said, I guess now we’re never going to be able to get together. They were all pretty much the same—mournful and vaguely laden with reproach. I wanted to reply with my own initial response: what the fuck? Instead, I was kind of annoyed. You’ve been looking at my profile for the last ten years, I wrote one guy, since I joined gay.com. Never did you ever make a move to get together, and I even offered at a couple of points! To another guy whose message was roughly the same I asked, And how does moving make your failure ever to talk to me my fault? At about the same time I started getting emails from another group of guys I call the Disappearing Acts. I think we’ve all encountered these guys. They come on strong in a very, very short period of time online, telling you all the hot and nasty things they want to do with you and promising all kinds of forbidden pleasures. Or they’ll meet you in a bar, and monopolize you quite pleasantly in a hot and sexy way for the night. Or you might even hook up with them and, at the end of a good sex session, they’ll tell you all the hot things they really want to do with you, next time. Then, just as you’re hooked, they vanish. You don’t hear from them, they don’t return your calls, they don’t show up online. Just as you’ve either decided they’re dead or forgotten about them entirely, months or even years later, they’ll show up and expect you to be just as hot for them again as you were that one afternoon in July of 2005. It’s a little crazy-making, because usually these guys talk a really good and convincing game—but as far as follow-through, they might as well be like the Looky-Loos. I had two of my Disappearing Acts contact me at the end of last week, both surprised to see that I had a new location listed in my profile, and both contacting me with outraged emails of, Wha’ happen? I advertised in my profiles for two months before I left that I was moving out of Michigan, I told them both. One of them protested he’d been busy for two months. You’ve been busy for two years,I pointed out to him, after a quick review of our emails. That’s the last time I heard from you. He wrote back that he’d been in rehab for several months, and that he’d sold his house, and moved to a different city, and then moved back, and then broke up with his boyfriend, then got back together, and now they were both living with his boyfriend’s mom and he was finally ready to get together and do all those great things we’d talked about, only I’d had the effrontery to up and leave. There’s not really much to say to that, is there? I think the lesson to be learned here is that we never really know how much time we have left to accomplish what we want. We don’t know what’s going to happen to that hot guy we’ve had our eye on, or that pretty boy in the apartment below ours, or that sexy bartender with whom we’ve always longed just to exchange a few words. You don’t know when that guy you’ve wanted online is going to move. If you really want someone, whether for sex or for conversation or something more, nothing’s going to happen unless you act. And act today. I can get as tongue-tied over beauty as the next guy. There are men I see who make my jaw drop and cause every insecurity to come roaring into life like tornado sirens during a severe weather situation. There are men I see whom I know, just know, that if I approach them, they’ll cut me with a word and a look. But you know, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes that beautiful guy who makes me feel like a gawky thirteen-year-old with braces turns out to be friendly, and we’ve had a good talk and become friendly acquaintances. Sometimes they’ve turned out to be just as horny for what I have to offer as I am for what they can give me, and we’ve fucked. You won’t know unless you say something—and even if the guy cuts you down (or more likely, gently sends you on your way, because only assholes behave badly in those situations), what’ve you lost, really? Not dignity. Going after what you want never makes you lose that. Not pride, or anything important. A simple no is not going to end your life. And I’m willing to bet you’ll be surprised how many answers of yes you’ll actually get. Not all of my mail from home was annoying. I did receive from The Decorator a note that read: I miss you more than I thought possible. I’ve never had better sex with anyone, compared to you. I’d seriously pay to fly you back here to spend a few nights with me, if it’s possible. That, my friends, is the kind of email a man likes to receive. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I am a little behind on my email correspondence. I know this to be a fact because the night before last I looked in my Pending Mail folder on yahoo and saw that it had over 200 messages in it, beginning back before my move and continuing all the way through it up until the present day. Even after I went through and deleted the notifications to comments on this blog that I needed to answer (and I might just pretty much call those a wash, I'm thinking), I still have over a hundred more personal notes to address. Blog-related email has been kind of low on my priority list lately, and for that I apologize. It's just that I've had a ton of little moving-related things to do—driver's licenses and new plates, insurance, banking arrangements, cleaning, catching up on dental and eye appointments and what-have-you, and by the time I get home, that email just seems less like fun and more like work. I'll get to them—I swear. It might not be in the timeliest of manners, but I will get to them. In the meantime, though, just know that no, I'm not offended with many of you. A couple, yes, but probably not you. I'm not ignoring you. Well, I kind of am, but I plead extenuating circumstances. And lastly, I honestly promise you'll be hearing from me eventually. In the meantime, let's recap some of the questions I've been getting at formspring.me. I'm about to go on a 350 mile road trip. Looking to get my cock in some guys mouths or asses on the way. Your advice on how to succeed? I occasionally have some luck placing ads in the places I know I'm planning to stop along my longer road trips. Once in a while I'll get a good Craigslist hit. Typically, though, I have better luck simply showing up and getting online and finding someone once I'm there. Apparently pre-planning is too much for a lot of people. What TV show makes you laugh the loudest? The Inbetweeners, of relatively recent shows. I Love Lucy, from the classics. Do you think love conquers all? Romantic love can be a powerful motivator. At the same time, people do a lot of stupid shit in its name that they regret later. So no, I don't think that romantic love should conquer good sense or studied decision-making. Are you going to make it to IML this year? I know you are moving in June, but hope that won't keep you from making it to Chicago. I know a couple of ppl who'd like to meet you... I'm moving the weekend after IML, so I won't be there. I wish I could meet those friends of yours, though. How many days can you go w/o beating off? if I'm having regular sex on a daily basis (or close to it), I can go without beating off for weeks. I think three months was about my longest period, recently. If I'm not having daily sex, about five days is about all I can stand. What would be harder for you, to tell someone you love them or that you do not love them back? I rarely have a problem telling someone I love them, though very often I fear the word 'love' scares people away, despite its many possible connotations. Telling someone I don't love them back, however, or even telling them that I'm not attracted to them in that way, is difficult territory. Abrupt as I can be sometimes, I don't get a lot of pleasure out of hurting people's feelings. Have you ever ended a friendship? I mean actually making a choice and ending it, not just drifting apart and losing touch. I did it quite recently, in fact, when I asked a friend to apologize for some hurtful remarks he'd made to others about me. When he refused, I ended the friendship. The time since has been remarkably awkward, as it's put many mutual friends in the unenviable position of having to be stuck in the middle of the argument. In addition, it's meant I've been excluded from their activities and get-togethers. However, if my friendship isn't worth the price of one apology, then I'm not going to continue giving it away. May I ask, why do you inquire about a person's HIV status, if you don't use it as a factor when hooking up? If a person would like to choose to discount a person as a friend, partner, or one-night-stand because of his HIV status, he are free to do so. Never mind that for every one of those relationships there are many, many activities in which they could engage, including sex, that wouldn't result in the transmission of the HIV virus--if that was indeed what he most feared. So if a person want to discriminate that way, he may feel free. I will think he's narrow-minded and ignorant, but it's his choice. I inquire about my sexual partners' HIV status because I like to be informed. I do not make my selections based solely on status, however. There are many variables and shadings that are more important to me. My choices are not your choices. And you're free to think about my choices what you will. What's your favorite position for breeding? Doggie. Hands down. Pun intended. Where's the line where a guy becomes a troll? For me, it's when his attentions begin to demand some kind of response from me that I don't want to give. A guy who hits me up for sex once whom I decline, and then who politely nudges me from time to time to see if I might have changed my mind, might be a minor annoyance. The same guy who hits me up the moment he sees me, every single time, refusing to take no for an answer, or who follows me around even when I've made it clear that I'm not interested, is a troll. I don't fault a guy for trying. I do get upset when his persistence implies an entitlement. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This sign marks the exit to my new home. For real, y'all. I know. Putnam Cottage? Disgusting. The Mianus is actually a river that cuts through the city to the west of me, with a little neighborhood named after it. It’s pronounced mayanus, with a nice schwa sound on the second syllable. But of course, I like to pronounce it in the most vulgar way possible, drawling out the syllables in an obnoxious fashion that gives my voice the same diamond cutting edge of the character Janice from Friends, years back. And when I’m out driving with family, I like to use it in sentences like: “If you want to visit, you know you’re close when you can see Mianus!” Or, “I’m glad they’ve built a really big on-ramp to Mianus!” Or, at night, “It’s kind of hard to see around Mianus, it’s so dark and gloomy.” Because it’s a river, there are magnificent opportunities for gems like, “Man, Mianus is wet tonight.” Or, “I think there’s some kind of fungus blooming on Mianus. It really STINKS.” In the last couple of days, I’ve hit on another motherlode of potty humor. Whenever someone (not me) farts (never me), I’ll look around innocently, “Must be ducks from Mianus.” Um, did I say that I looked around innocently? I must’ve meant someone else. Because I don’t fart. (Note: I haven’t actually done this in front of any native people from the state. I have heard they tend to be touchy about it. The Mianus jokes, I mean. Not the farting.) Oh, Connecticut. How you appeal to my inner third-grader. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post is a continuation of Blame It on the Preacher Man, and is the last in the Preacher Man series--though only a chapter in the story I'm trying to parse together, gradually, about my teenaged experiences with Earl.) “Fuck me.” I lay on my back in the preacher man’s bed, which was a hard, uncomfortable mattress more akin to a sheet-covered bookshelf than anything comfortable. The man’s pillow lay beneath my straw-blond hair, rustling like a pillowcase of sawdust. “Tell me you want to fuck me.” “It’s a sin,” said the preacher man. He stood at the bed’s foot, his triangular penis protruding from between the flaps of his dress shirt. He was obscenely hard. I’d already sucked him close to orgasm twice, though I’d backed off at the last possible moment in order to prolong both his pleasure and his agony. “Son, it’s a sin for a man to lie with man as he lies with a woman.” He didn’t sound convinced in his own words. My legs were already spread and lifted. I hoisted them up to my chest and exposed my pink, sixteen-year-old hole to him. I was being fucked almost daily back then. All I had to do was lick two of my fingers and press them against the entrance. They disappeared to the third knuckles almost immediately. I finger-fucked myself while he watched, and finally repeated my demand. “Fuck me.” When I saw his dick twitch, and harden even further, I knew I had him. And I despised him for his lust. I’d come this far with the preacher man with the advice of Jim, who was my mentor Earl’s younger lover. It had been Jim who’d originally made the suggestion that I fuck around with this overly religious man’s head—that I force him to admit to and do things he might not ordinarily allow himself, all while making him feel badly about it. I’d never been one of those kids who got off on taunting others. I hadn’t been a bully of any sort in school, though I had been picked on whenever I failed at blending in. My experiences with the preacher man had brought out a sadistic side of me that I found surprising. Surprising, in that I liked it. A part of me reveled in the way my mouth, my hands, and my young body were what the older and more corpulent man truly desired, even as he attempted to mouth the platitudes of his religion to convince me I was doing the devil’s work. So far I’d been successful in getting him to admit aloud that he needed the constant blow jobs I’d been giving him, sinful or not. And I’d gotten him to let me blow him in the bedroom he shared with his unseen wife, whom I gathered worked as a secretary for some sort of charitable organization. I hadn’t seen a picture of her, but I could imagine her from the false eyelashes lying on her dresser, and from the costume jewelry that lay in bunches there, and even from the smell of her perfume still lingering in the air, accumulated over time like the tobacco stains on the preacher man’s own fingers. Those fingers played with his dick now, skimming the skin back and forth with tiny jerks. “Stop it,” I told him. He obeyed. Inside me, a demon-headed being opened its mouth and roared with laughter. “Come here.” He stepped forward. “Give me your hand.” An expression passed over his face. Confusion, perhaps. Shame. He presented his hand palm up, like a student expecting it to be struck with a ruler. I grabbed the warm flesh, which felt like so much chicken sliding off the bone, and guided it to my hole. His fingers made contact with my anus. I rubbed the tips over the irregular opening. “It’s soft, like pussy,” I told him. He opened his mouth, I knew either to protest, or to beg me not to use such words with him. “Fuck it.” “I can’t,” he said, trying to willing himself to back away. He couldn’t, quite. I continued moving his hand over the hole, while passively he let me. “I can’t.” Every little triumph with the preacher man I’d scuttled back to share with Jim. Little conspirators, we were. At the time, I didn’t know exactly why I was doing it, though now it’s plain enough. I wanted Jim to like me. I was young enough to be thoroughly uncomfortable with Jim’s dislike of me. His obvious jealousy of my relationship with Earl, who’d begun their relationship when Jim was not much older than I at that time, was not something with which I could easily live. This secret we shared about the preacher man wasn’t ever going to make us buddies, but it gave me the illusion that someday I might curry Jim’s approval. So I’d tell him that I’d gotten the preacher man to say aloud that he liked my mouth on his dick—no, that he needed my mouth on his dick—and Jim would smirk and tell me I was giving that nasty piece of shit exactly what he needed and deserved. Jim would still roll his eyes at the sight of me, and treat me as if I were the turd that a dog dropped on the living room carpet that he certainly wasn’t going to clean up. But it was something. I was desperate for something from him. Though I shouldn’t have been. Through some gymnastics I’d managed to maneuver my hips so that they pressed close to the preacher man’s dick. “Put it in,” I told him. “Just a little. Just the tip. Put it in.” I kept up a stream of orders, all like that, all simple, all orders he’d want to follow, as I grabbed onto his dick and tried to get him to fuck his first hole. “Come on,” I urged. “It feels good. It’s okay. I won’t tell. Only God will see. He doesn’t mind. He wants you to be happy. Put it in. Come on. Please, I need it. You need it too.” He whimpered, helpless. His yearning was so great, and writ so plain on his face. I was wearing him down, slowly, inexorably. “Fuck me,” I begged. “Slide it in. Put it in me. It feels great. I love it. Fuck me, just like you fuck your wife. Fuck me. Fuck—ah!” I wasn’t prepared for the savage stab that put an end to my exhortations. Unlubed, unprepared, he thrust into me. I was glad I’d used my own wet fingers on my hole a minute or two earlier, so at least there was something. Once the stars in front of my eyes had passed, I looked up at him. He was just standing there, his short dick buried inside me as deep as it could go, not moving. “Go in and out,” I told him. “You need to go. . . .” He didn’t need to do anything. Without any thrusting, I felt his dick swell and ebb, swell and ebb. He was shooting inside me already, put over the edge by having his dick inside a teenager for the very first time. His face turned beet red; his eyes closed and his hips clenched. His nails dug deep into my thighs until it was over. Something startling happened. At first I thought it was the sound of a train engine, approaching outside from far away. We weren’t near any railway lines, however. It sounded like the whine of a distant siren getting louder, or something whizzing from space and breaking orbit as it plunged to earth. It took me a few moments to realize it was coming from the preacher man’s chest, and that the sound he made was some kind of uncanny keening. I still had his thick, yellow-tinged semen dripping from my hole when I tried to sit up. “Hey,” I said, trying to find out if he was okay. He shoved me back, so hard that my head rebounded against the sawdust pillow and up again. Then he fell to his knees at the foot of the bed. His hands covered his face, and tore at his fine, sparse hair. His face had been deep red at the peak of his sexual arousal. Now it was streaked with purple and white. His fingers rubbed at his face as if he were trying to erase it, to render it unrecognizable. He was crying. Tears flowed from his ducts. Fluid dripped from his nose. That high-pitched, uncanny noise kept coming from his chest, on and on. He didn’t seem to pause even to breathe. If ever was the time to exult in what I’d made the preacher man do, it would have been then. But I wasn’t. I didn’t feel any kind of triumph at all. Instead, I felt horror. Horror at what I’d done. Shame at not how low I’d laid him, but how low I’d gone to do it. I felt utterly and completely like the little shit I really was, at that moment. I sat there in that stuffy and acrid bedroom utterly horrified, and unable to move for what seemed like a year, while I watched the man have a nervous breakdown at the end of his bed. Then I slipped off the mattress, gathered my clothes, and slunk home on my bike, never to return. Here’s the thing: the preacher man was a dreadful hypocrite. Sure, he convinced himself that others were sinners and that he was one of the righteous, all while getting blow jobs from a sixteen-year-old in a public park. Yeah, he was trying to make me feel miserable about my sins by quoting the Bible at me while he ignored his own shortcomings. For all I know, he went on to make the lives of many a man a misery, after. Yet it really wasn’t for me to shame him, like that. I did it, and I’d wanted to do it. I wasn’t the kind of person, ultimately, who rejoiced in the misfortunes of others. I didn’t get off on seeing a man in his late middle age breaking down in tears as he confronted his real self for the first time in his life. What's more, I really didn't understand who would. Who could. Facing the truth isn’t a bad thing in and of itself. It never is. But I knew then that for me, that wasn’t the way to go about it. I didn’t want to make that call again. That night, alone in my room at home silent save for the whirring of the giant house fan we kept at the top of the stairs, summers, I still heard that terrible noise, deep from within the man’s chest. Physical pain is one thing. This wail was something else. It was the sound of a soul in torment. I never, ever wanted to hear it again. I didn’t speak of those uncomfortable moments at the side of that bed to anyone. Not until now, anyway. I never told Earl. It was one of those things I witnessed that was too primal, too raw, to share. Jim asked me how it was going with the preacher man the next time I saw him. “Oh,” I lied. “I got tired of him.” I didn’t share the man’s breakdown with Jim. I didn’t elaborate, I didn’t invent. I shut him down, even as I knew that any respect I might have won from him with my exploits in cruelty might evaporate for good. It did. Any giddiness we might briefly have shared in our collaboration dissipated like a soap bubble. It always made me wonder if what was to come later was my fault, in some way—as if perhaps, if I’d kept Jim occupied, he wouldn’t have meddled in Topher’s life the way he later did. But that’s another chapter in another story. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the questions a reader asked me, my last month or so in Michigan, was how I expected to fare in Connecticut sexually once I made the move here. I’m afraid that at the time I read it as a bit of a snide question, too, since the guy asking it specifically said he wanted to compare my answer with the reality, down the road. (Though perhaps I was misreading.) My reply at the time was that I honestly expected to have very little action in my first weeks in my new locale—that I was moving into an area where I knew no one, wasn’t familiar with the area, and didn’t know the local cruising customs (and oh yes, the local cruising customs vary, wherever you go). Whatever my status as ‘new meat’ might be when I got there, I said, I really didn’t anticipate getting laid much . . . at first. My readers were very supportive at the time, I remember, telling me I’d have asses lined up to greet me, and a Busby Berkley musical number’s worth of legs opening in circle formation at my approach. Well, bitches, and for the first time in my life I’m sorry to have to say these words: I was right. I confess that I’m a little frustrated, right now. I haven’t had sex in three weeks. That’s an eternity for me. I kind of knew that the last week before I moved was going to be a bust, and quite frankly the week after my move I was too busy trying to clear out boxes and to find my collection of kitchen knives buried somewhere in the mess, because honestly, trying to cut up vegetables and chicken for a Thai red curry stir-fry with a plastic picnic knife is not an experience I ever, ever want to have again. Now that I’ve cleared out a little living space, though, and have found the kitchen utensils and settled into a little bit more of a routine, I’m ready to start playing around again. And the world’s not cooperating. Part of it, of course, is that I’m out of step here still. Everyone online knows where all these little cities and communities are, while my knowledge extends to what’s up and down Route 1 in either direction for about, oh, five miles. They know what dropping the name of an exit means, while I have just about figured how to get to Trader Joe’s and back without getting lost more than once or twice. And then there’s New York and its little communities, just over the border . . . I haven’t assimilated all the information yet. It makes me feel a little bit out of the running. My first online encounter with a guy didn’t go so well, either. This is an actual transcription of the emails we exchanged: HIM: Hey, you look hot. I am up the road in Oxford. You should come up here and fuck me deep man. ME: Thanks for the compliment. I like your profile. I just moved here a week ago yesterday. Where is Oxford and when are you free? I never got a reply back, until about four hours later, when he sent: TOO MUCH TALK AND NOT ENOUGH ACTION DUDE. YOU ARE BLOCKED! Which left me thinking, Seriously? What the fuck? Because if I want to deal with crazy people, I could just answer the remarks left by the scat-obsessed commenter on my blog during those weeks he's off his schizophrenia meds. The weirdness continued Sunday, when I had the entire afternoon to myself and ample time and opportunity to hook up. I got online, changed my status to ‘Available now,’ and was relieved when a guy who’d hit me up earlier in the week asked if I was looking. Yes, I told him. I was. Could I host? he wanted to know. Yes, I said, I could, for another three hours. Okay, he said. That sounded great. Did he want to come over, then? I asked him. Because, you know, he hadn’t actually said he would. About a half hour after that he finally wrote back. I’d pretty much given up on him at this point, to be honest. Did I have poppers for him? he wanted to know. No, I didn’t, I said. But my place was free for another two and a half hours. I waited, and waited, and finally he wrote back after another half-hour. Did I know so-and-so? He gave me the name of another profile. He’d wanted to get with him forever and he was free that afternoon, too. At that point I was frustrated from wasting an hour of my time on this guy, and wanted to pound out on the keyboard, WELL FINE GET WITH HIM THEN ASSHOLE AND STOP BOTHERING ME. But instead I typed out a much more polite version of the same message, logged off, and went about my business.*Because every guy was pretty much the same, Sunday—I’d say I was available and could host, and then I’d get no response whatsoever, or else they’d stall and demand more X-rated photos, or ask for more G-rated photos, or ask about my pharmaceutical access, or do anything save ask for an address and say they’d be on their way. This is what I’ve noticed about guys in the area: they stall. Instead of saying, “I’m not available right now. How about tonight or later this week?”, they’ll keep you on the hook, and dribble out communications bit by bit to make you think that there’s the slightest opportunity of getting together. But in reality, what they’re giving me is the impression that they’re too frightened to take a couple of hours to meet someone face to face on the slight off-chance that they might miss out on a chance to meet someone better-looking than I, or better-hung, or someone just, well, better. I’ve been in other cities where this kind of behavior is the norm. Los Angeles is kind of notorious for it—guys will sit for hours and hours looking for hookups that they’ll never have because they’re frightened to miss out on something hotter than you . . . no matter how smoking hot you may be. And maybe I’m close enough to New York City that a similar kind of behavior has spread out here to the nutmeg state. Whatever it is, it’s frustrating. Like I said, perhaps I’m just still out of step. I’ll figure things out, and make some connections, and get back my mojo. In the meantime, though—and these are words I’ve again never before said—I hate being right. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I knew the place lay nearby when I saw the exit sign loom overhead, poking through the archway of greenery covering the parkway. I nudged my car into the right lane, pulled off, and into the southernmost of the two lots. Park and Ride, read the sign. It was a place where commuters met to carpool into New York City, thirty miles away. In the twilight, many cars were still parked along the several rows, empty of occupants. Expensive cars. I nudged my domestic model among the BMWs and Mercedes and the sporty little Italian coupes, looking for signs of life. I found some at the lot’s far end. One man in his fifties stood near a tiny wooded area—little more than scrub and a few tree trunks, really. He wore a collared business shirt still crisp after a day’s work, its powder-blue sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His maroon tie hung loose from his neck, his top button was unbuttoned. He took a long drag on the remnants of a cigarette, let the smoke billow casually from between his lips, then dropped the butt onto a parking bumper. He ground it into dust with his leather soles. The guy wasn’t hideous, by any means, but he wasn’t attractive, either. His lips pursed out too much, and age had left layers of wrinkles around his eyes, making them look like the deep knots on some ancient, mythical tree. Natty as he was, he looked as if he smelled of old tobacco. I turned my head from him and parked my car a little down the way, between a Volvo two spaces away on the left, and a BMW three slots further on the right. The web site hadn’t specified any particular protocol for cruising here, though it had recommended against going into the woods to carry out my business. I figured the cruising here would work like the rest stop parking area back in Michigan, during the dark hours. I turned off the car, let the radio play at a low volume, and began rubbing at my crotch in order to get a bulge rising down there. In the BMW to my right sat a surprisingly young guy, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. He had the large, broad features and the wide-brushed eyebrows of a middle eastern man; the skin on his jaw, though smooth, seemed as if it might sprout into ten o’clock shadow at any moment. He looked my way in a not-looking kind of way; his eyes danced over and past mine, only locking into my gaze on the return trip. He nodded slightly. I nodded back, as the bulge in my shorts grew from forced to genuine. The Volvo had someone sitting in it as well, a handsome guy in his forties sporting a precision haircut and a wedding ring. He, too, wore a crisp business shirt and a tie. I could see his jacket slung over the passenger seat. He pretended to be looking at his phone, but his glance was fixed on the man in the woods. Only occasionally did he divert his attention my way, and then only to see if I was remaining in my car, or what my intentions might be. The businessman in the woods wasn’t very patient—or subtle. Another cigarette already smoldering between his fingers, he used one hand to cup his generous package, squeezing it for anyone who could see. His neck craned over the parking lot. Like him, I turned my head to discern which other cars might have men in them. There were several, all parked in our general vicinity. I could make out shadows of other heads turning, silhouettes of figures waiting in the twilight for something to happen. I didn’t do anything that night; I didn’t get out of my car and insinuate myself into someone else’s vehicle with a smile and a false excuse of needing directions. I didn’t wander into the woods, or take a stroll to see what eyes followed me. I sat in the car, and watched for twenty minutes, getting the lay of the land. And then I drove away, leaving behind the expensive vehicles and the desperate businessman still patrolling, Cerebus-like, the entrance to the woods. Park and Ride. I parked. Maybe soon I’ll take a ride. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I know for a fact there are a lot of parents who read my blog—dads and some moms alike. In our culture, we tend to dislike the messy overlaps that happen when people don't fall into easily-defined, narrow classifications. That is, when someone who's an otherwise great parent also happens to have a healthy interest in sex, whether within his or her relationship, or outside of it, or with someone of the same gender. But it happens, and more often than many people think or suppose. A lot of parents are perfectly happy to keep their sexuality behind closed doors and never to speak of it in front of their children, as they pretend to be chaste. That's fine. At the same time, being open about sexuality and all its weird wonderfulness is a valid parenting choice as well. My semi-hippie parents chose that route to follow, and it left me a lot better-educated and prepared for the real world than many of my peers. The choices I started to make about sex were mine to make, and not someone else's. It's equally as fine an approach to parenting as the other, when the decision is made with thought, deliberation, and philosophy. So my message to you guys on this Father's Day is, I suppose, to respect your parents for the choices they've made in your upbringing, so long as they were made with good intentions. They really were doing the best for you. Love your folks, if you're able—and more importantly, if you've still got them around to love. And give your dad a phone call. He'll appreciate it. Some question from formspring.me is our usual Sunday routine—and who am I to break routine? I could use some fresh questions from readers, so drop on by and scribble a couple. What was on your 'before I move" bucket list? I had a few places I wanted to visit, and a few people I wanted to see, but mostly (I'm ashamed to admit) my bucket list consisted of restaurants I wanted to patronize before I left the area for good. Hey, what can I say? I like to eat. Might I inquire as to the cost of purchasing 10ml of your semen by mail? I plan to test it for HIV. Your thoughts? My thoughts are that your request to do such a thing seems intent on shaming me for some obscure reason that has more to do with your inadequacies than it has anything to do with me. Furthermore, my thoughts are that to stigmatize or ostracize anyone based on their HIV status betrays not only your small-mindedness and intolerance, but a huge degree of ignorance as well. In my eyes, it makes you vile. And that's a pity. To me the worst thing would be losing my hearing... my partner says going blind... what do you think is the most terrible sense to loose? I think both hearing and sight would be terrible to lose, but I would probably adapt to them. I think not having any sense of touch, however, would be the worst. Not to be able to feel another person's touch, or to reciprocate, would be torture. I want to try writing about my experiences, but when I read what I wrote, its flat and dull. How do I improve? Write more. The more you write, the better you get. Write more, and read more. Read the authors you aspire to be, and study what makes them good storytellers. Apply what you learn to your own writing. Discard what doesn't work and keep what does. But mostly, write more. It's a long and slow process, but it truly works. A couple more things, though. The goal of writing shouldn't necessarily be making every story exciting and a ripping read. It's great when it happens, but if you're doing personal writing, basically what you're trying to do is to preserve the moments and the experiences that are important to you. Do that with as much detail as you can, in as clear a style as you can manage, and don't worry about whether it's dull. It's you. That's what's important. Also I'd suggest that you not trust your own instincts about your writing, to a certain extent. Just because you find it flat and dull doesn't mean it's not going to resonate with others. Share your work with people whose opinions you trust, and get reactions. Learn what you can, and apply it to your writing. But mostly, write more. What is your guilty pleasure? I would like to reply with the answer of cheesy, cheesy pop music, but I'll narrow it down for you: the output of the British production team of Stock-Aitken-Waterman. It's a very, very, very guilty pleasure. Does having sex with a condom on feel much different than without one? How much sensation is lost when you wear one? For a top, yes. The amount of sensation lost is enormous, even when wearing extra-thin condoms or condoms with ridges or nubs or what-have-you. Additionally, the sensations of wetness and warmth are considerably negated, as the latex transmits neither. Bottoms have given me varying answers to the same question. Some seem to be able to tell the difference. Some do not. My own experience with being on the receiving end of a condomed fuck is that the latex pulls and distends the membrane in a really unpleasant way. Others don't notice that, though. Perhaps some bottoms could chime in with their opinions. Just wondering if you would rather have a small stable group of men to breed or are you a wild beast like a lion or bear and would rather roam your territory and breed as many men as possible and spread your seed around? I have been happiest when I've achieved a combination of both those things. I like to have a small collection of men I see regularly and can count on for some mutual pleasure—it's convenient to have buddies who know what I like and how I like to do it. And I also like to have the novelty and excitement of new encounters. If I have to be a wild animal, though, can I be a panther? Thanks. What actor would you have play you in a film about your life and what actors would you like to see in supporing roles, maybe as some of the friends you have made over the years? Aaron Eckhart would play me, of course, because we look so much alike. Then Dave Annable would play Scruffy, Jake Gyllenhaal would be Spencer, and in the flashback scenes, Daniel Craig would be Earl and Steve Buscemi would be his partner, Jim. Oh, and the kid who plays Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies would be my teen stand-in. There you go! Why did you move to Michigan? When I was choosing grad schools to attend, I found I could move either to Kentucky, to Tennessee, or to Michigan. I decided to choose the location with the biggest metropolitan area. Perhaps not so coincidentally, it also happened to be the place that was furthest from my parents' home, and offered the best financial aid package. I dropped out of grad school a couple of years later, but I stayed in the area and continued teaching for several years. Do you shave anywhere below the neck? How often? Front and/or back? I shave my nuts fairly regularly, and trim my pubes. I also pluck the one weird hair on my chest that somehow regrows to a three-inch length in what seems like overnight. Coincidentally, it also happens to be the only hair on my chest. Can you just sit in the sunshine, and enjoy a nice breeze, or do you always have to have a goal or task? It's pretty tough for me to relax without doing something constructive. Even my most restful activities, like reading or gaming, have to do with either educating myself somehow or performing little tasks and chores in the name of fun. But simply to sit around and enjoy the sights or the weather can be very, very difficult. I've managed to relax into it over the course of a few days on vacations in which I'm isolated from much of the world, like on an island or a cruise ship. But it takes a while (and I still feel guilty). I just can't get enough of you. Whenever you post a pic, I find myself studying your hands or a glimpse of leg or abdomen. You're more than just a beautiful cock. Let's see more of that beautiful lanky body. -J That's very flattering, J. Thank you. I've had more compliments about my hands, since I started my blog, than I've ever had my entire life. It's a shame my nails are so fucked up, after my move. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I haven't had a chance to show off some reader asses in a good long while—at least since before my big relocation. And you guys know there's little I like better than some hot reader asses. Want to participate?Check the end of this entry to find out how. Joseph I know nothing about Joseph beyond his name and the fact that he has one hell of a sexy body going on there. He's also got an eye for a camera angle—and one of those perky butts that looks good from any side. Joseph, I'm putting you on official warning that if we're ever in the same city together, your hole is in danger, buddy. Mark Mark's a Twitter buddy of mine, and a very hot one, too. I like seeing him from this angle. I haven't yet had the pleasure of seeing him live on cam like this, but Mark, if you'd like to show off for me sometime, I could take an entire session of watching you finger that hole like you are in the second photo. I'd give your nuts reason to swell a deep red. Rich So Rich from Chicago has given me a couple of photos here—one with a big black dick splitting wide open his hole, and another with an enormous pink dildo filling him. But you know, Rich? I still am not sure how much I like that ass. I'm pretty sure I like it a lot. Just about 99% certain, in fact. But maybe you'd better send me a whole lot more photos, just so I can be totally sure. Another set with you getting fucked by poles of all colors would work just fine for me. Jake Jake describes himself as a Montana man—bi, married, and closeted. Jake's wife is one lucky woman, from what I can tell here. Not only has he chosen to share his juicy backside with us today, but he's sent us a shot of his sexy front as well. Jake, I have a feeling these photos will make a lot of men (and women) very, very happy. I envy your spouse. That's it for today. If you liked the photos, be sure to thank the contributors. After all, they get nothing more than the thrill of sharing their stuff with you. And of course, if you'd like to see your good featured here, send them in to me! My original guidelines can be found on this page. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post is a continuation of a piece from a few weeks ago, Missionary Man Part II—and it will be continued in another installment.) “Does Jesus love me?” The man fidgeted restlessly in his chair. From where my sixteen-year-old self knelt between his legs, naked on his kitchen floor, I could watch the struggle on his face. It played out like a medieval morality drama—the hope, the anxiety, the mortal fear of damnation. His legs were as white as eggshells, save for the stretches on his inner thighs where the summer heat and moisture had caused a rash of tiny red pimples to break out. They looked all the more naked in contrast to the short-sleeved collared shirt he still wore. His knees parted as I tugged at the massive folds of sack holding his nuts. “Does Jesus love me?” I repeated, before filling my mouth with his dick. It wasn’t a pretty dick at all, measuring five inches at the most, with a head that was smaller than the base and ended almost in a point. It was also the most desperately and furiously purple dick I’d ever seen. Its engorgement looked almost painful. “Son, the Lord loves us all,” gasped out the man. His hands held the back of my head, pulling me down onto his inches. I couldn’t have struggled away at that point had I wanted. “He loves the homosexual, even as he despises his deeds.” Homosexshul, he always pronounced it. I felt his dick spurt out more and more precum as I pulled back. The salty fluid covered my lips when I separated from him. I licked them in a way I meant to be provocative, and stared him at the eye. “You mean, he hates when I suck dick?” “Don’t say it like that, son,” begged the man. “Why not? It’s what I’m doing.” I wiped the moisture from around my mouth onto the back of my hand. “I’m sucking your dick. You’re putting your dick in my mouth.” Despite the fact that he’d been doing so for a good ten minutes, my companion seemed utterly unwilling to admit to it. In fact, he seemed exasperated with me. “Don’t talk about it, son,” he begged. “You want me to stop?” I settled back on my haunches. My clothes lay in a pile on the floor, in front of an old and rusted dishwasher—the type that rolled across a kitchen floor and hooked into its faucet via a hose. Nothing in his kitchen was new. Not the appliances, which had been perhaps new at roughly the time Lucy was moving in next to the Mertzes. Not the floral wallpaper, which was peeling from the wall. Definitely not the linoleum, which was cracked and yellow as old teeth. I grabbed for my T-shirt as if I was planning to leave. I knew he wouldn’t let me. “Don’t,” he said, in a voice made husky from desire. “Just . . . don’t stop.” “Don’t stop what?” Again, I watched the morality drama play out on his face. He was struggling to say the words. Some part of me, deep inside, got off on that. “Don’t stop . . . sucking . . . my . . . dick,” he finally said. He had to force out the last three words. After a moment, I nodded, dropped my T-shirt on the dirty floor, and went back to what I’d been doing. Make him say the words, is what Jim had told me. I hadn’t understood. These assholes get away with everything because they don’t admit to any of it. Not even to themselves. If you want to fuck with his head, make him say the words. Don’t get into the trap of doing things to speed things along. Make him say what he wants. Make him say the fucking words. They have to face up to it, once they say the words. Jim had worn a cruel sneer on his face when he’d given me the advice. His face was full of contempt for the man who’d had sex with me in his boat of a Cadillac and then lectured me about my relationship to the Lord, after. He knew that culture, it was pretty plain. It wasn’t unusual, though. Virginia in the nineteen-seventies was very much a staunch bastion of mainstream Protestant religion—the types of good, genteel folk who dressed up for church on Sunday but upon whom the sermon made as little impression as the butter they spread upon their biscuits during their hot Sunday dinners, after. But there was growing at the time an increasingly evangelical grassroots Christianity as well, that demanded total adherence to its increasingly conservative mindset. Everyone knew someone who’d survived that sort of religion. Earl, my sexual mentor of sorts, had argued with him that evening. “The kid’s not like that,” he kept telling Jim. “He doesn’t have that capacity.” A few minutes earlier, he’d said I wasn’t capable of adult insights. Those words had still smarted. Finally, he stood up. His soft dick swung between his legs as he walked in the direction of the stairs. “I’m going to the bedroom,” he announced. To me, he added, “If you want to come up when you’re done listening to bad advice, I’ll be around.” I knew an order when I heard it. I rose to follow, but Jim stopped me before I did. “Fuck with him,” he advised. “Meet up with that preacher man again and fuck with his head. It’ll be fun. I promise.” I should’ve known better than to trust him. Jim was a man who’d gone out of his way to sabotage me at every opportunity. He’d cut me down verbally. He’d pinched me too hard during sex, and let the tip of his lit cigarettes accidentally rest against my naked skin, from time to time. I had no reason to trust him, but when he’d caught sight of my momentary resentment of Earl, somehow he’d managed to insinuate a notion into my head. Maybe it would be fun to fuck around with the preacher man. More than that: maybe it would be right to fuck with him. Maybe it was what he deserved. So I laid in wait for the guy. I knew what day of the week he was likely to cruise the park from the first time we met, and wasn’t surprised when he showed up at the same time, a week later. I sucked him in his car again that day, just as I did the week after. The third week he showed up, I made up some story about seeing the cops drive through a few minutes before and how I was worried about doing it there. Maybe, I didn’t know, if his wife wasn’t home, he could maybe take me there? When he’d hesitated, I’d shrugged and turned as if to climb on my bike and head home. But he’d invited me, and there I was, dirtying my knees and shins on the filthy linoleum of his Lakeside kitchen. “So Jesus doesn’t like it when I do this?” I asked, going all the way down on his dick until it plugged my throat. He was so hard, it was like wrapping my lips around a concrete shaft. “Jesus weeps for the homosexshul sin,” gasped out the preacher man. “Truly, you must repent of doing such things—“ It was an effort to get out the words, with my determined sucking. “If you wish to reach the kingdom of heaven.” I shut up then. I’d decided to bring him off. My lips pursed out to take his length, and my throat opened to accommodate him. All I needed to do was pull at his nuts, and globs of creamy sperm were coating my tonsils. I swallowed every drop of the foul-tasting stuff, then backed off. He stared at me. His legs were still trembling. It was then that I realized he feared whatever I might have to say. “Then what does he think of you?” I asked, calm, cool, and cruel. Tight with Jesus he might have been, but I was flushed with the glory of the righteous, and I knew I had the upper hand. Then, like the little prick I was being at that moment, I picked up my clothes, put them on without hurry, and exited. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This isn’t an X-rated event, but I’d like to remember it. The night before I drove to my new home, after the movers had cartoned up everything in the house and loaded it on their truck and driven away, some of my friends gave me a going-away party. I didn’t really want anything of the sort. In fact, I’d specifically asked they not do any such thing. For one thing, they’d already thrown us a huge farewell party back in September of last year—a huge event with way too much food, a rented space, music, the works. After the spouse departed and I lingered on for nine months while I waited for my house to sell, though, I kind of felt increasingly awkward about having been to my own going-away party and never, you know, actually going. Still, when I got to the bar and saw the balloons and the cake and a handful of my friends smiling at me, any reluctance I had more or less vanished. A good cake goes a long way toward mollifying my doubts, usually. I ate, I chatted, I grinned a lot . . . everyone had a good time. About an hour into the evening, one of the friends who’d done the most to organize the party slid into a vacated chair next to mine. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with Spencer,” he told me. “I was hoping I could get him to come out, too.” He’d met Spencer on one of the nights we’d come out together. “You know, I told him where I’d be tonight,” I said. “I was kind of hoping he’d show up, too.” Spencer and I had been faithful, almost-nightly companions up until almost the end. I’d cooked for us the entire week before my last, and made him some of the gluten-free almond meal brownies he liked so much; we’d spent our evenings cuddling on the sofa and talking and watching television or videos on YouTube. The week of my move, he’d given me my space so that I could finish up around the house and spend time with my loved ones, but I’d really been hoping to see him one last time. It was only a few minutes after that conversation that I looked up toward the bar’s back door and saw a tall young man striding in. His lips pulled apart into a wide, goofy grin punctuated by the dark, clear periods of his eyes and the two sideways parentheses of his eyebrows. My heart caught for a second. I know my face lit up. He’d come, after all. We made room for him at the table, where he met the people to whom he hadn’t yet been introduced, and where he greeted the folks he already knew. He was popular with everyone—outgoing and talkative, he spent the evening making small talk like a pro, and joining in the singing and the toasts. And you know, on some level I know it was an act—or at least an effort. Spencer hates the bars with a passion. He dislikes making small talk with strangers. Sweet as he can be, he’s much more a person who thrives on one-on-one intimacy, whether in friendship or in bed, than he does on the group dynamic. But he’d come because I’d asked, and because he wouldn’t have another chance. He was determined to make me happy he had. The one thing I’d always hoped for with SpencerSpencer was a graceful dismount for us both from our relationship: a sense that we concluded our time together in a mutually satisfactory way, with no regrets for our behavior or apologies left to make. I wanted us to part sweetly, and as friends. That was the present he gave me, the night before we left. He charmed my friends and family and left the people who talked to him with smiles on their faces. He was relaxed, and natural, and funny. He was himself, at his most unfettered. And that’s exactly how I’ll be able to remember him in the future—smiling, confident, handsome, and utterly capable. After a couple of hours, he told me he had to go. “Hey,” I said, holding him by the leg. “I want to tell you. You are the most remarkable young man I know, and I see a future filled with great things for you. Please know how much you’ve meant to me over these last months. I don’t make many close friendships. I’m grateful for having yours.” “We will always be friends,” he told me. Then we hugged, and kissed, and I walked him to his car. A graceful dismount is all I hoped for. He gave me that, with Olympic style. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Hey guys. It's me, I've landed, and finally have internet service again, and am happy to report that the move went well. Mind you, I'm still mostly living out of cardboard boxes, and my movers were a little bit liberal and fanciful with their descriptions of what was inside—when I went hunting for some pots and pans in a very large box marked Pots/Pans, I found a collection of Christmas cookie cutters, frosting bags and decorator tips, all my bottles and jars of spices, each wrapped individually in about a yard of paper, the racks from a microwave over I haven't owned since 2007, several novelty coffee cups, a lot of assorted good china that I've never once used in my history of owning good china, more gravy boats than I thought it was possible to own, and then down at the very bottom of the box, one teeny-tiny square flat pan intended for the making of individual grilled-cheese sandwiches. The actual pots and pans I was seeking I found in a box labeled 'kitchen/lamps.' Oh, I admit that my own approach to packing was just as haphazard. Some of the boxes I made have labels like 'gloves/cat food/stock records', or 'sheet music/binoculars/computer software', but at least I have a vague memory of what went into them. With the stuff the movers stuffed into boxes, though? It's like Christmas with every new rip of the packing tape, as I discover all kinds of crap I didn't remember having. At any rate, I hope to get back to a more regular posting schedule this week—though if I have to take a day or two off to switch over my driver's license or take care of business here, I trust you'll forgive me. I'd like to thank everyone for the supportive comments and the countless great emails you sent during the week of my move and the week after. I haven't answered a single one of them, I've been so swamped, but I've been very, very grateful for them all. You guys are some good people. Let's get to some Formspring.me questions to start the week off. If you do not have a tattoo, would you consider getting one? If you do, would you consider getting another? I would consider getting a tattoo if I could decide on the right design and placement. However, I've never thought of anything I've really wanted inked on my skin, nor have I really discovered a place on my body I'd like that something marked. I'm open, though. do u use any cosmetic product 2 keep ur skin firm or 2 look great? I moisturize. A lot. can you tell whether someone is a top or bottom just by looking at him Yes. Absolutely. I look at every gay guy and think to myself, "Bottom." How often do you go online? Jeez, I think it's easier to tell you when I am not online. I'm usually wired in some way, whether it's working at my computer during the day, or with my tablet reading at night. When I'm away from my desk, I have my phone with me for instant internet access at any moment. That said, however, I'm very careful about my net access when I'm with others. I won't interrupt a conversation or meal or movie or night out to surf the web or catch up on Twitter. Occasionally, if it's the kind of casual get-together that allows it, I'll dip in. But if it's the sort of time with friends in which we're supposed to be enjoying each others' company, I would prefer to do that than post about it on Facebook. Besides your blog, in what kind of outlets does your writing, erotic and otherwise, appear? I did have that short thing in that place, and then those other things, and then the thing in that other place, too. So it's out there. Is the first ice-breaking question you ask on a date, “What kind of music do you like?” Do you lose your erection if they readily respond with Lady Gaga, or do your pants fly off at the mention of Explosions in the Sky? No, I really don't judge other people by their musical tastes, because my glass house built from Bananarama remixes is too fragile for me to throw stones. library blowjob or truckstop buttfuck? I like both. But I'd pick the buttfuck every time. What words would you use, to describe an orgasm, to someone that's never had one before, so they would be able to form a mental picture of one? I'd say it was like holding a bundle of fireworks in your belly, then releasing the pyrotechnics from every pore of your skin, all at once. What are the words you would use, to describe what you look like, to someone who's blind? "You know how it sounds when the gals go all giggly over Bradley Cooper? Well, I look just like him." More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here While I've been settling into my new home this week without much in the way of internet access, I've been re-running some old journal entries for your entertainment. This piece never appeared in my blog, but it is a journal entry from 2009 or 2010. It appeared last year in issue 3 of Anal Magazine. Here’s my address, I typed in my email to him, following it with my street number. I’m gonna be sitting in my living room. House lights out. Front door unlocked. Pants down. Just stroking. Come on in and stroke with me. Or whatever, buddy. HOT, BUDDY. I’ll be there in five, he wrote back, barely seconds after I’d hit the ‘send’ button. The guy had contacted me a couple of times before, stressing each time that he was just looking to jerk off with a dude, if I was cool than that. He just liked to show off what he had, he’d said, and my meat looked really good to him. The guy had always nurtured a fantasy about walking up to a buddy’s house at night and finding him stroking on his back porch, then helping him out. When he’d written, he’d used that calculatedly casual, frat-boy speak that some gay guys use as a shorthand to convey their masculinity. I replied in kind. All the photos he’d sent were of him wearing baseball caps, muscle shirts, sunglasses, showing off his lean and muscled body. The one photo that displayed him at his best had been taken from below, his dick inches away from the camera lens, his meaty fist wrapped around it, his forearms bulging like Popeye’s, as his upper lip curled in a sneer that practically seemed to touch the carefully tattered brim of his cap. It was a hot sight—there was no denying that. But he was the kind of 29-year-old muscle man I try to keep away from, out of the simple fear that I won’t measure up. I look trim, though, and he lived less than a quarter of a mile away, so I figured, what the fuck? He was at the house in two minutes. I watched from the sofa as he parked his car across the street and stumbled across the snow and ice up the front steps. He hesitated a moment before pulling open the screen door and turning the front door knob, but then he was into the house, stamping the cold from his feet and looking around for me. As promised, I sat on the sofa wearing a tight gray T-shirt. My jeans were around my ankles, my cock hard. He stood there for a moment, transfixed, his glance darting between what I stroked with a backhand motion, and my eyes, trying to make out my features in the near-perfect dark. “God damn. Yeah, bud,” he whispered. Then, without hesitation, he took off his jacket, kicked off his athletic shoes, and let his sweatpants fall. Beneath he only wore a pair of gray briefs and a white, square-cut tank that clung to his pecs and his narrow waist as if it had been spun around him. He lifted the tank top slightly and ran his enormous hand over the flat planes of his stomach, then plunged it down into his shorts. When he hooked both thumbs into the waistband and let them fall, I could see that he was hard already; his meat curved outward, jerking in the air for attention. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered. I just sat there, stroking. Without moving, after a moment he joined in, spitting in his hand first, then cupping it around his cock and covering it with the moistness. Twice, three times he spit, until his dick glistened in the blue-gray gloom. Like me, he held his fist backwards, thumb down against the hipbone, as he slid his hand back and forth over his inches. After a moment, I spat into my own hand, then began echoing the slick sound he was already making. Neither of us beat ourselves quickly. The moment was all about showing off for each other, and making as much noise as possible with our sticky hands and penises. He leaned back on his haunches, thrusting up into the air and drawing his fist back and forth slowly, slowly, watching my reaction the entire time. I let my eyes narrow to hard-looking slits as I kicked off my jeans and spread my legs and feet as wide as they would go, leaning back on the sofa and rubbing my left nipple as I continued to flaunt myself. His whisper cut through the silence. “Hey. You hear how quiet it is?” he asked. “Listen.” We both stopped moving our hands. Over the steady, accelerated thump of my pulsing blood, there was nothing but stillness and the sounds of our labored breathing. “So damn quiet.” I nodded, agreeing with him. Then, after enjoying the hush for a moment, his hand moved again. He spat in it, then curved his fingers around his dick once more, masturbating nosily. After the silence, the sound of sex and self-pleasure sounded twice as nasty as before. He paused only to pull up his tank and flip the material around the back of his neck, so that I could admire his muscular, slightly hairy chest and ripped abdomen. I stood up, spread my legs, and towered over him, continuing to stroke. He stared at me. “Big dick,” he finally said. I simply nodded, pointing it at him. After a hesitation he reached up and stroked it with the back of his wrist—because a real bud doesn’t go for a buddy’s dick with an open hand, apparently. I made my cock jump, and then put pressure with it onto the back of his hand. Finally I just grabbed his arm, uncurled his hand, and wrapped it around my meat. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he hissed with pleasure, sucking in breath as he began working both of our cocks in unison. I was dripping by now; the extra moisture just added to the spit-slickness. He kept bringing his face closer and closer, examining me close up. After a few moments, I spoke my first words. “Help me out, buddy,” I told him. He looked up at me, pretending uncertainty. “C’mon,” I repeated. “Help a buddy out.” He didn’t need any further encouragement. His mouth opened, lip reaching out hungrily to take me in. He wasn’t clumsy at all; instead, he sucked me gently, deliberately, working first the head and then moving in to take as much of me as he could without choking. “Damn, buddy,” I said, genuinely aroused. “You are good.” He must have liked the praise, because he doubled his efforts. I grunted with every downstroke until at least I feared shooting too soon. I backed him off. “Stand up and let me get a taste of yours,” I commanded. I perched my ass on the sofa’s edge and leaned forward, while he stood and delivered his cock to my face. It was just as big and well-proportioned as in his photographs. When I wrapped my hand around it, he shuddered, then threw back his head and clasped his hands behind it. His baseball cap fell off to the floor, revealing his shaved head. He didn’t bother to pick it up. “Oh god,” he moaned, as I opened my mouth and huffed warm air on him. Then, once I’d gotten my lips to the bottom of the shaft, I closed my mouth again and let him feel the warm, wet interior all at once. His knees began to buckle; he grabbed onto my shoulders for support. “Not so fast,” he begged, before I’d barely made my way up and down the length of it. We stood or knelt for each other for long minutes until one of us would get too close. Then we’d back off and swap. After the fourth or fifth time, when I stood up, he didn’t get to his knees. Instead, his hands on my hips, he looked me in the eyes, and then rested his forehead on my shoulder. He smelled of soap. I let my cheek rub against the sharp stubble of his head, then brushed my lips against his brow. His neck moved back, pliant, his face turned upright. I could see him look at me, waiting for what I’d do next. I leaned down and let my lips touch his. Just a little bit. His own lips parted slightly in response. I kissed him again. He resisted, like a masculine buddy apparently does, but when I grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into me, his mouth opened and engulfed mine, sucking in the lips and tongue as if hungry. Onto the sofa we fell, making out ravenously, our cocks pulsing and grinding into each other. He was moaning as I kissed him, and let out a cry as I rubbed and pinched his nipples. When I tore my mouth away from his and began chewing on the nipple that seemed more sensitive, he gasped, and then panted out, “I never do this, bud!” I was too aroused to pay attention to his weak protests, though. I’d already spit in my hand again and slapped my fingers on his ass. His hole was tight, I could tell—tighter than the professional bottoms-in-denial that I’m accustomed to. I wondered if he might not be the real thing. As we returned to our furious kissing, however, I slipped the tip, and then the entire first joint of my middle finger inside him. He yelped inside my mouth. Once he was used to it, I slid the rest of my finger home, until all of it was inside his hole. “Fuck, buddy,” he groaned, digging his forehead into my chest. His cock had never been harder. As I twisted my finger back and forth inside, I continued to slide my hand back and forth over the length of him. “It’s too much,” he said. “It feels too fucking good.” I’d put some supplies on the coffee table, just in case. With my finger still inside him, I covered my cock with a handful of cold, slick lube. He didn’t protest at all when I pulled up his legs and parted them further, hooking one underneath my arm and pinning the other to the sofa’s back. When I started to slide into him, his hands and elbows flew over his head; his head banged against the sofa’s wooden arm. As with a lot of guys who claim they’re only into jerking off with a buddy, this is what he’d really come for. He simply didn’t want to compromise his masculinity by having to ask for it. I didn’t go in too quickly. He was very, very tight. But I did go all the way in. The moment I hit bottom, he started to convulse. His hole spasmed, clenching and relaxing and then clamping down so hard onto me that in a fuck-panicked moment, I thought he might be trying to squeeze it off. But no, he was only coming. He cried out loudly, then thrust and upward, shooting an enormous stream of seed into the air. It arced over his head and landed, I later discovered, onto the base of the floor lamp behind him. A second shot landed on his face, and a third a little lower down, below his collar bone. “What the fuck are you doing to me!” he cried. Then again, in a whimper: “What are you doing to me?” Somehow I understood he wasn’t protesting the act itself, but marveling at the intensity of his climax. He shuddered for a few moments more after he’d finished shooting, then lay there limply. After what seemed like an appropriate period, I began to slide out again. “Don’t,” he said. Then his arms shot up around my neck, pulling me down to him. I once more put my mouth against his. This time, our kisses were long and languorous; he rubbed his face against my beard, and then brushed his sharp stubble over my forehead. For ten minutes more we kissed, until at long last he leaned back, stretched like a cat as I slid out, sighed, and then laughed slightly. “Damn, buddy,” he said. “Day-umn!” I nodded. My head was still spinning from the intensity of it. “Yeah,” I said, laughing. “That was the best orgasm I ever had in my life. My entire fucking life, man.” “Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment, but not really believing it. “You didn’t come, though.” I told him it was all right. “You sure?” he asked. I nodded. We both relaxed for a minute more, clearing our heads. “We’re doing this again, right?” he finally said. He pulled his tank up and over his head, then down the concavity of his body. “Don’t tell me this is a one-time thing, buddy.” “Oh, we’ll definitely do it again,” I promised him. After he dressed, he leaned into me again and put his arms around me. We made out for a minute more. “Thanks,” he whispered. Then in a normal voice, he said, “I left my wallet and keys in the car in case you turned out to be some kind of freak. Then all I’d have to do was run the hell out.” I hesitated in my response, uncertain whether I should be a little embarrassed that I’d potentially sounded like an axe murderer, or touched at his candor. “But I didn’t run out,” he finally murmured in my ear, tipping my decision to the latter. He rubbed his face against my neck. “You know?” “No,” I said, giving him one long, last kiss. “You didn’t run out.” More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here While I'm settling into my new home this week and don't have much in the way of internet access, I'm reposting a few favorite entries that shorter-term readers might not have encountered, and that longer-term fans might remember fondly. This entry is from June of 2010. I tend to think about it this time of year, when the weather starts to get warm and the days are long. Last week, someone asked me via formspring.me whether I’d had sex with a police officer or not. When I replied I had, naturally I got several people asking to hear about it. Because in these post-Village People days, what self-respecting gay guy hasn’t wanted to have sex with a policeman? In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I stayed in the little town where I was attending college. Williamsburg is a Virginia tourist attraction known for both Colonial Williamsburg and the Busch Gardens theme park, and its summer months could be absolute madness. I’d been putting myself through school by working in an ice cream store that was so swamped during tourist season that they were more than happy to have me stick around and work nights. There wasn’t much to Williamsburg. The college and Colonial Williamsburg abut each other like conjoined twins, tied by a long, straight umbilical cord of a road to the interstate some miles away. Along that road were businesses and hotels, including my ice cream store. And way out past the outskirts of town was the little apartment that I and my junior-year roommate were subletting together. I didn’t have a car in those days. (I didn’t have a car until I was in graduate school.) I did have my ten-speed bike, though, and a sturdy pair of legs. I’d bike several miles down to campus in the mornings, where I’d hang out in the campus center and whore in the restrooms. In the afternoons I’d head to the ice cream store, where I’d work until ten before biking home and doing it all again the next day. One night after work I was biking down Richmond Road, the long commercial stretch of fast food chains and old-persons’ cafeterias, when I was hit by a car. It wasn’t as dire as it sounded. When I happened to bike in front of the Arby’s driveway, a tourist from Maryland nosed out too far in the road, rammed my ankle, and sent me sprawling. Luckily there was very little traffic at that time of night, and I had presence of mind enough to fall toward the sidewalk and not out in the middle of the road. The tourist, apparently feeling she was doing the right thing, slammed on her accelerator and took off. I sat on the curb and checked first my leg, which throbbed a little but which wasn’t in bad condition or anything. I’d just begun to look over my bike when I heard the whoop of a siren. When I looked up, a police car had pulled up in front of me. “Don’t go anywhere!” called the cop inside. Then he, too, went roaring off with his siren blaring. I don’t think I thought I was in trouble, though the possibility crossed my mind. After all, it wasn’t me that the cop was chasing. Under the streetlights I obediently waited. By the time he returned a few minutes later, I’d determined that everything was fine with my bicycle. The cop blocked the entire right lane with his vehicle and got out to talk to me. “Couldn’t get her,” he said, putting both his hands on his hips. He was a stocky man in his early forties, tending more to chubby than to muscular. He was also a good foot shorter than I, and wore his hair in that style Virginia men of a certain middle age used to, back in the day—severe part on one side, a swoop of hair over the forehead, trimmed to within an inch of its life. A gold band decorated his ring finger. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” I said. With a little prompting, I explained that I worked at the ice cream store down the street and that I was just biking back to my apartment. “These out-of-towners are crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta be careful. I wouldn’t want my kid biking on this road. Listen. I’m going to follow you home. Just to make sure you’re okay. Got it?” There wasn’t really much I could do. I shrugged, struggled back into my backpack, and biked home with a police escort. The entire way back he kept his light flashing and stayed a good ten feet behind me. I pulled off into my parking lot and thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t until I reached my apartment door that he tooted his horn, waved at me out the window, and drove off. I went inside and thought no more about it. Until, that is, until the next night. Biking home from work again, I passed the same Arby’s and nearly had a heart attack when a car came barreling out of the drive just seconds after I’d passed. It wasn’t a tourist, though. It was a police car, and driving it was the very same cop who’d followed me home the night before. He nodded at me without any real friendliness on his face as he drove by, and then pulled off. He’d drive up to some waypoint and wait for me, then when I’d pass, he’d drive by again and wait somewhere. All the way home he leapfrogged me, until we were in my parking lot. Then he waved, spoke to someone on his radio, and drove off. I had a night off after that, but part of me wondered if my policeman was waiting for me at Arby’s again. The next time I drove home, he answered the question for me by meeting me in the parking lot of the ice cream store. His squad car had been idling, the entire time he'd waited for me. When I stepped out of the back door, he flicked his lights twice to greet me. I walked up to the driver's side and said hi through the window. "I'll be okay," I said to him. "Really. You don't have to follow me home every night." "It's my duty," he said. When he stared at me, it was with an intensity I recognized. He was attempting to be casual, but I wasn't fooled. He wasn't an attractive man, in a traditional sense. There was something sexual about him, though. With his gruff voice, his barrel chest, his paws, and his air of easy authority, I was kind of mesmerized. He was masculine and protective. All I could really think was that I felt like the prostitute of Blondie's "X Offender," pledging her body to the officer who arrested her: "When I get out, there's no doubt I'll be sex offensive to you." "I've never had an accident before the other night. Really," I assured him. It was night, so I was fairly confident he couldn't see how deeply I was reddening, but I looked up and away, anyway. "If I had a boy like you," he said in low tones, "I'd be worried about him. Out at night. On the roads. Alone." Said in a different way, the words could have come off as creepy and serial killer-like. The way the cop said them, they gave me an instant erection. I laughed it off and unlocked my bike, and began the trip home. I waited for the officer when I reached my sublet. As I expected, he pulled his car into the parking lot and watched while I locked up my bicycle. "Thanks again," I said, walking over to his car. "As usual." "No problem. As usual." Though I expected him to pull off and get back to work, he stayed in his car, staring at me levelly. His fingers tapped against the outside of his door. "So," he said at last. "You live with a girlfriend?" I colored deeply again. My erection, which had withered on the bike home, sprang back to life. "No," I told him. Before he could ask anything else, I supplied, "A roommate." He nodded, as if he'd expected that. "So the other night, I checked out this place around the back of these apartments," he said, staring still. "It's real quiet. You want to see it?" My heart beat like timpani. I knew exactly what he was asking, and knew I'd heard correctly. I might even have known it was coming. Still, I couldn't help but respond with stunned shock. "Yeah," I said, with the ghost of a voice. "Sure." After I'd hopped into his front seat and allowed him to drive me around the apartment complex, the back of which was indeed dark and quiet, we sat in his car staring forward. His fingers now drummed on his thighs. After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat. "I'm married." I'd known that, by the ring. "All right," I said. "Shit, I got two little girls at home." I didn't know how to reply to the confession. "Okay. Here's the thing. I never had no boy before." When he made that announcement, his voice was as choked with worry as mine had been. I looked over in surprise, to find him trying to assess me. His eyes darted away. I had the realization then that as nervous and excited as I was, his anxiety was even higher. I'd thought we'd come back to this dark spot so that he could ravish me. Now I realized that I was going to have to be the seducer. Once I grasped that notion, my own nerves disappeared. "It's okay," I told him, softly. I reached out and put my hand on his. He flinched slightly, but let me rub my palm up and down the thatch of hair growing on his forearm. "Unzip," I suggested. After a moment, he obeyed. His dick was thick, short, meaty, and already hard--a knob of flesh with an unwashed scent. He wasn't dirty, but his tool had obviously been lying unused all day. When I took it all in my mouth and began to suck, he gasped, then groaned. I felt his hand rest gently on the back of my head, almost as if he were afraid to touch me back. With my free hand, I pulled his fingers hard against my skull, to show him it was all right. His digits twined with my hair, and began to control the rise and fall as I sucked. I slobbered greedily over his dick, aware of the steering wheel digging into my shoulders, and the bulges and sharp corners of the objects hanging from his belt bruising my clavicle. Beneath the fabric, his radio occasionally sparked and flared with noise, but the only sounds he made were of soft sighs and the occasional grunt. I hummed with pleasure as I sucked that dick, breathing in a whiff of masculine sweat every time my nose his his pubic hair. When he came, which was shortly after I began to suck, he did so with a shout and a cry of, "I'm gonna let it loose . . . you gonna take it? You gonna take it?" I answered by plunging my head down to the root and letting him hold my head there while he unleashed spurt after spurt of semen. He tasted sour, and slightly like lemons, and bleach, but I swallowed him all. For a moment I remained down on his dick. When it began to soften, I sat back up again. I didn't know what his reaction would be, after his first blow job from a guy. Would he kick me out? Would he call me names? I'd been with straight men before who'd verbally abused me after the act, so that they could feel better about themselves and what they'd done. The cop didn't do any of those things, though. Instead, he sat there in the dark parking lot with his dick still flopping down beneath his belly, and rubbed his hand over his belly. "Shit," he said at last. Then he turned his head and looked at me. "So. Do you do that fucking up the butthole thing, too?" The next time we met, which was a couple of nights later in the same spot, we did the fucking up the butthole thing. I had to teach him to get me wet and to slick up his dick, and that he didn't have to treat me as if I were made of glass. After the first few times, he began to get into the man sex—he could pound away at my ass like the best of them. He wasn't much for the dirty talk, but every time he came in my hole, he'd tell me something like, "I'm making babies in you, boy." This is what I think about when I think about my police officer: those hot and humid Virginia summer nights, the rise and fall of cicada cries, the smell of sweat, and the weight of my cop's body as he pressed hard into me and grunted: "Making my babies in you." More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here While I'm settling into my new home this week and don't have much in the way of internet access, I'm reposting a few favorite entries that shorter-term readers might not have encountered, and that longer-term fans might remember fondly. This entry is from April of 2010. The boy was cute. I would have put him at twenty-one or twenty-two. Old enough, that is, to be legally consuming the mug of beer he clutched in his hands. His hair was dark and shaggy and was patted down in a carefully negligent swoop that covered the entire of his forehead. The smallest, downiest patch of fuzz adorned the tip of chin, as if he’d dipped it into the magnetic particles of a Wooly Willy child’s toy. His eyes were wide, clear, and blue. From where I sat in the smoky bar’s booth, my long legs sprawled out over the bench, I noticed those eyes looking at me, over and over again. Every time they met mine, they skittered away like timid mice. I wasn’t afraid to stare at him outright. So I got to see the shy dance of his own gaze as it danced around the room, followed by the magnetic return to me before it dashed away again. He was a little like the current American Idol contestant Tim Urban, this kid, save for a little slighter and not quite as wholesome. Then there were his forearms, the undersides of which appeared smudged. I thought at first that perhaps he’d laid his arms on a dirty table and they’d come away grimy, but the more he raised his mug of beer to his pretty little lips, the plainer it became that he’d had both armed tattooed in an elaborate script. I was convinced for a while it was some erudite saying in a fancy font. He saw me looking, and out of defense crossed his arms over the Atari logo T-shirt he wore beneath his ragged plaid shirt. The position only gave me a better view of those arms.Then when I saw the diacriticals, I realized that he’d gotten his arms covered in High Elvish. The kid was some kind of Lord of the Rings fanboy, and had actually picked out an Elvish quotation and had it inked onto his skin. The scrappy chin fuzz, the Atari shirt, the total geeky fanboyishness of the tattoos—well, it gave me a total mental hard-on. And it wasn’t as if I was imagining that the kid was staring at me. I had his full attention most of the time, even in those moments when he was studiously avoiding looking my way. We were in a crowded suburban bar packed with drinkers and couples eating dinner and smokers having their last hurrah with smoking indoors before the Michigan smoking ban goes into effect next month. It was a straight bar, a sports bar, and the sort of place where the fanciest thing on the menu was the ‘Swanky Frankie’—a hot dog wrapped in bacon and deep-fried. I had a night away from home and was surrounded by a bunch of friends. He was at a crowded table of guys and girls his own age, all of them drinking and whooping and eating the free popcorn with both hands. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place where you pick up guys. We had eye-fucked each other for over a half hour when finally I excused myself from the table and stood up. I stretched. When I found him—surprise, surprise—staring at me after my public yawn and extension, I let him have half a sheepish grin. Then I made my way to the men’s room. The bar’s restrooms were at the back. A half-drunk slattern exited the women’s room, making its hinge protest with a high-pitched creak when she leaned too heavily on the door on her way out. She stumbled by, unsteady on her feet, as she gave me the up-and-down. I slipped into the men’s room and stood at one of the two urinals. It wasn’t too long before I heard the restroom door open with a slow, tentative push. I didn’t even look around. I just listened to his soft footsteps as with uncertainty he walked in, pretended to check his hair in the mirror, and coughed. Then, after a pause that seemed eternal, he sidled over to the urinal next to mine, and unzipped. I’d started to grow hard the moment I knew it was him. I turned my head slightly, enough to know that he was looking over at me. When I knew I had his attention, I took a step back. My cock was plainly visible, jutting from the fly of my jeans. I stroked it in my right hand and cupping my balls with my left. I like showing off my dick to strange guys. Know they’re getting an eyeful turns me on. Seeing the hungry look on his face, the unconscious working of his lips as he listened to whatever inner monologue he had of lust and need, simply made me all the harder. A bead of precum bulged from my slit as I turned to him. He angled his body toward mine, too. His dick was only half-hard, and not large at all, but it was hooded and shaved and clutched so hard between his trembling fingers that it was turning purple. I turned a little more in his direction and thrust out my hips and cock. “Touch it,” I ordered him in a whisper. His fingers were still shaking as he obeyed my order. His arm turned so I could see the letters so carefully inscribed along their length, that elaborate script that would have been better suited adorning the One Ring. The kid reached out and took my meat from underneath, and squeezed. It was hot in his cold hand. I stared not at what he was doing, but at his face and those beautiful blue eyes. He looked mostly at my dick, stroking it in his hand as if he’d never held one before other than his own. Occasionally though, his glance would dart up to mine and then away again, almost as if he were embarrassed at being caught doing what he was doing. “Suck it,” I told him, after a while. I used my hands on his shoulders to press down. Obediently, without question, he knelt down onto the dirty tiles. Again he looked up at me, a question in his eyes. Do I have to? I nodded. Yes, he did. His mouth opened. His tongue flicked out. He leaned forward at an angle. Then, from outside the restroom came the awful squeal of the door to the women’s room, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot. The kid scrambled up to his feet. A wild look was in his eyes, as if he expected the vice squad to have appeared behind him. The kid stuffed his junk back into his pants so hastily that I feared for its safety. Then, like a little doe frightened by hunters, he darted on light, fleet feet out of the restroom and back to his table. I followed a little while later. He’d taken a seat with his back to me, so he couldn’t stare at me any more. His arm was around the shoulders of a chubby, pretty girl. From time to time he’d whisper in her ear as if confiding something. I knew his attention was still on me, though, because he couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder to see if I was still there. I didn’t return to the restroom that night, and I didn’t attempt to engage him any further. Sometimes making a boy admit to his desire is all I need; I like watching that internal struggle as he attempts to balance the sexual heat against his compulsions to remain a good boy. Saturday night, the heat won out—it was brief, and it didn’t result in anything, but the heat won. That’s a victory for my side, any day. More...