TheBreeder

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, and is about someone whose presence in my life profoundly changed my philosophy. “Don’t get up,” he told me. I was already pulling on a shirt, panicked at the sound of the back door opening at the other side of the condo. It was the first time I’d been in a man’s bed and heard someone unexpected enter his home. “Someone’s coming,” I said, panicked. Was it a lover? A wife? A policeman? “Seriously. Don’t get dressed,” said my friend. After twenty-two years, I’ve forgotten his name. He was one of those alumni of the college who never seemed to leave Williamsburg after graduation, loving the little city so much that he’d stayed there for twenty years. Although he worked in Richmond and spent large portions of each month in the D.C. area, his home was townhouse on Jamestown Road. His advice came too late, though. I’d already pulled on my t-shirt. When I heard steps at the top of the staircase, I pulled the hem of my shirt over my erection. “You didn’t have to do that. It’s just my buddy David. He’s picking up some stuff. You know David?” It was 1981. I was seventeen and in my first month as a freshman. I barely knew anyone who wasn’t on my dorm hallway. I certainly didn’t know the older kid standing in front of me. David had hair in a shade of light copper, like a penny new from the press; the skin of his lightly muscled arms was pink and creamy. He wore a grey t-shirt with the sleeves cut-off, jeans, and tennis shoes. “I didn’t know you had someone here,” he said. The apology was honest. I could tell how uncomfortable he had been, seeing me. “That’s okay. Let me get your stuff.” The man stood. His penis was still dripping semen from the tip as he ambled off downstairs. “I’m David,” said the redhead. He stared at me with eyes of the most intense blue hue I've ever seen. I introduced myself, frightened to move. My t-shirt was covering my still-raging, unsatisfied erection, but any movement would reveal it. I wasn’t entirely stupid. I knew it was obvious what we’d been doing, but I kept hoping for some less embarrassing solution to the situation. “Are you a student?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he put a hand to his chest. “I’m a junior.” “Freshman,” I admitted. David looked at the staircase just outside the bedroom, and hesitated. Then he took a step closer. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch my cheek. The stroke’s arc took him to the neck of my shirt. He rested his fingers on it and paused, waiting for me to protest. I did not. He lifted the t-shirt up and over my erection. I was unsatisfied and still hard, despite the fright. The sensation of his skin’s warmth along my neck made my cock even harder. When it popped out from under the cloth, unrestrained at last, he drew in his breath sharply, surprised at my size. It sounded as if he was hissing. Those blue eyes regarded my cock for a few seconds before he caught my gaze once more and cupped me under the chin. “I wish I had a boyfriend like you,” he whispered to me, his voice barely audible. “Meet me tonight.” My heart pounded in my chest so hard that my sight seemed to dim. I wish I could explain the way of my thoughts, twenty-two years ago. These days I would’ve said, “Sure!” My seventeen-year old self, however, I could only wish myself gone, away from the embarrassment of that situation, gone from David’s blue eyes and from my friend’s bed. He must have seen the conflict in my face. “Just meet me tonight. Promise. Ten o’clock, Crim Dell. I’ll wait for you. I just want to talk.” The condo’s owner started back up the stairs. “He used to fuck me too,” he whispered. “Ten o’clock?” “Here you go.” Our friend held out a plastic grocery bag. I don’t think I ever actually saw what it contained, but from the way it hung, my impression was that it held some clothing. David had taken a step back, away from me. My cock was back under the t-shirt. The man yawned and launched himself back into bed, not bothering to cover up. “Want to stick around?” he asked David. “Boy’s got a prime mouth.” The red-head looked at me and shook his head. “I have to do things. Later.” “Come here,” said the man, grabbing at my shirt. I felt the stitching protest at the seams as he pulled me back and guided me down on him. I performed automatically after that, though, wondering how soon was soon enough to make an excuse to leave and hike the mile back to campus, but not too soon so that I wouldn’t run into David on the way out. I don’t know why meeting David had mortified me. I can hazard a few guesses, but my perspective has changed so greatly over the last two decades any one of them would be difficult to explain. All the sex I’d had in the five years before, by and large, had been with men older than myself. I’d been used, photographed, banged, passed around, and never really felt any shame when it happened. When David walked into that house, however, and appeared in the bedroom door, it was the first time my slutting around had been laid bare for someone my own age. My life had been neatly compartmentalized to that point. I had my friends and peers, and I had the collection of men I’d slept with. I might be friendly with the men fucking me, but they weren’t my friends. Likewise, my friends didn’t fuck me. David frightened me, I think, by being my peer, wanting to be my friend, and wanting so obviously to enjoy sex with me. It was too much for me to handle. From what I recall, I went back to my dorm room that afternoon and hid. As it grew darker, I badly wanted to go down to Crim Dell and meet him, but every time I imagined him there, waiting in the campus’s most picturesque and romantic spot, my stomach churned with fear. I pictured him leaning against the fence overlooking the duck pond, its Japanese bridge framing his impatient silhouette. I pictured him looking at his watch and waiting for me. I also pictured myself showing up and not finding him there, and returning to my dormitory disappointed and shaking. I stayed in that night. I didn’t go down to meet him. Ten o’clock came and went and I remained curled up in the corner of my room where my bed met the wall. Midnight passed, and one, then two. I didn’t fall asleep until nearly dawn. When I look at David’s photograph in my old college yearbooks, he appears slightly cross-eyed. That puzzles me; the expression was nothing like the David I knew. I could see his approach on campus after that from far away—the red of his hair allowed me to spot him long before I could make out his features.. When I could, I’d duck down some byway or gravel path and avoid him. When I couldn’t, our eyes would lock as we passed. If he was in the middle of a conversation with a friend, he would stop talking so that he could stare at me as I walked by. When I looked over my shoulder, I would see him craning his neck to gaze after me. I yearned for David all that year, but never said a word to him. His attention mortified me, but not as much as the knowledge that I had stood him up that autumn evening. By my sophomore year, I was involved in the theatre department and co-starring in a two-person drama written by one of the more talented student playwrights. It was part of an evening of one-act plays. David turned out to be in one of the other productions. Our paths, however, didn’t cross until the night we ran technical rehearsals on all three plays. While we waited for our turns, we sat ten feet apart. Though we pretended not to be noticing each other, he was all I could think about. I feared him getting up and speaking to me. I worried he still wanted an apology for never meeting him. He watched me from the corners of his eyes the entire time. When I was onstage for my play during the performances, standing at attention in a soldier’s role, eyes straight ahead, I could see him standing above the bleachers of spectators in the walkway that ran around the room’s edge. He stood there, watching no one but me, for every performance. And then he would disappear. During David’s last semester on campus we shared a class in seventeenth-century poetry together. He sat in the row ahead of me, one seat over, next to his friend Shana from the theatre department. Every Tuesday and Thursday we would both go through an elaborate charade in which we’d pretend not to know the other existed. He would swivel in his chair and pretend to look out the window, even while his eyes would sidle in my direction. I would flush a deep, deep crimson and pretend I was listening to our short, frizzle-haired female professor. He would talk loudly about going up to New York on his spring break and visiting a gay bar. His friend Shana would hush him, worried that someone might overhear. He’d meant for me to overhear, however. Maybe he’d thought I’d forgotten how I knew him. How could I forget, though? Whenever David was around, he was I could think about. My skin seemed to blush, warm, and grow tight in his presence, like a grape swollen to bursting in the afternoon sun. If he turned suddenly in his seat, I would flinch as if I’d been struck. Toward the end of the semester he appeared in our class carrying a single white rose. It lay next to his notebook throughout the lecture, but from time to time he would pick it up with his soft, small hands and hold the bud to his nose. Twice he turned around in my direction and let his eyes flick to mine as he held the rose on his lips, casually, offhandedly, as if bored with the lecture and having a private muse on some other topic. I nearly had a stroke. At the end of the class he turned to Shana. “This is for you, sweetie,” he told her. She beamed and took it. They left the seminar room together. David very deliberately scanned my direction to see if I watched, yet refused to meet my eyes. I just wanted to slink back to my room and hide. The day of the final exam, David was in a giddy, playful mood. He toyed with Shana’s hair and cracked jokes I couldn’t hear. Shortly before the professor walked in, he grabbed a mug of water she’d brought with her, walked over the window, and fished something out of his pocket. While Shana protested, he poured the water over the something and brought it back to where they sat. “I found this in the river,” he said. “See how beautiful it is when it’s wet?” Shana didn’t seem overly impressed, but she agreed with him and hushed him so the professor could begin her lecture. The course had been tremendously difficult for me, and of course I’d never been able to concentrate during the lectures. I was pulling nothing but Cs on my papers and tests, and the only way I’d been able to tackle the final exam had been to memorize vast quantities of the professor’s favorite poems and to regurgitate them back into the blue book. I was the only sophomore in what was a senior-level class. I was also one of the last people to hand in his test booklet and leave the classroom. I walked down the arched hallway and down the stairs and through the front door of the Tucker building and out into the sweet Virginia sunshine, relishing mingling sensations of apprehension at my performance and relief at the class’ completion. I felt a touch on my arm. David had been leaning against the old brick wall of the entrance, waiting for me. He barely looked at me as he pressed something into my hand. “Had we but world enough, and time,” he said. I was still so surprised that I could barely comprehend him, but I did note how stiff he sounded. It was as if he had practiced his line thoroughly, but barely had the courage to speak it. Before I could reply, he sprinted down the steps without a word more. When I opened my hand, I saw that he had given me the stone he’d earlier shown Shana. It was dry and still warm from his hand, and it was plain and ugly. I never saw him again. I was angry with him for that moment for months. The line was from Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress,” a poem we had studied in class. Every negative interpretation I could attach to the quotation and his dubious gift, I attached. Mentally I railed at him for suggesting I’d been my Jamestown road friend’s whore. I resented David for thinking me coy and calculating, rather than merely frightened to death of him. I thought he had given me a stone as a booby prize—it was the rock in Charlie Brown’s trick-or-treat bag, or a representation of how hard he thought my heart. I kept the stone, though. I buried it in a Godiva chocolate tin from the 1950s that had belonged to my father and where I kept other small treasures. I didn’t look at it again until a year later, however, when I found out that David was dead. He had moved to his beloved New York right after his graduation in 1983; the obituary I ran across in my father’s alumni newspaper said he’d died of complications related to pneumonia—probably a euphemism, I realized even then. David was most likely the first man I knew to die from AIDS-related infections. David's stone was still there in the Godiva tin, smooth and round and a speckled, anonymous grey. It wasn’t until after I learned of his death that I thought to put it under water. It came alive then with layers of rosy pink and deep, chocolate browns. Flecks on its surface reflected light back at me. It really was a beautiful thing to behold. When David comes to mind these days, it’s always with a sense of loss—both the loss of his life and the loss of my missed opportunities. Certain things remind me of him. A certain shade of red hair. Light blue eyes the color of the sky. A particular tilt of the head, or an aroused hiss of breath. A white rose. Every couple of years I take my Godiva tin and dig to its bottom where sits a plain, round, undistinguished stone—the kind of pebble I might kick out of my way if it rested on the sidewalk. I let the water run over it, and I admire its colors. Its rose-colored strata endure and never change, unlike youth or shame or even fear. And I wonder not so much why I feared David, or why we never really spoke or touched again, but how I should ever have thought that he could give me a gift that wasn’t truly beautiful. 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 one comes at the request of JFBReak, and is from last August. I was reminded of an incident the other day, when talking to a friend on the phone. When I was a kid, my dad made me into a lawn-cutting entrepreneur. Partly it was to teach me responsibility and the workings of a business—almost immediately he was making me keep a chart on graph paper of the jobs for which I was contracted, as well as a record of my payments. Included in his life lessons, too, was training on the concept of overhead. From the money I made when I trundled out our family’s own lawn mower for another neighbor’s yard, I had to pay for gas and a twice-yearly mower tune-up. The record-keeping was very anal, but I certainly learned how it was done. My dad’s other goal in putting me to work was to provide cheap labor for members of our church. The church in which I grew up did not exactly have a youthful congregation. A large percentage of members were either well-seasoned academics, or retired faculty from the local Presbyterian seminary in our neighborhood. My father reasoned that there was no reason for frail seventy-year-old Mrs. Appleby, whose late husband had taught Latin for forty-odd years before passing away, to be pushing a lawn mower around her back yard when young, hardy, shiftless me could be doing it. “You want that old woman to have a heart attack and die over the lawn mower and roast there like a side of barbecue?” he’d ask in one of his less subtle moments of argument. “Huh? Do you?” So from the age of fourteen until I went to college, I mowed. I mowed poor Mrs. Appleby’s yard, and I mowed the yard of the equally spindly elderly sisters down the street, and the yard of plump Mr. Ogilvie, who would bake while I attacked his grass and then give me a handful of oatmeal raisin cookies, after. I shoved that hateful mower over what seemed like most of the little city in which we lived, despising the scent of hot fuel mixed with chopped greenery. (And to this day, I absolutely hate mowing the lawn. It is the one household task I refuse to do. So far I’ve gotten away with it by pretending to be uncertain about how the electric mower works. Ssshh. Our little secret.) Of all the houses I took care of, the Morgenfelds lived at the greatest distance. Their charming house sat on a solid acre and a half right on the edge of the seminary. Mr. Morgenfeld was a curly-headed, bespectacled professor specializing in the history of Christianity in Scandinavia. To my fourteen-year-old self he was positively ancient—so I’m guessing that he was roughly fifty. His wife was a pretty, older Danish woman with translucent pale skin and naturally pink cheeks, who used to say that Mr. Morgenfeld was such a stereotype of the absent-minded professor that they’d taken their particular house so that when he forgot to meet his classes, all he had to do was run across the street to reach the lecture hall. The Morgenfelds’ lawn was so enormous that cutting it usually netted me twelve dollars instead of the usual five. It took seemingly forever, too, as I pushed their dollhouse mower through the weeds. (I preferred using their equipment, so that I didn’t have to deduct overhead from my fee.) For the first four or five times I mowed for them, I resented every moment of it. Nice people though they both were, I grumbled obscenities in my head while I mowed, wondering what kind of stupid people were stupid enough to buy such a big house with stupid grass that grew back week after week. I didn’t say I was logical. I said I was fourteen. It was perhaps in my second month of mowing for them that everything changed. Mrs. Morgenfeld had a secretarial job at a magazine connected with the seminary, and tended to be gone in the daytimes when I was doing the yard work for them over the summer. I’d tackled most of the house’s acreage and was working on the back yard, sweating and muttering and sneezing all at the same time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught motion behind the French doors that led to the Morgenfeld’s patio. I turned my head not so much out of curiosity, but from reflex, wondering what it was. The doors opened into Mr. Morgenfeld’s study, and were lined with long lacy draperies that could be pulled to the sides to admit light. They were mostly closed, then. One of them was swaying, as if from the wind, or an invisible hand. I didn’t think anything about it, right away. A few minutes later, though, when I’d paused for a moment to wipe away from the sweat from my face with the hem of my T-shirt, I saw the curtain jerk. Someone had been behind it, pulling it back to watch me, and had dropped it when I’d looked over. And that someone was Mr. Morgenfeld. Curious now, I kept my eye on the back doors whenever I came near. As my angle of vision changed, I could tell that Mr. Morgenfeld was standing behind the lacy curtain, staring at me. At first I thought that perhaps he was just checking up on my lawnsmanship. Then, gradually, I realized he was doing what men do when they’re alone. He was masturbating. I could tell because, for one thing, when he thought I wasn’t looking his way, he would lift the curtain with one hand and make it easier to see that he was standing there in his shirt and his white briefs. His pants, presumably, were either completely off, or around his ankles. Grumpy and not thrilled about cutting grass I might have been at that age, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that there were a lot of men—a lot of married men—who enjoyed looking at guys younger than themselves. Enough of them had fucked me in the parks, or fed me loads in the restrooms around the city. It surprised me that absent-minded, horn-rimmed Mr. Morgenfeld was one of them. But it surprised me only a little. When I finished up a few minutes later, I had a boner in my jeans that wouldn’t quit. My father had told me never to cut lawns in shorts, because if the spinning blades passed over a rock or branch and sent it flying, the projectile would slice off my leg if it didn’t have the protection of a thin layer of denim. The advice was perhaps kindly meant, but the fact I never questioned its practicality in the middle of Virginia’s hundred-degree summers meant that I was usually sweating like a pig but the time I was done. Mr. Morgenfeld answered the front door with his pants on, but there was a spot of moisture at a certain point on his right leg that told me he’d either just shot a load, or was pumping out enough pre-cum that it had stained when he’d gotten dress. I accepted my twelve dollars, got the hell out of there, and went home and masturbated furiously, thinking about being watched. The next couple of times I cut Mr. Morgenfeld’s lawn, I kept an eye on the back doors. Sure enough, behind the curtains, Mr. Morgenfeld lurked. He’d draw back the lace when he thought I was too far to see, and would masturbate while he watched me push the mower. I couldn’t spy his dick, but I could see his hand working over it. Sometimes the curtain would jiggle in time with his stroking. Suddenly cutting the Morgenfelds’ lawn had gotten a lot more interesting. It was perhaps the third cutting after my positive attitude change that I decided to do something about the situation. I don’t know how I knew it—I didn’t have any exposure to porn of any kind, and this was in the distant prehistoric days before the internet—but somehow I had an instinct that the dirty old man spying on the lawn boy was one of the hoariest cliches in the book. I didn’t care. I decided to put on a show for the guy. Midway through my lawn cutting I stopped the mower beneath the shade of the catalpa tree in the middle of the back yard. I took off my T-shirt slowly and languorously, making sure to stretch my arms over my head and show off my torso. Then I used my shirt to mop off not only my face, which was drenched in sweat, but the rest of my body, which pretty much was not. In a voice honed by two community theater productions, I projected loudly, as I announced to nobody in particular save the catalpa, “Whoo! It sure is hot today!” Oh, I was a little ham. I was one ten-gallon hat away from being a one-boy touring company of 110 in the Shade. Thinking back on it, I’m vaguely embarrassed for myself. I was a tall, skinny blond kid with enormous glasses, long hair, and no real body to speak of, and yet I was convinced I was putting on a strip tease that rivaled Gypsy Rose Lee. My little pantomime had really done the trick, though. I wasn’t facing the French doors, but from the corner of my vision I could see Mr. Morgenfeld standing not behind the curtain, but unshielded and looking through the partly-open door in the darkened study, his right hand clenching and releasing the dick poking out of his pulled-down briefs. Only when I stuffed my T-shirt in the back of my jeans and proceeded to start mowing again did he step back behind the curtain. I was a smug little bastard. I loved knowing that I had him watching my every move. The taste of triumph motivated me to boldness. I made up my mind I was going to do something about it. I didn’t really have much of a plan. But when my circuit took me by the patio again, I made up my mind. Without much warning or thought, I slowed the little mower and let its engine sputter to a stop. Then I marched up the grassy rise, crossed the paving bricks, and pulled back the door that was already slightly open. I heard a yelp, followed by the stumbling of feet. “Hello?” I said. “Mr Morgenfeld?” “I’m here, honey,” he replied, trying to sound as normal as possible. It’s not uncommon, in the Southern city in which I grew up, for an older man to call a younger one honey. Last spring when I visited my old home town, the elderly guy behind the CVS counter wished me a good night with the endearment after I’d bought razors from him. It’s only at those moments I realize how much I miss the friendly custom. “My goodness, it certainly is hot,” he said, in his mild-mannered voice. “You’ll have to excuse me! I don’t know what happened to my. . . .” If he’d intended to say pants, I could have answered that question for him. They were lying crumpled on the floor by the doors, complete with belt. I had to step over them to enter the study. And there, in the middle of the room, sitting on an ottoman with his legs crossed in a vain attempt to hide his very visible erection, was Mr. Morgenfeld in nothing but a worn dress shirt, dark socks, and a pair of white briefs. I remember that I’d expected to be cooler in Mr. Morgenfeld’s study, once I was out of the heat and the sun. His office was stuffy, though, and not as chilly as the rest of the air-conditioned house. The only circulating air came from the door I’d just entered. I’d actually been more comfortable outside, moving around and keeping a light breeze on my face and skin. “I didn’t bring any water,” I told him. Can I get something to drink?” It was a lie. I’d left the house that morning with my father’s old army surplus canteen, which was in kind of gross condition, never kept anything cool, and always imparted to whatever was inside a dark metallic taste like swamp water. I’d left it out beneath a bush, though, and if challenged, I was prepared to say it was empty. Mr. Morgenfeld didn’t attempt to contradict me, though. Instead, in a strangled voice, he choked out syllables until finally he managed to say, “Well, um, sure, honey.” I didn’t make a move to find the kitchen on my own, so at last he had to rise from the ottoman and expose his arousal. He was still hard, that much I could tell. He kept his hands crossed over his crotch and remained hunched over in an entirely unnatural position until he’d gotten to his feet, and then whipped around to turn from me and scamper out of the room. With pity, I noticed he had a tiny hole in his white underpants the size of a pinky tip. I felt very much in control that day, I remember vividly. I often did, with older men. Very seldom did they want to take charge when they were with me; I had to give them permission to do what they wanted. Sometimes it was harder work than mowing lawns. I was entirely without guilt or remorse as I stood and waited for what felt like a very long time for the man to return from his kitchen. When at last he did, bearing a cheerful decorated glass filled with ice and Country Time pink lemonade, his hand shook as he proffered it. “Mrs. Morgenfeld won’t mind if you take that right outside,” he suggested. Unfortunately for him, I was single-minded enough not to take the hint. I took the drink and sat right down on an overstuffed armchair, where I slumped back, spread my legs, and took a slow and deliberate sip of the too-sweet liquid. Plainly uncomfortable, he sat back down on the ottoman opposite, nervously cracking his knuckles. I let my eyes drop down to his open legs, where his dick was bulging in his tighty whities. He’d softened some, but not by much. At my glance, he lifted one leg and crossed it over the other, at the knee. “So are you looking forward to school?” he asked. I shrugged. We sat in silence for a few moments, me taking minuscule sips of the lemonade, he anxiously tapping his fingertips upon his hairy kneecap. Mr. Morgenfeld wasn’t a bad-looking guy, I decided then. The glasses and his profession had made me dismiss him as a sort of knock-off of my father. He might have been a little older than my dad, but he had a good face, behind those thick rims. And the curly hair was pretty cute on a man his age. Yeah, I thought to myself. I wanted to do this. “What grade will you be in?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Instead, I placed the glass down on his coffee table, prompting him to uncross his legs, lean forward, and find a coaster for it. I decided to use the move that I typically used in the park or when I was street cruising, which was to let a few of my fingertips move to the place where my cock head lay beneath the denim of my jeans. His eyes flicked from my face down to where my legs were spread, then hastily back up again. “Do you have a favorite subject, honey?’ I’d been semi-hard before, but my bold action made me feel like a bad, bad boy. My dick swelled so that its bulge was visible. I curled my fingers slightly and rubbed against the underside of my shaft. Mr. Morgenfeld gulped visibly. “Don’t you like the lemonade?” he asked. “Do you want something else? Iced tea?” “Your dick,” I said. Then, more loudly, "I want your dick." I’d thought it was a smooth, improvised line when it popped into my head. It shocked the hell out of Mr. Morgenfeld, though. “My . . . my penis?” he asked in a choked voice, so sincerely taken aback that for a moment I thought I’d gotten the wrong idea entirely about him standing in the doorway masturbating as he watched me—like, maybe he had the itchy heartbreak of psoriasis down there? But no, I knew I was right. I had good instincts about these things. “I want it,” I said. When he didn’t say anything, I scooted forward from the armchair, dropped down to my knees, and parted his knees with my hands. He stopped me in a panic, holding one of my hands very tightly in his while he stared into my eyes. His legs went rigid. Then, just as suddenly, he let go of my hand and let his legs go limp, so that I could continue to open them. The bulge in his pants thickened and twitched. Again, he halted my progress. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing, son.” Oh yes, I did. I ignored his words. “Have you . . . have you done this before? You can’t have.” I’d gotten far enough with him that I knew he was going to go through with it. If he’d been serious about throwing me out, he would’ve done it long before. I stripped off my damp shirt so that my naked torso glistened in the office light. I didn’t care what I had to do. I was determined to get that dick. I was reminded of that game kids play in which they slap one hand atop each other’s, and then remove the bottommost from the stack to slap on top, faster and faster. I’d use one hand to pull open his legs and he’d stop me; I’d use my other to push at his other leg, and he’d stop that. Then we’d start the whole thing over again. Finally I reached the goal, though, and grabbed a handful of his dick through the white cotton. It was mostly hard, but still spongy around the head. “You can’t want to do this, honey,” he said. “Let me just see it,” I begged. After a moment, he relented. He stretched out the waistband so that I could see his penis. It was uncut, which was a rarity in that particular area of the south. Mr. Morgenfeld had some of the biggest balls I’d ever seen, as well—a dangerous shade of red, they were. And his dick was thicker than just about any I’d had. It couldn’t have been any more than six or six and a half inches, but it was a hooded monster, and I wanted it. “Now, that’s enough of this nonsense,” he said firmly, trying to regain the upper hand. “Curiosity in a boy your age is natural, but. . . .” “Let me suck it.” It wasn’t a request. I was announcing my intentions He seemed to realize how deadly serious I was. “You can’t . . . you shouldn’t. . . .” It was too late. He wasn’t seriously fighting me off. His protests were of the token sort that I was already learning men make out of weak habit and for the sake of propriety, than out of any real desire. Before he could really make a genuine resistance, I had a mouthful of that uncut dick, and a mouthful only, as he attempted to keep me off it by remaining bent at the waist. Gradually, however, and as he realized I wasn’t going to relent, he settled back in the chair. His legs parted more easily. He allowed me access to another inch, and then another, and finally the entire shaft. Mr. Morgenfeld had a great dick, that’s for sure. I’ve always been surprised throughout my life when the most nebbishy and nerdy of men have the most solid and beautiful of tools. His hand rested on the back of my head for a moment. Then he jerked it away, as if afraid to betray the need such a simple gesture betrayed. At that moment I didn’t care whether he whispered endearments to me or treated me like shit. I just wanted to suck. I wanted his dick in his mouth, and I wanted his load, in that order. The style in which he gave them to me didn’t matter, so long as I got them. I could tell by the way he wheezed and huffed that I wasn’t going to be sucking him long. At least he’d stopped fighting me, and was letting me do my job. I didn’t even have to use my hand on him. My mouth was doing the trick. I’d been sucking him for all of about a minute when his breathing became louder and more forced. He attempted to back away from me and pull his dick out of my mouth, but there was really nowhere for him to go. Besides, I wasn’t going to lose the load I’d worked so hard to get. Even as he bucked and attempted to reclaim his cock, I latched onto it with all my might. I felt his balls contract and shift and his hips involuntarily begin to lunge forward. Then I found my mouth flooded—absolutely flooded—with several large gushes of semen. The fluid was salty and thick and seemed to keep coming. I’d rarely met anyone who’d given me so much to eat, but in several gulps I swallowed it all. Only when it was down and I’d sucked off the last bits from the tip did I finally let loose of him. He was staring at me, shaking his head. “You haven’t done that before. Right?” I didn’t answer. I grabbed my T-shirt and pulled it back on while he watched. I didn’t bother tucking it in. While I tried to tame my sex hair, he cleared his throat. “Man who lieth with man as he lieth with a woman, commits abomination.” My eyes evaded his and I edge toward the door. I didn’t hold much truck with the religious intimidation, not even then. If I was going to get a hypocritical lecture from someone who'd enjoyed his blow job as much as I, then I would rather walk out before it started. To my surprise, though, Mr. Morgenfeld followed up the verse with a chuckle. “But Lord above, seldom has sinning felt so good.” I left Mr. Morgenfeld’s house with a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket that day, and the taste of his sperm still in my mouth. I would’ve settled for the usual twelve. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Here’s how I got my last dick in Detroit. I was messing around on the computer, last Saturday evening. I wasn’t really in the mood for full-blown fucking—I was too tired, to be honest, after a day of mucking around in the garage and trying to clean up the equipment down in my studio. But what can I say? I’m a man. I was still horny. I could have spent the day running from tornadoes and emerged from my storm cellar clammy and damp and covered with cobwebs and mold and the first thing that would have been on my mind would’ve been, hey, I wonder who’s up for a little sump-sumpthin’? So I logged onto Manhunt. Almost immediately I got a note from my local buddy with the gloryhole, Urlipsmypole. It was later at night than I’m accustomed to, with him. He’s always been a late afternoon, pre-dinner kind of guy, and here it was, post-dessert, late evening, pre-bed kind of time slot. Whatcha doin’, sexy? he wanted to know. Waiting for you to invite me over, was my blunt reply. Name the time. A couple of minutes later I opened the note flashing in my mail tray. Now. I was there in five minutes. It was raining outside in a miserable way that started the moment I stepped outside the house and ran to the car, then diminished the moment I was inside and behind the wheel. When I parked and crossed the street, of course, the clouds immediately opened up and poured buckets. I was soaked to the skin just from crossing the tiny side street. I didn’t care, though. I only wore a T-shirt, some shorts and no underwear, and a pair of flip-flops. There wasn’t much to soak. As usual, I knelt the moment I’d shut the door to his mud porch behind me, my knees cushioned by the layers of towels and padding he’d thrown down. His shadow crossed the dark kitchen, blotting out what little light I could see beyond the round, cut-out gloryhole. His dick poked through, hooded and soft, smelling fresh of soap. I gently lifted it with my hand and let my mouth rest on his nuts. They were freshly shorn and smooth beneath my tongue. I heard him groan as I took his balls, one by one, into my mouth, scraping the skin with my teeth and letting my tongue lap long and languorous circles around their circumference. My spit was still slick on their heavy, plum-like roundness as I took his meat into my mouth and felt it twitch and harden between my lips. I sucked slow, and went deep, thinking to myself, This is the last dick I’ll probably taste in this damn city. And you know, that was fine with me. I like Urlipsmypole. It’s easy to sense his shifts of arousal—that moment when his dick is fully hard and I know I’ve gotten his full attention. The next change in mood, when he leans forward and thrusts his hips, hard, against the wood of the partition separating the mudroom from his kitchen. That intense, sexy moment when pre-cum begins to flood from the tip of his dick, filling my mouth with a lubricated salty tang that makes me suck more quickly and to tighten the grip of my thumb and forefinger as it follows my mouth’s path, up and down his shaft. I can tell when he’s close to shooting; he always, always begins to fuck the gap in the plywood as if it were a tight hole, sometimes thrusting so hard that the partition shudders in its hinges. I suck deep, and twist my fingers around his nuts, allowing the smooth skin and my saliva there to heighten the sensation of my fingertips dancing across his scrotum. He releases—once, twice, and three times, then holds there, allowing me to suck and swallow the sperm he’s produced. And I always swallow. When I finished him Saturday, I contemplated jacking off with him still in my mouth, as usual. Then I simply let his cock drop from my lips, stood up, stuffed my hardness back into my shorts, and tripped out into the rain. Getting off seemed beyond the point, really. I’d wanted to celebrate my last night of freedom. I had, in a way that seemed perfect in itself, without me having to blow a load with the guy. And I liked it like that. I wrote him again when I got home. Thanks, I told him. I’m heading out of state this week and yours is the last dick I’ll have had in this town. I’m glad it was yours, too. He didn’t write me back until the next day. Hey thanks, he said. Looks like we’re losing another good one. I know we never met face to face, but you seemed like a genuinely good guy and you were always reliable, which in this town is pretty fucking rare. Best of luck to you in your future journeys. A handsome thank-you, I thought. And a fitting, positive end to twenty-five years in a city that’s sometimes confounded me, occasionally hurt me, and more than sometimes left me breathless and a little in love. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the things I’ve been noticing, this last busy week in the state where I’ve lived for the past twenty-five years, is how all my friends and casual acquaintances have started to crawl out of the woodwork, demanding I drop everything to accommodate them. The friends who’ve been aware of the fact I’ve been on my own without my family and not a whole lot of social activities, these last nine months, apparently suddenly think to themselves, Oh yeah, he’s leaving or something, isn’t he? So they call me up on the spur of the moment and we have conversations like the following: ME: Hello? THEM: Hi! I know you’re moving this week so I figured you probably weren’t doing anything right now and might want to go out to an impromptu lunch with me. ME: It’s two-thirty. THEM: That’s why I said impromptu. ME: I ate lunch two hours ago. And I’m actually extremely busy, packing. THEM: It’d be a shame if I didn’t get to have lunch with you before you go. ME: Well, you could’ve asked me anytime since last October, if you’d really wanted to see me. But I can’t this week, sorry. [silence.] Hello? THEM: I was just trying to do you a favor. People want to do me strange favors, this week. Last weekend I cleaned out the garage—the big, messy project I’ve been dreading since I learned we were moving. I assembled a bunch of garden tools and accessories in good shape that I didn’t particularly want to cart with us, but which I also didn’t want to throw away. Then I wrote a mass email to friends asking if anybody wanted any of the stuff. One of my friends said he’d be happy to take a bunch of the stuff off my hands. He’d be over Monday in his truck, he told me, to pick the stuff up. Monday came and went, and he put it off until Tuesday. But Tuesday was too wet, and Wednesday too cold, and on Thursday he was just too tired. Friday and Saturday passed without his visit. Sunday, however, was both warm and sunny. I texted the guy and pointed out how good the weather was, and asked when I could expect him. I’m out of town for the long weekend. Hey, I’ve got an idea, he texted back. Why not just take it to my place and leave it in the back yard? Ah, yes. That’s exactly what I wanted to do, with only four days until the movers arrived. Drive forty miles all the way across the metropolitan area to deliver three hundred dollars’ worth of garden implements that I was giving to him, gratis. Because for some crazy reason I thought for a moment there that I was the one doing him the favor. Blind, I was. Blind. It’s weird, though, the thoughtless little impositions people want to have on my time when I haven’t heard from them for months and months. I say thoughtless not because they’re being deliberately rude, but merely because they don’t realize exactly how hectic everything has been for me this month as I try to clean out the trash I don’t intend to move to the east coast, and ready everything for the movers. They want a last chance to see me. I get that. But at this point it’s not really all that feasible. Unless they’re a fuckbuddy, of course. And of all my regular fuckbuddies, no one has been taken advantage of these last few weeks like my friend, The Decorator. By rights I should’ve dedicated a good six or seven entries to The Decorator in the last month. Ever since he paid attention to my Manhunt profile warning the locals of my impending departure, he’s been texting and emailing me weekly, and sometimes two or three times a week, to visit him. And since he contacts me later in the evening, after I’ve done all my chores and am lying exhausted on my bed, I’ve got no obstacles in my way save for my aching muscles—which always feel curiously energized when I hear from him. One night he invited me over on what had been the hottest evening of the year to date, and we fucked on his multi-hundred-count sheets until they were drenched with dark ovals of sweat and cum. His air conditioning was attempting to cool down the place, but the friction of our bodies was outpacing it in producing heat. By the end of the third fuck, his face was a mottled red and he wheezed like he’d been running a marathon, but he still clung to me, mouth to mouth, as if my kisses and my breath into his lungs were the only things keeping him alive. I had sweat making my head look like an entry in a particularly insane conceptual hair show. The droplets stung my eyes so badly that by that third fuck, which he spent riding me, I couldn’t keep them open. By the time I stumbled out into the night air and back to my car, I felt as if I’d been trapped in a crowded New York City subway car on a summer’s day during a power outage. He messaged me the next night, which was equally as hot. Repeat performance? he wanted to know. I need some oral service tonight, if you’re up for it, I texted back. Slow and sloppy. He met me at the front door of his house and led me through the immaculate dining room and back into the kitchen, which looked like a spread (for all I know, it could have been) from Architectural Digest. There wasn’t a crumb in sight; not a cereal box, or olive jar top lying forgotten on the counter, or anything more personal than a wire bowl of perfectly ripe and round oranges in the center of the granite counter. We kissed for a few moments beneath the dimmed canister lighting from the ceiling. “I thought we’d go downstairs where it’s cooler tonight,” he said. Holding my index and middle fingers like a little boy might with his father, he led me down the steps into his cellar. I say cellar because I was hoping for something that was anything less than perfection—an uneven concrete floor, an old spindly cabinet from a previous owner, anything. But no, it was a symphony of leather sofas and hardwood flooring and faux-Italianate walls and a ginormous HDTV hanging from the ceiling. He pushed me down onto the sofa and straddled me, kissing me with just as much fervor as the night previous. When I was relaxed, and sighing softly at his gentle kisses, he pulled down my shorts and spent a good twenty minutes on his hands and knees between my legs, sweetly sucking my knob while I lay there with my hands over my head, enjoying. Eventually he climbed atop me and rode me like he had the night before, digging his heels into the leather cushions and rising and falling with expert control. The entire time we fucked, he stared into my eyes through the slits of his lids. Sometimes he would reach out and cup my chin in his hand, and cock his head. Almost as if he was trying to remember the moment, I thought to myself at the time. Maybe he was. After he captured a load from me in that position, I flipped him onto his knees and fucked him roughly from behind. The second fuck was longer, and harder, and I had enough time to look around the enviably perfect basement for something, anything, that didn’t make the place look like it had belonged in the pages of the Horchow Collection catalog. Finally I found it, tucked beneath some of glossy magazines fanned out in the middle of the coffee table: a dog-eared copy of a Ratchet and Clank video game guide. Whew. He was human, after all. Over the last month we’ve fucked in his basement, in his bedroom, in the spare bedroom, and once on the living room sofa, but every single time there’s been one common thing: I’ve always seen the pair of wooden clothespins he loves, lying casually nearby. And every time, at some point in the evening, I applied them to his nipples. Not during the first fuck. That one was all mine. Usually when I’d go in him for a second time and feel my cum swirl around my dick and dribble down the shaft, I’d clamp them down onto his eraser-stub nipples. I applied them differently on each; for one nipple, I’d pull it out, squeeze on the clothespin, and let the larger of the two holes close around the pink and sensitive flesh. The other I’d apply horizontally, so that the jaws pinched it directly. The sensations were different for each pin—one was pure sensation, while the other would twist and pull with gravity as it extended the nipple down and out. While I’d fuck, I’d manipulate the pins with greater and lesser intensity, squeezing them harder, releasing them slightly. I’d rub the tips of the flaming red nipples with my fingertips; he could feel almost every ridge and whorl of the prints upon them. He’d always shoot when I’d treat his nipples roughly. Sometimes he wouldn’t even touch himself, or need me to stroke him to climax while I pounded him. He’d just shoot, spurting rope after rope of his semen over the bedsheets or the pillows or the throw he’d tossed over the leather cushions; every thrust I’d made into his hole would force out another large glob of the stuff, and elicit a groan from deep inside his convulsing chest. I can’t say I got to know The Decorator very well as a person—that is, we didn’t chit-chat. I didn’t learn about his life or his family or his coming-out. What I knew about him, I learned from his love-making. I knew him to be sweet, and gentle, and romantic at heart. I learned that he knew what he liked, and made it clear what he needed, even without words. I knew that he could be very giving and considerate, and that he loved when I’d hold him close after lovemaking, and let him fall asleep in my arms. That’s all I needed, really, to know him. The guy has a beautiful home, but even without talking, I can tell the man who arranged and decorated it is even more beautiful inside. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So here's the deal, guys. At the end of the week, my little household is moving from the middle of the country several hundred miles to its eastern edge. It's a big and stressful undertaking. I know I've been frazzled the last several weeks, but I'm expecting this week, and my current home, to be the epicenter of a stressquake of a magnitude never before encountered. I mean, the last time I moved this far, I was a student and all my possessions could be fit into a car. Of course, the last time I moved this far I didn't have professional movers handling everything, so who knows? Maybe it'll be a breeze. Fingers crossed. I'm going to try to make a few entries this week while I can, but they may be erratic. I probably won't have any internet access after midweek save through my phone, and it won't be switched on at the new place until late next week. I'm planning to re-post some very old entries while I'm gone to tide you guys over, and I'll probably also include an old entry that never was published here. I'm not a huge fan of reruns, but I know a lot of my newer readers haven't been exploring the back archive, and some of my older readers might get a kick out of knowing what old entries are my favorites. Basically, I'm apologizing in advance for how inconsistent it's going to be around here for the next two weeks, and hope you'll stick with me and throw out the odd encouraging comment from time to time. I'd appreciate it. Let's get to some questions, courtesy of formspring.me. Would you break up with someone because of his politics? Absolutely, if I found them abhorrent to me. But more likely I wouldn't get to the point where we'd be involved, if that were the case. I read your blog all the time, it's smoking hot, but what confuses me is you say you are married but you have guys over quite frequently. I'm wondering what exactly is the arrangement with your spouse? Are you separated? Estranged? Divorced? Or just open? If you've read my blog for any length of time, you'd know I've answered this question several times before. I have a creative job that allows me to structure most of my days as I please. If it pleases me to invite men over when my house is free, I may do so. I've also spoken several times of the separation I currently have from my family as we attempt to most to the east coast. My family is already there and has been for six months, while I stay behind and attempt to sell my house. I've also addressed the latter set of questions before . . . by refusing to address it. That matter is private. Interest post, about fans. Makes me wonder what you'd do if your shit ever hit one. Any thoughts? Interesting that you assume I have shit that would hit a fan. Doesn't mean that you're right, though. What is a thing you would never do during sex? Cross-dress. (I intend no offense to those who enjoy it. It's just not a turn-on for me, personally.) If you could have sex professionally (in any way you like), would you? If you mean if I could have sex and get paid for it, I've done that more times that I could really count. Hell, I put a down-payment on my first house using rent-boy money. You're hungry now! what would you like to eat? My go-to answer for that question is always Thai noodles or pizza. What's you favorite porn site? I don't have a porn site that I visit on a regular or even semi-regular basis. I think that I would have to say that Twitter is my favorite porn site, because my timeline is usually rich with guys posting self-pics and links to photos they think are hot. I'm more inclined to look at those than browse porn sites. Would you give up everything and leave everything behind to be with the person you love? Who says I love only one person? About your view that bottoms far outnumber tops -- do see ED playing a role in guys retiring to bottoming? I answered this exact question for you several weeks ago. Most bottoms I've played with during my long sexual career have been rock-hard when I fuck them. They're clearly not experiencing erectile dysfunction. chinese or mexican? I'd probably pick Mexican. When it comes to going to a strange Chinese or Mexican restaurant, I've had mediocre food at the worst Mexican restaurants, but extraordinarily bad and inedible food at the worst Chinese places. Wait, we are talking about food, right? What is your perception of how people see you? I spent too much time in my teens and twenties worrying about how people saw me, so that I could figure out how to blend in and not attract attention. What a waste of time. Now I don't really give a rip. The only people I really care about are my loved ones, and they like me just fine. If you had any one piece of advice for a young guy discovering and exploring his sexuality...what would it be? You've got a limited amount of time on this planet. Too little time to waste on fear and shame, or to feel ugly and unworthy. Instead of wasting that time, get out and meet the people you want to meet. Introduce yourself to the men you'd like to get to know, regardless of what other people think of you or them. Have the sex that you want to have, without fretting about what your friends or parents might think. It's your life. Live it. Only please, do so without trampling on the feelings of others. We've all got to get along, here. More...

AlwaysOpen, I had that problem with IML two years ago. I think too much choice paralyzes people, sometimes.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This particular series of ribald tales on his adventures in Cleveland from my buddy FelchingPisser has been particularly popular with my readers, I'm pleased to say. (If you've not read the other installments in the series, be sure to click on the 'felchingpisser' tag at the bottom to see a list of all his guest comments.) And it's always a good sign when the author sends it to me and writes, with all characteristic modesty, "It even made me hard reliving it." It made me hard, too. Enjoy, guys, and let my buddy know how much you enjoy his guest columns in the comments! Part III I am such a man: having satisfied one appetite up the Muscle God’s ass, I realize I need to feed the other. I’m ravenous. Dinner--still smelling of him. A nap--cradling a pillow with his scent on it. A shower--and I’m a ready for another night at the Recon/reflex party. Saturday Night There is nothing like fucking to the rhythm of a flogging. The first thing I notice Saturday night is the beat of the floggers. All the crosses are in use when I arrive, as well as a set of chains suspended from the ceiling. From each a willing sub is restrained, writhing and moaning. It’s 11:30pm...the flogging teams must have been right there as the doors opened…Three crosses--no waiting… I check the piss area. No one is in the tub. A hunky older man in full leather follows me in, beer bottle in hand. It takes no more than my kneeling next to him to help him decide he’d rather piss down my throat than in an empty tub. And it’s the perfect beer piss--sweet, clear-- and he must have had more than one bottle--it goes on forever. On and on. And it makes my cock grow to huge proportions. He notices me stroking it and pulls me up. It’s his turn to kneel, but he doesn‘t want piss--just to suck my cock. He’s great, no teeth here. The room is filling faster tonight. More guys does not always equal more sex however. It’s slow to get going. They all keep milling--watching the flogging and a bondage demo on the slatted table. But soon a cute young, olive skinned man feels me up. He all but drags me behind the plastic curtain--begging for my cock in his ass. He clutches the motorcycle and tells me how much he wants to feel me inside him. I eat his tight, fresh hole. Soon my cock head brushes across it. He shivers. I think he’s gonna be tight, but I slip home in one smooth, long glide in. “Fuck me, Daddy” And I do. The floggings on the other side of the curtain set my rhythm. My cock hits bottom with each “thwack” of the leather on fleshy backs. The boy can’t keep his hands off his own tiny cock. He cums after only a few strokes from me--showering the back wheel of the cycle. I pull out. He turns and takes my cock in his hands--sizing it up. “Man, you are bigger than I thought.” I smile. “Cute young boys can do that to me…” He pecks me on the cheek and is lost in the crowd. I think I see him later in the evening orally servicing three guys. And so it goes. I give some head. More often, it’s given to me. Much more piss than Friday night--I cover a boy repeatedly all evening--and I get a number of men to let me drink. Back at the motorcycle a crowd has formed. The scene is arresting. A California blond (White, muscled, just 30, bubble butt, no leather but a cock ring) is bent over the cycle about to take this porn star Top (Black, gym built, dressed in chaps, jacket, cod piece to one side, police hat.) His cock is very thick and longer than average and is battering at the blond’s ass--but not entering him yet. The blond asks for lube. Always helpful, I kneel and start to rim. The top steps slightly to the side to allow me full access and to occasionally slap his drooling dick against my cheek. The ass is incredible. I want to fuck it myself. But I’m good. I turn and take the black cock deep into my throat--leaving incredible amounts of spit on it--and then position it at the boy’s hole--all the while staying on my knees so he’s about to fuck the boy at my eye level. The top enters. The boy arches his back and stifles some sort of sound in this throat. I feel in the band of my chaps, grab my lube and add some to the slowly disappearing shaft. He’s home. The big black cock is the perfect contrast to the full, white ass. And the top knows a nasty man when he meets one. He fucks a few strokes, pulls out, and shoves it in my mouth. Then back into the waiting hole. And repeat. And again. The taste makes my cock drip even more. I finally stand and slap my cock on the fullness of his ass. The Blond reaches back and feels me. The other top sees this--and pulls out. “Your turn, man.” I enter him. I’m definitely longer--but not as thick. His ass is beautifully slimy with my spit, lube and some pre-cum from the stud. I sink in him ever so slowly. The Blond pants, but seems to be able to take me. I don’t consciously hear the floggers, but my body does. I’m back to fucking in time to the rhythmic strokes. And soon they are making me drive it deeper. The other top slaps the blond, hairless ass. It contracts around my cock. The Blond let’s out a howl and arches away from us. He turns and asks me to stop. I pull out--and he apologizes that we both are just too big for him. Another boy whose eyes are bigger than his ass… A few more rounds of the various stations…not much is happening. I head to the piss area, of course, ready to wait there. The tub is deserted. But there is a crowd behind the back curtain beyond the piss trough. It’s packed--maybe 14 guys jammed into this small space that has a padded shelf and not much else. It’s all about oral, now. I have great head, average head, toothy head, two guys at once on either side….I recognize a hot ass, framed by a blue jockstrap. He’s a boy I did last year in the glory hole area. He works over to me. His mouth is amazing. Slow, languorous, deep and wet. Then he gets up and maneuvers me so that I’m wedged in a corner. He turns and impales himself on my cock. If his mouth was good, then his ass is heaven. His butt is velvety and able to take every inch of me with ease--and still grip my cock. He pounds himself back on me. A younger Black guy, in a red jock watches enviously. Soon the blue strap boy pulls off me and all but pushes the red strap hunk onto my ass. He’s a totally different feel--tighter, wetter and dripping load. They alternate: black, white, red, blue. The contrasting chutes are incredible. I’m sure I’m going to blow. Then just as I might cum, it stops. It’s like a bell went off--the entire group moves away…and I’m left in the corner, on the edge of climax. I lower myself onto the shelf. I am glad for a moment of solitude. When I step out from behind the curtain, there is a pig in the tub. The Black Top I’d worked with earlier is about to take a piss. He sees me, my yellow jock barely containing my cock. He gives an evil grin and his massive hand reaches out and pushes me to my knees. His cock is not hard. Fuck, he’s going to piss down my throat. In no time I am gulping and gasping for air. It’s a long stream with no breaks. The pig in the tub looks like he’d happily strangle me for taking this huge piss load he was suppose to get. The top is muttering something I can’t make sense of, but it sounds like he’s really getting off on it. Slowly the sweet stream sputters, then stops. I come off his cock for air. He pulls me up, looks deep into my eyes and kisses me. It’s a long passionate kiss--like only two tops can give each other. Our tongues battle, surrendering in turn, swabbing the mouth, the lips, the chin. Fuck---it’s almost better than any of the ass I’ve had. Our cocks are beating against each other. Finally he pulls out of it. “Come with me.” He grabs my hand and heads towards the hall where we’ve checked coats. Fuck, I don’t want to leave--even with him. But he has a different idea. There is a small private room one door away from the coat check. We go in. He shuts the door on a regulation bathhouse room. He pushes me back down to suck him. I don’t resist. His cock tastes incredible--of his piss, of the ass we fucked and likely some other hole. I lose track of time--licking, swabbing and servicing his thick meat. Eventually he stops me. He looks down. There’s a look in his eye I’m sure I can read. I start to say I don’t get fucked. But he overrides me: “Fuck me.” I can’t believe my ears. Fuck, YES! I push him onto all fours on the bed. I spend forever with my tongue in that tight hole. He has that metallic taste I love. That, and the honest sweat of so much fucking. He is moaning and sputtering about how he wants my cock, jacking himself fusiously. He is truly making my dick ache as I eat him out. Soon I stand and enter. He is so fucking tight. I push ever so slowly. But I never really stop as he flowers open. “Drive it home, stud.” I start a slow pull back. My body takes over from my mind. I’m fucking faster. Harder. I swat his ass. Just as he did the Blond. “Shit. Give me your load!” I think this could be it. I am doing long strokes now--almost all the way out and slamming home. “AHHH!” His ass clenches around me as he shoots. I hold him as he continually unloads on the bed. He slumps forward, pulling off of me….and I realize that once again I’m blue balled…I bend and do a quick lick of his ass crack…but he’s over it--so I pull myself together and leave. I sit on that back bench for awhile. Eventually, this picture perfect cub finds me there. We’ve talked on line about the event tonight. I’d recognize his chest tattoo anywhere. He smiles as he sees me. “FelchingPisser.” I grin and nod. “I love your name. I want you to do both to me.” I start to rise. “Don’t get up.” He hunkers down and my aching cock is nursed. There’s no other word for it. Sweetly. Softly. Worshiped. I can’t stop stroking the hair on his head, and the hair on his chest that partly obscures the tat. Finally he gets off his knees. “Fuck me.” “Here?” “No. I want to show off.” We find a sling. And we show off. It starts as a sweet fuck. As gentle as he’d sucked my cock. But it soon becomes as energetic as any I’ve done. We have a ring of jackers. “Boy, do you want another cock?” “Please, Sir.” One of the onlookers who I’ve seen in action (my age, bearish, with a long thin cock) I pull over and offer the boy’s hole. I work around to the top of the sling, playing with the boy‘s nipples. The new man fucks the boy hard--so that the boy’s head rocks into my gut with each stroke. The boy only has eyes for me. The top picks up speed. I can sense he’s gonna cum. Finally a load to felch. The top grunts, bucks and holds still. Then pulls out---with a rubber full of his spunk. I hadn’t even seen him suit up. He slips it off his cock and looks for a place to toss it. “Don’t waste it.” It’s the boy speaking up. “Give it to Daddy.” The man hands me the rubber. “You want what we talked about on line?” I ask. “Yes, sir. I’m a cum whore. I want any load in me. I haven’t had one all night.” I’ve moved around to his spread ass. My cock head is resting just inside his hole. I upend the rubber and empty it out on my cock. “I’m gonna fuck it into you.” “Please.” His voice has dropped to a whisper. “Please, Sir.” I slowly enter. I’m buried to the hilt--covered in the other guy’s cum. I fuck a few strokes, pull out and taste his hole. Delicious. I slip in again. A few more strokes, then bring my cock up to the boy’s mouth. The man who gave us the load is standing riveted to the floor. He’s obviously never seen his cum used like this. Some man I can’t see kneels to taste the hole I’ve left. I let him felch for a bit, than return to slip my cock into the slippery hole. I fuck, bend, eat. Fuck, pull out, let the felcher clean my cock. Finally we stop only ‘cuz the boy’s legs need to rest. I get him down. We hug. I tell him to find me any time he gets a load. He happily goes off on his quest. I lean against the cinderblock wall and take a long swig from my water. As I bring the bottle down, who should be standing there but the Muscle God. We hug. Then he reaches behind him and pulls his boyfriend around. Muscle God’s lips are near my ear. “I told him about the fuck you gave me this afternoon. I want him to feel that incredible cock, too.” The boyfriend is into the sling before we are out of the hug. I eat his ass. I fuck him. I wish I could say it was something special after that set up, but it isn’t. Nothing bad. But nothing special. Just another cute guy who actually finds me a little too big. After a few minutes, Muscle God takes over at his boyfriend’s hole. And I slip away… I rest. Suddenly the Cub is back. “Mission accomplished?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Three dicks, no loads.” I lead him to the sling we’d been in before. “I need to drop one and get out of here.” He hops in the sling. I immediately drop to taste what the other cocks have done to his hole. Beautiful. His ass has an entirely new feel under my tongue. I stand to fuck. And pound fast and hard. I’m back in rhythm to the floggings. A hot tattooed Hispanic man watches and strokes—playing with his foreskin. Oh, yeah--he has a great cock--and he should, working for Treasure Island. I invite him into my boy. He fucks him hard with his uncut cock. He too, feels the pulse of the room. I spell him, matching him in tempo and speed. He takes over from me again. I hope he blows. No such luck. He pulls out and wags his cock at me. I kneel and slurp-- his precum, the remnants of the load, my boy’s hot ass lube and sweat--a mix of flavors that takes me out of the scene--so that I’m all about cleaning every drop off this photogenic cock. Eventually he pulls out of my mouth. He slaps the boy’s ass--and is gone. I slowly get up. I slip my drooling cock in and fuck--willing myself to cum. I bend, tasting it all again. “Fuck!” I’m spurting as I re-enter. I shoot at least three big spurts and countless smaller ones. He grunts as he feels me fill his grasping chute. We kiss. “Do it,” he hisses. I sink to my knees and bury my face in his ass. My cum is sweet, thick and ropy. I get a mouthful, stand and bend to kiss him. Inches above his face, he opens his mouth and I drool my load into him. We kiss: lingering, wet and sloppy. He pulls me tightly to him. My beard is full of all his ass juices. He licks and sucks at it. I taste it all again on his tongue. His mouth finds my ear. It’s barely a whisper. “Thank you…” I answer only with a kiss. ………………………………................................................................................................ Time elapsed: 5 and a half hours. On Sunday there was one more fuck in my room, in my own sling. A nice guy. A nice fuck. A copious self luber—to the point I “accused” him of arriving loaded. But no….It was fun, but I should have gone home after Saturday night. And that was my time at CLAW X. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Some of you may be wondering why I broke out a section from yesterday’s Cruising 101 guide on the gay bathhouse in order to talk about something as effete and nebulous as etiquette. I’ll tell you why. It’s because last Friday night I decided to hit the local baths when nothing interesting was happening online. For three and a half hours I sat there in my room, or cruised in the steam room, or walked the hallways, while I watched guys engage in all kinds of assholery. It almost seemed as if the men there that night were determined not to connect with each other. I ended up leaving without so much as a hand job. That’ll happen from time to time. One night, you’re king of the bathhouse and everyone wants a piece of you. Another night, you’ll feel one of the untouchables, a leprous caste shunned by any and all passers-by. Some blame it on the conjunction of the stars, or just the luck of the draw. I, however, tend to suspect these nights happen when a little bad behavior spreads like wildfire and fucks with everyone’s mood. So I’m presenting a few suggestions for your consideration, so that everyone can have a good time at the baths. Rule #1: No Means No The world does not end because someone refuses you. It’s just a minor road bump. Don’t escalate it into a car wreck. Seriously. If a guy tells you no, whether by saying the word or its equivalent, or by his body language, it means he doesn’t want to have sex with you. Move away, and move on. If you reach for a man’s junk in the steam room and he gently pushes away your hand, it means he doesn’t want you touching him. It doesn’t mean that he wants you to use both hands to attempt to wrench apart his knees and give it another go. If you step into a guy’s dark room to ask if he wants some company, and he says no, it means he doesn’t want your company. It doesn’t mean he wants you to shut the door, turn on the light, sit down, and try to talk him into it. If you’ve been following around a guy and he keeps moving away from you in the movie room, or leaves the steam room when you step in there, or sidles to the other side of the sauna to get away from you, it means he doesn’t want you near him. It doesn’t mean that you should follow him all the more relentlessly in case he eventually changes his mind. There seems to be a circular logic that comes into play in the lust-fogged minds of men when they’re in the dark halls of a bathhouse. If that guy doesn’t want to have sex with me right now, they seem to think, he’ll definitely want to play with me after I’ve made a thorough nuisance of myself. Or, Maybe if I corner him so he can’t get away, he’ll be forced to play with me. Just don’t. Rule #2: Be Polite This goes for men who do the rejecting, as well as those who have been rejected. Don’t snarl “Fuck off!” at some poor schmoe who’s dared to stick a head in your room. Just look the other direction and close your legs, or simply say, “No thanks” if he asks if you want company. Not “Not in a million fucking years!”, or “Jesus H. Christ, as if!” or “Not on your best day, troll!” (All of which I’ve observed in bathhouses.) Just “No thanks.” I know guys who soften the blow by modifying it to “No thanks, I’m waiting for someone.” Or “No thanks, I’m resting.” That’s fine, even though the subtext is clearly I’m waiting for someone who isn’t you and I’m resting until someone better comes by. As long as your tone is pleasant and you’re not offensive, your wishes should be respected. Likewise, if you’re the one on the receiving end of the no-thank-you, don’t rise to anger. It’s not your opportunity snap, “Well honey, you ain’t that hot!” and flounce off. It’s not an open invitation to observe, “Never mind, the guy in the room across the hall is ten times hotter than you and he has anal warts!” or “I don’t know why you of all people have got such an attitude.” (Again, all of which I’ve observed in bathhouse settings.) Don’t plan elaborate fantasies in your mind about how that asshole is going to be desperate enough in an hour that he’ll be begging you to come into his room and you’ll remind him of what a dick he was and laugh, just laugh right into his face. Say “Thanks, then,” or something similarly neutral and polite, and move on. If you really had your hopes up, add something like, “Grab me if you change your mind later.” And move on. Rule #3: Check Your Bad Moods at the Door If you arrive at the bathhouse mad at the world and spend your time stomping around the place in a high dudgeon, you’re not going to have fun. If you arrive at the bathhouse and are so fed up with how many old Depends-wearing senior citizens/stupid twinks/ethnic guys/married guys/bar queens/muscle marys/bears who are going to clog up the drains with all that fucking hair they let through the door, and if you find yourself holding your nose in the air and saying things like, “It USED to be fun to come here!”, you’re not going to have a good time. If you arrive, strip down, and are certain that no one in the establishment is going to want you because you’re overweight, or bald, or old, or too young, or too ugly, or have a weird mole thing, then you’re right. No one is going to want you. But it’s not because of your age or looks. It’s because you’re walking around with a scowl on your face and scaring everyone. You might be surprised how many people find you attractive in the bathhouse setting, if you’re willing to be pleasant and friendly. I’d throw in what my mom used to say about catching more flies with honey than vinegar, here, only you might think it was corny. Rule #4: Don’t Be A Stalker The incivility of the baths is one of its less attractive features. While the vast majority of the men present are friendly and polite, there are always a handful that make the experience exasperating for everyone. Don’t be one of them. It’s easy at a bathhouse to get into the mindset that you have to get laid. Now. You’ve paid twenty freakin’ dollars, and dammit, you’re going to get your money’s worth. The notion of getting a return on that investment haunts a lot of men once they’re roaming the hallways. They’re desperate to get action and validation from someone. Anyone. These are the guys who, instead of letting you enter the steam room, look around, and choose your spot, will immediately stand up and chase you into corner, where they’ll stroke themselves furiously and stare you down. Never mind that you’ve got your legs clenched shut and your arms crossed and your eyes closed to repel them. They’re going to get action from someone, dammit, and it might as well be you. These are the guys who develop a fixation on an innocent victim and follow him everywhere in the bathhouse until he finally surrenders his towel to the front desk and leaves out of self-preservation. These are the guys who hang around the check-in counter and follow guys to their rooms even before they’ve gotten their clothes off. And they’re the guys who, upon seeing someone they want leading another man back to his room, will follow and trying to elbow his way in to join them before the door closes. Don’t be that guy. Recognize the signals. Remember that no means no. Take a deep breath. Getting laid isn’t a life-or-death situation. Getting a bad reputation as a stalker is only going to ruin your chance of having fun. Rule #5: Guys Want Variety Most men visit the bathhouse because they know there are going to be a number of men looking for sex. Most men want to experience a number of these guys, while they’re there. Not all of them, of course. Some guys use the facility to meet a significant other or an arranged date because it’s cheaper and cleaner than a sleazy motel. But most men are practical. They’re not coming to the tubs to meet a soulmate, or find lifelong love. They want several dicks in their holes, or to connect with a few good men and dump a few loads. If you have good sex with a guy, don’t be offended when he suggests you “take a shower” or “take a break for a little while.” That’s probably his signal that he wants to clean you off of his dick and go out and play with someone else. Don’t mope or whine or talk about the dream you concocted while blowing him of knitting his sweaters and finding a little place in Florida you’d share in your golden years. Thank him for his time, tell him to grab you again later if he wants, and go forth and play some more yourself. Feel free to offer him your number or your email address—most places have little cards and pens just for that purpose. But don’t try to keep him chained to your side all day. Rule #6: Avoid Sending Mixed Signals Part of reason so many men don’t obey the no means no rule is that a lot of guys send out mixed signals when they reject someone. Whether it’s out of fear or over-politeness or an unwillingness to be confrontational by being definite, they’ll do anything except give a clear indication of no thanks. When you want to say No, you shouldn’t say, Maybe later. It only strings someone along. Don’t wink and say, Check back with me in a few minutes when you don’t want the guy to check back with you at all. It’s not fair to keep them on the hook when you’re too cowardly to turn them down gently. On a more general level, don’t advertise yourself as available for certain activities that you’re not willing to carry through. If you’re on your hands and knees on your cot in your room with the door open, don’t be offended and surprised when someone assumes you want to be fucked. If you’re sticking your hard dick in the vicinity of a gloryhole, don’t be upset when someone on the other side reaches through to fondle or suck it. And if you’re kneeling in a corner of a piss play/urinal room with your mouth wide open and a blindfold covering your eyes, it’s a little bit disingenuous when someone decides to spray your face and chest with urine to stand up and yell, “Key-rist, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” (Again, all of which I’ve seen in bathhouses.) Rule #7: Be Clean Show up with your holes cleaned out, if you want to get fucked or intend to spend time in the sling. If you use your dick in a mouth or a hole, head to a sink or the showers to rinse it off after, particularly if you’ve gotten covered with lube or other substances. If you’ve got sour breath or have been sucking a lot of dick, use the mouthwash that some baths provide, or bring your own mints or breath-freshening strips. Sometimes the front desk will sell them, too. Your partners will thank you for the thoughtfulness. Rule #8: Obey the House Rules Most bathhouses have regulations to which they ask members to adhere. Some don’t allow chewing gum, for example (it’s difficult to clean), and some might ask you to sign in before using a hot tub or swimming pool. Some places are pretty plain about the fact that they don’t like people having sex in certain areas, like those in sight of a check-in window where outsiders might glimpse something. If there are no-smoking regulations, observe them. Don’t bring your controlled substances into the bathhouse. If the establishment asks that you shower all oils from your body before entering the steam room or pool area, please do so, so that nobody slips and cracks open their head from your hubris. Don’t pee in the pool, don’t use the hallways as your personal litter receptacle. Don’t bring in large glass bottles that can shatter and prove deadly to someone who cuts himself. Chances are that the rules are there for a reason. You are a guest of the establishment. They can, will, and should throw you out if you pose a danger to their operation, or to the safety of other patrons. And most of all, be nice to the guys working the desks and the mops. They see a lot of thankless patrons pass through the joint. Rule #9: Slow the Fuck Down and Enjoy Yourself, Already One of the things I noticed the other night, when I was sitting in my room with a good view of the hallway intersections, is that the guys weren’t connecting with each other because they were caroming around like pinballs in a machine. They would bounce out of the steam room and scuttle down the hallway at top speed, peek into the dark room, then bounce off and trot to the movie room before rebounding and zooming to the steam room again. It didn’t occur to any of the men beetling from one spot to another to slow down and take advantage of anything. They didn’t linger in the steam room or dark rooms. They didn’t watch the movies, or do anything more than stick their heads in these public play spots to see if anything was going on. When they were jogging down the hallways they didn’t stop to look at any of the men who were sitting there with their doors open. They simply bounced from spot to spot to spot, over and over again in a fast circuit, hoping that they’d see something going on. Well if everyone’s doing that—and after a while, everyone was, because the sight of several guys running around at top speed convinced everyone they were missing out on something—of course nothing’s going to go on. Everyone’s too busy racing around like Keystone Kops for any sex to happen. And having a dozen or more Roadrunners zooming through every few seconds doesn’t create an environment conducive for public group fucking. Walk slowly. Linger in the public areas to see what happens there. Step all the way into the dark rooms and wait a bit. Stop and look in open private room doors. Check people out. Chat pleasantly to people, even if every conversation doesn’t lead directly to sex. It’s a bathhouse. Not a speedway. And that's it. As always, if you have any questions or helpful observations about your own bathhouse experiences, feel free to share them in the comments below. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Every time I write one of my bathhouse blog posts I get a rush of emails from men who’ve never ventured before to one of these establishments. Almost to a one, they want to know how it works, and if I’ll take them next time I go. Well, I can’t always do the latter. But I can do my best to demystify what can be a scary place for some guys—and in the second half of the entry, I’ll stress some points of etiquette that even the frequent bathhouse users often seem to have forgotten.. If you’re a guy with an experience of the bathhouse, you might even chip in your own tips in the comments. What It Is A bathhouse, simply, is an establishment at which men gather for sex. It may operate under the euphemism of spa; it might be run as a health club. But they’re bathhouses, or in some locales, the tubs. They’re located usually in larger metropolitan areas. Some cities have several. In many cities, there are none. Some of the facilities offer amenities to get you through the door—gym equipment, hot tubs, tanning or massage services. Some baths have full-sized pools or outdoor sun decks. Many offer entertainment (though you’re not going to find Bette Midler playing at them anymore), special events, or even holiday meals at a reasonable price. But make no mistake about it, these establishments exist for men to enjoy sex with each other. The number of features designed to facilitate that particular goal far outweigh the others—so from bathhouse to bathhouse you might find dark rooms in which porn is playing on a loop, or steam rooms or saunas for men to cruise in. There are usually showers of some sort. You might find unlit rooms with seemingly no purpose other than to offer the cover of darkness for men to screw, or gloryhole mazes, or slurp ramps in which men stand on a platform several feet off the floor and stick their dicks through gloryholes in the hope of attracting mouths. There may be sling rooms, or rooms with proper drainage dedicated to piss play. Most traditional bathhouses have corridor after corridor of small locked rooms that can be rented for a price. They’ll quite often occupy the bulk of the building. Bathhouses will often run specials to attract men through the doors. They may sponsor social gatherings such as bear runs, or host a college night with discounts for guys with student IDs in order to attract young men (and the older men who admire them). They often run leather nights with discounts for men who show up in chaps and harnesses. You might find some establishments offering holiday parties, or white parties, or blackout parties in which all the lights are turned off and men sort each other out solely by glowing wristbands. Whatever the theme or amenities, bathhouses usually fall into two types: clothed and unclothed. You can probably figure out the essential difference between them: in an unclothed bathhouse, which is the more common of the two, typically most men will leave their duds in a locker and strut around in nothing more than a towel. There’s usually option at the clothed baths to leave your garments somewhere under lock and key, but most people don’t won’t. They’ll simply drop their pants when they find a partner, and go at it. How to Get In Most clubs require not only some sort of fee with every visit, but a membership as well. The membership isn’t a universal thing, but it’s not uncommon; the establishment will give you an option between a shorter-term membership (anywhere from one month to six months) to one that’s good for a year, or even a lifetime. The cost varies by bathhouse, and goes up with duration. The bathhouse will very likely ask to see your driver’s license when you apply for a membership. There’s no real need to worry about it, though. They want your patronage. They’re not going to call you at home and notify your aged grandmother that goodtime-Chucky hasn’t been seen at Club Gusher for the last month, did he get gonorrhea or something? They’re really not. Some clubs have a day pass, or a special membership for out-of-towners. Ask at the front desk, when you apply. A few baths require that you be ‘sponsored’ in order to join. Usually the process involves arriving with an existing member who will vouch for you and your future behavior. If the club to which you’re applying is one of these, make your arrangements beforehand. I’ve also been to other bathhouses that ask new members for membership cards to other baths in other cities. It’s okay if you don’t have one; what the establishment is trying to make certain is that you don’t think they’re something they’re not—in other words, that you’re not going to walk in, see two men fondling each other in a dark corner, and then shriek that you were expecting a Russian baths where the hardest and steamiest things going were the hot rocks for the massages. If you don’t have other membership cards, or if you’re challenged, simply and calmly say that you’ve seen their website and it looks like the kind of place you want to be, or what you’ve seen their advertisements in your local gay magazine. That’s all they want to hear. After you’ve gone through the rigamarole of paying for a membership, you may be issued a membership card. Remember to bring it back with you on repeat visits. The clerk will ask you to pay for some kind of storage and/or room for a pre-determined period of time (usually eight or ten hours). The cheapest option is usually a locker, for which you’ll be issued a key. The least expensive room is usually a bare-bones changing room that consists of a cot and a locker and perhaps a small table of some sort. The more expensive ones might have televisions with porn playing, or larger and more comfortable beds and bedding, or mirrored walls or ceilings, or a private bathroom. One facility I’ve visited has gloryhole rooms, in which the occupant can open a pair of shutters covering a popular hole in a dark maze, when he wants to play with some anonymous dick. Choose what makes you comfortable. I usually like having a room to which I can retire, but some establishments have such large and comfortable public spaces that having only a locker doesn’t seem like a punishment at all. Announce your choice to the clerk, and fork over the cash. You may be asked to surrender your membership card (you’ll get it back when you exit), and to sign a card or form stating what time you entered. You might be asked to sign the same card on your exit. Collect your key and step through the inner door. You’re in! What to Bring Here’s what not to bring: anything valuable. Don’t bring your laptop, your iPad, those rolls of film from your wedding last week that your new wife wanted you to take to Walgreen’s, jewelry, your best expensive leather jacket, or anything you’ll regret losing. You may not want to bring any more cash than is necessary to get through the front door. That’s up to you. Yes, you have a locker in which to put your valuables, but you know. Stuff happens. You could fall asleep with someone in your room, and they might snitch that key and make off with your wallet. Just be cautious. Be particularly cautious if you're walking around a clothed bathhouse; it's easy for a thief to slip your wallet or cell phone from your jeans while he's blowing you, or for you to lose track of exactly who has access to your pockets in a dark room. In these establishments, it's best to arrive with the bare minimum. Do bring lube, and breath mints, and your favorite cock ring. If you have toys you enjoy using on yourself or others, bring those along as well. If you use poppers, you’ll find you’re not alone at the bathhouse. If you want to have safe sex, there are usually condoms available and even given out with your room key. Be prepared to argue to make guys use them, if you insist on them. I firmly believe that whether or not to engage in safe sex is your choice, but there’s always going to be some asshole who’s going to try to stealth you and make you feel by teaching you a lesson that he did you a favor, after. I recommend bringing a pair of flip-flops. The kind that are cheap, easily rinsable with water, and which you don’t mind forgetting, losing, or tossing away. Most of the good establishments clean often and regularly, but I’ve been in some dives in which I was afraid to let my feet touch the mold-covered floors. What Happens It helps if you think of your bathhouse adventure not as a desperate attempt to get laid, but as a leisurely adventure. In other words, be prepared to spend a lot of time doing nothing, sometimes. If you have a locker, store your valuables in it and put on your towel. If you have a room, store your stuff away and make your bed. Then go exploring. Check out the bath’s public areas and scope out the people present. See if any of the movies are to your liking. Try out the sling. Investigate the contours of the dark rooms, and relax in the steam room or sauna for a while. The other men are there for the same reason you are. They want to have sex. They don’t necessarily want to have it with you—which is something everyone needs to keep in mind—but no one is going to be offended if you masturbate while you watch a movie, or let your hand drift between your legs while you’re soaking up the steam. If you want men to make passes at you, let them know you’re open to it with your body language and your availability. If you want to come on to someone, do so. Simply know that rejections are possible, and that all you need to do is move on to another opportunity. Some baths are kind of strict about sex taking place in public areas, like the lounges near the front door, or the pool. Others don’t give a shit. You’ll find guys fucking just about everywhere, like the last days of Rome. The advantage of having even a small changing room is that if you want privacy, you’ll have somewhere to take the guy. And many guys, myself included, like to use their rooms as a base for cruising. I’ll lower the lights on a dimmer switch, if there is one, sit on my bed, and stroke my dick for passers-by to see. If one of them pauses and I like his looks, I’ll invite him in. Every open door in a corridor is a potential invitation. If you’re looking for a bottom, step into the rooms of the men who are lying face down on their cots, asses in the air. They’re telling you what they’re looking for. If you want to suck dick or get fucked, check out the guys like me who are showing off their erections. See a handsome guy you like? Stick your head in his door and say hello to him as you pass. The worst that could happen is that he’ll turn you down. Psychically damaging as we all know that can be, it really is nothing more than a refusal. Think of what you could gain if he said yes. If someone’s left the door open and they’re getting it on with another guy, or two or three guys, they want to be watched. Slow down and watch. Or join in. Just have some sex. That’s what everyone wants in a bathhouse. Get yourself off, get off other guys, enjoy the darkness and the hours away from the drudgery of your everyday life, and have fun. Think of it as a mini-vacation. A mini-vacation with an ever-present smell of poppers. How to Leave My simple rule of thumb is to leave when I get bored, or my balls have run dry. You will know when it’s time to go because your body will tell you. If you stay past the eight hours your twenty bucks bought you and the management has to drag you kicking and protesting out of the glory hole maze and send you home, then you are a big old whore and you ought to be sending me your phone number. It’s not always apparent what you’re supposed to do when you leave a bathhouse, which is why I mention it. If you have a locker, simply dress and take your key (and lock, if you have to) back to the front desk, along with your towel. If you rented a room, get dressed, make sure you have everything you brought, strip your cot of its sheets and pillowcase, and gather them and your towel and make your way to the front desk. Most baths will have a chute or a rolling container of some sort at the desk where you can deposit your linens. Do that and return the key to your clerk. He will sign you out and return your membership card to you, if the establishment has one. Then you’re free to go. Tomorrow: Tomorrow I'll look at some tips on behavior while you’re cruising at the baths. Additionally, I'll address any questions you guys may have on today's entry—so let's hear them in the comments. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My time in this part of the country is limited. I’ve known that fact for almost a year now, but only in the past month have I been able finally to assign a date to the end point. I move in less than two weeks, so if there’s anyone I want to see, any place I want to revisit, the days are running out. I woke up Saturday to a beautiful spring morning, one of those golden Michigan days in which the sun seemed to caress the new leaves on the trees, and for which the skies had clarified themselves to the intense blue of a child’s paintbox. I didn’t want to spend the day stuck indoors, packing, so I decided to take a nostalgia tour. I hopped in my car and visited the first house I owned, far on the city’s east side. I’d managed to move out when prices in the area had tripled, yet the area was edging into decline. Driving by the old home, which now has bars on the downstairs windows and a metal gate over the front and side doors, very nearly took the sweet edge from my mood. No matter how valuable it is to be reminded of the bad things we’ve avoided, sometimes, I didn’t want to spend much time in a deteriorating neighborhood. So I went back downtown, to the university for which I’d originally moved, for graduate school. I snapped photos of my first apartment building, and the classrooms where my department had offices. I revisited the department for which I’d worked temporarily, when I decided to regroup and take my life in a different direction. I snapped a few shots of the buildings where I’d spent evening after evening during the first blush of my off-and-on teaching career, lecturing about the great English novel in front of students who were only there to fulfill a humanities writing credit. Then I revisited the more interesting spots. First I revisited the oldest building on campus. Back when I was a student, it had been a run-down, decrepit, and frankly scary place full of twisting hallways that never went where you thought they ought. It was basically the Winchester Mystery House of academia, and an amazing place for sex back then. There was a rumor that the behavioral sciences sciences, during the nineteen-fifties and sixties, had run a decades-long study of men’s cruising behavior in the basement restroom there, and I’d had it on the very good authority of a university building engineer that there was indeed an observation room (long in disuse) on the other side of the wall-long mirrors that hung over the array of urinals. It had been possible to walk in there at any time of day or night, when the building was open, and score dick, when I was a student. I peeked into the auditorium where one of my tricks, a university psychologist from the counseling office, had taken me after we’d met in the men’s room. He’d locked the doors and fucked me on the lecture table in the dimly-lit room until we’d been interrupted by a janitor who wanted to empty the trash cans. I checked out the old restrooms where I’d cruised and met the Spaniard who’d earned me the nickname of Beef Boy, and of the romantic actor who’d broken my heart when he didn’t call me as he'd promised, after our mind-blowing fuck. I visited the basement stalls that had been the absolute last hurrah of my career as a bottom, where I was fucked repeatedly by the quarterback of the football team. (And since I know that sounds like a cliche, I’d like to point out that the university had a football team that even the football team members laughed at.) But mostly I went to the university library, where I’d had more encounters than anywhere else. The library had as many as four active restrooms over my history there. There had been the secluded, tiny men’s rooms in the periodicals section stairwell, where sometimes the walls had been covered with so much profanity and scribbles of men seeking sex with each other that it was as complicated to comprehend and absorb as a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. There had been the larger restroom on the ground floor before, where for three years men flocked to take advantage of a large, smooth-edged gloryhole that some enterprising fellow had created with a circular router. I’d spend many a lunch hour in there, snacking on dick after dick, or feeding my cum to strangers who were no more than a curious, guarded eye and a mouth to me. The gloryhole had been bolted over with sheet metal long ago—I could still see the rivets beneath layer after layer of paint that’s been applied since. And no trace of action remained there. In the last of the four restrooms, though, the one in the highest reaches of the library’s main section, I could immediately tell that the place was still used for sex. I hadn’t cruised there in a couple of years, since I haven’t been affiliated with the place in some time. But even though they’d painted the stalls over recently, they couldn’t erase the giant peep hole that someone had made in the metal partition, probably using nothing more than a bolt hole from some previous toilet paper holder, and a sharp, rigid object like a screwdriver. I’d spent so much time in those stalls, both as a student, then as a staff member. I’d come there almost every lunch hour for weeks at a time, sometimes. I’d anticipate the first day of school with an ungodly glee, because it was the day that all the curious new students looking for action would appear, and I could feast all day long on freshman dick. I’d met long-term fuck buddies there, and relationships that lasted for longer than a restroom trick ought. Remembering all that, and knowing it was the last time I’d see the place, made me want to spend a little time there. So I slipped into the farthest stall, dropped my shorts, and started to work on the erection that had started growing the moment I’d stepped into the place. I’d only intended to stay for a moment or two, tops, to smell the smells, to hear the old familiar sound of the old-fashioned urinals being flushed with violent sweeps of water every five minutes. The campus had been nearly empty, on a summer semester Saturday. A few tour groups had been roaming across it, where guides walked backwards followed by nervous-looking youths in shorts and T-shirts. The library itself was even more deserted. To my great surprise, though, I heard the sounds of footsteps in the stone stairwell outside, followed by the swinging of the bathroom door. Someone walked in, paused, and then walked over to occupy the stall next to me. My boner doubled in size. I leaned forward and looked through the peephole. Almost immediately I saw a dark eye on the other side, a swoop of black eyebrow, and skin the color of caramel. Both he and I adjusted positions, trying to take in more details. I saw a fringe of dark hair on his upper lip—not thick enough yet to be called a mustache, but obviously a point of pride. There was a young Latin boy on the other side of that peephole, and he was cruising me. I stood up and showed off my dick in profile, stroking it, displaying its length. I could tell from the shadows on the tile that he was watching. Then I sat down again, leaned forward, and waited. He stood up. The kid wore a striped polo shirt that was clearly too large for his lean, pole-like body. His dick was a dark sausage, the foreskin clustered around its tip giving it the impression of having been pinched off into shape when it had been formed. When he stroked for me, the skin pulled back slightly, displaying the wetness at its tip. I dropped down my hand, letting it dangle beneath the partition. I would have jerked him gladly, even sucked him some. To my surprise, though, he pulled up his jeans. I heard his stall door open, and then saw his silhouette outside my own. When I opened the latch and let the door swing open, he was standing there, clutching his baggy jeans so they wouldn’t fall to his ankles, his hard dick jutting out over the open fly. His hair was cropped short. His eyes, the color of obsidian and just as shiny, regarded mine, and then he nodded, before staring at my dick once more. I stood up. Almost immediately he dropped to his knees, right there on the tile. I didn’t know if he’d cruised that particular restroom before, but I made sure that if someone came in, I could close my stall door at a moment’s notice. No one came in, though. He sucked me like he’d been denied his favorite treat for far too long. Forgotten was his own dick, though it still jerked and dripped on its own, over the teeth of his zipper. His hands cupped my balls and his mouth consumed me. His eyelids closed in ecstasy, and he moaned and grunted to himself as he used my meat to fulfill the need he had, deep inside. He was so damned pretty. His lips extended as far as they could to take in all my dick. I could have cum for him, easily. And then he stood up. “Fuck me,” he said, turning around. When he dropped his jeans and showed off his caramel-colored ass, I threw all caution to the wind. “Get in here,” I told him, and drew him into the stall. I shut the door behind me and positioned him over the toilet. I’ve fucked men in toilet stalls before. It’s risky, and if anyone comes in, it requires one guy to perch atop the john while the other sits between his legs, and it requires waiting out whomever’s invaded the restroom. I thought the risk was worth it, this time. His pants fell around his knees. His hole was hidden beyond a fringe of dark hair. I spat on my fingers and rubbed the impromptu lube over that hidden place, satisfied when he let out a grunt. My cock was angry—beet-red, engorged almost beyond recognition, ready to punch and spit. I entered him roughly, not really caring that he had to bite down and suppress an outright yell. Because I knew that within moments, his hole would start to grip and clutch my dick, pulling it more deeply inside. My instincts were right. The pain was only momentary. He wedged his shoulder against the low hardware of the toilet and looked behind at me, eyes full of gratitude and—I might even say—love. This is what spur-of-the-moment sex was supposed to be. Spontaneous. Rough. We both wanted to feel it, to remember it, to know that despite the enforced silence and the need for secrecy, that we’d both made our marks in that stall. Just as every other man masturbating there for decades had left trails of sperm drying on the layers of industrial paint, we were leaving sexual psychic residue of our own, forged through heat and need and connection. My own noises were limited to small grunts and the odd catch of breath; he panted and lifted his ass higher, higher, for me to penetrate and use. The soft sounds of my thighs slapping against that ass echoed across the men’s room. They were soon followed by a soft sigh as I released myself into him, and the rattle of the toilet seat as he too, came across it. I pulled out, let my dick drop, and was happy to note it didn’t need rinsing. He still knelt on the toilet seat, hole gaping, dick dripping with sperm, his head resting against the cream-colored subway tiles of the wall. I pulled up my pants, tucked my three-quarters-hard dick into my shorts, buttoned, zipped, and stepped out of the stall. I heard the sound of him ripping toilet paper from the dispenser as I washed my hands. He stepped out, adjusted and back to normal, as I pulled some paper to dry off. Our eyes met for a brief second, and we nodded at each other. Transaction complete. I wouldn’t see him, or this place again. But we’d remember each other. Of that I was certain. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This next is the week in which I have to make a decision about my hair. I've been having my hair cut by the same guy for the last dozen or so years—a former fuckbuddy (I know, what a shocker!) to whom I kept returning not only because he gave me a half-off fuckbuddy price, but because he knew what suited me and gave it to me despite what I asked for. It's solely because of him that I have been at peace with my hair for the last chunk of my life, instead of at odds with it. My hair has been the bane of my existence for much of my life. I have my mother's baby book, which has collections of the snippings from my first five haircuts. The stuff inside those envelopes feels like the finest silk threads, between the fingers, and is so shockingly white that I find it impossible to believe I was ever that fair-headed. The color's darkened over the years, but my hair is still wispy and fine. It has a tendency not to be styled and to do whatever the hell it wants. It flops around crazily when I have sex. In elementary school I was teased about it by squares and the elderly because it made me look like a girl. (Hey. In the nineteen-seventies, we all had Dorothy Hamill bobs.) In middle and high school, it was my shame because it was either too greasy, or just not stylish enough. As a young adult, I despaired every time I looked at it. Eventually, though, I made my peace with my hair, and my barber managed to cut it in a way that made me enjoy its floppiness. It might scare me when I wake up in the morning and find myself looking like a cross between a Bjork video and a mushroom cloud, but in general, it pleases me. I like the way it looks when I hook my sunglasses atop it, this time of year. I like the way it makes me appear like a lost member of ABBA, when it gets full. Now that I'm moving away, though, I'm losing the one hair stylist who's ever made me happy with my hair. And I really am not looking forward to trying to find a new one in a strange place, where I have no friends to recommend anyone to me. So I'm thinking to myself, should I shave it? I've put some thought into it. I'd probably buzz it down to about the length of my beard—which is not very long at all. Cutting it short would be a novelty for me; I've never done it before. It'd allow me to go to a new place with a new style and not have to worry about everyone I know teasing me about the big change—because I don't know anybody. It would be a style I could maintain myself if I had to, or easily get a barber to replicate if I didn't want to do it myself. The advantages would be expedience and ease. Uncertainty is a big disadvantage. I could have one of those heads that just doesn't look good, buzzed. Or I could just dislike it. Of course, I could go through months of terrible haircuts if I don't buzz my head, too. I don't know. Big decisions. Have you guys ever gone from long hair to very short? Would you recommend it? I know I have friends out there who will shrill No! Don't cut that hair!, but surely there are some who've made the leap and enjoyed it? I'm babbling. Let's get onto this week's roundup of questions, courtesy of formspring.me. Want to see how expectations and reality play out. What are you expecting in ease of getting your hands on guys, types of guys, whatever where you're moving to? I am moving to an utterly strange part of the country where I don't know where anything is, where I have no friends or connections, where i have no network of fuck buddies, and where I will be busy trying to set up a house that's been split apart for a year. In other words, I don't expect to get laid much. What three words would you use to best describe your personality? Thoughtful, considered, and stubborn. How do you react if a guy has hemorrhoids? Is that a big turnoff? More generally, would you recommend that guys with hemorrhoids abstain from being fucked? I assume by hemorrhoids—or piles, as they're more technically though even less pleasantly known in the plural—you mean the kind that are actively bleeding? Because I won't play with a guy who has an open wound. I would definitely recommend that the bottom not play in those circumstances, either. I want to email a guy I knew as a friend briefly, 4 years ago, and try to re-establish a connection, but I'm afraid the email will be too out of the blue. Should I? I guess I'm asking, how would you respond if you got an email like that? Did you part on good terms? If so, I'd probably welcome the email and would be happy to reconnect. If you parted with bad feelings between you, or if things were muddled and confused or even angry, you may wish to reconsider. Many people, myself included, aren't willing to reconnect with a past they wish to—and thought they had—left behind. If this is the case, you may wish to tread carefully, attempt to make amends, and concede graciously if they ask you not to intrude in their tranquil present. Sexual questions on Formspring, titillating or invasive? Hot or over the top? I like them, generally—but most of the ones I get tend to be kind of rote ("How big is your dick?") or so vague that I kind of wonder about the sex lives of the people who ask them ("What was the best sex you've had?" . . . can anyone really narrow it down like that?). There are some I simply won't answer, but I don't mind people having asked them. When anonymous people ask ludicrous questions... do you answer or delete? If the question has been asked in a sincere manner, no matter how ludicrous the question is, I'll generally answer. However, there have been some individuals on Formspring who either make a career of crafting stupid, absurd questions, or who else aren't on their meds. I tend to block those people. What's one lesson can you share with everyone that you abide by? When I was learning to drive, my father gave me a piece of advice I feel is not only applicable to the road, but to life in general. He told me that although it was important to keep my eyes on what was immediately ahead in the world and to avoid the small obstacles, what really matter was keeping my eye on the direction the road took at the horizon, and to aim for that. I think it was wise advice, and it's served me well. Will you tell me about one aspect of your personality you think is unattractive? I tend to be unforgiving of those whom I feel no longer deserve my friendship. It usually requires a lot of needling and bad behavior to take me to that point, but once someone pushes my buttons and I explode, nothing's growing in that scorched earth again. Would you date outside your race? Already have, many, many times. Related question: all of you guys who answered my question about interracial dating said you would date outside your own race, question is now, why is there such a divide within the gay community? I think the people to whom you should be addressing your question are the ones who said they'd never date outside their own race. Not to be racist or anything, but be honest what race do you think is the ugliest? by not giving an answer you would just emphasize you being a hypocrite You are being racist. I'm not giving you an answer because I don't find it a valid question at all. But you, sir, are the hypocrite. Not I. Have you ever felted a dude? Felted? You mean, like a pool table or a piano? Do you prefer guys to cum on your face or in your mouth? In my mouth. I'm not sure I understand the point of the facial, from a pleasure perspective. Do you get annoyed when people confuse bottoming with subbing? Probably not as much as bottoms or subs do, but it's a shame that people take words with distinct shades of meaning and use them generically. I get more annoyed when people see that I'm a top and automatically assume that I am a nasty-talkin', cigar-smokin', boot-wearin' S.O.B. who likes to dominate and control his bottoms. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm always excited to discover new blogs I like. Particularly when the blogs are by people I already know and admire. Two of my younger readers have recently started blogging about their sex lives. I like to fancy it's all my influence, of course. Corrupting the nation's youths through blogging, one at a time, that's me. But won't you give these two fledgling efforts your support and encouragement? The first is What Cums Next? Its host, Eduard, has appeared in these pages before—most notably (and memorably, in my opinion) in the Reader Asses feature. The other is Ace's Wild, the sexual exploits of our frequent commenter Ace. He's got several entries up already that are uniformly wild. Though for me it's tough to get past the hot photo of his body he's posted at the top of the page. The last blog I'd like to recommend is Gay Lens. While it's not explicitly sexual, Gay Lens examines images of homoeroticism in classic movies and television. It's been interesting to see exactly how influential these black-and-white clips have been on generations of gay and bisexual adult males. Every entry's been a fascinating read. Go. Explore. Have fun. And have a great weekend! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A couple of weeks back, in one of my Friday open forums, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek entry about The Game—an exercise that some of my gay and lesbian elementary and middle-school teacher friends play in which they predict which kids in their class are going eventually to start showing up to all the local gay bars and pride events. I did mean the entry somewhat facetiously, even if some humorless readers privately accused me of smugness, or worse, of reducing gay behavior into an oversimplified feminine mold. That wasn’t really my intent. In fact, my friends who play The Game insist that it can’t be reduced to figuring out which boys love Britney and Gaga best, or which little girls are handiest with an allen wrench. Often, they’ll say, it’s a matter of noticing which kids carry a spark of apartness from the others, and which seem to have a sense of self-awareness and self-editing that other kids might not. It’s the youths who already seem aware of how different they are from their peers, they tell me, that become objects of focus in The Game. But, you know. The kid who’s memorized all the dance moves from “Judas” the day after it hit the internet is probably a candidate, too. One of the themes that came up in many of the comments, however, mirrors a response I get in real life when I’m discussing the topic with real-life gay friends. There’s usually a moment in which someone shares something so stereotypically gay about his childhood that it causes him to throw up his hands and exclaim, “How could my parents not have known?!” One dear friend of mine recalls from time to time, with hot cheeks, how fascinated he was with the little vials, tubes, and trays of tint atop his mother’s dresser. He will confide how, on the occasional day when his parents were out, he would secretly experiment, covering his face with makeup, admiring the amateur results, and then scrubbing himself clean before they returned home. He didn’t become a drag queen as an adult. He’s not especially effeminate. The fascination with makeup happened even before he was aware of his own sexuality—or even had a concept of what sexuality was. I’ve had acquaintances who’ve confessed that they were more interested in their sisters’ Barbies than in their own G.I. Joes, and some who’ve told me how they longed to dress up as a princess for Halloween. When I was growing up, these weren’t mere quirks; crossing the line from approved activities for boys into the the toys and activities for girls would be accompanied not only by taunts from other kids, but from adults as well. I recall very clearly being taken aside by my second-grade teacher during recess and told that if I continued to side in the shade with the girls and make god’s eyes out of yarn and popsicle sticks instead of playing touch football with the boys, that everyone was going to think I was, and these were her exact words, a little sissy. For the record, I stuck with the god’s eyes, thank you. I shunned competitive sports as a kid. Despite my father’s best attempts to teach me, I never was able to absorb the rules of football. I resisted being put into a Little League team. I hated basketball despite having the height for it. Later on I learned how to play lacrosse, but hated every moment of it—the same with tennis. I enjoyed swimming and biking and hiking and other physical solitary pursuits. But when it came to all the noisy competitive sports that boys were supposed to relish? I would rather have been sitting with the girls on the sidelines, thanks. I’ll share two other “How could they not have known?!” moments from my childhood. As a five-year-old, I used to like to carry a purse. My mother discarded a black leather handbag when I was a little boy. It was an ugly, boxy thing with rigid metal jaws that opened with a snap at the top, carried with a small hand strap. And I loved it. For several months I carried it with me everywhere (which, for a five-year-old, means around the house and into the playground). Admittedly, it looked more like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag to me than the height of chic accessories. Plus I was mostly using it to transport hoarded cookies, my penny collection, and a massive amount of plastic dinosaurs and miniature Beefeaters, the two armies of which I’d send into battle against each other in the local sandbox. The second is perhaps more telling. My parents—both of them—were big fans of the musical when I was growing up. There wasn’t any particular shame in it, in the fifties and sixties; the Broadway cast album and the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack was a part of the popular music soundscape, and both my mom and dad loved a good show tune. (As long as it wasn’t from West Side Story, to which they’d both been overexposed in their teens.) I grew up with my mother playing selections from The Fantasticks and Carnival on the piano, while my dad hummed tunes from Bye Bye Birdie and Oliver! I would’ve been four or five the first time I saw Thoroughly Modern Millie in the movie theater. My parents loved Julie Andrews after My Fair Lady, and I loved her for Mary Poppins, of course. While I didn’t understand a lick of the white slavery subplot and found Beatrice Lillie’s presence in the film frankly as terrifying as Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz, I enjoyed the rest of the movie so much that it’s been a lifelong favorite since. I was especially enchanted by Carol Channing, though. Her characterization of Muzzy van Hossmere in the movie is so bubble-headed, fizzy, and sophisticated that to a little kid like me it was like taking a first hit of champagne. My parents had bought the Millie soundtrack for themselves, but it was I who wore out the LP on their turntable. I learned—and can still sing—every song. But I also decided, for some reason, that the Carol Channing songs I had to learn in Carol Channing’s own voice. Eccentric diction, broad vibrato, and all. So there I was, before first grade had even commenced, the youngest Carol Channing imitator in existence. I could do a gravel-throated rendition of “ ” at the drop of a hat.I didn’t grow up to be a particularly effeminate guy—or even a guy who particularly cares about effeminacy or masculinity. I still don’t know the rules of football. I still love musicals. I can still do Carol Channing. And I have a certain fondness for my messenger bag. But jeez. Stumbling around the house with a purse full of dinosaurs and beefeaters warbling about how my daddy was a wagtime chombone playah . . . well. How could they not have known? I’m opening today’s Friday forum to my readers because I’m curious. Did you cross those lines of gender stereotyping in your youth? Were you chastised for it, or did you blaze your own fabulous trail? Did you have any of those “How could they not have known?!” moments? Share them in the comments. Let’s learn from our pasts. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I asked for 'em. You sent 'em. I still want more. So read up, snap up, and hand 'em over. Nick My boy Nick snapped these photos for me with his iPhone and then sent them my way, hoping for my approval. He definitely got it. Beautiful as that butt is in its natural, standing state, the last pose is my favorite—back arched, ass in the submissive position, underwear slipping off, and that star tattoo peeking out. Sigh. It's a good thing my heart's always been strong, because it skips a beat every time I look at that photo. Chris Chris is 33 and lives in the Big Apple. And I've got to say, my attention didn't waver for a single damned moment to that lovely exposed brick wall when I saw the sweet furriness of that round butt of his. I'm also a fan of the sideburns, Chris. That fur is really working for you. Two things you can't tell about Chris from these exposures that he wanted to share with me. He's uncut. (We'll have to take that one on faith.) And he's Peruvian. Chris, you can be Peruvian, antediluvian, or Herbert Hoovian for all I care. I just know you're fine. Brandon I'm guessing from his photos that Brandon has a few gear fetishes—socks, sneakers, and jocks being the ones I spotted. (It's like one of those hidden-objects puzzles!) All fine fetishes to have, too. It's the ass with which I'm most impressed. It's perfectly framed by the elastic of that black jockstrap. I'd love to dive in there face-first and slick it up for you, Brandon. Any time, trust me. Raul Am I wrong in thinking that this is the first piercing we've seen in the Reader's Asses series? Certainly the first guiche piercing, anyway. Raul sent in a variety of photos from which I could choose—and in the end I posted most of them, because frankly, I couldn't decide among them all. I love the one of him kneeling on the blue sheets, of course—but you probably could've predicted that, with my fondness for guys assuming the doggie position. But I also love those pendulous nuts, the greased and spunked-up hole shots, and just generally his whole little Latin package. Damn, Raul. You've got something going on there. Be sure to give our models today some kudos. They're readers just like you, who've taken the time to send in their shots for everyone to enjoy. And like I said above, you should do so, too! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I found a text on my phone, after the Italiano left my room on Saturday, from the Cleveland guy whom I was supposed to meet at the baths. He’d arrived, he told me; he was going to spend a little time in the bathroom making sure he was totally clean before joining me. I’d already texted him with my room number. All I had to do was wait for him to join me. I sat on my bed in a casual pose, one knee up, the other out to the side, my dick in my left hand while my right rested on my upraised leg. I’d managed to score one of the rare rooms with a view of one of the busiest intersections of corridors , where I was able to watch guys coming and going as they cruised each other. I politely batted away several guys who wanted to come in and join me, explaining that I was waiting for a friend. I’d just reached the edge of wondering if the guy was ever going to show when from the far corridor I saw a guy approaching. I knew it was him by the build, which was broad and beefy. In his black muscle tank top and his black jock, and his black baseball cap turned with the brim in the rear, the guy was even more of a stud than his photos had led me to believe—and his photos had been already pretty damned hot. He walked straight for my door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. “Hey there,” he said in a deep and masculine voice. He stared at my dick, which was stiff and pointing at him from between my legs. “Sorry it took me so long.” When I was looking Cleveland up and down right then, I would’ve forgiven him just about anything. He looked so fucking sexy—so primed and ready for dick. I wasn’t surprised, when he went down on one knee, that he proceeded to give me the best head I’d had in some time. His mouth was wide and accommodating, his big lips soft. I didn’t feel teeth, or bone, or even the constriction of muscle and sinew. Just soft, wet flesh that seemed to slick up and cling to every pore, as his lips gently hugged my dick’s base. He took off his cap and placed it on my bedside table. It afforded me the luxury of running my palms over the soft stubble that was his closely-cropped hair. “Shit,” I said, when I backed him off so that I could pull him up onto the mattress with me. “That mouth is incredible.” “You think so?” he asked, diving once more for my meat. “Wait until you try my cunt, then.” After sucking me for a while more, he moved up between my legs and began to make out with me. In a word: amazing. The guy was an incredible kisser. His mouth as as wet and fleshy on my own as it had been around my dick. He wanted more of my meat, though, so I let him maneuver himself so that he was sitting on my face as he slobbered down on my pole. The guy’s ass had been what attracted me to him. In his BBRT profile, it’s raised and spread and presented to be the first thing you see. It was hairy, and beefy, and perfect in shape; the elastic of the black jock framed it perfectly as he lowered his hole onto my mouth and wriggled it around. I dove inside, savoring the essentially male scent of his butt and relishing the way his ass hairs tugged against my beard as I raked it along the most private cleft of his body. His hole twitched and opened when I licked at it. It didn’t take long until it opened completely and my tongue made contact with the tangy, metallic-tasting innermost recesses of his hole. I had to have him. I got him onto his knees and let him suck on me to get my dick extra-juicy. Then I pushed at and into his hole, sliding in with minimum resistance. The contact between us was almost electrical; I could feel almost every minor muscular adjustment he made, as well as how, soon after my entry, his hole began grasping at my meat as if to pull it in further. “Fuck,” I whispered, almost as if I were praying. “You were right about how good your cunt is.” “Tell your friends,” he said, the very spirit of generosity. “Advertise me to your readers. Put a link in to my profile. Let them know how good I am.” “Yeah?” I said, increasing the speed of my fucking. “Are you going to tell them what a good cock I’ve got?” “I love your cock, man,” he said. “It’s fucking perfect. Hot, responsive dick. Fuck. Fuck me.” I did, slowly building on my tempo and thrusting until I was close. “Let go of it,” he urged. “Come on, pump it in. Give to to me, buddy. Give it all to me.” When I came, it was with what felt like a fire hose gush. I know my dick throbbed and let loose its load in several spurts, but I really only felt the massive first; the others paled in comparison. His hole milked the last few drops from me. He grunted his satisfaction. “Let me clean you off,” he said at last. I let him slobber all over my meat with his amazing mouth. “You’re still hard,” he noted. “Oh yeah,” I said. “I’m not done.” “You’ve got another load for me?” “Hell yes. And I’ll fuck you in any other load you collect today. Just bring it to me and I’ll slide my dick inside.” Hungrily he kissed me, then stared at me with his dark eyes. “You want to pimp me out, huh?” To show him I did, I stood up for a moment, opened the door to my room wide, and sat back down. “Suck it,” I commanded him. What followed were an uncomfortable few minutes, to be honest. Usually on a good, busy day at the baths, all it takes to get a little group action started is to have sex in front of the other guys. Men will mill around and stare at each other for the longest time, but once there’s a catalyst of sex, it’ll start a chain reaction that involves multiple dicks, mouths, and holes. Usually I am that catalyst. Not so much Saturday, though. For the longest time I reclined against the wall with my legs spread while Cleveland lay face-down between them, deep-throating my dick. Guys passed by. They’d peek in, then scamper away as if they were woodland fawns who’d spotted a couple of hunters, guns cocked, behind a poorly-hidden blind. One older, out-of-shape guy walked in, flipped on the light without asking, and then stalked away as if offended. Flipping the light seemed to be the theme of that abortive part of the afternoon. Though the light level in my room was the same as the rest of the bathhouse, guys kept coming in to flip on the light. Never mind that it wasn’t even their room. They just felt they had the right to do it. When I stood up and began fucking Cleveland again from behind, as he knelt on the edge of the bed with his hands against the wall, I actually slapped away some guy’s hand as it reached for the switch. After the second fuck, I was back down on the bed with Cleveland cleaning me off when a guy walked right into the room, turned on the light, and shoved his dick in my face. I tried pointing it at Cleveland—there was an actual bottom there who was looking to service dicks, you know—but he wasn’t having any of it. “You want to fuck me?” he asked. The guy wasn’t bad looking—in his forties or early fifties, silver-haired, and lean—but something about his manner was off-putting. Cleveland, annoyed, lifted his mouth from my dick and said, “He’s just finished fucking me.” “I’m looking for guys to fuck my bottom,” I told the man. “Yeah?” He aimed his dick at Cleveland’s mouth, which opened and obediently closed around it. Almost immediately, Cleveland opened his mouth again. “Dude, you taste bad,” he growled in his deep voice. “Have you got lube or something on it?” “No,” said the twitchy guy. “There’s no lube on it.” Cleveland shook his head. “No offense, man, but you just taste bad.” “Maybe there’s lube on it or something,” said the man, contradicting what he’d said only a moment before. “Do you guys smoke?” We said that no, we didn’t, and finally the guy flipped out the light and left. Cleveland raised himself to a sitting position. “Well, at least one good thing came out of that,” he told me. “Now I know I would’ve fucked with you even with the lights on.” I thought about that one for a moment, decided it was a compliment, and decided to take it. After the sour dick incident, Cleveland had to go rinse out his mouth and have a smoke. He came back a few minutes later to report that the weird guy had chased him around the bathhouse. “I think he was the one spying on me when I was trying to clean out when I got here,” he said. “He was trying to peek around the back of the partition. Freaky.” “I think he’s tweaking,” I said. “Yeah, no shit,” said Cleveland. We fucked one more time—with the doors closed. Cleveland straddled my pelvis and lowered himself on my dick, then rode me hard until I shot suddenly inside him. We made out some more, and he cleaned me off again. We got him off by making out while he masturbated, and then after a long and dozy period in which we lay side-by-side on the bed and held each other, realized it was seven-thirty and that we both had to get going. “Damn,” he said, as he was collecting his things. “I’ve had guys shoot twice in me before, but never three times.” “Just kind of the way I am with an ass I really like,” I told him. “I hope it was worth the drive.” “Oh fuck yeah,” he said, giving my dick an affectionate squeeze. “Oh fuck, yeah!” (A note: For those of you on BBRT, the guy's listed as trancendntl. You Ohio men seriously owe it to yourselves to give him a try.) More...

I've discussed how much I care in previous entries about him. There's no secret in that, not in my blog, nor between Spencer and I. The walking away is inevitable, since I'm moving across the country in three weeks. We've both known it was coming since the first day we started seeing each other.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of Breeder’s Readers wanted to meet with me, and made the offer a few times to drive up from his hometown of Cleveland. The guy had some hot, hot photos on his BBRT profile. It was difficult to say no to him. So I didn’t. We made arrangements to meet last Saturday at one of the local bathhouses. I was trying to time it so that I’d get there at roughly the same time as he. When one person has roughly a ten-minute drive down the freeway to an exit a mere five miles away, and the other is driving three and a half hours through rainy weather and construction, it’s a little difficult to predict to coordinate a simultaneous arrival. In the end, I managed to get there a full hour before the guy arrived. So I had some time to kill. I did what I always do when I arrive in the bathhouse: I unfolded the threadbare sheet provided and laid it across the plastic mattress, then slipped the prisoner’s pillow into its case. I kicked off my shoes and opened my locker. From my jacket I pulled out my lube, my mints, and my cock rings, and lay them on the narrow table wedged between the bed and locker. When I shucked off my clothing and opened the locker to store it, I found that the room’s previous tenant had bought a new jockstrap, taken it from its plastic package, and then left both the supporter and the package on the locker’s top shelf. Somehow the people responsible for cleaning the room had overlooked it—or perhaps decided to leave it as a prize for the next occupant. The jockstrap was my size and seemed clean, so I slipped it on, wrapped my towel around my waist, made sure my key was strapped around my forearm, and left the room. I always head to the steam room first, in this bath. There are other public play spaces—a couple of dark rooms with gloryholes, a sling room, a movie room, a lounge—but in the afternoons, with a light crowd, all the action takes place in the steam room. A couple of guys sat in the smaller and more concealed half of the vapor-filled enclosure. I moved over to the larger and more open side, and settled down on the lower of the two tiled seating shelves there. Now, normally I choose the upper shelf. It’s usually high and far back enough that it keeps guys from invading my space without invitation, and it’s a pretty clear indication that I prefer to get my dick worked on. No one was present, though, and I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to linger in the steam room when Cleveland was going to be showing up at any moment. Besides, I figured, I could always slide up to the upper platform if anyone came in. I’d barely made the thought when the door opened and I heard the soft slaps of feet against wet tile as someone pushed through the wet clouds. I saw a tall, thin man standing in the steam; the first feature I noticed was his gray hair, which lay in short, perfectly-formed waves over his head. Then I saw his eyebrows, as black and thick as his hair was silver. The guy had to be at least sixty, though it was tough to tell. He was both lean in the waist and hips, and muscular in the shoulders and arms. His firm chest was covered in thin white hair. Any plans I’d had for scooting up a shelf went by the wayside. I was too busy thinking, Jeez, that’s one handsome man. Not that I would have had much chance. The guy looked me over once, liked what he saw, and immediately moved forward. His strong legs propelled him onto the top shelf, only inches away. He removed his towel, spread apart his knees, and began working his fist over a very large, very thick dick. He had to have been nine inches, and a good extra inch thicker than myself. I stared at the obscene gyrations of his wrist, mesmerized. He inched closer, spreading wider his legs, then held out his opened hand, heavy with that slab of cock. I didn’t have to be asked twice. Or once, even. I knew what to do. I leaned forward and took the dick in my mouth. It leapt at the moisture and at my tongue greedily digging for precum from its slit. I gobbled it as far down as I could, and let the head plug my throat. Several times over the next few minutes I heard the door open and close to the steam room, but I didn’t look up for a long time. When I did, there were at least six men standing behind and around me, watching me fellate the older man. When I surfaced for air, the man grabbed my jaw in his hand. He tilted back my skull, and stared into my eyes. Then he angled his own head slightly to one side, and kissed me. It was one of those kisses that was so passionate and hard that it made my nipples tighten. Though his right hand still held my jaw as his lips crushed against mine, his left hand yanked away the towel from around my waist. I was left sitting in the leftover jock I’d found in my locker. “Italiano,” said the man in my ear, the moment he released me. I blinked at him. He patted his chest in a me-Tarzan, you-Jane kind of way. “Italiano,” he repeated. Then he said a rapid-fire sentence in his own language into my ear that I did not in the least understand, though I was willing to consider whatever it might have been. Then he spat on his fingers, leaned down, and began to work them into my hole. I jumped a little. I don’t get determinedly fingered down there that often. The man repeated the same sentence in my ear again. Since he clearly wanted to fuck me, and I’d done precious little preparation for that than what could be done in a ten-minute shower beforehand, I gently pulled away his hand from my hole and went back to sucking his dick. That’s what I get for sitting on the bottom shelf, I thought to myself as I went back to work. He seemed fine with that. The other men surrounding me, however, saw me as fair game. While I sucked, I felt someone tug my dick out of the jock, and latch a mouth onto it. Someone else’s hand groped for my hole again—and then another hand joined it, so I had two different men trying to probe me. The Italiano, in the meantime, held me down by the scruff of my neck on his dick until I was gasping for air. And I liked it. The hands pawing me were too insistent, and too invasive, however. I stood up, stuffed my stiff and dripping tool into the pouch, found my towel, and exited the steam room. I wasn’t too surprised when the Italiano followed me out. Though he carried his towel in one of his hands, he didn’t bother to wrap it around himself; his dick pointed at and followed me like some kind of lascivious dowsing rod. Once he was in my room, he shoved me against the wall so determinedly that it took my breath away. I have to confess—it was kind of hot to be manhandled with that kind of passion and lust, but mostly it was the Italian that made me eager to do whatever the fuck he wanted. He murmured some syllables in my ear as he ran his fingers through my damp hair. I dropped to my knees in the dark of my room and sucked him down. I knew how to get to the root, now, and didn’t mind that my airways were blocked every time his fat head slipped down my throat. After a while, though, he wanted more than my throat. He pulled me to my feet and pushed me down onto the bed, then hauled my ass into the air. I laughed, and tried to wave him away. He said something in Italian, then followed it up with a handful of heavily-accented English words. “You and me. Fuck? Yes? Fuck?” “No,” I said, charmed by the accent and regretful that I couldn’t follow through with the one thing he wanted. “You are way, way too big.” When he crunched together his dark brows, I tried to explain. “Too big.” I pointed at his dick, which was still stiff and pointing at the ceiling. I widened the space between my hands. “This is fine,” I said, then mimed my mouth open as I bobbed up and down on an imaginary rod. “But not this.” I leaned over and made a pained face while I thrust an imaginary redwood up my hole. Well. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But I must’ve looked like a goddamned fool. The Italian merely appeared baffled. At last, inspired by a grasp of Italian that consists of crescendo and decrescendo and a handful of other terms I see on my musical scores, I gabbled out, “Molto grande” as I pointed at his junk. Light dawned. “Ah! Molto grande,” he repeated, with the correct pronunciation. Then he laughed, and reached out to give me a quick hug. After saying something else in his own language, he gave me a hard kiss on the mouth, then ruffled my hair once more. “You. Handsomely. Man. Yes?” Yes. I was good with that. I was so deeply charmed by his continental manners that I found myself wanting both to blush and curtsey, for some odd reason. Instead, I contented myself with flopping down onto my mattress and glowing so brightly I could’ve lit up both dark rooms as well as the sling chamber. I tell you. I’m considering taking a quick course in conversational dirty Italian, and then passing myself off as a foreign visitor in bathhouses. I bet I could get just about anything I wanted with that technique. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A note from FelchingPisser: Here is the next installment of my time at CLAW. It picks up immediately after I had just gotten off with the Muscle God—and his boyfriend had cleaned my cock—and I stumbled out to my car after five hours of group sex... Saturday -- 5:00am I fumble with the key card to the parking structure. I’ve had spotty luck with it at best of times and now I’m beat. I have had way more sex in the last five hours than I likely should. I manage to slide the card down the sensor at the correct speed. The gate raises….and there is Muscle God and his Boyfriend coming out. I wave. I park. I catch up with them in the lobby of the hotel. We ride up the elevator--all with contented smiles on our faces. I can only think about my load in this hot guy’s hot hole. I get off on the third floor--making some comment about them giving me a call if they ever want to see my sling/rimseat set up. “What room number?” “314. Good night.” I stumble into my room. I manage to unzip the chaps. The hotel phone rings. It’s Muscle God….”Were you serious?” “Wha--?” “About coming down to get fucked.” “In the morning, yes. Well it’s morning now--but I’d be up for it by the afternoon.” “Great.” He hangs up and I roll into bed, pull the leather blindfold on to block the soon to be rising sun and drift away in happy contentment with the smell of so much ass in my beard. I sleep five hours or so. Grab breakfast quickly before the Hampton puts the buffet away, a little more sleep and then a shower. Christ, I’m sticky. Fully awake now, I log onto BBRT. Bingo. One of the guys who wanted me back on Wednesday when I was 137 miles away. We chat and agree to meet at the Vendor’s Mart. I walk over to the main hotel. Once again I tour the various booths. And wait. And wait. I text him. Nothing back. I decide I’m stood up and head home. Smelling all that leather has made me hungry… I get on BBRT. I recognize a tattooed shoulder---why, it’s Muscle God…two messages back and forth and he’s at my door. “I’m just gonna tell the Boyfriend that I happened to catch you in.” Whatever. I want back in this ass. He is soon down to nothing but a bulging jock. We kiss, massage, suck. Before you know it he’s panting on the bed, on all fours and my hard cock is slapping on his hole. I enter. Inch by half inch. He has great control. He can tighten down with each move of mine. It seems like it takes forever to get all the way in, but soon my overgrown pubes are grinding against his muscle ass. I pick up the tempo. “Pound me.” I start to do just that. “Fuck my hole, man.” I continue to slam it home. His grasping hole could actually take me over the edge in no time. I slow. There is so much more I want to do. I pull slowly out of his hole. He spins around to taste my cock and sighs. “I want to taste it. Over here.” I take a major hit of poppers and get under the rimseat. He sits. The seat spreads his hole open so that my tongue is instantly deeper than I’ve been in him so far. He’s huffing poppers and becoming quite vocal. My cock has now reached the ‘it’s so hard it’s painful stage’ as I stroke and eat his hole. Tongue plunging, beard grinding, my lips seal around the lips of his hole. My heart rate slows and I have that sweet moment that feels like I might suffocate. I hold it for a long moment--than tap both his thighs to tell him to get up. He jumps in the sling, needing no direction from me. I get up and enter him in one long thrust. He is producing massive amounts of lube which has mixed with my spit. It’s an energetic fuck. The chains start to rattle. And there’s the sweet sound of my hard pelvis smacking into those muscled globes of flesh. He’s exhaling noisily on each thrust into his grasping ass. His cock, though soft, is gushing precum as I hit the spot. I slow. He’s mentioned he wants my hand--but I want to do something first to stretch him open a little more. I grab my favorite dildo: a big egg shaped head sitting on a thinner ribbed column. It disappears up his ass like it’s a breadstick. My hard cock slaps his balls. Then it starts to push into his ass, sliding along the ribbed column. I can see he’s not sure what’s happening. But as my cock head slips up to the head of the dildo, his eyes tell me he knows. “Fuck.” “Double fuck,” I correct him. “Two big cock up your ass, man.” It’s a perfect fit. It tightens him down again so that my large cock is back in a tight hole. I love sliding the underside of my cock along the ribs of the silicone. My piss slit pounds against the egg. It’s an incredible feeling for both of us. He grabs his cock and starts to stroke. I bat his hand away and slow my rhythm. Soon I pull out and once again slap my drooling head against his balls. I remove the dildo. I show it to him. He sighs. I let it drop to the tarp. I walk over to the footstool and kick it into place. I sit. And pick up the two pronged speculum. I cover it in lube and breathe on it to warm it slightly. The cool metal slowly slides into his ass. I begin to crank it open. Ever so slowly. “Is that…?” “Yeah, it’s a speculum.” “Yeah. I’ve never had one in me.” I give it another couple of turns on the key. “Open me wide, Daddy.” Another twist and another. Soon my finger can slip in. It’s easy to let it snake across his prostate. He’s no longer with me. He’s floating somewhere, lost in sensation. His hole is being stretched side to side and my finger is driving him crazy. I keep cranking. He groans in encouragement. Now it’s a first for me. I have stretched him open far enough with it that I can slip my cock in, speculum in place. It’s a totally new sensation: cool metal to the left and right and his hot flesh above and below me. It’s a slow deliberate in and out. His eyes roll back to me. Our eyes lock. “You fucker,” he hisses. I give him a crooked smile. And squeeze down, making the head of my cock swell deep in him. I repeat that action as I go back to the slow piston moves, then withdraw my cock. I crank the speculum shut slowly, careful not to pinch his soft, pink lining. I start greasing my hand cautioning him I don’t have the lube I’d prefer. His hole can‘t quite close. One finger, two, four. I keep adding and subtracting fingers, entering and slowly turning. I add the thumb. I work slowly. Carefully. The bridge of my large hand will just not fold quite enough. We both agree not to push it--he wants to be in great shape for the play party tonight. I transfer the lube all over my hand to my cock which is rising again. It wants release. And it wants to spew in his hole. I slide in. “Cum in me,” he whispers. I start a long, deliberate stroke in and out. “Give me your cum.” I start to increase the speed. “I kept your cum in me all night.” I start to drive it home. “Cum in me, Daddy.” “Not yet,” I rasp. I slow the driving slightly. And begin to piss. “Holy shit. Fill me, Daddy. Shit!!” His chute is now blazing hot. My super sensitive cock head can’t take much more. As soon as I am done pissing, I increase the tempo, pounding his hole, thrust after thrust. “Take it. Take it, boy.” And I shoot. I can feel shot after shot shooting deep into his ass. Joining my piss. Soaking into his gut. I collapse onto him. His huge arms encircle my thin body. He holds me in place. After a few moments I try to get up off of him. His hand goes from my shoulder to the back of my head and steers it to his mouth. We kiss and kiss. Smashed together. Linked. Imperceptibly rocking in the sling. Note: That night I spend even longer at the play party…but that’s another story to come…. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So a few of you may have noticed that my blog was offline for an entire day, this week. Actually, a whole hell of a lot of you noticed. I woke up Thursday morning and, as is my habit, grabbed my iPad and started reading my email through the one eye I could blearily open (while the other, and the rest of my face, remained crushed into my bed pillow). That's when I read an email from about two in the morning, my time, from a reader informing me that he couldn't access my blog—had I removed it for good? My mailbox contained at least a dozen other emails from concerned readers that had trickled in over the night, I noticed when I looked at the subject headings. More than a little concerned, I hopped on over to this site to see what was happening. If you looked here, Thursday or early Friday, you saw the same thing I did. Just a blank page with the site name across the top—no entries at all, no followers. Only an indication that the blog was maintained by someone other than me. And, if you looked at that guy's profile, it said that he also ran another blog called 'pussyboicumdump.' What you couldn't see, however, was that on my end of things, everything appeared to be okay. I could log into Blogger, I could see all my entries in the dashboard listing, I could make a quick backup of my posts to supplement the one I'd made at the beginning of the week. Google's so-called 'help' forums (which I didn't find very helpful, by the way) had a mention that a whole bunch of people were reporting issues with missing blogs after the previous night's maintenance, and that everyone should just sit tight until normal service was resumed 'shortly.' So basically I just sat tight for a little over twenty-four hours, and the blog was back the following day. But oh my gosh, the hysteria I got from you guys. Some of it was just plain ugly—the I guess you got caught at last! Hah-hah, sucks to be you! kind of emails, or the several emails I got in which guys said that because now my cover was blown that I wrote something called 'pussyboicumdump' that it was OBVIOUS that I was some kind of SCAM ARTIST and that at last they knew the TRUTH that my blog had been FAKE all along. Which I guess just goes to show that guys will project any negative fantasy they have, whenever they can. I'm relieved to say, though, the vast majority of the over two hundred messages that came in—and I'm using that phrase to indicate the emails, the social media messages, and the notes guys left on my various hookup site profiles—that most of you were concerned, and worried about me, and worried about not having the blog around. The outpouring of love and support was very, very sweet. I cannot make a statement that this blog will be around indefinitely. I'll keep writing in it as long as it's fun, and as long as you guys continue to keep making it worthwhile with your comments and emails. If I did close it down, however, I'd be more likely to post a statement and wish everyone well, than simply snatch it down. Furthermore, my blog doesn't violate Blogger's terms of service—I don't have advertising in my blog, nor do I include a lot of photos of which I don't own the copyright—so it's unlikely that they'd yank it. If they did, I have backups. But please know that if something happens again, there are ways to get information from me without panicking. You can follow my Twitter feed—or, if you think that Twitter is for egomaniacs who fart out their every little inane thought (and you'd be right, and I do include myself) at least know that I have a Twitter account and am likely to make statements there in the event of a blog outage. Or you could add me as a friend on Facebook, where I also made a statement about the outage. I know some of you have been reluctant to add me there for some reason or another. But I'm not going to ask you to join my Mafia family. I'm not going to post something on your wall, like Damn boy I want to get up in your fine ass!, for your family to see. It's okay to add me. And of course it's okay to email me, the way so many of you did. Just know that when I'm getting a couple of hundred emails, my reply is going to be not much more than a cut-and-pasted quote from Google about the outage. Which is what most of you got. So that's that. One more housekeeping issue, and then we'll get to this week's roundup of questions from formspring.me. I've kept a link on my blog's sidebar to my wishlist at Amazon for pretty much the entire duration of this blog, and some of you have been indulgent enough on occasion to use it. I'm going to remove it at the end of this week for a short spell, until I'm completely moved and at my new address. Now, don't trip over each other in your mad race to buy me gift cards. I don't want any broken ankles. Do you let people underestimate you so that you can do the unexpected and tell everyone else.... now what? Although I am conscious not to oversell myself or my abilities, I don't hide them under a bushel, either. Such calculation is too much wasted energy, in my opinion. I think it's best to be oneself and let one's light shine. Who would you rather and why? David Tennant or Matt Smith Oh, both so cute. Matt Smith, probably, because there's something about his rumpled hair and itty-bitty eyes that makes me think he's absolutely adorable. This might be a redundant question: What do you do if any of your encounters falls for you...? As in, really falls for you...? The people who've fallen for me in the past tend to come in two different categories. The first consists of those who fall because they've told themselves some romantic story about what they want out of life and love, and I happen either to be there at a propitious time, or fit the stock character they've always envisioned. I'm usually able to tell when that's happening. They get over it quickly enough, once they realize I'm not really that shadowy figment of their imagination. The other category consists of men who fall for me because we've become close, and gotten to know each other, flaws and all. Usually I fall for them back. Falling in love with someone doesn't mean I rearrange my life, however. It's a lovely feeling, and it means that person is very special to me, but I live in a very real and practical world, not in a romantic world of television and movies. I suppose there might be a third category of people who've fallen for me and I've never known. I am not sure what to do, if anything, about them. It seems sad to love and not tell of it. Patience on a monument, smiling at grief, and all that. Is there a piece of music that you play when you're getting romantic? No. I really dislike music when I'm getting busy. I find it distracting. What would you do if your favorite celebrity crush walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, but does this smell like chloroform to you?" I'd say, "Why, I don't know, let me sniff it!" and then position myself over his lap. If you were a candy bar what would you be? Mr. Goodbar. Or possibly Nutrageous. How important is your partner’s penis size to you? Why? On the list of things I look for in a sexual partner, dick size is pretty far down toward the bottom. Dick attractiveness, however, is a fairly big consideration. I'd rather pick a beautiful-looking smaller cock than one that is large, but oddly-proportioned, or just plain ugly. And there are a lot of ugly dicks out in the wild. When I used to bottom, I preferred dicks with girth more than dicks with length. Ultimately, though, I've usually been more interested in the overall sexiness of the man to which the penis is attached, than the meat itself. Usually. Not always. I don't know if somebody else ask you that question but, what do you do to stay so fit and looking so young. I have a little bit of weight to loose, not a lotbut the little belly bugs me. Thank you. I appreciate the compliment. All I really do is watch what I eat. For exercise, I do a lot of walking in warmer months and yoga when it's cold. But other than bathing in the blood of virgins, that's it. If you could have anything in the world right now what would it be? and please dont answer "cock in my _____" I think my answer could be summed up rather simply with these words: less uncertainty. And reunion. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live? With my family. Have you ever been to Felch, Michigan? Has Felch, MI ever been to you? I've visited Felch a number of times. It just wasn't a city in Michigan. Have you met with or heard from Topher since your Earl days? I haven't really finished that story to my satisfaction, but the basic answer is no, I haven't. Have you seen the pictures from the USC Kappa Sigma Scandal? Do you have any thoughts on them? I did see those. I found them highly arousing. That guy had a slammin' body. I'm not sure I get what the scandal is, though. Are we really supposed to be shocked that fraternity guys and sorority gals are having sex? I'm pretty sure the frat boy isn't ashamed of those photos. What did you want to be when you grew up? I was very determined to be an Egyptologist at one point. When I took anthropology in college, however, I disliked it and abandoned that dream in a hot second. Have you ever done anything sexual in front of others? What did you do and where? Goodness gracious, the very idea! I am a naturally modest soul who would never dare do anything sexual in front of others! Well, on network TV, anyway. I've probably done it everywhere else at this point. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Thursday afternoon I was sitting on the sofa with Spencer, watching Absolutely Fabulous. He’d caught an episode here and there, but had never watched the entire series through, before. There was a scene in which Edina slobbers all over a European designer and blurts out something to him in her awful French. “What’d she say?” I asked Spencer. Because while I read French, I don’t have a clue of how the sounds match up to the words. He was curled up next to me on the sofa, leaning on a pillow wedged against my hip. “I am your demon,” he said, almost immediately. “No. Wait.” Then he began sounding out all the possibilities. I watched him fondly, as he pondered the various implications of the conjugations of faire. I’d been angry when he’d left Monday night; the train wreck of one bad night had left me drained and my head full of noise. Tuesday I’d moped and written about what I’d been feeling. He’d texted me Tuesday night to say he was probably going to go home instead of coming to my house, because he needed a night off to relax. I think we both needed a little distance. Wednesday night he showed up with a wide, white-toothed smile, a pair of open arms, and a bag full of chocolate-dusted almonds as a gift. Seeing him like that healed all my hurt, instantly. He was especially sweet all night. By Thursday, we were curled up in our familiar configuration, pausing the DVD frequently to talk and exchange observations and to laugh. It was comfortable; it was intimate. It’s how I want to spend our remaining time together—as real friends, and not as combatants. “I’m here to fuck you,” he said finally, after a good three minutes of coming up with alternate translations of what Edina had said. Not as an offer. “It was either, I’m here to fuck you, or I am your demon.” He saw my lips pulling out into a smile and my eyebrows raised. “Or maybe something else entirely. . . ?” “I’m kind of not foreseeing a future career as a simultaneous U.N. translator,” I joked. “Shut UP,” he retorted, in a mock huff. “I’m not good at rapid translations!” “You're good at so many other things,” I consoled. "You don't have to be good at everything." “I’m good at disappointment.” There was a note in his voice that made me pause the DVD to look at him. He stared at his hands. “I’m good at disappointing people.” “Sweetie,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. “We all disappoint each other.” We hadn’t mentioned Monday night. But I knew we were talking about it. “I really, really don’t like disappointing people.” “I suspect you disappoint yourself more than you disappoint anyone else.” I rifflled my fingers through his hair. “You’re far from being a disappointment. I’m happy to know you.” He looked at me, then looked at his lap. Finally he took my hand, and gave it a squeeze. And you know what? Everything felt all right. I haven’t forgotten what happened. I’ve learned from what I went through, both with him and on my own. If there’s a repeat of it in the next couple of weeks before I go, I’ll know what to say, and how to approach it. But right at that moment, with my hand in his, it did feel as if we were firm friends again. “Or maybe it was I want to make you fuck?” he mused. “Uh-huh,” I said, and turned back on the DVD. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had an entry written in my head, over the weekend. Last Friday I went to see Spencer perform with his company. It was the last time I was going to see him dance. The concert itself wasn’t that fantastic, I’m afraid to admit—it was really not much more than a repeat of the exact same concert I saw a couple of months ago, save for the interpolation of a few sequences performed by students from a local, inner-city college. But Spencer was head and shoulders above the material, as he’s always been. He danced with grace and dignity; he engaged the audience in a way that only one other dancer in the company managed. I watched the performance, happy when he was on the stage and a little bored when he wasn’t. And in my head, I began composing my journal entry for the evening. It was sweet, and terse, and elegiac. It employed some lovely metaphors. I spoke of how, although we hadn’t been sexual partners since February, Spencer and I had been in the weeks and months since still very much part of each other’s lives, spending most evenings of the week together—dining together, watching television and movies together, sleeping in the same bed, side by side. Then my entry was going to mourn not so much what I’d lost with him, but what I was going to lose when I move in a month, and how that loss would be the greater. That entry was perfect, in my head. Then the little shit got in there and crapped it all up. Like this. 1. Both of us had busy weekends. I didn’t get to see Spencer until Monday evening, when he stopped by after teaching class. We immediately hopped into my car so that we could go out for Asian food. “I was going to save talking about your concert for over dinner,” I told him, as I turned from my street onto the road that would take us to a main thoroughfare. Spencer leaned over and patted me on the head. “Oh,” he cooed, in the tone of a parent whose toddler has decided to do something exceptionally cute. “Look. The man who knows fuck-all about dance is going to try to be a dance critic.” I was immediately enraged. Though I usually have a slow trigger, being condescended to instantly pushes my anger’s fiery turbo-boosters. Even in jest, it turns me from placid to furious. “I do not have to be a dancer to be able to talk about your concert,” I snapped at him. “If I were educated in dance, or had a dance background, I might have more vocabulary to play with. I don’t need any special training in order to have and share my opinions, however.” “That’s not true,” he started to counter. “Do you have a degree in literature?” I barked. “Have you written any books? Because you and I talk about books all the time. Are you admitting you’re unqualified to have those conversations in the future? Neither of us went to film school. Are we not allowed to talk about movies or television any more, either? We can’t talk about politics because we’ve never tried to run for office? I’m an intelligent guy. I have a deep background in the arts. I can formulate and express an opinion backed on what I see.” Still furious, I blathered on. “The world would be a much narrower place if we were only allowed to discuss the little boxes in which circumstance has painted us, you know.” “I see what you mean,” he said, backing down. “Okay.” Because you know, frankly, maybe if someone who didn’t know fuck-all about dance had seen a rehearsal before it went to performance, he might have told the choreographer that when a lily-white suburban dance company dresses in long flowing robes of spotless white to dance under pools of bright heavenly lighting, and then dresses the all-black-and-Latino inner-city college students in tight red spandex that obscenely accentuates their nipples and genitalia, then shines upon the college kids lurid red spots that make them look like colored devils, the whole piece is going to look like it’s a fright show staged by the Coalition for a White America for a KKK rally. Because apparently none of the seasoned dancers noticed. Just sayin’. 2. And like this, which probably hurt the most: Over dinner we were having a civilized conversation when Spencer spoke up. “So am I the only of your friends who’s taken a gander at your last three pieces?” he asked. It’s a well-established fact that none of my friends (or family) really support the artistic endeavors that comprise my career. That is, they’re happy I’m happy, but no matter how many of their concerts and recitals and poetry slams and bad dramatic society functions I attend for them, they don’t expose themselves to any of my work. I’d given Spencer a few copies of my latest stuff, a couple of months back. “Does that mean you had a chance to take a look at the last one?” “Yep.” He took another mouthful of food. I waited for him to finish, assuming that he had something to say. But then he took another bite, and another. After a while, I raised my eyebrows. “Was there something you wanted to say about it?” Immediately he lunged in. “I totally didn’t like it,” he said. “It was pretty much fucking torture for me.” All the reviews I received for that particular work were actually pretty glowing. I’m usually pretty confident about my own work, and don’t let negativity get to me, but this comment felt like a slap across the face from a heavily-ringed hand. “I’m sorry you found it so,” I said, without betraying the wound to my vanity he’d left. “What, didn’t you want me to be honest?” he asked. “Not if that was your opinion, no,” I told him. “I don’t.” “Well, just remember you asked.” “No,” I said to him, fighting hard not to lose my temper. “I didn’t ask. You brought it up. Then you proceeded to be hurtful.” Spencer had the gall to act as if he were the one with the right to be affronted. “Fine. Next time I’ll just blow smoke up your ass, shall I?” “You could simply say nothing,” I told him. “Or find positives about it that you did like, and talk about those. Don’t come out swinging and expect me to like it. Not with something so personal.” Then I indicated that the subject was closed. It occurs to me now that on some level, conscious or not, he might have been needling me in the hope that I’d question his capacity as a critic, so he could throw back in my face my words of earlier in the evening. All it really made me question was his friendship. 3. And like this: Battered and slightly resentful of everything that had passed so far that evening, I was trying to stay light and positive after dinner. Perhaps I was just being sensitive. Trying to keep the mood up, I said once we were back in the car, “I bought you some of that ice cream you like,” referring to a gluten-free, dairy-free frozen soy dessert from Trader Joe’s that vaguely resembles ice cream. “OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU DO THAT I AM SUCH A FUCKING COW,” he yelled. Then he proceeded to launch into a diatribe about his weight and how excessively fat, fat, fat he is, and how he had watched some girl’s home videos on YouTube in which she discussed everything she’d eaten for the day shortly before she purged herself of it. He’s not a fat man, by any means. But he’s not rail-thin, either. He’s broad-shouldered, and muscular, and strong from catching leaping dancers in midair. “Spencer, I know you know how unhealthy that is,” I sighed, pulling back onto the main thoroughfare that would lead home. “But you can see her sternum and her rib cage and she is beautiful,” he said. “It doesn’t matter for you. You can eat like a pig and be fat and no one gives a shit because you’re old.” I am three inches taller than Spencer, I weigh sixty pounds less, and my waistline is seven inches smaller. I was walking out with half my dinner in a take-out box; he had inhaled all his. The old part I couldn’t deny. “Thanks,” I said, tersely. “Well, you don’t get it. You keep pushing all this food in front of me, ice cream and chips and chocolate. . . .” “There are ways to eat,” I said, beginning to lose my temper again. “And there are ways to eat. You don’t have to grab the half-gallon of ice cream and eat it in front of the TV with a spoon. Nobody is making you consume it in two sittings. You take a fucking scoop and dish some into a bowl. Same with the chips. Nobody’s making you sit there with the bag in your lap. You take out a portion and put the rest away. As for the chocolate, you’re the one who went shopping with me and asked me to buy it, because on my own I don’t buy. . . .” “So what you’re saying is you just want me to be a fat pig for the rest of my life,” he said. “I’m just saying that if you are really concerned about it, you could exert some portion control and probably eat what you want without resorting to bulimia.” “You understand nothing,” he intoned. Then he turned up the car stereo so loud that further conversation was impossible. 4. And finally, like this: We were sitting on the sofa and watching television—during which he ate half the carton of the frozen soy stuff straight from the container—while his cell phone kept vibrating. And going off. In the course of about twenty minutes, he must have received about as many text messages, and then sent out an equal amount, pausing to tap out the hieroglyphics on the numbers of his ancient Nokia. It was so disruptive that I finally stopped the DVD we were watching. “Do you need to take care of something?” I asked. “God, I don’t know why I’m getting so many text messages!” he exclaimed. Then, “And they’re all from guys wanting to trick with me!” I’m still touchy about the way our sexual relationship had fallen by the wayside, so I think I can be forgiven for saying, “Well, that’s quite the burden.” “This one guy I used to date a long time ago,” he said. “He’s the one from the extremely wealthy family, I think I told you.” “Uh-huh,” I said, through gritted teeth. “The one who’s hung really well. Much bigger than you. Anyway. He keeps texting to say he misses me.” “Well, that’s nice of him,” I managed to say, blandly. “Then there’s this other one who wants me to drive down to Toledo tonight to see him. And this third guy I used to know a long time ago who just moved back into town. He got back in touch with me recently who keeps telling me how he never should’ve stopped dating me because I was the best thing ever to happen to him. He wants me to go over to his place and hang out tonight and help him unpack.” It was all I could do to keep from yelling. “THEN WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO OVER THERE THEN?!” Instead, feeling as if I was being baited and refusing to accept it, I mildly replied, “Well, let me know when you’re done with the texts and I’ll start the DVD again.” He stuffed his phone into his pants. I was both furious and teary, after he left, a half-hour later, shortly after ten. I’ve been angry and weepy since. He’s trying to push me away. That much is obvious. I just thought he’d have been smart enough to see what he was doing, understand, and refrain in the future. He might have served me this fiery blast of misbehavior as consolation. He’s trying to convince himself that I’m stupid, and talentless, and a bad influence, and that he has many other options—or on the converse, trying to reassure himself that without me he’s intelligent and capable and desirable. (Which he is, all those those things.) Else perhaps he’s trying to enrage me in a manner that will make me break it off so that he can, in the future, officially blame me for the cessation of our relationship. Either way, it’s stupid. It’s a waste of time. It’s not fucking worthy of either of us. I know he hurts. I wish I could protect him from it, even as he bats away my encompassing arms. Even as he kicks and screams and spits at me, I want to soothe away the pain, because I know this behavior isn’t him. It’s his crazy and innermost fears. His anger at being left behind. He’s howling with pain, and Monday evening was how it came out. However impassive and unprovoked I attempt to keep my facade, I too am howling back, just as loudly. Writing through my upset makes me realize what I want to tell him, if he continues down this path: Spencer, you’ve only got two more weeks with me. Two weeks, and then I’m gone forever. This behavior isn’t going to make you feel any better in the long run. It’s making me feel like shit now. I think in the future when you look back, you’ll want to regard the last two weeks of this relationship in a way that does us both proud. Honor our friendship, rather than trample all over it. Yell at me if you want. Tell me how I’m a shit for leaving you. But be honest about what you’re feeling. Don’t play these games. For the sake of what we had, and what we both loved for a time. Please. More...

Oh, Belfast. A REAL stalker wouldn't let an ocean and a few thousand miles stand in his way.

Thank you, Wolfchylde. I appreciate it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “I want to remember this moment,” I said. It was late, and dark, and I was sleepy. Hour after hour we’d kissed and licked and touched and stroked. We’d kissed and held each other tightly. Our hard dicks had pressed against each other, relentless and straining. I was afraid that all those instances of pleasure, all those little pinpoints of desire and need, all, the tiny sparks of humor and sweetness would begin to blur together into one vast and sweet wash of memory. I worried that in the stress of the days to come, I’d forget all the little nuances that made the evening special, and that left me feeling happy and perfectly at peace. My forehead rested against his shoulder; his long hair covered me like silk. “You want to know how to remember something?” he asked. I felt his lips against the crown of my head. “Just close your eyes. Count to three. And remember.” I closed my eyes. Then I counted slowly to three. And I thought about how, when we’d undressed that afternoon and I’d raked my beard down his stomach, pausing here and there to plant warm kisses on his hard, flat stomach, his throbbing dick had overflowed with so much pre-cum that as I watched, the fluid puddled and beaded on the outside of the black jockstrap barely constraining him. I thought about the sound of his voice when he’d read his poem aloud to me, how broad and wide my smile had been as I basked in the sensuality of his words, and how, at its conclusion, I’d opened my eyes and tears spilled down upon my cheeks. I remembered the noises he’d made when I’d buried my face into the blond fur growing wildly between his ass cheeks, and the sweet, metallic taste of the flesh just inside his hole. My mind played for a moment on the downy softness of his close-cropped beard, the exact shade of a perfectly-baked golden-brown cookie, and it remembered the gem-like color of his eyes, and the narrow dark fringe of hair that were his eyebrows. I smiled to remember the giggles into which we’d dissolved, when I asked him to show me how toppy he gets with his college boys. I remembered the delicacy and narrowness of his hands, the slenderness of his waist, the solidness of his ribcage against mine, all the times I’d pulled him to me and wrapped my arms around him. I thought about all the compliments he’d given me, the array of beautiful superlatives that seemed less a burden and more an honor to bear. And then I opened my heavy lids, and smiled. When he spoke, he sounded puzzled. “Man. How long does it take for you to count to three?” More...